"You're wonderful," he said again as they staggered from the water. Exulting, they laughed through numb lips. "Do we have any towels?" She shook her head. "Damn. Poor planning. Sit here; I'll see what I can find."
She leaned against a warm rock. The molten sun dried her almost instantly, but her skin was still covered with small bumps from the cold that seemed to have soaked into her bones. Staring vacantly at the deceptive, sun-sparkled pool, she thought of nothing at all, but there was an image in her mind, like a photograph, of the two of them, swimming side by side with matched strokes.
"One towel," Ross said, returning. "Wrapped around the wine. Not very big, but enough to share." He looked down at her. His muscles quivered from the cold that pervaded him, but he stood still, gazing at her. "My God," he breathed. "You are so lovely."
Katherine's thought stirred and she saw herself as he did: half-lying on the grass in transparent wet underclothes. Brushing her dripping hair from her eyes, she made a move to stand up. "No," Ross said and, kneeling, he began to dry her hair with the towel.
'The sun ..." Katherine murmured. "It will dry— " 338
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"I know." Holding the towel, his hand moved rhythmically, caressing her hair in long strokes and then her neck and shoulders. She was beginning to feel warm again. From Ross's own drenched hair, a drop of water fell like an icicle on her breast and she flinched. He laughed shakily. "Dangerous ..." With a swift motion he ran the towel over his hair, then, bending down, put his lips to the spot on her breast. For a long moment they stayed that way, barely breathing, engulfed in sunlight, dieir flesh beginning to glow, as if, at last, the sun ran through their veins.
"Katherine," Ross murmured. "My God, how many times I've said your name to myself . . . dearest, lovely Katherine." He pulled off her wet brassiere and pants and Katherine put her hands on his soaked cotton underpants and pushed them off. They lay on the fragrant grass, bodies burning hot, cool where their wet clothes had been, and Ross slid his arm beneath Katherine's shoulders and brought his open mouth down to hers.
They held the kiss, prolonging it, letting their desire grow, letting it flow through them, like the sun. Katherine's arms kept Ross close. "I thought of this," she said, her lips against his, "before I went in the water. I wanted you— **
"I thought of this in Paris," he said. And then, lying on her softness and delicate strength, he felt her legs part for him and he thrust into her, into the darkness of her body while sunlight spun in brilliant wheels behind his closed eyes and Katherine whispered his name in the clear mountain air.
There was so much to say they chose silence, lips meeting in small kisses as they lay quietly, Katherine's head on his shoulder, one of Ross's legs lying across hers, its heaviness as pleasurable as their caresses. Ross moved his palm slowly up the curve of her hip to her breasts, brushing the nipples, and then to her throat and face, as if sketching the lines and textures of her body; and Katherine hghtly slid her hand along his back to his shoulders and muscled arms, and stopped with her fingertips in the blond hair of his chest. She raised herself on one elbow, looking down into his dark eyes. "I feel so greedy," she said, embarrassed.
"Not greedy," he said, and smiled at her, the sun running through his veins. "Alive, marvelous, part of me . . ." He
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kissed the fullness of her breasts, taking her taut nipples into the warmth of his mouth.
A long sigh came from deep within Katherine, freeing the last of the hungers and fears she had restrained for so long. Everything was all right; everything was wonderfully right between them. She was filled with a joy that was like the sun, warming her after she had been so cold, and the joy sang within her as Ross's mouth moved from her breasts to her stomach. "You taste like pine trees," he murmured, his mouth on her soft skin. "And wild clover and mountain streams." A heavy languor held her still, while his touch swept through her in widening ripples; he was everywhere a part of her, surrounding her, and she felt herself press against the earth, melting, open, waiting, as his hands parted her thighs and his tongue whispered against her.
The touch, sharp and soft, leaped through Katherine's body; a low moan escaped her and she dissolved into feeling as his tongue moved lightly, exploring, pushing inside her— alive, marvelous, part of me —until she felt herself draw together, like a flower curling to hold within its petals the golden liquid of the sun. She drew together to one blazing point until it was too great to be contained and with a cry, her body arching, Katherine felt it burst, spinning through her veins, then slowly fading away.
They lay together, and kissed. For a moment Katherine drowsed in the sun, and then they murmured together about dressing, eating, hiking back—but instead they looked at each other through half-closed eyes in the brightness and let their bodies waken in a long embrace. "If I could take you onto me," Ross said. "And hold you there ..."
"Yes," Katherine said. "Yes." And when his hands went to her hips, she moved on top of him.
His arms enfolded her so tightly her breasts were crushed against his chest, her face buried in the curve of his neck and shoulder. Stirring, she raised her head so her lips could make tiny kisses along his neck. "Your skin is so warm," she murmured. "Hard and smooth and warm—and I can kiss your heartbeat here—" She kissed the hollow of his throat and then his mouth, open and as demanding as hers.
He lifted her and Katherine sat astride him, lowering herself upon him, feeling him slide upward, filling her. She smiled
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down on him, his daric blond hair still damp, his deep-set, dark eyes as warm as the sun, his lips curving on her name.
". . . lovely, magnificent woman," he murmured. His hands held her breasts, his palms against her erect nipples as their bodies found a rhythm as perfect as the one they had found in the water. Katherine bent over Ross again, her dark hair falling in a curtain about their faces as their mouths met and clung and they moved together, faster, merged in a haze of sunlight and pure feeling, faster still, climbing, to the narrow peak of a mountain against a clear sky, until, together, they leaped free and, trembling, came gradually to earth.
Night falls quickly in the mountains, the sky flaming to crimson, orange, and amber, fading to violet, smoky-gray, and then black, blotting out everything but the ghostly outlines of snow-covered peaks. Driving through the valley, Ross and Katherine watched the sunset fling its brilliance across the sky and then retreat, leaving them in a darkness broken only by the brightness of their headlights.
At the small crossroads town of Sospel, they stopped for a late dinner and lingered over coffee on the terrace of a hotel overlooking a cobblestone square. Hands clasped, chairs touching, they watched the play of light and water from a fountain covered in a mosaic of brightly colored pebbles. Relaxed, sated, filled with a soft, glowing h^piness, Katherine rested her head against the back of her chair and gazed at the black sky, so close above them, crowded with brilliant clusters of stars, and the pale frozen lace of the Milky Way. We're always outdoors, she thought idly, remembering how everything with Derek had been inside: restaurants, hotel balbooms, night clubs, private homes. But she and Ross were almost always outside—everything open, fresh, limitless. She started to tell him, but stopped. They'd never talked about Derek. Lx>ng ago, Victoria had said Ross was concerned about her, because of Derek. We'll have to talk about him, she thought. And they'd never talked about the reasons she'd been unsure whether Ross liked her or not. And they'd never talked about—
"We have to talk," Ross said when they were in the car again, descending on the comiche to Menton. "So many things we've been avoiding. At least, I have."
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things I want to talk to you about. But not tonight. Tomorrow."
'Tomorrow I'll be in Paris."
"Oh." She had forgotten. "But you'll be back."
"In three or fo
ur days." The road made a few final twists, then straightened, and the car raced forward. "I'd rather not go at all," he said, his hands relaxed on the wheel as they sped faster, passing other cars. "It's the wrong time. If I'd known, when Jacques and I made our plans—" He paused. "Why don't you come with me? You'd have the days to yourself and I'll cancel my dinner meetings—why not?" he asked as she shook her head.
"Because we have things to think about. And it might be a good idea for us to be apart for a little while."
"Before we talk?"
"I don't know. Yes. Before we talk."
They fell silent, preoccupied with their own thoughts. Suddenly Katherine began to laugh. "What?" Ross asked.
"Victoria. Remember? She gave me strict instructions to tell her every detail of our day." Simultaneously they pictured their bodies twined together on the grass. "And you said it would be a bad precedent—"
"And I didn't want you taking notes," he finished, his laughter joining hers.
At the villa, they parted at her door. "I'll be gone before you're up," he said, and the next morning, when she woke, she found a spray of carnations and roses on her drafting table, with a note written across her sketch pad.
Thank you for the most wonderful of days. Vm taking you with me, because from now on you'll always be inside me. One more thing for us to talk about when I get back. Soon. Ross.
"Well," said Victoria, searching her face when she came in to breakfast. "You found the scenery satisfactory."
"Magnificent." I'm taking you with me. But he was still here—as if he had become part of her —and Katherine was uncomfortable. Too much, too fast, she thought, and remembered feeling, just a few days earlier, that events might be out of control. She wondered what Victoria had seen in her face, and knew she was not ready to talk about Ross. Pouring juice
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and coffee at the sideboard, she asked, "Where are the children?"
"I believe in the playroom. Two of them grumbling, two being sympathetic." Katherine looked puzzled. "When Ross said goodbye early this morning, he told Carrie and Jon to call their mother. They were supposed to do it once a week and they missed last week. They say they have nothing to tell her— though they're always busy every minute of the day—and for some reason Jennifer and Todd understand this perfectly. So they sympathize while the other two grumble. Does this make sense to you? When my children were young they would have had no difficulty calling me; they told me everything."
Katherine smiled. "Did they really?"
"Well, probably not. Probably I was better off that they didn't. And I suppose children would never become independent if they didn't have secrets. But from you, my dear, I want to hear about everything that gave you that radiant look. Come, sit down, sit down, I want to hear it all, from the beginning. Where did you leave the car—^La Bollene or St. Martin? And where did you hike? Sit down, my dear, drink your coffee, eat something, and tell me all about it."
"I will. But if you don't mind, I'd like to check on the grumbling, first. I'll be right back."
Walking down the wide corridor to the children's wing, she shivered, as if a chill breeze had found its way through a crack in the wall. Melanie, San Francisco, the outside world. Craig. For three weeks they had barely existed, invisible in the glare of the Mediterranean sun, the unfamiliar landscape, the force of Ross's presence.
Now the chill breeze brushed her and she almost turned back. But then she heard Carrie's voice and caught a quick glimpse, in the playroom, of Jennifer and Todd on the couch, watching gravely as Carrie spoke on the telephone with Jon beside her. Katherine stepped back, not wanting to make them self-conscious. She wavered between going and staying, then stayed. She would just listen for a minute; just to make sure everything was all right.
"Nothing much," Carrie was saying. "We go swimming and there's Scrabble and stuff in the playroom and that's all." She listened, tapping her foot. "Well I suppose we're bored. I don't know." She listened again. "No, she's nice. She lets us do lots
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of things and she jokes with us and she's fiinny . . . she drives the gardener crazy by picking vegetables he thinks aren't ripe, or flowers that aren't—what? Oh. Well, I can't help it if you don't care about the gardener. Here. Jon wants to say hello.'' Scowling, she thrust the phone at Jon. "Hi, Mom, we're fine. What? I don't know. I don't think I'm bored. We do things all the time with Jennifer and Todd and—Carrie, cut it out! What are you doing?"
"Hitting your head, stupid! Oh, never mind." "Wasn't I supposed to tell Mom they're here?" "I don't know. I just thought maybe we wouldn't." Jon frowned at the telephone, then said into it, "Sorry, Mom, Carrie was beating on me. What? Jennifer and Todd Fraser, you know them." He looked at Carrie and rolled his eyes. "We didn't know they'd be here, so how could we tell you? Sure she's here; they all came together. We don't see her a lot though 'cause she works every morning and then in the afternoon she and Dad go places. How do / know where? They don't tell us. I guess every day; we do our own stuff; we don't watch them. I don't know what time they get back. Usually for dinner. Mom, I gotta go. There's another diving contest and we have to practice. No, I can't get Dad to the phone; he's in Paris. He left this morning. I don't know. Carrie, when will Dad be back?"
"Three or four days."
'Three or four days. I don't know; Carrie, what's Dad's hotel?"
"L'Hotel on the Rue des Beaux Arts. The same one he was in before. You know all that."
"Yeh, but— Mom? L'Hotel. The same one he was in before. OK? Gotta go; talk to you soon. 'Bye."
Melanie hung up the telephone and stared, unseeing, at the lights of San Francisco.
Across the room, Derek took ice cubes from the refrigerator behind the bar. "I didn't get all of that, but I gather Victoria has imported someone to entertain Ross."
"Katherine Fraser," she said, still looking out the window.
He stood still. "Ross and Katherine? How clever of Victoria."
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Melanie turned. His face was smooth, but his eyes were dark with fury, and she felt a stab of jealousy. "Does that bother you? Katherine and your brother? I must say, it didn't take long; we only split in May." She watched his expressionless face. "Jon says they're having quite a time, every afternoon and night . . . sending the kids off to play tennis or whatever so they can be alone. He leaves me stuck with this house while he plays on the Riviera . . . and he certainly isn't spending time with his children, which was the reason, he said, he wanted them in France for the month. I should demand them back; they both say they're bored; they don't have a mother or a father."
Derek was looking off in the distance, the muscle beside his eye jumping erratically. He put back the ice cube tray. "It's after eleven. If you want to get to this party we'd better go. When is your tennis champion due back?"
'Tomorrow."
"And what are you going to do with him?"
"Marry him, I suppose."
"Why?"
"Because I love him."
"Bullshit."
Standing at the vestibule mirror, Melanie smoothed her hair with nervous fingers. "Because he's young and makes me feel young."
"That's not all. What else?"
"Damn you, Derek." She took a silk shawl from the closet. "I'm afraid of being alone."
He nodded. "I wish you well."
"No you don't. You don't really care anything about me. You used to make love to me—you pursued me—and lately you won't. Even though I ask you. I never ask! Anybody! But I ask you, and you turn me down!"
"Katherine said I wanted you because you were Ross's wife."
"Katherine said! What does that bitch know about any of us?"
"Considerably more than you do." He opened the door, his thoughts cold and bitter. Derek understood himself well enough to know when someone saw through him. Ordinarily he was indifferent to what others said, but on the rare occasions when
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Melanie swung upon him. "Are you in love with her?"
"No."
She persisted. "Were you, when you were going out with her?"
"No. And what difference does it make?"
"I don't know," she said. They walked to his car. "I'd just feel better if you weren't."
He made no answer and after a moment, unable to endure silence, Melanie began to talk of something else. She talked all the way across the Golden Gate Bridge into San Francisco and to the top of Nob Hill where Derek parked on the steep street in front of Herman Mettler's town-house.
It was a very large party, the kind Mettler gave every summer when business was slow. Assuming everyone else was bored, too, he provided various entertainments: a choice selection of pornographic films in the basement projection room; an orchestra playing dance tunes in the living room that took up most of the first floor; and Polynesian hors d'oeuvres served by circulating waitresses in grass skirts. Upstairs, a glass case held a sampling from Mettler's fall line of jeweby.
"Of course she doesn't do your kind of thing," Metder said to Marc Landau as their gaze fastened on a gold necklace labeled "Katherine Fraser." "But she's got quite a talent, no doubt about it. Might even rival you someday. Marc. Make her own mark." He chuckled. "Especially if her work keeps changing as incredibly as it has so far.'*
"No one rivals Marc Landau," Leslie said slyly. "He's told me so himself. But that necklace is spectacular, isn't it?" She turned as someone called her name. "Excuse me; I'm going to mingle."
Landau studied the necklace. "Her work changed?"
"Like day and night. Her first batch was nice, well-made, the kind you see at Williams and Baylor, or Corfert's. The second . . . well, you see it. Inventive, bold, unique. . .
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