by Anne Weale
The feel of his cheeks and chin, not bristly but unmistakably male, as he moulded her breasts with his palms and nuzzled the valley between them, made her wrap her arms round his head, wanting to hold him there forever.
Then his thumbs circled in a caress which made her breath catch in her throat as new pangs of delight zigzagged through her. Seconds later, without knowing how it happened, her hands were clasping her own head and she was arching her spine, not knowing which was more exquisite, the sensuous touch of his fingers on one breast or the hot, hungry pressure of his mouth on the other.
When his hands wandered down her body, tracing the lines of her ribs and exploring the softness of her belly, she was beyond caution. Nothing mattered but these rapturous feelings and the need to experience, at long last, the ultimate ecstasy of all.
As she lay there, throbbing, in his arms, his hand reached the thicket of curls at the top of her pulsating thighs.
'No...' she murmured. 'No... please...'
It was only a token protest and he knew it. The strong, sure fingers continued their gentle, determined exploration while she held her breath and waited, helpless with longing...
At first, when the telephone rang, she didn't recognise the sound. It was merely an intrusive noise like a strident alarm clock breaking into a dream. And, as if in a beautiful dream, she resisted waking up.
But the jarring sound went on and on until finally, with a smothered curse of exasperation, James stopped making love to her and heaved himself up from the sofa. He staggered across the room as if he were drunk, or abruptly roused from a deep sleep so that he scarcely knew where he was or what he was doing.
That was how she felt herself. Intoxicated... dazed... disoriented. She had had no idea that a man's hands and lips on her body could kindle such wild, wanton feelings.
He picked up the receiver. Instead of the usual incisive 'Gardiner speaking', he said, hoarsely and angrily, 'Who is it?'
If the caller didn't get the message that they had chosen a bad time to call, they had to be extraordinarily dense.
'Oh... Santerre. What do you want?'
That it was Raoul on the other end of the line was like a douche of cold water on Summer's flushed face and warm, swollen, tender-tipped breasts. In a flash she recovered her wits and realised how nearly her senses, and James's expert knowledge of how to arouse them, had made her make a fool of herself.
Her sprawled posture, her dishevelled clothing, all the tell-tale signs of her almost total abandonment suddenly filled her with revulsion.
As James said, 'You needn't have called. She's not ill—it's only a headache. By tomorrow morning she'll be fine,' she sprang from the sofa and ran, as if from a rapist.
Although he had had his back to her, she expected him to swing round, drop the receiver and come after her. If he had, she would never have made it to the safety of her bedroom.
But as she tore across the living room, she heard him say something else, replace the receiver and then discover her flight. It gave her just enough time to reach her own room and turn the key in the lock before he crashed against the outer side of the door.
Had it been like most modern doors it would have burst open. But all the doors in the apartment were made of strong solid wood with high quality hinges and fittings. It resisted the impact of his shoulder better than she had resisted his gentler onslaught on her body, and evidently he was not so far gone in lust as to vent his frustration in ways which might bring José and Victoria to see what was going on.
'Open this door!' she heard him demand, in a low, furious voice.
'No... please go away.'
For a long time, clutching her dress, trembling with self-disgust, she waited to be sure he had gone. At last, far down the hall, she heard another door close. Only then did she collapse on her bed and burst into tears.
She was roused by an insistent noise which, after a moment or two, she recognised as Victoria's way of tapping on a door.
Realising that she must have overslept, she glanced at the clock on her night table and saw that it had gone eleven. She was late for breakfast by three hours!
Hurriedly scrambling out of bed, she called, 'I'm coming,' and hastened to unlock the door.
When she opened it, she found the stout Spanish woman waiting outside with a breakfast tray.
'Meester Gardiner tell me not to disturb you before eleven,' said Victoria, entering the bedroom. 'You had late night at party—yes? You had a good time?'
'Er... yes... very, thank you.' She climbed back into bed and tried to look pleased at being presented with a three-course breakfast attractively arranged on a wicker tray with short legs at either end.
Green and white porcelain... a green linen tray-cloth and napkin... a white rosebud in a crystal bud vase... butter in dewy curls... the fragrance of hot bread rolls emanating from a covered basket— Victoria had been at pains to make Summer's breakfast in bed an enjoyable indulgence.
'Be careful—this plate is very hot,' the maid warned, indicating a plate with a silver lid concealing whatever was on it.
'Has Mr Gardiner had breakfast?'
'Si, si—at his usual time. All the years José and I have worked for him, he has never stayed in bed later than seven.'
Summer picked up the fruit spoon and dipped it into a mixture of fresh grapefruit and pineapple. It was the only thing she felt like eating.
'Is he still in the apartment?'
'No, he went out about ten and he won't be back until this evening. What time you expect Mees Emily?'
'She should be here by two.'
It was a relief to know she had several hours' grace before she had to face James.
Victoria picked up the black dress flung carelessly over a chair, and she clicked her tongue in disapproval.
'You spoil your nice dress if you don't hang it up,' she remonstrated. 'And you not take your make-up off, I notice. You have black marks all round your eyes. That is bad for your skin—and also bad for the pillowcases. Mascara is hard to wash out.'
'I know. I'm sorry,' Summer said meekly.
She liked the outspoken little woman, but right now she wished Victoria would go away and leave her alone with her headache.
But in shaking out the crumpled dress, Victoria had discovered the broken shoulder-strap.
'Tsk, tsk—how this happen?'
'I... it came apart while I was dancing,' Summer said, feeling her face burn and hoping the maid wouldn't notice and suspect the truth.
Not that it would occur to her that the man who had made a pass at Summer had been their employer. Victoria was a practising Catholic who had been strictly brought up and didn't approve of the licence which girls had now. She would have been deeply shocked to discover what had happened in the living room last night.
'I'll mend it for you,' she said.
She enjoyed looking after clothes. For her own satisfaction she would take off machine-sewn buttons and replace them by hand. A silk shirt washed and pressed by her would look better than if it had been dry-cleaned.
'Thank you.' Summer watched her leave the room.
As soon as the door closed she stopped eating the fruit and sank back on her pillows to think about now, since this time yesterday, her world had been changed and disrupted and could never be the same again.
She had spent half the night thinking about it, which was why she had a headache and felt more like going back to sleep than getting up and making decisions.
One decision was already made. She had to leave. She couldn't possibly continue to live under James's roof and be paid by him. How could she go on working for a man who had tried and almost succeeded in seducing her? Last night had made her position impossible. She could never look at him without remembering her abandoned behaviour in his arms; the soft gasps and murmurs of pleasure which now made her cringe with shame.
Above all, he had given her a glimpse of the heaven they could have shared if he had been capable of loving her. To stay on, knowing what it
might have been like, would be an unendurable purgatory she knew she had to escape.
When, some time later, she took the tray to the kitchen, the dish under the cover and the bread basket were empty. To avoid making Victoria feel she had wasted her time, she had flushed the breakfast down the lavatory.
The Spanish woman said, 'I forgot to tell you: Mr Santerre, he called you this morning. He asked that you call him back when you wake up.'
'Did he say where he would be?'
Victoria produced a slip of paper. The number she had written down was Raoul's Fifth Avenue number. Summer went back to her room and telephoned him. After giving her name to the girl on the switchboard, she was put through to him immediately instead of having to speak to his secretary first.
'Are you feeling better?' he asked, in a tone of concern.
'I'm fine, Raoul, thank you. I hope you haven't been worried about the necklace. I should have taken it off before leaving last night.'
And perhaps avoided what happened after James took it off for me, she thought.
'It's in a safe,' she went on. 'I don't know the combination so I can't get it out until this evening when James comes in. He's not here at present.'
Thinking about the moment when she would have to look at him and speak to him made her inside churn with nerves.
'I have it on my desk,' Raoul answered. 'James delivered it in person soon after we opened. I didn't see him myself—he handed it over to the manager downstairs.'
'I see.' She wondered why he had put himself to that trouble instead of leaving it to Raoul to recover his property.
'Are you really better?' he asked. 'Well enough to have lunch with me? I must talk to you, Summer.'
'Yes, I want to talk to you, but I can't meet for lunch. I have to be here when Emily gets back about two.'
'Then have tea with me. I can't wait till this evening to see you. Let's meet at the Plaza at four-thirty. In the Palm Court.'
Assuming his impatience to see her was because he wanted to discuss the party, she agreed to this arrangement.
By two o'clock she had packed an overnight case, booked a room at the Barbizon on Lexington Avenue, and written a brief note to James.
In the circumstances, I prefer to leave immediately. I shall tell Emily we have had a serious disagreement.
'A disagreement? What about?' asked Emily, an hour later, after Summer had helped her to unpack and heard all about the trip to Bermuda.
'Specifically about my wearing a very valuable diamond necklace at the party last night. But that was really just the tip of the iceberg. We've both made an effort not to show it because of our affection for you, but the fact is that James and I have never really seen eye to eye. Last night our mutual antipathy came to the surface and... and we lost our tempers and said things which make it impossible for me to go on working for him.'
Emily looked baffled. 'I knew you didn't like each other at first, but I thought that was over ages ago. I—I thought you got on very well now. I was even beginning to think that one day you might get married and we'd be together forever,' she said, in a low voice.
Summer felt a lump in her throat. Striving to keep her tone level, she said gently, 'We can't be together forever because one day you will get married and who knows where that may take you? Back to England perhaps, or to the ends of the earth. But wherever we are we'll never lose touch with each other. We'll write and telephone and visit. I'm only moving out of this apartment—I'm not going far. Maybe to the other side of the Park, or down to SoHo... wherever I can find a place I like at a rent I can afford. We'll still see a lot of each other. You can help me to furnish my place.'
'But I'm not in New York all the time. What about Florida? What about Nantucket? You won't be there.'
'Well... no. But neither will you if you go to college. We were going to be separated then in any case. It's just happening sooner, that's all.'
Although she tried to speak cheerfully, the look on the younger girl's face made Summer feel sick at heart. This was all James's fault—damn him! If he hadn't lost his temper and behaved unpardonably, this sudden and premature severance need never have happened. Emily herself would have been the one to make the break.
'It must have been a terrible row if you can't say you're sorry and make it up. What did he say to you? What did you say to him?' the younger girl asked bewilderedly.
Summer flushed and avoided her gaze.
'I—I'd rather not discuss it. Anyway, as I've already said, the row was the culmination of frictions which, as you realise, have existed from the beginning. For a time we managed to keep them submerged, but no one can do that indefinitely. There was bound to be a clash sooner or later.'
'I can't understand it... why you don't like him, I mean. He's so nice, Summer... so are you. If I love you both, and you both love me, how can you not like each other?'
Summer sighed. 'It's one of those inexplicable things. Think of all the married couples who adore their children but find they can't live with each other and have to split up. James and I are just incompatible.'
'But he isn't with us very often,' Emily persisted. 'You're with me more than with him. Can't you put up with him for the short time he does spend with us? I don't want to be on my own till I go to college.'
'Probably, if I'm not around, James will try to spend more time at home; and I'm sure Mrs Rathbone will want to see more of you, too.'
'She's nice but she's old. I can't talk to her the way I can to you.'
'What you need is more friends of your own age.'
'No, I don't. I need you,' said Emily. 'Please, Summer—don't go away. James will cool down. So will you. If you only had this row last night, you're both still up in arms with each other. It's silly to act in haste or in a temper. You've often said so.'
The trouble was there was no way of making Emily understand the situation without telling her the truth—which was impossible.
She was too young and idealistic to understand the combination of factors which had triggered last night's débâcle. Summer herself had not understood it at first. Only after lying awake for several hours, her body tormented by unsatisfied desire and her mind in a ferment of angry confusion, had she begun to understand—although not with the forgiveness which understanding was supposed to induce.
It was her reluctant recognition of how much he had made her want him which had been the clue to comprehension. He had needed a woman—any woman. It might be that he hadn't had sex since ending the affair with Loretta. A long time for a man of such powerful animal vitality to live like a monk. Probably his sexual appetite had been gnawing away at him for days; a slow-burning fuse which he would have kept under control if it hadn't been for his outburst of anger and the contact with feminine flesh when he had had to unfasten the necklace for her. What had driven him to make love to her, she had realised, had been straightforward primeval lust; the fierce driving force which kept the human race going.
There was something immeasurably degrading in being made love to by a man who didn't want you, yourself, but only your female body. But it wasn't that she could never forgive. It was that he had made her a party to blind desire. She had wanted what had almost happened. If it hadn't been for Raoul's call, she would have permitted and welcomed James's possession of her. That was what she couldn't forgive. And, having done it once, he could do it again. He must know that. He might never act on the knowledge, but it would always be there in his eyes when he looked at her.
Once he had despised her for being a compulsive eater. Now he would despise her for being a pushover.
'I'm not acting in haste,' she said, in answer to Emily's last remark. 'Striking out on my own has been on the cards for a long time. Now it's been precipitated, that's all. It's come as a shock to you, I know. But try to take it in your stride. You must know how fond of you I am. I wouldn't hurt you for the world. But I have to leave... I just have to.'
Holding her hand at a secluded table in the Palm Court of the hotel which had b
een a Manhattan landmark for almost fifty years, Raoul said quietly, 'I want you to marry me, Summer. I've been thinking about it for some time. Suddenly, last night at the party, I was sure we were right for each other. Tell me you feel the same way. You do, don't you? Please say you do.'
His tone, his touch, his whole tenderly chivalrous manner were balm to her raw self-esteem. Her impulse was to say Yes. Yet somehow her lips wouldn't form the words he wanted to hear. Some deep, inexplicable instinct made her hesitate to commit herself.
'I—I don't know, Raoul,' she answered with a troubled sigh. 'I am very fond of you... I know that. But marriage is such a big step.' Suddenly, to her own surprise, she found herself adding, 'Perhaps... perhaps we should try living together for a while.'
He looked at her long and intently. It was difficult to gauge his reaction.
At length, he said, 'I thought you wanted your first lover to be your husband?'
'I know I said that at one time. But... circumstances alter cases. My ideas have changed. I think now—'
But her thoughts were in too much confusion for her to explain them to him. She only knew that she had to find some escape from the memory of last night's embraces.
The gravity of his expression made her say, 'Have I shocked you? Are you disappointed in me?'
He smiled then. 'I could never be disappointed in you. Will you be shocked if I suggest that we leave this'—with a gesture at the tea he had ordered—'and go to my place?'
Suddenly there was an ardour in his eyes which she had never seen in them before.
'No. I—I should like it,' she answered.
He squeezed her fingers, then lifted her hand to press a kiss on her knuckles. After leaving some bills on the table, he rose and recaptured her hand and led her away. A few moments later they were in the back of a cab, travelling the short distance across town to his apartment.
Raoul fondled her hand, stroking her palm with his thumb and playing with the soft webs of skin between her fingers. It was impossible not to notice the bulge alongside his zipper—after being restrained for so long, he couldn't wait to get her into bed. She wished she felt the same way. But in spite of the erotic things he was doing to her hand, she felt no response. Perhaps it would be better when they were alone and he kissed her.