A Fashionable Affair

by Joan Wolf

  “You have such beautiful skin, Red,” he murmured. He undid another button and then another, his mouth following where his hands led. Patsy made no move to stop him. She lay back against the sofa pillow and very slowly buried her hands, caressingly, in his hair. The blouse fell away from her body, his hands moved again, this time to unhook her bra. He kissed the white curve of her breast. “Like silk,” he said.

  “Oh,” she whispered and at the ragged little sound, he lifted his head and looked at her.

  There was desire in his eyes—hard, burning, intense. It was a look Patsy was familiar with, and usually it had given her a feeling of power. It had been rather satisfying to know one could reduce a man to this. Strange that her feelings should now be so different. She felt weak before that look in Michael’s eyes; she wanted to succumb to him, to please him, to let him please her.

  “No?” he asked with a note of controlled inquiry.

  Patsy gazed at him. With those hazel eyes and high-bridged nose he looked like a falcon, she thought, a beautiful, merciless falcon. She was suddenly afraid. This was different, she realized. This was different from anything she had ever known before. His question hung poised in the air between them for several seconds, before Patsy, with huge dark eyes and slightly parted lips, very slowly, nodded her head yes. His eyes narrowed to slits of gold. “Let’s go upstairs,” he said.

  Patsy’s knees felt weak when she stood, and she negotiated the stairs with difficulty. She didn’t understand what was happening to her, but she did understand she was powerless before it. They reached the second floor.

  “This way,” Michael said, and effortlessly picked her up, carried her into a room, and laid her down on a bed. He bent to kiss her again and, while doing so, competently finished undressing her. Then he stood, pulled his crew-neck sweater off, and tossed it onto a chair. “I’m glad you decided to stay for a drink,” he said. He had finished unbuttoning his shirt, and it followed the sweater.

  Patsy watched him. Beyond him, near the window, a small lamp was lit on a dresser. A moth had gotten in and was battering around under the shade. With a part of her mind, Patsy was aware of the small, violent, futile battle of the moth, and then Michael was beside her, the bed squeaking a little as it took the brunt of his weight.

  Patsy had been right. It was different from anything she had known before. It was passionate and intensely sensual and soul-shatteringly sweet. It left her feeling as if she would do anything in the world for him, and being Patsy, she kissed his shoulder and told him so.

  He put an arm around her and drew her close. “You might try a repeat of what you just did,” he replied easily. He wasn’t as unruffled as he sounded, however. Patsy was close enough to feel the still-hurried beat of his heart. He felt warm, strong, and comfortable beside her, and her eyes closed in contentment. Above her head his voice took on a tinge of amusement. “Though not, perhaps, just yet.”

  Patsy snuggled her head into the nook of his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re letting me stay,” she murmured.

  His fingers buried themselves in the silky tangle of her hair and moved caressingly. Patsy sighed with pleasure. “You can stay, Red,” and the amusement was quite gone from his voice. “You can stay as long as you like.”

  “Good,” Patsy mumbled drowsily. “I will.” And she drifted off to sleep in the comforting shelter of his arm.

  He woke her up at seven the following morning and she did, indeed, give him the repeat performance he had requested. Afterward they lay together, drowsy and content, with the sunshine streaming in between the slats of the blinds. The bedroom, Patsy noticed, was sparsely furnished. There was a big chest of drawers that someone had antiqued a Williamsburg blue; the bed, which was only a frame, spring, and mattress; an end table laden with books; and a straight-back chair, which was now heaped with their clothes.

  “Do you rent this house furnished?” she asked lazily.

  “No. The classy furniture you see is all mine.”

  “Hmm. I see you thoughtfully provided yourself with a double bed.”

  He laughed deep in his throat. “One likes to be prepared for any goodies that might come one’s way.”

  “Wretch,” Patsy said, but her thoughts were not as pleasant as her voice. Was that all she was—a “goodie” who had come his way? Well, she asked herself severely, what else should you be? You practically begged him to make love to you, and even after he had as much as told you he still loved someone else.

  The sound of the doorbell interrupted her thoughts.

  Michael swore softly. “Collecting for the paper,” he said, and got out of bed.

  “Let him come back another time.” Patsy yawned.

  “Have a heart.” He had pulled a pair of jeans out of the closet. “I’m never home. The poor kid could spend his life trying to collect from me.” He went to the door, his bare torso dappled with sunlight as he passed the window. “I was a paperboy once myself,” he said, and left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Patsy snuggled under the covers. The minutes passed. Surely it shouldn’t take this long to pay the paperboy, Patsy thought. From downstairs there came the distinct sound of something breaking. Patsy jumped out of bed and ran to the closet to find Michael’s bathrobe. She wrapped it around herself firmly and went out the door and halfway down the stairs, where she stopped and looked into the living room.

  There was a tremendous fight going on between Michael and two men. Patsy stared for a moment in horror at the writhing bodies and flying fists and then announced, loudly and clearly, “I’ve just phoned the police. They said a patrol car was in the area and would be right here.”

  The fight subsided somewhat as the two strangers turned at the sound of her voice. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” one of them yelled.

  “The door,” Patsy pointed out helpfully, “is open.”

  They fled. Patsy continued down the stairs and closed and locked the door behind them. Then she turned to Michael.

  He had gotten to his feet. There was blood on his face and on his shoulder. “Good for you, Red,” he said.

  “Are you all right?” She could feel herself starting to shake with reaction. “You’re bleeding. What was that all about?”

  “Did you really call the police?” he asked.

  “No.”

  He grinned. The blood ran heavily from a cut over his eyebrow. He looked genuinely pleased. “That’s my girl.”

  Patsy felt her breath falter, and she inhaled deeply. “Come along and let me attend to your face,” she said, and obediently, he followed her into the kitchen. He sat on a wooden chair while she got a clean towel and tried to staunch the blood.

  “I presume those thugs were friends of the business associate,” she said flatly.

  “Um.” She was pressing his head back against her breast as she held the towel to his eyebrow. He closed his eyes.

  “Why didn’t you shout for help?”

  His long lashes never flickered. “I thought I was giving them as good as I got.”

  “It was two against one,” Patsy said and he smiled faintly. Her lips set in an unusually grim line. “What did they want?”

  “To scare me off,” he answered peacefully. “Bully tactics.”

  “And you don’t scare off easily,” she answered slowly.

  He let the whole weight of his head rest against her breast. “Well,” he said. “I can be a bully myself, if I have to be.”

  Patsy removed the towel and looked closely at the cut. “It might need stitches.”

  “You patch it up, Red. You’re good at that sort of thing.”

  Patsy frowned. “Where are your bandages?”

  “Upstairs, in the medicine chest.”

  “All right. Here, hold this towel firmly in place. The cut’s still bleeding.”

  Patsy fetched the tape and gauze and placed a makeshift butterfly bandage over the wound.

  “You would’ve been a good nurse,” Michael told her when she had finished.

>   “Sometimes I’m sorry I let myself get sidetracked away from it.” She went to the sink and washed her hands. “I was all set to start nursing school, you know, and I thought I might earn some money during the summer by modeling. It was a lark more than anything else. I just walked into the Marks Modeling agency two weeks after graduation and asked if I might possibly be a candidate for a job.”

  “And they thought you might.”

  She dried her hands and turned to face him. “At first I thought I’d delay nursing school for a year, but instead of fizzling out, as so many modeling careers do, the jobs kept coming. The money was great, and it was fun, so” —she shrugged her slim, graceful shoulders—“here I am.”

  “Here you are,” he agreed. “And though you’re not a nurse, you do make a great pot of coffee. How about it?”

  Patsy gazed at him assessingly. His face looked tan against the white bandage. The cut on his shoulder had been only superficial. Without his shirt, the muscles in those shoulders and arms were very evident. He was right. He had been giving them as good as he got.

  “Coffee it is,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

  “Just toast, please.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to give Sally a call,” he said as she got out the coffeepot. “I want to store all your files at her house. Would you mind driving?”

  For a minute, as she measured coffee into the percolator, she didn’t answer. Then she turned and said carefully, “Michael, I don’t like this one little bit.”

  “No need to worry, Red,” he said soothingly. “Just a precaution.”

  She stared at him, and her brown eyes were troubled. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I won’t be.” He sounded reassuringly firm. “Make the coffee.”

  She turned back to the stove. “Why do you want me to drive?”

  “Well,” he said cheerfully, “I think I may have a small concussion.”

  Patsy closed her eyes. “I’ll drive,” she managed to say calmly, and finished measuring the coffee with a not-quite-steady hand.

  Chapter Eight

  Patsy and Michael ate a light breakfast and showered, then Patsy helped Michael load her car with the cartons containing her files.

  “You don’t have any other plans for today?” Michael asked belatedly, after the last carton had been stashed in the back seat.

  “No.”

  He merely nodded. “Then let’s get started.”

  “All right. Maybe my hair will finish drying in the car.” She had washed her hair in his shower and the ends were starting to feather a brilliant golden-red as they dried. “I never heard of anyone who didn’t own a blow-dryer,” she added, with mock exasperation.

  “Well, now you have.” He looked a little preoccupied. “Just think of how I’m broadening your horizons.”

  “Yes,” Patsy said dryly. “Get in the car.”

  The long lashes lifted, his eyes looked very green this morning, she noticed. “Yes, ma’am,” he drawled, and opened the door.

  The drive to Sally’s was quiet. Patsy kept surreptitiously checking Michael out of the corner of her eye. If he looked as if he were drowsing off, she was going to detour straight to the nearest emergency room. He stayed awake, however, and his color looked reasonably good. As she pulled into Sally’s driveway, he said, “Satisfied?”

  She put the parking brake on. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been watching me like a mother hen for the whole ride.”

  She took the key out of the ignition and turned to face him. “A concussion can be serious,” she said severely.

  He didn’t answer, only laughed and opened his car door. “Hi, Sal,” he said to his sister, who had come out to greet them. “Thanks for the loan of your basement.”

  * * * *

  Michael and Steve carried the cartons to the basement, with Steven excitedly following them up and down, up and down. When they had finished, Steve asked Michael, “How about a game of one on one? We just put up a basketball hoop.”

  Sally gave Patsy an ironic look. “For Steven,” she murmured. “Of course, it will be at least four years until Steven can reach the basket, but ...”

  “Michael got bashed on the head this morning,” Patsy put in very firmly. “He’s not going to play basketball, Steve.”

  A faint smile flickered across Michael’s face. He turned to his brother-in-law. “So pretty,” he said regretfully, “and so bossy.”

  “How did you get bashed on the head?” Sally asked in her best big-sister voice.

  Steve took a small pencil-light out of his pocket and shone it into Michael’s eyes. “Look to the right,” he said. “Now left. Now over my shoulder.” Steve put the light back into his pocket and touched the back of Michael’s head. Michael winced. Steve frowned. “That’s some lump, fella.”

  “That’s also some bandage over your eye,” Sally commented. “For God’s sake, Michael, what happened?”

  “Yeah.” Steve frowned harder. “And why do you need to store Patsy’s files in our basement?”

  “Didn’t you tell them?” Patsy asked Michael incredulously.

  “Er, no.”

  “Tell us what?” Sally demanded.

  “Fred was involved with a gang of crooks and he’s swindled me out of a fortune,” Patsy answered succinctly.

  “Crudely put, perhaps, but essentially correct,” murmured her accountant.

  “What?” Sally shrieked.

  “Crooks?” Steve said.

  “Sit down,” Michael replied resignedly, “and I’ll tell you.”

  The story took some time, after which Sally fixed them lunch. Then, because the sun was shining and Steve so obviously was longing to play with his new toy, Patsy took pity on him. “I’ll play you a game of basketball,” she offered.

  “You?” Steve asked with scarcely flattering incredulity.

  Michael and Sally exchanged a glance. “Good idea, Patsy,” Sally said. “He needs a challenge.”

  Steve made an obvious effort to be polite. “Okay, Patsy, if you want to.”

  “Mommy is terrible,” Steven added helpfully. “She always misses.”

  “Come and watch Aunt Patsy, honey,” Sally said with a smile. “She’s better than Mommy.”

  “I don’t know if I am,” Patsy murmured as they all went out to the driveway. “I haven’t shot a basketball in years.”

  “I’ll park the car in the street,” Michael volunteered, and as he backed out of the driveway, Patsy practiced a few lay-ups.

  “Not bad,” Steve was saying kindly as Michael returned.

  “I played in high school but not much since,” Patsy said. She dribbled the ball down the drive, turned, and sank a jump shot. Steve’s eyes widened. “No rough stuff under the basket,” Patsy warned as she walked back to him. “You’re bigger and I’m playing in espadrilles.”

  “Well, that should even the odds,” Sally said wickedly.

  Steve turned to look at his wife. “I think I’m being set up.”

  Sally grinned. “Patsy was high scorer in the county for two years in a row. Michael”—she turned to her brother—”get a couple of beach chairs out of the garage so we can watch in comfort.”

  The game quickly became hilarious, with Michael rooting for Steve and Sally egging on Patsy. Steven, joining the male club, loudly encouraged his father. The game ended when Patsy missed a ten-footer and Steve rebounded and sank the ball. He won by two points.

  Sally made lemonade, and Steve was a magnanimous winner. “You have a terrific shot,” he complimented Patsy. “I had no idea you played ball.”

  “If she’d only been more aggressive, she could’ve been the tops,” Sally said. “You were always too nice, Patsy.”

  “Mother always thought basketball was terribly unladylike,” Patsy said.

  The telephone rang, and Steve went to answer it. He returned shortly and spoke to Michael. “It’s for you. Your partner, Ted Lawson.”

  Michael raised a
black eyebrow, excused himself, and went into the house. When he reappeared his face was expressionless—so expressionless that Patsy knew something was wrong.

  “The office has been broken into,” he told them. “Ted stopped by to pick up something and found the door had been forced and the files rifled.” He looked at Patsy. “We’d better go over there now.”

  She rose to her feet and answered quietly, Okay.”

  “Broken into!” Sally cried. “Michael, do you think it’s those creeps who beat you up this morning?”

  “It’s certainly a possibility.”

  Steve looked worried. “This is a tough crowd you’ve gotten yourself mixed up with, Mike.”

  “Yeah,” Michael said.

  Sally kissed him. “Be careful.” She turned to Patsy. “Are you going to be safe?”

  “Of course,” Patsy calmly assured her. “Don’t worry, Sally.” Then she said to Michael, still in the same tone, “I’ll drive.”

  “Okay.” They went to the car, waved reassuringly to the worried faces of Sally and Steve, and started down the street.

  “Do you think they were looking for my stuff?” Patsy asked.

  “Yes.”

  Patsy bit her lip. “I’m so sorry I landed you with this mess, Michael. I had no idea ...” Her voice trailed off.

  “I’m not sorry.” He looked relaxed and composed, and Patsy found herself wondering just what it would take to smash that seemingly invincible self-command. He smiled a little and changed the subject. “It was nice of you to let Steve win.”

  Her lips curved. “Steven was watching, and I didn’t care.”

  “I know. If you had cared you could’ve been great.”

  “I don’t know.” Michael had cared, she thought as she drove along the crowded highway. He had chosen wrestling for his sport and he had gone at it with such single-minded determination that he had been state champion by his junior year. They were such different types of people. She knew nothing of the determined intensity that characterized him. She had never gone after anything in her life. She drifted, she thought dismally, floated along happily on the lucky combination of genes that had produced her face. What a shallow person she was, she thought again unhappily, and sighed.