Sweet Anger(38)

She would have taken his hand and led him into the bedroom and …

His telephone rang and he jumped. Snatching it up, he growled into the receiver. “McKee.”

“Mr. District Attorney, you mean.” Guy was shouting over the racket in the background. “You took it hands down. Of course you were a shoo-in, but the final results of the election have just been announced. You’re officially the D.A. now.”

“Thanks for calling.”

“You’ve made a grand slam this week. First the conviction of that kid who wasted his old man. And now the election.”

Hunter was ambivalent about sending a sixteen-year-old to death row, but this wasn’t the time to squelch the enthusiasm of his junior assistant. “Thank everyone who helped.”

“You’re not coming to the victory party?”

“No.”

“But, Jeez, McKee, we’re all gathered in someone’s apartment. I’m not sure who lives here, but there’s booze galore and food and …” He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “You know Marilyn in the tax assessor’s office, the one with the set of knockers that would put your eyes out? She’s been anxious to see you all night, if you know what I mean.”

Hunter called to mind a leggy redhead with a penchant for tight sweaters. He felt a momentary flare of desire but didn’t know if it was a remnant of his daydream about Kari or the thought of Marilyn of the tax assessor’s office. “I don’t know, Guy.”

“You’ll hate yourself in the morning if you pass up an offer like this. Take it from me, buddy, she’s hot.”

Hunter laughed. “In that case, how can I say no?” Maybe that was just what he needed, a rowdy tumble with an obliging sexpot. What better way to eradicate one woman from his mind than to absorb himself with another?

“What’s the address?” Guy supplied it. “If Marilyn should need a ride home,” Hunter said suggestively, “tell her to meet me outside in ten minutes.”

“Gotcha!” He could hear Guy’s grin through the telephone. “I guarantee she’ll need a ride home.”

Before his better judgment got to him, Hunter grabbed up his jacket, his car keys, and left his apartment. The substantially endowed Marilyn was waiting at the curb as promised. How easy it was to score these days. Where had girls like Marilyn been when he was in high school?

“Hi,” she said, opening the passenger side door and sliding in.

“Hi.”

She was wearing her trademark sweater and it was as tight as all the others in her wardrobe. If he were any judge of the female anatomy at all, she was wearing nothing beneath it. Her perfume was heavy and sweet and unfortunately reminded him of cheaply made, sleazy French films.

“It was so nice of you to offer me a ride home. The party was nice, but then the guest of honor didn’t show up.” She softened the reproach with a wink. “Things were getting a little wild. It was nice to get out of there.”

Irritably he wondered if she knew any other adjective besides “nice.” And just as irritably he wondered why they had to act out this charade. He hadn’t thought he’d be expected to make small talk. Why couldn’t she just say, “I’m glad you’re taking me home to bed. I understand it’s good therapy to work another woman out of your system.”

Then he would feel at liberty to say, “That’s right and I appreciate your candor, uh, Marilyn? Yes, Marilyn. You see what I’m after is a hard and fast roll in the hay. No emotion. No conversation. Just fun and games. You’ve come highly recommended.”

But he didn’t say any of that. Instead he smiled across the car at her and said, “You’ll have to give me directions to your place.”

She found them much easier to give when she was plastered against his right side, one of those legendary breasts tucked under his arm. Uninhibitedly she laid a hand on his thigh and began to rub it up and down.

He felt nothing but a mild annoyance. With each passing minute, his aggravation grew and unfairly it was directed toward her. He didn’t particularly like the color of her hair, or her eyes. The notable body didn’t seem so voluptuous and desirable now, but rather bawdy and blowsy, too much of a good thing.

A trimmer silhouette, a more compact figure, a slenderness with soft womanly curves. Riotous curly blond hair, green eyes. That was what appealed to him.

Kari Stewart appealed to him.

It was her hand he wanted to be flirting with the fly of his trousers. And only when he imagined it to be hers did he feel the first stirrings of arousal.

“Ummm,” Marilyn said and squeezed him.