Carla (7 page)

“Of course. At your apartment?”

“Where else? And then I'll take you out to dinner, if you don't have something better in mind.”

She giggled. “Well, I did have something better in mind, but—”

“But we'll have the whole night for that.”

“Uh-huh.” She grew serious. “Charles, do you think it will be safe—going out together?”

“Don't worry,” he said. “I know a small Hungarian restaurant where no one will possibly recognize you. I'll see you at four, all right?”

“All right. And Charles?”

“Yes?”

“I love you.” She made a little kissing sound against the mouthpiece of the phone and hung up.

Later, Carla emerged radiantly from the bedroom. Her blonde hair fell freely down the back of the black evening-gown in a truly striking fashion. The plunging neckline of the gown plummeted between her full ripe breasts, highlighting and accentuating their complete and vivid perfection. The only obstacle now was Lizzie, and she wished she could have given the girl the day off without arousing her suspicions. Instead she told her that she was spending the evening with a friend. Lizzie's face didn't change expression, but Carla was certain that the girl knew the truth She could only hope Lizzie would remain silent.

It was precisely twenty minutes to four when she hopped into the MG and turned the key in the ignition.

It was precisely four o'clock when the five-year-old Ford pulled up where the MG had been. A man got out of the car and walked slowly to the door of the house. His step was firm and sure, but there was a hesitation in the way he held himself, as if he wasn't quite sure of his footing.

He rang the bell once, shifting uneasily from foot to foot while he waited. At last the door was opened by a stunning Negro girl in a maid's uniform. The man took a good long look at the girl's body; then, remembering where he was and why he had come, he flushed guiltily.

“Is Mrs. Macon home?”

“No,” said the girl.

“I see. When do you expect her? You think she'll be home in a few minutes or so?”

The girl considered, her eyes twinkling as she watched the young man struggle to keep from ogling her. “Yes,” she said suddenly. “Yes, Mrs. Macon should be home any minute. Why don't you come inside?”

After a second's hesitation the man followed her into the house. He glanced around automatically, his eyes taking in the almost regal splendor of the living-room. His feet sank into the carpet with every step. The girl pointed to an armchair and he sat down in it, his eyes still flitting continually from one object to another.

“You wait right here,” the girl said. “Mrs. Macon ought to be home soon and I'll tell her you're here.”

“Swell.”

“Are you the party who's been trying to reach Mrs. Macon on the phone?”

He started. “Why, yes. How did you know?”

“I answered the phone every time, so how could I miss knowing? I recognized your voice the minute you opened your mouth. Mrs. Macon's all upset, not ever being home when you call and you not leaving a name or anything.”

“I suppose I should have realized that.”

She didn't answer, and at the same time made no move to leave. Unwillingly his eyes returned to her body, trying to imagine just how she would look without the protection of the uniform. The maid's uniform, a rather shapeless affair of white cotton, was unable to hide entirely the curves of her body. The skirt ended a few inches below her knees, and his eyes caressed what they could see of her legs and imagined the rest. Her arms were equally perfect—slender and chocolate in colour. Several times he forced his gaze away from the silent, motionless girl, and each time his eyes returned to wander over her body. Once his eyes caught hers and held them, and he was blushing slightly when he finally tore his eyes free.

“You wait right here,” she repeated, standing up suddenly and walking from the room. His eyes followed her until she was gone. Then he glanced once more around the room until he became more or less accustomed to the furnishings.

Only then did he realize how tired he was. He hadn't slept well for nights—too many nights. He tried to lose himself in his work, but that had helped only a little and left him more tired than ever. He leaned back in the armchair, wondering how long it would be before Mrs. Macon returned.

Charles recommended the Chicken Paprikash. It was good, but this didn't surprise her any more than the fact that the wine was excellent and the perfect dessert came as a surprise. Perfection was perhaps the best summation of Charles Butler, she thought. He always did exactly the right thing, even if he didn't seem to have any particular feeling for it. How could any man care so much about art, music, food, wine—almost everything there was to care about? It seemed to her that he didn't really care that desperately, that he was more concerned with “being right” than with the final result.

“What's the trouble?”

“Nothing,” she replied, looking up at him and smiling automatically across the tiny marble-topped table. “I was just thinking.”

“What about?”

“Things.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Mysterious tonight, aren't you?”

“A little. I was just thinking how nice it is to have dinner with you.”

“I'm glad you've enjoyed it.”

She put a cigarette between her lips and started to reach for a match, then stopped and let Charles light it for her. “I wish we could do it more often.”

“We can,” he said. “Whenever Ronald goes out-of-town.”

“That's not exactly what I meant. I—”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I know precisely what you meant, Carla. Let's not discuss it, shall we?” And he smiled, ending the conversation.

In the car driving back to his apartment they were silent. Perhaps he wouldn't discuss it yet, but at least she had managed to show him what she wanted. Now she would have to make him more dependent on her and at the same time show him that his freedom wouldn't end with marriage.

It would be difficult, she decided, to reduce a man like Charles to a state of sexual dependence. He had possessed so many women that it would be no easy matter to make him crave for her and no one else.

But it might be fun trying …

He woke up like a man coming out of an opium trance. The house was dark, much darker than when he had come in, and he cursed himself silently for falling asleep. How long had he slept? The girl had said she would be home any minute, but she didn't seem to be home.

Dimly he realized there was music playing, a slow and sensuous Spanish melody. He glanced around the room, trying to locate himself. Someone—the girl, he guessed—had drawn all the shades and turned off the lights.

The volume of the music increased. Suddenly the girl entered the room, but she was no longer wearing the uniform. The shapeless white cotton no longer hid her body from his eyes.

She was wearing nothing at all.

His eyes fastened on her breasts, fuller and more perfect than he had believed possible. The two bright red nipples seemed to glow in the dark. His eyes travelled downward past the flat stomach and rounded boyish hips, embracing the dark triangle and sleek thighs. He caught his breath and tried to get to his feet.

“Don't move,” she said.

That was all she said.

Slowly her body began to weave in time to the music, picking up speed as the tempo of the Spanish dance increased. She moved closer to him, her whole body an orgy in rhythm, and he caught a sensual whiff of sandalwood perfume as one liquid-brown arm passed close to his face.

She stretched backwards, arms akimbo, proffering her hips to him in an offering of love, her proud breasts pointing at the ceiling. She twisted constantly like a woman in the throes of passion, her body keeping perfect time with the music.

His breathing became faster and harder. He felt himself caught up in the savage beauty of the dance, unable to take one iota of his attention from the fantastic spectacle before him. It was new and old, pure in its beauty and outrageous in its wanton lust. It was Heaven and Hell all enwrapped in a whirling brown body and an evil, passionate dance.

She moved closer and closer to him, never missing a beat in the music. One hand darted out and played with the buttons on his shirt and he was powerless to resist her or to aid her. He could only watch fascinated, fascinated as a bird is fascinated by the mad dance of a snake.

The music came faster and faster until the speed of her movements became unbelievable. She raised him to his feet, pressing her body to his and kissing him on the face and lips. Her tongue darted into his mouth and set him on fire while her slender hands slipped under his shirt and her nails raked his flesh. He felt her soft firm breasts pressing against his bare chest and her hips grinding into his.

Then she was pulling at his clothes, hurrying, and he was helping her, finally able to move once again. Her mouth found his again and she kissed him, rubbing against him all the while, making sharp little cries from deep in the back of her throat. With an agonized groan she fell back to the floor and pulled him down on top of her.

The record of the Spanish dance played over and over and over …

Much later she said: “Come upstairs with me.”

“What's upstairs?”

“My bed.”

“But—”

“There's more room in a bed. And it's more comfortable.”

“Look,” she said when he didn't answer, “Mrs. Macon isn't home and she's not coming home, not tonight. And Mr. Macon won't be home until tomorrow either.”

“Then why did you tell me to come in?”

She giggled. “Why do you think, silly? You're not sorry, are you?”

“Of course not.”

“Then come on upstairs.” On the stairway she said: “You're in love with her.”

“How did you know?”

She shrugged. “I always know,” she said. “I can tell. But it doesn't really matter, you know. She can have her love—all she wants of it. I like what I have.”

Her bedroom was on the third floor. “My name's Lizzie,” she announced at the doorway. “What's yours?”

“Danny,” he said. “Danny Rand.”

“That's a nice name,” she said. “Let's go to bed, Danny.”

Chapter Seven

CARLA RELAXED AS SHE
drove the MG home. She held the steering wheel in one hand, letting the other arm rest on the back of the seat. The air was cool and fragrant with the smell of morning, and little currents of wind toyed with her hair. She liked the wind in her hair—it made her feel free, and she always enjoyed the feeling.

Freedom was a remarkable state, a state she wanted and at the same time rebelled against. While she had spent all her life escaping such rule as her mother's hairbrush, she still felt the overwhelming need for someone strong. Sometimes she felt free and powerful, but there were other times when her spine turned to jelly and she felt weak as a kitten.

This morning she felt half-free and half-bound. She could still feel Charles holding her and hear him whispering in her ear, and the clean smell of him lingered in her nostrils. She had spent the night—and what a wonderful night!—in bed with another man.

But she was not entirely free. If she were, she wouldn't be racing back home at this hour to meet her husband. If she were free, she wouldn't need Charles as desperately as she did. Her plan of getting a strong hold over him by making him need her physically wasn't working at all. As a matter of complete fact, it was backfiring. She knew that she had no hold whatsoever on Charles, that he could do without her with ease. No matter how desperately she gave herself to him, there were times when she felt like a toy, a plaything he used for his own amusement and nothing more.

To be sure, he treated her like a woman. But each day she sensed something beneath his outward display of affection—a deep reserve that would keep her from ever possessing him fully.

Carla, however, was falling more and more deeply in love. Not love, exactly; she was ceasing to believe in love as such. Rather, the hold she was trying to gain over Charles was one which he was gaining over her. And she didn't like this at all.

She felt as though she was becoming a slave, and that wasn't the role she wanted to play. Oh, she didn't mind being a slave, dependent upon her man—but she wanted a relationship in which her master would be equally dependent upon her. She wanted to possess while she was possessed; she wanted to be needed as well as to need.

As she parked the MG in front of her house, she noticed a car across the street. Somehow it didn't look as though it belonged on Nottingham Terrace. It wasn't a rich man's car. Then, paying no more attention to it, she walked to the door and entered the house.

“Mrs. Macon?”

The sound made her jump. She turned, startled, and walked into the living-room. There was a man seated there, looking directly at her with a strange expression in his eyes. She noticed the plaid shirt and dark gabardine pants almost without seeing them. The strong face with its prominent features seemed vaguely familiar to her, but she hadn't the slightest idea where she had seen the man before. For several seconds he regarded her silently and she was unable to speak.

“What do you want?” she stammered finally. “Who are you?”

“Don't you remember?”

“No,” she said. “No, I don't. But I'd like to know what you think you're doing in my living-room. What do you want?”

“Wait a minute. You remember me, don't you?”

“I may have met you but I'm sure I don't remember when. And I don't have any time to play guessing games. Now who are you?” She could feel her temper rising at the way he sat in the chair watching her, his face almost empty of expression.

“Try again,” he said. “You should remember me.”

“I don't.”

“You should. Or do you let everybody keep the change from a twenty-dollar bill?”