by Amii Lorin
As if mesmerized, Vichy walked to him, her fingers itching to touch him, her arms aching to hold him, her body quivering in its need of his possession.
And to think I really believed myself in love with Brad, she marveled. Compared to what she was experiencing now, what she had felt for Brad took on the shadings of a teenage infatuation. What she felt for Ben was more than love, it was total devastation, and it frightened her. She could, with this man, lose all sense of self. And that was not good. There had been no mention of a future together and, with the way she felt, she was very much afraid she was going to be left completely shattered. And that was worse. Every ounce of common sense she possessed urged her to gather the pieces of her self that were left and run. But, as she had suspected of the woman at the slot machine, Vichy would not heed the advice either. She loved Ben as compulsively as any gambler loved pitting himself against the odds. She had to stay until the dice were tossed for the last time.
"Hi."
Ben's soft greeting drew her out of her introspection. Raising emotion-clouded eyes to his, she repeated him.
"Hi."
Suddenly his eyes took on the bright sheen of alertness, and she heard him inhale sharply. His attention to play was called from midway down the table, and with a quick motion of his hand he indicated he was out of it. Not once did his eyes leave her face.
"You want me, now, this minute, don't you?" he breathed in a tone that reached her ears alone. Past all subterfuge, Vichy nodded.
"Yes."
"And I you," he admitted unsteadily. He drew a deep, calming breath, then moved abruptly. Scooping his chips off the table, he jammed them into his jacket pockets, saying tersely, "I'll cash these in later." Turning away from the table, he slid his arm around her waist and, bending his head, whispered close to her ear, "Let's go home."
Later, wakeful as she lay quietly curled against Ben's relaxed, sleeping body, Vichy decided that home, with Ben, was the most wonderful place in the world, no matter where its location.
Ben's lovemaking had completely immersed her in a hot pool of sensuality, washing away all lingering traces of shyness and inhibition until, in mutual hunger, she had taken possession of him as forcefully as he had taken possession of her.
His experience in the art far exceeded hers, as he had proved by his expert tutelage. That he had known, intimately, many female bodies before her own, Vichy had no doubt. That knowledge truly did not bother her. Ben was a mature man. It was the fear of how many women would follow her in the future that kept her wakeful. For, even at the most intense moments, when Ben's hoarse voice had whispered all kinds of exciting love words, not once had he uttered a word of commitment.
Did Ben feel anything for her beyond the pull of a very strong physical attraction? That was the question that was beginning to torment Vichy to the exclusion of all else. There were times she felt positive he returned her love in equal measure. Yet he never said the words aloud and, until he did so, Vichy could not believe he loved her.
Don't be a greedy fool, she chided herself, blinking against the acidy sting in her eyes. He has made no demands of you; you have no right to make any of him. Don't cry for the entire sky when you have your hands full of stars.
By morning Vichy had her emotions under control. She would, she had vowed before falling into a fitful sleep, not ask for more than Ben was willing to give freely. That she had fallen in love with him was her problem, not his.
Her engagement at the hotel would be over with the last set Friday night, and though she had originally planned on leaving for home Saturday morning, she had subsequently agreed to stay at the motel with Ben through the weekend. All she could do, she decided now, was hold her love close to her heart and pray that by the time that weekend was over, Ben would have made clear his intentions regarding the future.
New Year's Eve was a gala time at the hotel, starting early and ending late—or rather early New Year's morning.
Although Vichy joined in the fun with the patrons that drifted in and out of the lounge, and she observed Ben doing likewise, they saved their real celebration until they returned to their room in the wee hours of the morning.
There, ensconced in the wide bed stark naked, they shared an expensive bottle of champagne and each other. If Vichy had cherished hope that Ben would make some personal declaration with the advent of the new year, she was sorely disappointed, for he did not. He drank to her health, to her beauty, and to her passion, but not a word about their future together passed his lips.
Friday Vichy woke disheveled and with a headache. Groaning in protest at the tiny hammers beating at her temples, she rolled over and forced her eyelids to half-mast. The sight that met her gaze was thoroughly disgusting.
Freshly showered and shaved, looking delicious in tight jeans and a bulky knit pullover sweater, obviously without any residual fallout from the champagne or the activity that had accompanied it, and grinning like a damned devil in the bargain, Ben stood by the bed, a glass containing a nauseating red concoction in his hand. When she fastened her bleary gaze on him, he held the glass out to her like an offering.
"What's that?" she groaned, fuzzy-tongued.
"My secret blend," he replied with twitching lips. "Drink it down; it'll clear the cobwebs out of your head."
Grimacing, she grunted "ugh," but she took the glass from him and sipped at the red liquid. Actually, it was not too bad, Vichy decided after the third small sip. Tomato juice, obviously, but what else? Tabasco? And? This morning her attention span was short, and, giving up the guessing game, she drank it down, as Ben had suggested.
"You're not much of a drinker, are you?" Ben observed in amusement. "You had only a few glasses of champagne. I can't imagine what you'd be like after an entire night on the town." One dark eyebrow shot up in question. "Or had you been drinking with the customers all evening?"
Vichy started to shake her head, and then stopped, gasping at the increased tempo of the hammering in her temples.
"No," she croaked. "I carried around a glass of iced tea all night." She paused to wet her parched lips with the tip of her tongue before adding, "I rarely drink anything other than a glass of wine with dinner."
"I'd say it's a good thing," he laughed. Sitting down on the side of the bed, he leaned to her and gently kissed her pale cheek.
"But I am relieved," he teased. "For a scary minute there, I was afraid it was the—ah—vigorous activity that had done you in."
"You're a wicked man, Bennett Larkin," Vichy accused reproachfully.
"Yeah, I know," Ben grinned complacently. "Isn't it fun?" Before she could retort, or even gasp at his outrageousness, Ben jumped to his feet. "I'll tell you what," he declared expansively. "Being the all-around terrific person that I am, I'll make the coffee while you have a reviving shower. What do you say to that?"
"Big whoop."
Ben's laughter followed her into the bathroom.
Surprisingly, the shower did revive her—at least partially. Then Ben insisted she eat something with her coffee, and the toast she opted for revived her even more.
By the time they left to go to the hotel, the hammers had stilled in her temples and, except for a gray dullness blanketing her mind, she was feeling almost human. Ben—the rat—was still highly amused by it all.
His amusement carried through her first and second sets. During the break after the second set he grinned at her once too often and Vichy, having walked the fine edge of impatience all day, slipped to the wrong side and ordered him to "get lost."
Not even looking offended, in fact looking more amused than ever, Ben drawled, "Whatever you say, sweetheart," and with a careless wave of his hand, sauntered toward the casino.
Tormenting herself with wondering if Ben's attitude was an indication of his tolerance of her, or his unconcern for her, Vichy watched him until he was swallowed up in the crowd, a strange foreboding settling over her like a shroud.
Ben did not put in an appearance for her final performances. And
Vichy, torn between the desire to stretch out the seconds of her last professional engagement and the urge to have it over and done with, grew moody and depressed as the hours ticked inexorably away.
Finally it was the last set, and then the last song, and then she was thanking her audience with tears in her eyes.
It was over—the career she'd embarked on with youthful enthusiasm and high hopes had come to an end with a feeling of dullness and depression.
She had to find Ben. Now, more than at any time since she'd met him, she needed his confidence, his coolness, and, yes, even his teasing amusement. Perhaps, she mused, she needed the last more than anything else.
Declining Ken's offer of one last drink—for although the men in her back-up did not know this had been her final performance, they did know it was the end of this particular engagement—Vichy left the lounge and entered the casino.
As usual the room was crowded, and wondering irritably if half the population of the East Coast had suddenly had the urge to test their skill in this casino, Vichy picked her way at a snail's pace through the room.
The holiday spirit still prevailed, as was evidenced by the good humor of the majority of the people Vichy ob-served. At one point she was jostled by a young man at least eight years her junior, and her ego was given an unexpected lift when, after running his eyes the length of her and back, he said smoothly, "Sorry, gorgeous. No, on second thought, I'm not sorry at all. You're the best-looking thing I've clapped eyes on in weeks." Although his words were bold, his grin was shy, and Vichy couldn't help smiling at him. "I guess you wouldn't care to have a drink with me, would you?" he finished hopefully.
"No, thank you," Vichy refused gently. "I'm meeting a friend."
"Well, I can't be shot for trying." Smiling broadly, he winked and then moved on, in search, Vichy was sure, of more available game.
However, the brief exchange had lightened her mood, and with a small smile curving her lips, she would her way along the narrow expanse of floor space around the gaming tables.
She was beginning to despair of ever finding Ben when she was forced to come to a dead stop by a group of elderly ladies totally blocking the way at intersecting aisles.
"You girls should have gone with me to the cashier's cage," one blue-haired lady said excitedly to the others.
Resigned to being held up until they completed their conversation, Vichy unabashedly listened in.
"What's so thrilling about cashing in ten dollars' worth of chips?" a second gray-haired lady grumbled.
"It wasn't my chips I was referring to," Blue Hair snapped back smartly.
Controlling her smile valiantly, Vichy glanced around in assumed disinterest and waited for the mystery to unfold.
"Well, what or whose chips were you referring to?" this from a bespectacled, brown-haired lady.
"You see that young man at the cage window? The one with the lovely young woman hanging around his waist?" Ms. Blue Hair asked excitedly.
Five necks were craned around the corner of the intersection in the direction of the payoff cage.
Vichy was humorously aching to view a man with a woman hanging around his waist, lovely or otherwise. She knew she would be unable to see the cage window even if she did crane her neck, and she was too polite to shove any of the elderly ladies aside, so she stood still, waiting patiently for the explanation she knew was coming.
"Well, I never!" a fourth member of the party of five exclaimed. "Kissing in a public place!"
"Oh, that's nothing." Blue Hair waved her hand airily. "You should have seen them a few minutes ago, when I was at the next window. I swear, that young miss was all over him like a wall-to-wall rug. Laughing, and crying, and kissing him all over his handsome face."
Vichy choked back her laughter just in time to hear Madame Gray Hair query her friend.
"Why? Do you know?"
"Oh, yes, I know why." Blue Hair paused to make sure she had their full attention, which she did, Vichy's included. "I would imagine that young woman's display of affection has something to do with the thirty-four thousand dollars' worth of chips he's just cashed in."
"Thirty-four thousand dollars!" four awe-struck voices repeated aloud.
Thirty-four thousand dollars! Vichy repeated in awestruck silence. The small dramatic moment over, the five ladies went on their merry way, and Vichy quick-stepped to the end of the narrow aisle, curious for a look at the winner and his solitary cheering section. The sight her eyes encountered froze her in place.
There was only one couple at the row of windows. The ash-blond young woman was very lovely and, with her arms clasped around the man's waist, she did give the impression of hanging on for all she was worth.
In between stuffing bills into his pockets, the smiling man allowed the woman to kiss his mouth. The man was indeed handsome. Vichy had never seen the young woman before. The man was Bennett Larkin.
Her body rigid as stone, eyes widening with an expression akin to horror, Vichy stood, barely breathing, watching the "happy couple." As the first tears rushed to blur her vision, another picture swirled around and formed to superimpose itself upon the scene before her.
Trapped forever in that mental image Vichy had tried so very hard to banish from her consciousness were a naked man and a naked woman, intertwined on top of Vichy's marriage bed.
The picture grew clearer, only now the naked man on the bed was Ben.
Much the same as she had done six years before, Vichy slowly backed away, her head moving as if in slow motion from side to side, the protesting words, no, no, no, coming in whispered tones through her taut lips.
"Hey, lady!"
Vichy had lost all awareness of the people around her and she jerked to a stop when she backed into a man. The face she swung around to the stranger was starkly white.
"Hey, lady," the man repeated in an altogether different tone. The former had held hard impatience, the latter, sharp concern. "Are you sick?"
"What?" Vichy blinked her eyes and, thankfully, the vision was gone. "Oh, no, I'm all right."
"You don't look all right to me," the middle-aged man insisted, grasping her upper arms as if to keep her upright.
"I—I'm fine, really," Vichy choked. "It—it's so very hot in here, don't you think?" She improvised. "I'll just go and get some fresh air and I'll be fine."
"Well, if you're sure there's nothing I can do."
"No, thank you." Desperate to get away, she added, "I'll hurry out and get some air, if you'll let me go."
"Oh." He actually blushed, and at any other time Vichy could have appreciated the fact that her would-be rescuer was a very nice man. "Sure, but you take care now, you hear?"
"Yes, I will." Free of his hold, Vichy dashed away.
Huddled in the back seat of the taxi, Vichy had only a jumbled memory of her flight through the casino. She was wearing her coat, and clutching her handbag, so she knew she must have stopped long enough to pick them up before making a beeline for the hotel's front entrance. She clearly remembered getting into the cab and giving the driver the name of the motel.
Once inside the efficiency unit, tears washing her face, Vichy tore around like a demented wild thing, flinging her belongings into her suitcases. She was not thinking. She was reacting to a host of emotions; every one of those emotions screamed: run.
The door to the unit was open. The handle of one suitcase gripped in one hand, Vichy reached for the other case and went still, her eyes fastened on the glittering gold bracelet on her wrist. Releasing the handle, she unclasped the bracelet, and then its counterpart around her neck. Walking to the bed, she dropped the shiny pieces onto the smooth bedspread.
"You can go to hell, Ben Larkin," Vichy whispered bitterly. "And you can take your winnings trinkets with you."
Spinning on her heel, she crossed the room, scooped up her valises and walked out, closing the door quietly behind her.
Somehow she managed to get to her car, unlock it, and drive away from the motel, even though she could
see very little through the tears that kept filling her eyes. After she was clear of the city, she pulled to the side of the highway and had a good cry.
Damn him, damn him, damn him. The words circled around and around in her head unceasingly.
How long she would have remained sitting there if a state patrolman had not stopped to ask if she needed help, Vichy had no idea. But, after she had assured him she was all right, she pulled herself together. She didn't have time to cry, she told herself bracingly. Wait until you get home. Wait until tomorrow. But, for now, get your act together, and get out of here.
CHAPTER TEN
Vichy spent what was left of the night and most of Saturday morning in a motel on the outskirts of Philadelphia. Up until she dropped, exhausted, onto the bed, she had, through sheer willpower, managed to keep a tight rein on her emotions. The reins went slack when her body hit the bed.
Fully clothed, her arms wrapped tightly around her midsection, she released the agony tearing at her insides through great, racking sobs that rent the silence in the room for hours.
Vichy woke around dawn, cold and cramped, wondering where she was. For a few blessed moments, blankness covered her mind. Then memory rushed back with all its attendant pain.
Groaning softly, she dragged her slender frame off the bed. Shivering, her movements stiff and not too coordinated, she stripped down to her panties and bra, then, ignoring the untidy heap of clothes on the floor, she crawled between the covers and escaped into a deep, dream-free sleep.
The slamming of the door to the room next to hers woke Vichy late in the morning. This time she was fully aware of exactly where she was, and exactly why. The image of her Ben laughing down at the young woman clinging to him like a leech was clear and concise in her mind.