by Jane Gentry
There was a mad rush for the sign-up sheet. Elizabeth hesitated, then decided that no teacher needed more chaperones than students. She didn’t want to go, anyway; it didn’t sound appealing. Nothing appealed to her—except Steve. And he obviously didn’t want to see her. Now she had to go make small talk and drink bad coffee and eat tasteless cookies in the cafeteria with two hundred other parents who would all tell her how brilliant and popular their daughters were.
You are being idiotic, she said, scolding herself. It didn’t do any good. She sighed and made her lone, melancholy way out into the hall.
Steve Riker was waiting for her. He stepped forward as she approached and held out his hand. She took it eagerly—too eagerly; held it, she knew, too long. And to her embarrassment and chagrin, she saw sympathetic understanding in his smiling eyes.
Chapter Two
“Have you enjoyed Melody’s classes?” she asked. She spoke too quickly, ran the words together like a sprint for the finish. Drop his hand. Talk about acting stupid. What was she, anyway? A schoolgirl? Geez. Get a life. Anybody’d think he was the only man she’d ever seen.
Well, he was the only one she’d seen that she liked, since Robert.
That was certainly an unsettling thought. Her attraction to Steve was primal instinct. And so had her attraction to Robert been. Obviously her instinctive mechanism wasn’t working in her best interest. Definitely a good reason to back off this time.
So she did, literally, and folded her hands behind her back.
A slight shadow crossed Steve’s face, covered by a quick wash of stubbornness. He stepped forward. She stepped back. He stepped forward, tacitly daring her to move again.
She wouldn’t.
“Melody’s classes,” she repeated, and clipped the words. She could imagine the scene: she moving backward, Steve moving forward, all the way across the room, in some sort of silent, determined two-step. The thought made her grin, and Steve’s determined jaw relaxed.
“Haven’t been to any classes,” he said. “I’ve been consulting with General Westcott, instead. She tells me that the open warfare has decreased, but the combatants show no signs of a lasting truce.”
“Oh, dear,” said Elizabeth absently, distracted by her thoughts, two-step, instincts and all.
What was the matter with her? She knew he’d been attracted to her when they’d met. So what? She had been attracted to him. And how! said her libido, stomping on her logic. People are attracted to each other every day. That didn’t mean they intended to do anything about it.
“Miss Westcott said,” Steve continued, “that the junior varsity lacrosse team is losing games because Melody and Cara won’t pass to each other. They are in danger of being benched for the season.”
That bit of information got Elizabeth’s attention. Cara’s major ambition in life was to be the starring center on an internationally televised championship lacrosse game. Making the Harkness varsity was a cherished interim goal. To think that Cara had deliberately sabotaged her own success to snub Melody was bewildering.
“That’s the strangest thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, as they followed the crowd of parents out of the classroom building into the cafeteria. “Cara is a lacrosse fanatic. I simply can’t understand it.” She took a cup of tea and a piece of poppyseed cake from a tray being carried around by one of the students.
Steve eyed the tea. “Don’t they serve coffee here?”
He was acting perfectly naturally. Either he was the best actor she had ever seen, or he really hadn’t noticed her unguarded greeting. Elizabeth began to relax a little. Perhaps she’d have a chance to redeem her self-respect, after all. She would act just as he acted. Polite. Calm. And kind. Combined with a little attractive indifference.
Or maybe not. He made her salivate.
Maybe she’d just work a little on piquing his interest. The two-step certainly implied that he had at least noticed her as a woman. Even instincts deserved another chance. Practice made perfect, didn’t it? There simply couldn’t be two men like Robert. And Steve did, after all, have custody of his daughter. Surely that indicated an inclination toward commitment and the ability to love someone besides himself.
“Patience,” she said, taking a cue from his attitude and tone. The idea was to show interest, but not desperation. “Someone will be around with it shortly.” She held out her saucer. “Here. Have some cake while you wait.”
Steve put a bite in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “Has Cara told you why she doesn’t like Melody?” he asked, after a minute’s rumination.
Elizabeth shook her head. “Says she’s a dweeb, and that’s the end of it.”
“Well, at least they speak the same language,” said Steve dryly. “That’s what Melody says about Cara.”
“Bad chemistry,” said Elizabeth.
“Even the most explosive mixtures can be stabilized,” Steve told her.
“Are you a chemist?” His chemistry certainly was explosive, Elizabeth thought. Every woman in the room had glanced their way, even old Mrs. Ridley, who had graduated from Harkness in 1929 and who showed up every year for Parents’ Day to see if the quality of the clientele had deteriorated.
“No. I write science fiction.”
His voice was marvelously deep and just a little gravelly. It vibrated through her the way a sea wind shook a racing sloop, making a sail swell tight and surge forward at command.
“Really?” she said. “That sounds exciting.” The science fiction and he the wind and she the fulfilled sail.
“It is, but the excitement’s all in your head. Physically, it’s pretty dull work. You never get to go outside in the daytime. That’s why I have this prison pallor.”
“Dracula never gets to go outside in the daytime, either,” said Elizabeth, trying to look suspicious.
And trying not to look lascivious.
“I used to hang around with him,” said Steve. “But then he said my teeth were too short, and all his friends made fun of me, and I got tired of the liquid diet, so I split.”
“Is that when you started writing science fiction?” If he wanted to try another nip to reestablish his technique, she was willing to offer her throat to the experiment.
“Yup. A lot of it’s real-life experience,” he said.
I cannot continue this way, she scolded herself, thinking about getting him to bite my neck. I have got to pay some attention to this conversation. I’ve let myself get out of hand.
“Thought you said you never got to go outside,” she said, forcing her mind off her baser desires.
There. That was better. A good hard mental shake does everybody good. Even sex-starved suburban mothers.
“Experience from my Dracula days,” said Steve. “I live and work on memories.”
“Do you talk about your books?” She turned just slightly away from him. So she couldn’t see the strong, white teeth and imagine the feel of them just grazing her throat as he kissed and teased her into passion.
“Only after they’re finished. I rather like to let them speak for themselves.” There was more gravel in his voice than ever. He cleared his throat and let a deep breath out slowly.
“I’ve never read much science fiction,” said Elizabeth, taking a deep breath of her own. “But I’d like to. Everybody I know who reads it likes it so much.”
“Why haven’t you?”
She shrugged. “I keep intending to, but I don’t know where to start, and every time I go into a bookstore, there are so many science fiction books that I get confused, so I just buy a mystery or romance writer I’ve heard of and go home.” She smiled. “Maybe I could start with one of yours. I’d like that.”
“I’d like it, too,” said Steve. “I’ll bring you one.”
“Deal.” She pushed her torrid imaginings out of her head and scanned him thoughtfully: the rough tweed, the polished wing tips, the civilized urbanity. “You look like you write mysteries, not science fiction.”
“What do science fiction write
rs look like?”
“Their hair is longer and they wear tennis shoes with their suits. No ties.”
The description was so apt that he laughed. “I have half a dozen friends who fit the image perfectly,” he said.
“Actually, I always think they’re very sensible. About the tennis shoes, I mean. You’ve just moved here, haven’t you? Why’d you pick Philadelphia?”
“Close enough to New York for Melody to see her mother and far, far away from twenty-seven degrees below zero and the squall winds off the Atlantic. We were living on the coast of Maine.”
“I wouldn’t mind a squall wind and twenty-seven degrees right now,” said Elizabeth. “My office is like a sauna.”
“Is the air-conditioning broken?” The answer didn’t matter, he thought. What mattered was to keep her talking—she had a voice like dark chocolate, rich and sweet and unexpectedly deep. It matched the rest of her: she was the subtly elegant result of good breeding and good schools and good manners.
“There isn’t any. I work out of my house, and indoor plumbing was a novel concept when it was built. Besides, this daytime heat can’t last more than another week or so—it’s cool at night.”
She sounded so hopeful that Steve laughed. “Can you live a week in a sauna?”
“What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger,” she said. “My grandmother used to tell me that.”
“Is it true?” He couldn’t get enough of her. A burgundy silk blouse peeped demurely from under her white wool suit and deepened the natural rose of her cheeks, and the pearls that nestled sweetly just above her breasts had the same satin sheen as her skin. He could almost feel the smooth shell buttons against his fingers; could see the blouse falling open at his touch; could imagine his palms gently rounding the soft curves of her body. “Does it make you stronger?”
“I suppose.” She grinned, and the perfect oval of her face took on an unexpected elfin quality which made her seem as young as the children around them. “I don’t have to like it, though.”
“What kind of work do you do in this sauna?”
“I’m a CPA.”
“You don’t look like a CPA,” he said, automatically mimicking her remark about his writing. It is sexist of me, he told himself, to wonder what she would look like without her clothes. The thought of any man having the same reaction to Melody made Steve squirm. Double standard, he thought to himself uncomfortably, and tried to control his unruly imagination.
“And what does a CPA look like?” Her lips rounded softly, sweetly, deliciously around the words.
Steve spoke through a sigh. “Ink-stained fingers and wire-rimmed glasses and sensible shoes,” he said.
Elizabeth glanced at her narrow feet. “These are sensible shoes.”
“So they are,” acknowledged Steve, but he was eyeing the long beautiful legs above the low-heeled pumps.
“I have the wire-rimmed glasses at home,” she told him. “I wear contact lenses for state occasions.”
“What about the ink-stained fingers?” he asked, reluctantly withdrawing his attention from her legs to smile into her big green eyes.
Elizabeth held out her hands for his inspection. “Bleach,” she said. “Does wonders for ink stains.”
“Certainly does,” he said, but he didn’t look at her hands. His gaze wandered from her eyes to her lips and back again. He took a deep, controlling breath, which he let out carefully, so she wouldn’t notice and be troubled by his frank and growing desire to take her hands and fold them into his own and pull her into his arms and kiss her thoroughly, there, in the sedate school, with people milling all about them.
He swept his gaze around the room to distract himself before he did anything irrevocably stupid. And caught Cara’s implacable eye.
“Here comes your daughter,” said Steve. He was certainly distracted, he thought wryly. Cara’s fierce and determined countenance was enough to dampen any ardor.
Elizabeth glanced over her shoulder and saw Cara marching toward them with indignation evident in every line.
“She looks just like you,” said Steve. “Except for the scowl.”
“I thought you were going to talk to Mr. Salvini,” said Cara in a tone a police interrogator might have envied.
Elizabeth caught Cara’s eye and glared. “Cara,” she said, with emphasis. “You remember Mr. Riker.”
“Yes,” said Cara. The yes sounded flat and ominous.
“And here comes Melody,” said Steve, anticipating the worst.
Melody, like Cara, was all angles and elbows and glinting braces. She was blond like her father, but with blue eyes and a sweet, round, rosy-cheeked face that could have graced a soap commercial. She walked toward them eagerly, smiling at Steve, smiling at Elizabeth. Then her eyes lit on Cara. The walk slowed; the smile faded; suspicion grew and blossomed on her face.
Uh-oh, thought Elizabeth.
The two girls stared at each other. The hostility rose between them like heat waves off a highway.
“This is Cara’s mother,” said Steve to Melody. “You’ve only seen her from the car.”
Melody turned long enough to give Elizabeth a shy smile. Then she ducked her head and stared at the floor.
Cara took uncompromising possession of her mother’s arm and deepened the unremitting scowl. There was a short, uncomfortable silence.
Finally Melody said, “Would you come meet my friends, Daddy?”
Steve gave Elizabeth a rueful smile as Melody tugged at his sleeve. He shook his head and shrugged.
Elizabeth relieved the embarrassment by saying, “Do please excuse us. We really ought to circulate a bit ourselves. I’ll see you at the next PTO meeting.”
You’ll see me a lot sooner than that, Steve vowed. Then he yielded to Melody’s pressure and let her lead him to another part of the room. And watched, with an unaccustomed turmoil in his chest, as Elizabeth was approached by Joe Salvini.
Melody introduced him to Vonnie Chrysler and her mother, Merle. Steve tried to seem interested. He smiled and nodded and mouthed pleasantries and maneuvered himself so that he could see Elizabeth talking to that damned history teacher.
He knew what Salvini was after. Steve had watched through the door of that classroom, and Salvini’s focus had clearly centered on Elizabeth.
Sane reason warred with wrath. Why shouldn’t Salvini be interested in Elizabeth? He was a normal man. Why shouldn’t Elizabeth respond to Salvini’s attention? Steve had established no claim on her. She was mildly interested, perhaps, but that was all. So what if Steve had been flooded with an unexpected surge of adolescent passion? That hardly gave him the right to dispose of any possible suitors with ham-fisted passion.
All this lucid argument came to nothing. He watched as Salvini laid his hand lightly on Elizabeth’s arm, and a primitive rage sent adrenaline rushing into a brain that he knew had already abandoned logic and wit.
Merle was laughing. Good God—what had she said? Obviously some response was needed. Melody and Vonnie were laughing. Everybody was laughing. The entire room rang with hilarious good humor.
Steve, as camouflage, lowered his head and forced a chuckle.
He should be laughing, too, he thought bleakly. Laughing at himself. At his lack of self-command. At his unreasonable emotion. At the thick dark jealousy that rose like black bile in his throat.
* * *
All Elizabeth wanted to do was leave, but she let herself be accosted by several parents, all of whom wanted volunteers for various projects. They all volunteered themselves and—Elizabeth noted unkindly—they all had fat trust funds which enabled them to work for no pay. “Can you work in the tuck shop on Tuesdays?” “Can you chair the silent auction?” “Will you help with the art fair?”
Maybe she could manage the art fair, if all she had to do was sell things. Several families bought enough original art that they could always induce their pet artists to contribute paintings and sculptures and such. Then they all went to the fair and bought all the donated art the
mselves. Sort of incestuous, but who cared? The art fair always brought in huge amounts to augment the scholarship fund.
She tried to sight Cara before she was cornered and pressured by anybody else. But Mrs. Ridley caught her eye and beckoned imperiously. Elizabeth sighed and obeyed.
“New beau, dear?” Mrs. Ridley could get away with questions like that, because she was as old as Mrs. Noah and as insensitive as an armor-plated tank.
“Who?” said Elizabeth, though she knew very well to whom the dreadful old termagant referred.
“That young fellow over there,” said Mrs. Ridley. “The one Merle Chrysler’s looking to buy.”
“No,” said Elizabeth, speaking in quick monosyllables and hoping to escape before Mrs. Ridley said something really horrible. “New this year. Just met him.”
“Oh-h-h?” said Mrs. Ridley, her old voice shrilling like a police whistle. “Thought ye knew him better’n that. He was lookin’ down your shirt for half an hour.”
“Really, Mrs. Ridley,” said Elizabeth with indignation, but the terrible old woman only heard what she chose to hear.
“Here comes another one,” she said, pointing with her mottled witch’s finger. “Better button that shirt, miss.”
Involuntarily Elizabeth put her hand to her throat. Her blouse was opened a scant three inches. She turned to face Joe Salvini, as Mrs. Ridley watched with bright, malicious old eyes.
“You didn’t initial the field trip sheet,” said Salvini. “Don’t you want to go?”
“I thought you had enough parents already,” said Elizabeth, holding out her hand. “I’m Cara’s mother.”
“I know,” he said. “The sheet’s over there.” He took her arm and pulled her out of danger.