by Abra Taylor
'Thanks for the Christmas present,' Miranda said as she waited at the door. 'Homemade carrot pudding! It was such a treat.'
'A turkey might have been more appropriate,' Domini smiled, 'after the way you took Tasey and me under your wing.'
She didn't mention that she had considered the idea of just such a gesture and discarded it as being too obvious. Turkey probably hadn't been on the menu in this house, but to present one would have been to point up matters best left to silence and pride.
The second tub came in, and when the man had placed it beside the first, Miranda introduced him as Joel Stevens. He had a warm smile, greying temples, and nice brown eyes.
'Joel owns the restaurant across the street,' Miranda said. Domini noticed that Sander's sister was wearing the same black wool dress, carefully brushed and pressed, that she had been wearing a week before. And yet she looked different. . . why? Then Domini noted the faint traces of colour in Miranda's cheeks, the tiny signs of animation in her face, the sidelong way she was looking at Joel. A budding romance perhaps?
'It's such a wonderful restaurant,' Miranda enthused. 'Great French cuisine. At least, it's been great since Joel bought the place a few months ago. He invited us there for Christmas dinner . . . now don't feel badly about your carrot pudding, Domini, because it was put to very good use. Instead of eating dessert in the restaurant, we all came over here.' She angled a swift, grateful glance at her generous friend. Domini felt grateful to him too.
'All of us means Sander, me, Joel, and his two young sons,' Miranda explained, giving Domini some more food for thought. Surely Joel must be divorced, or a widower? 'So you see, your pudding fed five.'
'Better than anything I had on the menu,' claimed Joel, grinning. 'I haven't tasted carrot pudding since I was a boy. When Miranda heard that, she insisted.'
'What have you brought for Sander?' Miranda asked, turning curiously to the tubs.
'Clay,' Domini said. 'I was clearing out my loft and I happened to find it. I bought a supply the year I started in business, when I didn't know what I was doing. It's a rotten material for my kind of work. Too heavy.'
Well, most of that was the truth, Domini reflected, although she had known exactly where to put her fingers on the clay, once the idea had hit her. A premixed clay, it had been in the two large plastic tubs where she had stored it in order to prevent it drying out.
'It occurred to me that your brother might be able to use it for sculpture,' she went on, hoping Sander was going to be as receptive as Miranda appeared to be, judging by her expression. 'He hasn't lost his sense of touch, after all. But working with a hammer and chisel, even with wood . . . well, it's very hard to feel your way with that. He would have to stop at every blow to discover what he's done. Do you mind if I take these up to him?'
'Why, I. . . what a wonderful idea!' Miranda's face was radiant.
'I'll take them up to him,' Joel offered. 'I can spare another few minutes away from the groaning board.'
'Well, perhaps if you could carry one just to the top of the stairs,' Domini agreed, bending down to hoist one of the weighty tubs into her arms. 'I'd like to surprise him. Is he in his workshop?'
'Er . . . I'm not sure,' Miranda said. 'There's not much point in him making more toys, is there, until the ones he has are gone. That's why the clay is such a marvellous idea! But no matter where he is he'll hear you coming anyway, and he'll know it's not me on the stairs. He has the hearing of a jungle animal.'
Sixty seconds later Domini was at the door of the workshop, the two heavy containers of clay at her feet. She rapped and received no answer and in the next few moments came to the conclusion that Sander must be resting in his bedroom. But then she heard the creak of stairs and saw bare feet and bare calves begin the descent from the third floor.
He came to a halt halfway down the stairs, where all of him was in view. He was wearing a well-worn navy bathrobe, and it took no leap of logic to determine that he had been in the shower or the bath upon interruption. His hair was still damp, gleaming darkly against the whiteness of the terry towel that was slung around his shoulders.
'Who's there?' he asked, his head inclined slightly as if listening for the sound of her breathing.
'Domini Greey.'
His mouth tightened perceptibly, as though he didn't particularly like that piece of information. 'I take it you must be looking for me.'
'Yes, I am,' said Domini.
'Then it must be bad news,' Sander observed, his expression less than welcoming.
Domini's disbelieving little laugh held a faint tremor. 'Why on earth do you say that?'
'Let me guess,' he drawled in a derisive tone. 'You want me to mend something. Has that holy terror daughter of yours broken the rocking horse so soon?'
'She's not that destructive,' Domini retorted, an instinctive defence. She bit back the impulse to tell him that Tasey was his daughter too. 'She didn't break anything the other night, did she? If so I'll be glad to pay.'
'No, but she very nearly did,' he came back tightly. 'I'm still nursing the bruises from the fall I took. Haven't you ever taught your child to put things back in the right place?'
'Well, I . . . yes, I have,' Domini said, dismayed. She tried to think what might have been left on the floor the other night. Most of the things had been returned to their niches with a little prompting ... somewhat messily perhaps, but Domini was sure nothing had been left seriously out of place. Aware of the hazards such things held for a blind person, she had given the floor a quick visual check while saying good night to Miranda.
'I'm sorry,' she said helplessly, knowing there must have been something. 'I was sure all the toys had been put back in their pigeonholes.'
Sander heaved a sigh and his expression eased marginally. 'It wasn't a toy,' he admitted wryly, using one edge of the towel to wipe some stubborn drops of water out of his ear. 'It was a chair. I think your daughter must have used it to stand on while she was looking over the shelves. Actually Miranda should have noticed.' He paused and then asked gruffly, 'How does she like the unicorn?'
'She adores it, and so do I. I'm tempted to climb on myself!' Domini's light laugh was intended to break the indefinable tension that ran like a current between herself and Sander. Because he was standing at a higher level, directly above her on the sagging stairway, she remained very conscious of his bare calves, of the dusting of dark body hair over hard firm flesh. Knowing there was more of that bare flesh beneath the bathrobe, remembering how it looked and how it had felt against hers, did nothing for her peace of mind.
'Why are you here?'
'I've brought you something,' Domini said and then repeated the lie about clearing out her loft. She didn't as yet tell him what she had brought, because she didn't want to be told to take the clay away. She had the strong impression that for Sander the very thought of sculpture was painful; if given the choice he would refuse to try his hand at it altogether. Certainly, in claiming to be a carpenter the other night, he had denied that creative part of himself. It had surfaced in the unicorn, but it was possible that he had permitted himself a lapse because that particular piece could be classified as a toy.
'I'm not telling you what it is,' she said. 'You'll have to come down and guess by the feel. Actually I'm curious to see if you can.' She was sure he could because clay had a distinctive earthy smell, but she hoped the challenge would prick his pride. And once he had sunk his fingers into the medium, perhaps the sculptor in him would take over.
He hesitated for no more than an instant. 'Whatever it is, take it on into my workshop, then. I'll be down in a moment.'
He turned back up the stairs, to dress, Domini assumed. She opened the door to the workshop and rolled the first tub in, the task made easier because she didn't try to lift it. By daylight the room was brighter, and she soon spotted a good resting place against one wall, relatively removed from the natural flow of traffic.
She was still in the process of rolling the second tub through the door when, t
o her surprise, she heard someone behind her. She turned and saw that he had descended in the bathrobe and was standing dangerously close. He waited, hands thrust deep in his pockets and a sardonic amusement twisting his lips, until she had finished transporting the burden.
While she was still dusting off her hands, he closed the door and leaned against it. 'Shall I guess now?' he asked dryly. 'Or would you prefer me to do the feeling first?'
There was something unsettling in his voice, a strong undercurrent of mockery or sarcasm that Domini could not quite put her finger on. And the curl of his mouth was decidedly unnerving.
'I won't allow you to guess yet,' she said hurriedly because she had the strange premonition that that was exactly what he was going to do. Impossible, of course ... with the tubs closed the stuff couldn't even be smelled. And she didn't intend to open anything until his hand was poised to plunge in. 'Would you mind coming over here?'
'Ah,' he said sardonically. 'So I'm to do the feeling first.'
He sank to his haunches beside her, his closeness as disquieting as Domini had known it would be. But then, he had always affected her that way, and dealing with those wayward sensations was one of the conditions of helping him. And the bathrobe, though suggestive to her sensibilities, covered him perfectly well. Instead of drawing back, she gripped one of his wrists, held it above a tub, and said, 'Keep your hand there and wait until I give you the word.'
'And when you do, I dig in at once,' he stated mockingly.
'Why . . . yes,' Domini said, a trifle uncertainly because that streak of derisiveness had become even stronger. She left his hand poised in the air and hurriedly reached for the lid of the tub, intending to pry it open.
'Clay,'he said.
Domini's fingers froze over the undone task. She looked at him and stared. 'How did you... ?'
'Do you think I have no powers of reason? First, you told me it was something stored in your loft, something you had found impractical in your particular line of business. I'm well aware what you do for a living ... it came up for discussion the other night. So what will it be? A bolt of tulle, a roll of chicken wire, a container of glitter dust? I think not. Then I hear you start to roll something through the door. Too heavy, then, for easy lifting, and it comes in a large circular container of some kind. A big can of paint? Hardly. A tub of dry plaster of Paris? Possible, but I don't think so, because you must use that all the time to make your papier-mache constructions. And if I needed more clues, I need only remember your intense curiosity about my former... calling.'
The scorn on his face had been joined by strong evidence of anger. His jaw was tightened, his mouth antagonistic, his dark eyes narrowed and trained on Domini, but with the marginal misdirection of a man who could not see. The effect was unsettling, giving the impression that he was looking right through her.
'You're too clever,' she said unevenly.
'And no doubt you thought it was you being clever,' he taunted. 'You intended me to sink my fingers in, thinking the feel of the clay would fan some dead spark back to life. Did you think I wouldn't resent your ruse? As soon as I understood what you were about, I decided there was no point prolonging this charade. That's why I came back down the stairs at once. Now take your gift and get out.'
Domini remained kneeling on the floor but straightened, bringing her face nearly to a level with his. 'No,' she said evenly. 'I won't go, and I certainly won't take the clay. It's a good medium for sculpture and a good medium for a blind man. Shall I do some guesswork too? You're afraid to feel it. Afraid to work with it. Afraid you might learn that you've lost your talent along with your sight!'
In his strong jaw the anger was evident briefly, only to be followed by a control that was almost frightening in its intensity. A cold pride had taken possession of his face, hooding the eyes and emphasizing the autocratic flare of his nostrils. His hand shot out and caught Domini by one shoulder, the fingers uncompromising in their hardness.
'Very well,' he said with studied insolence. 'You refuse to leave until I feel something? Then feel something I will. Stay still.'
His tone warned her if nothing else did. As if he had told her his intent, she knew what he was going to do even before he lifted his free hand. His words on that previous occasion had given her evidence enough that he resented interference, that he would parry it by inflicting deliberate cruelties if he must. And she knew he would not feel her face because there was no real humiliation in that, nothing to make her cry out in shock, to rise and run.
All the same, when his hand began to take its liberties she was hard pressed not to leap to her feet. He cupped one breast deliberately, his palm and his long fingers covering it completely while his other hand compelled her to stay still. Domini froze, knowing full well that he was trying to drive her into fighting free and fleeing. And that she would not do.
When his effrontery brought no instant cry of outrage, he began to fondle the curves through the cotton of her shirt, an open derision growing on his face. Domini closed her eyes, bit her lip hard, and reminded herself that in the course she had chosen for herself, all was sufferable. Surely he would stop when he realized his presumption was not having the desired effect?
'Is it my turn to play the guessing game again?' he mocked when she failed to register an immediate protest. 'Shall I go through what I detect about this... shall we say, mystery I'm feeling? First, she's wearing no brassiere. Nor was she wearing one the other day. I ask myself ... is she proud of her breasts or is she simply brazen? Is she anxious to attract sexual attention?'
'I don't actually need a brassiere,' Domini returned with as much control as possible. She hated the way he was trying to demean her, but she knew if she failed to outlast this difficult moment the clay was sure to go wasting. And so she submitted with what dignity she could muster. 'I don't buy things I don't need,' she added, knowing he would understand that particular kind of motivation. And perhaps he did, but it did nothing to stop his cold-blooded manipulations of her flesh.
'She doesn't shrink from a stranger's touch,' he went on without pause, his use of the impersonal pronoun an intentional insult, an attempt to further degrade Domini. 'She accepts it without question. In fact, I think she must like it.'
Suddenly Domini was choked with remembrance of another time when he had felt her desire and then satisfied his own. 'Please don't,'she breathed.
'If she doesn't like it,' he murmured cruelly, 'I wonder why she submits? If she tried to run away, I certainly wouldn't stop her.'
'I'm staying because I want you to try the clay,' Domini reminded him in a low voice. The moulding of a nipple was beginning to have an effect that must have been detectable through the cloth, and much as she tried to force her body into quiescence, it would not obey. 'If I race off in indignation, you'll never try it at all, will you?'
He laughed harshly. 'No,' he conceded, releasing his grip on her shoulder. His other hand remained on her breast, temporarily stilled but by no means withdrawn. 'I see you understand my purpose very well. Perhaps you have some wit in your head after all.'
Freed from the fingers that had kept her pressed into stillness, Domini sank back on her heels, breaking contact only momentarily. Sander merely adjusted his position to come closer to her and restaked his claim with a small ruthless smile. He was leaning forward, and the lapels of the dark dressing-gown fell away to reveal the muscular sculpture of his chest. It was as powerful as before, but paled by lack of exposure to sun, so that the mat of short black hairs appeared darker, each more crisply defined than in Domini's memory.
'I know perfectly well what you're trying to do,' Domini said in a strained voice. 'You're trying to humiliate me. Well, I refuse to be humiliated. Now will you please remove your hand from my breast?'
'Will you please remove yourself from my house?' he countered as his palm began its erotic movements once again, the fingers caressing the curve, the rough thumb stroking the nipple. 'It must be clear to you that I have an intense dislike for your inte
rference. If you insist on intruding, so shall I. If you don't like what I'm doing, I suggest you leave at once. The choice, my friend, is yours.'
'I'll leave when you agree to try the clay,' she said, maintaining control with difficulty. What did it really matter if he felt what had already been his?
'Is this the kind of woman you are?' he murmured. 'A woman who can be aroused by any man? I wonder...'
And now his other hand moved. For a breathless moment Domini thought he intended to undo the buttons of her shirt and insinuate his fingers more intimately, to test the truth of what he must have discerned through the cloth. But the brief alarm passed as his hand rose higher to her face. He brushed her mouth lightly, the fingers roughened by carpentry passing fleetingly over the soft surfaces to read what was there. A strange emotion crossed his features, replacing scorn.
'Extraordinary,' he breathed, just as he had breathed many years before.
Had he guessed? Domini's heart seemed to stop for several seconds as his other hand rose slowly from its intimate lodging place to join in the exploration of her face. But there was no recognition in his expression, only puzzlement.
While he read her features, she scarcely dared to breathe for fear he might hold some memory of the shape and substance of the girl he had known so briefly long ago. It was hard to believe he would. In his anger he had taken no time to discover the planes of her face, as a lover might have done. Moreover, since then her breasts had ripened to more womanly contours, and the length of her hair had changed. Those things would tend to mislead him.
His hands moved to her nose, to her cheeks, to her eyes. She closed her lids beneath the gentle probing, the soft stroking movements of the abrasive but sensitive fingerpads that must serve him instead of sight. He touched the lobes of her ears, the curve of her jaw, the soft hollows of her throat. No part of her face was spared; each was subjected to the feather-light exploration. For Domini, it was more difficult to bear than the insolent handling of her breast had been.
His hand at her temples discovered the unruly tendrils that so often defied capture, and then travelled to find the clip that held her long hair in place. He removed it and ran his fingers through the freed mass, sliding through the spilling tumble to test its texture, its weight, its length.