Ecstasy

by Gwynne Forster

  “Alfresco?” the waiter asked.

  She nodded. That much Italian she knew, and the environment surrounding the famous restaurant invited them to take a table out of doors. They faced the Church of Santa Maria in Trastevere that had dominated the small square and the Trastevere quarter since ancient times. The tiny white building, one of Rome’s true treasures, boasted stained-glass windows and a colorfully tiled roof that gleamed in the clear moonlight. Its aura of unreal, unearthly elegance brought tears to her eyes. Nearby diners rattled their silverware and clinked glasses, but she stared, enraptured, her mind far from the gourmet food and its tantalizing odors of seafood, ripe cheeses, spices and garlic. The setting lacked perfection only because Mason Fenwick didn’t have his arms around her. Jeannetta reached over and patted Geoffrey’s hand.

  “I’ll remember this for the rest of my life. If I’ve ever seen anything more beautiful, I don’t recall it.” She didn’t imagine that the old man preened; her words must have touched him, for he seemed taller by inches.

  “I didn’t think I’d be so fortunate. I figured you’d be going out tonight with our guide. He’s young and handsome and he’s got all of his hair. He can’t seem to keep his eyes off of you either. I watched him.”

  “Don’t read too much into that, Geoffrey. I can imagine that romances always bloom on these tours, and I expect they die when the plane gets back to JFK Airport. Mason’s nice to all of us.”

  Geoffrey shook his head. “You’re wrong about this. I’ve been around a long time, and I know when a man’s got the fever. He may be slow about it, but you’ve caught his eye real good, and he ain’t planning to leave this earth without letting you know exactly what that means.”

  A part of her wanted that confirmation of Mason’s interest, but an inner voice counseled her not to lull herself into forgetting why she knew Mason Fenwick. Her gaze held the lovely little church, and she savored the moment; she didn’t need a better reminder.

  “I think you’re mistaken about Mason. He likes me, but not to that extent.”

  “Never mind. He’ll let you know when he gets ready, and it’ll do him good to see you with me. I’ve got a few years on me, but he’ll be thinking about that lottery I hit. He knows money makes short men tall. Yep. It’ll do him a lot of good.”

  * * *

  To her astonishment, Geoffrey raised her hand to his lips and gave it a pretend kiss just as they stepped into the hotel lobby. She thought he’d overdone his appreciation of her company until she saw Mason sprawled in a leather lounge chair that directly faced the door. He stood at once, and she nearly laughed when Geoffrey patted her shoulder, grasped her hand, smiled and whispered, “It’ll come sooner than you expect.”

  Mason walked to them, a scowl distorting his handsome features, and, ignoring Geoffrey, demanded to know where she’d been. She turned aside and told her escort that she’d enjoyed his company and that she would never forget their evening together.

  “It was truly idyllic,” she added, intentionally aggravating Mason.

  “Miss Rollins, as you know, the first rule of this tour is that whenever members leave the group, I must be told where

  they’re going. Lady, I sat here for three hours wondering

  whether I should call the police. You strutted out of here in that...that... Walked out of here, got in a taxi and stayed for three solid hours. Three hours in a city you never saw before. You’re... That’s irresponsible.”

  “What are you so riled about? I was with Mr. Ames. You saw me leave here with him.”

  “You were with Ames?” He told himself to calm down, that she had returned apparently unharmed, and that he ought to forget about her. Then he ignored his advice. “I thought he only helped you get a taxi. You were with him all this time?”

  “Sure was,” she answered as though he’d find that scenario acceptable.

  Well, he thought, she miscalculated. Ames might be seventy-eight, but he owned the standard male equipment, plus a pile of money.

  “Ames told me where he was going, but he neglected to add that he intended to take you with him.” He looked at her, standing there wearing that half smile, the picture of innocence, and he wished he could do a few push-ups to cool down his anger. She had a right to do anything she pleased with whomever she liked. He stuck his hand in his right pants pocket and felt the odd-size keys that were forever with him. Damned if he’d let her erase what he’d achieved in years of fighting to control his constant anxiety and trigger temper. He wanted to make her mad, but she just stood there smiling, refusing to budge.

  “I hope you remember that we leave tomorrow morning for Paris and that you’re to have your bags outside your door at six-thirty.”

  She took a step toward him. “I remembered. Why are you so angry?”

  The balloon inside him burst, scattering his anger as chaff succumbs to the wind.

  “I haven’t been angry in years.” Well, he hadn’t until tonight. “I’m annoyed. Please try to be more considerate.”

  “I’ll be ready in time, and so will my bags, so don’t get your dander up. Losing your temper at me is bad for your health,” she teased.

  He stared at the mischievous grin that curled her lips, and he wanted to...

  “Are you alright?” he asked, his demeanor having changed quickly to one of concern.

  “Oh, I’m fine. Why?” Her smile didn’t fool him. She’d experienced a vertigo-like sensation and grabbed the back of the chair. A second-year medical student wouldn’t have been fooled by that.

  “I’ll see you to your room.” His hand at her elbow was all the support he knew she’d allow, but he wanted to take her into his arms, carry her to her room and tuck her into bed.

  “I can go alone. I’m fine—really, I am.”

  “It will comfort me to know you’re safely in your room. I’m going with you.” In the elevator, where the lights shone brighter, a feeling of relief washed over him when he couldn’t detect any pallor and she showed no further signs of dizziness.

  “Too bad we aren’t spending more time in Paris,” she said. “I’ll only have time to go to the Louvre and the Jeu de Paume. I would have loved to visit the Rodin museum and to find some of those new, off-the-beaten-path art galleries that feature folk art from Central Africa. This may be my last... The other members of the tour will be shopping and sipping espresso at the Café de la Paix trying to feel what it’s like to be French.”

  They got off the elevator and strolled to her room nearby.

  “I doubt the French ever go to that café. If they want an espresso, they can get it cheaper and better someplace where the waiters only speak French. Sure you don’t want to shop?” She shook her head, and he found himself admiring her ability to get that thick, wooly hair into such an elegant twist at the back of her neck. A lot of things about her pleased him.

  “Since we’re both art lovers, why don’t we check out those museums together, all three of them?”

  Her quick smile told him that she welcomed his company. “I’d love that. Maybe we can find some of those galleries, too.”

  “Are you going to shop for African art?”

  Why should the light in her eyes dim so quickly? Mason wondered.

  “I don’t want to buy anything.”

  He watched her closely. “Not even perfume?”

  Her shrug must have been intended to suggest nonchalance, or maybe that perfume didn’t interest her. She’d piqued his interest further.

  “I don’t need anything, and I don’t like to own things just for the sake of having them. I only buy what I need. It would be fun, though, to sit on the Avenue de la Paix and watch the world pass.” She took a step backward when he moved closer to her.

  “You fascinate me. Why do you avoid me?”

  She seemed flustered, but immediately covered it with a haughty t
ilt of her head.

  “I haven’t done that. Why should I? You seem harmless enough.” That smile again. That curve of her lipstick-free mouth that made him want to devour her, to kiss her until she told him he could have whatever he wanted.

  “You are harmless, aren’t you?” she asked him. Well, hell. She was flirting with him.

  “Depends on your definition of harmless. I’m your tour manager, and I’m responsible for you, but when the two of us are alone—like right now—my mating instincts are likely to surface. Like now.”

  Her eyes rounded into two beautiful brown Os.

  “You’re a very desirable woman, and I haven’t forgotten that for one second since the first time I looked at you.” The hot energy that shot to his belly must have been reflected in his eyes, because she broke eye contact with him. He wanted to take her and love her until he hadn’t an ounce of energy left, but he understood women, and this wasn’t the time to press it. Her inability to look at him and her insistent toying with her hands fuelled the heat in him. But he wasn’t reckless. Not yet. If ever he’d been suspended over feminine quicksand, this was the time, and he admitted wanting the experience of being sucked into it. All the way. He brushed back the lapels of his jacket and eased his hands into his pants pockets while he stared at her lips. Desire choked him, and he coughed. If she didn’t stop fidgeting...

  “I’d better say good-night. As you said, I have to rise early.”

  “Scared?”

  “You could say that,” she answered, though she didn’t look it. He moved closer. “But you could also be wrong.” She took the plastic card from her evening purse and would have opened her door had he not taken the card. He placed it in the lock, but didn’t open the door. She shifted her glance; her lower lip quivered, and he had to admire her willpower. But when she swallowed hard, he nearly lost his own. A battle of wills, and she’d win if he didn’t put some space between them.

  “What do you want, Mr. Fenwick?”

  “My name is Mason, and I think you know the answer to that. See you in the morning.” He sucked in his breath. “Good night.”

  * * *

  Mason reflected on their exchange as he rounded the corner to his room. She’s delicate, he mused, but she’s also strong; warm, but wary. And she intended to keep him at a distance. It had stunned him to realize how badly he wanted to kiss her, to feel her, soft and submissive, in his arms. He thought of that morning on the beach, still unable to decide why she’d run away. An aura of mystery clung to her, and he sensed an air of transience about her, as though she were only flitting through his life. He’d better watch his step with Jeannetta Rollins, because he’d had his last temporary liaison. Now he wanted a home and a family.

  * * *

  Jeannetta got into her room and locked the door. That had been close. Her thoughts had been filled with the memory of him lying nearly naked in the warm sand, beads of perspiration glistening on his washboard-flat belly. All but inches of him had been a feast for her eyes. The urge she’d had to fall upon him and ravish his body had come back to her. Six more weeks, and it didn’t look promising. He hadn’t allowed her to create an environment in which he could be approached as a surgeon, and she had avoided him when he socialized with the guests. She couldn’t let him believe that she was courting his attention, but, no matter what she did, he steered their relationship toward intimacy. She had to keep it impersonal; if she didn’t, she would pay dearly.

  After the uneventful flight from Rome to Paris and a routine trip to a hotel near the Champs Elysée, Jeannetta stood on the balcony of her hotel room in the shadow of the Arc de Triomphe, savoring the sights that greeted her eyes. Preparing for the possibility that her ears would someday become her eyes, she relayed descriptions of the French and their antics into her cassette recorder. An old man riding what seemed an even older bicycle fell from his bike in his attempt to prevent his long skinny loaf of bread from falling to the ground. Unharmed, he threaded the baguette through a hole in the basket, looked up and shook his fist at the sky. A woman wearing a yellow, red and purple beret dashed across the wide avenue after her monkey, stopping traffic as she went and leaving her organ grinder to the mercy of two youths, who stood playing with it when she returned with her pet. She promptly left the machine and the monkey and took off after the two pranksters.

  * * *

  Jeannetta rushed inside to answer the telephone and was rewarded with the sound of Mason’s deep baritone.

  “It’s eleven o’clock. We ought to get started if we’re going to three museums today. How much time do you need?”

  She told him she’d meet him in the lobby in ten minutes.

  “I thought I’d stop by for you.”

  And from the way he’d looked at her after placing her bags on the luggage rack in her room that morning, they’d never reach one museum. “Downstairs. Ten minutes.”

  His chuckle warmed her heart. “Okay, scaredy-cat.”

  She leaned against the doorjamb, studying a sculpture in the Musée de Rodin. She had to memorize as much as possible so that she could make an accurate recording of it that evening.

  “Are you tired?” Mason asked her.

  “No. Thank you. I can’t rush through this. I want to see these sculptures with every one of my senses, not just my eyes. I want to be able to recall in my mind’s eye every line, every bump—feel the cold texture of the bronze. Everything.” From his strange, inquiring expression, she wondered what he saw.

  “Do I seem odd to you?” she asked, and immediately wished that she hadn’t, when he seemed taken aback.

  “Why, no. I’ve just realized that you’re a deeply sensual person.” Her glance fell on The Kiss, Rodin’s great masterpiece, and she wished that Mason hadn’t witnessed her reaction to it, as he must have, when she sucked in her breath and her lips parted in awe.

  “Exquisite, isn’t it? A man’s homage to his love.” Stunned at his unexpected sentimentality, her eyes caressed him as she welcomed this new facet of the man who, with each passing moment, wedged himself more deeply into her being. His diffident smile betrayed his reaction to having exposed himself and, with a shrug, he grasped her hand.

  “Come on. We’ve got a lot more to see.” She might have removed her hand if an inner voice hadn’t whispered that it belonged in his. The strong, smooth fingers communicated an eagerness to protect, and a need for her woman’s tenderness and succor. She tried to ignore the swirling sensation that caught her up as would a dream and incited in her an eagerness for everything he could give a woman. And she couldn’t help relishing the comfort of his stroking finger, as a strange, reassuring vibration flowed through her.

  He squeezed gently, as though wanting to achieve greater intimacy, and she withdrew her hand.

  “Did I hurt you?” The low timbre of his voice communicated a gentleness that she had begun to realize bespoke the true nature of the man. She shook her head, not wanting him to know that his touch had ignited a wild churning in her. She had never felt so close to him. Could now be the time to tell him? She didn’t want to make a mistake, because she probably wouldn’t get more than one chance.

  “On ferme dans les trente minutes.” Closing in thirty minutes, the loud nasal tones proclaimed, intruding on their intimacy, destroying the opportunity.

  “Your fingers are calloused,” she said, “and I didn’t expect that. I thought they’d be softer, like... Not the hands of a blue-collar man.” Her voice quavered and a harsh shudder shook her. She had almost revealed that she knew he’d been a surgeon.

  “That’s because I carve wooden figures,” he said. She could breathe easily; he hadn’t caught what could have been a crucial, fatal blunder.

  “It’s a hobby,” he went on. “If I’d known your partiality to soft hands, I might have used some lotion.” Laughter lightened his features. “And then again, I might not have.�
�� She joined his laughter, remembering her similar remark to him their last night in Rome. He looked down at her for a long time, his gaze, bland and unrevealing, roaming over her features yet obviously seeking some important answer. Abruptly, he smiled, shrugged and took her hand firmly into his. She let him keep it.

  Mason paused by one of Rodin’s free-forms and ran his hand over it, fondling its lines, stroking it. He didn’t hear Jeannetta’s footsteps; only the stillness around him interfered with his absorption in the art beneath his hand. He looked up to find her watching him. Engrossed. His heart quickened at the sight of her parted lips, wide eyes and the absence of the serene expression that ordinarily adorned her face. He noticed that she breathed erratically and that her gaze remained glued to the rhythmic movement of his hand. He stopped its stroking, testing her reaction, and she glanced up at him. His breath gurgled in his throat. Stripped bare, exposed, her eyes were windows of her aching, her longing. He didn’t have to be told that she imagined his hands on her, stroking and caressing her, that desire had sucked up the coolness she always presented to him and left her emotionally naked.

  “Jeannetta!”

  She ducked her head and walked swiftly away from him.

  “Don’t run from me, Jeannetta; don’t run from this. There’s no point. It will catch up with you, with us.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He watched her standing with her back against the wall. If she wasn’t trembling, his name wasn’t Mason Fenwick. He wanted to comfort her, to reassure her that nothing wrong, nothing painful could come of a relationship with him, that he’d as soon hurt himself as damage so vulnerable a woman.

  “Denying it won’t make it untrue,” he told her, as gently as he could. “This is something you and I are going to have to deal with. And soon. We’re like moth and flame, and if we put an ocean between us we’d only postpone the inevitable. Because, honey, we’d find each other.”

  “Think about something else, Mason. We don’t have to get entangled.”