Inheritance

by Judith Michael

  This time the silence lasted only a heartbeat. "I'd like that," she said easily.

  Currier was amazed at the exultation that filled him; he felt like a schoolboy. But he kept his voice casual. "Friday afternoon, then. Meet me for drinks at five-thirty at the Russian Tea Room. Call my houseman with your flight number and he'll have my driver meet you and take you to my apartment and then the Tea Room. If you don't get a chance to call— ^

  "Wes." She was smiling; he could hear it in her voice. "I can find my way. I'll be there."

  "Friday," he said.

  "Friday," she repeated, and when she put down the telephone she let out a long shaky breath. She had to take the chance; she had to tell him. She couldn't have secrets from

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  Wes: they would be working together and he was going to trust her with twenty million dollars. For a start. And it would be all right. He was a businessman, and he'd just said, a few minutes ago, that all he asked of her was that she make money.

  It wasn't true; he asked considerably more. But even that would be all right. Because there was excitement in Wes Currier. He was at the center of great events and had a part in shaping them on the worid stage. And that made all the greater the excitement of his desire for her. Maybe Tm ready for excitement, she thought. And a man who takes crooked people for granted. Maybe it's the perfect time for me to be honest.

  But her shakiness came from something else, as well, and she knew it. She'd known it when she heard Currier talk about the Chicago Salinger. For all its problems, he'd decided it was worth pursuing. He wouldn't have talked about making studies if he thought studies were a waste of time, or if he thought the idea of buying the Chicago Salinger was a foolish one, or if he thought she couldn't handle it. He was taking it seriously, and that meant it was going to happen.

  Owen, she said silently. We're going to buy back your hotel.

  A hard October rain was falling when the taxi pulled up in front of St. James Tower, so Laura had no more than a blurred glimpse of the building before the doorman whisked her inside and into the elevator that took her to Currier's apartment. She was late—the plane had been late; traffic from LaGuardia had moved at an agonizing crawl—and she barely had time to unpack in his bedroom and wash up in his black and silver bathroom before it was time to leave. "Mr. Currier's driver will take you wherever you wish to go," the houseman said, helping her into her raincoat. "If you will wait here, or in the lobby, it takes him about five minutes to get here from the garage."

  She had planned to walk crosstown to the Russian Tea Room, taking a few minutes alone before she met Currier to rediscover the feel of the city she had not seen in almost six years. But her lateness, and the rain, and the promise of a dry

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  car with someone else to drive it changed her mind. "I'll wait here," she said, and as soon as he left to make the call she took an unashamed look around. The rooms were large and comfortable, with deep sofas around low, square coffee tables, and Italian floor lamps of stainless steel with black steel pivoting arms. Everything was modem, expensive, and almost unlived in. It needs some clutter, Laura thought, and some wrinkles in the cushions. But of course a good houseman would not permit that.

  She looked into the dining room, its twelve chairs surrounding a gleaming table that would have been at home in a conference room, and then into the study. Currier's office, and once again into his bedroom. It was then that she felt her first moment of anticipation. Until now, she had been in too much of a hurry to think of anything but the plane circling the airport in the rain, the taxi driver changing lanes in a futile attempt to speed up, the need to wash and change quickly so she would not keep Currier waiting. But now, gazing at his sleek ebony bureaus and nightstands, and his wide bed beneath a black and white comforter, she shivered with the anticipation of change.

  And then the houseman was in the doorway, saying the car was downstairs, and she turned to go.

  Currier was there before her, chatting with the maitre d' even though the small waiting area was januned with damp, vociferous groups waiting for tables. "Just in time," he said with a smile as she joined him. Holding her arm, he kissed her cheek. "We couldn't have held off the hordes much longer." And in another moment they were seated in a red leather booth in a room as colorful as the oil paintings on the walls. "You look very lovely," he said, taking her hand between his. "I wondered if you might change your mind and not come."

  "It never occurred to me," she said simply. But she was distracted by the activity around her, and Currier, after ordering wine and caviar with blinis, waited for her to turn to him with an awed comment about the luxury of the room, the number of stars and other celebrities she recognized, and the delights of being in New York with him.

  When she spoke, he leaned forward, smiling, to hear her amid the high pitch of conversation and the clink of silver on

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  china. "I don't see how I can go to bed with you," she said thoughtfully.

  His head snapped back in surprise. "Why not?" he said and then was annoyed at himself because he sounded more like a feeble teenager than a man accustomed to dominating.

  She gave a small private smile and he knew she understood him, even if he did not yet understand her. "You've just agreed to back me in buying a hotel. And I'm grateful.'*

  His face hardened. "I don't want your gratitude. I expect you to make money for me. Listen to me." He leaned toward her. "I don't buy sex; I've never had to. I never believed the infantile fantasy that a prostitute is the perfect teacher for a young boy; I never believed I couldn't attract my own women, at any age. I do what I want and I do it honestly. And I never barter."

  "I didn't say that to insult you," Laura said without apology. She looked at his hands clasping hers. His fingers were short and very strong. Then she looked up and met his hard eyes. "I know it wasn't a trade. But it might have seemed like one."

  "To whom? No one knows anything about us."

  "I do. I act for myself, not because of what others might think."

  "Then you should have known me better."

  "I wasn't worried about you! Can't you see? I was trying to understand my own feelings—how much is gratitude and how much is desire."

  Once again surprise showed in his eyes. "It doesn't matter. I want you. I don't ask why; I'll discover that as we enjoy each other. If I don't discover it, we won't last long. But I don't think that will be a problem."

  They were interrupted as their wine was poured and a waiter wearing a green Russian shirt served thin pancakes with caviar and sour cream on large plates that reflected the bright lights of the room. Nothing in that famous place was done in shadow or done quietly: it was a room in which food and people alike were to be seen and remembered.

  But Currier's eyes were on Laura. "You came to New York because you knew it was time for us to begin.'*

  She nodded, remembering her shiver of anticipation. "I thought so. But I wasn't sure. . .

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  "Because of your gratitude? Or because of the man you're trying to forget?"

  "Both." Her eyes were steady on his. She did not ask him how he knew; a sophisticated man would assume there had been a past she was trying to forget on that island in Lake Champlain. Then she smiled. "But my gratitude is more recent."

  He returned her smile, admiring her quickness. He lifted her hand and kissed it. "I promise we'll keep business and old loves outside our bedroom. I'll help you forget them both. Do you want to eat your caviar or shall we leave now?"

  She gave a low laugh. There was something wonderfully comfortable about giving in to Currier's supreme self-confidence, as if she were sinking back into a deep sofa that embraced and supported her and muffled the clamor of the outside world. "Do you mind if we wait? I didn't have a chance to eat today and I'm famished." He laughed with her but then she grew serious. "I want to talk to you anyway; there are so
many things I'm trying to forget, and I want you to know what they are."

  "I want to know, too, but not tonight. Do you mind? This is a beginning for us; I'd rather not start with the past."

  It was a reprieve. "Whatever you want. But sometime this weekend ..."

  "Tomorrow. Or Sunday." Silently they touched their wineglasses, then turned to their food, savoring it while he told her about the New York in which he had grown up, describing places long since torn down, telling anecdotes about his neighborhood and the people who had kept an eye on him while his parents worked. He had always been on his own, and Laura began to understand his need to dominate: the only way he had ever been able to feel secure in a world where no one paid much attention to him was to control events around him, to know what was happening because he was making it happen.

  They finished their blinis and wine, and because his driver had the limousine parked in fi-ont of the restaurant, it was only a few moments before they were in his apartment.

  He took her in his arms as soon as the door closed behind them, and they dropped their raincoats on the floor. "Do you

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  know when I first wanted you?" He kissed her, holding her tightly to him, his tongue taking possession of her mouth. "Our first breakfast at the lodge." His lips brushed hers as he spoke. 'The whole time we were together, you were looking around to make sure the dining room was running smoothly. I wanted to hold you in my arms and make you think I was more interesting than that goddam lodge."

  Laura laughed deep in her throat, then brought his head to hers again and kissed him as greedily as he had kissed her. It had been so long, she had ached for Paul and then felt no desire at all for so long, that the first touch of Currier's lips, and the excitement of being held and loved again, split her thoughts apart, one part still caught in the past, the other aware only of the man holding her, the feel and voice of Wes Currier, the faint scent of his after-shave, the softness of his cashmere jacket, the crushing pressure of his mouth. She felt she was coiling upward, her weightless body responding to the demands of his hands and lips as they pulled her out of the shell she had kept intact for two years.

  "And then," he said, his lips again just above hers, "in the dark that morning, when you said if I talked to you, you could find me . . ."

  "And I did." The words were almost a sigh. Together, they turned and walked down the hall to his room, where the houseman had turned down the bed. A single floor lamp cast its light upward, its indirect glow softening the blacks and whites of die room and making it seem like a shadowed cave as rain pounded the windows. Currier slipped off Laura's suit jacket and took her in his arms.

  "I want to make you forget everything else," he said, his voice almost harsh. 'That look you have, of thinking of other things, other people, not even aware of me— '*

  Laura's quick fingers were unknotting his tie. "Don't talk about it. There's no place like bed to forget—"

  "Not only bed! Damn it, don't you understand I want you to want me everywhere; I want you to think of me so there's no room for anyone else. . . ."

  "Wes, don't talk; make love to me. Please. We'll talk later." She kissed him, willing him to sink into lovemaking as she

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  wanted to do. His mouth opened beneath hers, his tongue responded to hers, and then his hands were once again urgent and demanding, undressing her, not allowing her to help. He untied the bow at her throat and opened the pearl buttons of her blouse, pulling it off and unhooking her brassiere almost at the same time. Laura felt the freedom of her unconstricted breasts and then Currier's hands cupped them and his mouth enclosed each nipple and she closed her eyes and let herself be engulfed in the heat that flowed from his touch.

  His mouth lingered on her breasts as he slipped her skirt over her hips. Laura reached down to unbutton his shirt, to help him, but he refused; instead, he pulled away. She opened her eyes and saw him peeling off his own clothes, and she realized with surprise that she felt cold and lost without his body close to hers, and his hands and mouth on hers. But in a moment he was holding her to him, pressing her body along his, turning her toward the bed. Laura let him; her hunger was so intense she barely noticed he was the one setting the pace.

  Currier stretched out above her on the bed, brushing her skin with long strokes that left a trail like an electric current. His fingers reached the small triangle of chestnut hair between her legs and then explored her dark, wet center, reaching deep inside; his mouth was on her breasts again, sucking and licking her hard, erect nipples. Laura's breath came out in a lingering sigh, almost a moan, and she tried to pull him onto her, but still he would not yield; his fingers and mouth possessed her, drawing her up and up like a long flame until there was nothing but fire, a burning luster, that blocked out everything else. And then he moved and covered her and Laura felt the wonderful warmth of his fiiU weight upon her; she raised her hips and pulled him into her, the plunging hardness of him, the sureness of his movements—a sureness she knew she was beginning to count on. Her body moved with his; she was filled with a man. Briefly she wondered how she had gone so long without missing it before she stopped thinking. She only felt. And her body came to life.

  A good part of the weekend was spent in bed. But they walked, too, once the rain stopped, exploring the city that Currier knew, so different from the one in which Laura had

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  grown up it might have been on a different planet. His limousine followed them when they walked; it waited at the entrances to shops and galleries and restaurants in case they wanted to be driven to the next location. They went into boutiques smaller than Laura's old tenement apartment where the price of a dress was more than their rent had been for a year, and galleries where paintings sold for twenty times as much as Ben had made in years of stealing.

  But all that seemed far away. Laura and Currier were fawned over as they browsed, and New York was transformed into a city of treasures whose beauty could be admired and held—and even owned when Currier convinced her to let him buy her a pair of leather gloves with pearl buttons—without fear or guilt or danger.

  "Now," he said on Sunday afternoon as they sat in his study two hours before Laura's plane for Burlington. The rain had begun again and the houseman had lit a fire; they sat in deep chairs before the fireplace, sherry and raisin scones on the table between them. "Let's hear your story. I'm prepared for anything. Did I tell you what this weekend means to me?"

  "Yes." She smiled but she was abstracted, thinking of how to begin. "It was wonderful. Much more than— "

  *Than you expected," he finished when she stopped. "Well, who is he?"^

  "Paul Janssen." The name sounded almost foreign in Currier's room. "A great-nephew of Owen Salinger."

  Currier's eyebrows went up. "You were involved with the whole family."

  Laura had been about to go on, but the words fell away and she stared at him. "You know all about it. You've known ail along and never said anything."

  "It wasn't for me to say. It was your story and I knew you'd tell me when you were ready. My dear"—he leaned forward and took her hand— "I have people in most cities whose job is to keep me informed about the finances of major corporations. There was no way I could miss bearing about that trial. And it was in July, the month I met you, when you were so distracted you were barely aware of me: if nothing else, that would have made me wonder about you."

  Laura smiled faintly. "I used to know how important you

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  arc. I guess I forgot. You started acting like a lover and I stopped thinking about your international reputation."

  "You were supposed to. I didn't want you going to bed with a reputation. But you must have known tiiat the trial would be in the Boston papers and others, too, especially New York and Los Angeles."

  "I didn't want to think about it." She took her hand from his and sat back. '1 pretended no one knew. No one talked about it at Damton's."

  He poured s
herry into their glasses. "Tell me now."

  "You know the story."

  "I want to hear it from you. Start with New York. Were you really a thief?"

  Laura flushed. Most of the drama had gone out of her decision to be honest for the first time. "Yes."

  "A good one?"

  Involuntarily, she gave a small laugh. "Not good enough; I was caught. But I wasn't a thief at the Salingers'." She skipped over the years in New York, telling him instead about her love affair with the Salinger family—about having a place to belong, and people to care about, and a world of comfort and dreams of a future. She told him about Owen and their plans for his hotels, about his death and the will reading, and the trial.

  But Currier was a man who paid as much attention to what people did not say as to what they did. "Why did you go to the Salingers in the first place?"

  No one had asked that at the trial. Rollins had told Laura why: Felix wanted her background revealed in order to undermine her credibility, but there was nothing they could prove about that early robbery, and so they left it out. But Currier, who missed nothing, brought it up. "We went there to rob them," Laura said evenly. "But we never did; we couldn't. They were too good to us, too important ..."

  "Why the Salingers? Why not someone else?"

  She took the last plunge into the truth. "Because my older brother sent us there."

  Currier's look sharpened. "You didn't mention him in the trial."

  "He didn't have anything to do with Owen's will, and we

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  didn't want them to know we'd been secretive—deceptive— about something else all the years we were with them."

  "Where is he now?"

  "In Europe; he's been there for years."

  Currier contemplated her. "He may not have had anything to do with Owen's will, but he had something to do with Felix's accusations."

  Laura returned his look. "You would have made a better prosecutor than Carver Cheyne. Yes, he had something to do with it. That summer, a couple of months after we got there, he robbed the Salingers, exactly as we'd planned. I asked him not to, but he did. At the will reading, Felix accused us of the robbery and said we'd stayed on afterward to rob them again by manipulating Owen to change his will'.'"