Behind the Green Curtain (8 page)

Eyes closing, Caton submitted to
the hand moving in unhurried strokes, the pounding of her heart so forceful it
seemed to add an extra beat to the music, the lightheaded sensation threatening
to carry her away. Even in the darkness, Amelia exposed her, made her
vulnerable. Someone with wandering opera glasses was sure to get the show of a
lifetime, but Caton simply had to trust that Amelia wouldn’t be doing it if she
weren’t in control, if they didn’t have privacy enough not to be seen.

Edging upward, Amelia’s fingers
breached the barrier of Caton’s panties, and the notion that she should try to
stop her from going too far flitted through Caton’s mind with the staying power
of a snow flake. As Amelia’s touch moved against slick skin, she only opened to
her more.

There was no rush, no haste to
finish, just a precise, determined touch that sent Caton soaring instantly and
kept her hovering over Eden. It could go on all night that way, as far as Caton
was concerned. All the days that had passed, she thought it was release she so
desperately needed, but it wasn’t. It was Amelia’s touch she had craved. She
realized it the moment she gave herself over to it. Her tension melted away
instantly, a form of release all its own.

Choruses went by, sweeping melodies
filled with grand, impassioned voices singing words Caton didn’t need to
understand. They swept up around her in a wave, taking her higher, until the
music was all that surrounded her. With the low rumble of a kettle drum,
Caton’s tension returned. Body straining, she exhaled a desperate cry for
mercy.

“Shhh.” Amelia’s breath was on her
cheek, and Caton turned into it, inhaling sharply as the warm air licked the
corner of her mouth, the sweet smell of red wine filling her head.

Amelia’s hand maintaining the same
unhurried pace, Caton knew she couldn’t endure it, couldn’t possibly sit still
and silent while Amelia made her come apart. Reaching blindly for Amelia’s
forearm, Caton felt it flex beneath her hand. “Don’t,” Amelia stated, and that
did sound like a command.

Opening her eyes, Caton found
Amelia’s so close, she could see flecks of silver shining in them. Across the
small space, she could feel Amelia’s lips, and craved her kiss as she had
craved nothing before it. The muscles in Amelia’s arm jumped as her touch grew
firmer, faster, and Caton’s mouth opened to protest. Or to encourage.

“Shhh,” Amelia whispered again, before
she could do either, and Caton’s eyes closed as Amelia’s breath slipped into
her mouth and mixed with her own. Clasping tighter to Amelia’s arm, Caton
reached out with her free hand, looking for anything to give her traction, and,
finding the silken fabric of Amelia’s dress, she clutched the tense thigh
beneath it.

The sound from the orchestra pit
grew louder, bolder. It overtook the hall, and Caton felt Amelia’s head rest
against her own, heard Amelia’s breath in her ear. It was as if Amelia was all
over her, and Caton gave in to the crescendo, body rupturing pleasure,
shuddering in time to the rich sounds of cello and violin. Riding out the notes
with Amelia close at her side, it was as if they were on a wave together to
some unknown destination.

As unexpectedly as the sentiment
came on, it receded. Amelia pulled her hand away, wiping it without discretion
on the inside of Caton’s expensive dress, and Caton felt Amelia’s arm slip
through her fingers as Amelia pried her other hand from her dress like it was a
parasite.

When Amelia stood up, Caton was
sure she had been discarded, used and tossed away. Then, the clapping started,
staggered over the last notes of the opera, and Amelia’s guests were on their
feet too. Caton righted herself to a nearly-presentable state just in time to
see Mr. Argo turn back to them with a smile.

The only person in the theater not
standing in ovation, Caton knew she should get up. Pushing up from the chair,
she lost her legs, staggering forward, but miraculously didn’t fall. Reaching
out instantly, her hand cradling Caton’s elbow, Amelia was there to catch her.

~ ~ ~

Amelia engaged in the same
easygoing banter with her guests on the way out as she had on the way in, and
Caton marveled at her ability to act as if she hadn’t just brought her
assistant to climax behind them in a crowded theater.

Back at the hotel, where Amelia
again dragged Caton around by the elbow, Mr. Argo asked them in for a nightcap,
but Amelia was quick with a believable excuse and bid them goodnight. Leaning
in for a kiss, Mr. Argo made a last ditch effort for Amelia’s lips, and she
dodged even that with such grace, Argo probably convinced himself he had been
aiming for her cheek the entire time.

Sending the men off with a smile,
Amelia slid her arm through Caton’s once more and led her back to the limo,
and, for the first time since the ride to the hotel, they were truly alone
again. Divider up, the driver was a nonentity, and, though there was plenty of
empty space, only inches divided them on the seat.

“Did you like the opera?” Amelia
asked casually, and Caton wondered if it was meant to be a joke. If there was
one thing Amelia had to know very well, it was that Caton had been aware of
very little that took place onstage.

Sending Amelia a look that said as
much, Caton didn’t know whether she should be angry or ashamed, so she settled
on being strangely amused by the absurdity of the situation. Amelia had coaxed
every voyeuristic quality Caton never knew she had out of her. Humor fading
slightly, she wondered what she wouldn’t do if Amelia asked her, frightened
when she couldn’t come up with an immediate answer.

As the limo pulled up outside her
building, Caton glanced toward the stone facade, imagining how Amelia must feel
about having to pick her up and drop her off in her working-class neighborhood.
She tried to think of something to say, but, by the time the door opened for
her, she still had nothing. “Goodnight,” she settled for saying as she glanced
back at Amelia.

“Goodnight,” Amelia returned, those
unreadable eyes giving nothing away.

Gaze dropping to Amelia’s lips,
Caton shivered at the mere idea of them against her own, and moved away from
Amelia to take the driver’s offered hand before she could act on impulse.
Outside the car, she paused, words pouring into her head, instantly aware it
was a mistake to voice them. So, it was as much a surprise to her as anyone
when she released the driver’s hand and turned back, hand clutching the top of
the door in support as she leaned down to look in at Amelia.

“Don’t you need those papers?” She
invented a plausible excuse on the fly. “You could come in and get them.” It
was a fool’s request, Caton knew as she proposed it, but, apparently, she
couldn’t resist the fractional possibility of the answer she wanted.

When Amelia’s eyes changed, no
longer unreadable, but unamused, ice-filled even, Caton wished she had heeded
her reservations. “I'm sure they can wait,” Amelia uttered, voice unforgiving.

It was everything Caton had
expected, but she still felt the sting. Casting her eyes from Amelia, she
backed away quickly, letting the driver close the door of the limo, before he
hurried to the door of Caton’s building to let her inside. Caton produced the
key and the driver took it, unlocking the door for her and placing the key ring
back in her hand as she stepped into the warmth of the lobby that did nothing
to ease the cold running through her.

“Goodnight.” The driver nodded.

“Goodnight,” Caton returned. “Thank
you.”

Letting the door close before her,
she watched him hurry around the car and climb back into the limo, and the limo
drive off into the night. Though, she couldn’t see Amelia through the tinted
glass, Caton somehow knew she wasn’t looking back.

Chapter 17

Amelia was dismissive. She was
cold. She was cruel. She was impossible.

Maybe Caton liked being mistreated.
Maybe it suited her. There was simply no other explanation as to why, in the
presence of Laura, a genuine human being who was attentive and communicative
and open, she could think of nothing but a woman who was conceited and detached
and did the majority of her communicating through stares and poisonous remarks.

Flawless on the outside, there was
simply no consistency in what lay beneath Amelia’s perfect facade. Laura was
beautiful both inside and out. She never wavered. She laid all her cards
face-up on the table. With Amelia, one could never guess what was in her hand,
and she bluffed better than anyone Caton had ever known.

Over the weekend, spent
recuperating in Laura’s presence, where Caton knew each touch meant what it
seemed, Caton was well aware of those truths. By Monday morning, though, when
her irritation with Amelia should have been at a peak, it refused to arise. It
was only excitement, the eager desire to see Amelia again, that carried Caton through
the morning and the gate that led onto the driveway of the Halston Palace.

Inside the front door, her eyes
went immediately to the stairs. Trying to bend her gaze around the landing, she
wondered if Amelia was in her office, but couldn’t rush to find out.
Overanxious, she had arrived early, and suspected Amelia would have a field day
if she knew she was already there. If she could only kill enough time, she
might actually be able to pull off nonchalant.

Walking into the kitchen, Caton
returned Sole’s warm smile. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Sole responded.
“How was the opera?”

“It was fine.” Caton struggled to
hold Sole’s gaze.

“So, Amelia wasn’t too rough with
you?” Sole’s temperate expression indicated the innuendo was accidental, and
Caton was fairly certain she didn’t need to worry about Amelia telling anyone.
More likely, the event that took place in Loge Box 22 would never be mentioned
again, relegated to the deep, hidden pit of secrecy with their other savage
tryst.

“No.” Caton dropped Sole’s eyes.
“She was fine.”

“Good.” Sole turned and poured
coffee without asking.

At the unspoken invitation, Caton
wandered over to the bar. “Thanks,” she said, as Sole slid the mug to her. “Is
Amelia upstairs?” For once, the question sounded amazingly casual, and Caton
lifted her coffee smugly to her lips.

She didn’t know what she expected,
but it certainly wasn’t the confused expression that appeared instantly on
Sole’s face. “She’s not here,” Sole replied. “She’s visiting her parents in
Venezuela. She didn’t tell you?”

Coffee suddenly burning her throat,
Caton forced it the rest of the way down. “No.”

“Oh,” Sole replied, playing the
slight off with a shrug. “I guess she forgot. She left Saturday morning. She
left work for you, though. She said she’d call later.”

Nodding on autopilot, Caton
wondered why she felt surprise at the news. She should have been expecting it.
Amelia never did anything without a plan. “Great,” she uttered dully, unable to
hide her disbelief, which rose up and left her deadened in its wake. “How long
will she be gone?”

“Two weeks,” Sole gently answered,
seeming to realize it was a blow that needed softening. “So, easy days for you.
You can relax.”

Maybe Sole was right. After all, if
Amelia wasn’t around, Amelia couldn’t fuck with her. She couldn’t put on her
little displays of power. She couldn’t make Caton do anything she would later
regret.

Dropping her bag on the floor,
Caton took her seat at the bar, feeling no motivation to go upstairs to work,
and Sole smiled. “That’s the spirit. Do you want anything else?”

Trapping her tongue in her cheek,
Caton wanted to tell Sole everything, the entire chain of events as they
unfolded on Friday night, from Amelia’s order not to read into things to Amelia
fingering her to the refrains of Don Giovanni and then acting as if the
invitation into Caton’s apartment was an affront to her character. She wanted
to ask Sole if that was what she meant when she referred to Amelia’s
“kindness”.

“I assume you have liquor.” Caton
clamped down on the urge, pushing her mug back across the counter, hoping Sole
would take the request as professional rebellion instead of a pathetic attempt
at cauterizing the pain of Amelia’s most recent slap to her face.

With passing hesitation, Sole went
to a cabinet and pulled out a bottle of amaretto, brandishing it in the air for
Caton’s approval. “Tell me when,” she said, starting to pour, but when never
came.

~ ~ ~

Pre-drunkenness was a preferable
state in which to speak to Amelia, Caton discovered when the phone rang less
than an hour after she finally made it up the stairs.

“This is Caton,” she answered,
voice as relaxed as she felt.

When silence reigned for a moment,
she glanced at the caller ID again, making sure she’d read it right. Amelia’s
cell number glared back at her in hazy gray until the sound of Amelia clearing
her throat finally floated across the line. “It’s Amelia,” she stated
unnecessarily.

“Is it?” Caton responded lightly.
“I heard she’s in Venezuela.”

“I am in Venezuela,” Amelia
returned, and Caton grinned at the palpable confusion in her voice.

 “Hmm,” she hummed, lifting her
empty mug to her lips and pouting as she dropped it back to the desk. “Phones
work all the way down there?”

“Why are you acting so bizarre?”
Amelia asked.

“I’m a little bit drunk,” Caton responded
matter-of-factly.

“Are you serious?”

“No,” Caton countered quickly,
pushing more upright in the chair as she realized she wasn’t, in fact, drunk
enough for the conversation. “I’m not serious. I’m barely tipsy. What do you
want?”

More silence following the terse
response, Caton expected Amelia’s next words to be angrier, to be as cold and
unforgiving as she was, to scold her mercilessly for her utter stupidity. Her
stupidity for giving into Amelia at the opera. For inviting Amelia in, as if
Amelia had any interest in spending time with her that wasn’t pre-calculated.
For feeling rejected, when she knew rejection was all she could ever really
expect from Amelia. Maybe she even expected Amelia to fire her again, because,
why the hell not? Amelia loved her power, and why shouldn’t she toss it around
every chance she got?

“Did you get the information I left
for you?” Amelia said carefully instead.

“You did put it on my desk,” Caton
responded. “It was hard to miss.”

“Jack throws this dinner party
every year,” Amelia expounded as if Caton cared. “It’s an early Thanksgiving
for casual friends, mostly business acquaintances. It’s all just a big show,
but it’s got to be done. Everything was taken care of, but the caterer fell
through.”

“So now you want me to take care of
it,” Caton countered.

“It is your job, Caton,” Amelia
stated deliberately.

Again, Caton thought there would be
more. She had never spoken to anyone who was paying her with such unrestrained
license. She actually had it coming if Amelia chose the re-firing bit.

“I’m not complaining,” Caton
replied when Amelia didn’t take the prime opportunity afforded her. “I’m just
confirming. Dinner party for sixteen. Typical holiday themery. Got it.”

“You are drunk, aren’t you?” Amelia
asked.

“Just a little,” Caton admitted.

“Were you drunk when you got to
work?” Amelia’s voice softened, almost caring. It sounded like a lie.

“Why?” Caton’s jaw went tight, and
she felt the sudden need to protect herself. “Do you want to reprimand me for
getting into your stash?”

“No.”

“Then I guess it doesn’t matter,
does it?” Caton tossed out, but the question went unanswered for both of them.

“So, do you think you can handle
it?” Amelia returned to the topic at hand.

“It’s a fucking dinner party,
Amelia,” Caton snapped, snatching at the words as they left her mouth, but
failing to reel them back in. 

Closing her eyes, Caton waited,
convinced Amelia would finally rise to the challenge. But there was nothing.
Only a return to silence so long, Caton wasn’t sure it would ever end.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to break
it. She knew she was angry. She had felt it all morning. She had no idea how
angry, though, until she heard Amelia’s voice, and, instead of wishing it away,
wished it were closer. “Yes, I can handle it.”

“I’m sure you can,” Amelia returned
calmly. “I’ll call you tomorrow to see how it’s going.”

“Okay,” Caton said weakly.

“And Caton?” Amelia’s voice eased
up again. If it were anyone else, Caton might have thought it concern, but,
with Amelia, she knew it was a ploy. Everything was a ploy with Amelia. “Don’t
be drinking.”

A rush of shame effectively killed
what little buzz Caton had left. “I won’t be,” she murmured.

“I’ll call you,” Amelia reiterated,
hanging up before Caton had a chance to say anything, which, in the moment, was
probably the most decent thing Amelia could have done.