“I’ve been … dreaming about this moment, Jane,” Alain told her. “Please … come over here.”
“I’ve been dreaming about it, too,” she answered truthfully, crossing the room. She stopped a few feet from him. Alain smiled at her then shrugged off the tweed sports jacket he had been wearing and tossed it on a nearby chair. His smile broadening, he slowly unbuttoned his combed cotton shirt until it was open to the waist.
“Your turn,” he said, stepping toward her. He kissed her forehead lightly, then bent over and pulled her navy blue woolen cardigan over her head. With her hands still caught in its sleeves, he pulled the sweater behind her back and leaned forward and nuzzled her breasts through the thin white fabric of her turtleneck. Though his lips were gentle, the chafing fabric immediately caused Janie’s nipples to harden. Alain’s mouth took in cotton, nipple, flesh—and sucked until Janie finally had to push his head away.
“Your turn…” she said breathlessly, and carefully eased his shirt down his arms and pulled it from him. He was wearing a V-neck T-shirt beneath, his matted chest hair forming a triangle at the V. She ran her fingers around the triangle then, stepping closer, following Alain’s example by caressing his chest through the shirt. He groaned, pulling her closer to him, and she realized that she was right in mimicking his actions. He was teaching her what he liked.
“Yes, oh, yes…” he whispered, when she slipped her hand beneath the shirt. “Harder, harder…” he instructed as she caressed his nipples. And though Janie was sure that she was hurting him as he forced her to increase the pressure, he moaned with pleasure. Then, with one swift movement, his right hand covered hers and drew it down to his stiffened crotch. His left hand eased down the zipper, and he guided Janie’s hand toward the hot, hardened goal. For one alarming moment, she didn’t know what to do. She hesitated, the shaft throbbing in her hand, her arm frozen in position. But, once again, Alain gently showed her what he wanted. He took a few steps backwards and sat down on the bed, kicking off his pants as he did so. He had Janie kneel down in front of him and, his hands digging into her thick, wavy hair, he guided her head to his erection.
“Take it into your mouth, Jane,” he told her. “Yes … like that, darling … yes…” and soon she sensed what was necessary and went about the task, his urgently whispered instructions leading her on. “Right … now harder there. Yes … very good. Now faster, darling. And harder, yes … yes … yes…”
He came violently, the warm, milky fluid spurting into her mouth. She nearly gagged because his hands gripped her head so tightly to him. For a moment she thought she was going to choke, but then, collapsing onto the bed with a sigh, Alain released her.
“That was lovely, Jane,” he said, drawing her up to sit beside him on the bed. “You really are … rather innocent. Aren’t you, darling?”
“If you mean inexperienced,” Janie replied quietly, “yes. You could say that. I’m sorry. I’ve never pretended to…”
“Jane, shhh.” He brought her toward him and kissed her softly. “I’m delighted. I’m honored. I will teach you everything you need to know. Won’t we have fun?”
She wanted to say yes and mean it, but she realized in that instant that she felt more than a little demeaned by what she had just experienced. Alain, after all, had already come to a climax … and Janie was still almost fully clothed! It began to occur to her that almost all their lovemaking thus far had centered on Alain: his needs, his pleasure, his fantasies.
Once again, she thought of Zach. His tenderness. His holding back. His obvious joy in giving her pleasure … and hers in pleasing him. Wasn’t that as it should be? A mutual give and take from the beginning? A partnering, a coming together, not this single-minded pursuit of satisfaction that Alain had just accomplished. She tried to shrug away these thoughts as Alain turned her right hand palm-up and kissed it.
“You’re awfully subdued, darling,” he murmured. “Is everything all right? Come, look me in the eye.”
“I’m fine,” Janie lied, facing him.
“Tell me, Jane, but I think I know,” Alain replied. “Are you, perhaps … still a virgin?”
“No, Alain,” Janie replied softly, not meeting his intense gaze. “I hope you didn’t expect that of me…”
“Darling, no,” Alain replied, lifting her chin so that she was forced to face him. His gaze was warm and reassuring. “I want you just as you are … a little shy perhaps … a bit unsure … but none of that awkward clumsiness of the first time.” He kissed her forehead, then bent down and kissed the soft sloping line of her neck. His hands covered her breasts and kneaded them, the pressure of his grip increasing as his kisses slowed and deepened. She could feel him becoming aroused again, hear the quickening of his breath. But instead of responding to his touch, she felt herself shrinking from it: her breasts already hurt from his relentless circling, her mouth felt rough and sore from their earlier exertions.
“Jane … you are so beautiful,” Alain murmured as he at last pulled her turtleneck over her head and gazed down at the soft white curves of her upper body. She tried to relax as his lips descended on her now exposed skin. She hoped that he would interpret the shiver that spread through her limbs as one of passionate submission—and he seemed to. She felt his hands ease down the zipper of her pants—felt the pressure of his hot, probing fingers.
“Please, Alain,” she whispered at one point, “not so hard.”
“Oh, you love it, don’t you?” he muttered through clenched teeth, obviously not hearing her. He tugged her pants off impatiently, then stood staring down at her as she lay spread-eagled on the bed. He smiled and stroked his erection, his gaze caressing her body and coming to rest on the triangle of her pubic hair.
“Ah…” he said, “my first real redhead!” and with that he fell onto the bed, straddled her, and thrust brutally into her. His hot, hard shaft chafed within her because she was dry and unprepared. She winced with pain as he pulled out and then plunged in again, harder and deeper.
“You are so tight … so wonderfully tight,” he muttered, thrusting and rocking. “You love this, don’t you?” he asked again, but his breath was becoming ragged, and it was clear that he didn’t expect an answer from her.
Nor was she about to give him an honest one. The truth was: she hated it. She felt used and lonely, and, in fact, it hurt. She squeezed her eyes shut and felt tears of frustration running down her cheeks, but Alain was clearly oblivious to her feelings. In almost direct proportion to her mounting disgust, she could sense his mounting passion.
“Yes…” he moaned as he slid his hands beneath her buttocks, pulling her even more tightly to him. Now she felt pinned by his body and helpless to stop him. “Oh … yes…” He pounded into her, a steady, relentless weight. “Yes … yes … yes…” he cried as he bucked his way into orgasm.
Janie opened her eyes to see his face contorted with pleasure: his mouth clenched in a grimace, his eyes screwed tight, his high forehead glistening with sweat. And she realized with a searing rush of disappointment that this face she hardly recognized belonged in fact to the man of her dreams.
Chapter 33
Martine Cruzes Chanson sat perfectly erect on one of the white wrought iron benches at the edge of her beloved rose garden and contemplated the unfairness of life. Here she was, a year or two (four, if it had to be known) over seventy, prosperous, healthy, and still (everybody continued to say so) handsome, and yet not at all content. Old age was supposed to bring peace and wisdom, but as far as Martine was concerned all it brought was diminished strength to deal with mounting worries.
Well, one mounting worry, if she was to be honest. But a very important one, especially to a woman who valued family and tradition above all else. The problem was this: Martine had no grandchildren and no immediate prospect of getting any. What in heaven’s name, she asked herself again, was she going to do about Alain?
She and her husband Guillaume had made the long trip from Paris down t
o the chateau two days before because they had assumed they’d be spending the week with that impossible boy. It was only after they had arrived that Henri had discreetly hinted to them that Alain had set himself up in some lurid little love nest at the hunting lodge with someone from one of his New York advertising agencies. Mon dieu, Martine could just imagine the woman! Loud, demanding, a careerist who saw Alain as the ticket to early retirement.
Martine shuddered inwardly, dreading Alain’s decision to bring this new lover over to the chateau to meet her later that afternoon. Guillaume, disgusted with the whole business, had returned to Paris that morning. She should have put her foot down too, of course, and told Alain to keep his little whores to himself, but he had been so charming on the telephone. And, oh, she might as well admit it, she had never been able to deny her only child anything.
She had spent the last year, since that horrible Lisbeth episode, trying to figure out how to marry him off. She had no idea why it should be so difficult. After all, Alain was certainly one of the most eligible—and sought after—bachelors in France. Probably in all of Europe, for that matter. He was rich, handsome, aggressive, a sportsman, and—most important in Martine’s mind—she knew Alain wanted to marry. And yet his ridiculous pride, his need for perfection, stood in his way. He would only settle for the loveliest, the most giving, the most charming of wives. And Martine was seriously beginning to doubt if such a woman could be found. Not that she hadn’t tried.
She took a sip of the chilled Meursault that Henri had placed on a nearby table, closed her eyes against the warm midaftemoon sun, and tried to remember the names of all the poor girls she had thrust in Alain’s path in the past twelve months. Adele, Babette, Celine, Didi … she started to compile the mental list, but within a few minutes she had dozed off.
“Shhh … I think she’s asleep,” she heard Alain whisper much later. She made out the sound of footsteps on the flagstones and, facing the fact that she’d have to meet the woman eventually, she opened her eyes and turned toward the approaching couple. It took her a second or two to figure out why she had seen them as an actual couple, rather than the two very different human beings she’d expected. The reason was Alain was holding the woman’s hand. Alain, who made a point of avoiding physical contact, abstaining whenever he could even from the traditional French embrace, was gripping this woman’s hand so tightly it looked as if he never intended to let go.
Martine sat up and squinted through the sunlight. This woman looked more like a girl, actually; she was certainly younger than Martine had expected. Her hair was a rather pretty blondish red, held back at the nape of her neck with a thick black velvet bow. She was nearly Alain’s height, slim, creamy-skinned, though her cheeks were lightly flushed. She wore simple but obviously well-cut, expensive clothes: a starched white cotton blouse with a wide shawl-like collar under a wine-red cotton cable knit vest, and navy blue linen pants that tapered to brown woven leather loafers. She’d taken off a straw boater and fingered it nervously in her free hand as they stopped in front of Martine.
“Maman,” Alain began in his somewhat ponderous English, “I would you like you to meet Jane Penrod.”
“How do you do?” Martine responded, holding out her hand.
“Very well, thank you,” the girl replied evenly. Her grip was warm and firm. Her smile was direct. Her look told Martine: I have nothing to regret and nothing to hide.
“Sit down, children,” Martine instructed. “Ah, good, here comes Henri with a fresh decanter of white wine. Or would you prefer something else, Miss…?”
“Penrod,” the girl replied. “Jane Millicent Penrod is my full name actually. My mother was a great believer in middle names. And white wine is fine, thank you.”
“Very good,” Martine murmured, studying the girl surreptitiously as Henri served the wine. She had wanted to dislike her because she was an American and therefore without culture or finesse. She had wanted to undermine her, slyly seeking out and laying bare her worst faults in front of Alain. She had assumed that this girl—like all the other unsuitable women Alain had taken as lovers—would be Martine’s natural enemy.
And yet she found herself saying almost sweetly, “I don’t know what I had expected when Alain told me you were an advertising art director … someone with spiky hair and white leather boots, I suppose. You don’t seem to fit the mold, if I may say so.”
“Jane doesn’t fit any mold,” Alain announced proudly, beaming across at her. “That is one of the first things I realized about her, too, Maman. She is unique.”
“Please, Alain,” Janie stammered, her cheeks turning an even deeper red. “You’re embarrassing me. Let’s talk about something else. Your rose garden, for instance, Madame Chanson … it’s absolutely beautiful. I’ve been admiring it since the first day I arrived. Would you mind … showing me around?”
The girl could not have hit on a subject closer to Martine’s heart, of course. And despite Martine’s rather cynical assumption that the request had been calculated to flatter, she was more than happy to show off her pride and joy. She stood regally and led the way down the brick path.
“I try to mix the colors … the way an artist does his palette,” Martine explained as she, Alain, and the girl strolled slowly through the sunlit flower beds. “You see, the way those white and pale yellow floribundas there complement the pink and red climbing roses on the arbor?”
“Yes, I understand,” Janie nodded, leaning over to caress a particularly beautiful bloom. “My mother has a rose garden, too. Nothing nearly as wonderful as this … but I remember loving all the funny names of the hybrids.”
“The one you’re looking at,” Martine replied warmly, “is named Madame Alfred Carriere. I’m particularly proud of it, as it usually thrives only in England. Now follow me, dear,” Martine instructed. “I know you’ll be interested in seeing my General Eisenhowers over by the fountain.”
It took nearly an hour for Martine to point out and explain the background and importance of each of her cherished hybrids, and, though Alain soon retired to the shade and the wine carafe, Jane followed Martine steadfastly through the tour. Martine could not help but notice that the girl seemed both interested in what she heard and intelligent in her comments.
“The layout here,” Janie remarked at one point, “reminds me a bit of the original plans for Empress Josephine’s rose beds at Malmaison.”
“Exactly!” Martine replied, turning to Janie with shining eyes. “That was my idea. But how in the world did you guess? I don’t think anyone in my flower club has ever realized that.”
“Oh, just coincidence,” Jane responded modestly. “When I was doing background research on Chanson, I read up on the French chateaux. The grounds and gardens, of course, are a big part of that. And I just fell in love with them all.” It occurred to Martine at this point that the girl was sincere in her enthusiasm for her garden and perhaps sincere in other ways she had not given her credit for. Martine observed her closely as she continued to talk, noticing the classic tilt of her nose, the determined curve of her chin, the graceful and expressive way she gestured with her hands to emphasize her words.
“Versailles and Fountainebleu,” she said, “all of Le Nôtre’s huge, majestic projects. Alain took me to the Bagatelle in the Bois. Oh, it’s just beautiful! Small, of course, but so lovely. Have you been there?”
“My dear,” Martine said coolly, “our apartment in Paris faces the Bois. I was lunching in the Bagatelle, I assure you, before you were born.” She hadn’t meant for her response to smart, but she was haughty by nature and especially touchy when she felt her importance or worth was in any doubt.
“I’m sorry,” the girl replied, her smile fading quickly. “I didn’t know. I guess Alain did mention it. But I’m not all that familiar with Paris, and…”
“Please, forgive me, that was quite unnecessary on my part,” Martine interrupted. Martine, who seldom felt the need to apologize because she so infrequently felt
herself in the wrong, was surprised by her desire to snatch back her snide remark. She realized then that she wanted this girl’s respect. Though far from easily affectionate and seldom one to let her guard down, Martine came to the surprising conclusion that she actually liked Jane. She approved of her, in fact. She glanced over to where Alain sat in the shade and saw him studying them closely. Did he love this girl? Was she going to be the one? Her eyes returned to the woman at her side.
“And, yes,” Martine went on, slipping her arm through Jane’s as she continued the stroll, “I do love the Bagatelle. That superb iris garden! You must come visit us in Paris, my dear. Stay a few days at the apartment. There are so many lovely gardens in Paris. Did Alain take you to Jardins des Plantes?”
“No, he didn’t. But I went there with my parents. I’ve a sister who lives not far from there. Near the Sorbonne.”
“A student, I suppose. A junior year abroad?”
“No, Cynthia is married to someone who teaches at the Sorbonne,” Jane replied. “Doctor Gigonte. He has something to do with sociology … or philosophy … I’m never quite sure which.”
“Not André Gigonte?” Martine demanded.
“Yes, André,” Jane replied, her smile returning. “Do you know him?”
“My dear, who in Paris doesn’t? He’s one of our leading intellectuals. And so handsome! And his wife, Cynthia, she’s your sister? Why, this is just marvelous! Did you stay with them in Paris? What’s he working on now? His last book caused quite a sensation, I assure you!”
“No … I didn’t see Cynthia this trip…” Janie hesitated. “She’s a lot older than I, and we haven’t really stayed in touch.”
“Now … wait … I seem to remember hearing something about your sister,” Martine mused. “Yes, that’s right. I heard that she comes from quite a prestigious, wealthy family in America.” Martine turned once more to Jane, studying her. “Penrod … yes?”
Changes of Heart Page 26
