The Darkest Corner (Gravediggers #1)(72)

"Why don't we go to the third floor?" Deacon suggested. "It's the only place we'll have complete privacy. Unless you'd like to make another trip to the lake."

The look he gave her was so sensual and full of desire she thought she might combust on the spot. She didn't think she'd ever thought about sex so much in her whole life as in the last three days. She'd never been so aware of her own body. Her own needs. She was afraid he'd opened up some kind of Pandora's box where her sexuality was concerned.

Sex had always been rather perfunctory up until now. Between Miller and the novels Tess liked to read, she'd always heard people talk about a great sweeping passion and sex as some kind of religious experience, but she always figured that kind of pleasure wasn't meant for some people. Everyone else in the world was perfectly fine, having perfectly average sex, and perfectly mediocre orgasms.

Boy, had she been wrong.

"Yeah," she said, hoping like crazy he couldn't tell what she was thinking about. "Third floor. Good."

Great, Tess. Now you sound like a caveman. She rolled her eyes and turned on her heel, before he could suggest something else or tell her to forget the whole thing altogether.

She led him through the kitchen and up the three flights of stairs. And when she got to the top landing outside her door, she unlocked her door and held it open for him.

"I don't suppose you're going to finish my bathroom anytime soon?" she asked, nodding to the construction zone. "I notice there hasn't been any progress."

Her suite of rooms took up the entire third floor, but the big oak bed dominated this room. It was impossible not to stare at it as they came inside and he closed the door behind them. Six hundred square feet could feel awfully small when Deacon Tucker was taking up space in the room. She'd bought the bed at a garage sale, knowing it was more than she needed and that it would be hell to get up three flights of stairs, but she'd done it anyway because she'd liked the intricate carving on the headboard and the sturdy posts at each corner.



       
         
       
        

"I didn't want to risk the chance of running into you. You scared me when you threatened me with your mother."

She hmmphed and said, "It was an empty threat. She left town day before yesterday. She canceled her appointments and took off. She left Crystal the key and told her to have at it."

"Crystal's the girl with the half-shaved head and piercings?" he asked.

"That's the one."

"I can't imagine she gets a lot of business," he said, smiling.

"She does great nails. And she actually does a decent job on hair. But getting anyone to take the chance is the hard part. People pretty much judge a person on sight in Last Stop."

"I've noticed," he said.

She directed him down the two steps into the living area. She didn't have much furniture, only a chair and ottoman and a chaise lounge she liked to read in. His gaze lingered on the bed and then he moved into the sitting room. It didn't matter. The bed was still visible since there was nothing but a half wall separating the two spaces.

"Whew, it's a little warm in here," she said. "I should probably open a window and turn on the fan."

"Good idea. If you want, I can run the central air vents up here so you've got something stronger than that wall unit." He sat down on the edge of the chaise and said, "Where'd your mother go?"

"I don't know. But my grandmother said she seemed upset by the fact that you paraded me through town on your motorcycle like a common trollop. Those were my mother's words, apparently. She was a little jealous that she didn't get to be the one paraded through town. And it probably didn't help that she was holding out hope all this time for winning the bet. It wouldn't sit right with her for her only daughter to beat her out of the pot. No one beats Theodora Sherman. At anything."

"At least she didn't take your life savings this time," he pointed out drolly.

"No, but she left town with Tamara Robinson's husband. So she was stealing either way." She shrugged and tried to play it off, though she wondered when she'd grow past the age of being mortified by her own mother's behavior. "It's just how she is."

"That doesn't make it right," he said. "And it doesn't make it hurt any less. Narcissistic people don't think about the destruction they leave in their path."

"Before she left, I thought maybe she was going to stick around this time and stay straight. But now that she's gone again, I keep thinking maybe she'll stay gone for good this time."