by Lynda Trent
After the men left, Ryan and Clare celebrated their victory by staying to dance for a while. The music was mellow and dreamy, and they moved as though they’d been dancing together for years. At last, Ryan suggested they go home.
He drove through New Orleans’ busy streets, which were even more thronged with people by night than by day. Clare luxuriated in the new sense of being protected by someone rather than always having to take care of herself. She glanced across at Ryan’s profile as they neared a street light, and she smiled contentedly. One thing was clear she felt closer to Ryan than she had ever felt to anyone. It was too frightening to label, but she could easily admit that she had come to like him a great deal and that she could trust him wholeheartedly. It was very comforting to know. When he parked in his garage and came around to open her door, she sighed happily.
As they walked arm in arm across the courtyard, they were serenaded by the muffled strains from the Blue Crystal. The moonlight which filtered through the thick leaves of the chinaberry tree turned the paving stones a silvery blue. Side by side, they climbed the worn stone steps that clung to the outside of the old brick building.
While Ryan made them each a drink, Clare made herself comfortable in the living room. She discovered that the tan couch with puffy, overstuffed cushions, which looked so cozy, was indeed incredibly comfortable. The room was softly lighted by a contemporary chrome lamp which arched on a long rod over the couch. The coffee table was made of polished oak and smoked glass; the thick, luxurious plush carpet was rust-bronze. Several large potted plants gave the room character, as did the free-standing fireplace in the far corner. All of it was distinctively warm and masculine, yet more tastefully decorated than most men could take credit for.
“I love your apartment,” she said when Ryan handed her a drink.
“Thanks. I was lucky to get it. Everybody wants to live in the Quarter these days. The waiting list for one of these is as long as my arm.” He switched on soft music and sat down beside her on the couch. “You look especially beautiful tonight,” he said, kissing her behind the ear.
“It’s important for you to realize I didn’t try to close the business deal by going to bed with you,” Clare reminded him as the tingle from his touch coursed through her.
“I’ll remember it always,” he agreed amiably as he kissed her temple and her cheek, then her lips.
“And I don’t fall into bed with every stranger I meet.”
“I’m not all that strange.” He ran a trail of fiery caresses down her slender neck and nuzzled in the hollow of her throat.
“And I didn’t leave the hotel just to have a place to stay.”
“You talk too much,” he said as he efficiently silenced her again with his lips.
Clare felt all her reservations vanish like mist before the sun, and she returned his kisses eagerly. Ryan removed her jacket and ran his hands over the smoothness of her bare back. “I like this dress,” he whispered in her ear. He found the zipper and released it.
Clare ran her hands across the broad expanse of his chest and loosened and removed his tie, then began to unbutton his shirt. His skin was firm and deeply tanned, and when she kissed his neck, she could feel his quickening pulse beneath her lips. She flicked his skin with the tip of her tongue and felt his arms tighten around her.
Slowly, Ryan pulled the dress from her shoulders and gazed down at her full breasts. Already the nipples were erect and straining in his hand. Rubbing a rosy tip between his thumb and forefinger, Ryan heard Clare sigh with pleasure. Bending his head, Ryan kissed the full curve of her breasts and ran his tongue along their soft contours. Pulling Clare to her feet, Ryan finished undressing her and let her clothes whisper down to the floor. Then he allowed her to remove his clothing. After a long, soul-searching kiss, he led her into the bedroom.
Clare lay on the bed and pulled Ryan down beside her. Her heart was pounding so loudly she thought he must surely hear it.
“You’re lovely in the moonlight,” he said. “It makes your skin silvery. Your hair is as black as the night sky.” He put his hand on the flowing curve of her hip and drew her to him.
“I like to hear your compliments,” she said. “And I like to look at you and touch you. Your skin is as smooth as satin, but beneath, it your muscles are so hard. You’re like a thoroughbred racehorse. All sleek and muscular.” As she talked, she ran her hand over his back and along the hard ridges of his ribs.
Ryan kissed her long and deep, his tongue coaxing hers, teaching hers. The sweetness of her mouth was like wine, and he went back to her lips again and again. Then he bent his head to her breasts and sent flames coursing through her veins.
With a moan of pleasure, Clare ran her fingers through his thick hair and pulled him to her. His large hands caressed her, teasing her to passionate responses. When she trembled at his slightest touch, he rolled over onto her and entered her warm recesses.
Clare gasped as her body accepted his, and arched her back to bring him even closer. Then he began to move with her and she felt the white-hot fire build.
He spoke to her softly, encouragingly, and the fires roared. With a few sensuous movements, he brought her to a peak of brilliantly flashing lights that were all within her. When she was able to relax into a golden glow, he again aroused her, sending her to even greater heights and prolonging her ecstasy as much as possible. The next time, as he urged her up to the dizzying heights, he climbed with her, and together they reached the indescribable pleasure.
Clare lay quietly and contentedly in his arms, not asleep but not entirely awake. Her body still seemed to float in the remembered passion of his embrace, and she could not have moved with an effort.
“You’re wonderful,” she murmured sleepily. “I feel like all my bones have turned to jelly.”
He laughed softly and kissed her tumbled hair. “So do I. Are you happy?”
“Yes, oh, yes,” she said, snuggling deeper into the security of his arm. “Are you?”
“Yes.” He stroked her hair until he felt her breathing deepen and slow. Then he lay still with his cheek against her forehead.
You would be so easy to love, he thought as he drifted into sleep. So very easy.
Clare stirred in the morning light and awoke to find Ryan asleep beside her. His tawny hair was rumpled from their lovemaking, and his features were at peace. He looked boyishly innocent, not at all like the passionate lover who had so excited her the night before. Even so a thrill ran through Clare’s body. She had remembered that making love with Ryan was really good, but this time had been ever so much more enjoyable.
Making love. The words hung in her mind and would not be displaced. Love. Slowly, almost reluctantly, she examined her feelings. Could it be that she was falling in love with Ryan? The warm rush of happiness she felt as she looked at him almost obscured the seed of fear.
She couldn’t love him! She hardly even knew him! Clare had no intention of ever marrying again, and especially not a wealthy man. Elliot had all too often accused her of marrying him for his money. She was determined never to put herself in that position again. She moved uneasily, and instantly Ryan was awake.
“Good morning.” He smiled drowsily and arched his arm back around her. Sleepily, he drew her close and kissed her in the warm hollow under her chin.
Clare felt the newborn love claiming her as he nuzzled in her hair. She kissed him on his forehead, his cheek, his ear.
With a soft laugh, Ryan rolled over onto his back, pulling her easily on top of him. The dark curtain of her hair made a twilight around their faces as their lips met.
This time when they made love, he came into her more quickly, and skillfully brought her to one shattering climax after another. She moaned with the exquisite sensation and moved her body to meet his in a rhythm of ecstasy. When they were again still and satisfied, she cradled her head on his shoulder and wondered at the newly aroused wanton streak she had discovered in herself.
”Ryan?” she said quietly as her fi
ngers caressed his chest. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I mean… well…”
He looked at her tenderly and kissed her. “You look so concerned. It’s okay. Really it is.”
“I mean it,” Clare said, as if he had disputed her words.
“I believe you.”
She looked crestfallen and perversely asked, “Why? Was I that bad?”
He laughed out loud and hugged her. “You were and are magnificent! In bed, you have no equal.”
She regarded him narrowly. “No? You’re sure I didn’t disappoint you?”
He rolled on top of her so that she lay pinned beneath him, her hair spread like a crown around her head. “How could I be disappointed in someone so perfect?” All the laughter was gone from his voice, and only tenderness remained. “You make me feel whole, complete. I want to hug you until you break in two and protect you, all at the same time. I feel something for you that I’ve never felt before.”
Clare put her finger to his lips to stop the words she feared would follow. It was too soon for her to believe he loved her; too soon for her to believe she loved him.
Understanding her reluctance, Ryan smiled. She was a paradox; loving, yet afraid to love. In time, he could calm her fears.
“You’ve shown me the difference between making love and merely committing sex. Thank you,” she said.
“It really was my pleasure,” he grinned. “Now, are you going to lie around here all day, or are you going to help me cook us some breakfast?”
“I’m going to lie around all day.”
“Wrong answer!” He tickled her until she squirmed, giggling under his hands.
“Stop!” she shrieked between peals of laughter. Grabbing a pillow, she swung it at him with all her strength. It caught Ryan behind the ear and he tumbled off her as she pummeled him again and again. Following her advantage, Clare sat across his lean stomach, her pillow raised to strike again. “Give up!” she demanded as laughter danced in her eyes.
“You win, you win,” he conceded. “But only because I haven’t had my coffee yet.”
“Excuses, excuses,” she replied smugly as she rolled over onto the bed beside him.
He raised up onto one elbow and kissed her lightly. “I’ll go start some breakfast. That way I can appear gallant by letting you have the bathroom first.”
“Clever ploy,” she grinned.
“What can I say?” he responded innocently. “You played right into my hands.”
Clare slipped on her robe and went into the bathroom to brush her hair. “Hey,” she called out, “did you know you have a duck on your ceiling in here?”
“A duck? Where?”
“Up there, above the tub. See?”
Ryan stared at the water-stain as he buttoned his shirt. “That’s no duck,” he teased. “Must be a crawdad or something. That’s a tail, not a bill.”
“Suit yourself. But I heard it quack.”
“I know. I was just testing you.” Whistling happily, he went across the living room and into the kitchen.
A perfunctory knock sounded at the front door. Almost at once, a key grated in the lock. Before he could reach it, the door swung open and a lovely young woman entered the apartment.
“Well, hello there, Ryan,” she greeted him in a loud voice. “It’s been a long time since I found you home.”
He groaned inwardly. Of all the days for his maid to show up on time, this was undoubtedly the worst. “Hi, Yvonne. I’ve been gone a lot lately.”
“I’ll say! We sure been missing you around here!” The
young Cajun woman sidled closer with a provocative swing of her hips. Although she had long ago realized she’d never lure her employer into bed, her flirtations had become almost a game between them.
Hearing voices, Clare came out of the bathroom. Was Ryan talking to someone? Quickly, she tossed her robe onto the bed and slipped on her jeans. As she was buttoning her blouse, the telephone began ringing. Clare hesitated, then answered it.
“Hello? Is Ryan there?” a sultry voice asked on the other end.
Clare frowned. “Yes. Just a minute.” On the bedside table was a photograph she hadn’t noticed the night before. It was of a dark-eyed beauty and was signed, “To my Ryan with love, Dore.” Clare felt a tightening in her throat. Laying the receiver on the rumpled sheets, she went into the living room in time to see Yvonne reach out and swat Ryan playfully on his buttocks.
Yvonne’s giggle died as she followed Ryan’s stunned expression to where Clare stood stock still in the doorway.
“Clare, this is”
“When you are finished here, there’s another one on the phone,” Clare said frostily, not allowing him to explain. She turned and would have run outside, but Ryan was too fast for her.
“Clare, I want you to meet my housekeeper, Yvonne.” He caught Clare’s wrist and pulled her back into the room. “She takes care of the apartment and waters the plants for me when I’m out of town.”
A burning flush crept across Clare’s face. Yvonne, too, looked uncomfortable. “Look, I’ll come back later. I didn’t know you were even in town. Okay?” Hurriedly, she gathered up her mop, broom and cleaning bucket that she had left by the door.
“That’s fine, Yvonne. Come back in about two hours. We’ll be out of your way by then.” Ryan spoke calmly, but he kept a firm grip on Clare’s wrist.
When Yvonne backed out and shut the door behind her, Ryan went to the bedroom, dragging Clare behind him.
“Turn me loose!”
“No. If I do, you’ll run away.” He sat on the bed, drawing her down beside him, and picked up the telephone receiver.
“Hello!” he snapped. After a pause he said, “Yes, Mrs. Harlow. The rent check is in the mail. I’ll be going out of town for a few days next week. Keep an eye on things around here, okay? Yeah, I will. You take care, too. ‘Bye.” He dropped the receiver into the cradle.
“That was my landlady. She’s sixty years old and happily married. Any questions?”
Clare shook her head. “No. I feel like a fool.”
Ryan took her in his arms and held her. “It’s all right, baby. I just wanted you to see there’s no one else. If I turn you loose now, are you going to run away?”
“No.” But as he hugged her, Clare stared at the photograph of Dore. Who was this woman who could call Ryan, “hers?” Certainly she was no housekeeper or landlady. Clare hadn’t the nerve to ask. Don’t trust him, her reason instructed. Remember Elliot and Regina.
The following day, they flew to Houston to secure the remaining backing for the well. Clare bit her lip at the price of the airplane ticketa sum she would once have considered nominal but without the well, she’d be counting pennies forever. Her car would be safe in Ryan’s garage and her return home would merely be delayed another day or two. She still had time to return to Kilgore before her next art class met.
Ryan rented a car at Intercontinental Airport and drove south to the city. Only when he turned into the parking lot of the Warwick Hotel did it occur to Clare that without her own transportation, she couldn’t work the ruse she’d used at the Fontainebleau. Ryan hadn’t suggested that she stay in his room, and she was well aware that she could not afford to rent one of her own. Would he think it strange if she suggested that they share a room? Would he think it even stranger if they didn’t? Clare wished she had had more experience to draw on.
“Is this all right with you?” Ryan asked, noticing the tight line of her lips.
“Of course,” she lied.
“I always stay at the Warwick when I’m in town. It’s almost like a second home to me.”
“You grandfather lived here, too. Right?” she said weakly.
“Nope. My grandmother. They didn’t get along very well.”
“Oh. I’ve never been here before, either. It would seem that I’ve done comparatively little travelling, wouldn’t it?”
“Not really. That’s only two hotels out of the entire world, as far as I know, that you hav
en’t stayed in. And I’ve never stayed at the Fontainebleau. That makes us almost even.” He watched closely for her reaction, but the doorman was already opening her door.
Wondering what she could do to get herself out of an increasingly embarrassing situation, Clare took a deep breath and got out of the car.
The spacious foyer was decorated in cream, blue and salmon tones. Two enormous crystal chandeliers in the center sparkled above the handwoven ivory rug, which was bordered with a raised design in blue and rust. Seating was provided by a great curving couch and two Louis XV or XVI style chairs. Small shops with wares ranging from expensive jewelry to Persian rugs lined both sides, and a two-hundred-fifty-year-old Aubusson tapestry covered the rear wall. The flooring was rose aurora Portuguese marble. Yet the atmosphere was warm and welcoming.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Hastings,” the manager said as they approached the desk. “Its good to see you again.” The small blood man spoke with a slightly foreign accent that made Clare feel as if she had been instantly transported to the Continent.
“Hello, Mr. Stagin,” Ryan said with a smile. “I hope you have a room available overlooking Main.”
“For you, of course.” He produced a key and a bellman appeared as if by magic.
Clare hung back tried to be invisible. At any moment the manager would ask for her room preference. However, aside from a courteous smile, he appeared not to be aware of her. She began to relax somewhat and hoped Ryan would merely assume she wanted to share his.
“Hello, Charlie,” Ryan greeted the bellman as he took Clare’s arm and to her relief moved toward the elevator. “How are things going?”
“Fine, Mr. Hastings. Just fine.” The stocky black man maneuvered the luggage dolly onto the elevator and pushed the button for the seventh floor. “It’s been a long time since You’ve been to stay with us.” Charlie’s attitude was one of respect and not servility.
“Yeah, I’ve been keeping pretty busy.”
The doors glided open and they stepped out onto the thick French blue carpet and turned to the left. Charlie and Ryan discussed the possibility of the Oilers going to the Superbowl that year as they walked down the long hall; Clare was too impressed with her surroundings to even listen to the conversation. More and more, she was realizing the vast difference between old money and new. Ryan stayed in hotels with charm and elegance and discussed football with bellmen who knew him on sight; Elliot would have been offended at such “familiarity” and would have opted for the chrome and glass sparkle of the Hyatt-Regency.