Call it Love

by Kress, Alyssa

  But Chess walked past his bedroom door. He padded down the hall, not coming to a stop until he was outside the guest bedroom.

  Drawing in a deep breath, Chess stared at the panels of the door. He was not going to knock. He didn't need her. Hell, he was mad at her.

  But one of his hands became a fist. He lifted his fist, knowing he was going to knock despite all the excellent reasons not to.

  The door opened without one. Cookie stood there, wearing something white and flowing.

  The breath stopped in Chess's throat.

  Her hair was twisted to one side in a simple, graceful sweep. Against the white of the wrap she wore, her skin looked dark and exotic. Her eyes were pools of midnight.

  They settled right on him.

  The house was silent, but Chess felt like his ears were ringing. He wasn't even touching her, but he could feel her softness and warmth. He wanted it. God, he wanted it.

  What was he supposed to do now?

  The only thing he knew for sure was that he needed her to become as vulnerable as he was. He needed them even. But he must not have been thinking clearly, for what came out of his mouth was, "Why?"

  Cookie's brows drew down.

  "Why did you invite my mother for dinner tonight? The real reason. Why?"

  Her mouth opened slightly, then closed. "I thought you both wanted it."

  Chess scoffed. "Wouldn't I have invited her over for dinner a long time ago if we'd both wanted it? No." He tilted his head as the answer came to him. "You wanted to break me."

  Her eyes widened. "What?"

  "All these years I've been the one breaking you, making you do things you haven't wanted to do. Now you want payback."

  She did something then he hadn't expected. She laughed. In that moment she looked so warm, so alive, that Chess felt desire for her like a physical punch.

  He clenched his hands into fists. He was not going down that road. Not going to reach out for her. Not going to try.

  "If I wanted payback," she said, "I would have done it in a much easier way than this awkward dinner."

  "Then what?" Chess insisted. "What are you trying to do to my life?"

  She reached out and put her hand on his sleeve. "Believe it or not, I'm trying to make it better."

  The touch of her hand on the material of his jacket sent desire roaring through him. But the memory of his wedding night was still a powerful deterrent. He kept his hands at his sides.

  Meanwhile, instinct told him to keep probing. "Why would you care what my life is like?"

  Her fingers clutched lightly on his sleeve. "Maybe...I want to be a good wife."

  Somehow, Chess did not burst into his own laughter at that claim. She'd turned his life upside down. She turned his emotions inside out. Just this evening she'd dragged a pathetic confession from him. A good wife?

  He confined his response to a snort and a jab. "Then why are you sleeping down the hall?"

  It turned out to be the perfect question. Going pale, Cookie dropped her hand from his jacket sleeve. "I— That's—" She stepped back, retreating into her room.

  "Do I disgust you?" Chess stepped forward, crossing the threshold.

  He was finally gaining the upper hand. She was on the defensive, her eyes darting everywhere but at him.

  "N-no. Of course not."

  He believed her. She wasn't disgusted by him. In fact, he was sure she wanted him. But there was something key that he was missing. Physically, he could read women. That is, all of them except for Cookie.

  "Are you remaining faithful to another man?" The idea made him feel suffocated, but he had to put it out there. "One of your boyfriends?"

  "No!"

  "No, of course not. What was I thinking? You want to be a good wife." He cocked his head. "So explain to me, Rebecca, in what universe does a good wife sleep in a separate bed from her husband?"

  She retreated more, hitting the guest bed. Chess saw the way the sheets had been pulled back when she'd gotten up to open the door. If he tried, he could smell her scent on them. But she wouldn't invite him in. Oh, no. He was contaminated. Unfit. In some unexplained way, undesirable.

  The injustice of it sliced through him.

  "I'll tell you in what universe," Chess answered for her, approaching her position. "None. There is no explanation for the trouble I'm having traveling up this road. Particularly given the wear of so many previous pilgrims."

  She halted her retreat then. She stared at him with eyes that looked suddenly and oddly guilty.

  Perhaps there'd been more pilgrims than even Chess could guess.

  He shook his head. "I don't know whether to pity or admire those brave souls, but I do know one thing." He halted to make sure she gave him her undivided attention. "Considering all the push-pull signals you send out and the mess you've made of my personal life, you are not a good wife."

  If he'd struck her with his open hand, he could not have produced a sharper expression of pain. Of course, that had been his goal here, hadn't it? She'd hurt him, he'd hurt her back.

  "No," she said in a choked voice. "I suppose I'm not."

  Bitter regret already ran through him like acid. "Good night, Rebecca."

  She said nothing in return. What was left to say, anyway?

  Turning, he walked out the door, closing it behind him. He knew he'd just burned a bridge. Aware she had tried to be a 'good wife,' whatever that meant in her head, he'd told her she was a total failure. It was a shot point-blank.

  He and she could no longer even be friends.

  As he strode down the hall to his room, he shoved aside his regret and told himself he was glad.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  In her office Kate flipped quickly through the glossy pages of the first October magazine to hit the stands. For three weeks now she'd been waiting for it like a vulture. It would have helped if she had the slightest idea what she was looking for, Kate thought, vexed. According to Diana, they'd even changed the name of the perfume.

  Diana. Kate was reduced to getting information on the company's major projects from Chess's lackey.

  Kate found the ad at the same moment that Chess walked in her door. She was so astonished by the full-page image in the magazine that she didn't even look up at him.

  Her daughter-in-law was sitting in a peach and silky boudoir. She was wearing a flowered robe in a way that suggested it would soon be coming off altogether. On her face, tilted back to receive a fingerful of perfume, was an expression of the most intense and painful longing.

  CALL IT LOVE, a set of white letters suggested at the bottom of the page. In the lower right corner was a photograph of the distinctive blue, oval bottle. The letters L O V E twisted around the bottle like embracing arms.

  "What do you think?" Chess stood on the other side of her desk.

  As she looked up, Kate was careful to keep her expression neutral. "It's certainly different from the other ad." While her eyes were on Chess, her mind still saw Cookie's face. That expression... "Whose idea was the new name?" Kate's heart was in her throat.

  "Ruth's." A corner of Chess's straight mouth lifted. "Imaginative, that one."

  "Yes, very imaginative." Thank God the idea hadn't been Cookie's. Kate had only caught a couple glimpses of Cookie since that abortive dinner party at Chess's house three weeks before. Both times she'd looked drawn and distant. She'd barely spoken a word to Kate. "Do you think the campaign will work?" she now asked Chess.

  He lifted a shoulder. "We'll know soon enough."

  "Sales were a bit on the low side in September," Kate observed.

  "They were damn lousy." Chess looked up, over her shoulder. "We'll have to make up the difference next month. Otherwise..." He shrugged again. "Otherwise we can forget the whole thing."

  Kate hid her alarm. Chess sounded positively bored. She realized that in all the jockeying over where to spend their money to shore up the dying business, she'd never once considered that Chess might simply give up. She'd never worried he might abandon her
.

  "Do you have some time?" Chess now asked. "I'd like to go over the production schedules for next month."

  Kate closed the magazine. Relief blossomed through her. He wasn't giving up. Not yet, anyway. But it was a new worry over a matter she'd always taken for granted. "I can make time. Is it something urgent?"

  "In a way." Chess crossed his arms over his chest. "I was rather thinking we could discuss it over drinks."

  Her heart leaped into her throat. It was the first time, bar none, Chess had ever suggested such a thing. "Drinks would be fine." Though she managed to sound cool and collected, inside she bounced with joy.

  Fifteen minutes later, Chess took her arm as they walked into a quaint bar on California Street. Ceiling fans turned amid a hanging garden of ferns. Voices buzzed under the music of a jazz station.

  Chess frowned. "Are you sure you wouldn't have preferred the Atelier? This place is a little loud."

  "I'm sure." Kate did her best to scrounge up a smile. "The Atelier still holds too many memories."

  Chess shot her a peculiar look. "Do you miss David?"

  Kate had to close her eyes. She couldn't discuss this with Chess. Oddly, she didn't mind talking about her loss with Bernard. In fact, she'd done quite a bit of such talking at their evening rendezvous at the Atelier over the past few weeks. Bernard had listened and then done some talking of his own. Their conversations had become rather...amiable.

  "Sometimes I miss David," she tersely answered Chess.

  "I see."

  He didn't see anything, Kate knew, but he seemed to understand this wasn't an open topic for conversation.

  "I think there's an empty table in that direction," he observed. "Shall we?"

  Once they were seated, Kate acted on her lingering concern over the magazine advertisement. "How's Cookie?"

  Chess didn't look up from his perusal of the wine list. "Fine, I suppose."

  I suppose. Kate longed to ask what that meant. The expression she'd seen on Cookie's face in that advertisement bothered her. She remembered warning Cookie that Chess didn't own a heart. She hadn't added that his mother was probably responsible for that state of affairs.

  "About the production schedule for next month." Chess returned the worn cardboard wine list to its spot leaning against a small vase of flowers. "It's going to be big and it's going to be fast."

  "You're assuming there'll be a demand."

  Chess drummed his fingers on the waxed wood tabletop. "It's the only assumption open to us. We can't afford to be cautious at this point."

  "All or nothing," Kate observed.

  He hesitated and then gave a curt nod. "That's about the size of it."

  A waitress dressed in jeans came to take their order. Chess ordered a glass of local wine for himself and a dry sherry for his mother.

  Kate rubbed a finger along the top of the table. "A production like that—it's going to take another hefty infusion of cash from our capital."

  A muscle clenched in his jaw. "That's right."

  Kate almost laughed. She should have known. Chess never did anything without a reason. He hadn't asked her out for a drink to be nice or to enjoy some time with her. He wanted her approval for the disbursement of money. "So you're asking for my go-ahead?"

  He caught himself mid-shrug. Then he straightened and looked her in the eye. "Would you give it to me?"

  Kate did laugh then. "What choice do I have? You're already halfway into this mess." She lifted a hand. "You have my approval."

  The waitress appeared with their two drinks on a tray. Kate waited until the young woman had finished arranging the glasses on the table and left. Then she turned back to Chess. "I don't know why you need my votes, though, when you have Cookie."

  Chess carefully wrapped his fingers around his dewy glass of wine. "With Cookie's schedule the way it is, I rarely even see her, let alone have time to discuss business."

  "Hm." Kate lifted her glass of sherry. So they weren't sleeping together. She hadn't known. But now she wondered if that were a good or a bad thing. God knew, she didn't want to see Cookie hurt, but she'd hoped the business marriage might turn into something real. Maybe she'd even hoped that Cookie might undo the years of work Kate had invested in creating the emotional wall around her son.

  "Alex seems to be working out rather well, don't you think?" Kate asked, changing the subject. The topic of Chess's wife was obviously touchy and she didn't want him to slam shut his door yet.

  Finishing a swallow of wine, Chess appeared pleased by the shift. "Yes, he's a hard worker, which surprised me. But you were right the other night. He's not interested in learning about fragrance."

  Kate gave him a soft smile. "He's not at all like you."

  Chess shot her a peculiar glance. "Clearly."

  "You had a goal in mind from the day you were born, it seemed," Kate mused on. "Alex has to experiment for a while before he finds his place."

  "Fortunate he has the luxury."

  Kate straightened at the light slap in his tone. "He's not as strong as you, Chess. Few people are."

  Chess's sea-green eyes fixed on her with unnerving intensity. "Strong," he repeated flatly. "Oh, yes. I always thought I got that from you. Being strong."

  Her heart fluttered sickly in her chest. The fear rose up inside her, the fear that he'd confront her with what she'd done with his life.

  Chess gave a curt laugh and looked away. "Then you got married. You adjusted to that state easily enough."

  "Not so easily," Kate returned, remembering those early stormy months with David. She'd been outraged he wanted something more out of her than a business partner and social escort.

  "Ah, well." Chess leaned back in his chair, taking his wine with him. He gave her a dry half smile and lifted his glass. "Here's to being strong."

  ~~~

  An hour later Chess let himself into his empty house.

  Strength. It was quality he'd spent a great deal of time considering lately. He thought about it as he lay in bed at night, his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

  Was it strength to have to battle the ache of loneliness through those long hours of the night?

  In the marble foyer, Chess threw his keys on the little table there before making his way upstairs. He didn't have to worry about staying up all evening anymore. Cookie now insisted on taking a cab home from the theater instead of letting him pick her up.

  Was it strength to feel regret over the loss of that small task?

  In his room, Chess carefully removed the half dozen blotting papers from his top pocket and then shrugged out of his jacket. He had an auto freshener to work on tonight. A little outside contract work was a nice way to earn some extra money. God knew they could use all the extra cash they could get. After taking his shirt off, he sat down on the edge of his bed.

  Was it strength to have this constant, nagging worry that they wouldn't be able to make up their low September sales?

  Sighing, Chess clasped both hands behind his neck and arched his back. He thought about making dinner, but he didn't enjoy cooking any more. Not since he'd noticed Cookie was no longer taking any of the meals he'd prepared. In fact, when he looked in the refrigerator in the morning, he'd see nothing gone: not a piece of bread, not an egg, not a grape. He doubted she'd obligated herself so far as a cup of tea.

  Now, was it strength to let that rankle?

  Chess stood up from the bed with a sigh. There were a lot of empty hours to fill. He might as well make himself dinner, after all. Something complicated that would take up a few of those hours. Then, after tending to his garden, he'd do some work with the auto freshener. If he stretched things out very carefully he could, quite legitimately, still be sitting in the dining room come twelve-thirty or one, sniffing at his papers. He could manage to be awake and around when Cookie came home.

  Now was that strong?

  Chess shook his head. He wasn't going to sink that low. He'd make sure he was in bed long before then. In bed, staring at the c
eiling and fighting back these weak, inappropriate urges for a woman he'd done his best to drive away forever.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Cookie's rear end was getting sore. This was understandable since she'd been sitting for nearly an hour on a narrow iron railing. Behind her in the studio stood a backdrop of moonlit waves. A fan blew in her face, brushing back her unbound hair. She was clad in a long black dress with a heart-shaped décolletage and a slit from ankle to mid-thigh. Joann's camera pointed at her, taking shot after shot.

  "Just a few minutes more," Joann promised.

  Cookie put the pain out of her mind and nodded. She'd make this campaign fly if it were the last thing she ever did. Nobody would be able to say she hadn't contributed, that she hadn't done her responsible part.

  Nobody, of course, meaning Chess.

  "Anticipating," Joann instructed. "You're waiting for your lover by the sea." Joann looked through the lens and then backed her head from the camera. "Anticipating, Cookie. Not full of dread, just a little nervous."

  Nodding, Cookie strove to relax the tensed muscles in her face. Thinking about Chess tended to tense her muscles. She hadn't laid eyes on the man in three weeks, but that didn't stop her from thinking about him.

  In what universe does a good wife sleep in a separate bed from her husband? That's all he thought a good wife was: someone to have sex with. Apparently, that's all he wanted out of a woman. And he was pissed he wasn't getting any.

  The deep freeze had not been hard to effect. She slept in late, not rising until she knew Chess had left the house for work. He didn't come home from work until she'd already left for the theater. She didn't come home from the theater until he'd already gone to bed.

  But maintaining the proper level of indignation to keep the freeze running took a certain amount of effort. The effort was worth it, however. Otherwise, Cookie might have to take a look at the truth beneath her anger. She might have to acknowledge that Chess hadn't been the one at fault that night in her bedroom. In fact, if she let herself ponder the matter, she might have to acknowledge that the responsibility for everything, including Chess's definitive rejection, lay upon her very own shoulders.