Another Eden (22 page)

" 'Seduce' you?"

"Yes. Don't laugh at me! Am I the first woman who's ever resisted you? Is that the appeal, is that why you won't leave me alone?"

"Won't leave you alone?" Incredulous, he came close enough to seize her by the arms. "I didn't even know you'd be here. What are you doing here anyway? Why the hell didn't you stay in New York?"

"I'm here because my husband insisted on it. He's got a new mistress and he wants me out of the house." The sudden sympathy in his eyes didn't comfort her; for some reason it made her even madder. "Why can't you leave me alone?" she repeated illogically. "Every time I turn around you're there—
touching
me like this—"

"Damn it! I've done everything you ever asked me to do. That night Michael was hurt, you told me you wanted me, Sara. Unless it was a lie"—he pulled her back when she pushed at him and tried to escape—"Was it a lie? I didn't think so then. And some men might have tried to take advantage of it, but I never did, I let you—"

"And that's something you're
proud
of, that you didn't take advantage of my feelings?" He ground his teeth. "All I'm saying—"

"That must have been hard for you, not at all what you're used to. Unhappily married women are your specialty, aren't they? Other men's wives? I'm sorry I've proven such a difficult case—surely you must be ready to give up on me."

He dropped his arms. "I must be. Because if you care for me, Sara, then you're a coward. If you don't, you're a liar. Either way, I've made a mistake." She was blinking fast, ready to cry. "How dare you call me a coward. You don't know anything about me."

"If that's true, it's because you don't give anything."

"I can't! You
know
I'm in love with you. Why do you treat me this way? It's cruel, Alex, and it's selfish—" He reached for her again. "You love me?"

"Let me go, it doesn't change anything. You knew it anyway."

"Sara—"

"Stop, don't!" She pushed at him violently until he released her. "I can't stand this. Don't talk to me anymore." She stalked to the heavy doors and hauled on one until it opened. "Mr. Cronin has been keeping me informed about the house perfectly well. I want to continue to deal with him, not you. He can relay messages back and forth between us."

A plasterer's trowel lay on the floor at Alex's feet. He kicked it hard and sent it sailing toward the marble staircase, where it landed with a sharp, echoing clatter.

Sara jumped. "Do you think that's cowardly of me? All right—I don't care! Leave me alone, Alex, don't come near me. I can't bear it."

She wasn't by nature a door slammer, but anger and frustration seemed to have localized in her arm muscles. She stomped over the threshold and gave the heavy oak portal a push that rattled the amber glass in the windows and startled the workers laying tiles in a fourth-floor bathroom.

Mrs. Godby had left potato soup, tomato aspic, and a piece of grilled chicken in the icebox for Sara's supper. She picked at it, sitting in the kitchen, while she read the note from Michael that had come in the afternoon post. Sometimes his letters cheered her up, sometimes they deepened her despondency. This was one of the latter kind, even though it was full of his lovely, irresistible silliness. He wanted her to start eating lots of oatmeal and sending him the flag card inside the box; if he got the full set of twelve flags, he was entitled to a handsome prize of large but unspecified value. Instead of making her smile, his letter made her weepy.

What had she done? Although she'd replayed the scene in her head a dozen times by now, she could still hardly believe what had just happened. She felt ashamed and filled with sadness and regret. She
loved
Alex. She wasn't that mean and shrewish to
Ben
. What had gotten into her? Him, too—he'd been furious with her almost from the moment they'd met. She kept trying to see what had happened as for the best, a blessing in disguise, but she couldn't. Now it just seemed wrong.

She stood up and went to put water in the kettle for tea. What if she apologized to him? Would that only make everything start over again? Not if she did it right, if she controlled it and just said she was sorry and nothing else. She owed him that much.

The telephone was in the front hall. "Four-oh-one-one," she told the operator, and after a few seconds it rang. And rang. She waited a full minute before banging down the earpiece and going back to the kitchen. Her depression turned black.

Where was he, what was he doing? She'd imagined him at home, alone, as miserable as she. But he wasn't, he was
out
—probably dining in a restaurant, talking to people, not thinking about her at all. Not enough, anyway.

Oh, what a bitch she was turning into. Was this what love did? She'd been much nicer to Alex before she'd fallen in love with him. She began to pace, restless. On one of her circuits she stopped before the cabinet over the icebox and took down the bottle of brandy that had been there since June. She opened it and poured some into a glass. The pungent fumes startled her. It was a good brandy, but the first sip made her shudder. All at once, without a thought, she tossed the rest into the sink. Why had she done that? she wondered helplessly. Silly—she wouldn't have gotten drunk, she'd only wanted a drink. One drink wouldn't have turned her into her mother. It made no rational sense; she only knew she'd have gagged if she'd tried to finish the brandy in that glass.

She made tea instead. Staring at her reflection in the black window over the sink, she remembered the night Alex had kissed her. Here—right here where she was standing. She touched her fingers to her lips, eyes closed, filled with yearning. And today she'd accused him of trying to "seduce" her, as if she were some chaste, innocent victim—as if he had ever touched her when she hadn't been longing for him to.
Hypocrite
. He was wrong—she wasn't a coward or a liar, she was both. She set her cup down with a clatter and marched back into the hall. She snatched up the telephone—and whirled with it in her hand at a knock at the door. She hadn't turned on the porch light, so she hoped but didn't know it was Alex until she opened the door to him. "Oh, Alex—"

"Sara, listen—"

"Come in!"

"No, this won't take long. I should've called, but—"

"Will you please come in? I can't talk to you like this." He came in. He looked wary. She could understand why—two hours ago she'd told him to leave her alone, not to come near her.

"Will you come in here?" she invited, leading him into the sitting room. Even now, he couldn't help looking around with his architect's eye, she noticed. "It's a beautiful room, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to sit down?"

"No."

"Would you like something to drink, some—"

"Damn it, this isn't a social call."

"No, of course not. What is it, then?" He moved away, to fiddle with a soapstone candlestick on the mantel. It wasn't fair to make him speak first. "I was trying to call you," she said softly. "I had the telephone in my hand when you knocked."

"Really? Why? To fire me?"

She sent him a look. "Are we going to fight again?"

"No—I'm not, anyway. I came here to apologize."

"Did you?" She went closer, smiling with relief "But you didn't do anything."

"I don't know why I was so angry. I've been wanting to see you for days, ever since I found out you were here. But I stayed away because I thought that's what you wanted. Then when I saw you, I guess all I could see was what I'm not allowed to have. I said things I didn't mean, and a lot of things that were out of line, none of my business. I'm sorry if I hurt you. I just wanted you to know."

"Alex, don't go. Don't you want to know why I was calling you?"

"I already know. You felt guilty because you thought you'd hurt my feelings. You wanted to try to make me feel better by saying you hadn't meant it. That's it, isn't it?"

She held out a helpless hand. "Well—yes. Wait. Alex, please!" He stopped again, hands shoved in his pockets. "You're still angry, aren't you?"

"Yeah. But not at you. I want something to change, and nothing can. Let me go, Sara—now I'm the one who can't bear it."

"But—how can you just go? Nothing's settled, it's the same as before. When I see you again, everything will be exactly—"

"You won't be seeing me, you'll be seeing Cronin."

"Oh, Alex, I didn't mean that. That's only one of the things I didn't mean. Of course I'll see you, it's inevitable. We have to settle this between us!"

"How?"

"I don't know."

"Sara, for God's sake, don't cry."

"I'm sorry, I know, I'm not—" She wiped her eyes briskly. "I'm all right now. How stupid, I hate to cry. Every time I see you—I'm not saying it's your fault," she added hastily.

"No, no. Purely a coincidence."

She tried to smile. "What are we going to do?"

"Nothing. I'm leaving."

"Oh." She followed him out into the hall. "Can't you—can't we talk? I don't even know how you are, what happened in California—"

He turned around so abruptly that she ran into him. His hands gripped her shoulders hard. "Sara, what I'd like to do is marry you, but I can't. Failing that, I'd like to have an affair with you.
Seduce
you, as you say, carry on with you behind your husband's back for as long as you'll allow it. I can't do that, either. My distant third choice is to take you to bed now, tonight, and then again whenever it pleases you. But there's one thing I find I can't do. I thought I could, but I can't, and no doubt it's a deep flaw in my character. I can't be your friend."

He let her go, even though she was crying, and left her standing in the hall. Unlike her, he didn't slam the door behind him.

Maybe this was his grandfather's God's punishment for a life of sin and sexual debauchery, Alex thought as he dove naked into a cold, salty avalanche of dark water. If so, it was surprisingly effective, before now he wouldn't have given any God of Matthew's credit for so much imagination. Or such a fine appreciation of irony. He had to admit, the punishment suited the crime. After making love to a hundred women he didn't love, he'd finally fallen in love with the one he couldn't have.

Out here the waves were gentler; he treaded water and watched the moon shimmer toward him in a widening V, a dancing silver delta that covered and quieted the sea. He couldn't see the future beyond this minute; couldn't imagine the rest of his life, the banal, changeless passing of day after day, without Sara. How had this happened? She didn't belong to him, never had, so when had this monumental presumption that their fates were somehow tied together begun? He thought he knew, but the answer didn't flatter him. His associations with women over the last ten years had set him up perfectly for this catastrophe, because until now he'd been allowed to have whatever he wanted,
whomever
he wanted. When, once in a while, a woman resisted him, he'd given a mental shrug and passed on unhesitatingly to someone more willing. The experience had given him a somewhat egocentric view of reality—for which he was now paying. Which brought him back, full-circle, to Matthew's God's revenge.

Muttering obscenities, he dove under the pewter surface of the waves and swam, froglike, toward shore for as long as he could hold his breath. Surfacing, he saw how far downshore he'd drifted by the dimness of the lights of his house far, far away. Because he was tired, he struck out for the near coast. When he reached it, he trudged through the soft, wet sand for home.

He'd told Sara he couldn't be her friend, but now he saw that he'd made a bad mistake. Because the alternative was not seeing her at all, or worse—running into her on rare occasions at social functions. Shaking hands with her while Ben watched; asking how Michael did these days. And never knowing the truth, never being allowed into her confidence. To know she was unhappy and not to be able to help her—that was the hell he'd just consigned himself to out of anger and frustration. He snatched up the towel he'd left on the beach and scrubbed himself with it until his skin burned.

He was twenty feet from his front porch when he saw her. She was just a shadow in front of the window until she moved into the moonlight, her shoes echoing on the wooden porch floor. He saw that she wore a dark cloak or cape over a dark dress. After a long, silent moment, she turned her back on him, and then he remembered he was naked. He pulled the towel from his shoulder and tied it around his hips.

She turned around again when she heard him on the steps. "I—I—" She swallowed. She felt a little mad. "I'm not trying to make you crazy, Alex. I don't want to be so difficult. If you send me away, I'll understand perfectly."

He laughed in amazement. Closing the distance between them, he touched her shoulder, to make sure she was real. "Darling—"

"This is all I can do," she rushed on, compelled to speak her peace. "I wish I could give you more, I wish I could give you everything. But this—this is your distant third choice. Just tonight. If you want me."

"If I want you." He gathered her into his arms. In seconds they were both trembling. "How did you get here, Sara?" he murmured, still astounded.

"I walked."

"You walked? By yourself?"

She looked at him humorously. "No, I asked Mrs. Astor to come with me, just as far as your turnoff." Smiling, beguiled, he kissed her. "I should try to talk you out of this," he whispered halfheartedly. "I coerced you tonight, I made you Cry."

"No, don't say that. I'm not a child, I made this choice. I told you once before—I want exactly what you want. Let's just be happy tonight, Alex. I love you so dearly." She put her hands on his face and brought his mouth down. "I love you." He whispered it back, and then she couldn't help adding, "I love your mustache. I've been wanting to tell you that for months."

He hugged her, laughing with delight. "Come in, come inside." He opened the door and pulled her in. He felt euphoric, jubilant, drunk. "If you knew how many times I've thought of you here—" He shook his head in wonder. "Are you hungry? Are you thirsty?"

She'd stopped just over the threshold. "This is your bedroom."

"Yes."

The unexpected intimacy startled her. She took it in with a quick, darting glance—the quaint old furniture, the comfortable clutter. A book lay open on his unmade bed; the clothes he'd worn today hung neatly from the back of a chair. His wardrobe door was ajar; she could see his tweed jacket inside, the one she always thought made him look English. He was watching her. "Are you going to get dressed?" she faltered. IF so, she felt she ought not to stay here, watching him. "Should I?"

"I don't know. It seems… unnecessarily…"

"Unnecessary."

She almost giggled. "Alex, I'm so nervous, I can't stand it." He grinned with relief and came to her. "How do you think I feel?"

"You're nervous?" He put her hand, palm down, in the center of his chest. "Feel."

She was too overwrought to feel anything but cold. "You're cold." He shook his head slowly, hypnotizing her. Now she could feel the strong beat of his heart under his still-damp skin. She took his hand and brought it to her lips, then pressed it to her own heart. "Feel."

He spread his fingers, watching her eyes close. They flew open when he slipped the fringed black cloak over her shoulders and let it fall to the floor behind her. She had on a dark blue military jacket with epaulettes over a plain white, high-collared blouse. He smiled, charmed as always by her effortless chic. "I don't know anyone who dresses like you, Sara. But…"

"But?"

"But right now you make me feel a little underdressed. Can I help you off with some of your things?"

She caught her breath. So they weren't going to talk at all first. His long, skillful fingers played over the buttons at her throat. If she'd ever had doubts about the extent of his worldly experience, they were humbly laid to rest by the miraculous speed with which he managed to open, without seeming to hurry, the whole front of her shirtwaist.

"A corset," he exclaimed, much surprised.

" 'All deficiency of development supplied,' " she breathed with her eyes closed.

He smiled again. Not that it mattered, but he could see from the soft, womanly swell of bosom over the undergarment's lacy edge that Sara's development had been wonderfully efficient. He kissed her between her breasts while he unfastened her skirt at the back and pushed it over her hips. She had on a marvelous petticoat, white with rosettes and lace flounces and ribbons running merrily in and out. He divested her of it quickly, but took his time with her corset, savoring the new view every unsnapped hook afforded. Then there was nothing left but a short chemise and thin white cambric drawers. And black silk stockings.

His burning hot gaze turned her cheeks scarlet. "Alex," she admitted breathlessly, "I'm scared to death."

His fingers traced her cheekbone gently. "Why?"

"Don't let's talk."

"No?" He put his lips on her temple. "Just get it over with as fast as possible?"

"I didn't mean that." His soft breath on her face was intoxicating. "But—Alex?"

"Mm."

"Don't let's talk about Ben tonight, all right?"

"Sweetheart. I didn't have any intention of talking about Ben." He took her hand and led her to the bed. She sat down on the edge, back straight, knees together. Her shoes were high-heeled red leather. He thought he might die if he couldn't have her soon. "Shall we leave the light on?"

"Oh, urn. No, I'd rather we didn't."

Somehow that didn't surprise him. "What about a candle?"

"All right. Just one."

He lit the candle in the holder on his bedside table, turned the lamp out, and came to sit beside her. "Are you cold?" He slid his arm around her shoulders. She shook her head. He started to unpin her hair. "When I first saw you today, I thought to myself, all that hair, all that
hat
, how does she keep her head up on her long, beautiful neck?" He kissed her behind her ear, feeling her smile, and then tugged gently at her earlobe with his teeth. "Sara." What a lovely word to whisper in a woman's ear. His fingers drifted down her throat, her chest, inside her shift to caress her shoulder. "Take this off for me, Sara. I'm dying to see you."

Her breath was coming in difficult little jerks. The trembling in her fingers slowed her down, but finally she got her chemise unlaced. She hesitated for the space of two heartbeats and then shrugged it over her shoulders. He made a noise in his throat she'd never heard before, a growl of almost animal satisfaction; but his hands were gentle on the back of her neck as he brought her close and kissed her. She embraced him, pressing her breasts against the cool sleekness of his skin and combing his wet hair with her fingers. His silky mustache was a soft, exciting caress on her face. He coaxed her mouth open and touched his tongue to the soft inner surface of her lips. She moaned. He took her down, down, and she felt the bed on the bare skin of her back. In the center of a deep, drugging kiss, she cried, "Wait! I have to tell you something."

A long golden strand of her hair was trapped between their mouths. He lifted his head and pulled it gently away. "What?"

"I—I'm not any good at this."

"Not any good at what?"

"You know. This."

" 'You know, this'?" She didn't smile back. He watched her for another second. Then he put his mouth on hers lightly, and at the same moment he began to stroke the soft underside of her breast in slow, rising crescents. Her lips parted, but he resisted the urge to sleek his tongue inside. "You mean this?" he murmured. She moved against him restlessly. The silky play of his hand avoided her nipple even when she arched up, wanting it. He whispered, "This?" and nipped at her lips; when she groaned and put out her tongue, he sucked it into his mouth. Her hand clamped on his and urged it higher. He used all his fingers, all at once, ministering to the tight spike of her nipple until she writhed under him, her head twisting on the tangled sheet. "I said I wouldn't talk about Ben," he managed to say, breathing hard. "Otherwise I'd ask who told you you weren't any good at this."

Sara felt like laughing. A rare, uncontainable joy was rising fast and high, and some new, dangerous, unimaginable freedom was coming closer. "I love you, Alex! I've wanted to tell you for so long."

He wound his arms around her and rolled, pulling her on top of him. They kissed until she sat up, straddling him, panting. She dragged her fingers through her hair and licked her lips, tasting him. His body tightened. "I don't understand why you still have on all these clothes." He pulled on the little tie, and the front of her drawers opened. He'd never seen anything as wanton as Sara in shoes, stockings, gaping drawers and nothing else, sitting splay-legged on his thighs. They reached for each other at the same moment and rolled over again. He lost his towel. She looked down, said something indistinct. He found her awed gaze intensely gratifying. Without ceremony he got her undressed once and for all, and then he lowered himself over her. His seeking fingers told him she was soft and wet and ready. "Darling," he got out, and entered her sleekly.