by Rose Raven
He excused himself to his parents and wandered off on his own to savor the strange atmosphere. You could easily tell that his godmother had been part of the bohemian set. Painterly and writerly-looking men and women made up half the small crowd gathering around the plot where the coffin was to be buried. There was apparently no church service, and only one or two close friends were to speak briefly. It was going to be short and efficient, just what John liked. He wondered if he was expected to stand near the coffin.
He began to get bored and thought he might as well have stayed in Paris and done some work or worked out a strategy for conquering Alicia Durand. But his boredom was short-lived. Sauntering over to his father to ask what the custom was at funerals and idly scanning tombstones, he was suddenly hit by a sight which was so unexpected, it stopped him like a brick wall. The sensation was intensely physical, and he actually wondered for a moment whether someone had elbowed him in the kidneys without his noticing. He had to close his eyes to recover his breath. It couldn't be true, of course. It couldn't be true at all.
But it was.
Not twenty yards away, talking to friends, was Alicia Durand, a picture of bereaved beauty in black. She walked over, smiling at his parents.
"Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Winters," she said. "It's been years since you came over. And you must be John, of course. I'm Alicia Durand, your godmother Dahlia's daughter. We met at my home when you were in Europe, remember?" She laughed, a little mischievously, John thought. "No, you won't remember me. I used to be a skinny punk in black and pink. It's good to see you after all these years." She turned back to his parents.
"Hello, Alicia," said his mother. "Haven't you grown into the prettiest picture? The last time I saw you, you were all gangly legs and heavy metal. What are you up to nowadays?"
The two women went into a huddle to bring each other up-to-date while John looked on, stunned.
His father stood sizing him up with a grin.
"I bet you didn't notice how good-looking she was when you were visiting your godmother fifteen years ago. Don't stand staring at her like that. It's rude, and besides, it's not good policy. I hooked your mother by pretending to ignore her. Women can't stand being ignored."
Fortunately the service had begun. Alicia took her place by the coffin, joined by his parents, while John remained at the back, unable to keep his eyes off her, demure and sweet in a simple black dress with no trace of sexual come-on in her clothes or gestures. She never once looked at him, absorbed in the service and genuinely moved when throwing a few sods onto the lowered coffin. She didn't bother to accept condolences afterwards and was driven off before John had a chance to talk to her.
"She naturally wants to be alone, poor child," his mother whispered as they made their way to the taxi ranks.
Alone with that blonde bitch, John thought moodily. And she is pretending not to know me so she can look the innocent virgin and be admired by everyone and doesn't have to explain her bitch life in the underbelly of Paris.
"You're coming in our cab, John?" his mother asked.
He was about to nod when his father spoke.
"I think John needs his own cab. He's going in another direction. You go sit in ours while I help him find another one."
When they had walked off, his father continued, "I never thought much of those girls you used to bring home. Your mother and I were always hoping for something better. Anyway, I saw you looking just now at Alicia. She's a lovely girl, and I'd welcome her in the family if you think you like her enough. Dahlia used to be your mother's best friend, which is how she became your godmother, of course. I'm sure she'd have approved. Anyway, it's strange, isn't it? Alicia seems so unlike her mother, so calm, so, well, innocent. Quite the opposite of Dahlia, who used to be wild. I hope Alicia's not too dull for you. Anyway, here's her address. Got to go now. Can't leave your mother waiting."
"Thanks, Dad," he said in some confusion. "Thanks. See you tomorrow at the airport."
He waved his parents goodbye and looked at the slip in his hand with its Mayfair address.
He thought angrily that Alicia Durand wasn't innocent at all, that she had been playing with him, that she had known all along who he was when showing him around his new Paris apartment. It was too humiliating. Was she some sort of damned nutcase? Why had she pretended not to know him? She had seen his name. She must know who he was. What was going on?
There was obviously only one thing to do. Confront her, once and for all.
He had a confused idea of the London map, but he knew that Mayfair was an expensive neighborhood not far from his hotel. A twenty-minute ride into the heart of London confirmed his supposition. Mayfair screamed money, even if in that understated British way.
When the cabby dropped him off in a swanky street just blocks away from the American embassy, he looked uncertainly from the handwritten address in his hand to the number on the townhouse in front of him. He knew he must have stayed here during his graduation trip, but couldn't remember a thing. He shrugged. It had been only one night, and he'd felt miserable and out of place in the English cold. He'd had a fever and probably wouldn't have remembered Buckingham Palace if he had stayed there. All the same, it was hard to imagine a former artist's model living in such surroundings. She probably rented a flat in the attic. But when he looked at the door for the bell, there was only one nameplate on it, discreetly announcing that this was the home of Dahlia Murson, his godmother. If the painter's paintings had paid for all this, his canvasses had to be worth millions.
He rang the bell and when the door opened, there was Alicia, still in the black dress she had worn at the funeral, still stunningly beautiful with her hair drawn back and the faintest hint of makeup.
"Oh!" she said, surprised.
"I'm not leaving," he said quickly. "Not this time."
"I'm not seeing anyone today."
There was a pause.
Looking at her, so beautiful and desirable, John was flooded by passion. His intention had been to vent his anger, to ask her why she had pretended not to know him when showing him around his flat in Paris, what she was playing at. But as he looked at her, he knew he couldn't be angry. All he wanted was to kiss her, to make love to her, to hear her say that she loved him. And somehow this house was the right place for it, as if he had already made love here. But that, he knew, was nonsense.
It strengthened his resolve to make her his own. He felt like a messenger at the gate, a soldier at the front under enemy fire, and he looked the part in his dark suit, feet planted firmly on the ground. Perhaps that is what she saw. Or perhaps she merely liked his good looks, the level gaze and the generous mouth, the determined chin and commanding bearing. In any case, she suddenly smiled, the same smile she had given him when showing him around his flat.
"Won't you come in and have a cup of tea, John? I've just boiled the pot."
He followed her in quickly, afraid to see the door close again in his face.
The hall revealed at once that the house was furnished with taste and money.
A portrait of a youthful Dahlia hung on the wall, dressed in thirties fashion, yet exactly like Alicia in appearance once you looked past the hairstyle and clothes. A strange feeling of foreboding filled him as he eyed the portrait, as if the painted Dahlia knew something about him he had forgotten.
He followed Alicia down a long corridor. John Winters was no antiques expert, but even he recognized that the furniture glimpsed through half-open doors was old and expensive.
And through it all moved Alicia, graceful and light, leading him to a large conservatory at the back of the house overlooking a secluded garden.
She waved him to a seat, told him to pour his own tea while she went and made a phone call.
He waited in silence, clearing a space for his cup on a low table covered in paperwork, her mother's presumably.
"Lots of paper to go through," she muttered when she returned.
They drank while he sat wondering what to say. There was so much
he wanted to ask, and all of it seemed wrong and likely to make her angry and put him back on square one.
"You intend to remain in London?" he finally asked.
"Oh, no," she replied. "I'll keep the house, though. Nice and central, isn't it?"
She talked some more about the house, travel, friends, but John wasn't listening any longer. He suddenly wanted to go home and hide himself. He felt nauseated, foolish. Her cool voice, her polite smile showed that she had no feelings for him at all. She was a lesbian, pure and simple. He, John Winters, was a non-starter. It was back to square one for him. It was true what they said: Love at first sight didn't exist. He had been fooling himself all along. Having never felt more than casual attraction for the women in his life, he had immediately concluded that she was his life's passion just because her exotic accent had made his heart beat faster. And besides, he had never been in the running at all. What proof did he have that she had come that night to his apartment? Wasn't it far more likely that jet lag had triggered vivid dreams, just as nightmares can be more real than reality? Any number of television documentaries dealt with the mental tricks people played on themselves, to the point where they lost touch with reality altogether. Yes, from the beginning, everything had been his own imagination. He had been lured on by his own willingness to believe, the product of a low décolleté when she had shown him around the place, the excitement of a romantic city. He had behaved like a schoolboy all the way. It was crushing.
Finally he couldn't stand it any more. Her voice was buzzing in his ears as if deliberately trying to annoy him with its lightheartedness.
He put down his cup with a bang.
"What's wrong?" she asked. "Is the tea too strong?"
"I'm leaving. Got to go back to the hotel."
She looked faintly amused, as if guessing his feelings. Her voice was soft.
"Don't lose my address, John. I'm here. Anytime."
"Anytime?" he said with a sneer. "To find myself locked out on the landing while you're making out with some bitch? You knew all along who I was in Paris, didn't you? "
Her face colored, and she looked at him with flashing eyes, chin raised.
"You've no right to call her a bitch. I'll choose whom I want. Do you hear? And what of it that I knew who you were? Did you recognize me? Of course you didn't, you selfish—you selfish—get out!"
He eyed her furiously for a long moment, hurtful retorts whirling through his mind. Finally he smiled ruefully and said, "I can't hurt you, and I can't stay angry at you, Alicia. Your beauty kills me. I guess I love you. Goodbye. I won't try to see you again."
He turned on his heels and stalked down the long corridor to the street, shredding her address on the way.
He was in a black mood when he returned to his hotel, determined to take the first flight back to Paris and to lose himself in his work.
Things got even worse when he asked for his key. The concierge looked at him in confusion and said, "Why, you checked out, sir."
"What do you mean I checked out? How can I have checked out? I'm standing here in front of you. I booked through Wednesday."
"I'm sorry, sir. A lady called half an hour ago to ask us to deliver your luggage to her house. She paid your bill, and since her family is rather well-known over here and, well, she said she knew you -"
"What's that you said? What do you mean she knew me? Give me a name, man."
"A Miss Alicia Durand, sir."
"What? You're kidding me."
"I'm afraid not, sir, but if we made an error, I'll get onto it straightaway."
John let out a loud oath.
By now the concierge was thoroughly cowed, convinced that he had made a serious slip-up. He picked up a phone with a worried face. John slammed it down.
"Don't do that, man. Don't do anything. Damn! Tell me the address. I don't have it any more. And get me a cab! Quick!"
* * * *
Fifteen minutes he was standing again on Alicia's doorstep, impatiently ringing the bell. He almost stumbled over his words in his haste when she opened.
"I'm making a habit of standing in front of your door, but this time, please, please tell me I am right. I'll die if you make me eat dust once more."
She looked at him with blazing eyes.
"It serves you right to eat dust, you selfish, blind, detestable macho creature. I hate you!" She hit her fists angrily on his chest. "But I love you. I can't help myself. So you better come in before I forget I love you and slam the door in your face."
Her voice softened as she looked at his bewildered face.
"I've just been going through some of my old lingerie. Will you help me choose what to keep?"
He crossed the threshold.
"No," he said. He slammed the door behind him and, picking her up in his strong arms, carried her down the long corridor to the conservatory overlooking the garden.
"No. No lingerie," he repeated and threw her on the couch.
His hands clasped the slip under her dress, and before she could defend herself, he had torn it from her hips, ripping the hem of her dress, as if making her clothes pay for his angry passion.
"Stay there," he ordered and began to undress with impatient fingers, throwing off his jacket, kicking off his shoes, pulling down his pants and underwear, tearing off his tie and shirt, ripping off his socks.
The disheveled brunette with the long legs in her rumpled dress lay gasping with something else than fright or anger as he revealed his smoothly muscular body with the wide shoulders and the deep chest, the strong legs and the assured stance.
He forced her legs open ruthlessly. Ignoring her involuntary cry, he gazed drunkenly at the oval of her vagina. The strong trunk of his sex curved stiffly up at the sight of her flushed body. He was heady with the memory of her smell as he remembered her visit to his flat and realized he had not imagined it. He had seen her intimacy before with its plump lips, swollen and randy with excitement.
He looked at her with hot eyes, and she looked back, pupils dilated, mouth open, nostrils wide. Gone was their anger and frustration. The man and woman in the conservatory, primal in their desire, were ready to mate like beasts in the jungle.
He took her dress in both hands and tore it from her shoulders, leaving red wheals on the flesh of her heaving breasts. But her swollen nipples, her ragged breath, told him she didn't mind.
"This. This is what I want right now," he said.
He lowered himself onto her.
The tip of his manhood slipped inside her.
Suddenly she opened her eyes in a quick look of alarm.
"Be careful, darling," she whispered, her breath ragged with passion. "Before I forget. I'm a virgin."
"You're what?"
He was so shocked and surprised that he forgot what he was about to do.
Alicia had to be twenty-six at least. No woman of twenty-six was a virgin these days. Of course, he had heard what Lisa, the girl at her office, had said, but he hadn't believed her. It had sounded merely like spiteful gossip. And wasn't it typical of a woman to come up with such a remark and to put you off your stride just when you were getting down to business?
Alicia giggled softly.
"Poor boy. You're losing your erection with all this serious talk. Kiss me while I help you get it back."
"You're a virgin?" he whispered.
"Shhhh. I'll explain later. Not now. I may be a virgin, but I know my way around. I've made love with women, remember? And I don't want to be a virgin any longer."
She pulled his face down to hers, sealing his lips with hers while her hand found his shaft and quickly rekindled its urgent fire. Then he was in her again, gently pushing down into the depth of her belly until their underbellies touched. Suddenly she gave a little gasp of discomfort, and he knew she was a virgin no longer.
Slowly he made love to her, allowing her to discover the feeling of a male inside her until the rhythm of her own hips took over, faster and faster. His waist crushed between her thighs, her heels d
igging into his back as she thrust herself against him and finally came, shuddering, and came again, screaming and clawing, as she felt the spurt of his own climax scorch and fill her belly deep inside.
Again they made love, and again she fought like a tigress until he pinned her down and drove her to ecstasy with hard, dominant thrusts.
Finally they slipped, exhausted, onto the rug on the floor where they lay huddled against each other, savoring each other's presence while slowly recovering their breath.
"Twenty-two you were," she whispered after a while, running a finger across his chest. "And I was sixteen, but I was so skinny, so shy of myself. But I saw you under the shower—"
"You mean when I was staying at your mom's place during that European visit? You were watching me under the shower like a Peeping Tom?"
She smiled lazily.
"Yes. Under the shower, you were under the shower, soaping yourself, and I wanted to be there and soap you, but I couldn't. I was only sixteen. And anyway, you had ignored me since you walked in because I was a skinny punk."
"Is that why you pretended not to know me in Paris? You played a mind-game just because I ignored you all those years ago? Hey, that's unfair!" John protested. "I was twenty-two! My heroines were those babes from Baywatch, not some skinny, sixteen-year-old punk kid who hid her face in makeup and a pink hairdo! I can't even remember what this place looked like at the time, let alone who was there. I was as sick as a dog."
She shook her head and sighed contentedly, a lazy arm draped over his chest.
"No, that's not why I've been ignoring you. Though to be fair, you didn't remember me when we met again in Paris, did you? Oh, I knew who you were when I showed you around your apartment. But when you didn't recognise me, when you saw me only as a desirable piece of ass, as you Americans so delicately put it, well, your visit from all those years before came back to me, and I decided that, if you couldn't be bothered to remember me, why should I? Anyway, you have to believe me when I tell you that our meeting was a coincidence. I have been working for the same agency for several years, and we've been arranging furnished apartments for your firm for as long as I've been with the agency."