“I’ll be right next door, Nialla.”
I was almost disappointed that he left me so, but a weariness overcame me that I couldn’t fight.
5
By rights I should have had nightmares of fires and things. I didn’t. But suddenly a dream pivoted around someone shaking me, and I did wake, scared and trembling.
“It’s Rafe, Nialla.”
And the touch of hands was familiar. He was dressed, tonight in a gray turtleneck silk jersey, white jacket, and dark pants.
“You need to eat as much as you need to rest. It’s past eight now, so eating is in order.”
I didn’t have to decide what I’d wear; he had it laid out on the end of the bed. I ought to have resented such management, but after months and months of decisions (right, wrong, and painful), I didn’t demur. I only hoped that it didn’t presage the tone of our relationship. I don’t like clinging, dependent females at all.
“Dark green?” was what I said out loud.
“Dark green,” he said with a laugh. “Size eights didn’t go for green this year. Which is just as well. It’s a good color for you… now and when your hair grows back.”
The fact that I’d dyed my hair apparently rankled him. It bothered me, too, but it had seemed a sensible measure. Red hair is so damned conspicuous. No automatic second looks are cast at mouse-brown-haired girls.
“You’ll have a wider selection when we get home. There are some good specialty shops in Locust Valley, and branches of the big New York City stores,” he went on, sitting down to watch me dress, that slightly proprietary grin on his face.
He’d probably watched hundreds of women dressing, so he wasn’t self-conscious. The strange thing was, I wasn’t either. Good thing I didn’t have to fool with stockings, though. Gartering isn’t a graceful operation.
Lipstick, a bottle of Replique cologne, and a silver-backed brush and comb had appeared on the cabinet shelf, along with the prescription bottles. I looked at the pill and wondered if I’d got them too late.
“Thank you, Mr. Clery, for”-something in his face stopped me-”for the cologne. I like it.”
“Suits you,” he said, and tucking my hand under his arm, headed us out the door.
I suppose that the other restaurant wasn’t open on Mondays, but going to the Charcoal Grill was a mistake. I tried not to react when the maitre d’ approached. A fleeting smirk crossed his face as his too-knowing glance swept over the quality of the dress I now wore, the saucy cut of my hair, the ring on my finger. Had it been only last night? Then I hoped that Rafe hadn’t seen that look. But the man’s face was absolutely correct when he smiled warmly at Mr. Clery and ushered us-to make matters worse-to the same table we’d had last night. If only I’d not gone to dinner here last night… What kind of an idiot was I? “Goddammit,” Rafe swore, throwing down the napkin he’d been about to spread. “I should’ve thought twice, Nialla. We don’t have to stay here.”
“It’s all right, Rafe. Even if potatoes at one-twenty-five outrage my Irish sense of fitness… after all, the restaurant’s not to blame for the fire…” Unaccountably I shuddered. His hand covered mine. And he didn’t remove it when the waiter appeared for our order, the same fellow as last night, of course.
To vary at least the diet, Rafe ordered roast beef au jus with Yorkshire pudding, and champagne, with the house pate (which he said was very good) as an appetizer.
He didn’t try to jolly me, just talked about news items he’d heard that afternoon, told me who the flowers were from, and that he’d called to thank Bess Tomlinson and the fair committee.
We were companionably silent when the roast beef arrived, and because it was excellent, we ate in silent appreciation. A noisy party sweeping in from the cocktail lounge made me glance up. I saw the back of his head first, and stared, my fork halfway to my mouth, willing him to turn and be someone else. But the sudden whinny of a laugh only confirmed that there was Louis Marchmount.
“A hasty retreat, Nialla, would be conspicuous,” said Rafe in a low voice, as he kept carving his meat with neat strokes. “For that matter, would he be looking for Irene Donnelly in the Charcoal Grill?”
Of course not, I told myself, releasing my breath. “Show people are clannish,” he said. “He wasn’t in town last night, or someone would have mentioned it.”
Almost incuriously Rafe turned his head toward the loud cluster of people.
“He’s with the Colonel and the Hammond group, and…”
Louis Marchmount swayed to one side just then, revealing the blonde bubble hairdo and classic profile of a handsome older woman. She was laughing too, and the sound, slightly malicious, drifted to us.
“… and Wendy Madison.” Rafe’s voice was cold and hard. His attention was riveted to the party as the maitre d’ waltzed up to them, all bright smiles, bowing, nodding, gesturing them… away from us. Only when they had disappeared beyond the room divider did Rafe turn back to his meal.
Neither of us finished’ the beef, but Rafe, apparently able to forget the unfortunate coincidence, made me join him in a rich pastry (you need the calories, Nialla) and coffee. Made me wait for a doggie bag (Dice would object, I know, to the terminology, but not the beef).
Rafe refused, too, to let me hurry out. At that moment, however, I didn’t want to go to the stables. That would be pushing my luck. Caps Galvano might be about-he was always somewhere in Marchmount’s vicinity. I should have left the area the moment I saw that cap and that fox face. At the latest, when Caps had been identified as the man who blew the horn. He’d obviously remembered the mare and informed Marchmount. So they knew that I was “Nialla Dunn” here, because Caps would have told him. Rafe escorted me back to the motel without comment. “So he’s here. So what?” he demanded when we were back in our room.
I fumbled with the ring.
“What does that gesture signify?” He wouldn’t take the ring I held out.
“I can’t marry you now.”
“Why not?” And Rafe was angry with me. “Because… because…”
“Because you saw Marchmount? I thought I’d exorcised that. If I didn’t…” And he had whirled me around, unzipped the dress, and pulled it over my head before I could try to explain that I was afraid for him, if he married me.
“Rafe, it isn’t…”
He had unhooked my bra and spun me around again, his mouth fastening on one breast, his hand roughly flicking the other nipple.
“Rafe, please. Listen…”
He jammed his mouth over mine then, his lips hard, hurtful. He was pushing me backward, and the bed came up under me, with Rafe’s body pressing me down. Somehow I twisted my mouth free. “Not like this. Please, Rafe…”
He got my head in the crook of his elbow again, covered my lips while his free hand tore my pants off and loosened his pants’ zipper. Then his fingers were making sharp invasion of my body, to which I felt myself responding. Responding even as I tried to deny the deft seeking of those fingers, the searching of his tongue. He had somehow caught one nipple between his arm and body, and that was another fiery summons. He knew, too, when I was caught up by those responses, for he suddenly left me, gasping and writhing at the interruption. My legs were held up and spread, and he was as hard and firm and wonderful as before. He seemed to test himself against me, and when I moaned, he went in, all the way, like the invader he was. Then he withdrew while I cried out. The tentative insertion, the sharp intrusion and withdrawal. I clutched wildly for his arms, his legs, anything to keep him from leaving me.