by Gary Dickson
Desirée would not entertain or appreciate any impoliteness or bad behavior. Even so, his encounter with Stefano promised a verbal joust, employing innuendo, sarcasm, deprecation, and belittlement. Scott felt out of his depth; he’d gone from dating girls to sparring with an older woman’s ex-husband. If he didn’t have that social experience, he’d draw from academia and his own native intelligence. Scott had been a champion of sorts on the debate team. He understood where an opponent’s weakness lay; once identified, he homed in with a killer’s instinct. If he were to prevail (or even hold his own), Scott would need all his intelligence and precision to keep the count from embarrassing him in front of Desirée and triggering any feelings that he was somehow inept.
THE AUSTIN-HEALEY’S TIRES CRUNCHED AGAINST THE SNOW as Scott came to a stop in front of Desirée’s chalet. Gustav rushed to unload his bag, and Helena greeted him at the door, both speaking in the most courteous and yet familiar manner. In a short time, he’d transitioned from an overnight guest, with the accompanying hesitancy and uneasy embarrassment, to an accepted fact of life. Neither seemed unhappy or disgruntled about his special link to the mistress of the house. They both adored Desirée (and she, them), so if Scott treated her well and made her happy, then he would enjoy their acceptance.
As the two bustled with his things, Desirée appeared. Standing in the doorway, she was the picture of radiance and beauty. He took in the full measure of her: long legs, slightly parted; glistening hair; the reddest of lipsticks; her sexy silhouette, clothed in powder blue from her graceful neck to her delicate ankles. Gustav and Helena passed by her, but he lingered at the car, enjoying the sight.
“Desirée,” he said, approaching and taking her in his arms, squeezing her tightly against him. “I missed you.” He guided her inside and closed the door.
“My darling, being apart for even a few days is too hard. We can’t do this anymore,” Desirée said, trembling in his arms. They held each other for a long while. Scott could’ve spent the rest of his life in her embrace. He loved touching Desirée and breathing her in—her reassuring firmness, her soft skin’s natural scent, intensified by a concoction of jasmine and lavender. He couldn’t resist kissing her moist and inviting mouth.
Breaking away, Desirée said, “Let’s have lunch, and then maybe we can come back to have dessert.”
“I prefer my dessert first,” he said. “But I can wait.”
THE ALPEN, LOCATED AT THE EDGE OF TOWN, WAS A SMALL hotel with a cozy restaurant. In typical Swiss style, a large stone fireplace dominated a room with pine floors, paneling, beams, and, in this case, pine booths with floral patterned, edelweiss cushions. Customers could enjoy their privacy, thanks to the booths’ high backs, and foreigners frequented the place with regularity (the Alpen being too pricey for the frugal Swiss).
Desirée and Scott snuggled side by side, near enough to feel the warmth from the fire. They both ordered Russian-style eggs (deviled hard-boiled eggs, homemade mayonnaise, diced carrots, and little green peas) with a full-bodied white burgundy. Scott took advantage of the privacy of the booth; moments before their food arrived, he pulled her arm through his. Thus interlocked, he breathed gently on the expanse of bare neck below her ear. Desirée shivered but did not pull away, and he cautiously moved closer, nuzzling her neck and cheek against his lips.
As they ate their meal, Desirée turned uncharacteristically pensive. Scott backtracked over their preceding conversation, and when he couldn’t come up with anything unsettling, he asked her if anything was wrong.
“I’m thinking of the business with the Romanian family, the one I’m helping Father Kohler with. There have been some complications; mainly, when the Romanians learned of the availability of the funds, they decided the grandmother should pay more,” she said.
“Those bastards. How much more?”
“Double.”
“What happened?”
“I paid it, and now she is to arrive next week in Zurich. Father Kohler has arranged for her to be driven here.”
“The family and children must be ecstatic.”
“They are, and they are curious as to their benefactor.”
“And has Helena mentioned it to you?”
“Yes, she said that a miracle had happened.”
“Is that all?”
“She had a gleam in her eye, but otherwise didn’t reveal the slightest soupçon.”
BACK AT THE CHALET, SCOTT UNPACKED HIS THINGS WHILE Desirée lay on the bed, watching. Placing the empty suitcase outside the bedroom door for Gustav to retrieve and place in storage, Scott closed the door quietly. Crawling onto the bed, he leaned over Desirée and said with a devilish grin, “Do you have any whipped cream?”
“Whipped cream?” she said, arching her eyebrows knowingly.
“Yes, I think it is time for that dessert.”
She flashed a delighted smile and laughed. “Am I not sweet enough?”
NOTHING IS QUITE SO SWEET AS THE SLEEP FOLLOWING afternoon sex. Desirée napped quietly in Scott’s arms; he dozed while he held her. When they roused, the lovers stayed cocooned in the luxurious bed, watching the play of light on the walls, murmuring to each other. Desirée’s thoughts turned to the evening’s affair, the benefit for St. Joseph, her church. “What will you wear tonight?” she inquired.
“What would you like me to wear?
“You wear a lot of black.”
“You don’t like black?”
“I do; it makes you look very handsome and strong. My girlfriends think so, too.”
“That’s nice, but I’m more interested in what you think.”
“You should take the compliment. Some people I know don’t think most Americans dress very well.”
“Some also say that most Americans don’t make love very well.”
With a contented purr, Desirée snuggled close. “I know one who does.”
THE BENEFIT FOR ST. JOSEPH WAS BEING HELD IN THE PARK Hotel’s ballroom, and Scott and Desirée made their entrance at eight o’clock. Most of the guests had already arrived; Father Kohler was busy greeting attendees in the public rooms where the reception line was set. Scott assumed Desirée had contrived their late entry to turn heads and make an impression on those already vying for attention from the who’s who.
Desirée commanded attention, even attired in a long-sleeved, demure black dress of simple proportions. Her hair was down, curled into a seductive coil of ringlets, and diamonds dazzled at her wrist and ears, brilliant against the darkness of the dress. Scott’s charcoal suit, white shirt, and cobalt blue tie made the perfect complement. They were impeccably paired.
The cast of regulars—the Goosens, Bertrands, Soldatis, and Desirée’s other friends Scott had met over the last few weeks—soon joined them in the ballroom. As they stood talking and drinking champagne, Francesco approached the group; with him was another man. Scott apprised the newcomer from the corner of his eye: the stranger was blond, blue-eyed, maybe five-eight, slight but handsome, and impeccably dressed in a dark suit and an Italian-knotted silk tie with snowflake motif. He walked with an entitled confidence. Scott knew instantly that this must be Stefano.
It didn’t take long for Francesco and Stefano to join the small circle of friends gathered around Scott and Desirée. Though Scott was certain Desirée was aware of Stefano’s presence, she ignored him. But he wasn’t to be cast off so lightly.
“Cara, it is so nice to see you,” Stefano injected ingratiatingly, forcing Desirée to recognize him in front of the group. “Are you still angry with your bad little boy?” There was an awkward moment, as everyone waited to see how she would respond.
“My dear count,” she said coolly, as though greeting a casual acquaintance. “Actually, I never think of him.” Scott placed a reassuring hand at the small of her back, a gesture that did not go unnoticed. Stefano glanced his way.
“And I think I know why,” he said, staring at Scott. “Will you introduce Monsieur Stoddard, or should I introduce myself?”
/> “Why ask permission, when you’ll clearly do it yourself?” She turned her back to Stefano, returning to her conversation with friends. Stefano fixed Scott with a cold stare, and Scott stood straighter. He could sense that the room was listening, curious as to how the countess’s new lover would handle the situation.
“Monsieur Stoddard, I’m Count Stefano Ambrosi Saccone de Rovere.”
“Pleased,” Scott replied. “Scott Stoddard, as you know.”
“I’ve heard all about you,” Stefano went on. “Other than being American, people say you are quite charming.”
“There are mixed reports as to charming, but I am most definitely American.”
“Why don’t you go back to where you belong? We would hate to see you overstay your welcome in Geneva.”
“Is that a command?” Scott asked with mock innocence. “And I thought you a count, not a king.” There was a slight titter from the eavesdroppers. Stefano clinched his jaw, and Scott watched the muscle jump with satisfaction.
“I think you will regret knowing me, Monsieur Stoddard,” Stefano growled. “I am not easily dismissed.”
Desirée, with her customary grace, found that moment to slip her arm into Scott’s and announce, “Darling, I absolutely must pay my respects to Father Kohler. Shall we?”
The Stefano incident was over. At least, it was over for the evening.
twenty-four
DESIRÉE SQUEEZED HIS ARM, LEANED CLOSE, AND said, “I think they’ve had quite enough for tonight, my darling. You can relax and stop showing off. I would think that the count has learned a lesson.”
“Was I showing off?” he murmured in her ear. “I wasn’t trying to.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. Her simple response conveyed so much; it reassured that, as much as Stefano might antagonize him, it was Scott who shared Desirée’s bed, and Scott whom she loved. Relieved, he adopted a nonchalant expression. Let others be the judge of who’d won that first round, but he knew who’d won Desirée’s heart.
Desirée said good night to Father Kohler, who thanked her for her generosity, and while she made the rounds with her friends, Scott stood apart from the crowd, watching and thinking. Her remark must mean he had acquitted himself well; at least, she wasn’t unhappy. That conversation with Stefano had been a performance for him—a performance for an audience of one; no one mattered but Desirée. True, he and the count were locked in a contest as old as time—the romantic in him saw two knights jousting for a lady’s favor. Scott felt a bit silly; he had thought himself above such primal emotion. Having prided himself on an appreciation of intellectual and philosophical pursuits, Scott was disappointed to discover how vulnerable he was to raw jealousy. That male competitiveness didn’t seem to care whether he was familiar with Aristotle or not. Being in love with the right woman had brought out the beast. Scott shook his head ruefully; he had never felt quite like this before, and he knew the truth—he was a goner.
He also knew that his love—no, his fear of losing Desirée—was a path to possessiveness. That feeling, a sucking undercurrent, would pull him into an orbit around her. He’d want to stay with her, protect her, claim her—he’d hate to leave her alone for any period of time. Where would school and the future he and his parents had planned fit (he shuddered at their disappointment)? Would he drown in Desirée?
They left the party, and Gustav made the short drive through Gstaad and up the winding drive to the Palace for dinner at the ultrachic Grill. The black marble bar glistened; the mirrored walls reflected the lined bottles of whisky, aperitifs, and digestives. Barstools upholstered in French brocade and gold piping faced the carved, turnededge bar, while small bar tables scattered about allowed those who were seated to enjoy views of the pool and village.
Desirée was in high spirits. Positively euphoric, she greeted some of the patrons at the bar and blew kisses to others as they proceeded to their table.
“Should we order some champagne to celebrate?” she asked.
“And we are celebrating . . . ” Scott had no interest in dampening her effusive spirits, but he was flummoxed as to its cause.
“Winning!” Her eyes gleamed fiercely.
“What did we win?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“You won, because Stefano lost. He lost his composure; he lost his manners. The rude always lose. You know you won; I saw it in your eyes—and in his.”
“All right, my clever little fox,” Scott replied with a jaunty smile. “Let’s make it Krug then.” Desirée gave a conspiratorial little laugh and kissed him on the cheek. Because it would make her happy, Scott would celebrate, but he knew better than to gloat. Desirée hated any smugness at having bested someone, even her ex. They toasted his victory, but as soon as he could, Scott directed the conversation elsewhere.
CHRIST, DESIRÉE’S AN EARLY RISER WAS THE FIRST THING SCOTT thought when he awoke, alone, in the massive bed. She was already up—and who knew what might have happened had she remained beside him? Scott had sensed a subtle shift in last night’s lovemaking. From the beginning of their relationship, Desirée had been in control, but she’d gradually relinquished her director’s role and finally enjoyed the delight of sheer abandon. The experience was intoxicatingly seductive, and Scott was still drunk from that new feeling of dominance, particularly in contrast to how vulnerable he felt outside the bedroom.
Passing through the kitchen, he said good morning to Helena and asked for his usual. “Of course,” she replied cheerfully, and he continued to the breakfast room. There, Desirée sat at the table, radiant as usual, her hair down, a lilac robe slightly askew, and her long legs pulled up in her favorite chair. She was on the telephone. Covering the receiver, she mouthed a good morning before resuming her conversation.
“That’s ridiculous,” Desirée exclaimed. “As usual, he adopts a story devoid of facts. No one would believe that unless they were jealous of Scott. The one thing that you can count on from Stefano is that, in respect to me, he will always find ways to further embarrass himself.” After a few more exchanges, Desirée said goodbye and hung up.
“Who was that?” Scott asked, buttering his toast.
“Louise Goosens. She was giving me a report from the count’s camp.”
“And?” Scott said.
“The count finds you rude, and his sensibilities are hurt.”
“I’m only nice to a point. And should I mention—better his sensibilities than his nose?” Scott reflected that Jean had predicted Stefano’s reaction to him.
“Louise says that he is angrier than ever.”
Remembering Jean’s warning, Scott hoped he wasn’t underestimating the count.
The Goosens were giving a cocktail party at their chalet that evening, and Scott was not enthused. Yet another party where he would be a topic of conversation and subject for inspection. And having learned Louise was privy to the count’s feelings, Stefano was almost certainly invited. The last thing Scott wanted was to deal with that pompous fool. But this social scene, with its consecutive evenings of parties and balls and unending obligations, was the fabric of Desirée’s life. If he wanted to be with her—and he most certainly did—then his attitude needed adjustment. Scott knew he must accept her way of life. After all, what did he have to offer her in contrast? A walkup, one-bedroom apartment; a student’s life, bookish nights, dining in small restaurants; the occasional weekend road trip to small villages in the Alps? Would he even retain that modest lifestyle, once his parents knew he had taken up with an older woman? Desirée’s wealth afforded him a style and level he’d only read about, which his parents’ social circle had tangentially touched. To enjoy his relationship with Desirée fully, Scott would have to set aside his insecurities and embrace her support.
At the same time, he continued arguing with himself; was he pursuing the right path? Given his desire, was there a choice? Did he honestly believe he could really resist the call of a life with Desirée? Could he chuck his love, go back to Geneva, and renew his schoolwork as
if nothing had happened?
Not likely. He was in deep, and Scott decided to quit fighting the inevitable and nurture their relationship. He would be the one to change; she wouldn’t and shouldn’t. A massive weight seemed to lift, and Scott felt a warm happiness at the thought of a future with Desirée. Still, a small voice in his head whispered that he was throwing away his academic dreams and wasting his parents’ considerable investment in his future. There was going to be a good portion of hurt and disappointment, but he couldn’t change it.
THE GOOSENS’ CHALET, REVE DE NEIGE, WAS VERY NEAR Desirée’s chalet. A classic structure, the three-floor A-frame rose out of a small forest of Alpen spruce. The Goosens were Dutch, and the low-slung modern and minimalist furnishings reflected their northern European sensibilities. Generous fur throws and piles of soft pillows softened the otherwise straight lines of the décor, which were further warmed by a fireplace in each of the public rooms. Scott wasn’t surprised to see a few abstract sculptures by Calder and Moore interspersed among original Cezanne, Modigliani, and Braque oils hanging on the walls.
Jon and Louise were among Desirée’s best friends, and Scott felt he had a chance to be accepted by them. Celine Montaigne, Desirée’s childhood friend, was there when they arrived. Perhaps with her, too, he would have a chance. Taking tally, Scott noted that was three down; how many to go? Thank God Celine didn’t seem to be with Francesco; perhaps Stefano would not be there either. Louise was no fool, and she’d probably engineered the party by inviting the guests least likely to make a fuss. Scott reminded himself to be nice, smile, and behave modestly. Showing off wouldn’t win him any more friends.