Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (63 page)

     She took the letters and handed him the notebook she always kept at her nightstand; it contained a few notes she had jotted down for
The 99-Point Starlite Weight Loss and Beauty Plan.

     Their fingers touched as he took them; his eyes met hers.

     And then he went back inside, reading the notes: "Point Sixty: Fixin's make you fat. Point Sixty-one: Take a breath between bites. Point Sixty-two: Wait twenty minutes before seconds. Point Sixty-three: Pee before you weigh yourself."

     Ricky looked back at Philippa and wondered, Did she follow these rules herself in order to maintain that fantastic figure? He saw that she was still watching him. God, but he wanted her—the way her satin bathrobe fluttered open at the knee, revealing a smooth, tan calf; the way the collar flowed between her breasts, almost daring him to come and part the material and slip
his hand inside; the disarray of her auburn hair, the early morning sleepiness around her eyes...

     Realizing that he was becoming aroused, he put such thoughts from his mind and got to work.

     As Philippa watched Ricky set up his electronic typewriter on the dining room table, she noticed that he hadn't shaved, so that a light stubble covered his jaw. Although his long hair was combed neatly back into a ponytail, she was aware of a sexy kind of casual messiness about him—the patched jeans, the T-shirt that had seen many summers.

     Could it only be barely a month since she had first felt his lips on hers, those young, strong arms around her? It amazed her to recall how suddenly uninhibited she had been., After months of a rather formal relationship with Ricky, his one impulsive kiss had stripped away her reserve. To think of the way he had made love to her in the summer sunshine that spilled across her living room—his hands, hard and calloused from years of sailing, so gently exploring her body, his tongue caressing her, and finally, the powerful way he had entered her, lifting her hips off the floor with each thrust as she squeezed him deeper into herself. As Philippa watched him now at the typewriter, seeing how the sleeves of his T-shirt hugged thick biceps, a rush of hot desire shot through her. Moments after they had made passionate, impulsive love on her carpet, they had lain in each other's arms, exhausted, dazzled, and she had felt him grow hard inside her again. The second time had been even more stunning than the first.

     Philippa allowed herself to watch him a moment longer—wishing,
wishing
—then she forced herself to draw in a bracing deep breath, filling her lungs with desert clarity, and remind herself of her purpose here. Later, when her work here was done, she would explore her startling new relationship with Ricky, but right now there was too much to be done to waste time indulging herself in fantasies. Ivan Hendricks was due any minute with his report on Beverly Burgess.

     By coincidence, Charmie was also thinking about Ivan. Wearing a Ruth Norman caftan of red, gold, and black paisley-print rayon, and matching red, gold, and black bracelets, Charmie was trying to brush out her hair, which kept collecting, because of the dry air, in a blond cloud around her
shoulders, flying up and crackling with each brush stroke. She wanted to look good for Ivan. And he was going to be here any minute!

     The thought of it had robbed her of sleep; Ivan had visited her in erotic dreams, waking her in a fever. She had thought she was over him; it had been such a long time since she had last seen him. The man she had been dating for the past year, a wealthy Pacific Palisades stockbroker, was so attractive and so exciting—their trip last summer to southern Spain had been Sam's idea—that she had given little thought to Ivan Hendricks.

     And then, to see him in Perth! When Ivan had walked into Philippa's living room just four days ago, Charmie had thought her heart would stop. He shook her hand and she felt something zing through her, and a memory had come back in such living detail that it had taken her breath away—the memory of one incredible morning, when she had been baking butterscotch brownies and had received the surprise of her life.

     Charmie had just put a batch of brownies in the oven and was licking the batter off the spatula when she had heard a car in the drive.

     Going to the kitchen window and looking out, she had been astonished to see Ivan getting out of his car, carrying a large, flat parcel. He had never been to her house before; she hadn't thought he even knew where she lived. He walked up the drive, looking right and left, and placed the package on her doorstep; he had been about to walk away when Charmie had opened the door, startling him.

     "Miss Charmer!" he said. "I didn't think you were home! I called and got your answering machine. The recording said you were out."

     "I always turn the machine on when I'm baking," she said with a smile, holding up her flour-dusted hands, flustered by his unexpected visit. "Saves getting batter on the phone," she said, laughing. "The benefits of modern technology. Please," she said, "come in."

     He hesitated. "I'm interrupting you," he said.

     "Please. Come in."

     He brought the package inside. "This is for you," he said self-consciously.

     As Charmie broke the string and tore away the brown wrapper, careful not to get flour on whatever was inside, she was aware of Ivan standing there, watching her. It was a hot summer day, and he was wearing a Hawaiian shirt
tucked inside white slacks. The top buttons of the shirt were open, and she had a glimpse of dark chest hairs.

     When the wrapping fell away, Charmie gasped. She held up the framed lithograph and looked at Ivan. "How did you know?" she said.

     He blushed to the roots of his military crew cut. "I heard you telling Miss Roberts that you liked this artist, that you were collecting him because his style goes with your new house. You mentioned this particular print. So, when I saw it, I decided to get it for you."

     "I don't know what to say. It's...it's beautiful! Thank you," she said softly.

     They stared at each other.

     "Well, I'd better be going."

     "Please, stay and have some coffee," Charmie said, hurrying away into the kitchen so that he had no chance to refuse. "The brownies went into the oven a little while ago," she called over her shoulder. "They should be ready in about ten minutes."

     "So," Ivan asked, coming into the kitchen, "how is your son?" looking around, as if to say,
Where
is your son?

     Charmie turned and wanted to say, What about you, Ivan? Do
you
have sons—or a wife? Instead, she said, "Nathan is visiting his father for the summer. Ron might have been a lousy husband to me, but he's a good father to our son. After the divorce, Ron quit his job and went up to Oregon, where he opened a bait stand on the Rogue River. Every summer, he and Nathan spend a few weeks together, fishing. It's good for them both."

     Ivan nodded, as if he knew all about that. But he didn't say anything more—didn't let on if he knew about sons and ex-wives.

     "The brownies smell heavenly," he said after a moment as he accepted a cup of coffee and stirred cream into it. Even though she had invited him to sit, he remained standing.

     "Yes!" she said, opening the oven to check on the brownies. "Hardly allowed on the Starlite program! I never could stick to a diet. Doomed to be fat forever, I guess."

     She felt him come close to her. "Please don't say that. You're a beautiful woman. You're perfect just the way you are."

     "Well!" she said, nervously wiping her hands on the apron she wore over her caftan. It was one of Hannah's Moroccan imports—made of a loose-weave cotton dyed beige and wine red. Instead of buttons up the front, there were wooden pegs and loops. "I'm afraid you've really taken me by surprise. You're the very last person I ever thought I'd find in my kitchen!"

     He was standing close enough for her to detect a cologne that mingled seductively with the aromas of butterscotch and chocolate. The kitchen had suddenly become very warm.

     "I'm glad you were home," he said quietly. "I was just going to leave the painting and go." He paused, and the way he looked at her, his eyes traveling over her caftan, it almost felt as if his hands were doing the exploration. "I guess you and I have never been alone before."

     That hasn't been my doing, she thought. "You're always so businesslike," she said, leaning against the kitchen table because her legs were starting to feel funny. "You show up promptly on time, deliver your report to Philippa, and then disappear." She smiled. "Like the Lone Ranger."

     He stepped closer. She saw confusion in his eyes, as though he were struggling with a decision. "The brownies smell wonderful."

     "They're my own recipe," she said, barely able to find her voice. "I add butterscotch..."

     "May I taste the batter?"

     She looked at him. "Yes," she said, "of course—" But as she started to reach for the mixing bowl, Ivan suddenly took her by the shoulders and licked the corner of her mouth.

     Charmie froze. There had been a smear of batter there; she hadn't known it.

     It was most exciting thing a man had ever done to her.

     And then he was kissing her on the mouth.

     Her arms went up around his neck; he pulled her hard against him. "My God," he said, trying to kiss her everywhere at once, driving his hands into her hair. "I've wanted you for so long."

     "Oh, Ivan," she breathed. He felt so good, so right. His mouth was perfect, he kissed hungrily and sensually, just the way she had imagined he would. She ran her hands over his body, feasting on muscles she had for so long wanted to touch.

     He explored her breasts, fumbling with the wooden pegs in loops, finally ripping them open and plunging his hand into her bra. Charmie cried out. He stifled her cry with his mouth.

     She hurriedly unbuttoned his shirt and spread it open, pulling it out of his belt. She moved her lips over his chest and down onto his hard, flat stomach.

     When he reached back under her dress and unhooked her bra, she moaned, reached down for him, and gasped. She couldn't get her hand all the way around, he was so large.

     Ivan lifted her breasts out of their lace cups and pressed them to his bare chest. There was an open jar of butterscotch topping on the table. Dipping his fingers in, he smeared some onto her nipple and licked it off.

     They stumbled against the table, scattering crockery, their passion mounting, their movements growing frantic as they kissed and groped, trying to discover each other all at once. And they were so self-involved that, as Ivan hurriedly pulled her caftan up over her thighs and she frantically worked at his belt, they weren't aware that the phone was ringing.

     But when a voice suddenly came loudly from the answering machine—"Hi, Charmie! It's Sam. I just wanted to say, you were
fantastic
last night!" She said, "Oh my God!" pulled away from Ivan, and dashed into the hall.

     Before Charmie could hit the
mute
button, Sam managed to say, "How about you and I fly to Frisco next weekend? We'll get a room at the St. Francis, and we'll never leave it. We'll just spend the whole weekend—"

     She came back into the kitchen and looked at Ivan, who was buttoning his shirt and tucking it in.

     "The drawbacks to modern technology," she said, modestly closing her caftan over her breasts. "Oh, Ivan...I'm so sorry."

     He looked as if he had just received the worst news of his life. Then he came up and took her face in his hands. "This wasn't why I came here," he said softly. "I truly thought you weren't home. This can't be for us. I can't tell you why, and I won't come here again. But believe me when I tell you that you are a beautiful woman and that I've wanted you since the first time we met. You are a
real
woman, Charmie, who embraces life. I've never liked thin women; they always seem so breakable, making me hold back. I don't like to feel ribs or hipbones or collarbones when I'm making love. When I
hold a woman, I don't want to hold a skeleton, I want to feel flesh, substance. I want
you.
" He smiled and touched her hair. "And I promise you, I will always remember this," and he kissed the corner of her mouth where the batter had been.

     Charmie had just finishing brushing her hair when Ivan arrived at their suite.

     "Make yourself comfortable," Philippa said. "Would you like a cup of coffee? You take it with cream, right?"

     "Thank you." He looked at Charmie. "Hello," he said quietly.

     He, too, was thinking of that morning in her kitchen; he had thought of little else since seeing her again in Perth.

     "I'm sorry, Miss Roberts," he said when Philippa handed him a cup of coffee. "I wasn't able to get any new information on Beverly Burgess. No one knows a thing about her, and when I tried to get to see her, that watchdog of hers, Simon Jung, ran interference. Beverly Burgess is a more closely kept secret than Zsa Zsa's age."

     "Did you go up to Star's again?"

     "I had dinner there last night. Very elegant, but it's a good thing I have an expense account. Darned near froze my earlobes off, too. I did some casual asking around but didn't get anything much. And even though I hung around until the last tram down the mountain, Miss Burgess never appeared."

     Philippa thought a moment, then said, "I had hoped to get a look at her before approaching her about the ad. If she isn't my sister, I think I would be able to sense it. I hate to just call and say, 'Hi, I'm Christine Singleton. Your ad says you're looking for me.' At least, not until I know who she is and why she's interested in me."

     "Well," Ivan said, "there's going to be a big Christmas ball there tomorrow night. I figure this Burgess woman is bound to show up at it, since she's the hostess. Maybe you'll get a chance to look her over then."

     Philippa went to the sliding-glass door and looked out at the day that was brightening; there were even a few breakfasters around the pool. "Ivan," she said, "where exactly is Star's?"