Summer's Awakening (38 page)

'What about your dynasty? How will you found that without a wife?'

'That's a problem I'm working on. Would you like some more brandy?'

'No, thank you. It's time I was in bed.'

As she placed her glass on a table near where he was sitting, he said, 'What's happened to your ring?'

Surprised that he had ever looked at it closely enough to notice the change, she said, 'It's been re-set.'

'May I see?'

Before she could slip it off and hand it to him, he reached out a long arm to take hold of her wrist and draw her closer.

'Mm... an improvement on the silver setting,' he remarked. 'Did Santerre have this done for you?'

'Yes, the other setting offended his jeweller's eye.'

He looked up at her. 'Is your pulse always this rapid?'

'You make me nervous,' she admitted, standing beside his outstretched long legs, wishing he would let her go.

'I wonder why?'

There was no answer to that; she didn't know herself why he was the one man with whom she was never at ease unless someone else's presence ensured that he wouldn't do anything unpredictable.

His tawny glance slid from her face to the rounded contours of her breasts under the cream crêpe de Chine she had worn for Madame Bernier's lecture. His strong hand slipped from her wrist to imprison her fingers.

'Relax,' he said softly. 'I don't bite.'

She felt as if she were hypnotised; unable to speak or move—scarcely able to breathe—until he chose to release her from the powerful aura of his masculinity. She had never been more aware of a man's body; the wide, muscle-armoured shoulders stretching the soft yellow cashmere, the solid wall of his chest, the flat stomach, the long hard thighs.

Her own body was supple and firm now, but close to him she felt fragile, her muscles puny compared with his, her strength feeble if ever he chose to exert his against her.

As she was thinking how easily he could overpower her, he lifted his free hand and very gently brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.

'You have a beautiful skin.' He was looking into her eyes. She could see the gold flecks on his irises.

'Thank you,' she murmured on an uneven breath. Her heart seemed to have stopped beating.

His hand uncurled, sliding round to the back of her neck, there to caress her nape as softly and delicately as he had stroked her hot cheek. It was impossible to look away. She was trapped by his stare and his touch.

His long fingers spread and slid upwards to hold her head still while he leaned slowly closer and trailed his lips from the top of her cheekbone down to the curve of her jaw.

A shiver ran through her. Her eyes closed. In
a
movement outside her control, her free hand rose to his shoulder. As his mouth hovered not far from hers, she felt her other hand released and his arm thrown round her, pulling her off balance, making her fall on to his thighs.

Although she was now more experienced than she had been the last time this happened, other men's kisses were no preparation for the arms and lips of the man she had loved in secret for almost two years.

Her mouth softened under his, her body yielded, she clung.

When, some time later, he stopped kissing her but continued to hold her in his arms, she opened her eyes and found him looking down at her flushed cheeks and parted lips with an intent, frowning expression.

After a moment or two he stood up, lifting her with him and putting her back on her feet.

'Much as I'd like to continue this, I think, with Emily to consider, it's better we don't complicate things, do you agree?' he asked briskly.

She had never wanted anything more than to resume their embrace, to press herself closely against him and feel those strong arms closing round her, that hard mouth softening on hers.

But she forced herself to say, 'Much better.'

Whatever wayward impulse had prompted him to kiss her, she knew it was not a kiss to be taken seriously. There was nothing she could do but pretend it had meant as little to her as it had to him.

The next morning he flew to Chicago, leaving Emily downcast and Summer free to continue seeing Raoul without their meetings being monitored.

Later that day she had a jubilant call from the owner of the shop on Madison Avenue to tell her that one of the belts had caught the eye of
Vogue's
accessories editor and was going to be shown in a future issue of the glossy, with a credit for her and for the shop. All the other belts had sold. How soon could she deliver another consignment?

Summer would have liked to discuss this development with Raoul but she hesitated to call him. She didn't want him to think her pushy. She would wait for him to call her.

It was almost a week before she heard from him. Meanwhile she burned a good deal of midnight oil finishing the evening bag and beginning a wrist-band to match the belt bought by his sister. It was to be
a
gesture of appreciation for the setting he had made for her.

She was studying one of the books he had lent her when he called.

'I wondered, if you're free this evening, if you and Emily would like to come and see my apartment and try my speciality—kidneys
à
la brochette?'
he suggested.

'We'd love to, Raoul.'

That the invitation included Emily increased her liking for him. Obviously he realised that she wouldn't have wanted to go to his apartment on her own till they had known each other longer; and perhaps he also discerned that by now she and the younger girl were virtually sisters.

He gave her his address and suggested they arrive at seven.

Although he had said that his apartment was smaller than James's, as soon as they stepped out of the cab at his address she could tell by the elegant canopy from the edge of the sidewalk to the entrance, and by the liveried doorman waiting to usher them inside, that the block where Raoul lived was as exclusive as theirs.

He had told them not to dress up and Emily was wearing her favourite pale blue corduroy pants embroidered with green frogs, and
a
blue Shetland sweater over a blue turtleneck. Summer was dressed in the same way except that her pants were plain cream corduroy worn with a boy's cream cable-knit tennis pullover and
a
shirt. The shirt was navy to match the stripe around the waist and cuffs of the pullover.

When Raoul opened the door he had a butcher's apron over jeans and a plaid shirt with the collar open and the cuffs turned back. The hair on his forearms was so fair as to be almost invisible. His skin seemed very white by comparison with James's teak tan or even with their lighter tans. But it was a time of year when most people in Manhattan were pale after months with little sunshine.

That he shook hands with them both, before taking their coats, was, she thought, the Frenchman surfacing. An American's greeting would have been more casual, and it was unlikely that an American would have kissed her hand with the accustomed ease with which he had performed that delightful gesture the last time she saw him.

'We're eating in the kitchen,' he told them. 'But we'll have a drink in here first'—showing them into his living room. 'What can I get you?'

Summer asked for a soda water, Emily for Coke. Then, while he was getting their drinks, they looked with interest at their surroundings.

The most striking feature of the room was a huge modern painting of a choppy sea flecked with white horses under a sky of broken clouds.

Although he was busy putting ice into tall glasses, and not watching them, Raoul said, 'The picture is by Bonade.'

Clearly all his visitors looked at the painting before anything else.

The white clouds and foam, and the blue sky reflected in the tossing water, had been used as a theme for the room's décor. Most of the furniture was white, but one sofa was covered in blue linen and the white curtains had blue borders.

The room was recognisably designer-decorated. As Summer was wondering who had done it, he said, 'I used to have a girl-friend who was an interior designer. She decorated the apartment for me.'

And lived in it with him for a while, Summer concluded, remembering what James had told her about him. She wondered why they had split up.

While Emily made a bee-line for his bookshelves, Summer was drawn to the corner with
a
large sloped drawing table and
a
wall panelled with cork to which he had pinned numerous clippings, sketches, swatches of fabric and other references.

On the table was an intricate drawing of
a
necklace, obviously inspired by the photograph, pinned beside it, of a spider's web beaded with dew and glistening in sunlight.

Raoul took Emily's Coke to her, then brought Summer's drink and his own—a glass of red wine— to his working area.

'That's a design for platinum and diamonds,' he told her. 'Those very delicate links and claws wouldn't be feasible in gold. Platinum is the perfect setting for diamonds—if they're set in gold they pick up yellow from the metal—and also the most secure one because of its hardness and strength.'

'It's beautiful, Raoul. Will you make it yourself?'

'No, I don't have the time. Platinum takes longer to polish than gold. That's one of the reasons, apart from its rarity and purity, why it's so expensive. Eighteen carat gold is only about seventy per cent pure. Platinum is ninety-five per cent pure. I'd like to make this necklace, but I have too much administrative responsibility to be able to craft all my designs. Nor do I have the skills. I know the theory of diamond cutting, but I'm not capable of putting it into practice.'

They had supper sitting on tall stools round the breakfast bar in his pine-walled kitchen.

'How come you're such a good cook?' Summer asked, as they ate lambs' kidneys wrapped in bacon and broiled on skewers, with baked potatoes and sour cream, and a side salad redolent of garlic.

'I'm not. I can cook three things—
a
steak, an omelette and these. Do you like to cook?'

'Yes. I cook on Victoria's night off. You must come and try my chicken with apples and brandy.'

In place of dessert he served cheese and fruit. Summer had a thin sliver of Roquefort and a pear which she cut into pieces and ate very slowly. The eating habits of a slim person were becoming second nature to her.

For coffee, they returned to the sitting room where Emily was happy to continue looking at Raoul's books while her elders talked about jewellery.

At ten o'clock they went home after a relaxed, happy evening which was the forerunner of many pleasant threesomes.

In the following week or two, Raoul introduced them to many aspects of New York which they might not have discovered without him. He took them to a performance of the dance division of the Juillard School, a hot-bed for future stars in all the performing arts. He took them to the Amato Opera Theater down in the Bowery to hear singers who might one day be stars at the Metropolitan Opera Company; and he took them to the Met itself although, at the time, they had no idea that orchestra seats were hard to come by and very expensive.

The night José and Victoria went to visit his brother in Queens, and Summer cooked her
pièce de r
é
sistance,
was the night James reappeared.

Emily and Raoul were playing backgammon in the living room and she was busy in the kitchen when she was startled by a buzzer. Looking up at the indicator panel above the kitchen door, she saw that the summons came from the lobby and knew instantly that James had come home and was ringing for José.

Her immediate reaction was dismay that he should have chosen tonight to descend on them. Leaving her preparations, she went out of the kitchen and along the short passage beyond which was the lobby.

Mustering a polite smile, she greeted him with, 'You picked the wrong night to come home. Victoria's out and I'm deputising as cook.'

He smiled at her. 'Hello, Summer. How are you?'

'Fine, thanks. How are you?'

'In need of a shower and a pick-me-up. It's been one of those days.'

He was unbuttoning his coat. For the first time since she had known him, he looked tired and rather drawn.