Authors: Roberta Latow
Her thoughts were of Nicholas and his declaration of love, of the romantic Nicholas who wanted their love to be as extraordinary in its own way as was Abelard and Heloise’s. She though of the Nicholas she was sure was capable of making the most erotic love with total passion, body and soul. Her thoughts set her ablaze. She stroked her breasts. The soft, supple skin of her firm, full, rounded breasts filled her hands and she thrilled to the sensation of caressing and being caressed. With the flat of her palm she stroked her voluptuous nipples in a circular movement, round and round, tantalizing and teasing them until they were long, hard, and erect. She pinched the sensitive nipples, pulled them, and the sensation she felt made her think of Nicholas’s exquisite sucking of them earlier.
Her passions aroused by her own hands and thoughts of Nicholas made her wish he was there filling and titillating her, tormenting her with pleasure. Arabella had yet to have all of him inside her. She longed for him now, full and
hard, filling her completely. Her hands moved down her body slowly, as she imagined his would, and finally her hand slipped between her legs to the warmth and moisture there. She opened herself with deft fingers, closed her eyes, and massaged herself until she became almost unbearably sensitive, all the while thinking of Nicholas playing on her body. With her free hand she reached for her breast as her body began to tense up, her back arch. She came in crashing waves calling out softly, passionately, during her climax, “Nicholas, Nicholas!”
Her body relaxed and went limp; her heart was pounding. Arabella had only one desire — to come and come and come again with Nicholas. Her body stiffened once more and she came yet again with a crescendo of orgasm.
She looked now at the small, worn, Celidon green Moroccan leather book with faded gold lettering and trim of faded gold feathers etched around the cover and binding.
Abelard and Heloise
. The aroma of beautiful antique books filled her nostrils. She held the novel to her nose and inhaled deeply, holding on tight, so tight her knuckles went white.
For eight hundred years romantics and idealists have been emotionally branded by the story of Abelard and Heloise. The story came back to Arabella as she lay with her own lover’s gift, this book, lying next to her on the pillow.
Abelard, the most famous scholar in twelfth-century France, a man in his late thirties, fastidious and chaste, and Heloise, a girl of seventeen, virtuous, convent-bred. Two innocents pure of flesh, heart, and soul. He the tutor and she the pupil are brought together, and they fall desperately in love.
Arabella remembered that some of the most excruciatingly beautiful words and sentiments ever spoken between two people were those between the lovers while they lived in bliss together in Brittany. Arabella clutched the book to her bosom, remembering how moved she had been when she had first read the story and, later, when she had seen
the London production of Ronald Miller’s play at Wyndham’s Theatre.
Could Nicholas love her? Could they be lovers with the same power and passion as Abelard and Heloise? Could they pay the price of such a love? More to the point,
would
they pay the price for such a love?
She opened the book. In faded lavender ink someone had written on the flyleaf: “Catherine, my love, once is forever. Jean Louis. Avignon, April 8, 1781.”
She had placed the book back in the envelope after reading a few pages. She was touched by the gift and felt an urgent need to go to Nicholas immediately. All of her senses were aroused. The wide, white flannel trousers and heavy cream silk blouse with balloon sleeves made her even more aware of her body. She slipped into a pair of Manolo Blahnik white pigskin shoes and looked in the mirror briefly, just time enough to repair her makeup and run a brush through her hair. The Bulgari necklace and earrings, ancient silver Roman coins framed in diamonds and gold, looked just as well with her change of clothes as they had with her evening dress. Even her diamond and emerald bracelet looked right.
She picked up the key and left her cabin. The aft section of the signal deck was open to the cold wind, which she needed to get herself under some control before going to Nicholas. The black sky and endless sparkling stars in space, the dark, seemingly bottomless ocean below brought things back into proportion. Arabella was composed now, ready for her next step.
She found his cabin, used the key and, as quietly as possible, slowly opened the door, her heart pounding for the moment of their meeting.
His stateroom was handsome, softly lit by candlelight, and the walls of antique cherry paneling added a feeling of warmth and welcome. On one wall hung a large, romantic Aubusson tapestry of a hunt in a wood, showing a man and a woman on white stallions, shimmering against myriad shades of green and beige. But there was no Nicholas to welcome her.
Arabella wandered through the other lit rooms until she found the master bedroom, its door open. The light from the lamps cast shadows on the paneled walls of antique Florentine leather painted with scrolls, flowers, and birds. The colors, dulled by time but still beautiful, were highlighted by gold leaf work as only the Florentines could do.
The large four-poster bed was heavily carved, reaching nearly to the ceiling, but had no canopy. The large lamps on either side of the bed gave off a soft light and a warmth to the majestic room. Arabella felt as if she had come home.
Nicholas was lying in the middle of the bed, partially covered by a quilt, with some papers lying face down on his chest, his glasses halfway down his nose. There was no welcome.
He was sound asleep. Arabella stood there at the foot of the bed watching him for a long time. She drank in his handsomeness, his male beauty; he was a joy to look at. There was a goodness in the beauty that came forth even as he slept. She was able to recognize a kindness and strength she had missed that afternoon.
Arabella removed her coat and shoes, walked through the rooms, and turned off all the lights. She returned to the bedroom and very carefully removed the documents and then the glasses, put them on the bedside table, and turned off the lamps. Quietly she removed her clothes and very slowly, gently, and silently, slipped under the covers into the bed. Then she slid as close to him as she dared, not wanting to wake him. Still tense, holding her breath, excited yet timid, and careful, she turned onto her side and leaned on her elbow, facing him.
The curtains in front of the glass door that opened onto his private deck were open. Arabella lay there looking at Nicholas Frayne and the stars twinkling over the Atlantic Ocean.
As the night turned from black to navy blue and was on the verge of dawn, his breathing changed and he opened his eyes. Feeling her presence, he rolled over onto his side and faced her. Their eyes met in the newborn light. He
looked at her and said, “It’s a new day.” She looked back at him and smiled. He took her in his arms, found her lips, and kissed them. And then, throughout the early hours of the dawn and beyond sunrise, they made love to each other.
Arabella was ready when Nicholas knocked at her stateroom door. She was dressed in a navy-blue and white checked silk dress with a high neck and soft Ascot of the same material. It had a pleated skirt that flared from below the hips, over which she wore a navy-blue cashmere jacket that ended where the pleats began. The jacket had wide shoulders and long, narrow lapels. The sleeves came to just below the elbow so that the long, full sleeves of the dress ballooned out before buttoning tightly on the wrist.
She wore large Cabuchon ruby earrings mounted in heavy gold and, on her Chloe jacket lapel, a Georgian diamond and ruby firefly that shimmered and trembled on a small spring as she walked.
She had swept her hair up under a charming white felt hat with a narrow brim and a band of red, white, and blue grosgrain ribbon. She wore the hat tilted slightly to one side. It was a hat reminiscent of those worn by ladies on transatlantic cruises in the 1930’s. Her long, shapely legs were encased in bone-color stockings and her feet shod in matching calfskin Ferragamo shoes, with a medium heel, suitable for walking.
She opened the door. He stood there, silent and handsome. She said, “Hello, Nicholas Frayne.”
Nicholas remained silent for a few seconds after she had greeted him, then said, “Hello, Arabella. You look so pretty.”
He picked up her two hands in his and said, “Let me look at you. You are a feast!” He squeezed her hands and went on. “I don’t dare kiss you — I don’t trust myself!”
She laughed and, removing her hands from his, used the back of one to gently rub his cheek. It was a gesture filled with affection.
She twirled around, her skirt rising with the motion and falling back against her legs. She thought to herself, I like my new look. Before she left Paris she had gone
on a massive shopping spree, the first of many self-indulgences she intended. It was all part of her new life. She used to be the navy-blue pinstripe suit type, tasteful but businesslike. But now she was happy about no longer needing to create a certain powerful impression. She could appear exotic, sophisticated, or frivolous. It was no longer necessary to disguise her moods or camouflage her voluptuous body.
He put his arm around her shoulders and they walked into her stateroom together. “Do you think I’m beautiful, Nicholas?” she asked.
“What a strange thing to ask, Arabella!”
“You are beautiful,” Nicholas said, kissing the tip of her nose. “I want everyone to see you. I want to show you off to the world!”
Teasingly, Arabella said, “First I want you to meet my very special traveling companions, my loyal friends who’ve agreed to join me on this voyage.”
“I assumed you were traveling alone,” said Nicholas, “but I can see how little I really know about you.”
The kennels were two decks above their suites in a section next to the ship’s enormous smokestack. The kennel boys opened the cage doors and the sleek, beautiful whippets — Cecile, Cyrile, Cedric, and Carmen — pranced, leaped, and ran out. They played ball with them and Arabella showed Nicholas what excellent retrievers they were. She was astonished that in five minutes he was able to teach Carmen and Cedric how to jump through a loop made with his arms. They hid biscuits and watched the dogs sniff them out. They put all four on leads and walked them up and down the deck twenty times. Finally they all bounded into the kennel steward’s cabin to warm up and greet Sylvia and Sarah, the two yellow canaries who were singing away while the dogs barked and yelped.
Nicholas caught her attention by putting his arm around her shoulders and shouting in her ear, “Arabella, you don’t have more of these stashed away in houses anywhere, do you?”
“No, no more dogs or birds, and no houses or flats. No, my whole family is right here, except for Xu and Missy.” Arabella thought she noticed a moment of insecurity in Nicholas at the mention of Xu. She was quick to put her hand on his sleeve and say, “Xu is my manservant. He’s been with me for many, many years.”
“Ah,” he said, “the Oriental man I saw you board with.”
“And the girl, Missy, has been my secretary for the past twelve years. They’re family to me and they are very special. I’m anxious for you to get to know them both during this trip. I also have a real blood family — my mother and brother — whom I hope to see very soon. Tell me about your family, Nicholas.”
Arabella waited, but instead he changed the subject by saying “This is mad! Why are we shouting above this din? Come on, let’s go to lunch.”
Cotille Jefferson was in her cabin, third class, Deck A. Her cabinmate had chosen first sitting for her meals. Cotille had taken second. She was taking advantage of the lady’s absence to learn some lyrics, try out her voice, and do a little coke.
There was no question about it — she didn’t have a voice strong enough to match her ambition. Everyone else knew it and now even she accepted it. Well, she had tried her best but the voice was simply not there. It never had been.
For the first time in seven years she had been in Paris for the collections and was far more successful than she had anticipated. She still had what it took down the runway. Cotille had been a top —
the
top — black model, the best there had ever been. She was traveling back to New York on board the S.S.
Tatanya Annanovna
on a job with a photographer for
Vogue
magazine. She should be happy to get such a good assignment and forget about her fifth-rate career as a pop star. Cotille was cursed with the good looks most girls would kill for, and yet she had a self-destructive, painful need to be good at something she knew was out of her reach.
She was black — black and beautiful, sleek as a panther with the face of an Abyssinian princess. She had modeled her way out of poverty and onto the glossy pages of every top magazine in the world. She had done the runways of the best couture houses. But all that did nothing, she would say, for her soul.
Now deeply in debt and disgusted with herself, she was trying to prove there was more to her than a black clothes-horse for high fashion and a high-priced piece of beautiful black flesh to be displayed and used by the rag traders.
Cotille tried the lyrics again. She thought her voice sounded better and began to fool herself until it cracked. At the disco in third class the night before the master of ceremonies had asked her to give them a song. Passenger participation, he had said. The audience liked her so much he asked her to learn some of the band’s lyrics and maybe sing with them one night. What a joke, she thought. All because he wants a piece of black ass. He had made that very clear. Jesus, life really is a bowl of shit, she thought, and pulled out a small bottle of coke and a tiny silver spoon. A little toot and it’ll all hurt a lot less.
She was stopped almost before she got going by a knock on her cabin door. She quickly put the things in the drawer, checked herself in the mirror to make sure her black nose wasn’t edged with white powder, and pulled the leather belt around her waist tighter. Cotille opened the door, thinking it was her cabinmate.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” She was astonished. “Marvin Kandy, what the hell are you doing here? How did you find me?”