Public Displays Of Affection

Chapter Four

Her name was Charlotte.

Charlotte Mary Nelson Tasker was a thirty-five-year-old registered nurse who ran an errand service. She had two kids. She was a widow.

Joe blinked, skimming the computer file one last time, rereading the obituary for the man who'd been her husband. Kurt Lewis Tasker was a local boy, an All-State lineman who became a popular sports columnist for the Cincinnati Enquirer, apparently known for his straight talk and good humor. He left work early one Thursday with what he thought was a touch of the flu. He dropped dead a few hours later from a congenital heart defect no one knew he had.

The obit photo showed a robust, friendly looking guy with wide shoulders and questionable taste in ties. The color picture showed him at work on the sidelines at a Bengals game, curly brown hair, a lopsided grin, and pale, laughing eyes. He looked like a good guy. Joe read again how he was mourned by fellow journalists, coaches, players, and readers.

Joe felt a sad smile creep across his face, recalling the little girl he'd seen at the patio table-Henrietta was her name-realizing that she looked just like this man except for the flaming red hair. The other Tasker kid was named Matthew according to the file, and if memory served him correctly,.which it always did, the boy looked more like his mom.

Joe rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. He must have read this stuff ten times since Roger sent it to him-everything he'd ever wanted to know about what had happened to his mystery woman, all in one convenient little 400 kilobyte file.

Her name was Charlotte-Charlotte!-and she would have been just twenty-two that day. All this time he'd thought of her as a Kim or a Jenny or a Terri, but she was a Charlotte. It sounded kind of old-fashioned and stuffy in his opinion, and it made him chuckle to put that name with those memories.

It was Charlotte who pressed her sweet little hips into him when he pinned her against the car. Charlotte who happily opened her mouth to his kiss. Charlotte who rolled with him in the weeds, tore at his clothes, and whispered, "Hurry, oh please hurry!" when he fumbled with the first condom wrapper.

It was Charlotte who gave herself to him over and over, shuddering on top of his body, tight as a clenched fist around him.

It was Charlotte who said, "I don't have a name and neither do you, all right?"

It was Charlotte who kissed him good-bye with such hunger that she broke his tooth.

Joe shut down the computer and turned off the light. He wandered into the smaller bedroom and dropped his clothes to the floor, then slipped under the cool, clean sheets in the nude.

He lay there a long time-minutes, hours, he didn't have a clue-staring at the indistinct patterns in the ceiling of this strange room, sensing her next door, swearing to God that he smelled honeysuckle through the barely open window, and knowing that if he didn't get out of this house and this town, he'd lose his mind.

Charlotte.

He'd found her.

Joe clenched and loosened his fists as they lay at his sides, wondering for maybe the thousandth time in his life whether he'd taken her virginity that day. It had always bugged him. Not because she'd been hesitant or unsure of herself or afraid, but because she'd been so incredibly snug. And at one point, after making her come with his hand, he'd seen bright red blood streaked down the length of his fingers.

But here's what had forever baffled him-what would a virgin be doing acting like a wild thang? Why would a spectacularly beautiful woman who'd held out to the age of twenty-two suddenly decide to give it up to a stranger on the side of the road? It made no sense, and he'd never been able to figure it out.

Joe rubbed his entire face and sighed. If, in fact, he'd been her first, it was something he needed to know. Because that would mean she'd given him the most precious gift imaginable. And his mama had taught him to always say thank you.

Besides, if he was Charlotte's first, that would mean she would always remember him-right? It would make him special to her, if solely for that one reason… right? So if he walked over to that cute yellow house and knocked on the door with the wreath on it, she'd answer, smile at him, and know exactly who he was.

Wouldn't she?

The only person he'd ever told about Charlotte had been Steve Simmons, his partner and the best friend he'd ever had. Joe grinned in the dark, remembering how Steve had helped him in his attempts to find her, the mystery girl in the 1992 Mariner Blue Mazda Miata with Maryland tags.

One hundred and two. That's how many people they called, wrote, or visited looking for her. Nobody fit her description and no one said they had loaned their car to a young redhead that day.

Joe chuckled softly to himself, recalling the night an exasperated Steve observed, "Damn, Bellacera. I have never seen you do the chasing before."

And wasn't that the truth?

But, with Steve's help, chase he did, with nothing to show for it. She was out there somewhere, though. He knew she'd been driving one of the 102 cars. He hadn't imagined her. She'd been real. She'd been hot and sweet and funny, and right before Christmas he'd been sitting in the dentist's chair about to let Dr. Lavin of the Quantico Dental Clinic put a cap on that tooth.

But he just couldn't go through with it.

Joe had gotten used to the little chip at the juncture of his two incisors. He'd become attached to the only proof that she'd ever been his. And if he fixed it, it would feel final, like he'd given up on ever finding her.

Joe laughed again to himself in the dark, then heard the sound of his laughter die away. He flipped over onto his stomach and turned a cheek into the pillow.

Life had swept him away that winter. He and Steve got their first assignments with the Administration. They went to El Paso together, four years of gritty border cases. Then there was Houston and Mexico City and it became clear that he'd picked the kind of work that would forever leave him drained and needing his space. The women he'd managed to hook up with all had the same complaint-his job left no room for a relationship. And they were damn right.

No wonder DEA agents had a divorce rate of about 75 percent.

Somehow, Steve had managed it better. Maybe he was just a more laid-back guy, or maybe Reba was such a wonderful woman that it made it worth the effort. But Steve found a way to balance a wife and kid with his job, a way to mix his work with a real life.

For a while, anyway. Until his work got them all killed.

Joe flipped over again, sending the sheet flying off his body. He felt hot. Enraged. He felt that familiar black hole in his gut, and knew he'd never find a way to fill it.

It had been the assignment of a lifetime. Their job was to infiltrate Guzman's Albuquerque cell and get enough evidence to take down the entire organization. The cartel was suspected of smuggling huge quantities of cocaine, marijuana, and methamphetamines into the country and distributing it all over the western United States. He and Steve soon learned the group had expanded its reach by subcontracting to deliver Colombian heroin as well.

It took them ten months to worm their way into the good graces of Guzman's men, making several small buys of cocaine and heroin. Their money was clean. Their word was good. They earned the dealers' trust. And the team did a meticulous job of documenting every encounter, every meeting, every word exchanged. The result was that even if they never caught Guzman himself in the act, the U.S. attorneys had enough evidence to nail the elusive drug lord.

Joe had never met Guzman during his two-year assignment in Mexico City but knew all about him. He was in his early fifties, a man who'd been born in the fetid slums of Ciudad Ju amp;rez on the U.S. border and had worked his way up in the ranks of organized crime.

He earned a reputation for killing anyone who looked at him funny. He had a large and loyal following of men who knew that if they made one misstep, their families would die. It's how any tyrant won respect-with fear. Absolute fear.

Joe laced his fingers together behind his head and let the memory of Steve's murder flood his brain.

They'd been hanging with Guzman's men that evening, putting the finishing touches on the deal that was supposed to go down the next morning. Guzman was already in town to supervise the transaction-fifty kilos of cocaine for $5 million. In hours, they'd catch him orchestrating the sale, on videotape.

Joe and Steve left in separate cars about 2:00 a.m. and met up at the Denny's on Alameda Boulevard, like they sometimes did. They had no idea that just moments before some two-bit informant they'd dealt with in another case had blown their cover. They had no idea they'd been followed, that Guzman's men sat outside like the patient predators they were. Steve reached the door first. It was sheer dumb luck that Joe was two steps behind, still paying the bill.

The henchmen got to Reba and Daniel before agents could. They'd been executed in their sleep. It was Guzman's way of making his point quite clear: Special Agent Joe Bellacera-and anyone close to him-would never be safe.

Guzman was snagged by agents later that night at an airstrip forty miles out on the mesa. It wasn't the Hollywood ending, but agents impounded the cocaine intended for distribution, arrested twenty-seven Mexican nationals, and took the big man into custody.

It was no comfort to Joe that Guzman now sat in maximum security at the federal prison in Beaumont, Texas. Because he still had his followers. And he'd promised a million dollars to whoever brought him Joe's head.

A million dollars was highly motivating.

That's why Joe had to hide. Why he had to live in Ohio. And if all that weren't enough, he was faced with the ultimate irony: He'd finally found his mystery woman and couldn't go to her.

Joe took a deep breath and smelled the honeysuckle again. The mind could play tricks on a man, he was well aware, but another sniff assured him this was no illusion. He made a mental note to find wherever that tangle of weed existed on this property and hack it to pieces.

Burn it if he had to.

Because he saw Reba and little Daniel Simmons in his mind and knew he could never go to Charlotte Tasker, tell her he'd searched for her, that he'd never forgotten her, that he'd missed her every damn day for thirteen years. He couldn't risk getting close to anyone.

Not ever again.

Not fifteen minutes had passed since Bonnie went home, and the poems were coming fast and furious. Maybe because of the Glenlivet but more likely because he was here. He was real.

Charlotte could feel a crackle in the air around her. She felt like a live wire, her skin raw, her mouth dry. And all she could think of was his face, now thirteen years older and framed in a villain's goatee and longer hair. But it was the same face. It was his face. There was no doubt.

At first, when she'd hauled herself off the floor and retrieved the binoculars, she told herself no-it couldn't be him. It was just a man who looked like him. A man who happened to move like he'd moved and smile like he'd smiled. Besides, the man she'd known so briefly was clean-shaven and wore a crew cut. The Chippendales guy's face was harsher. Much more intense, even when he smiled. So, no. It wasn't him.

But there was no mistaking those piercing black eyesy that sensuous, wide mouth, those big but graceful hands. The man's entire body seemed to glide through space, like a sleek jaguar, just like her fantasy man.

She couldn't stop writing.

Glide

Tongue on tongue

Slide on me

Teeth to flesh

Consume me

Move inside

Fill the void

Feel the glide

Deliver me.

Charlotte closed her eyes tight and allowed herself the luxury of the ultimate fantasy. Here's what would happen: She'd walk over and knock on his door. He would smile and wrap her up in his arms and he'd say, why, of course he remembered her! And yes, he happened to be single yet adored children, and he was sane, employed, and free of all communicable diseases! And of course he'd love to pick up where they left off thirteen years ago and fuck her brains out on a regular basis!

Would Tuesday work for her?

She sighed. Even if all that were true, what exactly would she tell Hank and Matt? That Mommy had a special new friend? The thought made her queasy.

She chewed on the end of the pen, then stopped, her mouth falling open in shock. This was the end! This moment marked the official death of her sexual fantasy life. For thirteen years she'd built a personal ritual around a mystery man, a man who lived only in her memory and imagination, and now the real man had to move next door-in the flesh-and ruin it!

God! Couldn't a woman even masturbate in peace?

She flipped back through her journal, finding a poem she'd worked on a few months ago. The more she read, the more pissed off she became.

All I've Got

I'll pretend it's you

Will you humor me? And for awhile I will be free

Sweat heat

Fiery friction

I will burn

In my latex addiction

I'll burn and scream and writhe

So hot!

I'll pretend it's you

Though I know it's not.

But it's all I've got

Charlotte choked back a fresh batch of tears, took another swill from the water bottle by the bedside, and wiped her mouth. She needed to stay hydrated. She'd be sure to eat plenty of potassium tomorrow and take her vitamin B supplements. She'd do a three-mile loop at the park once she got the kids off to school. One thing she knew for sure-healthy food and fresh air had always helped to make anything survivable.

She'd get through this as well.

Charlotte closed the journal in her lap and folded her hands. Bonnie had been a good listener earlier that night and had kept her commentary to a minimum-just what Charlotte needed. The last thing she could have dealt with was her best friend expressing shock or disappointment or passing judgment.

Bonnie had simply nodded a lot Held her hand. Let her talk. And as the words had spilled from Charlotte's lips, she felt somehow separate from the story she told her friend, as if it had happened to another woman.

She supposed it had.

After all, who is the same woman at thirty-five as she was at twenty-two? No one she'd ever met, that was for sure. On that day thirteen years ago, she'd been young and optimistic, ready to graduate, ready to get engaged, ready to start her life. She'd felt like she was ready to step out into the bright perfect world of her future.

But somehow, right there in that convertible on the GW Parkway, it hit her like a cinder block to the forehead- Kurt Tasker would be the first and only man she'd ever have sex with. Sex-that dark territory she'd tiptoed around and shut her eyes against in order to stay a good girl-would be experienced with Kurt and only Kurt. He would define it for her. He would be her travel companion. Her tour guide. The only places she'd ever go would be the places he took her. Just him. One man.

Forever.

Even back then, had she known in her heart that it would be a no-frills excursion? Yes, if she answered honestly, she had. But at the time that had seemed a small sacrifice to make. After all, Kurt Tasker was good for her, just what she needed in so many other ways. And a woman couldn't have everything, right?

Charlotte recalled the conversation they'd had before he flew out to his interview at the Enquirer, Once again, it was Charlotte who brought up the subject of sex, only to be guided back to moral ground by Kurt. It was best to wait until they were married, he'd reminded her. It was the right thing to do. It would be worth the wait. They would enter into their covenant of marriage in God's favor.

Of course he'd been right, and she'd felt that familiar sense of guilt wash over her. What was wrong with her? Why did it tantalize her so much? Why wasn't she as patient as Kurt? As in control of her desires?

Then something happened that should have set off the warning bells. They'd been sitting at the gate, waiting for boarding to begin. Kurt had been reading the Sporting News, his fingers absently stroking the top of her left hand. She watched his big thumb trace the vein under her pale skin, let her eyes travel up his thick forearm to his biceps under the sleeve of his pinstripe Oxford shirt, then to his eyes the same pale shade of blue, moving from side to side as he read.

She couldn't help it. She loved the way he looked. She'd touched him everywhere, she'd had her hands on his bare flesh, and that one time things got "out of hand," as Kurt referred to it, she'd even had him in her mouth.

He was beautiful. He made her feel hot and soft and female. She wanted to have sex with him. She wanted him inside her. She wanted to surrender to the mysterious pull of sexual desire. And yet she admired him so for his restraint, his strong sense of what was right and wrong. He was such a good man.

That's when she'd said, "Kurt?"

He'd looked up at her and blinked. "Hmm?"

She'd cleared her throat. "How important is sex in a relationship, do you think?"

His eyes went wide. "Charlotte-"

"I'm not pushing. I'm just curious. Listen, if a relationship between a man and woman were like a whole pie-"

"What kind of pie are we talking about? Apple? Boston cream?"

She'd laughed. He could always make her laugh. "I'm serious."

He'd bent down and kissed her cheek. "I'm listening. We're talking about a married man and woman, is that right?"

She grinned. "Sure. A married couple. And the whole of their relationship is a Boston cream pie."

"Sounds good so far." He raised an eyebrow.

"Okay." Charlotte took a deep breath for courage. "Just how important is sex to them? How many pieces of the pie would have to be made up of good sex for them to be happy?"

Kurt frowned and folded the Sporting News in his lap. "Are you talking about our pies, Charlotte?"

Her heart beat fast. She licked her lips in nervousness. "Yes. My pie. Your pie. Let's say each has eight pieces. How many pieces of your pie would have to be dedicated to sex?"

"Okay." She'd watched Kurt's eyes travel over to the glass wall overlooking the taxiway. He turned to her. "Probably one slice."

Charlotte remembered that her mouth had opened and a sharp bolt of fear shot up her spine. Because, though she could never say it out loud, she'd just pictured five slices of sex. Okay, six-six big, sweet, creamy, melt-in-your-mouth pieces of sex.

But she'd smiled at Kurt and said, "That sounds about right." Then he'd boarded his flight to Cincinnati.

It had been the first time she'd ever lied to him.

Charlotte jumped from her bed and tucked the journal into her nightstand, locking the drawer, placing the key under the base of the reading lamp like she always did, thinking about what had happened three days later, when she went back to the airport to pick up Kurt. The day she met Joe.

Charlotte walked toward her bedroom windows. She could see the tiniest slice of pink on the horizon. Another day was coming. Another day when she'd be mommy and business owner and widow. Another day that she would feel the undertow of loneliness and need, so strong lately she feared it would eat her alive.

She dragged her fingertips along the cool pane of glass, remembering the miracle of letting go in Joe's arms, how perfect it felt to release all the wildness and curiosity hiding inside her. She'd allowed a stranger to see how much passion lived in her, how hot she really was, and she'd felt real for the first time in her life. Free. Alive.

Was it wrong to want that again?

She stared at the Connor house-his house now- glowing in the pale daylight and heard a little voice inside her head whisper, Maybe just once more?