R Is for Rebel
Page 21
Sarah finally had had enough. “She is utterly impossible, Benjamin. In one year, Abigail’s foundation has done more to improve the health and education of those women and children than any government or NGO has been able to accomplish in decades.”
“It’s not me, though, it’s the doctors and volunteers—”
Eliot smiled as Sarah became more furious. “Do you see what I’m dealing with? Eliot, you smile, but she is positively self-defeating. It is so boring!”
Benjamin Willard looked from the blond, confident Sarah James to the dark, self-conscious Abigail Heyworth and blurted out, “How many of you are there?”
“I beg your pardon?” Abigail asked.
“I mean, how many of this genus Heyworthus Femina roam the earth? Mothers, daughters, wives? I want to see you all in one room, preferably while I have my favorite camera and lots of time.”
Abigail looked embarrassed and Sarah looked ecstatic, practically trilling her enthusiasm. “Oh! That would be so fabulous! Can you imagine if we did it now, with Bronte pregnant out to here? She’d kill us. But with two more genus Heyworthus Femina on the way, it does seem a shame to rush. And then there’s the long-lost sister, Claire, recently sprung from her life sentence in northern Scotland and loving New York. And Aunt Claudia! Oh my, she’s not technically a Heyworth, but she is formidable.”
“I am at your disposal.” Benjamin nodded his head, first toward Sarah, then, with a bit more intensity, to Abigail.
“You are too kind,” said Abigail.
Dina leaned in front of Benjamin Willard to get a better look at Abigail. “You look so familiar.” She turned to Eliot and then to Willard. “Don’t you think?”
Willard smiled and looked at Eliot, then back at Abigail. “I believe she bears a striking resemblance to all the models in the Danieli-Fauchard runway shows this season.”
Snapping her fingers, Dina said, “That’s exactly it! Don’t you see it, Eliot? You are making them all wear those crazy black wigs and all that kohl eyeliner, and you could have just hired this lovely woman to do your modeling for you.”
Abigail stared at Eliot and he stared back, eventually giving her a small smile. He turned to Dina. “I’d love to get Abigail to model for me, but she once told me she is not beautiful, so what could I do?”
Dina wheeled on Abigail, eyes wide. “You said what? Do you not have a mirror?”
Abigail laughed at the Russian woman’s vehemence, then replied, “I do now.” She looked to Eliot and dipped her chin again.
Her shyness was the last straw. Eliot glanced at no one in particular and nearly growled, “Will you all excuse us for a moment?”
Dina and Willard looked up, surprised that the usually blasé Eliot looked so adamant. He stood up to let everyone scoot out of the large round booth, until Abigail was finally free of the banquette and standing next to him.
“Come with me.”
She smiled and trailed behind him as he headed toward the crowded bar area, eventually leading them to a more secluded section down a hall, near the public phones and the restrooms. He stood in front of her, staring, taking her in.
She said, “You have been a figment for so long, I think I forgot the real you.”
She reached for him and grabbed his wrist in a casual way, thinking she was merely illustrating her point—that she’d forgotten the physical reality of Eliot Cranbrook, her old friend—but it became a burning touch in an instant. He moved his other hand to cover hers, almost like he was holding her in place.
Touching her hand at that moment was the most pleasure he could ever hope for. He felt resolved. “I still feel it. Do you?”
“All the time. Especially at night.”
“I think we need to leave.”
“We just got here.”
“Exactly. I don’t want to waste another minute.”
“Neither do I,” Abigail laughed through the words, “but I’m starving and I want to wait for my dinner.”
“Give me a little something, just to tide me over.” He pulled her closer to him, his grip tightening on hers. He reached his hand up to her face and stopped just shy of actually touching her.
She could feel the heat emanating from his palm, and her eyes shut in liquid anticipation. “Please touch me, Eliot,” she whispered.
“I don’t know how.”
Her eyes flew open to meet his. “Of course you do.”
“I mean, I have dreamt and planned for this moment so many times in my imagination.” He was leaning in close to her ear, whispering hotly. “Sometimes I am tender and slow; other times I am rough and demanding; and now that I have you here, really here, I—”
Abigail wrenched her hand free of his, threw her arms around his neck, and pulled his face to hers, relieving him of the need to decide. She kissed him with abandoned desperation, moaning into his mouth, grasping handfuls of his hair in her eager fingers; after a split second’s hesitation, Eliot was all over her. The restaurant noises and lights faded into a low, distant murmur.
His hands moved to her waist, her ribs, the underside of her breasts, and his knee moved between her legs as one hand moved to steady her balance at her lower back. She pulled at the front of his shirt, yanking out the fabric where he had tucked it in at his waist, her lips never leaving his. When her hand finally went flat against the warm, muscled texture of his stomach, skin to skin, she felt some ancient, lost cog of her psychic machine slip seamlessly into place.
Peace.
Love.
“I love you, Eliot,” she said between quick kisses. “I love you so much. I was so afraid.” Her lips moved away from his mouth to his neck, the soft lobe of his ear, the tender skin at his temple. “Oh, god, how I’ve missed you.” She was about to plant another kiss on his lips when he shook her roughly away, just a few inches, but enough to jar her.
“What?” she asked.
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying what I was too insecure or too immature or too scared to say last year. You frightened me, Eliot. You were so… ardent.”
“Say it again. Now. While you are looking in my eyes.”
She blinked away the passion and spoke, as a vow. “I, Abigail Heyworth, love you, Eliot Cranbrook.”
He stared at her and all the vile anger and months of confusion washed away. “And I you, Abigail. I think I’ve loved you from the moment you walked into the drawing room at Dunlear, like a flashing wild Medusa, come in from the storm.” He traced the line of her jaw and the column of her neck, letting his finger pause at the black strings coiled around the base. “You’ve always been mine, Abigail, haven’t you?” He put his index finger between the cord and her neck, watching, transfixed, as it tightened and pulled at her tender flesh. “I don’t know why I didn’t have the courage to demand you admit it. I was too easy on you. From the very first, I wanted to own you—”
She tilted her head back to feel the necklace grow even more taut, and bit her lower lip at the raw pleasure of it.
“It’s all so obvious now, isn’t it?” he whispered into her ear, then bit at the velveteen flesh around her earring. She wanted to drop to her knees and take him into her mouth right there on the century-old white mosaic tile. She wanted to adore him in every possible way. Every physical way. To give him every possible gift of pleasure.
“Oh, Eliot. I want you so much right now. I don’t know if I can go back into the restaurant after all.”
He pulled back a pace and tucked his shirt back into his pants. “Come on, it will be fun. Let’s go drink champagne and eat oysters and marvel at all the beautiful people.”
“Now it will be fun, eh? I think I see how this is going to go.” She shook her hair and looked down to make sure Sarah’s silk blouse wasn’t too obviously disheveled.
“You look perfect.”
She looked up quickly to see him drinking her in. “You had better not look at me like that when we get back in the restaurant…”
“Or what?” he asked.
He pulled her hand in his and started back toward the restaurant. “Pray tell.”
“It’s a rather long and comprehensive list.”
“I love lists,” he said, then gestured for her to precede him into the large main room. “After you, my lady.”
She winked over her shoulder at the old volley… about being his… and about being a lady. She winked because now it was all true.
When they were reseated at the table, they ignored Sarah’s pressing glances and endless leading questions for the rest of the evening. They laughed and chatted with an ever-changing stream of models and writers and photographers, while Eliot’s hand never lost contact with her body, whether trailing idly along her thigh, catching her hand under the table, or slipping one arm loosely, possessively behind her shoulders.
Near midnight, she turned to Eliot, thinking he was still engaged in another conversation with Dina, but he was silently watching her. She gave him a questioning look then asked, “Have you had enough fun yet?”
“Have you had enough to eat? You’re going to need your strength.” His dark blue eyes sparkled, the sapphire irises nearly aglow.
“See?” she whispered. “Now that’s the look that’s going to put me under the table.”
“We’re out of here,” he growled so only she could hear, then he lifted his chin toward Sarah. “You can pick up the tab. Just add it to the already outrageous amount you think Danieli-Fauchard should cough up to acquire Sarah James Shoes.”
“Value for money, Eliot. Value for money. Have fun, you two. I won’t wait up, Abigail.”
Abigail groaned in embarrassment, but she knew Sarah was only trying to keep everything light. Abigail said her good-byes to Benjamin and Dina, and kissed Sarah on both cheeks. Abigail ducked into the taxi and just missed seeing her cousin, James Mowbray, enter the restaurant.
***
As the taxi sped down Boulevard Raspail, Abigail climbed across Eliot’s lap, straddling him. She took his face firmly in her hands, almost as if she were chastising him. “Where have you been?”
“I’ve been right here.” He grabbed her narrow hips. “Right here,” he murmured as he began kissing her, pulling her more firmly against his lap. “Where have you been?”
She was kissing his neck—“Here”—then kissing his lips—“and here”—then just below his ear—“and often here.” Then she undid one button of his shirt and kissed the strong, warm flesh over his heart. “And always, always here.” She let her tongue slide over his nipple and felt his response in her lap and on her lips. “Oh, I’ve missed you terribly, Eliot. I’m so sorry for all the time I wasted.”
His head had fallen back onto the headrest of the taxi as he enjoyed her eager attention, but her apology brought him back to his senses. “No more of that. We were both foolish.” He took both of her hands in his and kissed the palm of each, then brought one of her hands back to his chest so she could feel the pounding of his heart. “You do this to me. Only you, Abigail.”
Her eyes faltered as she thought it was only her… and his fiancée.
He caught her change immediately. “What is it? We can’t afford any more senseless misunderstandings. Tell me.”
“It just popped into my mind. I’m not trying to be difficult or self-defeating or whatever. But, only… only me… and your fiancée?”
“Oh god,” he muttered as he turned to look out at the passing streetlights. “Mari.”
“Ugh, she even has a cute nickname,” Abigail said as she rolled off his lap and settled into the seat next to him.
“This was all her idea.”
“What?!”
“Not this.” He gestured with a quick dismissive flick at his opened shirt and her mussed hair. “I mean, I told her last week that I wanted to postpone or cancel the wedding—”
“You did?” Abigail was momentarily thrilled that she wasn’t entirely to blame for destroying poor Marisa’s dreams. It was easier to think of her as Poor Marisa now that Abigail had won. She could afford to remember that her name was Plataneau and not Platypus, now that she was in a position to pity her.
“Yes, I did.” He smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “And she told me she didn’t want to call it off, but that she just thought I needed to get you out of my system.”
“She knows about me?” Abigail was mortified. She felt like a home wrecker. “You left her for me?”
“Well, I guess, I mean.” He paused to choose his words. “Yes. I left her to make sure. About you.”
“I still feel like a rotter. If it hadn’t been for me, you two—”
“No. There wouldn’t have been a you two. This was never about you personally, but I told her that I had been involved with someone before I met her and that my feelings were… unresolved.”
“Are they?”
“Are they what?”
“Are your feelings unresolved?”
“How can you even ask that?” He was instantly angry. “Stop that. Of course they’re not unresolved. When you put your hand on my arm earlier tonight—no, when I saw you in the window at the Ritz—the first thought I had wasn’t even a thought, it was pure conviction. Finally! At last! Complete resolution.”
It made her so happy to hear how his determination mirrored hers; it was profoundly gratifying. But the guilt about Poor Marisa made her look at her clasped hands in her lap rather than let Eliot see her gloating pleasure.
“You like the sound of that, don’t you? Get back here.” He grabbed her back onto his lap.
“I do like the sound of words like resolution”—she reached her cool hand back on to the warm skin of his chest—“and conviction”—she trailed the thumb of her other hand over his bottom lip—“coming out of your mouth in reference to your feelings for me.” Her thumb dipped into the silky warmth of his mouth. “I have been living in a hellish half-life of irresolute confusion for so long.” She gave her hips a provocative twist. “Hard certainty feels really good for a change.”
Chapter 14
Whereas a year ago, Abigail had worried and fretted about everything from her mother knowing she might not be sleeping in her own room to the night porter at the Plaza Athénée suspecting she was a hooker, at this point, she wouldn’t have cared if Eliot had dragged her across the soaring marble and gilt lobby with a prehistoric club in one hand and a clump of her hair in the other. He walked quickly toward the elevator, her hand in his; she stumbled and laughed a couple of times as the four-inch heels of Sarah’s boots combined with her giddy excitement to transform her into an uncoordinated, spastic schoolgirl.
“I never thought of you as a giggler.”
“I am not giggling. That was a sexy, throaty laugh.”
He tugged her along with more urgency. “It was definitely a giggle.”
Just then, the tip of her boot caught the edge of one of the thick Oriental runners that covered the marble floor on the way to the elevator banks. Eliot pulled more firmly on the hand he was holding and reached under her other arm to steady her, then took her into a perfectly orchestrated embrace. “Am I going to have to carry you across the lobby?” he whispered as he nuzzled deeper into her thick, dark hair.
“I wouldn’t mind if you did.”
Baited, Eliot whipped her up into the cradle of his arms for the final ten strides to the elevator bank. Abigail shrieked, then quaked with silent laughter. She buried her face into the warm, clean scent of his neck and chest, as much to hide her face as to simply relish the careless, public intimacy that she had been hiding from the world, from herself, for so long.
Once inside the elevator, he pushed the button for his floor then lowered Abigail’s tight, small frame along the full length of his front. He closed his eyes and appreciated the textures as they passed along his palms and fingertips, the fitted denim on her legs, the smooth silk of her blouse, the inviting heat of the skin of
her neck. She was hugging him around his waist, her cheek resting against his heart.
He moved a piece of her hair aside to get a better look at her cheek. “I forgot you were so petite. You had become so huge in my mind. You are really just a wisp of a thing.”
“And you are just exactly as formidable and delicious as I remembered. I kept thinking,” she spoke into the fabric of his shirt, “that when I saw you in real life, it would dispel all of my crazy fantasies—”
“Ah, yes, the crazy fantasies—”
“Because, let’s face it, I thought, no one could possibly live up to the crazy fantasies. And that would be the end of it. The reality of you would surely prove a disappointment.” She looked up at him with a mixture of tenderness and mischief. She trailed her hand along the placket over his zipper, savoring the feel of him, hard, in her palm. “More fool me.”
Eliot closed his eyes and groaned his appreciation. The elevator doors opened on his floor and brought them both back to some semblance of the present. They held hands and didn’t speak as they walked down the plush carpet of the corridor. Abigail’s heart was starting to hammer again. She had thought the initial palpitations at La Coupole might have been some sort of one-off shock effect, but apparently tachycardia was to be a regular component of her life with Eliot.
An involuntary smile of incandescent joy spread over her face.
Her life with Eliot.
He was holding the door open to his room. “What are you smiling about, beauty?”
“I was just remarking to myself that we might need to have an attendant cardiologist because my heart seems to pound when I’m around you. And then I thought, oh well, that will just be part of my life with Eliot. And then I thought, that has a very nice ring to it. My. Life. With. Eliot.”
Eliot shut the door with more force then he’d intended, causing it to startle them both when it struck the jamb. He grabbed Abigail with all the drive and power he’d been holding at bay—on the beach in Bequia, on his parents’ couch in Iowa—and that he’d only just begun to hint at a year ago in this very city.
He pulled her shirt off in a whisk of motion and stopped, stunned, at the sight of her lacy bra.