by Jane Gentry
“What about you, Elizabeth?” said Steve, asking outright about his greatest fear. She had said she loved him—and he had noticed the uncertainty in her voice when she spoke. “Do you love him, regardless of his faults?”
“I despise him, as you well know,” she said. “I’m not going to fight with you over the phone.”
“Fine,” said Steve.
The soft click of a disconnect sounded in her ear.
She looked at the phone incredulously and shook the receiver.
“Damn it to hell!” she said, aware that she shouted, and slammed the receiver onto its hook.
Chapter Ten
Five minutes later Steve was at the door. His eyes glittered like hoarfrost.
“Damned if I’ll spend the day stewing about Robert,” he said.
“I refuse to argue about it here in front of all the neighbors.”
“Scared?” he challenged.
“Of you?” she said, sneering.
“That they might report to Cara,” he said. “I know you’re not scared of me.”
“Go home.”
“I won’t,” he said. He pushed inside the door and nudged it closed. “What are you got up as?” he asked, looking her over.
The fat, down coat flapped open to show her thick pajamas.
“My furnace is off. Where’s your coat?” demanded Elizabeth, speaking much as she would have to Cara.
“I was in a hurry.” He kicked out of his shoes. They were wet, and his socks were wet.
“You’ll freeze, you idiot,” said Elizabeth crossly, seeing the socks. “Give me those.” She pointed.
He handed her the socks and expected her to hang them on the fireplace screen, behind which last night’s coals still drowsed. But she took the socks and his shoes and put them in the microwave oven.
“You’ll melt them,” he said, alarmed. They were his boat shoes, old and comfortable and treasured.
“I will not,” she countered. “I’ve done this a thousand times. How’d you get this wet? It isn’t even raining. Don’t you have any sense at all?”
“Not where you’re concerned,” he said. He still looked annoyed, but as he opened his arms to her, his eyes softened. “Kiss me. I’m cold.”
She went willingly into his embrace. “Only if you promise to stay off the subject of Robert. It maked me mad to think about him.”
Steve’s face and hands and lips were cold, his hair was cold under her hands. He wrapped himself around her and hugged her hard.
“Two or three more kisses ought to take care of the chill,” said Steve, helping himself to another one.
“It’s certainly taken care of my chill,” said Elizabeth. How good it felt to be in his arms, to have her cheek against his chest, to hear the slow strong beat of his heart in her ear as he kissed her hair. “Are you going to stay long? Because if you are, I want to get the fighting over with all at once.”
“I don’t want to fight, Libby,” he said. He linked his hands loosely around her back and let her lean against them. “I’m over here because I can’t work if I’m mad.” He kissed her again. “Can you?”
“I’m not mad,” she said. “At least, not now.” She snuggled up a little closer.
“Also,” he began, and she drew away warily.
“Also, what?” she asked. “Caveats on the kisses? Another we-have-to-take-control lecture?”
“Well, we do.”
“I knew it,” she said. She broke away from him and leaned against the cabinet. “All I get is trouble. The furnace. Robert. Cara. Miss Westcott.” And most heartrendingly, she accused, “You.”
He held up his hands, placating. “I just want you to do one thing.”
“Like what?” she said.
He’d heard that tone in Melody’s voice lately. He was smart enough not to let it make him smile.
“I want you to promise me that you’ll let Cara find out what Robert is really like.”
“Give me a break, Steve. What am I supposed to do? Catalog his faults? She can’t even understand half of them,” Elizabeth said belligerently. “You want me to get her out of bed tomorrow and while she’s brushing her teeth, tell her that Robert’s an uncaring, unfeeling jerk?”
“You won’t have to tell her anything, sweetheart,” he said. “Just quit making excuses for him. Let her draw her own conclusions—I guarantee they’ll be the right ones. Cara’s a very bright kid. All those late birthday and Christmas presents and all the payoff money because he doesn’t want her around—she’ll get the idea.”
“I don’t know why you think she needs to find out now,” said Elizabeth, still fighting to protect Cara’s innocence. “It can’t hurt for her to wait until she’s older.”
“It does hurt her. It hurts her, because she’s believing in a fantasy. It hurts all of us.”
“Oh, Steve, really,” she said. “She never sees him. You’re overstating the problem.”
“Am I?” he asked. “I don’t think so. Tell me this, Elizabeth, how is Cara going to learn to love and trust me if she has this fantasy father in her head? And he is a fantasy. You invented him for her.”
There was a new, uncomfortable thought, and it made sense. Of course Cara would never let herself love Steve, as long as she believed that Robert wanted to be completely involved in her life. He was definitely a fantasy father, and he was no substitute for the real thing.
Steve was the real thing.
“Spaghetti tomorrow,” she said. She moved back into the circle of his embrace. “Don’t forget.”
He kissed her again, gently. “I hope this means you agree with me.”
“I’m not sure I agree completely, but I will quit making excuses for Robert. I suppose that’s sensible.”
“All right,” he said, satisfied with this small advance. “Kiss me again, and I’ll fix your furnace.”
“I can fix it,” she said, turning her face up to his.
“In that half-acre coat? You’d set your sleeve on fire.” He brushed her lips with his.
“That wasn’t a kiss,” she complained. “You couldn’t even light an idea with that, let alone a furnace.”
“It lit an idea for me,” he said. “First, I’ll start a fire and get the furnace going. Then after a while, we’ll have coffee in front of the fire and enjoy the comforting sound of a furnace that’s doing its job.”
“Then what?” she asked, clumping after him in her snow boots. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the piano. Quite a sight, she thought, grinning at her reflection: her face barely showed above the upturned collar of her coat, and her hair frizzled wildly around her head.
“Then I’ll fix the kiss.” He stacked logs on the grate and applied a match to the kindling.
She started toward the stairs to her room, and Steve reached out a hand to stop her.
“Where’re you going?”
“To dress. I have to go to work.”
She said this regretfully. The fire had blazed and caught and spread its lovely warmth into the room.
“Wait” he insisted. “I might need some help downstairs.”
Thus enjoined, she followed him into the basement and watched as he dealt efficiently with the furnace.
“You don’t need me,” she said, turning to go.
He grabbed the hem of her coat. “Yes, I do. And you need me.”
“I do? What for?”
A glimmer of a smile from Steve.
“To help you take your boots off,” he said.
She pretended to ponder. “I suppose that could be a help.”
“Also to help you unbutton that coat.” He tugged at it, and like Gibraltar, it proved immovable.
She nodded solemnly. “That might be a help.”
“And the pajamas.” He reached under the coat and fingered the fabric covering the inside of her thigh. He tugged at that, too, and it didn’t go anywhere, either. A great challenge.
“Mighty thick and heavy, those pajamas.” He wrapped his big warm hand h
igh around her thigh and rubbed gently between her legs. “Wouldn’t want to exhaust yourself struggling to get out of those pajamas.”
The furnace roared to life, and Steve peered at its innards for a minute to make sure it wasn’t faking. When he was satisfied, he patted the ridiculous coat somewhere in the region of Elizabeth’s fanny and urged her up the stairs to the kitchen.
“What now?” she asked, though she had a pretty good idea.
“That depends entirely on how good your furnace is, how warm your bed is and how hot the water in the bathtub is,” he said. “I might need a little help, myself.”
“You think so?”
“I’m almost sure of it,” he said. “You’d better give old McNulty a call and tell him the handyman won’t be through fixing things at your house until noon.”
He handed her the phone and listened as she talked. There were definitely rewards for being self-employed that more than compensated for the security of a salaried position.
Beneath them, the furnace hissed. The fire crackled in the warm living room. Steve tangled his hands in her luxuriant hair and pulled her head back.
“That’s a dangerous smile,” she said.
“I’m in a dangerous mood,” he told her. “It needs taking care of.” He swept his hands down the length of the coat to her hips, which he could barely identify through the layers of feathers. “This is an atrocious garment. What possessed you to buy it?”
“Protection from the cold. It was useful in its day.”
“Its day is past.” He picked her up, like a bride about to be carried across a threshold, and started up the stairs.
“You’re the one who’s going to wear yourself out,” she warned. “And you don’t even have pajamas.”
“Honey,” he said, with absolute conviction. “I don’t think I have to worry about either pajamas or energy.”
And indeed, when they reached the high, old bed, only Elizabeth was out of breath.
He helped her out of her boots, laughed at the socks and pulled them off her feet. Her blue-footed pajamas made him laugh again.
“What, another layer?” he said. “What’s under this?”
“Another layer,” she said. “Like an onion.”
“Okay. So I’ll peel you.” He busied himself with the coat.
“Should I peel you?”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s freezing in here.”
“Believe me, my pet. I am in no condition to notice.” He cast aside the coat. The pajamas were like a baby’s sleeper: a long zipper started at the neck. He shook his head, chuckling. “I can’t believe you wear this.”
“Just wait,” she said, unbuttoning his shirt and unfastening his jeans. “You will soon not just understand but crave these pajamas.”
“I crave what’s in the pajamas.” He tossed his shirt away and stepped out of his pants.
Elizabeth touched him covetously. “Sex two times in one week. I can’t believe it,” she said.
He pulled the zipper all the way down and let the blue pajamas fall to the floor. She shivered.
“Get in bed, quick,” he told her. “I’m freezing. And I can’t believe it, either. It’s almost too good to be true.”
He pulled the down comforter up to their chins and snuggled her into his arms.
“No Kalik here,” she murmured, kissing him.
“He hates love,” said Steve. “He won’t come around.”
“Your feet are solid blocks of ice,” she said.
“The rest of me isn’t.”
“I can tell.” She put her hand behind his hip and put a little forward pressure on it. “Come here,” she said. “Right now.”
He did. Their combined heat was more than adequate, the reward left them awash in delight, and afterward, neither of them gave a thought to McNulty or Jord Varic or Cara or Melody or anything but each other. They slept.
Steve woke, drowsily content. Elizabeth stirred beside him and realized that the fifty kisses, while desirable, weren’t really necessary.
“What time is it?” she asked.
He looked across her at the clock. “Eleven-thirty. Want fifty kisses?”
She trailed a teasing finger across the joining of his thighs. “I doubt seriously that I’ll ever get fifty kisses all at one time,” she told him.
“You could, if I do it really fast. Like this.” He ducked his head under the covers and demonstrated on her ribs.
She squealed and giggled and grabbed his hair. “Stop that!” She tried to turn over, to get away from him, but he wouldn’t allow it.
“Want me to find something else to do?” His voice was muffled, but she could tell he was laughing.
“Anything else.”
He did.
After a minute, she said, “Don’t stop that.”
He didn’t.
* * *
Steve lay back, breathing hard. “Want to try another fifty kisses?” His eyes wouldn’t open; none of his muscles wanted to work.
“I’m too tired.” Elizabeth draped herself across him and rested her head on his chest. “Besides, I’m beginning to feel depraved.”
“As long as you’re not feeling deprived.” He felt bone heavy, and for once, completely sated.
The bed moved as she sat up. It was actually warm in the room. He wasn’t sure how much of it was due to the furnace and how much due to the considerable heat he and Elizabeth had generated. Which explained his lassitude. All that tempestuous energy had been transformed into heat, and everybody knew that heat was exhausting. He needed time to recover. Fifty kisses? He didn’t know if he could even deliver one of good quality.
He didn’t even open his eyes when she got up, but he did hear water running into the bathtub. It splashed as she stepped into it. He willed himself out of bed. There were some opportunities, he knew, that a man should never pass up.
The old-fashioned bathroom was as cloudy as a castle in the air, and mist wreathed and curled around him as he came through the door. Pink light from the two small lamps on her dressing table danced from the moving water and twinkled from the mirror and the gilded claws of the old, footed tub. The rising air was lilac scented from her soap—pure essence of Elizabeth, and he shut the door behind him with magic in his heart.
Elizabeth looked up, smiling, and moved forward in the tub. He slid in behind her, around her, and pulled her back against his chest.
A fountain of curls tumbled out of the wide pink ribbon which bound her hair on top of her head, and the ribbon was tied with a big, untidy bow that trailed its ends above her right ear.
She relaxed against him. Her curly hair was irresistible. He hid his face in it for a minute and wrapped his arms around her, under her breasts.
He held her firmly. She needed to exert no energy to keep from slipping deeper into the soothing water. She put her arms over his and closed her eyes and let her languid body float. She felt without weight, without care, with no past to lament, no future to fear, enchanted in a glorious here and now of savor and delight. His mouth grazed across her neck and ear, tugging at the ribbon, teasing at her skin, murmuring love words and sprinkling kisses. She turned her head, seeking for him, and his hands covered her breasts as his mouth found her lips. She half turned toward him and he cradled her with one arm as with the other he dipped a soft cloth into the water and wiped it gently across her face.
“Funny way for an idyll to start,” she said dreamily. “With a fight about Robert.”
“You can summon an idyll from the most unlikely inspiration,” said Steve, patting at her cheeks with the warm cloth. He turned her to face him and picked up the soap. The water lapped at the dark tips of her breasts. He dipped his head and tasted the sprinkled drops which frosted them.
Then he lathered the soap in his wet hands and smoothed its creamy sweet-smelling froth across her breasts and shoulders. She let her head fall back, arching her throat. He kneaded gently at her neck with his fingers and rubbed under her chin wi
th his thumbs.
“You look like a cat,” he told her. “The very expensive kind, with the huge eyes and long thin necks.”
She slanted a green glance at him and picked up the soap herself.
“You look like a bulldog, the kind with a thick neck and bristly jowls.” She didn’t lather her hands; she scrubbed at his chest with the soap, using it like sandpaper. He snatched at it. A slippery tug-of-war ensued. When it was over, they were both covered with soap and breathless with laughter.
“Well, I’m clean,” said Elizabeth, rinsing herself vigorously. “And that ringing in my ears is sure to be McNulty and his boxes. I really have to get out of this water.”
Steve lounged at the end of the tub, still covered with bubbles. She splashed water at him.
“Don’t you have a book to write, you lazy thing?”
“I’m working on ideas right now,” he said.
“The last idea you came up with had nothing to do with a book.”
“A man can have more than one idea,” said Steve, thinking of his vision and greatly desiring to have it fulfilled. He remembered with exquisite clarity how in his mind she had risen, an enticing Venus ascending from her magic bath. The water streamed from her like liquid silver, and her skin glowed pink, and her languid emerald eyes drowsed between lush black lashes, which the mist had tipped with dew.
The water did indeed stream from her like liquid silver, now, as she stood. But the emerald eyes were laughing, not drowsing, and she stepped out of the tub before he could move.
“Come on out of there!” she commanded, shaking a towel at him.
He lay back, smiling. She looked more like a vigorous young Amazon than a pliant, malleable Venus. The Venus certainly was a sweet vision, but all things considered, the Amazon was a great deal more fun.
She swung the towel around her head like a lasso, pretended to rope him, and tugged. “Don’t make me come in after you,” she growled.
“Don’t shoot,” he said. “I’ll come quietly.” He heaved his bulk from the water and a cascade fell onto the floor. He looked at his feet. “We’ve made an awful mess in here.”