He could span her waist with both hands. He had done it once, in the darkness of her bedroom, although she might not remember it. He wanted her to remember. He wanted to do it with the lights on, and then grip her hips and tug her pants down, and cup her through her panties as he licked into her navel.
Okay, so he wanted to touch her in a sexual way. Sue him. He wouldn’t pretend anymore, not with himself.
Her mother put a plate with a mountainof steamingpot roastin front of him, and he stared at it in dumb concentration, as if it held magical powers to get his hormones back into their dormant state.
Coco brought the salad over and sat down.
He looked at her innocent, honest face and felt rotten all over again for turning her life upside down by a simple act of inviting her to that fateful dinner.
“Coco, there’s something I wanted to tell you.”
“Of course.” She didn’t sound surprised, and suddenly he realized that she had known his visit had a reason behind it. She had been patiently waiting for him to say what he came to say. “What is it?”
“It’s probably nothing. I don’t want you to get upset or worried.” He briefly glanced at Lucy whose attention focused on him as well. “Someone tipped the police that you had the Pollock drawing in your possession.”