With an Extreme Burning by Bill Pronzini Read Free Book Online

unannounced, to bring her the photos of the Andersen farm in Hamlin Valley, her newest listing. He did most of the brochure photography for Better Lands, and he'd done his usual expert job of making a property look better than it really was, focusing on the Andersen place's hilly backdrop and that impressive line of old eucalyptus that flanked the access drive. The color shots were crystal-clear, yet you couldn't tell that the house and barn were in poor repair. But he could have dropped the prints off at the office or waited to give them to her on Monday. They were an excuse, of course. To see her. To sit and make small talk and gaze at her with his big, sad, worshipful eyes.
    Those eyes were what had led her to sleep with him that night last summer. It was flattering to be the object of someone's passion, even if it wasn't reciprocated; and she'd been tight and Amy had been staying at a friend's house, and it had been so long since she'd had sex, and when she looked into those worshipful eyes … bad judgment, a foolish mistake. It had given Owen false hope that it could happen again, that there could be something serious between them. The morning after, she'd told him the truth in the gentlest possible terms: She cared for him but she didn't love him, they could go on being friends but nothing more. He'd said he understood, but it didn't keep him from pursuing her in his low-key way. She liked him, she really did. He was kind, gentle, attractive. But she felt more sorry for him than anything else. And he got on her nerves sometimes, like right now—
    “Cecca.”
    She turned her head. He was sitting at the table, his long legs stretched out, rolling the bottle of Coors she'd given him between his hands. His dark hair was its usual mop, damp and lank now from the heat, a long wisp plastered over one eyebrow. The tail of his shirt was untucked. There was a grass stain on the knee of his cords. Thirty-seven going on twelve, she thought. It was a wonder he'd never married. God knew, he'd had opportunities; maternal women loved him to pieces. But he didn't want a mother figure. He wanted the ex-wife of Chet Bracco, and had even when she was married. Poor Owen, because the ex-wife of Chet Bracco wanted a man, not a little boy.
    “What's the matter?” he asked her. “You keep looking at the clock.”
    “Just wondering where Amy is. She should be home by now.”
    “Where'd she go after work?”
    “I'm not sure. Some errands, she said.”
    “Kids. I wouldn't want to be a teenager these days.”
    “Why do you say that?”
    “Oh, you know, all the problems and pressures.”
    “What does that have to do with her being late?”
    “Nothing. I was making an observation—”
    “My daughter's a good girl, Owen.”
    “I know that. Lord, Cecca, I didn't mean to imply—”
    “Damn!” The potato peeler she'd been using to core strawberries had slipped and nicked her finger. She sucked at the drop of blood that appeared.
    Owen was on his feet, petting her arm. “Hurt yourself?”
    “It's nothing,” she said. “I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm feeling a little prickly today.”
    “It's the heat.”
    “Yes. The heat. Owen … I'd ask you stay for supper, but—”
    “No, that's all right. Date tonight?”
    “No. I just don't feel up to company.”
    “I understand.”
    No, you don't, she thought. “All I want to do is eat and take a long, cool bath and zone out in front of the TV.”
    “Sounds good. I'll probably do the same.”
    She finished the strawberries, started to cut up a peach. Owen stood watching her, making no move to leave. Like an adoring puppy. Can't you take a hint, Owen? Go home!
    Lights slid across the kitchen window as a car swung into the driveway. Amy's Honda—that little engine had a whiny rumble that was unmistakable.
    “There she is,” Owen said.
    Cecca felt a greater relief than the situation called for. That damned telephone freak … if he knew how deep under her skin he'd gotten, he'd be