"What a marvelous homemaker you'll make for some lucky guy."
Her eyes narrowed. "That's right," she said seriously. "I will."
The idea of Calla as another man's wife didn't sit well with William, but he was sick of pleading his case and tired of combating her sharp tongue. Perhaps he was even having doubts about the proposal that had once seemed so businesslike. The Calla he'd uncovered was not the woman he'd expected; this one possessed more depth and scruples, not to mention a mean way with a clothes dryer.
William slid his feet into his soggy shoes and walked to the front door. Halfway out, he thought better of allowing Calla the satisfaction of the last word. But he wouldn't retaliate with words. They weren't working. Besides, there was a better way for a man and a woman to communicate. He turned away from the door and deliberately stalked Calla as she backed up as far as the tiny foyer allowed. Her jewellike eyes were wide open and a little frightened.
William grasped the thick braid at the back of her neck and used it to propel her lips toward his. She twisted her head in a futile attempt to avoid the inevitable. "Brute," she breathed.
"Witch," he responded.
He claimed possession of her mouth in a kiss that was ferocious in its intensity. A tiny whimper sounded at the back of Calla's throat. William responded by pressing his advantage, using his tongue like a rapier. A fiery reaction burned through Calla's body, weakening her stubborn will. She relaxed against him, the length of his body searing hers.
One of his hands settled over her breast, fingertips delighted to discover the tautened nipple hidden beneath the thick folds of her concealing robe. No longer working against each other, their mouths had mated in a passionate pas de deux, a dance as old as the battle between the sexes. A smug satisfaction settled in William's gut. Knowing he hadn't miscalculated Calla's physical desire for him would give him the upper hand in their battle. She could deny his money but not her intrinsically passionate nature.
He suddenly released her. Calla fell back against the bright yellow wall, knocking askew her print of van Gogh's sunflowers. She pressed her ravished lips together, as if it would be so easy to stem the sudden flow of emotion. Surely no man could kiss in such a way unless he had at least some feeling for its recipient!
"My offer is still open, Calla," William said as he backed through the open doorway. "Don't make a decision you'll regret for the rest of your life."
The door slammed on her gasped "Arrogant bastard!" Calla hit it with her fist. "Ouch!"
She turned around and leaned against the door, trying to sort out the feelings rampaging through her. One thing was clear. William was right. Oh, she'd never, ever change her mind about becoming his mistress. Nor even allow herself to mourn very long for the lost dream of being his wife. It would hurt too much to think of that possibility as anything but folly.
No, her body was throbbing with the near knowledge of what she would truly regret.
She'd never make love with William Justice.
Chapter Seven
"It was the most humiliating night of my life," Calla moaned through the weave of crossed fingers in front of her face. "I've never been so thoroughly insulted."
Vivien Willowbrook-Grey handed her a green pepper and a knife. "Chop," she directed. "The thing I don't understand is how we could've misinterpreted his intentions so badly. There must have been some warning signals."
Calla viciously sliced into the pepper. "You don't have to so kindly say 'we.' I'm the one with egg on my face."
"Good thing I'm making omelets," Viv observed lightly.
"Humph," Calla grunted.
The two women had a standing date for Saturday brunch, an event that had often developed into an analysis session of their Friday-night dates. At least it had before Vivien married one of her dates and began using the brunches to extol the benefits of married life. She was the type of woman who'd happily manage not only her own life but the lives of all her friends, as well. Her current project was to find a husband for Calla. She believed in tidy endings and round numbers.
Calla sat on the dining-room side of the pass-through, watching her friend crack eggs into a mixing bowl. Although she got along well with Viv's new husband, Alexander Grey, she was just as glad he was off on one of his outdoor adventures — a fishing trip in the Rockies, according to Vivien. On this particular Saturday morning, Calla was in need of a good dose of girl-talk.
Vivien waved her whisk in the air. "Men like William should be marked to warn innocent women away. If he glowed in the dark, say, or emitted high-frequency beeps, you wouldn't have wasted any time on him. Not to mention your clothing budget for the next three years."
"Tell me about it," Calla replied glumly. "Perhaps my senses have been dulled from too much exposure to newlywed bliss."
Vivien assumed her patented cat-eating-cream look. "Hmm — but William did seem to be perfect." Handing Calla a package of Monterey Jack cheese to shred, she went to check on the tomato sauce simmering on the stove.
"Perfection is an illusion." Thoughtfully, Calla watched Vivien sample the sauce and add another dash of chili powder. "It seems obvious now that the saga of his divorce was a warning signal. I guess I didn't think too much about it at the time because he told the tale so wryly, with that sardonic grin he uses to cover up his feelings. Since I've now been clued in to his idea of a 'caring relationship' — ha! — I'd better rethink."
"You told me he was divorced many years ago, but I don't know the details." Vivien added the chopped peppers to a skillet containing sautéed and diced potatoes. "In my pre-Alexander days, I usually considered a past divorce to be a good sign. At least it meant the guy was capable of some sort of commitment."
"William's plenty willing to commit — money." Calla made a growling noise and pushed down on the block of cheese too vigorously, scraping her knuckles painfully across the ridges of the grater. "This is what happens when a guy is allowed to pay for all the dates," she complained. "He gets the idea he owns you. He gets the idea he can get ideas." She stuck her red knuckles into her mouth. "Do I wook wike the type can be baw an' pay fo'?"
"Bought and paid for?" Viv laughed. "No, I've never thought so."
"Apparently William did," Calla muttered, pushing aside the mound of cheese and shifting on the stool. She laced her hands beneath her chin. Vivien danced in front of the stove, emptying the mixing bowl with a flourish, tipping the omelet pan and eyeing it judiciously. She was a small, slender woman with a sharp nose and chin and a full head of flyaway, jaw-length hair in a shade she liked to call "toasted almond." For a piercing instant, Calla was filled with envy for her best friend's perfect life: a handsome husband who loved her, a satisfying job, a prospective new house. Viv had everything in line for a straight progression into a bright and brilliant future. Calla felt stuck in the mud at the side of the road.
Vivien handed her a steaming plateful of Southwestern omelet, and they went into the small dining area to eat. Vivien and Alex rented the other half of the same side-by-side duplex Calla lived in, so they didn't have a lot of room. Vivien shoved a pile of papers and magazines to one side of the table to make room for their plates, exhibiting an indifference to the mess Calla never would have believed her capable of.
Now that she thought about it, Calla realized there'd actually been more than a few adjustments to Viv's lifestyle. For instance, the apartment was no longer spit-shined to a fare-thee-well. It was cluttered. Skiing paraphernalia was stacked in the corner, and the desk beneath the big picture window was piled so high with junk the view was obscured. There were even chunks of burned logs and a mound of ashes in the fireplace. The pre-Alex Vivien had scraped ashes and scrubbed stone after every use of the fireplace.
Vivien intercepted Calla's glance. "I know, I know," she said with a shrug. "I keep telling myself we'll be moving soon, anyway. Then I can make Alex confine his stuff to one room and earn back my cleanliness-is-next-to-godliness halo."
Calla grinned around a mouthful of omelet. "Y
ou'll never be the same," she said cheerfully after swallowing. "How is the Great House Search proceeding?"
"Don't ask. Alex is beginning to make noises about building a log cabin on some remote mountaintop."
"Compromise is the secret to a happy marriage," Calla said, using her friend's words against her.
"I already compromised on our Hawaiian honeymoon. One week lying on the beach and the second camping in the jungle and hiking up volcanoes." Vivien snorted derisively, but the look in her eyes spoke of extremely pleasing memories. "What do you think of this sauce? Maybe I shouldn't have added that extra chili powder."
Calla forked up another mouthful. "Can't be too hot for me. I adore the spice of life." That had been her motto — before she'd remade herself for William Justice. One would think a mature woman who believed Anita Hill and heroine-worshiped Gloria Steinem would've known better. "Must've been hormones," she muttered.
"Huh?"
"Hormones," Calla sagely repeated, pointing the fork at herself. "They do weird things to your brain. Such as turning you into an imperfect Stepford wife. Sweet and compliant but with a scheme."
"Come on, Calla. Buck up. So you toned down your natural tendencies a teensy bit hoping for marriage. Men do it, too. It's called putting your best foot forward." Vivien slid her empty plate aside and said eagerly, "Tell me about William's divorce."
Calla bit down on a huge chunk of green pepper. "She was his college sweetheart. All spun sugar and perfect white teeth. She wore old family pearls and silk blouses with froufrou bow ties. She hunted."
"Hunted?"
"You know, riding to the hounds. In one of those cute black velvet helmets and neon red coats."
"Never trust a woman who wears tall black boots and carries a riding crop."
"She had blond hair, of course, and her eyes were small and mean. Still are, I suppose."
"You must've seen a photo. That's a bad sign, him keeping her picture around."
Calla stared at a potato speared on the tines of her fork. She shook it off. "They were in a photo album stuffed on the bottom shelf of his bookcase. I sneaked a peek when he was getting coffee."
"That's okay, then. Can't expect a guy to hack her face out of every photo he owns. Was the album dusty?" Vivien asked hopefully.
"William has a daily cleaning woman. Rich people do that."
Calla sighed deeply. "Anyway, from what William said, his lovely bride turned into an ice cube with dollar signs in her eyes. He says he knew it from the first night, when she laid back and thought of England. After that, all she wanted to do was shop and check on her position in the social register. She thought Denver was the boondocks and told William she wouldn't give him any babies until they at least moved to New York. He got out as fast as he could."
"Whew! No wonder he's a bit cynical about marriage."
"It gets worse. She fought him in court over the divorce, and he wound up giving her the equivalent of the U.S. Mint to get rid of her."
"Damn."
"Double damn."
They sat in silence for a few moments, staring at their plates. Vivien's was clean; Calla's was decorated with globs of leftover egg and potato. "So he's been burned," Vivien said.
"Yeah, but is that enough reason to treat me like a gold digger?"
"Look at it this way, Calla. Men aren't as rational as women. They don't analyze their feelings, so they rarely learn anything constructive from past experience. Their thought processes are muddled by too much testosterone. I know it's not fair, but the truth is it's up to us women to keep them in line." Viv grinned. "Which is exactly what you did."
"I thought so. Until he made the crack about me regretting turning him down. As if." Calla's lip curled. "The egotistical son of a b —"
"Let's not impugn his mother."
"Banker," Calla finished, looking glum despite her fighting words. "I just don't get men. Why do they think love is a four-letter word? Well, okay, it is, but you know what I mean, Viv. Why don't men know the difference between making love and making sex?" Calla yawned, remembering the idea she'd had at four minutes after three that morning: She could point out the difference to William. She'd always been good at show-and-tell.
"They do. It's just that the knowledge isn't as close to the surface as it is with women."
Calla squared her shoulders. "So somewhere deep down inside William does have love for me. He must. Aside from this mistress thing, we've been getting along just great. We talked. We laughed. I know his ticklish spots and the story of him peeing his pants on the first day of kindergarten. We like the same movies, and you know how rare that is. He sends flowers. He sends faxes. He once sent me a postcard with cute little x's and o's under his signature. And — and, dammit, his kisses are better than Hershey's!"
Vivien was several sentences behind the pace. "Big Mr. Banker told you he made a pee-pee? He sends you hugs and kisses?" She chortled. "It must be love!" Her brown eyes widened and she held up one hand. "Whoa there, Calla. Kisses better than Hershey's? Last I heard he was still kissing you on the doorstep with no more passion than a dead fish."
Calla's smile was sheepish. "Recent developments have convinced me he's more of a — very lively stallion. And not just on the doorstep."
"Aha! The plot thickens." Viv eyed the pink blush creeping into Calla's cheeks. "So he's not running for mayor of Eunuchville, after all?"
"Heavens, no! Did I really say that?" Calla gnawed on her lower lip, remembering how they'd cast aspersions on William's manhood over dinner at Salvatore's. How could she have been so dumb? The man might be a no-good rotten chauvinist, but at least he was a virile no-good rotten chauvinist. "Take my word for it, Viv. All his equipment is in working order."
"Well, then?" Vivien prompted. Calla had a strangely goony look on her face and her eyes were closing dreamily. Vivien recognized the expression — she'd seen it on her own face after the first time she'd made love with Alex. "Calla! Did you and William do it?"
Calla's eyes opened wide and her parted lips snapped shut. "Do you really think I'd hit the sheets with a man who'd just offered to pay me?" she asked tartly, but her hands fluttered over the tabletop like butterflies. She gathered up a fistful of silverware and retreated to the kitchen. "I'm no turncoat to the sisterhood," she said, head poking out the pass-through. "We women must uphold our standards. Fight for equality. Stamp out sexism. Stand firm on our principles and — Vivien! Will you please stop laughing?"
A chuckling Vivien strolled into the kitchen. "Feminists have sex, too, sister Calla. Where d'ya think all the little feminists come from?"
"The sperm bank."
"Ho-ho. Why do I suspect, despite your fervent protests, that you're considering making a withdrawal from a Justice Bank account?"
Calla flung up her hands in defeat. "I'm so confused."
"You're in love."
"I'm afraid of turning into one of those women who buy hardcover copies of self-help books. They go on 'Oprah' and talk about how they're always attracted to jerks."
"You've never been a masochist."
"Remember Paulette?" Calla frowned. "Paulette was the Schwarzkopf of attorneys. She could mow down public defenders and turn them into mulch, but when it came to her boyfriend she'd get all whiny and wimpy and clingy. She supported him for three years while he wrote fifteen pages of a bestseller, then moved to La-La Land when he decided he wanted to write sitcoms. Nobody ever heard from Paulette again," she concluded dolefully.
"That's neither here nor there." Vivien set the plates on the counter next to a stack of cookbooks left near the sink. "Besides, Paulette was living under the onus of being named after her father. She was trying to please men from the day she was born."
"The Wild Game Gourmet?" Calla asked, one eyebrow canted curiously as she read the title of the cookbook she'd picked up. "What happened to Zen and the Art of Nouvelle Cuisine?"
"Okay, so Paulette's not the only one." Vivien snatched the book away from Calla. "Alex is trying to convince me ve
nison is edible. I'm thinking, maybe with shallots and red wine." The tip of her agile tongue touched her upper lip, the way it always did when she was concentrating on a recipe. "Possibly a pâté with Cumberland sauce," she murmured, then caught Calla's eye. "Compromise is the secret of a —"
"Happy affair?" Calla supplied.
Vivien was bent over the sink, her face moist from the steam of the hot running water. "Affair," she repeated doubtfully. "Calla, I don't see you becoming a mistress."
"Give me some credit. I'm not looking to relive my mother's mistakes. If I do this, it's got to be on my terms. And I've decided that being a lover is very different from being a mistress."
"You're still risking your heart."
"Nothing risked, nothing gained." Calla flipped open the dishwasher and began to load the rinsed dishes Vivien handed her. "William is trying to keep me at arm's length, emotionally speaking, with this mistress thing. He doesn't yet realize that he loves me. I will show him the error of his ways. What could be simpler?"
"Uh-oh. You've got that devious glitter in your eyes."
Calla puffed out her lower lip and blew several strands of hair out of her eyes. "Nope. No more dishonesty. No more shirtwaists and lace handkerchiefs. No more sweetness and light. I'm breaking out my wallet and my spike heels and my gumption. William is going to take me as I am and he's going to like it. No, he's going to love it." She dried her hands on the front of her "A Woman's Place Is in the White House" T-shirt.
Vivien, knowing how vulnerable Calla was beneath her flamboyant shell, was more cautious. "Are you sure? Sometimes it's better to cut your losses. Spend a Saturday night drowning your sorrows in mocha almond fudge and then forget him."
"William Justice is not the type of man a woman can lose in a dish of ice cream."
"He's definitely worth the trouble?"
Calla shrugged. "He's thick skulled, egocentric, insulting, demanding, and totally unreasonable."
"Just like most men."
"Also generous, successful, compelling, intelligent, and incredibly sexy."
(Ebook - English) - Carrie Alexander - His Mistress Page 5