The Corvette was still parked in its usual place on the street, the engine cold. I noted this significant little fact on what must have been my tenth pass by Lee's apartment, when I finally found the courage to park and pat down the hood.
I'd left the Q-Bureau in a state of emotional exhaustion. Not knowing what else to do, I simply drove, my bizarre conversation with Lee playing over and over in my head. Eventually I ended up back on Maplewood Drive. By this time, I was worn out physically as well. I wanted nothing more than to go home, stretch out on the couch and enjoy the solitude.
But for some reason, I couldn't seem to sit still. Pulling my sweater around my chest, I paced a circuit from the den into the kitchen and back again. My head ached in a pounding rhythm that seemed to keep time with my feet. Though my stomach rumbled loudly, I couldn't eat and ended up choking down a few bites of a chocolate chip cookie one of the boys had left on the counter.
Eventually I forced myself to stop and sit down. The stillness wrapped itself around me, the only sound the light hum of the refrigerator as it cycled on and off. Oddly enough, there is such a thing as too much peace and quiet. The solitary rooms only served to remind me of the emptiness I felt inside.
Luckily, such maudlin self-pity soon channeled itself into a more constructive purpose, and before long, I found myself traveling the familiar route to Georgetown. If Lee Stetson thought he could dismiss our relationship so lightly, the man had another think coming. Besides, I didn't buy that cockamamie story of his for one minute. He was up to something; I just couldn't figure out what.
My newfound resolve to confront him lasted only until I discovered that he was, indeed, at home. I'd been driving in circles ever since, trying to come to terms with the fact that my husband of four months apparently wanted to end our marriage. All because we were, in his words, "sexually incompatible."
The man's ego knew no bounds. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway—God's gift to women?
Of course, years ago, when I'd first met the Scarecrow, that's exactly what he'd thought. I could still see him at that crazy party, staring down at me from the top of the circular staircase with a supercilious smile. It was the middle of the afternoon, and the man was wearing a tuxedo! And there I stood, the naïve little housewife from the suburbs, dressed to kill in my best pair of slacks. No wonder I'd wanted to smack him.
But that man, the debonair playboy who changed his women as often as he changed his shirts, didn't really exist. As I'd slowly come to know Lee Stetson, the man, I'd discovered that his Scarecrow persona was only an illusion, one of the many masks he used to cover the sensitive little boy inside. Lee had already lost so much in his life; small wonder he refused to let anyone inside that protective shell of his.
I clutched the steering wheel. Maybe that's what this was really all about. His fear of losing everyone he loved. My accidental shooting had certainly reinforced that. Maybe . . . just maybe . . . Lee was attempting to cut his losses before they cut him.
There was only one way to find out. Summoning my courage, I left the safe haven of my car. It must have been later than I thought because the night doorman was on duty. Smiling a greeting to Henry, I took the elevator to the second floor and knocked on my husband's door.
He didn't answer. As I knocked again, the thought crossed my mind that maybe I was the world's biggest fool—he might not be alone. I felt my resolve waver, but only for the length of time it took to locate my key. Whatever was going on, this was my husband, my life. I had a definite need to know.
I held my breath and walked into the narrow foyer. The apartment was dark, save for the light coming from the bathroom, which was why at first I didn't see him slumped there on the couch. But I heard the noisy gulp as he swallowed whatever was in his glass.
As my eyes adjusted to the half-light, I saw that it was Scotch. The bottle sat accusingly on the coffee table, its cap slightly askew. Lee brought the glass to his lips again and downed the rest in one, quick swallow before finally looking up at me.
"You shouldn't have come, Amanda."
His voice sounded empty, his words slurred. His hair was damp from the shower and he was dressed, if you could call it that, in a pair of jogging shorts. Lee had evidently been indulging in a pity party of his own. However, seeing as this particular crisis was of his making, I was hard-pressed to dredge up any sympathy.
Letting out a short sigh, I tossed my purse on an empty chair then sat down and reached for the bottle. "Getting drunk is no way to deal with our problems," I began, but he didn't give me a chance to finish.
"I am not drunk," he said, taking care to enunciate slowly and plainly. "I am drinking. There is a difference."
"Not one that will be appreciable in the morning." I rolled my eyes. "Why don't I make you some coffee? Then we can talk."
"I don't want to talk," he replied, in a particularly nasty tone of voice, "and I sure as hell don't want to be mothered. So if you came over here to do either, Amanda, I suggest you go on home and practice those skills on your children."
He seemed more determined than ever to drive me away, but I refused to fall into his well-baited trap. "You have no idea why I came over here," I ground out, my teeth clenched so tightly that, for a moment, I thought they might crack.
He raised an eyebrow. "No? Well, I can't imagine anything else that would drag you all the way across town. Unless, of course, you take pleasure in watching me polish off some mighty fine Scotch. In which case," he said as he refilled his glass, "I think you're in luck."
I bit my lip; coming here had been a mistake. Lee's temporary insanity had evidently survived well into the evening. I certainly had no desire to subject myself to anymore of his insulting nonsense.
I stood stiffly and prepared to leave. I might have made it, too, if only I hadn't caught sight of his eyes. His bitter words might be shoving me away, but those hazel eyes of his told a different story. He needed help right now as surely as he had that morning at the train station. So I walked to the kitchen instead of the door, grabbed the nearest glass, and sat down beside him on the couch.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked as I poured myself a drink.
I tilted my head back and took a big gulp. "Exactly what it looks like," I managed to rasp through the burning sensation in my throat.
He snorted in disbelief and, too late, I realized I'd overplayed my hand. The only glass I'd been able to find was a tumbler, and, as Lee's eyes narrowed, I had no recourse but to call my own bluff. "Bottom's up," I quipped, looking him in the eye.
"Amanda," Lee said, suddenly remarkably alert. "That's straight Scotch."
"So? You think I can't handle it?" I took another gulp. The stuff tasted terrible, but I was too angry to care.
"Amanda," Lee said once more, his voice softer now. "You don't drink Scotch."
"Yeah, well, according to you, I don't do a lot of things."
"A-man-da," he repeated, with a long-suffering sigh. "You don't want to do this. Give me the glass."
I shook my head, hugging my drink to my chest. A warm, fuzzy feeling was beginning to replace the cold anger that consumed me, and it felt good. "Maybe you don't know me quite as well as you think you do." I finished off the Scotch and set my glass on the coffee table.
"I think I know you well enough to realize that you don't weigh enough to swill down six ounces of Scotch without some pretty major side effects." Lee shook his head. "I'll bet you didn't eat any dinner, either."
The room swam in front of my eyes, and I felt myself sway. The sensation wasn't altogether unpleasant, though, and I found myself smiling as I sank back into Lee's comfortable couch. "A lot you know," I retorted, my words sounding oddly rounded. "I ate a really big cookie."
"I stand corrected." Lee whistled as he got to his feet. "Maybe that coffee isn't such a bad idea after all. Sit tight while I make a pot."
"Don't want to 'sit tight,'" I said, shaking my head as I stood up, too.
Lee rolled his eyes. "No, you never do. How about you humor me just this once, okay?"
I shook my head again, my eyes widening as I looked at him. I couldn't help but notice the interplay of muscles across his chest as he moved. They rippled so sensually beneath his skin that I couldn't stop myself; I had to touch him. Catching the tip of my tongue between my teeth, I slowly ran my hands over the smooth planes of his upper body.
"Amanda . . ."
The rough edge to his voice caused my breathing to quicken. I felt the room start to spin, or maybe it was just my head, and as Lee reached out to steady me, I leaned forcefully into him. The sudden shift in weight threw him off balance and we both fell onto the couch, my face pillowed on his chest. "I love the way you feel," I whispered, nuzzling against him.
"I'm gonna get you that coffee," he gasped.
"Don't leave," I whispered, and we both knew I wasn't only talking about the room. "I know you don't really want to."
Unable to stifle his response any longer, he groaned. The deep, guttural sound, pushed out from the back of his throat, gave me a strange sense of power. Sexually incompatible, huh? Before I was through with him, I'd make him choke on those words.
Lee closed his eyes and let out another short moan. "This can't change anything," he managed to pant out, as I stopped what I was doing just long enough to pull my sweater over my head and toss it to the floor. He started again to enumerate those ridiculous reasons why we shouldn't be together, but I was beyond listening. Tired of this ludicrous charade, I used my mouth to silence him.
I can only blame the Chivas Regal for what happened next. Or maybe it was his damning assessment of my libido that pushed me beyond the limits of normal restraint. Whatever the reason, I only knew that I'd never wanted any man more than I wanted Lee Stetson, and I wanted him to know it.
I kissed him long and hard. It was an incredible kiss, one that seemed to go on forever, and when I was finished, the last shreds of his resistance lay in tatters around us. My need for him suddenly seemed all-consuming, as did his for me. Hands fumbled with clothing, and when the narrow couch became too confining, we moved to the floor. I wanted him with every ounce of my being; his words had caused a huge ache deep inside of me that only his body could fill.
Lee's behavior told me he was equally affected. In a frantic attempt to get even closer, he pulled me solidly against him. I'd never seen him like this before, so desperate, almost out of control. And so silent. There were no murmured endearments, no breathlessly whispered "I love you's." Only the dark, burning look in his eyes that spoke of a passion he couldn't control. It was as if something was driving him from deep inside, some sinister, scary monster that he needed to best.
It frightened me.
But only for a moment. My trepidation quickly evaporated, replaced by the most intense pleasure I'd ever experienced. Our lovemaking had never been like this before, so wild, so full of delicious abandon. The sheer intimacy of it overwhelmed me. Lee pulled me closer, holding me tightly against him. Safe in his warm embrace, I let my eyes flutter shut. Just for a minute, I told myself; one minute's rest, then we'll talk this through and everything will be all right again.
I must have fallen asleep because, when I awoke, I found myself lying in our bed, the covers tucked up snugly around me. I instinctively reached out for Lee, but my fingers met nothing but emptiness. My head pounding and my mouth dry, it took me a minute to achieve a sitting position. I blinked a couple of times before my eyes adjusted to the dim light of early morning, but the result was still the same. The bedroom was deserted. Clearing my throat, I called out for Lee.
Silence answered me. Confused, I looked around the room again. It was a few more moments before I saw it there on the nightstand—the plain gold wedding band I'd slipped on my husband's finger, only four short months ago. It lay in solitary splendor on top of the paper on which he had scrawled two brief words . . .
"Forgive me."