The Attraction, page 1
THE ATTRACTION
By B. W. Battin
A Gordian Knot Thriller
Gordian Knot is an imprint of Crossroad Press
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
Digital Edition Copyright © 2016 B. W. Battin
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Meet the Author
B. W. Battin grew up in Santa Fe, New Mexico. After serving four years in the U.S. Coast Guard, he graduated from the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. He became a reporter at KOAT-TV in Albuquerque, then moved on to TV stations in Shreveport, Louisiana; Rapid City, South Dakota; and Duluth, Minnesota, where he wrote his first published novel, Angel of the Night. After it was published, he became a full-time writer. One of his novels, Smithereens, was made into a TV movie for NBC. His novels and short stories have been translated into various languages, and he has ghost-written novels for other authors. He lives in Belen, New Mexico, with his wife Sandy, whom he describes as the love of his life. They met in Albuquerque while they were both in the news business.
Book List
Thrillers
Angel of the Night
Catch Me If You Can
Demented
Fair Game
Programmed for Terror
Serial Blood
Smithereens
Tender Prey
The Attraction
The Boogeyman
The Creep
Horror
Into the Pit
It’s Loose
Mary, Mary
Night Sounds
Satan’s Servant
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To Alvin and Lillian Benjamin
THE ATTRACTION
1
Should I go to bed with him? Cassandra wondered, glaring at the man driving the car. His name was Clark Clayton. In his early thirties, he was a wiry man with thinning dark hair and blue eyes. She’d met him at a party a while back, and yesterday he’d called and asked her to go out. Since this was the weekend that Lisa spent with her father and since Cassandra had nothing planned, she’d accepted Clark’s invitation. Having had dinner at a Chinese restaurant and gone to a play, they were on their way back to Cassandra’s apartment in the Chicago suburbs.
Clark glanced at her, smiled, and the question hung there: Are we going to sleep together?
Cassandra was undoubtedly a disappointment to anyone who believed in the stereotype of the free-wheeling, liberated divorcee. Her one free weekend each month—the only time she would even consider dating—was usually devoted to things like catching up on her reading or housework. And if she did go out, she and her date normally parted at the curb.
But Clark had been sending out signals all evening, messages conveyed by his eyes, his movements, his frowns and smiles. Though subtle, these things, taken together, proclaimed, I want to make love to you. And Cassandra had found herself responding to the message.
The lights of the city were behind them now. As they drove along the freeway, they passed exits leading into the outer ring of Chicago’s urban sprawl, into the world of Little League baseball, the PTA, the Neighborhood Crime Watch. It had been Cassandra’s world once, before she and John had divided up the property, before they had agreed to sell the house and split the proceeds.
The marriage had failed for a variety of reasons, the big one being that John had fallen in love with another woman. Every day at the office, Janice had been there, friendly, beautiful, available. They’d had lunches together, then an affair. The affair had been going on nearly a year when he finally asked Cassandra for a divorce.
Devastated, she had cried for a week. She lost her appetite as well as fifteen pounds; then she became a nervous eater and gained them back, plus some.
Realizing that trying to force John to stay with her would be futile, she had agreed to the divorce. John moved in with Janice at once, promising to support her and Lisa until a formal arrangement could be worked out. The rest was simple. They’d seen a lawyer, agreed upon a property settlement, and determined child custody and support. The necessary papers were drawn up, signed, and filed with the court. Eventually, the final decree was signed by a judge, legally dissolving a marriage that had actually ended the second or third time John had asked Janice to lunch.
In time, the hurt, confusion, and even the extra pounds had gone away. She had her own life now, and she had her daughter; everything was fine. And yet a part of her knew that everything wasn’t fine, that hidden deep inside was some hurt that time hadn’t erased yet, that it might never erase. She quickly pushed this thought aside.
It was a nice spring evening, warm enough for short sleeves but still cool enough to be pleasant. The muggy summer nights were still a month or so away.
“What do you like to do besides go to restaurants and plays?” Clark asked.
“I, uh, I read, go to an occasional movie. Actually, I spend most of my time working and being the mother of a seven-year-old.” She shrugged. “I guess I don’t lead a very exciting life. How about you? What do you do for excitement?”
“I read, go to an occasional movie.”
Cassandra laughed. “We’re a real pair of swingers, huh?”
“Apparently,” he said, chuckling as he reached over and touched her hand. Although the contact lasted only a fraction of a second, his flesh seemed to pulsate with the message, I want you; I want you; I want you. A warm tingle traveled through Cassandra’s body.
Clark steered into the off ramp; a few moments later, they were driving along a tree-lined suburban street, the streetlights making occasional pools of brightness in the night. As they passed under one of the lights, she studied Clark’s face. He had rugged, masculine features, and yet there was a studious look about him, as if he were a professor in some academic field who spent his spare time mountain climbing, or something like that. In reality, Clark was neither a scholar nor a mountain climber. He was a junior executive at a company that made plumbing supplies.
That was among the many things he’d told Cassandra about himself. He’d also revealed that he was thirty-three and that he’d never been married. A part of her wondered whether that was a lie, whether he really had a wife he didn’t want her to know about. Not wanting to consider that, Cassandra pushed the question aside.
She had enjoyed herself tonight. Her dinner—trout amandine—had been excellent, and the play, though an amateur presentation of a comedy by an unknown playwright, had been fun. Clark said he’d stumbled across the theater, located off an alley near the Loop, about a year ago and had enjoyed going there ever since.
Clark stopped at a red light, then turned left, onto a street lined with small apartment buildings. Cassandra’s apartment was in the next block. It was decision time. During the eighteen months she’d been divorced, she had only slept with a man once. As scared and nervous as a teenage virgin, she’d found little pleasure in the act, and the man had never called again. But somehow she knew that Clark was different, that tonight would be different. If she allowed anything to happen tonight.
I’m afraid, she thought. I’m afraid of being so nervous that I’ll bungle it. I’m afraid of doing anything that might develop into a serious relationship. Because serious relationships can lead to pain, divorce, crying all night.
Clark pulled to a stop in front of the small brick apartment building in which she lived.
An awkward moment passed during which both of them were silent. Do I send him away, Cassandra wondered, or invite him in? He looked at her and smiled.
“Would you like to come in for coffee or a nightcap?” she asked. She had merely postponed the decision. Inviting him in wasn’t a commitment; she could still send him away after they’d had something to drink. And somewhere inside, two parts of Cassandra were urging her to take different actions. One part had warmed to the tingle that Clark’s presence was stirring. The other part was afraid.
They walked across the lawn to the two-story brick building. Cassandra’s apartment was on the ground floor, third door on the left.
“Do you have any Scotch?”
She nodded. “Nothing fancy, but it’s Scotch.”
“On the rocks, please.”
“Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” She hurried into the apartment’s small kitchen, squatted in front of a lower cupboard, and studied her limited liquor supply. She found the Scotch, decided on white wine for herself, and set about pouring the drinks.
Returning to the living room, she found Clark standing by the bookcase, studying a framed photograph of Lisa.
“Your daughter?”
“Yes.” She’d told him about the divorce and that this was the weekend for Lisa’s monthly visit with her father.
He smiled. “When I see a cute little girl like this, it makes me wonder whether I made a mistake by staying single so long.”
A number of questions jumped into Cassandra’s head, but she remained silent, for most of them were too personal for her to ask.
He returned the picture to the bookcase, and Cassandra handed him his drink. He took a sip, nodded his satisfaction, then said, “Shall we sit down?” He seated himself on the couch.
Cassandra simply stood there, the glass of wine in her hand, staring at him. Then his eyes found hers, and they seemed to say. It’s okay. I won’t bite. Suddenly feeling silly, she sat down on the couch, leaving about two feet of cushion between herself and Clark.
As did the rest of the furniture, the expensive Early American couch looked out of place in the small living room, with its faded gold carpet. The furniture had been part of the divorce settlement. There was too much of it to fit into a little two-bedroom apartment, so a number of Cassandra’s favorite pieces were in storage, awaiting—awaiting what?
Living on child-support payments and her salary, she barely had enough money left over to pay the storage fee. How was she ever going to get a place large enough to hold the things that had filled a four-bedroom house? Of course, she had received half the money from the sale of the house—$22,000. But that money was for Lisa’s education, and Cassandra wouldn’t even consider touching it.
She glanced at Clark, who’d been studying her silently, then quickly looked away before their eyes could meet. Calm down, she told herself. You’re supposed to be one of those wicked divorcees, not a nervous wreck.
“What do you like to read?” Clark asked, his gaze shifting to the bookcase.
“Oh, uh, historical things mostly. You know, biographies and things like that. What do you like to read?”
“Well, I read an occasional spy novel.” He took a drink of Scotch, then set the glass on the coffee table. “I’m afraid my interests aren’t nearly as intellectual as yours.”
“It’s not intellectual,” Cassandra said, unexplainably embarrassed at having the term applied to her. “It’s just … well, interesting. Besides, I like spy novels, too.” She named some of her favorite writers of suspense novels and quickly discovered that she and Clark had read some of the same books.
Which led to the discovery that they had enjoyed some of the same movies and that they both liked folk music.
“I’m afraid it’s not very popular anymore,” Clark said as he finished his drink. “I’ve got records that have been out of circulation for years. I’m in the process of putting them on tape to preserve them. Someday, if you like, you can come over and listen to some of them. I’ve got—”
“Oh, your glass is empty,” Cassandra said to change the subject. She didn’t want to say anything that would commit her to visiting Clark’s home. Rising, she grabbed his glass.
Standing, he gently took her arm. “No,” he said, “I’ve had enough.”
They stood there, awkwardly, both of them apparently uncertain what to do. Afraid to look into Clark’s eyes, Cassandra shifted her gaze to the coffee table, spotting her empty glass and realizing that she was unable to recall having consumed the wine. Then Clark gently put his hands on her shoulders, and as if he had switched on some mechanism that controlled her muscles, her eyes rose and met his.
“Are you afraid of me?” he asked.
“I’m just afraid,” she said in a shaking voice that sounded like someone else’s. “I’m not afraid of you.”
“Should I go?” he asked gently, his brown eyes exploring hers.
Again, she heard the strange distant voice. It said, “No. Don’t go.”
Slowly, gently, he took her in his arms. For a moment, he just held her; then their lips met. As the kiss became more passionate, the warm tingle that had been teasing Cassandra throughout the evening erupted into desire. As they held each other, their bodies pressing tightly together, Cassandra thought, Yes, yes. Oh, yes.
2
“Good morning,” a male voice said. Not yet fully awake, Cassandra rolled over, a part of her brain trying to determine the source of the words she’d just heard. Slowly, she realized there was a body next to hers, Clark’s body. And she recalled their making love last night. This time she hadn’t performed like a frightened teenage virgin. This time she’d enjoyed it, an experience she hadn’t had since her divorce. No, she corrected, not since the glow wore off her marriage, which had occurred long before the marriage ended. She stretched, then slipped her arms around Clark. His body was smooth and firm.
“Good morning,” she said in a sleepy voice. “Have you been awake long?”
“An hour or so, I guess,” he replied, returning her hug.
“And you’ve just been lying there?”
“I didn’t want to wake you up.”
“Thanks for being so thoughtful.”
Although they were in bed, their bare bodies lightly touching, somehow there didn’t seem to be anything sexual about what they were doing. It was merely a cozy, comfortable way to start the morning.
“This is very nice,” Clark said. “But I’m afraid I’m going to have to end it.”
“Why?”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Oh,” she said without releasing him.
“If you don’t let go, I won’t be responsible for what happens.”
Reluctantly, she removed her arms, and Clark slipped out of the bed, his nude body disappearing into the hallway. She heard the bathroom door close. Resisting the impulse to roll over and close her eyes, Cassandra moved to the edge of the bed, pushed her feet out from under the covers, and put them on the floor. The sounds of the shower running came from the bathroom.
Pushing some dark strands of curly hair away from her face, she stared sleepily at her nakedness. Her eyes fixed on her firm breasts, then dropped to her long, slender legs, skipping quickly over her tummy, which had developed a slight outward curve. She’d first noticed it about three months ago—right after her thirtieth birthday. It was silly not to look at it, she supposed. After all, no one could expect to have an eighteen-year-old’s figure forever. But at this particular moment, right after having spent the night with an extremely attractive man—well, it just wasn’t the right time to stare at your once-firm tummy, which would most likely never be flat again.
If I exercise, she thought, if I eat more carefully … She dismissed the notion, because she knew she would never do those things, not even if—God forbid—she ever became genuinely plump. Like many people, Cassandra had the willpower to do any number of difficult things, but not to give up the foods she liked or take up the exercise she hated. She sighed.
The sound of the bathroom door opening came from the hallway. Abruptly, Cassandra rushed to the closet and grabbed her robe. She was tying the white garment’s sash when Clark, still naked, stepped into the room.
Why didn’t I want him to see me nude? Cassandra wondered. I just slept with him. A few hours ago, I made love with him. Having no answer for that question, she pushed it from her thoughts.
“I think I’ve got some clothes around here somewhere,” Clark said, his eyes exploring the room.
“On the other side of the bed. On the floor.”
He grinned. “I must have been really anxious to get out of them.”
Cassandra watched as he moved to the other side of the bed and began dressing. Though muscular, he was lean, built more like a long-distance runner than a weightlifter. His body had very little hair. He looked up, his eyes meeting hers, and suddenly Cassandra felt embarrassed to be staring at a naked man.
