The Game Is Played

by Joan Hohl

  She had never been able to control her withdrawal, nor had she tried very hard to control it. In her opinion any woman who’d put herself in the position of receiving that kind of punishment twice was a fool.

  Moving around the room restlessly, Helen tried to figure out what had happened to her built-in warning alarm that evening. Not only had she relaxed in Marshall Kirk’s arms, she had, if only for a moment, returned his kiss. And the fluttering breathlessness that gripped her when he turned that steady blue gaze on her confounded her completely.

  What the hell, she derided herself, got into you? Strangely her mind shied away from delving too deeply for answers, and shaking her head sharply, she told herself to forget him. Which, of course, brought a picture of him to her mind.

  Grimacing in self-derision, Helen dragged in a harsh breath. Glancing at the clock, she groaned aloud. It was almost four and her alarm would ring at seven, she had to get some sleep.

  As she slid between the sheets and drew the blanket around her shoulders, Marsh’s murmured words taunted her mind. “I knew I loved you and that you were mine.”

  “Not on your young life, Kirk,” she whispered aloud, then closed her eyes and drifted into sleep.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  “I don’t know what it is, Doctor.” Alice’s voice was heavy with exasperation. “But I think everybody has a bad case of the Januaries.”

  Including me, Helen thought, a small smile tugging at her lips at the nurse’s caustic tone.

  “What now?” she sighed, cradling the phone against her shoulder. It was her first small break e since lunchtime, and that had been over four hours ago. As usual for a Thursday the office had been full all day and that, plus her lack of sleep the night before, was beginning to tell on her. By the tone of her voice Helen suspected Alice was also beginning to feel a little hassled.

  “There is a patient in the other examining room, there are four more still in the waiting room, and I have a Mr. Kirk on the line who insists on speaking to you. I’ve told him you are very busy, but—”

  “It’s all right,” she cut in wearily. “I’ll talk to him.”

  There was a short, somewhat shocked, pause and then a click.

  “What can I do for you Mr. Kirk?” she asked coolly.

  Soft laughter skimmed through the wire to tickle her ear.

  “Do you want the proper answer or the truth?”

  “I’m keeping a patient waiting.” Helen’s tone plunged five degrees.

  “Where have I heard that before?” he wondered aloud, then, “Okay, I’ll be brief. What time should I pick you up for dinner, and where?”

  Caught off guard by his casual assumption that she’d go with him, Helen searched for words. “Mr. Kirk,” she began after several long seconds.

  “Yes, darling?” It was a smooth warning Helen couldn’t ignore.

  “Marsh.” She bit the name out through clenched teeth.

  “That’s better,” he crooned.

  “Marsh,” she repeated coldly. “I do not have time to play telephone games. I had very little sleep last night and a very busy day today and I won’t be through here for another hour and a half. I am tired and I don’t feel like going out to dinner.”

  “Okay,” he replied easily. “Come right to my place when you leave the office and we’ll eat in.”

  This man had a positive talent for striking her speechless.

  “I certainly will not come to your place,” she finally snapped.

  “I’m inviting you for dinner, Helen.” The amusement in his voice made her feel very young and naive. “Not for a long, illicit weekend.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Good Lord, Helen,” he cut in briskly, all amusement gone. “You’re not afraid of me, are you?”

  “No, of course not, but—”

  “No, of course not,” Marsh mimicked. “I’ll expect you in about two hours.” He rattled off an address, then his tone went low with warning. “And if you’re more than fifteen minutes late, I’ll come looking for you.”

  The line went dead before she could answer him.

  Helen stared at the receiver, anger, mixed with a flutter in her stomach she refused to acknowledge, bringing a twinge of pink to her pale cheeks. Of all the arrogant gall, she fumed. Just who in the hell did he think he was anyway? Well, he could go whistle up his hallway. She had no intention of going to his place for dinner, or anything else.

  The following hour and fifteen minutes seemed to fly by and Helen caught herself glancing at her watch more and more frequently. By the time she ushered her last patient out of her office, Helen was having a hard time hiding her nervousness. Would he really carry out his threat to come looking for her? Of course he wouldn’t, she told herself bracingly. Of course he would, her self chided positively.

  Undecided, Helen fidgeted, moving things around on her desk aimlessly. Alice came to the door to say good night, a puzzled expression on her face at Helen’s unusual behavior. Her mind playing a tug of war with “to go or not to go,” Helen didn’t notice Alice’s concerned look.

  The second hand on her desk clock seemed to be sweeping the minutes away in less than thirty seconds each. Finally, with barely enough time left to reach his apartment within the time limit he’d set, Helen dashed into the changing room that connected her two examining rooms. Fingers trembling, she smoothed her hair, tucked a few loose tendrils into the neat coil, then did a quick repair job on her makeup.

  Tension kept Helen’s fingers curled tightly around the steering wheel as she inched her way through the early evening traffic, her eyes darting to her wrist watch at every stop sign and red light. The address Marsh had given her was a large, fairly new condominium just outside the city limits, with a spacious parking area off to one side.

  A security guard sat at a counter-like desk just inside the wide glass entrance doors, and the first thing Helen noticed was the clock that sat on the desktop next to a registration book. She was two minutes inside his time limit. She gave her name and the security guard said politely, “Oh, yes, Dr. Cassidy, Mr. Kirk called down that he was expecting you. You may go right up. Apartment eight-oh-two to the left of the elevator.”

  He indicated the elevator across the foyer behind him then bent to write something in the register. Probably my name and the time of arrival, Helen mused as she crossed the dark red-carpeted floor.

  A few seconds later, standing before the door marked 802, Helen drew a deep breath, held it, and touched her finger to the lighted doorbell button. The door was opened almost immediately, convincing her that the guard had announced her arrival, and once again she was held motionless in a hypnotic blue gaze.

  “Perfect timing,” Marsh murmured, pulling the door wide as he stepped back. “I had just decided to give you a few more minutes before going on the hunt.” His mouth curving into a smile, he taunted, “Are you coming in or are you going to bolt for the exit?”

  Giving a good imitation of a careless shrug, Helen exhaled slowly, broke the hold of his eyes, and stepped inside. Every nerve in her body seemed to jump when the door clicked shut behind her and hum like live electrical wires when she felt his hands on her shoulders.

  “I’ll take your coat.”

  His soft voice, close to her ear, turned a mundane statement into a caress, and Helen bit down hard on her lip to try and still the shakiness of her fingers fumbling at her coat buttons.

  When he turned away to hang up her coat, Helen’s eyes swept the oversize living room, glimpsed the dining room behind an intricately worked wrought-iron room divider. The colors in the room merged and blurred before her eyes as she was spun around and into his arms.

  “I thought you’d never get here.”

  Marsh’s eyes had a dark, smoldering look and his voice was a rasp from deep in his throat.

  Helen’s arms came up between them, her hands pushing ineffectively against his shoulders.

  “Marsh—”

  His head swooped low and his mou
th caught her parted lips, silencing her protests. His lips were hard with the demand for her submission, his kiss possessive, consuming.

  Feeling reason beginning to slip away, Helen’s mind sent an order to her hands to pull his head away. Her hands lifted, her fingers slid into his hair, but somewhere along the line the order became garbled and instead of tugging at his hair, her hands grasped his head, drawing him closer. At once his arms tightened, molded her against the long, taut length of his body. His mouth searched hers hungrily, making her senses swim crazily and igniting a spark that quickly leaped into a searing flame that danced wildly from her lips to her toes. Teetering on the edge of surrender, Helen murmured a soft protest when his mouth left hers. Leaving a trail of fire, his lips moved slowly over her cheek. His teeth, nibbling at her lobe, sent a shaft of alarm through her, and reason scuttled back where it belonged. Her hands dropped onto his shoulders and pushed, using all the strength she possessed.

  “Marsh, stop, I’ve got to call my service.”

  “Later,” he growled against the side of her neck. “Helen, I’ve waited all last night and all day today to hold you like this. You can call your service later.”

  His lips found, caressed, the hollow at the base of her throat, and Helen, her breathing growing shallow and uneven, knew that if she didn’t put some distance between them her will would turn to water. She pleaded, “Marsh, please. I must let them know where I can be reached. Let me go, please.”

  For a long moment she thought he was going to disregard her plea, then, with a low moan, his arms dropped and he stepped back, a rueful smile curving his mouth.

  “Be my guest.”

  He waved his hand negligently at the living room, and turning, Helen’s eyes sought then found the phone resting on an octagonal-shaped cabinet table at the end of a long sofa, which was covered in a gold furry material.

  On legs she was none too sure would support her, Helen made her way to the phone, stumbling a little when she caught her boot heel in the deep plush of the chocolate-brown carpet.

  “Careful, love.”

  The softly spoken caution threatened to sap the remaining strength from her legs, and Helen sank onto the corner of the sofa with a soft sigh of relief. As she punched out the services number on the push buttons, she heard Marsh walk across the room and glanced up to see him disappear into the dining room.

  “Come into the dining room.”

  His call, obviously from the kitchen, came as she replaced the receiver, and drawing a steadying breath, Helen rose and walked into the room just as he emerged from an opposite door.

  “I hope you like Chinese food.” He grinned easily. “I stopped and picked it up on my way home.”

  He held a long-stemmed glass, three quarters full of white wine, in each hand and he moved with such casual ease, Helen felt a hot flash of anger. What had happened to all the tension that had tautened his entire body only a few minutes ago? She felt on the point of collapse, while he looked relaxed and unaffected. Could he flick his emotions on and off like a light switch?

  “Are you going to take the wine?” His chiding tone made her aware of the glass he was holding out to her. “Or are you going to scowl at it all night?”

  Embarrassed now, not only by her present vagueness but by her response and subsequent reaction to his advance, she lifted her eyes and stared into his with a steadiness she was far from feeling.

  “Is white the correct wine for Chinese food?” Her attempt at lightness didn’t fall too short of the mark.

  “Who cares?” His shoulders lifted eloquently. “I drink what I like with whatever I choose to eat.” His eyes glittered as he placed the glass into her hand. “I please myself and never worry about what others deem correct.”

  Positive his last remark held a double meaning, also positive she would not be able to eat a thing, Helen allowed Marsh to seat her at the table. When he went back into the kitchen for the food, she sipped tentatively at her wine, identified it as an excellent Chenin Blanc, then drank some more in an effort to relax the tightness in her throat.

  Marsh hadn’t forgotten a thing. He began talking the minute they’d started on their wonton soup and kept up a steady flow of light conversation right through the chicken chow mein, fried rice, and shrimp egg rolls. By the time she bit into her almond cookie, Helen had not only relaxed, she found herself laughing delightedly as he recounted the Christmas Day antics of a friend’s youngster.

  “Give me a minute to clear the table and stack the dishwasher, then we can have our coffee in the living room,” Marsh said when the last cookie crumb had disappeared. “Or would you prefer more wine?”

  “No, thank you.” Helen shook her head emphatically. “I’ve had more than enough. But I would love some coffee and I’ll help you with the cleaning up.”

  They made fast work of the table and dishes. Helen preceded him into the living room, sat on the sofa, and watched as he placed a tray with the coffee things on the low coffee table in front of him, then turned and walked to an old, yet still gleaming stereo unit along the wall next to the dining room entrance. He selected an obviously new long-playing vinyl record from a large, solidly packed record cabinet, put it on the machine, then came back to her. To her amazement, instead of seating himself in the opposite chair or on the sofa beside her, he dropped onto the floor, stretched his long legs out, and rested his back against the cushion, next to her legs.

  The opening strains of Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet filled the room as she poured the coffee, handed him his, then sat back, her eyes following the direction of his to the flickering coils of a conal-shaped electric fireplace set in the wall between two large drapery-covered windows.

  They sat in listening silence, both of them held in quiet captivity to the composer’s genius. Even when Marsh held up his cup for a refill, she filled the cup and added more to her own without either uttering a murmur. When he finished his coffee, he placed the cup on the tray, shifted his shoulders, and rested his head against her thigh.

  Replete with food, heavy lidded from lack of sleep the night before, Helen let her head drop back against the sofa and closed her eyes, the hauntingly beautiful music moving through her body like a living thing. Unaware of her actions, her hand dropped idly to his head, slim fingers slid slowly through the silken strands of his hair.

  Trembling, her emotions almost painfully in tune with the music’s throbbing finale, it seemed the most natural thing in the world when his fingers circled her wrist, drew her hand across his face to his mouth. His lips, moving sensuously on her palm, sent a rippling warmth up her arm, increasing the trembling, robbing her of breath.

  “Marsh.”

  Her soft involuntary gasp set him in motion. Grasping her wrist, he levered himself up and onto the sofa beside her, drawing her arm around his neck as his head moved toward hers. His free hand caught her chin, tilted her head back, ready for his mouth. His kiss was the exact opposite of the night before. His lips, hard and demanding, forced hers apart, took arrogant possession of her mouth with driving urgency. His hands moved between them to expertly dispatch the buttons of her shirt. A sensation strangely like déja vu flashed through her. It was gone in a moment, replaced by the new, exciting sensations his hands, sliding around her waist, sent shivering through her body.

  Holding her firmly, he turned her, lowered her slowly to the soft cushions, and without knowing quite how he’d managed it, she felt his long length stretched out partly beside, partly on top of her.

  His mouth released hers, went to the hollow at the base of her throat, his lips, the tip of his tongue, teasing a soft moan from her constricted throat.

  “Marsh, you must stop. I’m so sleepy. I have to go home, get to bed. Oh, Marsh—”

  His lips had moved down, in a fiery straight line, to explore the shadowed hollow between her breasts.

  “You don’t have to go anywhere.” His warm breath tingled tantalizingly over her skin as his mouth moved back to hover over hers. “Your service kn
ows where to reach you. If you’re that sleepy, you can sleep here, with me.”

  “No, I—” His lips touched hers lightly, fleetingly. “I can’t stay here.” Her lower lip was caught between his. “It’s—it’s out of the question.” His teeth nibbled gently at the sensitive inner ridge of her lip. Her voice sank to a low cry. “Oh, Marsh, kiss me.”

  His mouth crushed hers, causing a shudder to ripple along the length of her body. The flick of his tongue against her teeth drove her hands to his chest, trembling fingers fighting his shirt buttons. When her palms slid over his hair-roughened skin, he lifted his head, groaned, “Stay with me, Helen. Sleep with me. Let me show you what you do to me.”

  “I can’t—I—what are you doing?”

  He was on his feet, lifting her in his arms. Turning, he carried her across the room, through a doorway. “You said you wanted to go to bed.” He kicked the door closed, walked to the bed standing her on her feet in front of him.

  “Not here!” Her hands were drawn back to his chest as if magnetized. “Marsh, I can’t stay here. Stop that!”

  Disregarding her order, his fingers continued to tug the pins from her hair. When her hair was free of its confining coil, his hands dropped to her shoulders. With a minimum of effort her shirt was removed, dropped carelessly onto the floor. “Marsh, don’t,” she pleaded softly. “I want to go home.”

  Again that odd flash of déja vu struck her. In confusion she wondered what had caused it, but her thoughts became blurred as Marsh’s lips found a sensitive spot behind her ear.

  “You’re so beautiful, Helen.” Her legs went weak at his low tone, the enticing movement of his lips on her skin. “Stay with me.” His hands slid smoothly over her back. His fingers flipped open her bra with easy expertise. The lacy wisp of material landed on top of her shirt. “I want you so desperately.” His hands slid around her rib cage.