Morning Rose, Evening Savage

by Amii Lorin

  “What was that?” he asked innocently, then smiled sardonically. “Oh, yes, about your being right. Well, you see, Tara, for all our big talk of equal rights, I’m afraid a great many of us men are still dreadfully chauvinistic. Most will jump happily into bed with any ‘liberated’ woman who’ll have him. But, and it’s a very big but, these very same men, when they finally decide they are ready to get married, will look around for a relatively untouched woman. I say relatively untouched because even the most naive of us are aware that today there are not really that many virginal women over the age of twenty. So you see, it’s the old double standard. While he wants to bed as many as possible, he wants to marry an untouched one. Deplorable perhaps, but nonetheless true. It’s the nature of the beast.”

  As he spoke, Tara felt her anger grow apace with her embarrassment. Now, pink-cheeked, eyes snapping, she jumped up out of her chair.

  “Beast is right. How grossly unjust that attitude is.”

  “That goes without saying. But then, who ever said that life was just?”

  He stood up slowly, lazily uncoiling like a large, dark cat. Tara walked across the room to the window facing the street, suddenly, unaccountably, nervous.

  “I don’t know what to do about this,” she almost whispered. “My family’s upset. My friends have made themselves scarce. Incredibly, in this day and age, I feel ostracized.”

  “You have one option that would stop the talk at once.” He spoke quietly, his eyes keen on her face as she turned to look questioningly at him.

  “Accept my proposal. Marry me.” He walked slowly to her and she felt her heart begin to thud frantically, her legs tremble.

  Hoping to stop his determined movement toward her, she sneered. “You mean you’re unlike other men? You’re willing to saddle yourself with a—what is the word—tainted woman?”

  He laughed low in his throat, the sound slipping down her spine on tiny, icy feet.

  “As I’m supposed to be the man who ‘tainted’ you, I can’t see that it makes any difference.”

  He stopped in front of her, reaching up to touch her silvery hair, which gleamed in the soft glow of the table lamp beside her.

  “Such fantastic hair,” he murmured. “I want to see it fanned out on a pillow under me, Tara.” He pinched a few strands between thumb and forefinger and drew his hand down its long length. “I want to bind myself in it like a silken net.” Tara felt the serpent of excitement uncoil in her midriff as he brought the strands to his lips. “I want to draw it across your beautiful mouth and kiss you breathless through it.” In unwilling fascination she watched his eyes darken, narrow with desire; felt his hand slide to her nape; felt long fingers curl into the soft thickness and draw her face to his. His mouth a breath away from hers, he whispered hoarsely, “Marry me, Tara.” Then he covered her trembling lips with his hard, firm ones in an urgent, demanding kiss.

  Tara stiffened, fighting the insidious languor that invaded her body as if fighting for her life. She had been kissed many times but never had she felt like this. Her veins seemed to be flowing with liquid fire that burned and seared and ate up her resistance. His hands moved down her spine, then gripped convulsively, flattening her against the long, hard length of his body. She felt dizzy, light-headed, barely able to hear the small voice of reason that cried, Step back, when all she wanted was to get closer, closer. His hand moved up and under her knit top, and she shivered deliciously at the feel of his fingers on her bare skin. The voice of reason broke through when his hand moved over her breast possessively. Using her last remaining dregs of will, she tore her mouth from his and spun out and away from his arms, sobbing, “No. No. No.”

  He didn’t come after her but stood studying her pale, frightened face intently, breathing deeply to regain control.

  “You’re a fool, Tara,” he finally said, his voice calm, devoid of inflection. “I could give you everything you ever wanted. And you are not indifferent to me. I’ve just proven that.”

  Tara stood rigid, forcing herself to meet the hard, blue glitter of his eyes. Hands clenched into fists to keep from trembling, she wondered, in a vague panic, why she’d felt chilled to the bone since spinning out of his arms. Then fatigue struck; suddenly her shoulders drooped, and she felt sick to tears, the events of this horribly long day pressing down on her. She turned from him to stare sightlessly through the window and said, wearily, “Go away.”

  She didn’t see the swift flash of concern in his eyes and when she turned back to him, it was gone.

  “The offer will stay open, Tara, if you change your mind.” His eyes raked her, noting her pallor, the blue smudges of tiredness under her eyes. He took one step toward her, and she cried out, “Will you please go and leave me alone. Mr. Rykovsky, please.”

  “Since we’re supposedly sleeping together, don’t you think you could call me Alek,” he chided gently.

  Her head dropped and her voice was a tired, ragged whisper. “Alek, please, please go.”

  Her chin was lifted by one long finger and she found herself gazing into surprisingly gentle blue eyes. His mouth brushed hers lightly. “You’re exhausted, pansy eyes. Stay in bed tomorrow and think about me. Lock up after me.” Again his lips brushed hers, then he whispered, “Good night, lover, for whether you think so now or not, I am going to be your lover.”

  Then he moved swiftly across the room, snatching up his raincoat without pausing, and went through the door, closing it softly.

  Tara stared after him, tears running down her face, feeling unaccountably abandoned. Too tired to probe her emotions or even think, she walked across the room and locked the door as commanded. And it had been a command. Then she turned off the lights and went to her bedroom, where she turned the phone off and fell into a fitful slumber.

  Chapter Four

  Sunday was a short day, as Tara slept past noon. She woke with a dull headache and equally dull senses and moved about the apartment like a pale, uninterested wraith. What could she do to combat the rumors being spread connecting her name with Alek’s? What could she do when she didn’t even know the source of those rumors? And could she really do anything if she did know the source? A charge of slander has to be proved, and even if she could prove it, did she want that kind of publicity? The questions tormented her all day and by early evening had turned her dull headache into a piercing throb. At nine thirty, feeling half sick to her stomach, she gave it up and went to bed.

  Nine hours of deep, uninterrupted sleep did wonders for her. Rested and refreshed, her headache gone, she faced Monday morning unflinchingly. She dressed extra carefully in a favorite oyster gray pantsuit and low-heeled black boots. Topping the outfit off with a black suede jacket that made her silver-blond hair look almost white, she slung her tote bag over her arm and swung out of the apartment fighting fit.

  The long, careful look and silent whistle of appreciation she received from David when he entered the office boosted her morale even more. The smile she bestowed on him was breathtaking and the most natural David had seen in over a week. He stared bemusedly at her then grinned back and headed for his own office, pausing in the doorway to say, “Ask Terry Connors to come to my office, please.”

  Tara nodded, lifted the phone, punched the interoffice button, and waited for an answer.

  A few minutes later Terry sauntered into her office for all the world like he owned the building. “Morning, beautiful, how’s tricks?”

  The words themselves were innocuous but the suggestive twist to his lips lent them a meaning that sent a cold stab of fear through her midsection. She had no tune to question him, however, as he went straight through to David’s office.

  She sat pondering his words a few seconds, then gave herself a mental shake. She was getting hyper over all this, for heaven’s sake; if she wasn’t careful, she’d soon be reading double meanings into everything anyone said to her. In annoyance she turned back to her work, soon forgetting the incident.

  An hour and a half later Terry left David’s of
fice and stopped at her desk. Glancing up questioningly, Tara caught the same twisted smile on his face before he sobered and said softly, “How about having dinner with me some time?”

  Tara felt her scalp tingle in premonition, but she managed to keep her voice level. “I told you before that I won’t go out with you, Terry.”

  “Yeah, but that was then and now is now.” His smile was an insinuation that made her skin crawl.

  “Nothing has happened to change my mind,” she said evenly.

  “Oh, I don’t expect you to two-time him. Not many women have that kind of guts. But when he’s through with you—and with his track record it won’t be too long—maybe you’ll be glad of an invitation out.”

  While he was speaking, Tara felt her nerves tighten, her fingers grip the edge of her keyboard. With effort she kept her voice cool. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Come off it, babe,” he jeered. “Everyone knows.”

  He grinned at her crookedly, his head tilted to one side, then he gave a short, nasty laugh. “You’re cool as well as beautiful, and I can see what he wants with you, but you can stow the innocent act. Hell, he may as well have taken an ad in the paper.” He waved his hand at the bud vase on the corner of her desk. “The roses, the few—how should I say it?—’polite’ inquiries he made about you months ago. His car parked in front of your apartment all night—every night—only confirmed everyone’s suspicions.” Again he gave that nasty laugh. “He even spoke to me one morning as I was on my way to work, after he’d left your apartment.”

  He stood a moment studying her stricken, wide-eyed face, then snorted, “I told you to can the act. You may think we’re a bunch of idiots, but even us peasants can add one and one and come up with two. You must have something special, seeing as how he comes to you rather than move you into his building, the way he usually does with his mistresses.”

  Tara had been staring in unseeing disbelief, but at his last words her vision cleared and focused on his leering face.

  “Get out of my office,” she said through clenched teeth, “before I call David and tell him you’re annoying me.”

  “You win, sweetheart,” Terry sneered. “But just remember who your friends are after he’s through with you.” He walked to the door then paused with his hand on the knob and shot over his shoulder, “I mean when the lesser males start calling, more than happy to sample the big man’s leavings.” On the last word he stepped through the doorway and closed the door with a sharp click.

  White-faced, trembling, an odd buzzing sound in her head, Tara stared at the door, devoid, for the moment, of all feeling.

  “Aleksei Rykovsky!”

  The two words, murmured in a harsh whisper, sounded more like a bitter curse than a man’s name. Following the words, which caused actual physical pain, white-hot anger tore through her mind; cleansing anger, motivating anger that unlocked the frozen state she’d been in and set her mind in action. She still had no idea why but now she knew how and, most importantly, who.

  With careful, deliberate movement Tara pressed the intercom button and said coolly, “David, I’m sorry but I must leave the office for a short time. I have an appointment.”

  David, his tone indicating he was deeply immersed in his work, answered unconcernedly, “Okay, Tara, have Connie pick up on any incoming calls and take as long as you like.”

  “Thank you.”

  Tara relayed the instruction to Connie, then, her every movement still careful and deliberate, she slipped her arms into her jacket, removed her tote from her bottom desk drawer, plucked the white rose from the bud vase and dropped it into her wastebasket, and left the office. She was going scalp-hunting.

  It was less than a twenty-minute drive from David’s office to Alek’s large, almost antiquated machine shop. Tara used those minutes to put together the pieces of this bizarre puzzle. His words of Saturday night came as clearly as if he were sitting next to her in the car and had just spoken them.

  “Don’t you know? “

  She had thought, then, that he was in some way accusing her of keeping information from him. Now she realized he had been probing to ascertain if she had any suspicions of him.

  She went over and over the whole sordid mess and decided, not for the first tune, that this man was not quite on-center; something was twisted inside. If it hadn’t been for the anger that had resolved itself into a cold, hard fury, she might have been afraid of what she was about to do.

  Alek’s offices were located on the second floor of the sprawling old building. As Tara mounted the narrow staircase, she stiffened her spine in preparation to do battle. Steps evenly paced, firm, she walked along the long narrow hallway, glancing at closed doors marked PERSONNEL, SALES, and ACCOUNTING until finally reaching what she knew was her destination, the very last door, marked private.

  Gripping the knob, she drew a deep breath and walked in. The woman sitting at a desk some five feet inside the door was about thirty with a calm, withdrawn face and cool, intelligent eyes.

  “May I help you?”

  The impersonal smile and well modulated tones were the epitome of the super-efficient secretary. Tara matched exactly her tone and manner.

  “Yes, I would like to see Mr. Rykovsky, please. If it’s convenient.”

  The cool eyes flickered with a degree of respect. “You have an appointment?”

  Tara’s lips twitched in wry amusement. This paragon knew damned well she had no appointment.

  “No I haven’t, but if he is not too busy, I’d appreciate a few minutes. It is rather important.”

  “I see,” judiciously. “If you’ll have a seat, I’ll inquire, Miss ... ?”

  “Schmitt. Tara Schmitt.”

  She was left to cool her heels some fifteen minutes before that impersonal voice said, “Mr. Rykovsky will see you now, Miss Schmitt.”

  Tara’s heels may have cooled, but her emotions were still at flash point, although this was not revealed as she rose gracefully to her feet, her outward appearance under rigid control.

  “Thank you.” Her voice a quiet murmur, she stepped past the secretary, who held open the door, and into the large room, seemingly dwarfed by the overwhelmingly masculine presence of its owner.

  “Good morning, Tara.” His low, silky voice slid over her, setting her teeth on edge. “You’re looking exceptionally beautiful this morning.”

  And he is looking exceptionally handsome, she thought bitterly. Dressed in an obviously expensive, perfectly tailored charcoal-gray suit, complemented by a pearl-gray shirt and oyster-white tie, the effect of him on the senses was devastating. How could it be, Tara wondered, that someone could appear so shatteringly good on the outside and be so thoroughly rotten on the inside?

  She watched his eyes grow sharp when, without speaking, she stood studying him, even though the voice remained smooth.

  “Sit down, Tara.”

  “I prefer to stand, Mr. Rykovsky.”

  “Mr. Rykovsky? Saturday night it was Alek.” The voice was still smooth but beginning to show awareness of things being not quite right.

  “Saturday night I was still an ignorant, innocent fool,” she stated coldly.

  One dark eyebrow arched fleetingly; the voice matched the eyes in sharpness. “You’re upset. What’s happened?”

  “Upset?” she cried. “Upset? You set out with a deliberate intent to ruin my reputation then dare to stand there calmly and say I’m upset? No, Mister Rykovsky, I am not upset. I am red-hot furious.”

  His face went suddenly expressionless; his narrowed eyes went wary as he watched the pink flares of angry color tinge her cheeks, her soft brown eyes flash.

  “All right,” he said, evenly. “You know. Now sit down and calm yourself, and we’ll discuss it.”

  Eyes wide in astonishment, she nearly choked. “Calm myself? I don’t want to calm myself. And I don’t want to discuss it. What I want is an explanation for what you’ve done and—” The sound of her voice, beginning to rise sha
rply, made her check her words. Breathing deeply, trying to regain control, she glared at him across the few feet of deep-pile carpeting that separated them.

  “Tara”—his gentle voice tried to soothe—”if you’ll calm— “

  She didn’t let him finish. Fighting to regain control, nails gouging into her palms, she ground out: “Were you bored? Was this your perverted idea of a joke? A way to break up a dull time in your life? Well, I don’t think you’re funny. I think you’re sick. You need your head ex—”

  “Tara.” The silky voice had taken on a decidedly serrated edge, then smoothed out again. “That’s enough. Now be quiet and listen a minute. If you let yourself think, you’ll know why I did it. I told you twice. It was no joke, and I was not trying to be funny. Also I’m not sick. I simply know what I want and I am not afraid to go after it.”

  .”No matter what method you use,” she gasped. “Or who gets hurt?”

  “I admit, in this instance, my methods were a bit unorthodox, but really, Tara, you’re not all that injured. Good grief, woman, do you really think, today, that anyone gives a damn who is sleeping with whom?”

  He had remained so imperturbable, so unaffected through this incredible interview, that Tara was gripped with the urge to scream at him.

  “My family gives a damn. You don’t have to watch my mother cry or face my father’s anger.”

  “That’s right, I don’t,” he stated firmly. “But I will if you give the word. Say you’ll marry me, and I’ll be at your parents’ door within the hour to pacify them.”

  Tara was beginning to feel as if she’d stepped into some sort of unreal world, a fantasy land. Tilings like this just don’t happen, she thought. Shaking her head as if to clear her mind, she said, haltingly, “I don’t understand. I’m sure there must be any number of eager females ready and willing to comply with your slightest whim. Why have you singled me out to torment?”

  His face hardened and a muscle rippled at the corner of his tautened jawline. “You’re right. There are a number of females ready and willing.” His eyes, searing like twin blue flames, raked her body boldly, heightening her color still more with embarrassment. “But, for some reason, my body demands the possession of yours. It is as simple as that. I want you. I intend having you.”