Stars (The Butterfly Trilogy) (70 page)

     Glancing at the little traveling clock she had set out on the desk, she was startled to see how late it was. Paul had said he would arrive at her hotel at
eight, which was only an hour from now. Leaving the letter for later, she went into the bedroom to get ready. They were going to have dinner at the Café au Lait, just a block from the hotel, where Philippa had made reservations.

     There was no question, of course, of dining in her suite. The few times Paul had visited Philippa when she was staying at a hotel, such as the time she was in D.C. for a health and fitness conference, and the year before, when she was in San Francisco for a convention of businesswomen, he never came up to her room; they always met in the lobby, went out from there, and Paul later said good-night at the elevator. While they dined, they kept the mood light, friendly, on the surface. If the conversation threatened to turn dangerous, or if a silence stretched too long, they hurried in to amend it. Ten years ago, when they had stood in the hallway at her home and Paul had almost kissed her, he had made a promise. And he had kept it. They had not been alone since that night; they protected themselves with crowded restaurants, chauffeured limousines, brightly lit places; not a word about secret feelings and desires was ever uttered.

     The phone rang with the curious, insistent double ring that British telephones have, and Philippa rushed to answer it. Don't let it be Paul, she thought, canceling at the last minute.

     It was Paul, but he wasn't canceling. "I'm here, in the lobby. May I come up?"

     Philippa was startled. He was an hour early. And he had never come up to her room before.

     Because she hesitated, he said quickly, "It's important, Philippa. I promise I will be the soul of propriety. Five minutes, that's all I ask. I have something to tell you that I can't risk having overheard. And then we'll go on to dinner. Okay?"

     "Of course you can come up, Paul," she said.

     She hurried into the bedroom, her heart pounding. It was about the presidential campaign; she had known it all along. News of this magnitude could not very well be announced in public. Not yet.

     When she heard the knock at the door, she pressed her hand to her chest to calm her racing heart, took a deep breath, and went to answer it.

     "Paul, what a pleasant—"

     He swept her into his arms and kissed her hard. "I love you, Philippa," he said, pulling her so tightly to him that she gasped. "My God, I love you so much."

     Fifteen years of cautious restraint and repressed sexual hunger exploded in that one moment as they sank to the floor, mouths working against each other, tongues hot and probing. Philippa was unaware of the coarse carpet beneath her as she drew Paul down onto her. His kisses seemed to burn; his mouth never left hers as it moved this way and that, his hands entwined in her hair, imprisoning her head as his body pinned her down. Clothes only partially came off, rapidly, with buttons flying, a rushed zipper, panties nearly ripped away. And then he was inside her; she clamped her legs around his buttocks to bring him in closer, deeper. She ran her hands up under his shirt and dug her fingers into tight muscles.

     Suddenly, in mid-thrust, he stopped and looked at her; he ran his fingers through her hair, spreading it out in an auburn fan around her head. Kissing her again, more tenderly, he sought out her breasts in a more gentle, mindful exploration. "My God," he whispered. "You're beautiful."

     He sat back on his heels and drew her up with him. They kissed for a long moment, then he moved to the side and, scooping her up into his arms, carried her into the bedroom. He laid her down, parting her legs and kneeling between them. Finally removing his shirt and the tie that hung askew on his chest, he stretched out on top of her again, but languidly now, moving his body over hers, aligning them together as he kissed her mouth, her neck, her breasts.

     A gust of wind brought rain against the windows. She felt Paul enter her again, but slowly this time, so that she felt every inch of him. When he was deep inside he began a gentle rhythm, and when they were finally moving together, he pressed her hands over her head and into the pillow, looking deeply into her eyes...

     They were lying naked in bed, hot and damp among the twisted sheets, becoming intimate with the bodies they had lusted for for so long. Finally,
Philippa laughed and sat up. "I'm hungry!" She reached for the phone, dialed room service, and when she ordered a cheese and fruit platter, water biscuits, and Perrier, Paul grabbed the phone from her and said into it, "Cancel that. We want two T-bone steaks, extra thick, rare. Fried eggs, runny, and french fries. And a bottle of Glenlivet."

     He gave her a sneaky smile. "We'll burn off the calories. So, is this a successful trip?"

     "So far. I leave for Paris in a few days, and then Munich. Starlite is popular with European women, except that they aren't so much interested in the diet as the beauty treatments—you know, the steam baths, facials, massages."

     Philippa realized she was doing all the talking. She wasn't sure about what had just happened between them. There had been no questions, no preamble, no "May I?". He had asserted himself and she had acquiesced. Just as she had always known she would if he should ever touch her. But she wanted to know why now? Why tonight?

     "There are some troubles back home, however," she said. "Hannah wants to introduce a new line called Perfect Size International, and she has hired a special buyer named Ingrid Lind. Hannah is wild about Ingrid, claiming she comes with excellent foreign contacts and an eye for exotic fashions and accessories. But the problem is, Alan has taken an intense dislike to Ingrid. It's the first time I've ever seen Hannah and Alan disagree on anything." Philippa didn't mention the other worry that was on her mind. Hannah had secretly started seeing a cardiac specialist and was taking pills. Philippa had found out by accident one day, when she had overheard Hannah on the phone with the doctor.

     "Ah!" Paul said when he heard a discreet knock on the outer door. "Dinner has arrived."

     Throwing on the terry bathrobe that had been placed in the bathroom for the guest's convenience while staying at the hotel, he went into the living room and opened the door to a smiling waiter pushing a service cart.

     After the table was set up and the waiter left, they sat down to eat. "Wait," Paul said. He leaned across the table and opened Philippa's bath-robe, baring her breasts. "That's better." He reached for a roll and started to butter it.

     Philippa took a knife and fork to her steak, which was still sizzling and running with juices. She watched Paul out of the corner of her eye, the way his robe gaped whenever he reached for something, exposing hard pectorals and a rippling stomach.

     He gave her a grand smile as he raised his glass. "Steak and scotch! The perfect American meal!" But as he started to take a sip, some of the Glenlivet spilled from the glass and splashed into his lap. "Wow! That's cold!" he said.

     As he reached for his napkin, Philippa said, "Let me," rising from the table, letting her robe fall all the way open.

     She knelt beside him. He moaned and drove his fingers into her hair.

     The steaks and fries went untouched.

     Afterward, as they lay entwined on the sofa, his hand casually cupping her naked breast, Paul said, "Philippa, I have something to tell you."

     Philippa murmured a sleepy, "Yes?" Her head was nestled in his shoulder as she gently stroked his hard belly. They had made love for such a long time that she was exhausted and feeling very fine.

     "Francine is leaving me."

     Suddenly, Philippa's hand lay still on his abdomen. When she didn't speak, he went on. "Don't you want to know why?"

     "Oh, Paul," she said, "of course. Goodness." She sat up.

     "I've decided not to make a bid for the presidency. Politics was never me, it was really Francine. The ambition was hers, and for a long time I let her be ambitious for us both. But after our son died...our relationship died. She never said it, but I think she secretly blamed me for his death. He was on drugs, seeing a therapist. I wasn't around enough. I don't know. But she and I grew apart. In public we looked like a perfect couple, but in private we had become strangers. She became hard and focused on only one ambition—to see her husband in the White House. So when I said I didn't want to run for the presidential office, she served the papers."

     "Oh, Paul!"

     "Well, the divorce is overdue, really, and there are other candidates who will win the public's heart. It's being said that the Reverend Danny Mackay is going to run. He's the TV preacher, adored by millions, and I know the
party will get behind him. But what about you, Philippa? What about us? I'm going to be free now."

     Suddenly, she didn't know what to say. For fifteen years she had ached for him, dreamed about him, imagined what he would be like in bed. But she had never considered the possibility that her dreams might become reality. "What will you do?" she asked, prolonging her own answer. "Run the winery?"

     "My brother can run the winery. I want to be a sailor. Philippa," he said, becoming excited, "I've had my eye on a villa in Western Australia. Come and share it with me. Be my wife and spend the rest of your life with me."

     All of a sudden, Philippa realized she had been afraid of this. From the moment he walked in and took her into his arms, a small alarm had been sounding at the back of her head that there was more happening here on this rainy night than a sexual encounter that had been destined to take place. She got up from the sofa and put on her robe.

     "It's not so easy for me, Paul," she said, turning away from him, suddenly self-conscious about her nakedness. "There's Esther to consider. I can't just pull her out of school, away from everyone she knows, all her friends. And I can't leave Starlite."

     "Esther's only fifteen. Teenagers are adaptable. And you can still run Starlite from Australia. Anyway," he said, reaching for her, "I'm determined to change your mind."

     But she drew away. "It's not that simple, Paul."

     "It is if you love me. Do you?"

     She looked at him, this wonderful man with the beautiful body who had made such exquisite love to her. "Of course I love you, Paul."

     "And I love you. That's all there is to it."

     He drew her into his arms again, and she knew he was right: they were in love, that was all there was to it.

     "Yes, I'll marry you," she said, kissing him. "But give me a little time, there are things to work out."

     "Of course, darling. I'll be flying down to Australia in a few days. I'll wait there for you. In the meantime, however..." He scooped her up and carried her back into the bedroom.

     The Paris sky was cold and gray; it hung low over the spires of Notre Dame cathedral and the Seine as if prayers were the only thing keeping it from collapsing entirely onto the city. But Philippa was warm behind the glass wall of the sidewalk café, where she was enjoying a leisurely hour over croissants and
café américain.
She had made a date to meet Ivan Hendricks here, and as she waited for him, she went through her mail.

     She read first the letters from Esther ("Mike is ancient history, Mom. That was before I met Jason!") and Charmie ("Nathan's company is transferring him to Ohio"). She saved Paul's letter for last. It was full of vivid descriptions of the Greek-style villa he had bought on the Swan River, he had sent along a photograph of himself at the helm of a seventeen-meter racing yacht, sun and wind in his face, the spark of victory in his eyes.

     Philippa looked up to see a familiar figure coming across the cob-blestoned street, dodging Citroëns whose drivers honked impatiently. In eighteen years, Ivan Hendricks had hardly changed. Philippa could understand Charmie's attraction to him. He was a tempting physical specimen—she could picture him on the bridge of an aircraft carrier, binoculars hanging from his neck. Ivan had an easygoing personality and a subtle sense of humor, and he was very thorough in his investigative work. Like Charmie, Philippa often wondered about Ivan's private life.

     "Bonjour, Madame Roberts!" he boomed in an atrocious accent as he pulled out a wiry little chair that actually squeaked when he sat on it.

     "Hello, Ivan," she said, pleased to see him, but sad also. This was going to be his last report to her. The family reunion she had imagined taking place in Albuquerque, ten years ago, never materialized. The Dwyers, Philippa's real parents, seemed to have moved like gypsies, making their trail hard to follow. Four years ago, Ivan learned that Mrs. Dwyer had disappeared after her husband was killed, apparently by her, according to the authorities. There was a child who ran away. She had been around fourteen years old.

     Now Ivan said, "I finally found evidence of a girl named Rachel Dwyer working at an establishment in San Antonio, Texas, in the early fifties."

     "An establishment?"

     He cleared his throat. "A, um, bordello, Miss Roberts. A whorehouse. But she disappeared after that and I haven't been able to pick up her trail.
She's vanished. I'm sorry, Miss Roberts, but I don't think we're ever going to find her."