Caprice

by Amanda Carpenter

  “That’s not bad at all,” said the housekeeper. “I’ll have this done in no time.” She took the hanger.

  Caprice followed her to the door, saying gratefully, “Thank you very much.”

  Mrs. Vandusen turned around as she stepped out into the hall. “You’re very welcome,” she said warmly.

  Someone was approaching from the staircase. The upstairs floor plan was a basic L shape, and Caprice’s room was on the outside corner, so that she could look down each hall without difficulty from her door. She glanced toward the stairs as the housekeeper turned away with her white dress, and Pierce appeared, strolling apparently for whichever room was his, shirt casually unbuttoned at his throat.

  Suddenly, though she was more decently clad than she’d been in her dress, Caprice felt self-conscious and longed to step quickly back into her room. But he had already seen them both and was coming their way, a slight, enigmatic smile touching at those male lips. He ran his eyes over her, and a light of appreciation touched at his eyes.

  For Caprice, it was the first time she’d seen him in full light, and something hit her midriff with a nearly audible thump. The way he held his dark head spoke of someone well used to authority, and the controlled set of his expression, the self-possession in his stance, revealed his maturity. The glimpses of that lean elegance she’d got outside hit her full on. A poised man, this.

  “I hope everything’s been taken care of?” he asked, turning his smile to Mrs. Vandusen, who beamed back.

  “Yes, sir. Good night to the both of you,” said the housekeeper, and she continued down the hall.

  She said, subdued, “Thank you for sending her up.”

  He turned back to her fully and said quietly, “I hope she can get it clean. It’s a lovely dress.”

  Her heart hammered, her chest was restricted, her mouth was dry. Damnation, what was wrong with her? She wasn’t in control, that was what was wrong with her. “Well,” she said, trying to breathe deep. “I guess I’ll say good night again.”

  “Of course,” he said, as if continuing, and he tilted his head to the side, letting his eyes linger on her figure. He paused deliberately, and then smiled slowly, devastatingly, and his eyes returned to her waiting, wary face. Those eyes, those dark eyes. “There is something to be said for rose.”

  Her cheeks flamed hot, and her eyes flashed brief and brilliant before she ducked her head and muttered something quick and incoherent. Then she rushed back inside her room and slammed the door shut behind her. Appalled by her lack of restraint, her lack of composure over a simple comment, she pressed her fingers to her face in mortification.

  She didn’t hear footsteps outside, but that was probably a combination of carpeting and her door’s thickness. At least she was in privacy now, to think over the evening and find it surprisingly hard to get a certain man, a perfect stranger, out of her mind.

  Her heart started a slow, hard pounding then, as she turned her head slightly to catch the sound of quiet footsteps walking away from outside her door several moments later.

  Chapter Three

  A sparkling clear morning, with sights and smells and sounds wafting through her open bedroom window, making her breathe deep in appreciation. An early morning, the sunshine lighting the dark green grass to silver white and dispersing the predawn chill, making her long to be outside in the warmth. A quiet morning, since most, if not all, were still abed after the party the evening before, and as Caprice dressed in tan slacks with a lemon-yellow rugby shirt, she could not resist sneaking down the stairs and outdoors.

  The air was more chilly than she had expected, and she rubbed her arms under the short sleeves with a shiver. To her left, the wind took hold of a few pine trees and shook them, sending a light scatter of browning needles to carpet the ground underneath. She walked around the lodge aimlessly, feeling curiously lonely at that quiet time in that strange place.

  She had slept uneasily, with a restlessness and dissatisfaction that was unusual for her. Before she had slipped into that troubled rest, she had asked herself a myriad of questions with an unaccustomed, sharp bitterness. What was she doing here? What was she doing with her life? Why should she feel a lack of substance and depth to her existence now, of all times?

  In the early morning sunshine, she bowed her head and hunched her shoulders. With a poignancy she had not felt since early youth, she longed to go home.

  She had rounded one end of the lodge from the front, watching her pale brown, sleek leather shoes with some absorption, and when a male voice sounded from above, she started violently. “Sorry,” said Pierce, sounding amused. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

  She put a hand to her thumping heart exaggeratedly and heard him laugh deeply. Then she looked up and found him leaning out of his open window, elbows propped on the sill, black hair tousled and gleaming glossy bright. It looked wet, as if he had just showered, and his shoulders and chest were bare. Her eyes ran over what she could see of him, involuntarily, for his skin was smooth over well-toned muscles, with just a hint of satin hair at his breast.

  Then her imagination brought to her a vivid picture of the rest of him, beyond her sight and quite nude, and dark color tinged her cheeks. To cover it, she finally explained the reason for her early rise. “I don’t sleep well in a strange bed. Besides which, I tend to be an early riser.”

  “Wait a moment.” His head ducked back in, and suddenly something cream-colored and fluffy floated out the window. She lurched to grab it, and found the article of clothing to be a masculine-styled cardigan. He reappeared and regarded her rather quizzically. “You seem to have a peculiar helplessness when it comes to dressing adequately.”

  “Unjust, unjust,” she said without heat as she slipped her arms into the sweater and burrowed in appreciatively. “Last night I hadn’t expected to go out on the lake, and this morning the sun looked warmer than it really is.” She sent her gaze running over him again. “Besides, you’re one to talk, hanging out of an open window with wet hair and no shirt.”

  A slashing grin creased his face. She stared, obviously. “You ought to see what I haven’t on below the windowsill.”

  “I’d suspected as much.” His laughing gaze lingered on her face at that, and one brow rose slowly at her second blush.

  “Is that so?” He looked to be hugely enjoying himself, and in no hurry to dress or shut the window. Then he marveled, “Goodness, what a high color. It surely can’t be sunburn at this hour?”

  She was thankful she hadn’t lost any more of her composure as she said mildly, “You are a horrid man, and the question doesn’t deserve an answer. Thank you for the use of your cardigan. You will find it in the lake.” She started to walk away.

  “I’ll meet you in the dining room for coffee and breakfast in five minutes,” he called laughingly after her, and then she distinctly heard his window slam.

  She nearly went. As she walked to the back, she found herself actually wanting to go. But then, apparently from nowhere, came an odd anger. A strange, shaking, upsetting anger it was, astonishing her with its force, wearying her with its inexplicability. She was angry at Pierce, she was angry at herself, but most of all, she was angry at Roxanne, of all people, for persuading her to come this weekend.

  She bent at random and picked up a twig, and then she strolled to the end of the pier and sat, leaning against an end post. About ten minutes later, Pierce found her there, staring broodingly into the water and breaking off bits of the twig to toss out. She heard him come out of the lodge, it was so quiet, and her face set into expressionlessness when his footsteps first sounded on the pier’s boards.

  He came to stand beside her silently. She could see out of the corner of her eye the lean, lower part of his leg and the tip of his shoe. After a moment, when she refused to look up or acknowledge his presence as she flung her pieces of bark into the lake, he said quite casually, “Our first date, and you’ve stood me up. Not a very auspicious beginning.” He squatted beside her and then said,
“Here.”

  She turned her head. He held two cups of coffee, steaming hot and suddenly pungent as the aroma hit her. “Thank you,” she said, taking one from him. She refused to let her gaze linger on him too long, and so after a quickly flicked glance, she turned back to the water. He was lean and elegant in gray slacks and sweater. Suddenly mocking, she continued, “Besides, I don’t remember saying I’d show.”

  “Is that why you’re out here?” He sounded idle, bored, as though she’d done a petty thing, and she was fiercely glad she didn’t care.

  “No,” she told him flippantly, and sipped daintily from her cup. “I just couldn’t make up my mind whether I would or not, that’s all.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  It was several seconds before she realized he had said that without any mockery, amusement or anything else that would detract from the quiet impact of the simple words. When it finally registered, she was angrier than ever. He wasn’t supposed to have reacted that way. He was supposed to either be amused or confused, either attracted or repulsed, and she could have felt a safe contempt for him. “Well,” she said then, thrusting to her feet. “You should. I have a terrible time making my mind up about anything.” She looked down at his upturned, self-contained expression and added drily, “Everybody knows that of me, sooner or later.”

  Caprice turned to walk away, escape. He looked away, over the calm, mirror-smooth lake, and then said softly, as though he’d never seen her exit bid, as though they were having a leisurely conversation, “You see, everyone has a basic reason for doing something. Sometimes, with the more twisted or fanatic mind, you need to search deeper for the reason, but it’s always there, deep, underlying actions and thought like the still waters under the surface of this lake.”

  He had caught her as effectively as if he’d reached out his large, slender hand and curled his fingers around her ankle. She felt an inner lurch, and then was frightened. Foolish, foolish, for this man was a stranger and he didn’t matter any more than the others mattered. She shouldn’t fear him. He didn’t know her, couldn’t know her. She was glittering brightness, she was cool fire, she was laughter and gaiety and malicious gentleness; she was Caprice. Underneath that, she was untouchable.

  Laughter bubbled up from her throat. She bent and set her half-empty cup down carefully, and then danced away from Pierce. He swiveled, then stood, as she whirled back to face him tauntingly. “I!” she cried extravagantly, bowing to him from the waist, one hand held gracefully curved outward. “I don’t need a reason for doing something. I do it because I want to, like a spoiled child.” She pirouetted lightly, silver-blonde hair flying. Then she faced him again mockingly. “In short, I know myself for what I am. I am a social butterfly! I flit from place to place! I flirt, hook the fish, reel them in bit by bit, and let go of the line when I grow bored! I have fun. I do what I wish. Finis!”

  She bowed again. Laughing applause from behind her, and she turned to find Jeffrey, Lane, Roxanne and Gwynne treating her performance like a huge joke. She threw open her arms and laughed again, calling out, “My sweet public! My audience!”

  “Come on in, you nut!” Jeffrey called back, his pique of last night a thing of the past, almost forgotten already. “Breakfast is hot and ready!”

  She glanced back at Pierce, who looked indolent, hands in his pockets and head tilted back as he looked at her with a half-curled, lazy smile. She did not like that smile. “Nice show,” he told her sardonically. She blew him a kiss and thankfully ran away. Just as she reached the others, she remembered her coffee, by now probably quite cold and abandoned on the pier, but for the life of her she wouldn’t go back to get it. He brought it out. He could take care of it. She didn’t care.

  Behind her, unheard, Pierce repeated conversationally, “But I still don’t believe you.” Then he bent and picked up the cups, and went back to the lodge also.

  Inside, she followed the others to the large, tasteful dining room where several hot dishes had been set on the sideboard. As each began to compile a breakfast, Caprice found a silent presence at her elbow. Pierce handed her cup to her, which she took without a word and drained. Then she refilled it at the sideboard and sat at the table, unobtrusively putting distance between herself and Pierce.

  “What, no breakfast?” Jeffrey teased as he sat beside her.

  Too aware of Pierce’s presence, too aware of his aloofness from the others and his idle contemplation of herself, Caprice turned to Jeffrey and replied, with a careless flick of her finger to his collar, “That’s right, love. And do you know why?”

  “No, why?” His eyes devoured her, and she saw Roxanne out of the corner of her eye, a bit pale.

  “Because I’m playing tennis with you after breakfast,” she told Jeffrey, letting her eyes go wide as she stared into his. She licked her parted lips and saw him swallow. “And do you know what?”

  “What?” he whispered. Everyone was watching them avidly.

  She found herself looking to Pierce. He was frowning slightly at her as though she were an alien species that he couldn’t quite identify. Then she looked back to Jeffrey and told him sweetly, “I’m going to win.”

  Emory, who had just come into the room, laughed.

  She looked into sunlight, letting it blind her for a full moment to make her dry eyes water. Then, with her head bowed, she rubbed at them with thumb and forefinger, for they stung. She looked across the court at Jeffrey, who was stretching lazily while he waited. Full of confidence, he had eaten a large breakfast while teasing her unmercifully. She had responded with warmth, in an attempt to demonstrate to Pierce that she was indeed the flirt she’d claimed to be. It had apparently worked, almost too well. Roxanne wasn’t speaking much to her, and while every one of the guests was present to watch the match, Pierce wasn’t. Life could be, she reflected sighingly, almost excruciatingly predictable.

  “Ready?” she shouted enthusiastically to Jeffrey, who threw her a mock salute. The tennis court was privately owned by the Langstons, and somewhat secluded from the lodge by a row of pine trees, though still visible.

  He had given her the first serve, and, as they positioned themselves in the appropriate corners, everyone settled at the sidelines. “Go get ’im!” called Emory as he sprawled in the grass.

  “Piece of cake!” She turned to smile sweetly at Jeffrey, and then turned sideways. A graceful, leisurely throw of the tennis ball up into the air, her borrowed racquet coming up with a snakelike quickness, and both her feet left the ground with the force of that first blow. Jeffrey never saw the ball pass him.

  Nor did he see the second ace she slammed over the net. Emory looked ridiculous with his mouth hanging open, and Roxanne had finally come out of the sulks, laughing until she had to hold her sides. Astonished and rather furious, Jeffrey pulled together quite nicely, but he had been thrown off stride from the beginning, and she never let him regain control, making him run for every one of his returns.

  She couldn’t blame him for being amazed at her ferocious playing. She was rather pleasantly surprised herself. But the running, pivoting, sheer hot work of it felt good to her. It was as if she were exorcising her own private devil instead of plastering Jeffrey all over the court, which she granted was probably the case.

  At the end, she laughingly told her chagrined opponent, “You ate too much for breakfast! The same thing happened to me last week after lunch. Don’t feel bad. You probably could have creamed me.”

  Jeffrey mopped his sweaty brow and glanced askance at the now-empty court behind them while the others hooted at him in good-natured derision. “Somehow,” he replied with a quick, heaved breath, “I don’t think so.”

  Caprice was hot and breathless herself, but still feisty, so she rounded on Emory with a predatory leer, remarking conversationally, “As I recall, at breakfast you laughed at me.” He began to protest volubly as she took Jeffrey’s racquet and tossed it to him, handle upright.

  “Come on, Emory!” Petra coaxed.

  �
�Put your money where your mouth is!” Roxanne taunted.

  Amid his excuses, Caprice smiled dangerously. “That’s all right,” she said gently. “You don’t have to play if you’re afraid to.”

  That did it. Emory marched to the court with his jaw squared, while Jeffrey threw himself onto the grass to watch with glee. This time first serve was determined by a flip of a coin, and Caprice lost. As she took her standard receiving position at one end, half crouched for a sprint in an unpredictable direction, out of the corner of her eye she saw a dark, elegant, strolling masculine figure coming their way.

  His first serve, she sent into the net. His second, she returned decently enough, but lost the volley, and soon the game. All the while, she was terribly, totally, tensely aware of that aloof, watching shadow under the pines.

  Sunshine beating down on her head, lungs working hard, feeling the muscles in her thighs tremble, she held the ball for a moment, bending over at the waist while she took a breather. Silence from the sides and the other end of the court. Go away. The ball thrown, her body arched into sleek motion, coming down to the asphalt with both feet planted, feeling the jar of it all through her body. Emory lost the volley.

  Quit looking at me, damn you. They switched sides. Her side hurt her, and she pressed her hand deep into the flesh under her ribs. And she was mad. This time, however, it was mostly directed at her own stupid reaction to someone she barely knew, but it had the same vitalizing effect as it had on her first match, and she proceeded to send Emory into agony with a diabolic finesse. He was too fleshy, too heavy to be really quick at short, intense spurts, and he, too, had eaten a hearty breakfast, so it was really to no one’s surprise that she carried that match too.

  Afterward, Emory was ribbed as much as Jeffrey had been, while Caprice stood in silence and held her hands up to her forehead, panting. “You okay?” Roxanne asked quietly, and she nodded without expending energy to speak back.