The Sex Files. Jule Mcbride
could see her in bits and snatches.
Astonished, he’d felt as if someone had breathed life into Cameron’s computer-screen image again. But how? What was going on?
He’d taken in her tall figure, the wavy blond hair falling over her left eye and the green raincoat she wore over a black knit dress. Before he’d been aware he’d moved, he’d given chase. He’d grown up in Manhattan, and even after he’d moved to the D.C. area and his parents retired in Utah, he’d continued visiting because Anna was here, so he knew the subways like the back of his hand.
He’d jogged upstairs, passing turnstiles as he headed for the uptown platform, but just as he’d reached it, another train pulled in. The electronic doors opened, and he’d cursed inwardly as people spilled out of cars, then back inside. He’d reached the doors just as they glided shut. Cameron had been right on the other side of the glass! Her brown eyes had widened, and she’d swung her head, so hair fell across her face as if to disguise herself. She’d tried to back away, but she’d been hemmed in by other passengers. Futilely, Oliver had lifted a hand as the train pulled away, as if to wave goodbye.
Now he shook his head to clear it of confusion. None of this made sense. He was haunted by a woman who didn’t even exist. As a psychologist, he knew the mind could play tricks, so his best guess was that Anna was right. He was overworked and lonely, a state that had made him ripe for suggestion when he’d seen the image of “Cameron.”
Besides, what man wouldn’t fantasize about America’s most erotic woman? Yeah, this was definitely a case of wishful thinking. That, or his subconscious was trying to tell him something. “Yeah,” he whispered hoarsely, his body still aching with need. “That you need a woman.” A real woman.
Memories of the X-rated dream came back, and he couldn’t believe what lurked in his subconscious. He wasn’t really sexist, and he dated smart, levelheaded professional women, not stacked blondes who painted their nails come-love-me red and whispered to him as if he’d just called a 1-900 number. “Edible briefs,” he whispered, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Wow.
“Why don’t you settle down, Midnight?” he added as Anna’s black cat scampered along the windowsill, drawing back the curtain. As light shined into the bedroom, another siren sounded, and Oliver glanced at the digital bedside clock: 2:00 a.m. So much for peace and quiet. During the day, when he’d visited Anna, this neighborhood had been deserted, but sometimes at night it was a different story.
Rising, he moved to the third-floor window, but instead of closing the curtain, Oliver stared through the rain into Nite-Lite, a club across the street. Usually the club’s curtains were closed, but tonight, black-light strobes illuminated a packed dance floor. Everybody was gearing up for the holidays. It was depressing. Despite what he’d been saying to the contrary, Oliver wasn’t thrilled about spending Christmas alone.
Usually he and Anna went to his folks’ place in Utah. He felt a sudden, uncharacteristic tug at his heart when an image of the white farmhouse flashed in his mind. He could see the candles his mother put along the front walkway, as well as the wreath on the front door that Anna had made years ago in a crafts class. The tree, always cut by him and his father, was visible through the windows. This year, he’d miss taking long walks with Anna through the snow-dusted streets of the rural countryside….
Suddenly, Oliver leaned forward. “No,” he muttered. “This is crazy!” He’d seen her again! Cameron had been at the window, wearing that same green raincoat. When the lights strobed off, she vanished. “A trick of the night,” he whispered without any real conviction. He was a logical man. Computer-generated images didn’t come to life. But it had looked so much like the woman on his computer….
Rain was mixing with exhaust fumes and smoke rising from subway grates. Everything looked eerie. Smoky. Besides, it was the time of year for phantoms—Halloween had just passed. Winter was almost here. Nevertheless, he considered getting dressed and going to the club to hunt for her. She didn’t exist, though. Right? Between being on the road for a year and doing the promotion for his book, he was simply stressed, and he had every reason to be. With his upcoming time off during the holidays, he’d do himself a favor and take it easy.
Closing the curtain, he climbed into bed again, uttering a frustrated grunt when the water surged beneath him. Who had he seen in the window? he wondered as he drifted.
“Here…let me help you, Oliver.” Her breath was closer now, so near that he caught whiffs of peppermint. At first, he thought it was toothpaste, then a breath mint—and then Oliver remembered the mentholated massage oil. Burying his face in a pillow, he realized the soft cushions were really Cameron’s breasts…
“You don’t mind if I lie beside you, do you, Oliver?” she was whispering.
“Be my guest, Cameron.”
Naked, she glided a thigh over his hip. He was throbbing as he slid a hand between their bodies, gently guiding himself inside her slick, wet heat. Moments ago, he’d been ready to explode, and now, once more, with her hands reaching between them to stroke him, he was teetering on the brink.
He gasped as her hips rocked. She whispered, “Take me deeper, Oliver. Deeper. All the way.” He lost control then. Suddenly, his mouth was everywhere. It closed possessively over her lips, and after he’d plundered her mouth, he dripped liquid kisses down the length of her neck until he went low enough to lather her breasts, lightly scraping his teeth against the puckered tips—gently biting, urgently coaxing. She arched and panted, begging him, “Love me, Oliver. Oh, please love me. You’re so hot. I can’t get enough of you.”
He couldn’t get enough of Cameron, either. Flames seemed to lick inside his limbs, and the wild need for her was spinning inside him like a dancer. He danced along with her, his mind turning somersaults, then fading to black as he thrust harder, quicker, deeper. He was so close, almost there…
He was fast sleep when he came.
3
“WHERE ARE YOU?” Peggy Fox whispered, hugging her green raincoat to her waist to stay warm and nervously pushing away the strands of blond hair falling over her eye. How could she have lost Oliver in the crowd? Just a second ago, he’d been standing across Sixth Avenue, watching the Thanksgiving Day parade.
Now he was gone. She shuddered, either because of the chill air and fog, or because she couldn’t decide whether or not to approach him. As soon as she’d left the Plaza Hotel, things had taken a turn for the worse. She’d found where Oliver was staying, all right—a downtown apartment on Barrow Street that belonged to the sister he’d mentioned on TV—but before she could solicit his help, one of the men he worked with had chased her through the subway. He was a tall, bald, massively built black man who bore a striking resemblance to Bruce Willis.
“Halt!” he’d yelled. “I’m Kevin Hall. FBI. You’re wanted for questioning.”
She’d bolted, somehow losing him. But why was an agent chasing her? And why would she be wanted for questioning? She hadn’t done anything wrong. If Kevin Hall thought she was guilty of something, did Oliver Vargo think the same?
He, too, had spotted her in the subway, in the West Fourth Street station, and he’d given chase, although unlike Agent Hall, he hadn’t looked as if he wanted to arrest her. She’d had the distinct impression Oliver had realized she was following him, but until she knew for certain what was going on, she meant to play her cards close to the vest. Which was why she’d been spying on Oliver from Grand Central; unfortunately, from what she’d seen so far, he was chummy with Miles McLaughlin and Kevin Hall. Maybe that didn’t mean anything, though. The men were co-workers, after all.
Still, all this had thrown a wrench into her plans to contact Oliver, and now she felt even more ambivalent about going to the police. Why was an FBI agent chasing her? Her eyes darting, she searched the street as people surged around her. Oliver couldn’t have gone far. Moments ago, she’d tried to get closer to him by crossing the street, but both sides of Sixth Avenue were barricaded by police officers and saw-horses. Oliver had to be as trapped by the