“Perfect! She can step out from the kitchen and clip them with scissors. She won’t muss a nail.”
“I have a few more calls to make today.” He hesitated, then took the gamble. “Why don’t we finish this later, over dinner? Say, about six?”
She couldn’t believe he was saying the words. She reached for her coffee and took a small sip. “You don’t have to do that,” she replied, looking at her cup. “I don’t expect you to work that hard just because I’m in a hurry.”
He took her hand and studied her long fingers with their oval nails. Unpolished, unpretentious, like her. “It will be my pleasure,” he said, gently rubbing her knuckles with his thumb. Then with a wicked smile, he added, “And I hope it won’t all be work.”
That evening, Michael picked her up, not in his red pickup truck with the name Mondragon emblazoned on the door, but in a sleek, dark and powerful convertible, his one indulgence for putting the rest of his life on hold and living with his family, he explained to her as they roared toward the city. She ran her hand over the buttery softness of the leather, thinking dangerous thoughts. The night was balmy so the top was down. She wound a silk scarf around her hair, enjoying the feel of warm air and soft silk against her face. He drove her to a charming Italian restaurant that faced the Pacific Ocean and had a great sunset view.
The maître d’ at La Luna knew him by name and welcomed him with a wide grin of pleasure. When he spied Charlotte beside him, he pursed his lips in a silent whistle while shaking his hand as though it were burning. Michael discreetly lowered his brows and shook his head in warning, but it didn’t do any good. By the time they were seated at his favorite table by the window, two busboys were circling Charlotte like buzzing bees, filling her water glass to the brim, piling a tower of pats of butter on her plate. When one moonstruck boy, an eighteen-year-old, offered to smooth her napkin onto her lap, Michael scowled dangerously and grabbed the napkin from his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said, offering her back the napkin. “It’s not often they see a woman as beautiful as you.”
“It’s not your fault,” she said, though she felt uneasy. She always found such displays uncomfortable. “I’m told I have to get used to it.”
He raised his brows. “Ah, yes, the ugly duckling.” He saw her frown and quickly gestured to the waiter, who promptly brought a bottle of Pinot Grigio to the table. Michael tasted it, then took the bottle, pouring her a glassful himself. She sipped it slowly, her long fingers with the pale nails curled around the crystal. Her skin glowed in the candlelight, and again he felt a powerful surge of desire for her. He’d have to be very careful with this one.
The waiters, eager to make amends, hurried to bring heaping platters of aromatic pasta, grilled eggplant, peppers and zucchini dribbled with extra virgin olive oil and rosemary, long coils of spicy sausage and samplings of pungent, creamy cheeses. Charlotte ate with abandon, savoring the delicious meal as she told him stories about her life.
For that’s what she told him, stories. Fiction, peppered with facts as pungent and spicy as the food. Her mother was a widow living comfortably on the money left to her by her father. What did she do in her spare time? Well, she spent her time painting. She was very good, respected by her colleagues. But no, he wouldn’t know her work. Her mother didn’t show in galleries any longer. Her father died when she was young, but she remembered him well. He was handsome. A good, kind man. She’d loved him very much. There wasn’t much left of the small fortune he’d left them, so her mother was prudent.
Charlotte went on to tell him how she loved to act and played principal roles in all her high school and college plays. Did he enjoy Shakespeare? She’d played so many roles: Juliet, Ophelia, Portia.
As the candles glowed low, she recited her life’s story, her voice well modulated, the gentle music playing in the background. He asked her questions which she answered carefully, always with an amusing detail added, such as the time she missed her cue and left Romeo hanging on the balcony, or how her father loved to watch her run and dance herself into a frenzy as he played the Hungarian Rhapsody on the piano…the old family Steinway. While Charlotte Godowski quivered deep inside of her, Charlotte Godfrey came alive as she spoke, filling in the gaping holes in her background with tales that, in time, she’d claim as her own.
After all, she thought, what were memories? How different was this than the selective memories other children unknowingly created when they viewed the Super 8 mm films of their childhood? Those of Grandpa lying on the picnic blanket, Dad with a thick head of hair raking leaves in the yard, a slender, beautiful mother on Christmas morning? She was simply taking the initiative. These sentimental stories she wove tonight would become her own selective memories.
Michael sat back and enjoyed listening to her unusual, husky voice and watching her absentminded gestures as she spoke. He loved the way she toyed with her long, silky hair or reached out to tap his hand to punctuate a point. He especially liked the way she stroked his sleeve while recollecting some detail. While she spoke, she was totally unaware of her potent allure, so intent was she on the telling. Occasionally he’d glimpse a sadness in her eyes when she paused to consider her answer, but once she began speaking again her eyes came alive and were focused solely on him. It was almost as though she were gauging his responses to her answers.
As the candles dripped low, he felt pampered by her attention, flattered and very aroused. He was aware, even if she was not, that her eye-blasting beauty was mesmerizing and had attracted the attention not only of Tony and the rest of the waiters, but of every red-blooded man in the restaurant.
By the time a bowl of fruit and chocolates arrived for dessert, it was already dark outdoors, two bottles of wine sat emptied and the candles were short stubs in their holders.
“Not another bite,” she sighed, leaning back in her chair and tapping her fingers across her flat stomach.
“Perhaps just a plum?”
Sighing, she took the plum from his extended hand, their fingertips lightly grazing, then lifted the ripe fruit to her lips. He groaned inwardly when she bit into its fleshy sweetness, licking the droplets of juice from her lip with a rosy-tipped tongue. Blissfully unaware.
He straightened, signaled the waiter abruptly and, within moments, settled the bill. He offered her his hand. “Shall we go?”
She nodded and after dabbing her mouth with her impossibly huge napkin, placed it on the table and slowly, gracefully rose to her feet, her eyes on him.
They drove back to her house in a comfortable silence pierced only by the music from the radio. The moist California air was heavily scented with pine and wild honeysuckle. Atop, the stars shone bright above the thick canopy of trees, and around them, the night songs of insects serenaded them as they cruised the dark, winding roads.
When they reached her house he stopped, parked and turned off the engine. He heard her shift nervously in her seat and turned his head. She was looking forward, out the windshield. Her skin was luminous in the moonlight, and the color of her lips made him think of the two ripe plums they’d had for dessert. When she bit them gently in anxiety, he could almost taste their sweetness. Her long, thin arms were clenched tight around her waist, pushing her full, rounded breasts high upon her chest. Under her sheath dress he saw the outline of her long stretch of legs and slender hips. Every sense—his sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch—all of them wanted her, demanded that he take her in his arms and taste the tender sweetness she promised.
His senses told him, too, however, that she was cautious, even fearful. That she expected him to make a move—and dreaded it. He reached over and laid his hand on hers atop the leathery seat. She startled and he heard the sharp intake of breath. On instinct, he drew himself up, opened the door and climbed from the car. He didn’t miss the relief in her eyes when he guided her from the car, then to the front door. Their heels clicked on the pebbled path.
When they reached the front door, he stopped, searching her face. She offered no invitation in her eyes. There were no coy mannerisms that hinted she might be persuaded to invite him in.
“The house is dark. Is Melanie asleep?”
“Perhaps we should say good-night here,” she replied, her voice strained. “So as not to wake her.” She offered him her hand, the image of proper deportment. “Thank you for a lovely dinner.”
The disappointment was bitter. God, he wanted her. “You realize,” he said, holding on to her long fingers, “I’ll have to come back tomorrow to begin work on your garden.”
She gave a wry smile. “It is, as you say, your job.”
Touché, he thought. He felt tongue-tied, unsure, unable even to conduct a decent conversation. He was, he knew, merely lingering for one good-night kiss.
“Well—” she swallowed, then cleared her throat “—I suppose then you’ll need your sleep.”
He leaned forward, bringing his lips close to hers. “I’m not at all tired.” He was being too eager, like a schoolboy. He would have laughed if he weren’t so excited by it.
All her composure fled. Her eyes darted left to right, her color heightened, and she, too, appeared absolutely tongue-tied. Perhaps even uncomfortable. That, he couldn’t bear to see.
“Charlotte,” he said softly, rubbing his knuckles gently along her jaw. “Why are you afraid of me?”
She tilted her chin downward, but he lifted it back up with his fingertips so that she had to look him in the eyes. Yes, there it was again. Fear—and, yes, desire. It inflamed him. He leaned forward. “Shhh, Charlotte. I won’t hurt you.”
She leaned back, far against the door, then could move no farther. He continued on course, gaining ground by millimeters, his breath warming, her breath coming quicker, then, so close now, her breath mingled with his. His nostrils flared, picking up her scent. He heard her soft intake of breath and paused one nanosecond more. Then, in one smooth move, his lips were on hers.
He was gentle at first, only slight pressure on her soft, dry lips. A gentle testing. She made no move against him, but he sensed her icy reserve beginning to melt. He pressed harder, holding back the fire burning inside himself. Whose lips trembled more, his or hers? Slowly, he brought his fingers up to cup her chin, tilting her mouth, sipping deeper her sweetness. She moaned, softly, opening her lips.
His mind blurred and he lost his reserve. Desire raged through him, and he drank from the kisses like a man dying of thirst. He lunged forward, crushing her against him, letting her know, feel, his urgency. She shuddered in his arms, or was she still trembling? He couldn’t tell. His hands trembled, too, as they rounded her shoulders, caressing back and forth, then slid down the slim curve of her back and the gentle swell of her buttocks. Back up again to her shoulders, where he wrapped his arms tightly around her and held her against him, lips, chests, hips pressed tight.
He heard a whimper, a soft, high sigh that pierced his black cloud of passion the way a single ray of dawn breaks the darkness. His body stilled and his hold loosened. For a moment he listened to their breathing, coming hard and warm. He released the folds of fabric bunched in his fist by her thigh and he stepped back, giving her room. Cool air rushed between them.
He looked at her face, barely visible in the dim light. Still, he could see that her lips were swollen and magenta colored, the soft skin of her cheeks was chafed by the coarseness of his late evening bristle. She was looking away, so demurely he wondered if it was an act. He might feel like a teenager, but was far from it.
“Charlotte? Is anything the matter?”
She turned her gaze upward to meet his, and he saw with amazement, and some other fierce emotion he couldn’t identify, that her modesty was sincere. Her wide eyes hid nothing. She seemed frightened, even distrustful of his desire. He wanted her then as he’d never wanted any other woman, and because he knew that this feeling for her went beyond mere carnal lust, he found it in himself to back off.
“It’s late,” he said. “I should go.”
She tilted her head, then nodded.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Yes. Please.” She paused. “I’d like that.”
He felt a wave a relief. “I’ll be here early, about nine?”
“I’ll be waiting.”
She’ll be waiting, he thought. Maybe so, but not as impatiently as he would. He doubted he’d get any sleep tonight. It was unlike him to feel so unsure, so agitated. And she…she was looking at her hands, so calm and serene in the security of her incredible beauty.
He felt a moment of doubt. Was he being played for a fool? How could someone like her be so naive? No, he’d been wrong. She was a temptress. A tease. How many men had she led on like this? Tortured? How many? In which way? The thought stabbed him with the prick of jealousy. Still, he was like a man addicted. He didn’t want to see the evening end, but couldn’t think of anything to say or do to delay his leaving. The silence lingered too long and grew awkward. She seemed troubled, her brows were knitted together.
“Good night, then.” He turned to leave.
“Michael,” she said in a voice so soft he wasn’t sure he’d heard it. Looking at his arm, he saw her hand lightly touching his sleeve. “Did you ever feel—” She paused to study the crease she was making in his shirt. “Did you ever feel as though one change—I don’t know, perhaps one star shifting in the sky or one, single decision—one small change occurs in a life and it’s like a pivotal piece is moved and suddenly everything falls into place? Everything is…different.”