“Gary? Gary?” She stepped through the wide doors, her eyes trying to adjust to the darkness as they scanned the cavernous barn. The scent of hay was strong. “Gary, say something,” she said, laughing nervously. “Where are you? What are you doing in here in the dark?”
He wasn’t doing anything—except swinging at the end of the rope by which he had hanged himself from the rafters.
Chapter Eight
Atlanta, 1981
Dillon Burke, lying on the hotel bed wearing only his tuxedo trousers, idly plucked at his chest hair while gazing at the bathroom door, waiting for his bride to emerge. He was feeling more than a little drunk, although he had had only one glass of the champagne that had flowed so freely during the wedding reception that Debra’s parents had held. The Newberrys were drinking Baptists. Because they contributed so generously to their church, the minister had looked the other way when the magnums were uncorked.
Dillon, however, was drunk on love and happiness. He smiled, recalling how Debra had sloshed champagne on his hand when they hooked arms and toasted each other. Unmindful of their audience, she had flirtatiously licked it off.
His grandma had always advised him to find himself a Baptist girl. “They’re righteous girls for the most part,” she had said, “but they’re not burdened by guilt like the Catholic girls are.”
In Debra’s case, Granny Burke had been right. Debra’s moral fiber was as durable as belted steel, but she was an extremely sensual creature. From her large, noisy family, she had learned to express affection openly, without shame or timidity.
Dillon was impatient for some of that unreserved, unselfish love now. Thinking about it had aroused him. The rented trousers had become uncomfortably tight. He left the bed and moved across the plush carpeting to the window, which afforded a panoramic view of downtown Atlanta. It was dusk; lights all over the city were twinkling on. He drew a contented breath that expanded his broad chest. God, life really could be grand. His was. He had had a rocky beginning, but good fortune was finally catching up with him.
Hearing the bathroom door open, he turned around and saw Debra standing in a pool of golden light. Her blond hair formed a translucent halo around her head. As she moved toward him, her breasts swayed with fluid enticement against the front of her ivory silk nightgown. With each step she took, the sexy fabric briefly molded to and delineated the delta between her thighs.
He drew her against him and kissed her with unchivalrous fervor, pressing his tongue between her parted lips—and tasted mouthwash.
“What?” Debra asked softly when she felt his smile against her lips.
“Did you gargle?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. After I brushed my teeth, which I did as soon as I got out of the bathtub.”
“You bathed?” he asked, nuzzling her warm, fragrant neck.
“I think it’s customary for brides to bathe before presenting themselves to their husbands.”
“Do you want me to shower?”
“No.” She sighed, tilting her head to one side so he would have better access to her throat. “I don’t want you to do anything except what you’re doing.”
He chuckled. “Bet you do.”
He lowered his hands to her breasts and slid his knuckles back and forth across the tips until they were distended. “See? I was right.” Wrapping his arms around her, he pulled her against him and kissed her passionately. When he finally raised his head, he said, “I love you, Debra.”
He had loved her almost from the moment he first saw her. They had met the first day of the fall semester at Georgia Tech. As seniors, they were enrolled in an advanced English course. Dillon was taking it as an elective. For Debra, a language major, the course on the origin of English was required.
After the first few words out of the effeminate professor’s mouth, Dillon figured he would have to go through the hassle of getting a schedule change. He didn’t think he could stomach three hours of the professor’s nasal intonations each week for an entire semester.
Then Debra rushed in, five minutes late, blond hair windblown, cheeks rosy with embarrassment, apologetic for not being able to locate the classroom, and breathless from the exertion of running up two flights of stairs.
Dillon fell in love and lust instantly.
After class, he elbowed his way through the other students in pursuit of the one who had changed his mind about a schedule change. “Hi,” he said, falling into step beside Debra Newberry. He had memorized her name when she gave it to the professor, who had been peeved over her interruption.
She looked up at Dillon with eyes the color of the Caribbean. “Hi.”
“Do you belong to anybody?”
They had reached the stairs. She st
opped and turned to face him. “Excuse me?” Propelling her backward so they wouldn’t cause a bottleneck, Dillon repeated his question. “I belong to myself,” she replied in a manner that would have made Gloria Steinem proud.
“No steady boyfriend, husband, or significant other?”