by Marilyn Lee
“I guess he is, considering the way she behaves—like an alley cat in heat! The little tramp!”
“Ellen!”
“Don't Ellen me, Chandler. You can't deny she's a little shameless tramp.”
“Yes, I can.”
“No, Chandler. No! What would you call her? Decent women do not go around asking men to fuck them!”
What would she say if he told her that was exactly what Jane had begged him to do the last time he saw her?
“Chandler, are you going to talk to him or not?”
He shook his head. It would be the height of hypocrisy for him to attempt to talk to Steve about sleeping with a black woman when he was sleeping with one himself. “Ellen, I think you just need to leave them alone. If it's nothing but sex, it won't last. If it's more, you're only going to push him into her arms.”
“Chandler!” She rushed across the room to grab his arms. “Please! I need your help with him. He looks up to you. He'll listen to you.”
“I've already talked to him and it didn't help. I'm not going to talk to him again.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don't happen to agree with you that his seeing Tia is a problem, Ellen.”
“What?!” She recoiled as if he'd attempted to strike her. “You don't see a problem with him seeing that girl?”
“As a matter of fact, Ellen, no I don't. She seems to make him happy. Isn't that important to you?”
She stared at him, her gaze narrowed. “So it's true.”
“What's true?”
“Julie said you had a woman with you the last time you stopped by. A black woman.”
He felt the heat rushing up the back of his neck again. He narrowed his own gaze. “So?”
“So maybe Julie was right. Maybe she's your new girlfriend. Maybe that's why you're so tolerant of Steve's behavior.”
He shook his head. “Let's get something straight here, Ellen. I did not come here to discuss my personal life. My personal life is off limits.”
Her mouth parted in a soundless circle. “So you are seeing a black woman!”
He was surprised at the almost instinctive desire he felt to deny that he was seeing Cassy. He fought off the urge and remained silent.
Ellen's eyes widened and she backed away from him. “Are you...sleeping with her, Chandler? Rutting in her rear end? Or should I saying fu—”
“You shouldn't say anything! Who I'm seeing is none of your concern!”
“What is it with you Raven men that you can't stay away from black women?”
“What?”
“Don't hand me that what. You think I don't know about your whoring great grandfather and his black lover? Now you and Steve? Is it something in the damned Raven genes that make black women so irresistible to you?”
It wasn't in the genes. It was that damned Ebony Venus that was somehow manipulating his will and his desires. Without the damned statuette would he have even given Cassy a second look? He was no longer sure. But he was sure of one thing; he wasn't willing to allow even a small part of his life to be taken over.
“Chandler! Will you listen when I'm talking to you?” Ellen demanded.
He stormed over to the sofa and grabbed his jacket and briefcase. “Just leave them alone, Ellen, or you're going to be sorry.”
“When I want advice from a man who's sleeping with some cheap—”
“Don't you go there!” he snapped. “I am not your son and you do not dictate who I see! And you sure as hell don't use despairing language to describe anyone I may or may not be seeing.”
“What's the matter, Chandler? White women aren't good enough for you anymore? You like your women with gutter morals?”
The venom in her voice and gaze shocked him. “I'm outta here before I forget that Jace loved you!”
“That's right, go, Chandler. I don't know that I want you here anymore.”
He turned at the door. “What?”
“You heard me, Chandler. Don't bother coming back. If you want to see Julie, I'll drop her off at your place, but I don't want to see you again.”
He resisted the urge to tell her to go to hell and left the house. In his car, he sat behind the steering wheel, staring through the windshield without actually seeing anything. How could he have known Ellen for so long without really knowing her? He didn't know what bothered him more, her disdain for black women or the sudden, sure knowledge that she wasn't the only person he knew who would find his sleeping with Cassy unacceptable.
He needed to talk to Cassy. He paused with his hand hovering over his car phone. What would he say to her? What did they have in common except a shared physical desire for each other? They'd spent the last two weekends having sex almost every waking moment. They hadn't talked much or even eaten. His failed marriage had taught him that sex, although powerful and pleasant, was not a strong enough foundation on which to build a real relationship. To make matters worse, he wasn't even sure half the time if it was really him and Cassy having sex or his great grandfather Philippe and his beloved and unforgettable Marie.
He and Cassy could not have a real relationship. How could they when they were both being used? And he was unwilling to hurt her as he had hurt Jane. Hopefully, he hadn't done too much damage. He withdrew his hand and started his car. He headed home.
In his bedroom, he lifted the Ebony Venus from his bedside table and stared down into the features that were now virtual mirror images of Cassy's. He reached out a hand and touched the dark breasts. Although made of carved wood that his great grandfather had covered with a preserving liquid, the statuette's twin mounds felt warm and firm under his finger, just as Cassy's beautiful breasts felt when he touched and kissed them.
He lifted the statuette to his mouth and pressed his lips against the behind. The flesh was soft and yielding like Cassy's sweet brown bottom. God, he had to stop this before he lost track of who he was and became Philippe Raven.
Running his lips over the breasts one last time, he felt the small nipples harden against his mouth. “No! Damn it, no!” He walked quickly through his apartment to the kitchen and tossed the statuette into the trashcan.
There. It was done. He stood staring down at it for several minutes, fighting the need to retrieve it and return it to his bedside table. He had reached the kitchen door when he heard the voice.
“Philippe. Mon cher! Don't leave me again! Please. Mon cher! Come back!”
He clenched both hands into fists at his side and kept going. In his bedroom, he closed the door, undressed, and lay staring up at the ceiling. It was done. He was through being manipulated. If Serge wanted the damned thing, he'd have to rescue it from the trash.
He lay sleepless for hours longing for Cassy. But it was time to end that too. His love affair with Cassy was as ill-advised as had been his great grandfather's with his beloved Marie. Then why did it feel like Chandler was slowly losing his beloved Cassy?
* * * * *
Cassy waited a week for Chandler to contact her before she began to suspect he might not want to see her again. The reservations he'd expressed before he slept with her had obviously returned. And just maybe he resented her having refused to give him anal sex. There were lots of women who would willingly give him any kind of sex he wanted. Maybe he had decided to find one of them.
She spent the next weekend alone and miserable. She couldn't stop thinking about him. The remembrance of his lips, hands, and body on hers sent tantalizing shivers of delight through her. How could something that had and did mean so much to her, mean nothing to him?
When she woke in the middle of the night to a series of soft, persistent sounds, she found that the tiny couple had turned back to gold again and now they lay back to back, clear lines of dejection in their small forms. That's when she knew it was over between her and Chandler.
He'd decided he'd made a mistake and she was supposed to just pretend he hadn't slept with her and rocked her world on its foundation? Was she supposed to go quietly into the night and disapp
ear just to please him? Well, she wouldn't. She had no intentions of making discarding her as easy for him as Marie had made it for Philippe. If it was over, she was going to make him be man enough to tell her so to her face.
She punched a fist into her pillow and burrowed her head in the resultant dent. Maybe poor Marie had had no recourse when her fickle, spineless lover had allowed his family to drive them apart, but she had options. “You haven't heard the last of me, Chandler Raven.”
Willing herself not to lie awake thinking of him, she closed her eyes and eventually slept. The next morning, after checking the assignment board for her list of service calls, she headed for the executive offices.
The receptionist looked up and smiled as she stopped at her desk. “Good morning. Cassy, isn't it?”
She nodded. “Yes.” She glanced at the name on the desk. “Good morning, Becky. Is Mr. Raven in? If he is, I'd like to see him.”
Becky looked surprised. “Now? Is he expecting you?”
“No,” she admitted. “But would you ask him if he could spare me a few moments?”
Becky frowned and nodded her head toward the closed door behind her desk. “Why don't you go in and ask Mrs. Johnson?”
“Thanks.”
Mentally squaring her shoulders, she went through the door into the inner office.
Jennifer Johnson looked up as she approached. “Good morning, Cassy. What brings you here?”
“Good morning. I know I don't have an appointment, but I was wondering if I might see Mr. Raven for a few moments.”
“Is there something I can help you with?”
“Thank you, no. I need to speak with Mr. Raven. May I see him?”
Just for a moment, the older woman stared at her and Cassy wondered if somehow she knew that she had slept with Chandler.
“I'll see if he's available.” She picked up the phone on her desk. “Chandler, Ms. Thompson is here to see you, if you can spare her a few moments.”
Cassy, suddenly sure that he would refuse to see her, turned and headed for the door. She'd behaved like the fabled village idiot since she met him. It had been foolish to start daydreaming about him, foolish to have slept with him, and foolish to try forcing a confrontation he didn't want. And even more foolish to blame all her irresponsible actions on that damned silly Talisman.
“Cassy, where are you going?”
With her hand on the doorknob, she turned, and faced Jennifer Johnson. “I know, he's not available.”
The other woman's eyes softened. “Actually, he is. You can go through.”
“Oh. Thanks.” She swallowed slowly and moved across the room. She tapped on his door, and then without awaiting for a response, she stepped into his office.
He rose from his seat as she closed the door. The cool look in his gray eyes chilled her. Why had she come? It would have been better to just pretend the previous weekends had never happened. But how could she do that when she wanted him more than ever? She knew suddenly, that she was in love with him. Not Marie in love with Philippe, but Cassy in love with Chandler.
He gestured towards the chairs in front of his desk. “Have a seat?”
She shook her head and leaned back against the door. “I'd rather stand.”
He shrugged and remained standing behind his chair. “You wanted to see me?”
That was all he had to say to her? She bit back the urge to dissolve into helpless sobs. Men didn't like women who cried. She didn't like women who cried. She lifted her chin. “I thought you might have wanted to see me,” she challenged. “At least that's the impression you gave me when you kissed me goodbye Sunday before last.”
To her surprise, he sighed audibly and nodded. “Oh, I want to see you all right.”
“Then why haven't you called me?”
“What would have been the point? We're both adults, Cassy. We both know those weekends, delightful though they were, shouldn't have happened.”
“Shouldn't have happened?” She recalled the tenderness of his kisses after they'd made love; the gentle way he'd caressed her and told her how sweet and beautiful she was in English and in French. Even their fucks had been sweet with an underlying tenderness under the heat. And he'd always been considerate of her needs and pleasure. He had not been motivated solely by lust or passion. Tenderness didn't spring from those emotions. It sprang from real feelings that involved more than just sex. And all those sweet, powerful emotions had not come from Philippe. Some of them had been from Chandler for her.
“They shouldn't have happened,” he repeated. “Look, I don't blame you for being angry, maybe feeling as if you were used, but...that was not my intention.”
“What was your intention?”
“To sleep with you,” he said bluntly. “I wanted to sleep with you. You're beautiful and sweet and I loved making love to you.”
And she'd been only too willing to accommodate him. Now that she had, he had no further interest in her. “But it's only making love if you're in love, Chandler. Everything else is just sex; no matter how good it is.”
“Whatever you choose to call it, Cassy, you wanted it too,” he reminded her.
“And so that makes this all right?”
He sighed. “I'm sorry if you misunderstood and thought I wanted something more...permanent. You must have known that was...impossible.”
Despite her best efforts, her eyes welled with tears. She wanted to be angry with him, but all she felt was an incredible ache that seemed to encompass every microscopic part of her. This was how Marie had felt when her Philippe had left her nearly a century earlier—lost with no hope for future happiness. It was happening again. He was leaving her again. Tearing her world apart, but this time it wasn't necessary. This time he was leaving because he didn't love her. He had never loved her.
“Oh, must I? Let me guess why: because my skin isn't pale enough to suit you in the light of day? Like that other coward from another century, you love sex in the dark with no strings attached and no feelings involved. No, you're not like him. At least he loved her and he was young and afraid.”
His lips thinned. “Are you implying that I'm a coward and prejudiced?”
“Are you implying that you're not?”
“Did you think I was prejudiced when we were together?”
“We've never been together! All we've ever done was have sex. That's not being together! They were together!”
“They are dead, Cassy. Long dead and while you may be content to let them live again through you, I am not! I'm through being used. I will choose my own lover on my own terms.”
“And I obviously don't fit the bill?”
“Please, mon cher, don't misunderstand. You are a beautiful woman. Any man would be honored to have your affection and the privilege of sharing your bed.”
“Any man, but you? Well, at twice his age, you're nowhere near the man he was at twenty. At least he loved her. He made love to her and he wasn't ashamed to admit he wanted something more than sex from her.”
“Let's not forget that he got her pregnant and then left her to face the music by herself!”
“He didn't know she was pregnant!”
“The hell he didn't! Why do you think he can't rest now? He knew and he still left! It haunted him for the rest of his life because he knew. The only thing he didn't know was what became of their baby. So don't compare me unfavorably to him. I haven't done that to you. I wouldn't do that to you. And another thing, I don't recall you complaining at the time we made love.”
How could she argue with that? She turned and fumbled for the doorknob.
Before she could get the door open, he was behind her, holding it closed and pressing against her. She hated that her treacherous body immediately responded to the feel of his hardening cock against her buns.
“I shouldn't have said that. Forgive me, mon cher.” He whispered the words against her ear. “Don't go angry.”
How did he expect her to go—happy? She shoved an elbow back against his body. “Get away
from me and don't ever call me mon cher again!”
He immediately retreated. She jerked open the door and walked out of the office.
Feeling an unexpected weakness in his legs, Chandler sank down into his chair, closed his eyes, and leaned against his headrest. His heart thumped painfully in his chest and he felt...an emptiness he couldn't deny. Was this how Philippe had felt when he'd allowed his family to force him away from Marie so long ago? Had he felt this sense of distress and despair because he knew he was leaving the one true love of his life to face the consequences of their love alone? Never to see his sweet, beloved Marie again? But never to forget her? He'd had to live with the shame and pain of knowing he'd hurt her beyond repair.