Caprice (17 page)

the room into murky shadow.

The soup tasted as fresh and delicious as it had that first evening,

thanks to the freezer, and Caprice settled back to enjoy herself. When

a brief silence fell over them, she sent several curious glances his

way. The candlelight threw his eyes into shadow, an occasional dark

sparkle showing through the dark slanting veil. When he looked up

quickly, the impression vanished and his eyes showed clear and

bright.

'What do you do in New York?' she asked, toying with her food. 'I

mean, I vaguely know what your family's business is, but I don't

know what you do. Textiles, right?'

'Yes, it's rather more prominent here in Richmond than in New York,

obviously. My end of the business is taking the manufactured cloths

and making them into clothes.'

She couldn't resist the laugh that bubbled out. 'I can just see you,

sitting cross-legged, needle in mouth, working busily away. No, I

know of the Langston Fashions, but what do
you
do?'

'Well,' he said, leaning back and stretching lazily. 'I handle the

business, literally. The marketing, the sales projections, the

management. I guess you could say, I am the management. I'm : not

really that visible a person in the business. You'd be amazed at how

many people associate our models with our clothing. But then, that's

the reason we're paying them, of course, to be in the public eye.'

She ran her eyes over his figure, lean, elegant as he was always

elegant. 'You wouldn't do badly at all, in the public eye,' she said

then, and turned back to her supper.

'Perhaps.' He leaned his elbows on the table after sitting forward, and

laced his fingers together. 'But that's not my style. I prefer to live

more quietly. Once you're exposed to publicity, there's never an end

to it.'

'Mmm. Yes, I see what you mean.' They were finished with the main

course, so she rose to take the dishes and to get the dessert. When he

started to stand, also, to help, she waved him back, and in the kitchen

she started coffee and prepared a tray. Soon, she was walking

carefully back into the dining room, poured the coffee and served the

dessert, and settled back into her chair. 'Jeffrey mentioned something

about you being interested in philosophy?'

'Oh, yes,' he replied, with a slight smile. 'In fact, I minored in it, in

college. But it doesn't make for good conversation, in general, so I

don't talk about it much.'

'A philosophical businessman,' she murmured, with a laughing glance

thrown his way. 'That is a definitely intriguing combination.'

His smile was tolerant. They finished their coffee and dessert in a

leisurely fashion, and when she stood to stack things on the tray, he

stood, also, and no amount of persuasion would get him to sit down

and relax again. In the kitchen, she found two aprons, and laughingly

tied one around his lean waist, and then he did the same for her. But

somehow, his hands began to wander, sliding around to her front and

pulling her back against him. His head bent and he let his lips wander

as much as his hands, until she was flushed and trembling.

She tried for her normal voice and found a reasonable facsimile. 'This

isn't getting the dishes washed.' The last word trailed away,

uncertainly.

He released her immediately, and stepped back. 'No, you're right, of

course,' he said, sounding perfectly normal. That, somehow,

astonished her, and she didn't know what to think, as she brushed

back the light wisps falling on her forehead and then went to the sink

to start hot water.

The talk trickled into a few, short comments made while they worked

companionably at cleaning the mess left from the meal. Afterwards,

she put the dishes away while he wandered into the den and came

back again, holding two drinks. 'Gin?' he asked, as he handed one to

her, and she smiled, pleased that he remembered.

They walked back to the den, where he seated himself comfortably at

the couch while she walked, restless, aimless, around the room. She

touched at a small table as she went by, fingers gliding over the cool,

hard surface, and then she went to the window to stare out at the

black wet night. It was still rather early, just after eight, and he

wouldn't be leaving for a while yet. Sudden panic struck her. What

should she say, what should she do, how should she feel? This was

different. She didn't want it to be. She wanted it as light and as

inconsequential as all her other relationships, but it wasn't; this was

different, she was alone with him, with something unfamiliar

throbbing inside her.

It was a temporary situation. But she was being tugged in different

directions by her conflicting emotions, and she didn't know what to

do. She didn't know who she was, for she was motivated by reasons

that even she could only guess at.

The glass was clear, and against the dark night her reflection, and that

of the room behind her, stood out sharply, a ghostly mirror. She

could see Pierce's dark head turned towards her slantingly, as he

studied her from under level brows. What was he doing here? What

did he want?

'Want to come sit down?' he asked quietly. His expression was

unreadable in the glass, and she felt as if she was with a stranger.

Without a word, she turned and walked to the couch, slipping off her

black pumps and curling comfortably close by him. He turned

towards her, one leg half propped on the cushions, his arm along the

back of the couch. He reached over and curled a finger into a wisp of

flyaway hair at her nape. The sensation was delicate, tickling,

pleasurable. She turned her head slightly towards his fingers, which

then went to trace the slim line of her jaw.

'Sometimes,' he said softly, staring at her, 'Sometimes I feel that I'm

getting to know you, and then you can seem so distant. There's an

unreachable quality about you, something always held back.'

She closed her eyes. The myriad, conflicting emotions that she had

been experiencing were melding into one. That feel of his fingers

cool against her warm skin. Yes, she recognised that. She turned

even further and pressed her lips against them, then rubbed her cheek

lightly up and down. She heard his intake of breath, and then he

carefully took away her drink and set it aside.

The one emotion she then felt was a simple, wordless desire to be

held and touched, kissed and stroked and caressed. When he turned

back to gather her gently close, she willingly settled her head against

his shoulder and turned her face to his neck. It was good, as good as

every other time he had held her, and yet new. There must, she

thought hazily, be as many different ways to hold a person as there

are different moods. She pressed her lips to his neck, and opened

them.

And it was somehow the same as the other times. His body went taut,

and the hand behind her head grew hard. He bent his head, and

nuzzled roughly at the hair at her temple. The sameness, underlying

previous anger, shock, even the gentleness during that walk in the

rain; and it was passion.

The fingers of his hand thrust into her carefully constructed chignon

and tugged it loose. The silver blonde fluff fell to her shoulders, and

he buried both fists into it, pulling back her head and staring for a

brief, throbbing moment at her parted lips. His head fell down to her

swiftly, mouth working on hers in eagerness. Her hands splayed wide

on his chest, feeling his warmth through his shirt.

The soothing touch of lips against her nape, in sun-blinded distress.

The hardened ravishment, as he took her by surprise before she left.

The coldness of his fingers as he stroked her streaming face, upturned

and still. The whirling memories melded into the present; the

smouldering blaze already begun leapt to flaming brightness. A wave

of hotness rushed through her, making her tremble. He slipped one

arm around her waist and bodily lifted her between his legs. She was

then kneeling in front of him on the floor, and he was bending

forward, slanting his mouth down her neck, to the confining line of

her dress.

He buried his face and took a deep breath, while one hand crept

around her ribcage to stroke at a slight, rounded breast. She held his

head, bent over it, staring blindly at the sleek line of his back curved

in front of her: Then he gently loosened his hold on her, pulled up,

and kissed her one more time on the lips, lightly.

She was in a state of incomprehension. Staring at him with her

dilated, immense eyes, she waited for some kind of explanation,

unaware she was pleading silently. She saw him look deeply into her

eyes, his own widening, and then he screwed them shut and

swallowed. 'Don't look at me that way,' he whispered.

He didn't see how her face quivered, as if struck. 'Right,' she said

then, and pulled away. A quick move from him, and he had her

caught, his hands to her shoulders.

He opened his mouth to say something, hesitated as he saw her

closed expression, and brought a hand up to cup at her cheek. 'I ---'

he started. 'I'd better be leaving. Supper tomorrow?'

'Sure,' she replied flatly. It caused a swift frown to plummet between

his black brows. He let her go and, after she climbed to her feet, he

rose. Without a word, they went into the hall, and she handed to him

first his suit jacket, and then his overcoat, which he didn't bother to

put on. He looked searchingly into her eyes, but she refused to look

into his face, and walked over to the front door to unlock and open it.

He paused in the doorway, and then turned back. 'Shall I pick you up

at six?'

'Fine.' Brief, terse.

His dark head was bent to her, and he was too close. He made a

movement as if to kiss her good night, and she stepped back from the

touch, which had him freezing quite still for a moment. 'Don't be this

way,' he said in a low voice.

She smiled, mockingly. 'Why, I don't know what you mean. I am

what I am.'

He turned to the black night and walked away, without replying. Her

glittering smile faded as if it had never been, and she wearily shut the

door on the cold.

Caprice went through the downstairs rooms, switching off most of

the lights except the one in the hallway which was always left on,

and then she took her shoes and padded up to her room. She locked

her door, went to her bathroom to cream off her make-up, and then

slipped into night clothes, turned down her sheet and covers, and,

with a flick of her wrist, put the room into darkness. And for the rest

of the night she concentrated quite furiously on not thinking about

her evening spent with Pierce.

By the next morning, she knew she had made a big mistake. She

never should have agreed to spend time with Pierce. She had been

attracted to him from the very beginning, and last night had shown

her just how far that attraction had gone. Their encounter last night

had been almost virginal, and yet all her senses had leaped out of

control. Then she had to top it off by acting like a disappointed

nymphomaniac, and the memory of that burned.

If she had thought she could have salvaged her pride, she would have

called him up and pleaded sickness to get out of their date that

evening. But he would know better. He always knew better.

Her cheeks flamed hot, and she pressed her hands against them in

mortification. Last night she had acted like such a fool, when he

hadn't appeared to be deeply affected at all. This was wrong, all

wrong, and especially so since she was the one who was in danger of

getting badly hurt. Her eyes narrowed on the opposite wall of her

bedroom as she brooded in bed. She would have to try to get out of

tonight, somehow. She had no intention of being alone with Pierce

again. It proved to be too devastating.

She lazed in bed until quite late, and only grudgingly rose to shower

and dress.. No skipping down the stairs today. She slunk down,

blonde brow furrowed, and lower lip thrust out in thought, but she

still hadn't come up with a solution when Liz informed her that she

had a phone call.

It was Pierce. 'Hallo,' he said, sounding disembodied. She was