Aftershocks

by Catherine Coulter

  "I will have to check my calendar," George said coldly. She ruffled the telephone pages, then said, "Yes."

  Elliot, the master hunter, smiled. "Excellent. Would you mind picking me up? The car's with my friendly mechanic. About seven?"

  "All right. What should I wear?"

  "Something long. Don't be late, George."

  "I am never late," she said, and heard him chuckle.

  She sat for a moment after she replaced the receiver. I think, she said out loud to the picture of a cat on the wall in the hallway, that I've just been had. She dialed Randy and left a message that she couldn't make their pizza date for the following evening.

  Elliot was brushing the sleeve of his black tux when he heard the doorbell ring at precisely seven o'clock. He trotted downstairs, his eyes alight with anticipation.

  He had expected her to look beautiful; after all, it was her stock in trade, as she had once blithely informed him. But still, he was silent a moment, looking at her. She was wearing a long, pale-green gown made of a soft, shimmery material that fell straight to the floor. It was sleeveless and shoulderless, held up by a thin cord of the same material that went around her throat and fastened between her breasts. He hair was piled on top of her head in something like a Gibson-girl style, with loose tendrils curling about her face and down her neck. She wore tiny diamond earrings and a glittering diamond pendant, and was carrying a black shawl over her arm.

  "Come in, George," he said finally. "You look.. .very nice."

  To George, it was a fine compliment. "Thank you." Her eyes twinkled as they swept over his black tux and pristine white shirt. "You look pretty good yourself."

  "Thank you, ma'am. Come into my humble abode."

  "Not so humble," George observed, gazing beyond the large entrance hall toward the elegant staircase.

  "I've done a lot of work on the house. Come on into the living room."

  The old Victorian was beautifully restored, even to the stained-glass windows, dark walnut wainscoting and beamed ceilings. She followed him through what she thought of as a receiving room, perhaps the room that had been used to hand out Christmas presents to long ago servants.

  "I'm beginning to feel cheap, plastic and modern," George said as she gazed around the octagonal living room. The ceilings were twelve feet high, with carved cherubs grinning down at her from the molding.

  Elliot grinned at her. "It's quite a showplace. I spend most of my time upstairs where I can be a slob if I want to. There's a comfortable master bedroom and another huge room I call a den. It's still got all the original built-in bookshelves and Oriental wallpaper, and a fireplace where you could roast a pig. Come to the kitchen and I'll fix you a drink."

  "Do you have Perrier? I don't drink."

  "Weight reasons? Religious reasons?"

  "No. I'm a health nut, actually."

  "Good. You'll probably be jogging when you're ninety."

  The kitchen, unlike the rest of the first floor, was so modern it squeaked. A butcher-block table stood in the center, surrounded by stainless-steel appliances and counters.

  "A concession to my housekeeper," Elliot said. He opened a well-stocked refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of Perrier and looked around for an opener. "Mildred keeps moving things around," he said, opening one drawer and then another.

  When the opener was finally located, George said, "Now I feel better. That opener, at least, looks to be straight from the hardware store. And delightfully cheap."

  He smiled and poured himself a glass of wine. "To our evening, George," he toasted her. "It's good to see you again."

  She frowned at him over the rim of her glass. "You, I think, are a cruel person."

  "I?" A thick black brow arched a good half-inch upward. She saw that his eyes were laughing a her. "Whatever do you mean?"

  But George was losing herself in his eyes, leaf green, with gold flecks. "I'm sorry. What did you say?" Her voice sounded oddly breathless even to her own ears, and she flushed.

  "Why do you think I'm cruel? "

  "You're out of my league," she said simply.

  "Really? You, a sophisticated model? I doubt it."

  "Shouldn't we be going?"

  Elliot nodded. "I wouldn't want to be late for Mahler," he said dryly. "We won't be besieged by folks wanting your autograph, will we?"

  "No," George said. "It's too soon."

  He waited for her to continue, but she said nothing more. He found himself a bit peeved at her reticence; that, or the sense of mystery about her. He couldn't decide which.

  George fell asleep during the second half of the symphony, her head resting lightly on Elliot's shoulder. Her soft hair tickled his neck, and he could feel her breast soft against his arm. He had no desire to fall asleep, nor did he hear the music. He gently lifted her hand and placed it in his lap. She was becoming an enigma, and he disliked the thought. She had about as much guile as a five-year-old, at least that was the way she had seemed this evening. Or perhaps, he thought, she was out of his league, not the other way around.

  When the applause broke out around them, George blinked and jerked upright. "Oh dear! Is it over?"

  He squeezed her hand. "Did you have sweet dreams?"

  "I hope I didn't snore," she said.

  "Not loud enough to disturb our neighbors."

  He helped her adjust her shawl, resting his hand on her bare shoulder for a moment. He felt her stiffen, then lean toward him.

  "George," he said, and jerked his hand away. "Any place but here," he muttered under his breath. He was not in her league, he decided.

  In the lobby, they were waved down by Dr. David Thornton and his wife, Doris. Elliot performed the introductions.

  "You were at the picnic," Doris announced suddenly. "You were the one who won the volleyball game for us."

  "And destroyed my sunglasses and my ego," Elliot said.

  "I might sleep at the symphony, but never at a volleyball game!" George retorted, and gave him her dazzling smile.

  "You look familiar," Doris continued, staring at George. "I don't mean to be pushy, but—"

  David laughed. "You are pushy, my pet. We're going to Ivy's for a late dinner. Would you like to join us?"

  Elliot looked down at George. "Do you have an early call tomorrow?"

  George nodded regretfully. "I'm on the 6:00 A.M. plane for Los Angeles. I'm sorry. Weekdays are usually a problem."

  Doris suddenly beamed. "I know who you are. You're the model, aren't you?"

  "Yes," George said calmly. "And sometimes, like tonight, I truly regret it."

  They made a date for dinner the following week. "She is unbelievably glamorous, isn't she?" Doris asked her husband as they walked toward their car.

  "Oh, I don't know," David said, grinning down at this wife's pixie face. "What's a beautiful face and a gorgeous body?"

  "Jerk," Doris said.

  George parked Esmerelda in front of Elliot's house. "Would you like me to walk you to the door?" she asked lightly.

  "Yes," he said.

  "They seem like very nice people," George said.

  "Yes," Elliot said again. "Will you be home tomorrow night?"

  "Unfortunately, I won't be back until Friday afternoon."

  Elliot turned to face her. He didn't give a damn about teasing her now. What he wanted was to make love to her until both of them collapsed. "I want to see you Friday night. All right?"

  "Yes. I-I would like that."

  He lightly touched his fingers to her cheek. "Come here, George," he said. He closed his hands over her shoulders and drew her into his arms.

  George felt nervous, shy and exhilarated all at the same time. He merely held her against the length of his body, his mouth so close to hers that she could feel his warm breath.

  "Please kiss me," she said, stretching up on her tiptoes.

  Elliot looked down at her pursed lips and her closed eyes. He drew her tightly against him and lowered his mouth to hers. He felt her jump, as if surprised. Her li
ps were soft and giving, and very slowly he let his tongue trace over them, gently probing. When she finally parted her lips, his only thought was that he wanted her, wanted her more than he had ever wanted a woman. Suddenly, she seemed to yield to him, threw her arms around his neck and returned his kiss with fervent enthusiasm.

  His hands strayed down her back to her hips. He caressed her, feeling her softness through the thin gown, and gently lifted her, pressing her against him. A moan broke from her throat, and he released her abruptly. He wanted an entire night with her, not just a couple of hours. It was as simple as that.

  George swayed against him, and it was he who calmed her. "Friday night," he whispered against her temple.

  "I—I feel odd," George gasped.

  "I know, so do I," he said, stroking the nape of her neck. "Let me walk you to Esmerelda."

  He opened the driver's side, but George made no move to get in the car.

  She looked up at him hungrily. "Please," she whispered.

  He kissed her again, quickly, almost roughly.

  "Friday night," he said, and firmly pushed her away from him.

  He watched her back out of the driveway and pause a moment in the street, her head cradled against the steering wheel. He felt shaken himself; it pleased him that she felt the same way.

  George stood in the middle of her bedroom, shaking her head. "Damn, damn, damn," she said over and over, as if that would change anything. She yanked a long-sleeved, full-skirted black dress from her closet. Black fit her mood; she was in mourning, damn it! She fastened a gold chain around her throat and clasped a gold belt around her waist.

  "You were born under the wrong star," she told her image in the mirror. She brushed her hair back from her face and jabbed in two gold combs. She'd had half a mind to call Elliot and tell him she was still in Los Angeles, but had chickened out. She wanted desperately to see him, despite.. .despite everything! Well, she thought, giving her hair a final pat, at least you couldn't tell from looking at her that the evening had ended before it started.

  He arrived punctually and looked so damned gorgeous in a dark black suit that she cursed again under her breath.

  "Your turn to see my house," she said, trying for a smile. "It's not as elegant and sophisticated as yours."

  "I like it," Elliot announced, but he was looking at her. Her living room was long and rather narrow, furnished with rattan and an assortment of modern paintings and prints. A very comfortable-looking sofa faced a fireplace. A long bar separated a small breakfast parlor from the kitchen. She trotted him through the three bedrooms, one of them a study. Her bedroom was done in white wicker, and dominated by a king-size bed. He tried not to gaze too fondly at it.

  "I like the hardwood floors," he said, wondering why she was rushing him about.

  He helped her on with a soft black velvet cape. "Hungry?"

  She smiled rather wanly. "Yes."

  "We're going to Sausalito, to Ondine's. It's clear tonight, so we should have a great view."

  She nodded and followed him silently to the Jaguar. Plush, she thought, fingering the soft light-gray leather seat. It suited him; elegant and subtle, not brash and overexuberant and loud, like Esmerelda. Like her.

  They drove toward the Golden Gate Bridge, George staring out her window. Elliot gathered her hand into his and felt her stiffen. He did not release her.

  "Tell me about Los Angeles," he said calmly. He could practically hear her sigh of relief, and he frowned slightly.

  "It was rather insane, actually," she said, turning in her seat to face his profile. "Ben, Clyde and I—"

  "Ben is your agent or manager?"

  "Both, a longtime friend. We've been together since the beginning. Clyde's my photographer." She drew a deep breath. "Have you heard of the cosmetics firm, Braden-Tyrol?"

  "Certainly. Are you going to model for them?"

  "It's more than that," she said, regaining some of her excitement. "They've got a West Coast headquarters in Los Angeles, and Ben and I met with their PR vice-president from New York to discuss the ad agency's schemes. It will involve a lot more than just modeling, Elliot. Have you ever seen the Charlie campaign on TV?"

  Elliot nodded.

  "Well," George said, drawing a deep breath, "I've signed a three-year contract with them. I'm going to be Georgina —they like my own name—and in about a month my face, for better or for worse, is going to be on tv, on billboards and in magazines."

  "Good God," Elliot said, turning to her in astonished surprise. "You're a damned celebrity, George! Congratulations. I promise you the best champagne Ondine's stocks."

  ''Thank you. Unfortunately, I'll be doing more traveling than I would like. At least the ad agency wants most of the filming in this country."

  Elliot asked her more questions, his voice warm and interested, and George felt herself grow more despondent, her replies becoming clipped. She was over her excitement and had spent so much time imagining this evening. Damn it, she thought, hunching her shoulders, she should have canceled, pleaded a terminal illness!

  Elliot turned smoothly at the Sausalito exit. "I'll be in Boston next week," he said. "A conference."

  She caught her breath. "When?"

  There was a forlorn catch in her voice, and Elliot smiled. "Sunday to next Thursday."

  "That's fine," she assured him. "I'll be in Dallas, meeting with the brass in their southwestern headquarters."

  Elliot pulled the Jaguar into the parking area in front of Ondine's.

  "Good evening, Doctor," the attendant said as he opened Elliot's door.

  "You come here often?" George asked as he helped her out of the car.

  "Now and then," he replied.

  Their table, next to the southern windows that faced toward San Francisco, was ready for them. Elliot ordered a bottle of Dom Perignon from the hovering French waiter, then cocked an eyebrow at George.

  "Will you have a glass? To celebrate?"

  "Yes," she said.

  Elliot sat back in his chair and studied her. She was toying with the bread sticks, her eyes on her plate.

  "I had hoped," he said softly, smiling at her, "that we would be celebrating several things this evening." Her head jerked up, and he saw a stricken look in her eyes.

  Slowly, he opened his hand, palm up, on the table. "Give me your hand, George."

  She placed her fingers lightly over his.

  "I enjoy touching you," he said, gently stroking her fingers. Again, she seemed to withdraw from him. He remembered quite clearly the feel of her against him, the softness of her beautiful mouth and her interest when he kissed her.

  "Won't you tell me what's troubling you, George?"

  Think of something, you idiot! Thankfully, the champagne arrived. The cork was expertly popped and their glasses filled.

  "To your success," Elliot said, and clinked his glass to hers. George took a couple of sips and set her glass down on the white tablecloth.

  "Thank you," she said in a small voice.

  "Do you like pheasant? They do it quite nicely here."

  She nodded, not caring if she ate cardboard at the moment. She listened to him order and realized that she had to excuse hereself.

  She stayed in the women's room for a good ten minutes, then finally forced herself to return to their table.

  Elliot took in her pale face and wondered what the devil was going on in her mind. She wouldn't look at him.

  "George," he said, "You are acting strangely and I want to know why. What's the matter?" "I—I'm very tired," she said.

  He studied her face for a moment, then said gently, "You don't ever have to lie to me, you know."

  She did feel tired, tired and angry. "I don't lie," she said. She met his eyes and blinked, as if dazed. All she had to do was look at him and she felt like wobbly Jell-O. She saw the gleam of satisfaction in his eyes and cursed herself for a fool.

  "What else don't you do?" he asked suddenly.

  "I don't stay in Los Angeles when I should," s
he retorted, without thinking.

  Elliot smiled. She was nervous about going to bed with him, and he was pleased. It meant that she was not perhaps quite the experienced lover he had believed. His smile slowly flattened. That, or she was changing the rules of the game with him, now playing the tease.

  "George," he said in an amused voice, "just because I buy you dinner, it doesn't mean that I expect payment in bed."

  Her eyes widened, and she choked on the bread stick.

  "Now, if you buy dinner, I expect the same courtesy."

  "You don't understand," she blurted out, "I cant!"

  "Can't what, buy my dinner?"

  "I want you to stop laughing at me!"

  "Ah," he said, looking away from her, "here's our dinner, at least the first course. Tell me how you met Dr. Hansen."

  She shot him a smile and he wondered if Dr. Hansen wasn't a lover after all.

  "He saved me from getting mugged in Central Park." She giggled. "Actually, there were two of them. I was pretty good at judo and at least Randy looks strong. The two guys decided we weren't good mugging candidates and took off."

  "Dr. Hansen was in medical school at the time?"

  "Yes, in his fourth year."

  "What the hell were you doing alone in Central Park?"

  "Jogging."

  "Even in Golden Gate Park you shouldn't jog alone. Okay?"

  George felt both surprised and pleased at his concern. Maybe, just maybe, he would forgive her for tonight. She forked a small shrimp from her salad into her mouth. "I promise," she said.

  "You went to Columbia, didn't you?" she asked him after a moment.

  "Yes, and interned at Presbyterian."

  "Tell me about it," she said, leaning toward him. "Some of Randy's stories are enough to curdle your blood."

  Elliot was happy to oblige her, and the dinner passed pleasantly enough with reminiscences of the most hellish year in Elliot's life.

  He still had her laughing on their way back to San Francisco with a story about a wino who had stripped in the emergency room and started to relieve himself in the drinking fountain.

  When her house came into view, George clammed up. Elliot pretended not to notice. He turned into her driveway and switched off the motor. He made no move toward her, nor did he get out of the car.