Chances & Choices (2 page)

Most weeks afterwards
he just took a cold shower determined to stick to his decision not to cross the line of friendship into the minefield of the love and depth of emotion that he knew could be so dangerous. He couldn’t risk that – he couldn’t go there again.

Regardless,
some nights he allowed himself the luxury of imagining her in his bed; her naked softness pliant and arching in his arms. He would slowly undress her, leaving her hair to the last, taking the pins out one by one. He could almost feel its silkiness falling around them both, see the golden tresses spilling across his pillow, hear her voice heavy with desire as his name flowed tremulously from her lips swollen and throbbing with his kisses.

Lost in his
treacherous thoughts, he found himself back at the window, looking out into the darkness.  Leaning against the window, he propped it up with one shoulder in that pose that is so peculiarly and eternally masculine.

 
The elevator carried her to the sixth floor, and she walked quietly over to the partially opened door of the studio and looked in.  Expecting to find him bent over sketches or intent on fabrics, she planned to sail in and announce herself with a loud flourish.  She had been anticipating his surprise and pleasure all the way from New York, but now, catching sight of him against the darkness of the window, something made her hesitate. 

At first she was unsure of the reason and then it struck her.  He was standing in exactly the same manner as when she first saw him.  The circumstances had been different; another one of those gatherings her father- a widower since Claire was very young- delighted in having her attend with him once she was old enough.  As a renowned freelance journalist and critic, Liam Fitzpatrick was welcomed and expected at many a fine event and for the past four years Claire had been at his side.  Despite that she never became blasé – thrilled by the glamour of every glittering gala.  This was a regal affair in a massive ballroom with chandeliers and a sweeping staircase.  Studded with various celebrities and flashbulbs popping it was hard to focus on any one thing or any one person. Until she saw him.

She noticed him at once as they entered the ballroom; he stood apart from the rest of the crowd against the window with the late evening sun streaming through the glass behind him.  She found it difficult to take her eyes from him, drawn by the drama of his detachment.  To her, a romantic eighteen-year-old, he seemed like a young Greek god dramatically aloof from the mortals who inhabited the rest of the room.  Then, an older, elegant, dark-haired woman, moved towards him and he reached for her, desperately, drawing her close with such poignant tenderness that Claire was forced to abandon her romantic fabrications and become intensely aware of his humanity. 

Later, during a visit to the ladies room, she overheard the reason behind the touching scene she witnessed. 

"Did you see them by the window? It's so sad, they're so ha
p
py together."

Claire r
e
cognized the voice as belonging to the wife of one of her fa
t
her's as
s
ociates

‘Poor Su
s
a
n
na.’

The second voice was also familiar as that of Andrea Saunders, a woman
in
her early forties, who Claire knew was very popula
r
, although she fou
n
d it di
f
ficult to understand why, becaus
e
she fo
u
nd the woman's frankness disturbing, and in some cases, irritating.

"Yes, it is sad, but it's Julian I pity the most."

There was a soft surprise in the other woman’s voice. "Andrea, its Susa
n
na who
’s
dying."

"
Th
a
t
'
s
j
ust it. She'll die and he'll be left to mourn.”

"
I don
'
t understand, why this sudden concern for Julian? You
'
ve always disapproved of him."

"
No, that
'
s not true. I disapproved of Susanna marrying him; a boy in his twenties and her in her forties." Despite her earlier words, a rich fondness was evident in her tone as she continued. "And unlike some others, I never thought he was motivated by her fame or her money.  It was always obvious to me that Julian adored her."

It suddenly dawned on Claire why the dark haired woman had seemed familiar.  She was Susanna Ainsley, A-list popular and critically acclaimed film star and one of the power women of Hollywood.  Claire was too young to be fully
commensurate with her career, but she knew her father held her in high regard.

There was a pause before Claire heard Andrea’s voice again. "He
'
s young and he cares for her so much, I
'
m not sure he
'
ll be able to handle her death." There was another pause and Claire could detect a deep sadness softening Andrea’s voice. “Losing her will be hard for all of us close to her, but at least it’s not a shock – we knew this could happen.”

A silent sorrow seemed to hang in the air and then Claire heard Andrea’s hushed tones. “She never told him, you know. He had no idea up until now.  No
w
onder he
'
s so stunned."

”I suppose she should have told him but I can understand why she didn’t.  She
’s
been in remission for years. You probably don’t agree, but I…I think she was quite right. This way they
'
ve had four years of happiness together, with no shadows hanging over them. What I don
'
t understand is why she insisted they come today. He looks so los
t
."

Claire heard Andrea murmur with an indulgent affection.  “Well, you know Susanna, determined to live life to the fullest. She's still very much alive, and it
'
s not as if they just found out today.  She told me she doesn’t want him grieving before it
s
necessary."

“Doesn’t seem to be working, does it?”

“No, but it might - in time.  And it will help her to stay in the mainstream as long as possible – she has always loved the limelight.”

“I guess...” The conversation faded away in the distance and embarrassed by overhearing an intimate conversation, Claire made sure she remained in the cubicle until they were gone.

Throughout the rest of the party, she studiously avoided Susanna and Julian.  It was a large gathering, of the type where few people were close, and she was glad her father was not on intimate enough terms with the couple to warrant introducing her.  In her youthfulness, she had no desire to meet head on, so to speak, the issue of intense love in the shadow of death.  She was relieved when her father decided it was time to leave, and if he considered her unusually quiet on the drive home, he failed to mention it.

The summer passed without further contact with the Wests and by the fall she was too involved with her first college year to give thought to the couple.
  By the time Susanna Ainsley West's death was reported in the media, Claire had little time to spare from her own grief.  Ironically, the issue of death, which she attempted to avoid the summer before, touched her intimately at an earlier age than it did Julian West.  After a stroke, Claire's father was laid to rest in the same cemetery where Julian buried his wife barely a month before.

 
Claire stood there and for the first time since that gathering nine years ago, was struck by the classical perfection of his profile.  From this distance and in the semi-darkness the laughter and worry lines she knew were around his eyes and mouth were not visible and his skin appeared as smooth as the marble sculpture he resembled.  His physique was as strong as ever, and he was still lean-hipped, although his chest and shoulders had broadened as he moved into his mid-thirties.

Funny how she could stand here and admire his masculine beauty and yet feel no sexual attraction.
 Especially when her reaction to Richard, who was less handsome, was so violent.  Yet here she was, viewing the most handsome man she knew and the only physical response she could summon was a fond smile as she noticed his dark hair was still refusing to be tamed by the hairstyle she knew he adopted for that very purpose.

She could not see his eyes, but she knew them to be a deep, expressive green.
 When she first knew him, she felt they mirrored his every emotion. Since then, his name as a fashion designer had become well-known.  Claire was familiar with the back-biting and jealousy in the fashion world, and she wondered if, in his success, he had learned to guard his emotions.  She remembered, in the last few months, before she went to New York and during his trips there, sometimes catching a hooded expression.  Sadly, it occurred to her, the only thing his eyes might now truly reveal were their luxuriant colour.

Just then, Julian turned his head.
 Catching sight of her, he pushed away from the window and walked to the middle of the room, flicking the main light switch as he went.  His face held a questioning look, as if unable to place her.  As the light illuminated her, it was immediately swept away by a look of recognition.

"Claire, what are you doing here?"

Claire's heart sank; he didn't seem very pleased to see her, although it was hard to tell from the emotionless mask that had come down almost as soon as he recognised her.

Behind the mask, Julian drank in the sight of her.

She looked taller, but the illusion could probably be attributed to her position on the slightly raised dais at the entrance, which led down into the studio, and to the elegant court shoes she wore on her feet.  His gaze travelled from them, up her shapely, slender legs to the hem of her dress, which draped curvaceous hips, emphasising her slim waist, blossoming, over full, firm breasts, revealing the sensuous curve of her white throat.  The dress could have been made for her, and Julian wondered if she was on his mind when he designed it.

He retained his hold on his expression, but he was not as successful with his inward emotions.
 Her skin was pale, compared to the golden beauties who filled the west coast, and it gave her an ethereal appearance, which was enhanced by her wide, grey eyes.  She had grown more beautiful, he thought, and even more desirable.

Walking up the couple of steps to stand in front of her, he thrust his hands in his pockets to stop them from reaching up to remove the pins from her upswept hair, so it could slip down and lie like strands of gold against the curve of her cheek.
 As he drew closer, the scent she wore drifted towards him.  It was faint and unfamiliar, and he wondered if he were to bend and place his lips to the soft pulse of her throat if he would recognise it.

"Julian?"

The sound of her voice made him collect himself.  What was he doing standing in front of her like a love-struck fool!  He moved aside allowing her access to the steps.

"Come in.
 Would you like a drink?"

He moved past her to a drinks table against the wall in the small seating area apart from the rest of the studio, glad of the actions necessary to prepare the drinks.

"Yes, a gin and tonic would be nice, if you have some."

Claire wandered around the room, watching him as he mixed the drinks, unwittingly repeating the same motions he went through half-an-hour before.
 

Julian's attitude confused her.
 As she stood at the door, he had appraised her in a fashion she was used to from men - she was aware men found her attractive.  But looking into his eyes, she had been unable to detect even a trace of desire.  Why should she?  This was Julian, they were merely friends.  Reaching his drafting table, she saw the sketches he had been working on.

"I'm not disturbing you, am I?
  I know I'm a day early."  She accepted the drink he handed her.  "But I thought you'd be pleased to see me."

During the intervening minutes, Julian had composed himself and he was anxious to establish the familiar rapport that usually marked their meetings.
 He would be seeing her more frequently now and if he wasn't careful, she would begin to suspect.

"Of course, I'm pleased to see you.
 Just surprised, that's all.  Which, I believe, was your intention?"  Teasingly, he ran his thumb up and down her cheek.

Claire moved away.
 It was the kind of gesture he made often in the past and it reassured her of his continued friendship.  But she was vulnerable after the past few months and his sudden tenderness could very well prove her undoing.  Much though she would like to, she had no intention of blurting out her woes, like a transparent schoolgirl, the moment she arrived.  Turning back, she caught him looking at her, intently.

"What's the matter, do I have a spot on my nose?"

"No.  It's just that dress.  It's one of mine, isn't it?"

Leaning back against the worktable, adopting an artificial pose, she said sotto voce.
 "Of course, darling, I never go anywhere unless I'm in a West."