The Winter King

by Amanda Carpenter

  ‘I promise never to shout at you again when you walk in the door,’ he murmured throatily, raining kisses on her, each successive one deeper than the last, harder, a quick, intense, tantalising escalation that stirred the hunger inside her into a consuming blaze- ‘I promise instead to meet you in a much more—pleasurable fashion.’

  His subsequent halting of the sexual assault was fiercely abrupt. By then she was clinging dazedly to his wrists. His hawkish grey eyes piercing, he murmured just over her trembling mouth, ‘Now it’s your turn. What do you promise me?’

  She whispered, her mind whirling, ‘I—I don’t know.’

  He made a beleaguered sound that whistled through his nostrils, slid his long fingers around her head as if he would like to tear it off her shoulders, and growled, ‘You promise never to drive at eighty again.’

  Her gaze slowly narrowed, focused on the twisted, elegant mouth that he denied her, and she licked her dry lips and accused him, ‘You’re manipulating me again.’

  ‘Yes, darling,’ he murmured; ‘And if I can get that promise from you, I’ll not be sorry for it either. Be late for the rest of your life, be late for your own wedding, I don’t care-just don’t be early for your own funeral, OK?’

  He was watching compulsively the circular path of her tongue. It rattled her so badly that she tucked it back inside her mouth and whispered, ‘OK.’

  His concern had been badly expressed and gracefully retracted; and her speed had been far too high and would never be repeated. Another governance, another check on her heedless path through life, another adaptation. If she brought him down with humility, he re-routed her behaviour with vulnerability. A fair exchange, an equitable arrangement. She let it go; she had been wrong; she didn’t want to see the hurt in his eyes again or that shaken expression when she scared him. What did it matter?

  It didn’t matter at all. It was wiped away as of monumental unimportanoe. It was forgotten in a heartbeat when he showed her how delightful the rewards of compromise could be, as he kissed her in thanks and went in search of the tongue she had hidden from him.

  And when she moaned at the invasion he groaned his pleasure, stepping up the heat, stepping back from the negotiation table, throwing in his chips, raising the until too much was at stake for them to stop.

  His lead was demanding, imperative. She danced along after him, knowing now how the song ended, greedy for the final strains. Several times she thought she was almost there and threw herself wide open to embrace the crescendo, but ruthlessly, relentlessly he prolonged the sexual concert. He would not let her peak.

  He was bowed over her splayed body, buried so deep he thought he might never emerge again. His aggression had a brilliance of fluctuating rhythm that she couldn’t adjust to, and instead of destroying her anticipation it brought her to an unbearable sobbing pitch.

  Until, at last, shaking and heaving as he bore her down, glaring wild-eyed up into his poised, intent, waiting face, she dragged the air into her rasping lungs and screamed an incoherent demand and plea.

  Instantly, before the sound could even break from her lips and awaken the entire complex, he clamped a hard hand over her mouth, the heavy thrust of his palm pushing her head into the bed, and her teeth sank into his flesh involuntarily as she shuddered and came with an intensity that threatened to rend her muscles from her bones.

  It was too much. She shook and heard the animal sounds that she made. Overwhelmed by what he had done to her, he tried to shush her with tenderness; but, faced with her loss of control, his own snapped. in the violent heat of his explosion, and she was the one, after all, to hold him in a welcoming, absorbing embrace as he gave her everything inside him, in racking pleasure, in sudden gushing surrender.

  The last weeks.

  Camelot’s glory had shone so very brightly because its days were numbered. Yvonne knew it.

  She knew, the reason for the intensity that burned through her translucent skin like a candle. She knew that everyone else saw it, had some dim sense for their awe; she knew that, though she and Adam trod a delicate path between discretion and the refusal to hide, nobody was fooled. The reality of her relationship with the director spread through the complex in some form of osmosis. People just picked it up in a cellular fashion.

  Adam made no pretence of disaffection. Quite the opposite, in fact, for he would have been far more physically demonstrative in public except that she stopped him dead with her withdrawal: the imperceptible retreat of her head when he might have kissed her cheek; the remoteness in her eyes when his hand automatically caressed her arm or shoulder; the containment in the disposition of her slender body, the gracefully crossed legs, the narrow hands never left outflung in idle invitation.

  She checked his physical expression, but he checked his gut instinct for pursuing the issue, for forcing her to acknowledge him. He bit the whiplash reaction back, and thought a moment or two, and approved. Their entire communication and eventual consensus was reached in silence. They were rewarded for their restraint by at first a wary acceptance from everyone else that gradually became whole-hearted approval and respect, as professional integrity was maintained not by promise, but in actuality.

  The daily restraint was a constant recurring battle. She was reminded of the classical scenario in hell, where the unfortunate individuals must push a boulder up a hill; but before attaining the crest the boulder invariably escaped their hold to roll to the bottom, and they had to begin again the eternal, futile task.

  Her restraint was greater than his. Her hell was deeper. Hers extended far beyond just the nuances of checking, a daytime display of physical affection in public, but was an unceasing twenty-four-hour vigil. Whole areas of conversation were forbidden, entire avenues of extrapolation strangled at birth. Any idle postulations about the future she cut dead, any reference to life outside their carefully cultivated hothouse was reined in with an iron hand. She would not hope, she would not yearn, she would not hypothesise. The universe ended when the filming ended; nothing else existed.

  Those were her boundaries. For once in her life she didn’t struggle in a snarled tangle but held to her goal with an extraordinary clarity of dry-eyed vision. What would come would come, and would not be considered.

  And the nights, oh, the nights. The restraint throughout the day was dry tinder; coming together with Adam in privacy was the lit match. The nights were wild, unbearable, ecstatic, obsessive. She couldn’t sleep for the nights. She pretended to eat for his sake, and did ingest enough to maintain. But he was not fooled, for she grew slender as a wraith, a glowing wraith that burned from the inside. She was sustained by her own immense strength, and being destroyed by her indomitable spirit.

  Sometimes he tried to stay away, to give her ease, for she needed more rest than he did. She only came after him in a compulsive, fevered rush, and after just a few attempts he no longer bothered, for he was maddened by the daily restraints, victimised by control, rampant, unstoppable.

  It was fine. It was another mutual agreement. She welcomed him. Let him break into her at night, a sensual thief come to plunder the willing treasure; for by day she was an unassailable fortress.

  Humans inhabited a finite universe of endings. While Adam stayed for the very last scenic shots, Yvonne finished her own work along with the rest of the cast. He had not invited her to stay. She bled at the cut, calm faced and smilingly.

  Their last night together had a keening edge of impending separation to it. After they had made love, Adam talked desultorily about her father’s party, to which she listened companionably. He spoke of seeing her in Los Angeles within the week, which, was not so long away really, and she was attentive. He happened to casually mention a repeat performance of the hot dogs on the beach, which produced a quick grin, and the entire time she was silent, silent, silent.

  Yvonne was one of a general exodus to the airport the next morning. Her farewell to Adam after breakfast was a light-hearted, gaily executed affair, by the cars which were packed and rea
dy to go. She turned away from him, her bland facade impenetrable; they had so many witnesses.

  A hand closed around her upper arm, all the way around and then some. He yanked her around so fast that the world spun, hauled her into his arms, and proceeded to ravish her mouth with a long, ferocious, unashamedly passionate, devastatingly thorough kiss. When he finally raised his head, she lay boneless against the hard barrier of his arms and the whole of their goggling audience was beside itself with glee. He considered her stunned eyes and flushed face with a dark, hawkish satisfaction.

  ‘Remember that,’ he advised her softly as he let her go.

  He swung away; she stumbled back. Maybe somebody caught her. She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that she hadn’t fallen to the ground because somehow she was sitting beside a whooping Sally in the back of Jerry’s car as they drove away.

  ‘Oh, I envy you that one,’ gasped the other actress when at last she could speak. ‘One of history’s greatest kisses with one of the world’s sexiest men, and it’ll never even make the big screen!’

  Yvonne’s recovery was white-faced and unamused. She managed a pained smile, for the sake of friendship and politeness, and murmured distractedly, ‘Look-do you mind?’

  ‘Oh! Oh, not at all!’ Sally exclaimed, quick to sense her unwelcome intrusion. ‘You just have to admit it was as hell of a send-off, that’s all!’

  ‘Indeed.’ Her reply was frozen and unmistakable: the subject was closed for discussion.

  She had to bear with convivial company all the interminable way back to Los Angeles Airport. When she waved the last friendly goodbye and sank into the back seat of a taxi, she had come. to the end of her endurance.

  The ride to her parents’ home in Beverly Hills was accomplished in a dreamy haze. Her driver was effusive with his good fortune, elated with the large tip she had given him. He insisted on carrying her luggage inside and asked for her autograph. She gave it to him and waved him off wearily. Betty and her mother Vivian greeted her return with exuberance and informed her she was just in time for lunch.

  Yvonne turned on her heel, trudged up the stairs to the suite of rooms that had always been hers since she was a little girl, would always be hers no matter how long she was gone, or how many times she returned, kicked off her shoes and fell fully clothed into her bed and slept until late the next morning.

  She was still in a dream when at last she woke up. She was fed well, and she showered, and the afternoon passed, and she had at quiet supper with her parents and listened silently to the plans for the party for cast and crew on Friday evening, and she fell into bed again and slept the clock around.

  She spent the next three days like a zombie. Things happened all around her, and she watched them with calm amazement, patting yawns with a languid hand. So much bustling noise, so much vitality. Flowers were ordered, and so was food and drink from the usual caterers—Vivian always used the same company, they were so superb at what they did—and the huge mansion was polished from top to bottom, and the swimming-pool was cleaned, and musicians—they had to have the right musicians. When the Trents threw a party, they did so lavishly; they so loved a good party.

  At some point, she knew she would have to wake up. This deadened drifting was getting her nowhere, but she couldn’t seem to help it. She had used up too much emotion. She’d blown a fuse and the lights had gone out. She was in perpetual culture-shock with reality; the universe had ended, and the sky had not crashed down around her ears, and life somehow, somewhere was still going on.

  Early Friday evening Yvonne sat at the end of her bed. Observing Betty was sometimes like watching a television with a broken volume control. There was no way to turn her down or tune her out. The maid chattered happily about what Yvonne could wear to the party as she rummaged in the wardrobe—Yvonne saw the machinations of her mother in the conversation, and she knew she was being prodded second-hand. She’d worked hard, and had been granted a well—deserved few days’ rest, and now it was time to snap out of it.

  Adam would have flown in just that afternoon. Their guests were already arriving; he would be along any time now. She finally managed to focus on the fact that she

  had to get dressed, and she paid attention. to the suggestions Betty made.

  The clothes she had brought from Montana were uniformly casual, but her wardrobe was stuffed with a history of glittering outfits, products of other occasions and other parties, all expensive designer labels with an infantry of matching shoes, most of which hadn’t dated because when she had chosen to dress up she’d preferred and looked best in classic simplicity.

  What to wear? More to the point, what did she want Adam to see? She wanted him to see nothing, she wanted to avoid seeing him altogether, she wanted to go to sleep.

  She wanted the dream to continue, for she was still in the avoidance mode. She didn’t want to see what the next step was, if there was a next step, and she didn’t want to take the last step. Her foot was frozen in mid-air. But a decision had to be made. Betty was rather torn between a Givenchy and a Chanel.

  Yvonne sighed and put her foot down.

  Ten minutes later she left a bitterly disappointed maid, and descended the stairs with light, quick steps. She was dressed in olive-green fatigues and a sleeveless, skin-tight matching jersey top. The outfit was relentlessly casual and unpretentious—why change horses in midstream?—the colour so muted as to appear drab. She somehow managed to avoid being washed out, however, for its dull severity made her tanned skin even more vibrant, her eyes sparkle with dark brilliance, and brought out the red and gold highlights of her glossy, unbound chestnut mane. ‘

  She was in good company. Quite a few people were dressed, her parents among them, but a good portion of the rough-and—tumble crew were in jeans.

  So was Adam.

  The sight of him woke her up. He was hard, angled, his dark head a vintage wine, his hands resting negligently on slim hips. He was the only person in the entire world, as he stood listening to something Sally said to him, his handsome face creased with laughter. He was Virile, and beautifully relaxed, and scintillating with the minimum of lazy effort, his elegant mouth smiling, his winter-grey eyes bright with amusement. He was a picture of success and unconcern, and a powerful blow to her mid-section. She looked at him,and knew a ferocious empty ache inside her, and an incredulity that she had ever been passionately intimate with those hands, those eyes, that mouth.

  As it happened, he was only staying for an hour.

  Adam glanced around, caught sight of her, and his face lit up. She discounted the sight without even conscious thought, a living, breathing casualty to too many cooing Hollywood reunions, but when he broke off from talking to Sally in mid-sentence and strode quickly over to wrap her into a tight, rib-cracking hug that had to mean something, didn’t it‘?

  ‘God, it’s so good to see you,’ he said, his face in her hair and taking a deep breath as if it were the first one in his life. Her arms went around his waist, her head to his shoulder so naturally, so easily—that had to mean something too, didn’t it, if only she could figure out what it was…?

  And then he was making a mess of the whole thing, throwing her into yet another miserable state of confusion, as she heard him say with leaden regret, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come, but l had to see you even if it was only briefly. Darling, I’ve got to fly to London tonight-—something urgent has come up.

  ‘Something urgent?’ she parroted, her lovely eyes blank.

  Adam pulled back and cupped her face in his hands, such a searingly familiar gesture. His gaze was probing, deadly serious, impacting with laser-focused intensity upon her soul.

  ‘Quite a matter of life and death, I think,’ he murmured in sober reply, his thumb caressing her lower lip.

  ‘Things should be concluded quickly now, at any rate, and I hope I’ll see you soon.’

  She listened, because he seemed to be saying something that was vitally important to him, but she wasn’t sure she got the point. The b
rief time he was with them was over in a heartbreaking beat, an eye-blink, and she was left to return to her numb, distant dream.

  “The numbness came to an excruciating end on Sunday morning. It happened over coffee and a lazy browse through the paper.

  Sometimes one’s past came back to haunt one. Sometimes one’s past came back to haunt other people. Witness Adam’s upset at the traumas and disappointments she’d experienced; witness her reaction to the large black and white photograph in the entertainment section, of him in the arms of his whatsit in London.

  CHAPTER TEN

  YVONNE took one look at the photograph and detonated with a shriek of discovery and rage.

  The discovery was because the dreadful shock opened her eyes at last to the truth of how she felt about Adam, and the truth was appallingly huge, more vast than anything she’d ever felt before.

  No wonder she’d been so insistent from the earliest point that she wouldn’t be changed, she wouldn’t make love to him, she wouldn’t fall in love. That had been her common sense tapping her on the shoulder and telling her that she’d better beware, or she’d be in over her head before she knew it. Well, she made a hell of prophet, if only she’d taken heed. She’d tripped in massive style, fallen deep and far and flat on her face in love with him.

  She loved him—dear God she loved him. Her head said it over and over again in astonished litany. Always known for the longevity of her emotions, an expert at recognising the symptoms, she knew that the suddenness of her realisation had no part in capricious whim but was a stern, bedrock acknowledgement of the consequences of a slow-building disease. She loved him, she was in love with him. The bonding had taken such firm root in her soul that to try to excavate it now would be fatal.

  The rage, after that discovery—well, it was self-explanatory. She explained it to herself, practically gnashing her teeth with the violence rocketing through her. She explained it to her family, all of whom had come running in terror as her bellow almost blew out all the windows in the house.