No More Lonely Nights

by Nicole McGehee

  The second time, toward dawn, had been more leisurely. Clay had moved with hypnotic deliberation, knowing exactly where to touch, how to arouse the soft skin on the insides of her arms and thighs, the back of her neck, the soles of her feet. His strokes were fluid, almost silky, as he trailed his hand from her nipples to her waist, then lower. Dominique was hardly aware of their bodies shifting, of Clay entering her. It all seemed to glide, flow, come together like the crescendo of a masterfully composed symphony. What moved Dominique most were his words of endearment—words that made her feel bound to him—truly married. Whereas Stephen had been reticent, Clay’s emotions overflowed. And Dominique, naturally discreet like Stephen, was freed by Clay. Again and again, she told him of her love, and he never tired of hearing it. “Do you love me?” he would ask. And she would tell him so once more, for she never tired of saying it. Not once did she have second thoughts about her rushed marriage. Clay was the kind of man women fantasized about. This, the kind of marriage she had always hoped to have. The bad experience of Dominique’s first marriage seemed a hazy nightmare.

  Clay’s brandied drawl broke into her reverie. “Happy?” he asked.

  Dominique gave her husband a smile of elation, her expression transmitting all that was necessary.

  Clay looked satisfied. “Wait till you see our place at the Waldorf Towers. It’s really something.”

  Dominique gave him a look of inquiry. “I thought we’d go back to my place. I’ve paid until the end of the month.”

  Clay waved his hand in a nonchalant gesture of dismissal. “Believe me, you’ll like the company apartment much better.”

  Dominique was suddenly self-conscious as she thought of the contrast between her modest apartment and the kind of living quarters to which Clay was accustomed. Of course, he would prefer the Waldorf. Once upon a time, a simple little place like hers would have seemed totally foreign to her. Well, Clay had had much the same upbringing— with none of the hardship. She would have to re-accustom herself to his way of thinking, she realized. Still, her apartment was cheerful and cozy—she’d been happy there. Dominique wasn’t sorry that she appreciated things on a more humble scale now.

  “Anyhow,” Clay continued, “we’ll only be here two weeks.” He smiled at Dominique. “Just enough to plan the perfect honeymoon.”

  At Clay’s reference to two weeks, Dominique thought of Orman’s. She felt guilty about the prospect of only giving them two weeks notice, but she reminded herself that Maude had done no more following her sudden marriage to Bruce Fisher. In any event, Dominique was lucky that Clay had respected her wish to serve out the notice period. Many husbands, she knew, would have insisted that their wives leave immediately.

  The next evening, Dominique returned to the apartment at the Waldorf bursting with jubilation. She couldn’t wait to share her news with Clay! It was too good to be true! She fumbled with the long brass key, then, finally, threw open the apartment door. For a moment she hesitated in the foyer, a gleaming oval of parquet and Grecian columns. Then she heard sounds coming from the living room.

  “Clay!” she called. She hurried into the formal salon draped with yellow and celadon silk.

  Her breath caught as her husband turned to face her. He was so handsome! He stood before a brass bar cart, a martini shaker in his hand. She saw his expression brighten as his eyes found hers. He put down the shaker and fixed his attention entirely on Dominique, a smile expanding across his face.

  She hurried across the Aubusson rug to his side. “You’ll never guess what happened today!” she said excitedly.

  Clay put his index finger to his chin and jokingly furrowed his brow. “Hmmm.… A talent agent spotted you walking down Fifth Avenue and said, ‘You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Come to Hollywood and I’ll make you a star!’”

  Dominique crossed her arms in mock exasperation. “Almost! Guess again.” She laughed at the silliness of their game.

  Clay’s eyes sparkled. “We’re going to have a baby!”

  “Too soon to tell.” Dominique’s tone was lighthearted, but she most definitely was not ready for pregnancy. Her diaphragm was the first thing she’d retrieved from her apartment the day before.

  Dominique stood on tiptoe for a kiss. She wanted to tell Clay her news, but wanted even more to kiss him. Closing her eyes, she savored his nearness—the fresh starch of his shirt, the aroma of his cologne. She buried her fingers in his hair and pulled him to her. Her nerves tingled as their embrace grew more fervent. The urge to sink down on the couch and make love with him was strong. For a moment, she forgot her news. But when he reached for the buttons on her suit, she stopped him with her hand.

  “Wait!” she said breathlessly. “I have something to tell you.”

  “It can wait,” Clay murmured, reaching once more for the buttons.

  Dominique stepped back. “No, really…” she said gently.

  Annoyance flitted across Clay’s face. Then he composed his features into a look of expectation.

  Dominique smiled. “I told Bruce about us today—”

  Clay nodded, a little impatiently. “That was the plan.”

  “—and that we’d be moving to New Orleans…”

  “Ye-e-es.” Clay’s tone prodded her to continue.

  Dominique drew herself up. “Well,” she said proudly, “he says I’m too valuable to let go.”

  Clay looked blankly at her. “I’m not sure I understand,” he said in an unreadable monotone.

  Dominique couldn’t help laughing. “He offered me a job in the New Orleans store!” she crowed, throwing up her hands in victory. “A better job than I have now. They don’t even have an event department per se, and he wants me to start one! Can you believe it?” she gushed. “Of course, I’ll get a raise, even though the cost of living in New Orleans is less. And I’ll have my own office and a title. He says he wants to start an event planning department in all the branches. Sales really jump after each event.”

  Clay stared at Dominique, his expression neutral. Then, abruptly, he turned his back to her and went to the bar cart. He poured the martini into two glasses and took a sip before he turned and offered her the other glass. “Sit down, please,” he said sharply.

  Dominique’s smile faded as she automatically took the proffered drink. She tilted her head and studied her husband’s face with a questioning expression, but he avoided her eyes as he sat on the ivory brocade sofa.

  Dominique sat beside him, nervous tension twisting her stomach. She took a sip of her drink and grimaced. It tasted metallic, unwelcoming. She put it down on the coffee table.

  Clay said quietly, “You sound as though you’ve already told Bruce yes.”

  Dominique looked at him incredulously. “I’d be crazy not to! It’s a wonderful opportunity.”

  “Did it ever occur to you to discuss it with me first?”

  No, it hadn’t. When was the last time she’d consulted anyone about a decision? Everyone she had counted on had, in some way, disappointed her. Perhaps she had once expected too much, but she now expected nothing. She’d been through too much alone. But how could she say such a thing to Clay? He was her husband. Not a husband like Anton, but one who loved her. She had been thoughtless, she realized, not to at least talk over the decision with him. It wasn’t unreasonable of him to expect that.

  Dominique took his hands in hers. “Clay, I’m so sorry,” she said fervently. “I’ve always been independent. And now that I’ve been living on my own, well… can you understand why I didn’t think about asking you?”

  Clay looked a little mollified, but his tone was sulky when he said, “Women down home don’t work after they’re married, Dominique. Not if they don’t need to. To be blunt, the ones who work before they’re married are just looking for husbands.”

  Dominique smiled. “It’s not so different up here, Clay. I mean, there are a few career women at Orman’s, but most quit when they get married.” She paused, thinking for a moment about her life in Cai
ro. Never would a married European woman have worked. And the rare Arab wife who worked either served as a domestic or helped her husband in a small business. And yet, Dominique had grown used to working. She liked the sense of accomplishment it gave her. She couldn’t imagine the kind of leisured existence for which she had been raised.

  When she had a child, that would be another story. She didn’t want to make the same mistakes as Solange, and one of the prime ones, she believed, had been Solange’s reliance on Nanny to raise her children. It had created an emotional distance that Dominique was determined not to suffer when she became a mother. But that was a long way in the future.

  Dominique gave her husband a look of appeal. “Clay, I love my job. And when Bruce offered me the position in New Orleans, it seemed so exciting that I didn’t think.” She looked up at him appealingly. “There’s no reason not to take it, is there? I promise to quit if I get pregnant.” Which she wouldn’t any time soon, she added silently.

  Clay pulled his hands from hers and stood up. He walked to the bar cart and refilled his glass.

  Dominique watched him anxiously. He remained with his back to her, taking what seemed like a long time to garnish his drink, stir it, taste it. Dominique wished he would turn around, say something. What would she do if he opposed her working? Would she defy his wishes? The thought was distressing. Dominique couldn’t imagine a conflict of that magnitude so early in the marriage. But what an opportunity Bruce was offering! Her own event department. The liberty to let her imagination run wild, to conquer a new market. It would be fun and, at the same time, challenging. She couldn’t give up a chance like that. She had to make Clay understand.

  All at once, a new idea occurred to Dominique. “Clay!” her voice rang with enthusiasm. “If I took this job, we’d be able to afford that house in the Garden District!”

  Clay swung around to face her, his face a study in irritation. “You’re missing the point!” he said. “If you work, everyone will think I can’t provide for us.”

  Dominique stood up and came toward him. “Not if we present it right…” She refused to let him quash her excitement. “I’m just being transferred down from New York. It’s not like I married you, then found a job. Besides, it’s obvious that my job is fun. I imagine a lot of women will be jealous of me!” She put her hand on his arm for emphasis, willing him to see things her way.

  Clay met her gaze unsmilingly, but he didn’t contradict her.

  She could convince him! “Think of it,” she said in a dreamy voice. “You told me this weekend that it would be at least a couple of years before we could afford a place in the Garden District. This way, we wouldn’t have to wait.”

  For a second, Clay seemed to catch her enthusiasm. His face brightened at her words. Then his mood changed. He averted his gaze to a point over Dominique’s shoulder and his face turned grim. “I can just imagine what Father’ll say about it if I let you work.” He rubbed his hand over his chin. “I’m still trying to think of a way to tell him I’m married.”

  Dominique’s eyes widened in alarm. “You have to tell him right away! What if he were to find out from someone else?”

  Clay shook his head. “I know, I know. That would be bad.”

  Dominique’s temper flared. Clay’s father sounded like a tyrant! Couldn’t Clay do anything without being criticized? Well, she’d be damned if she’d live her life to please her father-in-law! Clay had to stand up to him. Tell him he’d married. As for Dominique’s work, that was none of her father-in-law’s business. Why was Clay so apprehensive? But as soon as the question occurred to her, the answer followed. Money, of course. It always came down to that. Well, all the more reason for Dominique to work. At least they wouldn’t depend on Clay’s father for their entire livelihood.

  Dominique tilted her chin up and said, “As far is work is concerned, Clay, I’m not sure it’s a question of ‘letting’ me do anything. I mean, we’re both adults, aren’t we? Just tell your father that I want to work. If he thinks the worse of you for it, so what? He’s not going to fire you. Besides,” she took a step toward him and put her hands on his chest. She looked up at him, her face full of love. “I think you’re wonderful. And no matter what your father believes, I’ll always think you’re wonderful.”

  She shrugged and assumed an expression of deliberate nonchalance. “You know, sometimes parents just won’t let you please them. Who knows why?” She sighed. “You have to learn to accept it.” She wrapped her arms around Clay’s waist. “And then someone comes along who loves you and has faith in you and recognizes how wonderful you are.” Dominique laid her head against her husband’s chest and pressed herself against him. “And suddenly you realize that your parents don’t have as much power over you as you thought.” She lifted her head and looked up at him.

  Clay stared down at her, absorbed by what she was saying.

  Dominique smiled softly. “And even though you still love them, they can’t hurt you like they once could.”

  Two nights later, Dominique had to again confront the problem of parents, only this time, she had to contend with Solange. It was all very well to assure Clay that parental approval wasn’t necessary, but it certainly made life more pleasant, Dominique acknowledged to herself. Would Solange like Clay? She hadn’t been thrilled that he was American, but she hadn’t protested as much as Dominique had expected, perhaps because of the disaster with Anton.

  Solange’s main concern was Clay’s lack of personal wealth. “You say he hasn’t any money of his own?”

  “He has to work for a living, Mother, like almost everyone in America. But he’ll inherit his father’s business one day.”

  “Hmmm.” Solange’s tone implied that anything could happen.

  On the plus side, Dominique knew that Solange would be susceptible to Clay’s good manners and looks. She tried to reassure herself with that thought as she walked through the apartment, checking nervously to see that everything was in place. Of course, it was—the hotel staff saw to that. The table in front of the living room windows was beautifully laid for five. Wine was cooling in the ice bucket. Fresh roses in the foyer gave off a delicate perfume.

  Dominique turned to the long mirror that graced the entrance and smoothed her navy silk sheath. She knew that its sophisticated lines made her look older than her twenty-two years—twenty-three in less than a month—and she was glad of it. Solange sometimes had difficulty treating Dominique like a responsible adult.

  The trill of the doorbell startled Dominique. She glanced worriedly at her watch. Only five-thirty! Solange and Danielle weren’t due for another half hour; Ron and Clay not until six-thirty, for they were coming straight from their respective offices.

  Dominique smiled at her attack of nerves. Of course, it had to be one of the hotel staff, for who else could have passed the reception desk unannounced? She crossed the gleaming floor and opened the door. A tall, distinguished-looking white-haired man filled the space. Instinctively, Dominique took a step back.

  As the man moved past her and into the foyer, Dominique stood frozen with her hand on the doorknob, vacillating between incredulity and outrage. The man, exuding glossy arrogance, pivoted to face her and said, “Clay Parker.” His deep voice seemed to echo through the high-ceilinged foyer.

  Dominique, still holding the door open, said coldly, “I’m sorry. He’s not in at the moment.”

  The man’s thin lips twitched. “You don’t understand.” He paused. “I’m Clay Parker.”

  Dominique’s grip on the doorknob tightened. Sweat prickled at her underarms. For a moment, she was speechless. The man swept her with a regard of steely assessment.

  Dominique’s spine stiffened. She looked her father-in-law directly in the eye and held out her hand. “How do you do?” she said with deliberate politeness. “I’m Dominique Parker.”

  For a second, he hesitated. Then his calculating gaze was replaced by a wide, practiced smile. With forced bonhomie, he took her hand and said, “Delighted.”


  Dominique closed her fingers around his with a firm grip. He released her hand first. Dominique turned and closed the apartment door. She took a deep breath, then faced her father-in-law. Best to be direct, she decided. “I assume you’ve heard the news,” she said.

  Parker’s smile collapsed. For only a second, he looked grim. Then he compressed his lips and turned them up at the corners in the sort of bland non-expression seen in expert poker players. “I don’t think we should discuss this standing here in the hallway, do you?” he said softly. He touched Dominique’s elbow briefly, then let his hand fall to his side. “I believe they keep a stock of my favorite bourbon on hand.”

  Point taken, Dominique thought. Again, she decided to meet his thrusts head-on. “If you’d prefer to have the apartment to yourself, sir, Clay and I can easily go back to my place,” she said smoothly. “We’re leaving next week for our honeymoon, anyhow.”

  Parker raised his hands in a gesture of protest. “I wouldn’t think of inconveniencing you young people,” he said heartily.

  When they reached the living room, Parker went immediately to the bar cart and fixed his drink. “Get something for you?” he asked Dominique, a pair of tongs poised above the ice bucket.

  Dominique smiled and sat down on the sofa. “No, thank you.” She watched him carefully as he turned back to the cart. Like Clay, he had a presence that filled the room. But unlike Clay, his power had nothing to do with looks and everything to do with authority. From his Roman nose to his self-assured stride, Clay Parker III bespoke majestic, resolute autocracy.

  “Now then.” He turned and came toward Dominique. “We can have a little talk.”

  “That would be delightful,” Dominique said with studied innocence. She crossed her legs and saw Parker’s eyes flicker toward them.

  He cleared his throat and quickly looked away as he sank into one of the large armchairs that flanked the sofa.

  Dominique dropped her eyelids so he would not see her knowing glance. In that moment, she became absolutely convinced that he was regularly unfaithful to his wife. Probably the sort of man who considered it his droit de seigneur to have one or more mistresses. Without looking at him, she uncrossed her legs and pulled her skirt down over her knees. Then she raised her eyes to Parker’s.