It Stings So Sweet

by Stephanie Draven

  “Why? Do you have another man in mind? And before you answer, realize that if you say Big Teddy Morgan, I’m going to turn you over my knee.”

  “Now you’re just tempting me …”

  Leo laughs. “And that is why I’m in love with you. And why I’m still going to love you in the morning.”

  “Don’t worry, Ace,” I whisper to myself. “I won’t hold you to it.”

  He takes me to bed. And by that, I mean he towels me dry, carries me into his bedroom, then tucks me under the covers. I sigh at the feel of the cool, crisp linens against my skin and delight of the scent of him on the scratchy wool coverlet. There’s nothing glamorous about his bedroom. It’s spare and well-ordered, with framed drawings of engines and flying machines displayed like artwork on the wood-paneled walls.

  “So, what do you think?” Leo asks, climbing in bed with me and nuzzling my damp hair. “I know it’s not a penthouse apartment or an oceanside mansion, but I’m rather proud of this place. I bought it with the first prize money I ever won on the racing circuit. Six bedrooms. A pool around back and a gated garden …”

  A girl could get comfortable here if she let herself, but I say, “It’s not bad.”

  His medals of valor hang over the headboard. The oak-leaf cluster. The Distinguished Service Cross. The French Legion of Honor. The Belgian Order of Leopold II. He tells me their names when I press him, but he won’t tell me what he did to get them.

  He’d rather talk about his next mission, the upcoming test flight for Morgan Industries. He talks about his plan to circumnavigate the globe. He talks airships and flying machines and filmmaking.

  It isn’t until the wee hours of the morning that he’s willing to tell me about the war.

  His voice is flat when he describes the bombing raids. The dogfights. The artillery fire that killed so many of his friends. Sometimes a young Lieutenant Robert Aster gets mentioned in these stories as an officer who found creative ways to reequip their unit with the machine guns they so badly needed, but most of the stories are about men I’ve never heard of. Men who were shot down and taken prisoner. Brave, gallant, fierce warriors who never lost an aerial battle but died inglorious deaths by way of dysentery.

  When he speaks of them, his eyes are red-rimmed. “Sometimes it fell to me to write a letter to their kin, or maybe a sweetheart back home, and …” I catch a glint of guilt in his eyes and wonder just what it is that he feels so awfully sorry about. Until now, I didn’t know it was possible for someone to feel guilty just for surviving, but I think he does. These men were his family. Now they’re dead, just like the mother he never knew and the father who died in a cornfield. And he thinks it should have been him. “There’s no justice in the world, Clara. I had nobody waiting on me back home, but no matter what risks I took, whether I shot down another plane or crashed my own in a fog, I just kept coming back.”

  I listen to everything he says, touching his stubbly cheek to soothe him during the hardest parts. When he finally closes his eyes, I think he’s fallen into a deep sleep, but then I realize he’s just putting everything away again inside his head. He’s told me stories that would make a riveting, gut-wrenching film, but that can wait. It’ll have to wait.

  “Why do you keep flying, Leo? In war, men risk their lives for a good cause. But the war’s over. It’s been over for years.”

  He leans back on his headboard. “When I go up now, it’s not about killing anybody else. The only life at stake is mine. Aviation is opening the skies for the future. Because of what we do, you can see more of the world. You can take an airship to Paris. When pilots try to cross the ocean, it’s to prove that it can be done. That it should be done. Someone has to go first and change everything we think we know and it might as well be me.”

  “That all sounds rather high-minded but you make me wonder if you have a death wish.”

  He knows I’m serious but shrugs it off. “Planes are better designed and safer than they used to be. When I started flying, wings were practically made of paper and wire. And we didn’t use parachutes during the war. The German pilots had them, but Allied aircrew flew without. I was glad we didn’t have parachutes because when we were going down that left only three choices. Ride it out and risk a fiery crash. Jump to your death. Or use a revolver to end it quickly.”

  This chills me to the bone. My mouth falls open in abject horror.

  He chucks me under the chin. “Clara, I always rode it out. And the plane I’m taking up next week for Morgan Industries has a metal frame. I’ve studied the design. The fuel tank’s in front, which reduces the possibility it might crush me to death in a crash.”

  How am I stuck on a man who views falling from the sky and crashing his plane as less dangerous than being crushed by a fuel tank? And how can he speak of it with such resignation? Maybe he’s just tired. He looks tired, his eyes hooded, his strong shoulders slumped. If he’s as exhausted as I am, he’s a man in desperate need of sleep, so I say, “I should go, Leo. It’s late.”

  Leo narrows his eyes. “Where the devil are you going?”

  “You don’t expect me to stay the night, do you?”

  “That’s exactly what I expect. I want you right here until the sun rises …”

  “Haven’t you ever kept a mistress before, Leo? That’s not how it works.”

  Leo reaches into the drawer by the side of the bed and takes out a pack of smokes. He doesn’t offer me one. He just lights up. “Tell me, how is it supposed to work?”

  “You keep a mistress tucked away in some apartment that you can visit when it pleases you. On special occasions, you might have her come to your bed, but you always send her away when you’re done.”

  “Well, I’m not done,” Leo says, taking a deep drag of his cigarette.

  The way he looks at me makes me very afraid. “Leo, I’m in no condition—”

  “I want to sleep next to you. Or do I have to marry you to get you to spend the night in my bed?”

  I snort. “Neither of us are the marrying kind, but I’ll get into bed with you whenever you want me.”

  “Now there’s the little vamp I love,” he says, pulling me against his chest.

  Then he turns out the light and falls into deep slumber. I watch him. The way his chest rises and falls, rumbling with contentment. The rhythm of his breath. The way his eyes move beneath his lids as if he were dreaming of a future with me. It’s a dream I want to share, but I know it’s only a dream.

  And by morning, I’m gone.

  CHAPTER

  Eleven

  Rehearsal goes badly. Dressed in a grass skirt and Hawaiian lei, I’m supposed to be dancing the hula for the camera and all I can think about is Leo. Later, sprawling in the grass on set, I’m supposed to entice the hero of the movie to kiss me. Instead, I turn my head away.

  Twice, the director scolds me until it becomes clear that I’m not paying any attention at all.

  “What’s the crisis this time, sweetheart?” the director asks.

  I don’t answer him. I just leave the set.

  At home, Charlie says, “Miss Cartwright, there is a gentleman caller waiting for you. It’s Mr. Vanderberg. Your father said it would be alright if I let him upstairs.”

  I wish he hadn’t. “I don’t think I can face Mr. Vanderberg today …”

  My father is coming out just as I’m going in, and he overhears. “Throwing him over already, Clara? He seems like a nice fella.”

  From the man who abandoned my mother and me, that may not seem like much of an endorsement, but there’s something so sweet and hopeful in my father’s eyes that I don’t want to disappoint him. “Who says I’m throwing him over? I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  Pops nods, takes a few steps, then stops. “Clara, I hope you know … not every man is like me.”

  I just stand there, my hand on the doorknob, pretending I haven’t heard him. But he knows. We both know. It just seems kinder this way. And after a few moments, I hear his steps fade away. They echo in
my mind with the words he’s said, and I wish I could believe him.

  Forcing myself to hang up my coat and pour myself a drink from the sideboard takes all the strength I’ve got left. Leo is sitting on the divan, head down, elbows on his knees, holding his hat. When he looks up, everything inside me comes awake and I have to fight my urge to rush to him and throw my arms around his neck.

  “You skipped out before breakfast,” Leo says crossly. “And what are you wearing … is that a grass skirt?”

  Glancing down at myself, I see that I was in such a stupor I didn’t remember to change out of my costume. Trying not to show that I’m flustered, I flash him a leg. “Do you like it?”

  Leo makes a sound of approval in his throat. “You were right, you know. About this morning. When I woke up, I did feel differently.”

  An arrow of agony rips through me but I force a bright smile. “Wonderful!” It’s an award-winning performance. “Now that we’re done with that silliness, maybe you can help me out of this outfit and into something a little more comfortable.”

  Leo frowns. “I wasn’t happy to wake up alone, Clara. More specifically, I wasn’t happy to wake up without you. And I realized how I poured my heart out to you like a sap last night and you didn’t say anything at all. It occurred to me that you may not share my feelings …”

  “If that’s what occurred to you then you’re a fool, Leo Vanderberg.”

  “Don’t toy with me Clara. I’ll make you love me if I have to. But I need to know how you feel about me.”

  I’ve been pretending all my life that everything was fine, so why shouldn’t I go on pretending? But the way Leo is looking at me now, so earnestly … I don’t have the heart to pretend for one more moment. “How do I feel about you? I love you, Leo.”

  He starts to smile, but falters when he sees my expression. “Well, you couldn’t look less thrilled about it.”

  I promptly burst into tears.

  “Because it’s awful! I can’t imagine why anyone would ever want to be in love. I look at you and my belly flutters. I haven’t been able to eat more than a few bites since the day I met you. I can’t sleep because whenever I close my eyes I remember how it feels to be touched by you. I daydream about you when I should be working. Sometimes, I even start shivering just at the sound of your name. It’s like I’ve fallen ill with something that could be fatal!”

  The tension goes out of Leo’s shoulders and he laughs. Then he rises to his feet and enfolds me in an embrace, patting my back. “There, there. It can’t be all that bad …”

  “It is,” I sob. “I don’t want to be in love. Don’t you know what I do for a living? Tomorrow afternoon, I have to pretend to drown in a lily pond so some handsome actor can rescue me and kiss me passionately. I have to be Clara Cartwright. Fiery, fearless, and independent as a cat. I’ve never loved any man and never needed one. But I need you so badly that I think it’s going to kill me.”

  He’s grinning now. “You do have a flair for the dramatic, don’t you, darling?”

  The tears won’t stop and Leo has to offer me the handkerchief from his pocket. I’m sniffling and my make-up is smearing. I dab at my eyes, which feel puffy. My nose is probably red. Even my lower lip is quivering so badly I doubt I could force it into a seductive pout. How hideous I must look. “You shouldn’t see me like this.”

  “Marry me, Clara.”

  My heart stops. It stops right in my chest. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “That’s not funny, Leo. It’s not funny at all.”

  “It’s not a joke.”

  “Then you’ve lost your wits.”

  “That’s true,” he says. “I’m crazy about you.”

  My hands go to my cheeks. “What are you thinking? I’m not the marrying kind, Ace. Neither are you.”

  Leo clears his throat. “I know I said that. I believed it, too. But that was before. Everything is different now. I got to thinking about all these rules for mistresses. Did you read all that in one of those etiquette books you’ve got no use for, or is it something I did or said? I don’t know how I made you feel like I don’t want you near me always. Or how I made you feel like I only want you until I’m done with you. But let me clear it up now. I’m never going to be done with you, Clara. So why don’t you marry me?”

  My broken heart cracks into several new pieces. “Because I’m not the girl men marry, Leo. I’m the girl men share on a billiard table.”

  He reacts as if I’ve flung frigid water in his face; he goes white to the tip of his nose. And he responds with a cold fury that frightens me a little. “Why, Clara, I do believe we’re about to have our first serious quarrel …”

  “It’s only the plain truth.”

  Grabbing my arm, he tugs me towards the bedroom. “Come here, I want to show you something.” For a moment—just for a moment—I think he means to carry our quarrel onto the bed. Instead, he pulls me to my dressing table, where my matching brushes and gilded perfume bottles mock me from their tray. Easing me onto the vanity seat, Leo says, “Tilt your head back.”

  “What?”

  “Just do as I say, will you? Tilt your head back.”

  “No, Leo. Stop it.”

  Giving my hair a good yank, he exposes my throat. I stare up at him, wondering if he’s going to strike me. Instead, he says, “You’re the only one who can see it, Clara. Do you know that? In your mind, that scar is so red and vivid that it marks you. You think that part of you is unlovable. You’re wrong.”

  This raises the ire in me. “Let me go, you mad German brute, or I’ll elbow your bad rib into next week.”

  “Look in the mirror, Clara. Look at yourself.”

  “I don’t have to look! I’m a vain, shallow, woman, and all I ever do is look at myself. I see myself on every movie poster. In every theatre.”

  “That’s a persona, Clara. It’s not you.”

  “It is. At least, it’s a part of me.”

  “Yes and so is the scar. But it’s not the whole of you. So look at it.”

  My eyes well hot with tears as I dare to glance in the mirror. To see the scar, I have to squint. But when I see it, all I can hear is my mother’s voice, and I want to clamp my hands over my ears to make it stop.

  “I know what this scar means to you, Clara. What you think it says about you. But do you know what it means to me? It means that you’re a fighter. You don’t need my money. You don’t need my name. You don’t need a damned thing from me except to embrace your dark secrets and protect them, even from you.”

  Tears slide down my cheeks, hot and salty. “But you don’t have to marry me to give me any of that. I’ll be your mistress for as long as you’ll have me and a mistress is more fun than a wife.”

  His grip loosens, and he strokes me softly. “Oh, Clara. Are you afraid marriage is going to put an end to our games? I know you’re a scarlet woman and I plan to be a nefarious husband. Especially once I get you to promise to love, honor, and obey.” When I wilt a little, it only encourages him. “See, you like that idea. You’re thinking of all the wicked ways I could abuse that power, aren’t you? Maybe you’d like a little preview … maybe that will help convince you.”

  In spite of everything, my body buzzes with renewed interest. “You’re the devil himself.”

  “And you look surprisingly sexy in a coconut brassiere,” he says, cupping my breasts. “Still sore?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Do you think it’s going to stop a ‘mad German brute’ like me?”

  “I hope not.”

  With that, he grabs me up into his arms and slings me over his shoulder.

  “Leo!”

  He drops me onto the bed, then crawls over me. “It’s time for a change in strategy. I assume you want to be ravished by me over and over again.”

  I moan, unable to deny it. “Yes, oh yes.”

  Leo grins. “See how easy it is to say yes to me?”

  “Shut up and make love to me,” I say, clam
ping my arms around his neck.

  He yanks the Polynesian flowers off me and reaches under my grass skirt. His hands caress me and he starts nibbling his way down my body, then looks chagrined. “Unfortunately, I really am an amateur today. I didn’t think to bring precautions.”

  “I don’t care,” I whisper, lost in the reverie. “I want you inside me, bare.”

  Leo’s self-control unravels. “You know exactly what a man likes to hear, don’t you?”

  He fumbles with his belt buckle, kicking his pants off in his haste. But when he enters me, he’s gentle. He’s gentle in a way I didn’t know he could be gentle, kissing my throat over and over again, kissing my scar until it feeds me with sensation. Until it becomes a new place of pleasure all to itself. We make love, my legs wrapped around him tight as I stroke his back, his arms, his chest. It feels different this time. Tender, loving, languorous as we strain together. But every time I near the summit, Leo shifts subtly or slows down to keep me on the edge.

  “Leo, please,” I murmur.

  “Do you want to come, Clara?”

  “Yes.”

  “Say it again.”

  “Yes, Leo. Yes.”

  “Very nice. Say it again. I want to get you used to the idea of saying yes …”

  “Yes, please, please, yes!”

  “Then marry me.”

  “No!” I sputter my indignation. “That’s not fair.”

  Leo gives a small push with his pelvis, anchoring me to the bed, destroying my resolve with the promise of pleasure. “Fair? You know better than to think I’m going to follow the rules, don’t you?” he asks, lifting up so that I can see where we’re joined together in such beautiful, carnal intimacy. “Say you’ll marry me and I’ll make you see stars.”

  I groan with frustration, squeezing my eyes shut. “No.”

  “I can do this to you all day, every day, Clara. If I get tired, I’ll call Robert Aster to help. Eventually, you’re going to give in, so why not now?”

  “Because you’re not the only one who can do this all day, every day,” I say, sliding my hand between us to touch where I so need to be touched. My brazen sensuality delights him and he watches the trail of my fingers like a man enchanted. I stroke myself, using my body and his for satisfaction.