“I’m glad you are pleased, Mrs. Sinclair.” Isabel smiled. “I like it too,” she confessed.
“And so you should. Now I am going upstairs to unpack and perhaps lie down for a little.”
“Of course. Leo said to tell you he’d try to get home a little early tonight.”
“Good.”
Mrs. Sinclair went upstairs and Isabel wandered out to the kitchen and checked the dinner. She then went to the sitting room, where she stared into the empty grate for a very long time.
* * * *
In fact, Isabel was still sitting on the couch when Leo returned home. He had arrived home early, and the three of them enjoyed a relaxed dinner served by Mrs. Edwards. After dinner they went back into the sitting room. Isabel did not curl up next to Leo on the sofa, but she sat instead in a graceful old wing chair. Mrs. Sinclair was at a small secretary in the corner. She perched her glasses on her nose and took out paper and pen.
“Now, then,” she said to Leo, “you engaged the caterer?”
“Yes, Mama.”
“The menu?”
“I thought we’d have veal.”
“Good idea. Let’s see: a clear soup, salad and brie, and dessert?”
“Fine. I’ll take care of the wine.”
“Good. I’ll order the flowers. What florist shall I use?”
“Aster’s.”
“All right. Now for the difficult part: the seating arrangement.”
Leo grinned. “Ah, yes.”
Isabel listened with fascination as they went over the entire guest list. Isabel, as guest of honor, would be at Leo’s right. She was gratified to notice that Lady Pamela Ashley was put at least halfway down the table. Some of the guests, however, posed distinct problems.
“No, Mama, you can’t put Ron next to Mrs. Herries.”
“Why not?” Mrs. Sinclair asked.
“She’s his daughter’s lover’s wife.”
“Oh. I see.” Mrs. Sinclair frowned at her list and came up with another name that was more acceptable.
“I don’t believe I heard that properly,” Isabel murmured.
Leo chuckled. “I’m sure they’d both behave themselves, but it would be awkward for them. And I wouldn’t put Arthur Stevens next to Mrs. Vandergrift. He’s been rather brutal lately about fiscal policy at the Federal Reserve.”
Mrs. Sinclair’s frown tightened. “All right. How is the British ambassador for Mrs. Vandergrift?”
“Fine. Lord Ashley is a grand fellow. You could give him anyone and he’d be right at home.”
Mrs. Sinclair smiled. “I’m glad some of your guests are adaptable, Leo.”
The seating chart done, they chatted comfortably for another hour. Mrs. Sinclair and Leo did most of the talking. Isabel noticed, with admiration and amusement, that without seeming to press him at all, Mrs. Sinclair found out a great deal about her son’s activities.
At ten-thirty Mrs. Sinclair excused herself and went up to bed. As the sound of her footsteps disappeared up the stairs, Leo turned to Isabel with a smile in his eyes. “You can
come sit on the sofa now,” he said softly.
Isabel didn’t move but looked at him, her face serious. “I can’t stay here after this weekend,” she said. “You must see that, Leo.”
“Why not?”
Isabel made a restless movement with her hands. “United States senators do not have live-in girlfriends. If it became known—and, of course, it would—it would damage you very badly back home.”
He didn’t deny it. “And if I say I don’t care?”
“
I
care. I won’t do it to you.”
“You could marry me instead,” he said.
Isabel stared for a minute at his face. It looked set, strained almost. She looked down at her own clasped hands. The knuckles were white with pressure. Panic gripped her stomach muscles. “It wouldn’t work,” she mumbled. “I’m not the Washington-hostess type “
“You’re my type,” he said.
She refused to look at him. “No. It wouldn’t work.”
There was a tense silence. “I see,” he said. His voice was quiet. Too quiet. “Well, if you won’t be my wife and you won’t be my mistress, then I reckon we’ve come to the end of it.”
Isabel’s head bent even farther forward so that her long black hair swung in a curtain around her face. “I might get a commission here in Washington.” Her voice was almost inaudible.
He rose from the sofa and went to stand in front of the fireplace, his back toward her. “You might,” he said flatly. “In fact, my mother is going to some trouble to ensure that you do.”
“Mrs. Messenger mentioned something to me the other night.” Isabel raised her head and looked at his back. “If I were to paint Mr. Messenger, I’d have to go live with them out in McLean. We could still see each other, couldn’t we?”
Leo kept his back to her. There was something very rigid about his body, the legs braced apart a little, head forward.
“You mean you could come by here for visits?”
Isabel felt the hot color come into her face. “Wouldn’t you like that?”
“Oh, yes, I’d like that fine.” At last he turned and looked at her. His eyes were filled with a cold blue light.
“I can’t make a permanent commitment, Leo,” she said miserably. She had not known he could look so hard. “I just can’t.”
An odd expression flitted across his face, softening it, making him look more like the Leo she knew.
“All right, honey.” He sounded a little weary. “Have it your way.”
She got out of her chair, took two running steps, and then was in his arms. “I love you,” she said into his shoulder. “I do. But I’m not the marrying kind, Leo.”
He buried one hand in her long hair. “I know,” he said. “I understand. The hell of it is, I do understand.”
After a long minute she took her face out of his shoulder and looked up. She put her palms on either side of his face. “I don’t want to leave you,” she said. “You know that, don’t you?”
His eyes narrowed and his hands held her shoulders. “Isabel,” he said, and bending his head he began to kiss her.
There was an urgency to this kiss that was new, a hunger. Isabel could feel the whole hard length of his body pushing against her. Her mouth opened under his lips. His hands slid down her shoulders to her waist and rested on the curve of her hips. She responded, taking fire from his touch, sliding her hands under his jacket to get closer.
His lips were on her throat, her ear. “Let’s go upstairs,” he muttered.
“Yes.” Neither of them gave a thought to Mrs. Sinclair as they walked, Isabel first, Leo behind, up the stairs to Isabel’s bedroom. They were not being circumspect in case Leo’s mother came out into the hall. Simply, they couldn’t bear to touch each other until they knew they would not have to stop.
The door closed behind them. Isabel turned, standing on tiptoe, and slid her arms around his neck. She felt him pull her sweater out of her skirt and then his hand came up, inside her bra, to caress her breast. She moved a little with the sheer sensual pleasure of it. He raised his head and she gazed up at him.
“Leo.” she said, her voice slow and husky. “Leo the lion.” She touched his mouth with the tips of her fingers. “How I do love you.”
“Show me,” he murmured. His eyes were very dark. “Show me how much you love me.”
In answer Isabel reached up and began to unbutton his shirt. In less than a minute they were both lying naked on the bed.
He was rougher than he had ever been before as the urgency of his kiss in the sitting room carried over into his lovemaking now. The Isabel of a week ago would have been frightened by such hungriness, but not tonight. Tonight, with the shadow of separation in both their minds, she gave in to the force within him. Blindly, she surrendered her body to him, letting herself remain helpless before him. He overpowered her, overmastered her, and at the starkest limits of surrender she discovered a blazing shuddering fulfillment all her own. Afterward, as she held him in her arms and listened to the wild hammering of his heart, she knew she had possessed him as surely as he had possessed her.
“How can I hold on to you?” His voice in her ear sounded almost fierce.
“We’ll work something out,” she replied softly. She ran her fingers tenderly through his sweat-streaked golden hair. “I have to move out of the house, but I’m not moving out on you. I won’t go back to New York. Something will turn up, I’m sure of it.”
He raised himself a little so that he was looking directly into her face. His shoulders looming over her looked enormous and his eyes in the light of the bedside lamp were intensely blue. “I don’t give up,” he told her. “I have many failings but once I make up my mind, I don’t give up. And I’ve made up my mind about you.”
“Leo,” she said. “Why?”
He smiled a little crookedly. His breathing had finally begun to slow. “Any other woman who said that would be fishing for a compliment. But not you. You really don’t know, do you?”
“No.”
He rolled over and lay on his back beside her, looking up at the ceiling. “You’re so alive, Isabel. You live your life with more intensity than anyone I have ever known. That’s probably why you’re such a fine artist.”
Isabel turned to look at his profile. “I’ve been trying not to feel anything these past few years,” she protested in bewilderment.
“I know.” A very tender smile curled his lips. “You were so frozen you were absolutely fierce with it.” His blue eyes smiled at her. “You burned with it, honey. You project more concentrated power in your little finger than most women have in their entire bodies. Why do you think the despicable Philip bothered with you? He was a sophisticated thirty-year-old and you were a schoolgirl.”
Isabel had often thought about that. “I don’t know,” she said hesitatingly. “I imagine he spotted me as easy prey.”
“I don’t think that was it at all. For what it’s worth to you, you probably burned him a lot worse than he did you. Imagine having to settle for an empty society wife after you’ve had a taste of Isabel.”
Isabel laughed. “Leo, you’re crazy. But I admit you’ve made me feel a lot better about ‘the despicable Philip.’ Just being able to think of him in those terms is a help.” She snuggled her head into his shoulder. “I swore a vow of eternal celibacy after Philip,” she murmured.
“And you kept it for nine years. That’s what I mean. When you do something, honey, you do it all the way.”
Isabel smiled. She turned her head so that her lips were against the bare skin of his shoulder. “So do you.” She was thinking of his football injuries. “You don’t know when to give up.”
“No.” He sounded serious, almost grim. “I don’t.”
“Leo, maybe you’d better go back to your room tonight. What will your mother think if she sees you coming out of here in the morning?”
“I’ll get up early,” he said.
She didn’t really want him to go. “All right. If you’re sure ...”
“I’m sure,” he said firmly. “Stop worrying and go to sleep.”
Isabel closed her eyes. “Yes, Senator,” she murmured. And she did.
* * * *
She awoke before he did the following morning. Leo’s back was toward her and she leaned closer and laid her cheek on his shoulder. It was still shocking to wake and find him there, a man in the bed next to her. After a minute he stirred.
“Good morning,” he said, and rolled over on his back.
“Good mawnin’.”
She watched him try to wake up. He rubbed his tousled hair and yawned. There was golden stubble on his cheeks and chin, and his blue eyes were heavy with sleep.
Isabel put her hands behind her head. “Your mother,” she said delicately.
“I know, I know,” he grumbled. “I won’t besmirch your reputation.” He sat up and stretched, shoulder and back muscles flexing with the motion. He got out of bed.
“Damn,” he said. “I don’t have a change of clothes in here.”
“Put a towel around your waist. That way, if you run into your mother, you can pretend you’re on your way back from the shower.”
He went into the bathroom and in a minute she heard the shower being turned on. When he came out, he was wrapped as she suggested. “Of course,” he said, “there
is
a shower in my room, but never mind. I won’t meet Mama at this hour.” He came over to the bed and bent to kiss her. “Go back to sleep, honey. Now that I’m up, I’m going over to the gym. Mama won’t make an appearance until nine, so sleep for a while.”
“Will you be back for breakfast?”
“Nope.” He grinned. “Important conference this morning.” He went to the door, opened it, peered up and down the hall, and then exited, softly closing the door behind him.
Isabel did not go back to sleep but lay, hands behind her head, staring at the door through which he had gone.
She had told Leo she loved him. And she did. How could she not? Leo could not fail of love wherever he touched. She loved him, but she could not marry him.
He had surprised her last night. She had not realized that their relationship was serious for him, that he would go so far as to want to marry her.
It was impossible, of course. There wasn’t room in her life for marriage. She couldn’t afford the loss of freedom marriage would inevitably entail; she couldn’t afford the sheer loss of time and energy. She was an artist and she had always held strong views on the subject of women artists and marriage.
She should have explained all this to Leo, of course. She couldn’t imagine why she hadn’t. By panicking she had only sounded stupid when in fact she had a very sane, sensible, and logical reason for not wishing to marry him.
He had accepted her stammered rejection without question, however. Perhaps he, too, realized, deep down, the impossibility of a formal union between them. He needed a wife whose interest lay in the same direction as his, a wife who would entertain for him and who would hold his flag high in the eminent world of Washington politics and society. For both their sakes it was better to keep their relationship as it was: strictly voluntary, with room for either of them to back out if, for some reason, the going should get rough.
On Friday night the elite of Washington arrived at Leo Sinclair’s home in Georgetown. For the last few days word had circulated that Senator Sinclair’s dinner for Isabel MacCarthy was one of The Events of the year’s social calendar. The chosen few who were invited consequently looked bright with triumph as they arrived; the cold drizzle seemed to affect nobody’s spirits.