All I Want…

by Isabel Sharpe

  Whatever that meant. So there she stood, trying not to feel like a lamb on its way to slaughter, both physically—though she still felt no real sense of danger from him—and emotionally. Emotionally she was in a great deal of danger.

  If she didn’t get to see him tonight—

  She diverted her thoughts from an ultimatum whose consequences she might not want to accept by imagining what kind of car she’d least expect John Smith to drive. Not that he’d specifically said he’d be driving it, but who else? Not as though most people had chauffeurs at their disposal, though if he could afford the Ritz, he probably wasn’t hurting financially.

  Most likely he wouldn’t send his wife or girlfriend around for her either. She snorted wryly. Her dream man—a swinger priming her for a threesome.

  No way. Possibly she was romanticizing him—doubtless she was—but what had been growing between her and John Smith couldn’t be stretched to include anyone else.

  So would he pull up in daylight, in the flesh, and dispel the anonymity just like that? Part of her certainly hoped yes. The part that was ready for the next step, ready to see if what she felt for him would only deepen when they emerged from darkness.

  Part of her was terrified that seeing him would pop her beautiful fantasy bubble and replace it with the sad truth that John Smith was just another guy. Guy meant disappointment and heartache and eventual disillusionment, though she always seemed to get her hopes way up by the time the next one came along.

  She really, really didn’t want John Smith to turn out to be just another guy. Hell, she’d rather keep seeing him in the dark forever than lose the magic of what they had.

  Sort of.

  A car pulled up to the curb next to her, an older-model Lincoln Town Car—what she’d expect John Smith’s grandfather to drive, definitely not John Smith.

  So this was it. She held her breath, unable to see through the tinted windows, aware the driver was male but not able to tell more about him.

  The driver-side door opened. A man emerged….

  Her breath whooshed out with the release of tension. Not John Smith. This man was quite a bit older and bearded.

  “Jane Doe?”

  She nodded, feeling ridiculous being called Jane Doe in public, but the driver didn’t betray by so much as a smirk that he thought anything was odd about the name or that she was standing there expecting to be picked up by a stranger.

  He opened the back door and gestured her in. “Mr. Smith sent me. I’m Frank.”

  “Thank you, Frank.” She slid into the warm comfort of the backseat, stifling an urge to giggle at the thought of being chauffered. If this guy was a friend of John’s, he was doing a bang-up chauffeur imitation. If he were a chauffeur of John’s, then…well, the Ritz had been her first clue.

  She pulled the seat belt over her and buckled it, peering out at a few curious pedestrians watching Frank close her door and move to the driver’s seat. Aahh, let them wonder. She grinned and leaned back against the soft padded leather, thinking of Grandma Ellsworth saying it was as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one. Some of her friends also had very, er, practical standards for the men they wanted. Money was fine, but Krista had always wanted to fling herself into love for love’s sake alone. Just her luck that every time she’d flung herself, her parachute hadn’t opened.

  Frank shut his door, picked up something from the seat next to him and handed it back to her. An eyeshade. The kind people used for sleeping, to induce total darkness. John Smith’s answer to meeting in daylight.

  A sharp stab of disappointment. More mystery. More anonymity.

  And a tiny warm spread of relief. More mystery. More anonymity.

  Maybe this could be a little more confusing?

  She put the mask on and leaned back again. Lucy would love seeing her reduced to this mass of conflict. Look at Ms. Black-and-White now. Nothing was straightforward in this situation, nothing concrete and easy to hang on to. She’d undoubtedly judged Lucy too harshly—and, gulp, maybe a few others?

  The car pulled away from the curb, an odd sensation to be riding without sight. She must be more of a control freak than she thought, because it was hard to sit and experience turns and shifts in speed without knowing where they were headed or what was in front of them.

  Finally after what she’d guess was roughly twenty minutes, the car stopped. Frank got out, opened her door.

  “My hand, Miss Doe.”

  She rolled her eyes at the pompous address and fumbled until she found his hand, hoping a huge crowd of gawkers wasn’t gathering to see the masked woman emerge from the chauffeured Lincoln. Out of the car she caught the scent of the sea, heard the squawk of seagulls—were they near the harbor?

  Frank’s hand moved to her elbow and, feeling incredibly foolish, she followed his instructions to step up, wait, walk forward, until her senses registered the cessation of wind and the impression of being in front of a building.

  A jingle indicated Frank had a set of keys to wherever they were. She sensed a door in front of her swinging open; the hand at her elbow urged her forward. Into where?

  She held back, throat suddenly dry. “Where are we?”

  “Mr. Smith’s building.”

  “His home, right? Not an abandoned warehouse populated by chain-wielding thugs?”

  Frank chuckled. “Not this place. Luxury condos starting at three quarters of a million and climbing. Nothing bad ever happens here, they can pay to have it go away. You’re safe.”

  Oh my. Was John Smith’s real name Prince Charming? Did he own a small country somewhere? Grandma Ellsworth would be salivating. Krista was, too, but for reasons that had nothing to do with money.

  “This way.”

  She followed her escort into the warm building, her heels making echoey taps on the smooth floors. They stopped, waited. If there was anyone else in the hall staring at her, she was very glad she couldn’t see. Elevator doors opened, they stepped inside. Keys jangled again, and the car started up.

  She counted clicks, excitement mounting as they slowed on what must be the fifth floor.

  “Here you go.” The doors rumbled open. “After you.”

  She stepped out onto another hard, tappy surface, letting Frank guide her into what she sensed was a huge space—a loft?—tap-tapping, then quiet over rugs, then tapping again. All the while her ears were waiting for the sound of his voice or of his movements. Nothing.

  Was he here? She was shocked at the depth of her eagerness to be with him again. To talk to him, hear him, feel him…and see him?

  A door slid back, frigid breeze blew into the warmth. Not exactly cozy patio weather…

  Frank led her across a short balcony and placed her hands on a railing. “Wait here.”

  She nodded and waited, tempted to lift her mask but not wanting to be like women from mythology who screwed up their wonderful destinies by peeking when they weren’t supposed to. Pandora, Psyche…

  The driver’s footsteps receded; the door slid closed, and she was suddenly absolutely sure she was not alone on the balcony.

  Shivery excitement—and not just from the wintery temperature.

  “Hello, Jane.”

  She smiled, uncontrollably happy to be with him again. His voice did the same thing his voice always did to her, only more, because he sounded a little tired or dispirited tonight. Along with the usual butterflies, tenderness showed up and a need to make whatever was bothering him go away.

  “Hi, John.” She wanted to turn around but waited—did he have a mask, too? Or could he see her? The thought left her feeling wide-open and vulnerable. What was he thinking? Was he disappointed in what he saw?

  He came up behind her and a comforter came around her shoulders, encasing them so they stood together, cocooned in what was probably down, warm and private in the chilling air.

  “Oh, that’s nice. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He hugged her back against him. “You can take off your mask.”

&
nbsp; She stiffened in disbelief. “I can look at you?”

  “At the view. I’ll stay behind you.”

  “Gotcha.” She fought off the disappointment. Nothing was going to spoil her evening with him. Every time could be the last and she wanted to enjoy every second. “You’re not wearing one?”

  “No.”

  So he’d seen her walk in, seen everything but her eyes. This was progress in the direction she’d been hoping progress would be made.

  She took off the mask and let out an oooh of pure pleasure. The setting sun behind them had turned the light vivid and orange. Boston Harbor glowed dark blue, dotted with islands, ships, buoys and a few smaller craft. “What a fabulous view.”

  “I thought you’d like it.” He watched the scene with her, holding her and the comforter loosely, not seeming in any hurry to continue their erotic journey.

  That suited her fine. It felt just right to be standing there with him, as if they were friends or longtime lovers, past the initial frenzy of lust.

  As soon as the pleasant thought washed over her, it receded, leaving her insides achy and empty. Friends, longtime lovers, no. John Smith was still a stranger. She wanted to turn around and look, make him look, too, find out who affected her so strongly. But that wasn’t part of the deal. At least not yet.

  So she stared out at the water instead, past the point where civilization left its mark, where the ocean reached toward the horizon. Gazing at the sea made her restless, as if her tiny existence needed further justification, as if she had too many things left to conquer that she’d never be able to conquer. A bittersweet push/pull feeling, like the waves themselves.

  “John?” She spoke without thinking, assuming he’d understand her fairly crazy reaction. Would he? “Does the ocean ever make you feel you’re not doing enough, not living enough?”

  “Every day.”

  He got it. Her heart swelled so big her chest tightened. Instinctively she turned to register his expression before his strong arms reminded her not to peek. Though she did get a glimpse of medium-brown hair and found even that tiny bit of identifying information excited her. “Really? You’re not just saying that?”

  “Really. Now tell me why you asked. What aren’t you doing enough of? Is that what went wrong with your week?”

  “Sort of.” She blew out a breath, vulnerable talking about her passion in a way she’d never been before. “I want to…I’m trying to change the way people think.”

  He laughed but not cruelly. “Nothing like starting small.”

  “I know. But I want them to appreciate…natural things. Small things. Things that have real quality, real value. Not to settle for less. We’re a consumer society and we have the strongest voice possible in our wallets.” She stopped, hoping he wasn’t about to glance at his watch and announce he had somewhere to be.

  “Don’t settle for glitz without substance.” He spoke quietly, thoughtfully. “Or support achievement without the talent to back it up.”

  “Yes. My father does beautiful work at competitive prices, but people flock to the chain print-and-copy shops because they made the buzz, they have the advertising dollars. My mother was passed over for a principal job in favor of someone less qualified who made more me-meme noise. My sister lost a part in a show to a no-talent airhead bimbo who can barely carry a tune.”

  She stopped herself before she started sounding possessed. At this point her other boyfriends were generally chuckling, snoring or rooting through her cabinets for snacks. “You probably think I’m hopelessly naive. Or crazy.”

  “Actually the opposite. You sound very sane to me. And wise. I bet you’re not a big fan of Christmas decorations up right after Halloween or commercials that equate product to happiness.”

  “Yes. Exactly.” Her voice went raspy. Yes, yes, yes. She cleared her throat and nodded her head toward the sea. “I get tired of people tolerating the ordinariness of everything. I want experiences and food and people and jobs and thoughts to be rare and special, to make the short time we have here a mindful, rich and meaningful experience. Sometimes I feel like I’m shouting into a vacuum, but I have to keep trying.”

  “I hear you.” He squeezed her in a gentle hug. “So what happened this week?”

  She watched the wake of a tugboat boil white and fade into navy, trying to form the words. “Did you ever feel passionately about something, possibly to the point of blindness, and then suddenly you get a genuine close-up of another point of view that rings true as well?”

  “Rattles you pretty thoroughly.”

  “No kidding.” She breathed in and out, the knot of hurt and confusion starting to untangle and let go. “That was my week.”

  “It doesn’t mean you’re wrong in what you believe.”

  “No.” She wasn’t wrong. “But maybe too…harsh.”

  “The world needs passionate people, Jane. Gets the rest of us thinking.”

  “What are you passionate about?”

  “Besides you?”

  She glowed. Couldn’t help it. If the sky were darker they could pick her up on a satellite view.

  “Besides me.” She dropped her head back against his shoulder, still grinning her head off. “What does the ocean make you need to do?”

  “Explore.” His voice was deep and rumbly next to her ear. “I chose to live close to a view like this to remind me the world is still out there.”

  “I see.” Her grin sickened and died. “It makes you want to go back to your wanderer’s life.”

  “Yes. Bust out of the suit, pick up my backpack and boldly go where no employed corporate executive has time to go. Take in as much of the world and the people and the scenery as I can.”

  Unfettered by responsibilities…or relationships. “No settling in any one spot?”

  “There would always be somewhere I hadn’t seen.”

  Her heart started thumping painfully and she told herself not to care. Finally she was getting a good idea why he’d chosen to keep their relationship anonymous. Not married, not a sociopath, but she’d bet John Smith was a commitmentphobe, in which case their peculiar method of interaction would be tailor-made for him. All the sex, all the excitement and none of the messy relationship issues. What claim could she make on him when she couldn’t even initiate contact to set up a date?

  Unless she was wrong, her new dream for the two of them was about to get an early wake-up call.

  “When you were traveling, when did you decide it was time to move on from one place to another?”

  “Interesting question.” He held the comforter around them with one hand, trailed the other down her side. “I never thought about it.”

  “I have a guess.”

  “Yes?” He pushed under her waistband, left his warm fingers lying comfortably, possessively, against her bare abdomen.

  “I’m guessing it was whenever you started to feel too much at home.” She waited for the response, lead weight on her diaphragm making it hard to breathe.

  “Hmm.” He stroked his thumb up and down her skin. “I’ll have to give that some thought.”

  She smiled tightly. Bingo. Commitmentphobe. Give it some thought? He was a guy. He wouldn’t even give it the brain equivalent of a glance.

  “What about you? Why does a blind relationship interest you?”

  Her smile faded. It didn’t anymore. But she couldn’t bring herself to blurt it out. “Oh…well, because it’s…exciting.”

  “Because it’s anonymous? Because you don’t have to risk…getting real?”

  An alarm went off in Krista’s head. “Did you say ‘getting real’?”

  “Uh-huh.” His mouth came close to her ear; his hand slipped out of her waistband and started exploring her thigh; he sounded completely relaxed and in control. “Shouldn’t I have?”

  “No, it’s just…no. Nothing.” She was paranoid. The phrase was common enough.

  “So you think it’s exciting not to know who I am?”

  “Sure.” She kept her tone ligh
t, rose on tiptoe, arched her back so her rear made contact with his groin. “I think I’ll have all my men this way from now on.”

  His hands stopped moving. “How many more are you planning?”

  He sounded so grim, she couldn’t help a traitorous burst of hope. “None. I mean not now. I mean not until…not unless…”

  She broke off, feeling like an idiot. She so desperately wanted to mean something special to him, this was almost scarier than when he’d woken her in the middle of the night in Maine.

  “Say it.” His voice was gentle; his hand tightened on her hip. “Whatever it is. I want to hear it.”

  God, she so sincerely hoped he did. “Is this…more than sex for you?”

  His breath went in slowly. “Logically how can it be? You don’t know who I am. You’ve never even seen me.”

  Krista frowned. Wasn’t that mutual? “You’ve never seen me either.”

  “But the back of your head is fabulous.”

  She laughed briefly, wanting to understand, wanting some idea of where this was going. “You said logically. How about illogically?”

  His hand started exploring again; he began a rhythm against her with his hips. “Being with you is more than…more than I expected.”

  She should leave it alone, she should enjoy the physical and stop pushing. But she needed to know. “More than you want?”

  “More than is convenient in some ways, but no, not more than I want. Not anymore.” He spoke quietly, gravely, stopped moving against her. “What about you?”

  “It’s not more than I want either.” She whispered the words, tension dissipating in another, more welcome rush of hope. Right now it’s less.

  “What’s your idea of the perfect relationship?”

  That was easy. Standing watching a beautiful view, nose freezing, wrapped warmly in a down comforter with the best lover she’d ever had, who’d touched her more deeply in a short time than anyone she’d ever known. “Someone I…am comfortable with, someone I can share anything with, someone who will both listen and hear me. Multiple orgasms wouldn’t hurt either.”

  He laughed. “Can’t argue with that. What else?”

  “Someone who doesn’t care if I put on a pound or two or five or look hideous sometimes.”