Crimson Kiss

by Trisha Baker

  This can't be real, Maggie thought hazily when Simon entered her again and she felt the deep pleasure and half-terrifying, half-wonderful pain reclaim her. There couldn't really be a driving stranger with burning gold eyes possessing her like a wild, wonderful storm. It just couldn't be happening; it had to be a dream was Maggie's last coherent thought before she collapsed against the pillows, unconscious.

  * * *

  CHAPTER THREE

  « ^ »

  Bridie came home around nine A.M., feeling exhausted and irritable. She thought she heard retching sounds coming from the bathroom. "Maggie, are you okay?" When she didn't get any response, she hurried over to the bathroom.

  Maggie, dressed in a ragged white cotton nightgown, was crouched beside the toilet, trying to hold her hair back while she vomited. Bridie got a washcloth from the hall closet, and started running it under the cold water in the bathroom.

  "When did you start feeling sick?" she asked Maggie.

  Maggie was still retching. Finally she pushed herself back and looked up. Bridie gasped in shock at her friend's appearance. Maggie was terribly pale, and she had purple circles under her eyes.

  "I look that bad?" Maggie croaked, her voice hoarse after hours of vomiting. Bridie noticed that Maggie had her arms wrapped around herself tightly—like she was trying to keep warm. She was also sweating.

  Bridie reached down and put the cold cloth on her friend's forehead. "When did you start feeling sick?" Bridie watched in alarm as Maggie started vomiting again.

  Oh, God, Maggie thought, when is this going to stop?

  Her throat was on fire, and her ribs ached. And her head—she'd never had such a skull-splitting headache; it hurt to think, to keep her eyes open. But the worst was the cold—she felt like she'd never be warm again.

  When Maggie was done, she answered Bridie's question. "I don't know. I woke up around six, I think, and I felt so nauseous. I barely made it to the bathroom… and I've been here since then."

  "You've been vomiting like this for the past three hours?" Bridie didn't like that. If Maggie didn't stop soon, she was likely to get dehydrated. She reached into the medicine cabinet for the thermometer, and stuck it in Maggie's mouth. "I want to get your temperature. I'll be right back." Bridie went into the kitchen and filled the huge soup pot with some water on the bottom. Then she placed the pot by Maggie's bed.

  Maggie was still shivering, and her skin was cold and clammy to the touch. Bridie thought her friend simply had a bad stomach virus. She took the thermometer out of her mouth. "One hundred two degrees! Come on, I'm going to run a bath. We need to get that temperature down."

  Bridie began running a lukewarm bath for her friend. She handed Maggie two aspirin with a glass of water to cut the fever down. Maggie swallowed the aspirin, and immediately vomited them up. She began gulping the water thirstily. "Hey, drink that slowly—no use having it come back up," Bridie cautioned.

  Maggie sipped while the tub was filling up. Cold water seemed to be the only tiling she wanted.

  When Maggie came out of the tub, Bridie gave her a quick alcohol rub, then handed her a towel and a fresh nightgown. "Why don't you try to get some rest now?"

  Maggie had to lean heavily on Bridie to manage the short distance from the bathroom to the bedroom. "Why are you limping?"

  "My left leg hurts," Maggie replied. "I think I was lying down on it in the bathroom."

  Once Maggie was settled in bed, Bridie took her temperature again. "One hundred… that's a little better. I'm going to get some more aspirin. See if you can keep them down this time."

  Bridie brought the aspirin along with a glass of ginger ale. This time, Maggie managed to keep the aspirin down. Now all she wanted to do was sleep; she'd never been so tired.

  "Bridie?" she asked sleepily.

  "What?"

  "Can you pull down the shade. The light is bothering me."

  Bridie looked outside. It was actually an overcast day. But she knew that anything could bother people when they were sick. "Did you start feeling sick at the party?"

  "What party?" Maggie muttered before she fell into an exhausted sleep.

  When Maggie woke up, she felt much better. It was almost like she hadn't been sick. She looked at the clock on the nightstand—six P.M.! "Bridie, why did you let me sleep so late? Now the whole day is gone."

  Bridie came into the bedroom, thermometer in hand. "Obviously, you needed the rest. Now let me see your temperature."

  "But I'm fine now," Maggie protested.

  "Who's the nurse here? You or me? I'll tell you if you're fine or not." Truthfully, she thought Maggie looked a lot better. Those awful circles were gone; she was just a little pale.

  Bridie took the thermometer out. "Normal. I guess it was a twenty-four-hour bug of some kind. You think you got it at the party?"

  "Party?"

  Bridie rolled her eyes. "That's the second time you've said that. Come on, Maggie, the party last night at Pauline's. How was it?"

  Maggie frowned. The last thing she remembered from last night was the butler opening the door for her; everything else was a blank. The fever must have really scrambled her brains. "Okay, I guess."

  "Just okay?"

  Maggie shrugged noncommitally, and got out of bed. "Can I shower, Nurse?"

  "Sure, it's a good idea. Your dad's coming over. He said he got us some steaks off the black market."

  Maggie's stomach started growling at the thought of food; she was roaringly hungry. When was the last time she'd eaten?

  When she came out of the shower, she threw on a brown knitted-wool sweater and a black box-pleated skirt that was knee-length. She wasn't going to bother with a slip or socks; it was only her father coming over. She pulled her hair back from her face with a black ribbon.

  "Did Johnny call today?" she asked Bridie.

  "Not yet," she replied as the doorbell rang.

  Maggie's father, Jack O'Neill, was a huge bear of a man. He boasted a shock of white hair and startling green eyes that he'd passed on to his daughter. He gave Maggie a quick hug, and shoved a large brown paper bag into her hands. "Here, go broil these beauties. And how about a highball? How are you, Bridie?"

  "Great, Mr. O'Neill. Maggie, I'll get your dad a drink; you can wash the meat."

  "Okay." Maggie took the bag into the kitchen, cut the string on the butcher's bag, and stared at the three large steaks lying in a pool of congealed blood.

  She turned the water on in the kitchen sink and started to put the meat underneath it Then she was seized by a bizarre urge when she looked at the blood. I can't do that, she thought, but it was nearly a compulsion.

  She glanced out of the kitchen to see if Bridie was coming yet. Then she went back to the meat and quickly lapped the excess blood from the bag and the raw meat. It gave her a turn of disgust, but she couldn't stop herself. When she heard Bridie walking toward the kitchen, she hurriedly wiped her mouth and washed the meat with water.

  Bridie got out the broiling pan. "Are they ready?"

  "Here." Maggie put them in the pan.

  Bridie put the pan in the broiler, then looked at Maggie. "You must be feeling a lot better. You've got some color back in your cheeks."

  "Thanks." Maggie did feel better, but she couldn't understand why she'd wanted to drink that yucky, congealed blood. If she were married, she would've thought she was pregnant. Oh, well, she told herself while she took some potatoes out of the Frigidaire, I guess everybody gets strange cravings from time to time.

  "Very good, Maggie," her father said approvingly after they were done eating. "It's about time you learned to make steak rare. I keep telling you that you destroy the vitamins when you cook it too long."

  "Thank you, Daddy."

  She and Bridie started clearing the table. "How's Johnny?" her father asked.

  "Not bad. You know he's up at Harvard this week—"

  "Yup, planning to move my little girl to Boston." He glanced at Bridie. "Maggie tell you her crazy plan?"


  "I don't know if 'crazy' is the word I would use, Mr. O'Neill," Bridie said diplomatically.

  Maggie removed the used tablecloth. "Daddy, there is nothing crazy about a woman being a psychoanalyst."

  "But that means going to medical school, doesn't it? Becoming a doctor?"

  "Yeah," she shouted from the kitchen. She and Bridie were doing the dishes together.

  Jack came into the kitchen. "But, honey, you hate the sight of blood. When you had to dissect that frog in high school, you fainted dead away." He asked Bridie, "Who wants a squeamish doctor?"

  "Daddy," Maggie said patiently, "I'm not going to be a GP. I'm going to be a psychiatrist. That means working with people's minds, not their bodies."

  "But how are you going to get through medical school? Don't they make you open up dead people?"

  Maggie paled at that thought. "Well, Johnny will help me. He wants to be a surgeon."

  "I'll believe it when I see it," Jack answered. "Why don't you make some coffee? I have some time to kill before I leave."

  "You have plans?"

  "A movie date." Jack grinned sheepishly, adding, "With Mrs. Moore."

  Maggie smiled. Mrs. Moore had been widowed a year. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

  "Don't be fresh," he replied, laughing. "I think I'll go see if there's any news." He went back into the living room and turned on the radio.

  "He's right," Bridie remarked.

  "Who's right?" Maggie asked. "About what?"

  "About you and med school, Miss The-Sight-of-Blood-Turns-My-Stomach." Bridie raised an eyebrow, splashing Maggie with the soapy water in the sink. "Or were you planning on me coming with you—and doing all the science work like I did all your homework for you?"

  Maggie rolled her eyes, splashing Bridie back. "Listen to Miss High-and-Mighty. Or maybe you've forgotten all the English papers and history papers I wrote for you?"

  "That was nothing."

  "Ha!" Maggie replied. "You'd still be in high school if it weren't for me."

  "Oh, would I?" Bridie made a huge splash, and managed to soak the right side of Maggie's hair.

  Maggie responded by dumping a cup of water right on top of Bridie's head.

  Both girls were laughing so hard they could barely stand up. Bridie brandished the broiling pan full of water threateningly when the doorbell rang.

  "Are you expecting anyone?" Maggie gasped.

  "No," Bridie replied, giggling. "It's probably Old Lady Scanlon complaining that we're making too much noise. It's your turn to deal with her."

  "I'm going, I'm going." Maggie was still laughing when she opened the door to Simon Baldevar.

  Holy Mother, she had gone to bed with this man! Maggie thought the fever would have to give her brain damage to forget something like that. The memories of last night were putting her in a state that went far beyond shock—it had never occurred to Maggie that she would lose her virginity before her wedding night. Why, she was no better than a whore to sleep with a man she hardly knew. She couldn't even bring herself to look him in the eye.

  "Hello, Meghann," he said in that low purr that made her knees weak.

  As she stared at him, she realized he was much taller than she had thought last night. Without her heels on, she barely came up to his shoulder. The matter of heels reminded Maggie that she was standing in front of him barefoot, with no makeup, and dish soap dotting in her hair. I must look like a hag, she thought.

  She guessed Simon didn't mind her appearance because he leaned down to kiss her. She backed away, and told him, "My father's here."

  On cue, Jack O'Neill came to the door. He gave Simon the same menacing stare he'd given everyone she ever went out with. "Who's your friend?" he growled at Maggie. Bridie, who had come out of the kitchen, looked greatly interested in an introduction too.

  Simon introduced himself since Maggie had lost the power of speech. "I am Lord Simon Baldevar. I came over to thank your daughter for showing me the town last night." He extended his hand to Jack.

  Pointedly ignoring the hand, Jack kept his thundery gaze on Maggie. Her red face had not escaped his notice. "Exactly what did you show him, Meghann Katherine O'Neill?"

  "The ferry," she replied weakly.

  Always a good friend, Bridie came to Maggie's rescue. "I need help with these dishes."

  Maggie leaped at any excuse to escape her father's gaze. "Sure, be right there. Uh, excuse me," she said to Simon. "Please come inside." She dashed for the kitchen before her father could say anything.

  "I guess you should come in," she heard Jack say grudgingly to Simon. "So where did you meet my little girl? Did she tell you she's got a brother on the force?"

  In the kitchen, Maggie started wiping the soap out of her hair, and Bridie dried her own damp hair. "Maggie, you rat! How could you meet a gorgeous fellow like that and not tell me? Where did you find him? What about Johnny? Does he have a brother?"

  "I met him at Pauline's, and he hasn't told me whether he has siblings."

  "And I thought the party was just okay," Bridie said sarcastically. "Fink! Tell me everything."

  "Nothing to tell," Maggie muttered, looking at the floor.

  "Ha! I saw the way he looked at you—and so did your dad. And what was that business about the ferry? Now talk."

  Maggie gave her friend a fairly truthful version of the events of the previous night—only leaving out the fact that they'd gone to bed together. Bridie was her best friend, but Maggie didn't intend to tell anyone, not even the priest at confession, about that.

  "So what about Johnny? And why is he here?"

  "I don't know why he's here. And I don't know about Johnny either. Oh, my God, the coffee!" Maggie managed to save it from being overboiled.

  "Maggie," her father bellowed from the living room, "get in here!"

  Oh, God, what's happened now? She didn't think Simon would tell her father anything, but he could have guessed…

  Maggie rushed back into the living room, with Bridie behind her, and could not believe her eyes. Her father, who had never liked anyone she brought home, who despised the English, was happily chatting away with Simon. He had even offered him one of his cigars.

  "Jesus, Maggie," Jack scolded, "you have a guest and you disappear into the kitchen? This fellow is gonna think I never taught you any manners. Why don't you get out that cognac I gave you girls for Christmas? You do have snifter glasses, don't you?"

  "Actually, we prefer to drink it with a straw in the bottle." Maggie went to the bureau in the living room for the glasses.

  "Always with that fresh mouth. Why don't you show your new friend your knuckles—how often the nuns rapped you for your wise remarks?"

  While Bridie and Maggie brought out the coffee, liquor, and utensils, Jack continued with his embarrassing tales of Maggie's childhood. If he didn't happen to be her father and outweigh her by a hundred pounds, she could have cheerfully strangled him.

  "I swear," he told Simon, "almost every day the nuns whacked her for her mouth."

  "The nuns hit everybody every day," she interjected.

  "I have never cared for nuns," Simon put in, smiling at Maggie in sympathy.

  "Neither did Maggie," Bridie said. "That's why she got in so much trouble."

  Maggie glared at Bridie, and poured the cognac for her father and Simon. "I don't recall being alone when I got into trouble." She took a sip of cognac and began to choke.

  "Maggie!" Bridie started pounding on her back. "Are you okay?"

  "Fine," she rasped. "It was just too… strong. I guess I'm still a little under the weather."

  "You don't feel well?" Simon asked.

  "I was sick before, but I'm a lot better now."

  "I'm glad." He smiled at her.

  At least we're off the subject of my childhood, Maggie thought. She let her father and Bridie do most of the talking. Bridie had asked her why Simon was there, but Maggie had no idea. She had eavesdropped on enough of her brothers' conversations to know that there were always gir
ls around who "gave in." But you didn't visit those girls and talk with their parents. Had he come over because he expected her to sleep with him again? He was obviously rich; maybe he was going to ask her to be his mistress. Well, she would certainly set him straight if he did. Last night was just a mistake.

  As Maggie started following the conversation, something bothered her. Her father and Bridie… It was so odd, but they almost seemed controlled. Jack especially—he never was so warm to any of her boyfriends, but he was treating Simon like a favorite son. Maggie had the strange feeling that they were characters in a play… doing exactly as they were told. But who had written the script?

  She kept quiet, unable to get last night out of her head. How could she have done such dirty things? Nice people didn't do stuff like that; she was sure of it. Then she looked over at Simon—his strong, muscled body, his compelling eyes—and she wanted more than anything to do every single one of those things again.

  Simon caught her stare and smiled softly. Unless she was mistaken, he was thinking about last night too.

  Jack caught the looks his daughter was giving her new friend. It made him uncomfortable, and then he understood why. She didn't look like his little girl when she looked at Simon Baldevar—she looked like a woman. And what have you been doing to make her look like that, he felt like asking the man. Then again, the fellow didn't seem to be just looking for a good time. If Jack wasn't mistaken, this rich lord seemed to be in love with Maggie. Well, he'd have to ask him what his intentions were.

  "Maggie, you should go do the coffee dishes before they dry up." That was not a suggestion. It was given in the tone she'd recognized since childhood as an ironclad command.

  Maggie raised her eyebrows at Bridie, and they vanished into the kitchen.

  "So what about Johnny?" was the first thing out of Bridie's mouth while they did the few dessert dishes.