Just Friends (35 page)

Screech screech,
went the owl.
Ting ting,
went the clock.
Snore snore,
went Jack.
Scurry scurry,
went something she didn’t even want to think about.

Freya threw off the eiderdown and stood up. She’d had enough. If this went on, she’d be haggard and gray by tomorrow. It was bad enough being Tash’s older sister; she didn’t want to be mistaken for her mother. She stomped over to the bed and scowled down at Jack. He was lying on his back now, right in the middle of the bed, with the stupid, noble expression of a felled ox.

“Jack,” she whispered experimentally.

Not a flicker.

Freya hesitated. She was so tired—and cold. She reminded herself that total strangers huddled together for warmth when lost on a snowy alp. Cowboys even slept with their
horses
. What would it matter if she if she borrowed a teeny corner of the bed, just for a few hours? Jack would never even know, so long as she woke early and returned to the chaise longue. It was a purely practical solution. She placed the heel of her hand against Jack’s pajama’d shoulder, and pushed. He rolled obediently away, leaving a nice, empty space for her. Freya climbed in.

Ohhh . . . heaven!
Freya sank her head back onto the pillow and stretched her legs luxuriously. The sheets were deliciously warm from Jack’s body. She almost groaned aloud with pleasure and relief. The knots in her muscles were already beginning to loosen when Jack made a sudden harrumphing noise, turned over and flung a heavy arm across her waist. Freya frowned. This, presumably, was his automatic reaction to the presence of a female body in his bed, since he was obviously asleep. She picked off his arm and deposited it on top of the covers. After a few seconds, he gave a sleepy mutter and put it back. She picked it off again. He put it back again, and this time gathered her to him with a contented little moan. Freya gave up. She was comfortable and sleepy and warm. Really, she felt quite . . . marvelous. Her eyes closed. Her mind began to drift.

She remembered that it had been autumn. The streets were spangled with leaves as yellow as Jack’s hair when he yelled up to her window the news that he had sold his first story. She had bounded down the stairs—clearing the last steps of each landing at a flying leap, swinging herself around the newel posts—to tell him that she, too, had wonderful news. She had at last wangled her green card, the precious document that allowed her to do a proper job in America, with a proper salary, instead of slave labor for slave wages. On the strength of their old friendship, new wealth, and imminent fame, they’d decided on a joint celebration dinner at a ritzy restaurant. Jack had dug out a tuxedo, she’d tarted herself up in a dress and high heels, and they’d taken a cab, like a couple of swells, all the way to the smart uptown address. They’d ordered lavishly, clinking glasses in regular self-congratulatory toasts and tasting each other’s food. Jack smoked a cigar, and she did, too, just to keep up. They’d talked and argued and laughed until it was time to pay the outrageous bill and tipsily return home. Jack had accompanied her to her door, they’d said good night—and then he had spoiled it all by suddenly lunging at her and declaring that he wanted to go to bed with her. Just like that! There had been no romantic preamble, no attempt at courtship, just the sort of crude pass immature men make when they’re drunk. He felt randy, Freya was to hand—hey, why not? She’d said no, of course. Who did he think he was? Just because he was attractive didn’t mean that every female in New York had to fall like ninepins before his charm. Freya had no desire to be just another notch on his bedpost. Besides, he was absurdly young. Jack had been surprised at her rejection, then angry. The episode had never been mentioned since, though the memory of it was like a tiny thorn in their friendship. He’d probably forgotten about it. Certainly, he’d never repeated his advance, something she was very, very happy about. Probably he thought of her as a sister . . . an older sister.

Freya gave a tiny, silent giggle. Here she was, after all these years, in bed with Jack Madison. It wasn’t so bad. Of course, he was asleep. Freya settled herself more deeply in the bed, curving her back into Jack’s chest. It was an instinct thing, she told herself, a totally natural animal response. She gave a languid yawn. There was something she must remember: oh, yes, to wake up early. Absolutely. No problem.

She could hear Jack’s even breathing, quiet now. His head lay barely a foot away from hers. What was going on in there, she wondered? What dreams of women, fame, dark wanderings, pursuit? She yawned again. Her eyes closed. She was asleep.

CHAPTER 23

Jack woke with a tremendous sense of well-being. Every muscle was relaxed, each limb exquisitely heavy; his very bones felt refreshed. For a while he lay utterly still in his warm cocoon, letting consciousness seep back, incapable of even the minor muscular effort of raising his eyelids.

Gradually he registered clues to his whereabouts: no traffic noises, no sirens, no subterranean rumblings or mechanical roars, just the pleasantly inane twitter of birds and the soothing drone of a distant lawn mower. He could smell sweet, fresh grass and frying bacon. A golden light danced at the rims of his closed eyes, promising a sunny morning. He reached down and idly scratched his balls, then stretched his mouth wide in a long, ratcheting yawn. Oh to be in England, now that June is here. There was a complacent smile on his lips as he opened his eyes, rolled his head across the pillow to look woozily about him, and almost died of shock. Someone was in his bed!—a female someone, with short, tousled hair of a pale gold color that was intensely familiar.

Jack leaped out of bed and stood on the frayed bedside rug, frantically smoothing his hair. What—? How—? When—? He scanned the room for clues. The chaise longue was bare. On the floor next to it, the comforter in which Freya had wrapped herself last night lay in a discarded heap. Both their clothes were neatly laid on separate chairs. He couldn’t see any signs of . . . inappropriate behavior. Struck by a sudden thought, Jack gazed wildly down at his own body: he was still wearing his pajamas—both halves. He tiptoed to the other side of the bed, wincing at every creak from the ancient floorboards, and peeked at Freya’s face. She was sound asleep. The sheet covered her almost to the chin; he couldn’t see what she was wearing. Surely he would remember if—? He should never have drunk all that port.

How quietly she slept. The twin crescents of her eyelashes were motionless, her lips fractionally parted to allow a gentle ebb and flow of breath. She lay on her side, one cheek nudging her pillow, the other faintly flushed and sheened with sleep. Jack couldn’t help smiling a little to see her so silent and unguarded. As if conscious of his scrutiny, she took a sudden deep breath. Jack jerked away, but all she did was wriggle into a new position. Still, she could wake up at any moment, and there he’d be, caught like a rabbit in that fierce blue gaze. Jack decided to escape to the bathroom and consider his position.

While hot water filled the bathtub at a grudging, gurgling trickle, he took off his pajama jacket and lathered his face with his shaving brush. Worried eyes stared back at him from the mirror. This was not the first time he’d woken to find a woman unexpectedly in his bed. It was always embarrassing not to be able to remember exactly how she’d got there—or even who she was—though to be fair to himself, such a thing hadn’t happened in a long while. But Freya! This was worse than embarrassing; it was unthinkable.

Jack squirmed at the unwelcome memory of a blunder he had made, years ago, when the two of them had gone out to celebrate the sale of his first story. Freya had been the first person he told; he so wanted to impress her. He’d never met anyone like Freya before, with her tart English tongue and her air of sophistication. (“When I was in Venice . . .” she’d say—or Toledo or Oslo or Salzburg.) Back then, he’d been an eager twenty-three or -four, thrilled to be out on a date with her. They’d talked and laughed, and he’d drunk perhaps one Armagnac too many (Armagnac!—he’d never even heard of the stuff before Freya suggested it.) Afterwards, he’d escorted her home to the scruffy rooming house a couple of blocks from his own, and said good night: a kiss on her perfumed cheek, a wave of the hand, the click of her door. He’d walked down two flights of stairs, then turned right around, walked back up, banged on her door and, as soon as she opened it, blurted out, “I want to go to bed with you. Let me in.”

Ouch!
He had nicked the underside of his chin. Jack ran the cold tap and dabbed at the tiny cut. The water in his bath had now reached the eight-inch mark. He stepped out of his pajama bottoms, climbed in, and slid down against the curiously grainy surface.
I want to go to bed with you.
Jack closed his eyes. How crude, how abrupt, how record-breakingly un-suave. After a moment of cool silence, she had smiled her mocking smile and arched her fabulous eyebrows at him: “Don’t be ridiculous, Jack. I’m far too old for you.”

The memory made him sit up in a swirl of water and reach for the soap, just for something to do. He examined the brown resinous lump with suspicion, then rubbed it vigorously across his skin. An ice maiden, that’s what she was—or so he had told himself as he’d stomped furiously home, though her serial love affairs suggested that she was nothing of the kind; it was just him she didn’t fancy. Fortunately, she had never mentioned the incident again; he hoped she had forgotten. But it burned in his own memory. He had told himself that he would never, ever, make a mistake like that again.

So what about last night? Could he—? Did she—? Jack caught sight of a fat black spider lurking malevolently in a high corner, and decided he had better go and find out. He released the brass plug, looped its chain around one of the taps, and climbed out of the bath onto a kind of World War I duckboard that appeared to serve as a bath mat. The awful truth was, he couldn’t remember a thing about last night. He’d have to take his cue from Freya.

He dried himself off, checked that his cut had stopped bleeding, then wrapped the meager towel around his waist, tossed his pajamas over one bare shoulder, and unlocked the door. Let’s see: down those funny back stairs, then right—or was it left? He was thoroughly lost when a cheeky voice behind him said, “Morning, Tarzan. Sleep well?”

Jack turned around to see Tash, semiwrapped in some silky pink thing, giving him an appraising stare.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks.”

Her pussycat smile suggested that
she
knew what he’d been up to all night, even if he didn’t. He put a hand to his towel, to check that it was secure.

“Your bedroom’s that way.” She pointed. “This is the family wing, actually.” She took a step backwards and waggled her fingers at him. “See you later, alligator.”

Jack watched her retreating back view. Fleetingly, he wondered why Freya wasn’t in the “family wing,” actually. Then he dismissed the thought and turned in the direction Tash had indicated. He puffed out his chest a little as he walked. Tarzan, eh?

When he found the door to his bedroom—their bedroom—he stood outside, listening. All was quiet. Perhaps Freya was still asleep, or already eating breakfast downstairs. This latter thought was heartening: it would be so much easier if their first encounter was in public. He placed his hand on the doorknob and turned it stealthily, until the door gave under his cautious pressure. He took a step forward and peered into the room.

Freya was lying against a high, white bank of pillows, wide awake and looking straight at him. There was a dreamy, contented smile on her face.

“Hi,” he offered tentatively.

“And hello to you, too.” Her husky voice and the way she ran her eyes over his bare torso seemed to append the words,
big boy.

Playing for time, Jack closed the door behind him and sauntered into neutral territory at the center of the room, to survey her from a safe distance. She did look rather sexy, in a tousled, impish way, but the sheet was drawn right up to her neck. It was hard to tell if she had any clothes on.

“Did you, uh, sleep well?” he asked.

“Mmmm. Wonderful . . .” Her eyelids drooped rapturously, leaving slits of sparkling blue. “Of course, I wasn’t exactly
asleep
the whole time.”

Jack nodded sagely, wondering what the hell that meant. He felt stupid in his towel, yet he could hardly get dressed with her watching. To compensate, he found himself behaving like John Wayne. He hitched his pajamas manfully over one shoulder, sucked in his gut and jerked a thumb toward the chaise longue. “How was the—?”

“Hideous.” Freya gave a delicate shudder.

Jack nodded again, lower lip jutted. If he’d had a wad of baccy in his mouth, he’d have spat it plumb on the floor.

“No: you were right, Jack. The bed was a
much
better idea.”

Jack swallowed. His hands hung down, wide as a gunslinger’s ready to draw.

She wriggled down in the bed and heaved a voluptuous sigh. “Oh, Jack, wasn’t last night unforgettable?”

Jack’s eyes bulged. “You bet!” he agreed heartily.

As the silence lengthened, he became painfully aware that this was an inadequate response. Freya’s smile faltered.