Smitten - LOVESWEPT - 392 Page 8

  "You think it could get better if we practiced?"

  Lizabeth didn't think she could live through it if it got any better. "Probably it would take a lot of practice," she said, letting a fingertip wander lower, provoking a sharp intake of breath.

  Almost an hour later. Lizabeth barely had the energy to dress herself in her dried clothes. She took Matt's hand, feeling unbelievably relaxed and foolishly euphoric, and followed him down the stairs.

  When they reached the bottom, Matt cast a sidelong glance at his Harley. "You like motorcycles?" he asked Lizabeth.

  She didn't want to be insulting, but she liked motorcycles almost as much as she liked tattoos, fat black cigars, and poisonous spiders. "I don't know very much about motorcycles." she said.

  He dragged her into the living room. "This is a Harley Sportster. 900cc's. It's a honey, Isn't it? It can do everything but bake brownies."

  She struggled to find something nice to say about it. "It's very . . . shiny."

  "Yeah. That's because I keep her indoors. I used to do some dirt-bike racing when I was first out of the Navy. After I broke my leg for the third time I decided to quit the circuit."

  "Is this a dirt bike?"

  He grinned down at her. "No. A dirt bike is smaller. The tires are a lot more narrow. This baby is a hog."

  Lizabeth nodded. Obviously, if you were a mo­torcycle it was complimentary to be called a hog.

  "You're trying to be polite, but I can see you're not into internal combustion," Matt said. "Bet you've never even ridden on one of these."

  "Well, no ..."

  He strapped the gym bag to the back of the seat, handed Lizabeth a big black helmet, and straddled the bike. "Open the front door for me. I'll take you for a ride."

  Lizabeth clutched the helmet to her chest and took a step backward. "That's not necessary. It's nice of you to offer, but ..."

  The smile was full of pure little-boy charm. "Come on. You're really going to like this. This is going to be great." He jump-started the big black bike. The motor kicked in and rumbled through the house like thunder. Windows rattled, glasses danced across the kitchen counter, and Lizabeth felt the vibration through the soles of her shoes. "Riding a Harley's the next best thing to good sex," Matt said, hand-revving the engine.

  Lizabeth pressed her lips together. She didn't want to miss "the next best thing to good sex," but the thought of riding hell-bent on Matt's Harley made her mouth go dry. She grimly followed him out the door and down the sidewalk to the curb. He patted the seat behind him and smiled.

  "Macho garbage," Lizabeth said.

  The smile broadened. "Without a shadow of a doubt."

  She settled herself on the padded seat, cau­tiously searched for a place for her feet to rest, and tentatively clutched at his waist. "You have to be careful with me," she said. "I'm a motherrrrr!" Her fingers locked onto his shirt, her knuckles went instantly white, and her words were lost in the wind and the roar of the engine as the bike laid rubber and wheeled away from the curb.

  Six

  Jason was the first to reach the bike when it pulled into the driveway. "Oh man, this is so cool. I hope Noogie Newsomes watching from across the street. He thinks he's so hot because his brother got a scooter. Man, this baby could blast that stupid scooter right off the road."

  Lizabeth could barely see her son through the bugs splattered on her Plexiglas visor. She care­fully put one foot on the ground and tried to breathe. It was probably the first breath she'd had since leaving Matt's town house, she thought. She reached for the helmet and realized her hands were shaking. It had felt so fast. All wind and noise and power.

  Matt cut the engine and felt the body go limp behind him. He turned to look over his shoulder and saw that Lizabeth's eyes were huge, her face ashen, her breathing coming in shallow gasps. He set the kickstand and slid off the bike, cursing himself for not checking on her sooner. He put his hands to her waist, pulled her to her feet, and removed her helmet. "You're all right. You're just hyperventilating. Take a deep breath." He mas­saged her shoulders and the base of her neck. "Try to relax."

  Lizabeth nodded, unable to speak. She couldn't remember ever having been so terrified . . . and so exhilarated. She cupped her hands over her nose and mouth and made an effort to slow her breathing.

  Matt gently stroked the wet ringlets away from her damp forehead. "Lizabeth," he said, "you have a ways to go before you get those fairy wings."

  She patted his chest with her hand. "I'm sure you'll help me."

  "I'm trying."

  Jason had scrambled onto the bike. "Vrooom, vrooom, vrooom," he said. "I'm gonna get one of these when I grow up. I'm gonna start saving my money."

  Lizabeth looked at her son and winced. She didn't want him aspiring to own a motorcycle. She didn't necessarily care if he went to an Ivy League college, and she certainly didn't want him to be as career-obsessed as Paul, but she did have minimum expectations for him. And she didn't consider a fixation with motorcycles to be a step in the right direction. She reluctantly admitted she had a problem. She'd fallen in love with a man who wasn't her idea of a perfect role model for her sons. He was fine as a friend of the family, but what sort of a father would he be, riding around on his motorcycle, getting lewd messages tattooed on his arm.

  "C'mon, squirt," Matt said, tucking Jason un­der his arm. "Let's go inside and look in the oven so I can decide if I want to stay for supper."

  Elsie stood on the porch steps. "What's all the racket about? Holy cow, is that a hog in the driveway?"

  "It's Matt's," Jason said. "Isn't it awesome?"

  "Yep," Elsie said. "It's awesome all right. Noth­ing like a hog to liven a place up."

  Matt gave Elsie a kiss on the cheek. "Play your cards right, and I might take you for a ride after supper."

  Lizabeth turned, took one last glance at the Harley, and gave an involuntary shiver. Yes sir, Lizabeth, she thought, you're in way over your head.

  Lizabeth cracked her knuckles and resumed her pacing. The bedroom floor was cool under her bare feet, her white cotton gown with the little blue roses billowed around her legs as she walked, and her ears stayed alert for sounds drifting through her open window. It was two o'clock and overcast and the backyard seemed unusually dark. The outside lights hadn't been turned on, and there were no lights shining inside the Victorian house. Even the small night-lights had been ex­tinguished. Elsie and Matt didn't want to scare the flasher off. "It's not fair," Lizabeth said. "It's two against one. And that poor flasher doesn't even have any clothes on." In her mind that gave him some sort of disadvantage, as if he couldn't think as well, or run as fast, because he was nude.

  Elsie had dragged the rocking chair into the kitchen. She'd positioned it in front of the back door and left the door ajar so she could hear the slightest sound coming from the yard. She'd been sitting there, in the dark, for almost three hours and she was sound asleep. Her hands were folded, at rest on her stomach, her mouth had dropped open, and her head tilted crazily to one side. Matt sat at the kitchen table, his arms crossed in front of him on the table, his head resting on his arms. His eyelids drooped shut. His breathing was slow and regular. A short nap wouldn't hurt, he de­cided. He was a light sleeper. He would hear the flasher when he came into the yard.

  A stone hit Lizabeth's window. It was a small stone, and the sound it made was so slight it was barely audible. Lizabeth felt her heart jump in her chest. She stood absolutely still, her hands pressed to her mouth, the pulse thumping in her throat. She didn't want anyone to get hurt. Not Matt, not Elsie, not the flasher. She moved to the window and was caught in the beam of the flashlight. Lord, why didn't he just stop. Why didn't he put his clothes on and take up bowling or something. It was almost as if he wanted to get caught. Lizabeth leaned into the window. "Get out of here!" she hissed in her loudest possible whisper.

  "What?"

  "Get out of here! There's a man in my kitchen who's going to break every bone in your body!"

  Matt woke u
p at the sound of Lizabeth's voice. The kitchen was black as pitch, but Matt was out of his chair and across the room in three strides. The back door was half open and Matt saw the streak of light blink off. He reached for the door and slammed into the rocking chair, dumping Elsie onto the floor.

  "What the devil's going on?" Elsie said, coming awake. "Don't anybody get near me. I know judo. I got Mace."

  Matt turned the lights on, grabbed Elsie by the elbow, and pulled her to her feet.

  Lizabeth came flying down the stairs. "What was that crash?"

  "Land sakes, there he goes!" Elsie shouted. "Hey, you damn pervert, you're in trouble now! Matt's gonna break every bone in your naked body!"

  The flasher ran across the yard, with Matt in pursuit. Matt dove at the man, catching him by the ankle, propelling them both facedown into the dirt. Ferguson bounded from the open kitchen door and pounced on Matt. The swearing was loud and creative while the dog snuffled into Matt's pockets and the flasher squirmed loose.

  "Ferguson!" Lizabeth had him by the collar, but she couldn't get the dog off Matt. "Matt, do you have food in your pockets?"

  "M&M's!" he grunted out.

  Lizabeth turned the pockets inside out, spilling the candy onto the ground. She looked up in time to see the flasher jump on the Harley. The engine caught and the Harley roared out of the driveway.

  "If that don't beat all," Elsie said. "That slimeball stole your bike. Well, he's not going to get away with this. I got my keys in my pocket. Ill run him down in my Caddy."

  Lizabeth ran after her. "I don't think this is a good idea."

  "Nonsense!' Elsie said, sliding behind the wheel. "I've been on these high-speed chases before. I know what I'm doing."

  Matt jumped into the passenger side just as Elsie gunned the engine. Lizabeth and Ferguson climbed into the back and the Cadillac peeled out of the driveway and barreled down the road after the flasher.

  Matt braced his arms against the dash. "Elsie, don't you think you're going a little fast? Maybe you should pull over and let me drive."

  "No way," Elsie said. "Well lose him. Besides, I got perfect control over this car." The Cadillac took a corner on a skid and swayed from side to side before finding equilibrium.

  "Need new shocks," Elsie shouted over the roar of the V-8 engine. "These ones got mushy on me."

  "He's turning down High Street," Matt said.

  Elsie grunted and jerked the wheel of the Cadil­lac. The car jumped the curb and cut across Elmo Nielson's front lawn. "Shortcut," Elsie said. "Won't hurt nothing. Elmo can't grow grass here anyway. Too much shade."

  The Cadillac closed in on the flasher, and Lizabeth could see the man's tie flapping over his shoulder and the paper-bag mask rippling with the wind. Flashing lights reflected in the rearview mirror. "Omigod," Lizabeth said, "we've picked up a police cruiser."

  The Harley turned into Vinnie Mazerelli's drive­way and, without even so much as a backward glance, the flasher cut through Vinnie's yard and disappeared from view.

  Elsie stomped on the brake. "Doggone!"

  Lizabeth and Ferguson slid off the seat, and the black-and-white cruiser slammed into the back of the Cadillac.

  Elsie gave a disgusted sigh. "Wouldn't you think they could teach them cops how to drive?"

  Matt rolled his eyes and got out of the car. "Howdy," he said to Officers Dooley and Schmidt.

  Dooley nodded. "I don't suppose I have to ask who was driving the Cadillac."

  "Don't suppose you do," Matt said.

  "And I guess the naked guy slapping leather on the Harley was the flasher?"

  "Yup."

  Dooley shifted his attention to the squad car. The entire front end was smashed. Both head­lights were broken, steam escaped from a cracked radiator, and the bumper was lying on the road. The Cadillac didn't have a scratch.

  "You guys got a lot of nerve following so close," Elsie said. "Look here what you've done with the taxpayers' money." She patted the Cadillac's rear fender. "I tell you, they don't make cars like they used to. Next time you get yourselves a car, you get a real car. Like my Caddy here."

  Dooley's left eye twitched. He put a finger to it and pressed his lips together. "It would probably be best if you took her home, now. I'd hate to be charged with police brutality," he said to Matt,

  By the time they got home, the Harley had al­ready been returned. It was parked in the drive­way, key still in the ignition, just as Matt had left it.

  "You see," Lizabeth said, "he isn't such a bad guy. He even brought your bike back."

  The sun broke over the horizon with barely a whimper as Bob the Cat sat on the back stoop cleaning his front feet, pretending nonchalance while keeping an alert ear for the sound of famil­iar feet treading across the kitchen floor. It was six-thirty and Lizabeth felt raw-eyed from lack of sleep. She quietly crept down the stairs and smiled at the sight of Matt stretched out on the couch in a tangle of sheets. He was fully dressed and looked mildly uncomfortable. He slept on his back with his arm flung over his head, and even in the dim light of dawn the red stubble on his chin was distinctly visible. Lizabeth stood beside the couch and watched him. His breathing was even, like a child's, she thought. But that was where the sim­ilarity stopped. There was nothing childlike about the lean planes of his face or the fierce slash of blond eyebrow. His large frame dwarfed the couch and charged the room with virility and latent en­ergy. She wondered if the latter was real or imag­ined. Her perspective was hardly impartial. She touched his shoulder. "Matt."

  The thick, curly blond lashes fluttered open, and he stared at Lizabeth with unfocused eyes. 'I'm not in my bed," he said. "Am I in yours?"

  "No. You're on my couch."

  "Oh yeah. Now I remember. I was having this awful nightmare that I was chasing the flasher and Ferguson attacked me. And then the flasher stole my motorcycle because I stupidly left the key in the ignition. Then we went on this bizarre ride with Elsie ..."

  "It's all true."

  He closed his eyes and groaned. "I'm going to kill myself. I'm a failure. I let a potbellied, out-of-shape pervert get away from me. You aren't going to tell the guys at work about this, are you?"

  "Speaking of the guys at work . . . it's after six."

  "Oh hell, I have a building inspector coming at seven." He swung his legs over the side of the couch and ran a hand through his hair. "I have a stack of forms to fill out before he arrives."

  "Will they take long to fill out?"

  "No. It's finding them that's going to be the problem." He shuffled into his shoes and swung an arm around her shoulders. "I'll give you a raise if you'll help me look for the forms."

  Three hours later Lizabeth was still sifting through papers on Matt's desk. She'd found a half-eaten salami sub, a red wool sock, notice that the lease on his town house was due to expire, and a month-old unopened letter with the return address of J. Hallahan, Scranton, Pennsylvania, but she hadn't found the appropriate forms for the building Inspector. She pushed her chair back when Matt stomped down the basement stairs. "You need help," she said. "You're in big trouble with this paperwork."

  He slouched in a battered oak captain's chair, stretching his long legs in front of him. "I know. Did you find the forms?"

  She shook her head. "No. But they're going to evict you from your town house if you don't do something immediately. And I found this letter." She slid the white envelope from J. Hallahan across the top of the desk.

  Matt looked at it and slid it back to her. "Throw it away."

  "Aren't you going to open it?"

  "It's nothing important."

  Lizabeth leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. "It's from a relative. Did you read the return address? It's from a J. Hallahan."

  "I know who it's from."

  "Ah-hah." She tapped her index finger on the envelope. It seemed to her that copulation carried some privileges—such as the right to be nosy. "So, who's this J. Hallahan?"

  "He's my father."

  Lizabeth's ey
ebrows shot up in silent question.

  "It's a request for money, and I've already sent some. There's no reason to open the envelope. The letters are always the same." He should tell her about it, he thought, but he hated dragging all those skeletons out of the closet. He didn't want to seem pitiable in her eyes. And he didn't want to seem callous. And he knew if he told her he would appear to be both. When he was eighteen he'd literally run away from his past. In some ways he was still running. Always would be. He could see she was concerned about the contents of the letter, so he took it from her, opened it, and glanced over his father's almost unreadable scrawl. His mouth curved into the tight, crooked smile he reserved for those times when he managed to find some wry humor in distasteful situations. "No surprises here," he said, handing the letter to her so she could read it for herself. "Someday well sit down with a bottle of wine and tell each other all our grim family secrets. Fortunately, I haven't got the time to do it right now." He stood with his hands on his hips, his brows drawn together in a scowl. "Damn, I wish we could find those forms." His eyes swept over the desk, the file cabinets, the cases of cola stacked on the floor. A guilty smile spread across his face. "I remember! It was rain­ing when I brought the forms back from the mu­nicipal building." He went to the open area behind the stairwell, picked up a pair of rubber boots caked with dried mud, and under the boots he found the forms. "I didn't want to get the floor dirty," he explained, wiping at the brown smudges.

  Lizabeth bit her lower lip and considered Mat­thew Hallahan's husband potential. He was sensi­tive, sexy, and he had a decent Income, she decided—but he'd be hell to housebreak. She took the forms from him and smoothed them out on the desktop. "Want me to have a go at this?"

  "That'd be great." He noticed the neat piles of papers on the desk. She'd cleaned up the dried splotches where he'd spilled coffee and chicken noodle soup, and she'd gotten the smear of roof­ing tar off the telephone. The salami sub had been removed from his out box, and had been replaced with a batch of stamped, unsealed enve­lopes.