She laughed. She didn’t seem nervous in the least. That was a bad sign, he thought; it probably meant she wasn’t planning to let their evening go past drinks. She said, “The local white will be fine, Steven. I’ve had it on sailing trips before. I rather like it.”
He flagged the waiter and ordered. “Sailing trips?” he asked.
“Yes, my Aunt Jeanne and Uncle Robert . . . you know, Jules and Luc’s parents . . . used to dock their boat around the other side. We sometimes went on day trips to Italy. This café would supply the provisions.
“Sounds very pleasant.”
“It was – when my father didn’t come.”
“You don’t seem to have a lot of good things to say about the man. Why is that, Nicole? Did he really treat you badly, or was it just the normal thing between kids and parents?”
The wine came and they drank a toast.
“Steven . . . “
”Yes, Nicole?”
“I know you saw him that night in the restaurant. But you didn’t recognize him, did you?”
“What?”
“I mean, you don’t know who he is?”
“I know he’s your father.”
“He’s also the French Minister of Industry.”
“You mean that right-winger the conservative parties had to take into their coalition?”
“Yes, that’s exactly who I mean.”
“You’re kidding?”
“I am not kidding. If he knew I was in a café drinking wine with you, he’d have a stroke. He’s based his entire political program on hatred of foreigners, and he puts Americans at the top of the list.”
“Maybe he’s right. There are Americans I hate, too. But why are his politics your concern? You’re not a child. Isn’t it your own business who you sip wine with?”
“My father’s a very controlling man.”
“Does he know you voted socialist?” Steven whispered.
Nicole turned ashen. “How did you know that?”
“Hey, relax. It was a joke.”
He broke out laughing. It took her a while, but once she got going, she laughed loudly enough to attract a few smiles. Steven looked at her adoringly. It was hard to believe he was getting paid for this.
“Would you have voted against him as a little girl if you had had the vote?” he asked when she finally stopped laughing.
“Yes. He hasn’t been a father to me. All he cares about is politics. When my mother died – that was a long time ago when I was in second grade – he sent me to a convent school. I didn’t get out until last year. Time spent at home was miserable because of this nasty housekeeper my father relied on to raise me. She’s still with us. In fact she’s here in Nice.”
“We’ll pay her a masked visit some dark night. She sounds like she could profit from a good practical joke.”
Nicole turned serious. “We can’t, Steven. She’d know who was behind it. She’d wring my neck. Worse, she’d tell my father about you. She knows we’re friends. The town grape vine links the club directly to Françoise.”
“I learn something every day,” Steven said. “Today I have learned that friendship in modern France can be dangerous. Well, let’s be sensible. You are the only pleasant thing to happen to me this summer. I don’t want to ruin it.”
“Thank you, Steven. Anyway, that’s my life in a nutshell. The only fond memories of my youth are of the summers spent in Fontainebleau with the caretakers of my father’s country home and vacations with Uncle Robert’s family. Otherwise it was the convent school or home in Paris with my father, which was worse. I’m still living at home now even though I attend the Sorbonne. Father won’t have it any other way.”
“This is awful, Nicole. Why don’t you run away? What’s stopping you?”
“I don’t know. I think I’m just beginning to realize that my life is mine and I have the choice – no, the obligation – to do with it as I want, not as he wants. You must think something’s wrong with me for having taken so long to arrive at the obvious.”
Steven refilled their wine glasses and snapped his fingers for another bottle. He mouthed the word “oysters.” The waiter nodded and smiled.
“I don’t think anything’s wrong with you. You were basically in prison for eighteen years. It takes a little time to figure out how to handle freedom. You’re going to do great.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“Yes. And I’m glad I met you before you were any further along. You wouldn’t have given me the time of day.”
“That’s not true, Steven. I was immediately drawn to you the night I saw you in the restaurant. It would have been the same no matter when or where it happened.”
“Really?”
She shook her head, laughed and put a hand on his arm. “It’s the truth. Steven, I can’t believe I’m actually meeting you like this. It’s no big thing for you, but it is for me. I envy you for being so . . . so uninhibited. Your family must have been wonderful.”
Steven glanced at the second bottle of wine and smiled with approval at the plate of oysters. “Go ahead, help yourself,” he said. “You may lose your appetite when I tell you about my own ordeals growing up. They can’t rival yours for sheer horror, but they were pretty bad.”
She took an oyster and let it slide down her throat. Steven had to look away. He hoped talking about his family would throw cold water on his desire.
He sampled the oysters, which were fresh and delicious. He tried to keep his mind on his words. “You should have heard the things my parents said about other human beings. Not in public, mind you. They put a lot of stock in being socially correct. But when they talked about Jews or blacks or homosexuals in private, they sounded like a band of ignorant skinheads.
“And that was only the tip of the iceberg. They were prejudiced as hell against everyone who was different from them. The people I admired, like certain writers and athletes, were at the bottom of their human trash heap. They went out of their way to remind me.
“They had a plan for my life and couldn’t have cared less whether it was what I wanted or not. They wanted me to practice medicine in Connecticut, or at least go into law or, at very least, into my father’s business. So what am I doing at the tender age of twenty-seven? Playing tennis – and drinking wine with a beautiful young woman in the south of France. I’m not complaining. Don’t get me wrong. If all those unpleasant years are responsible for my being here with you, they were worth it.”
She seemed amused and genuinely surprised, and even blushed a little. “Thank you, Steven. That was a nice thing to say. I would never have guessed you rebelled against your family.”
“I really rebelled. Look at me. If I were a loyal son of the American bourgeoisie, I would be drinking coke.”
They laughed together. He would have loved to take her in his arms and tell her the world was crazy, and that nothing but friendship made any sense. Above all he would have loved to forget his assignment for Sophie. This girl was something special. When his secret got out and she rejected him, he was going to feel like a horse had kicked him in the stomach. Was there any way he could live up to his bargain with Sophie without deceiving Nicole?
What if he did something drastic and told her the truth? No, he couldn’t do that. She would be gone. How could he blame her? If the price of honesty was no more Nicole, he couldn’t pay it.
Trying to get his mind off the half dozen things that were tormenting him, he raised his glass. “To our rebellion against the mental tyranny of our parents,” he said.
Suddenly she was crying, and he wasn’t sure why. She looked around warily, then took his hand under the table.
“Steven, I don’t know what I’m doing,” she whispered.
“Hey, you’re not alone. Whatever it is, it’s all right.”
She didn’t seem to hear him. “I don’t mean my coming here. I mean, what I’m doing with the rest of my life. I never rebelled like you did. I’ve waited too long to become an adult. Steven . . . I’m a
virgin.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, a virgin. Isn’t that ridiculous at my age?”
Steven ran his fingers lightly across her beautiful, tear-streaked face. “I would say it’s a cardinal sin.”
She sniffled and took a deep breath. “When you said all that about your parents, how they had great plans for your life that you didn’t give a damn about, it struck a chord. I lacked the courage to rebel. I guess I’m stuck on the baseline. Forgive me, Steven, but this is ridiculous. I don’t know why I’m bothering you with my personal problems. I hardly know you.”
He squeezed her hand. “Maybe that’s why. I’m an outsider. You’re in this closed society where everyone thinks the same way. They tell you that you have it all, and if you don’t happen to agree, they make you feel like a leper.”
She withdrew her hand and wiped her eyes. “Look, I should go. I wanted to ask you a favor but I’m losing my nerve.”
“For Christ’s sake, Nicole, you can talk to me. If you leave now, I’ll feel as horrible as you do.”
“Why are we so distant, Steven?” she sobbed. “Why can’t we just go somewhere and sleep together?”
He thought he would swallow his tongue. “It must be the oysters speaking. Nicole, you don’t really want this.”
She giggled and moved closer to him so she could whisper in his ear. “It’s not the oysters, américain, it’s you. It started that night I was having dinner with my father and you came into the restaurant in your jeans. You did everything you weren’t supposed to do. You even started talking to me across the tables. I really couldn’t believe it. It would make you very conceited if I told you all the things that went through my mind. It’s gotten a lot worse since. Steven . . . I don’t care whether you love me or not as long as you’re nice to me. I want you to make love to me.”
He took a deep breath. This was incredible. He was supposed to be the seducer and here he was getting himself propositioned. That made dealing with his conscience a lot easier – didn’t it?
“Nicole,” he whispered, “I’ve been crazy for you, too, ever since I saw you for the first time. I want to make love to you, don’t get me wrong. But I also like you. I care about you. Are you sure this is the right thing for you? Are you sure it won’t complicate your life even more?”
She dug her nails into his thigh. “I don’t care. Let’s just do it. All right, Steven? All right?”
“Yeah, sure,” he said, motioning for the check. “We can go over to my place right now. We’ll be completely alone. It’s a secluded little summer house down the coastal road toward Cannes. Belongs to a friend of a friend. You wear my helmet. People will think you’re Darth Vader.”
Chapter Eighteen
On the back of his motorcycle at dusk, hiding behind the dark glass of his helmet, Nicole felt she was experiencing the fears and exhilaration of her entire missed adolescence. But when she stepped into Steven’s summer cottage and fell into his arms, she knew it had been a lot more than just her adolescence she had missed.
When he left her briefly to close the shutters, they had not shed one article of clothing. Yet she had already reached a state of sexual arousal she had never dreamed possible. He came back and carried her to the bedroom. He seemed to know exactly where to touch her, how to kiss her, what to say to her – which was very little and very nice.
Her knees grew weak and she sat on the bed. He unlaced her sandals and kissed her calves and thighs, then came and sat beside her. He unbuttoned her sun dress and lifted it over her head. She tried to take off her bra and panties but he wouldn’t let her. He kissed her in the most exquisite way, gently stroked her body and whispered her name until she lost all track of time.
It grew dark outside. Wind rattled the shutters. The minutes stretched into hours, her pleasure reached heights she knew could never be surpassed. Then he would do something else and her pleasure would grow even more intense.
Slowly he undressed her, admiring, kissing and loving each newly exposed patch of flesh. When he at last entered her, she cried out so loudly she thought she must have awakened her father in Paris.
It was supposed to hurt the first time. If this was pain she wanted more of it. She was aware of something wild and urgent in her movements now, though she didn’t know how she was moving or what she was doing. He kept slowing her down as she approached some burning mystery her body seemed ravenous to uncover. When he finally let her go, and helped her with a robust hunger of his own, the waves of pleasure kept coming and coming until she thought she would die if he didn’t stop.
But he didn’t stop. He would hold her and talk to her while she halfway recovered and make her drink a few sips of champagne. Then his hands would be stroking her again in the same magical way in the same forbidden places. His lips and tongue would find her breasts, and soon her body would be pulsing with desire.
She didn’t remember when it all ended, but she would never forget waking up the next morning. Light was pouring in through the shutters, church bells were ringing in a nearby village and the angry honking of car horns rose from the coastal road. She looked at Steven. He was asleep, his blond hair a tousled mess. He was, she thought, the most spectacular man she had ever seen.
She sat up, still naked, and stretched. Her breasts felt different, larger, more sensuous. Her belly tingled with sensations that were strange and wonderful.
And then it hit her. It was morning! She had not gone home, she had not even bothered to call. Françoise was probably at the police station right now reporting her absence.
What had Steven done to her? God, it was incredible.
She rushed through a shower, dressed and decided to go down to the beach. She would buy some running clothes and put them to the test. When she got home, her absence would look like a repeat of her previous early-morning excursion. She would claim she had spent the night in the villa, that she had slept on the porch or in another room, and that Françoise had assumed the worse. As long as she stuck to her story, she was safe! Only she and Steven knew what had happened. It was a good plan.
She went back to the bed to kiss him but the phone rang first. He answered sleepily. She could hear the irate voice of Monsieur Denis du Péage the elder coming through the receiver, and she had to suppress a laugh. He held the phone out so she could better follow the old man’s tirade, looking very blasé about the scolding, and kissed her playfully while they listened.
“I’ve got to go,” she said. “I’ll have some explaining to do when I get home. Steven . . . it was . . . wonderful. Thank you.”
“You sound like it was the last time. I hope it’s only the beginning. It was good for me too, Nicole. Very good.”
“We have two weeks. Françoise will be watching me like a hawk, but I don’t care.”
“Two weeks? You mean you’re throwing me over when we get back to Paris?”
“Paris?”
“That’s where I live. Didn’t you know?”
“You live in Paris? Oh my God, Steven. I thought you were on exchange from that tennis club in the States that took Philippe. You really live in Paris?”
“Yes. Is that bad? Did you only want me for my body?”
She broke down, laughing and crying. “I’m so happy. I mean, I guess I’m happy. It’s going to be complicated, Steven. You have no idea. There’ll be secret service agents and paparazzi all over the place, not to mention Françoise and my father. You’ll be sick of me in one day.”
He took her in his arms. “Don’t kid yourself, Nicole. If you want to see me, the entire French Army couldn’t keep me away. Come here.”
She pulled herself away and stood up. “No, not now. You’ve got to get to the tennis club and I’ve . . . got to decide where I’ve been.”
“Don’t make me wait forever.”
“I won’t. I couldn’t if I wanted to.” She gave him another quick kiss and stepped out the front door, only to realize that her car was in St. Jean-Cap-Ferrat.
Chapter Nineteen
His work was over. The Feds were blaming the Seattle break-in on a clumsy Iraqi attempt to circumvent the embargo on aircraft parts, and Hassan Aziz had induced them to take another giant step in the wrong direction by committing suicide on the third day of his incarceration.
The deaths of Wayne Jenkins and four other Boeing employees, murdered in their homes the night of the break-in, were likewise attributed to the Iraqis. When Boeing’s security procedures came under harsh attack at a press conference, a Boeing spokesman tried to defend the company by implying that the dead men might have been collaborators. This possibility was obvious to everyone, but the image of a young boy with his throat slit seemed the greater crime by far and kept public outrage focused on Iraq.
LACKING VIRTUES Page 12