by Amii Lorin
"Without doubt," Ben laughed softly. "Shelly, my sister-in-law, is a fantastic cook. I wouldn't be surprised to learn she's been preparing goodies all week, just for the one day. And she'll really outdo herself for Christmas. Actually," he went on seriously, "Shelly is pretty fantastic, period. Besides being a great cook, she's a wonderful mother and a meticulous housekeeper." A tiny smile twitched his firm lips. "She must know how to keep a husband happy, too, for my brother smiles a lot."
Hearing Ben extol his sister-in-law's virtues caused a strange twinge in Vichy's chest. What did it signify? she wondered in surprise. A touch of envy? Surely not jealousy? Thankfully, Ben saved her from having to identify her own emotions.
"You're going to miss being with your family for the holiday, aren't you?" he asked, obviously having picked up on the wistful note in her voice.
"Yes," Vichy replied honestly, then laughed sadly at herself. "It's silly really. I have spent very few of my holidays with them since I started performing professionally ten years ago." She shrugged, as if ridding herself of her sadness. "At least I'll be able to spend Christmas at home."
"You're not booked in the lounge through the holidays?" Ben rapped sharply, causing Vichy to blink in surprise.
"No," she shook her head, confused by Ben's intent expression. "I was hired as a fill-in for this week, and then again for the weekend after Christmas through New Year's Day."
"So that means you'll be going home—when?" Ben's eyebrows arched.
"I was planning to leave early Sunday morning," Vichy answered. "I want to be home by the time my folks get home from church."
"And where's home?" he probed quietly.
"Pennsylvania," she finally supplied after a long pause.
"Pennsylvania is a large state." Ben nudged at her obvious reluctance to reveal the exact location of her parents' home.
"Near Lancaster," she hedged.
"How near?" he insisted.
"Ben—" Vichy drew his name out in exasperation.
"Vichy—" Ben mocked softly.
Vichy smiled in spite of herself. "The price of a few dinners does not entitle you to a life history," she told him with prim severity.
"I haven't asked for your life history," Ben retorted sardonically. "Just your address."
"Fresno, California," Vichy lied promptly, blandly.
"You just said Pennsylvania," he sighed wearily.
"My parents live in Pennsylvania," Vichy explained blithely. "I'm visiting with them while I fulfill this engagement. I haven't been a resident of Pennsylvania for over eight years." That much was true; she hadn't been.
"Okay, what is your address in Fresno?" Ben asked doggedly.
Vichy hesitated, then shrugged, giving him her former address. It didn't matter anyway, she assured herself; she had not left a forwarding address with the superintendent or any of the other tenants at the apartment house.
Vichy watched as Ben entered the information into a small black leather address book, full, she felt sure, of a good number of female names and addresses. Every gambler she'd met—and there had been plenty in the few weeks she'd been with Brad—had all seemed to know scads of women, Brad included. It would appear, she thought bleakly, that gamblers liked variety in all the games they played. Vichy was unable to repress the shiver that shook her slim shoulders.
"Are you cold?" Ben asked at once.
"A little. It must be getting colder out; there's a draft creeping in under the windows." It wasn't a complete untruth. She had felt a draft from the windows.
"Then let's get out of here." He cast another glance at his watch. "I have to hit the road for home soon anyway."
They were almost back to the hotel before Ben broke the silence that had enveloped them since they'd left the diner.
"Are you going to be all right on your own tomorrow?" he asked concernedly.
After all the years of being alone, his solicitude was touching. The problem was, Vichy didn't want to feel touched—not by a gambler. Never, never by a gambler.
"Oh, I'll be lonely," Vichy admitted. "But, I assure you, I'll survive." Her short laugh held bitterness. "If nothing else, I am a survivor."
Ben shot her a sharp glance but, as they had reached the turn that led to the front of the hotel, he made no remark.
In less than five minutes after leaving the car, Vichy was standing before the door to her room, watching Ben turn the key in the lock, flicking on the light switch as the door swung in. He turned to her, and she felt her breathing become constricted.
Would he try a repeat performance of last night? Could she resist him if he did? Did she really want to? Yes! No. I don't know. He was standing very close and the nearness of him was clouding her reasoning facilities.
As he lowered his head she did make a weak protest: "Ben, no…"
"Just a little kiss to see me on my way," he murmured an instant before his mouth touched hers. His lips remained unhardened by passion, and within moments he lifted his head. "I'll miss seeing you tomorrow," he whispered, caressing her cheek with the fingertips of one hand. "And I'll be back Friday, okay?"
Vichy nodded, fighting against the sudden heat in her eyes.
"Will you miss me?" His lips had replaced his fingers and the question was murmured close to her ear.
"Yes," she gasped, telling herself she was not aching for him to kiss her again, properly this time.
"Vichy," he groaned, then suddenly stepped back, away from her. "I've got to go, I promised Chad, but—" He took a half step toward her before becoming still. His sherry eyes seemed to burn over her face. "You'll be here?"
"Yes, of course," Vichy's voice wobbled with the riot of emotions coursing through her.
His hand, strangely unsteady, came up to lift her face to his lowering one and he brushed his mouth roughly against hers.
"I'll see you Friday," he whispered. "Now, go inside before I change my mind and pull you into my arms."
He stood there, rigid with tension, until she'd closed and locked the door. Leaning back against the panel weakly, barely breathing, Vichy heard him curse softly before turning away.
Trembling with reaction, Vichy walked slowly, carefully to the bed. Sitting on the edge of the bed stiffly, hands clasped tightly on her lap, she stared sightlessly at the door, fighting the urge to jump up and run after him.
What was happening to her? she cried silently. What was he doing to her? She was not an impressionable teenager to be thrown off balance by the lightness of caresses.
Yet that was exactly how she felt, off balance, unsure, near tears.
Dragging her fixed stare from the door, she lowered her eyes to her painfully clasped hands and her vision blurred. Glinting wickedly in the glare from the overhead light, the gold bracelet on her wrist seemed to wink mockingly at her.
A "winnings" gift. A shudder shook her hunched frame, and a soft moan went whispering into the still room.
In her parents' third floor storeroom, at the very bottom of one of her cartons, was a locked leather jewelry box. Inside that box were some dozen pieces of very expensive jewelry: rings, necklaces, bracelets, earrings, all "winnings" gifts. Vichy had turned the tiny key in the equally tiny lock on that box six years ago. She had not opened it since then. She could have sold the pieces. She could have given them away, for they meant nothing to her any longer. She had done neither for a very deliberate reason. She had kept the jewelry as a reminder of how little real value such things possessed when given without true affection. Brad had never really loved her. His baubles had been offered as an inducement. And from the moment she'd backed out of that hotel room they'd held no meaning for her.
Now another man, another gambling man, had tossed his winnings at a salesclerk in exchange for a shiny bauble. The very night before he'd told her bluntly that he wanted her. Was his gift yet another inducement?
A sob tore at Vichy's throat and she flung herself facedown on the bed. What was it about her that attracted these men? What was it about them that attra
cted her?
For she was attracted to Ben Larkin, strongly attracted. It would be pointless to deny it, even to herself. She was worried—no, terrified—that what she felt went beyond mere physical attraction.
Rolling into a ball of misery, Vichy cried herself to sleep.
Thanksgiving was just another day to be gotten through.
After waking, stiff and uncomfortable from sleeping in her confining clothes, Vichy set her chin at a determined angle and told herself, scathingly, that she had to go on. That resolution firmly set in her mind, she showered and dressed for her performance.
Surprisingly, there were more patrons in the lounge than Vichy had imagined there would be on a family holiday. Grateful for their attention, she psyched herself up to giving them the best performance she was capable of. The enthusiastic response of the customers sustained her through the seemingly endless hours between the start of her first set and the final number of her last. And all through the day, with every slightest movement of her wrist, she was reminded of Ben.
In a bid to prolong facing her empty room, Vichy joined her back-up musicians at the bar for a nightcap, much to the surprise of all four of them. They had issued the drink invitation every night, and every night Vichy had politely declined.
Seconds after she'd slid onto a barstool next to the drummer, she was left in little doubt that they were aware, to a man, of her reason for accepting this night.
"It's a bummer, isn't it?" the lead guitarist grumbled around the cigarette drooping from between his full lips. Obviously, he never expected anyone to reply, for he muttered on. "This working every holiday is the pits."
"Yeah," the drummer concurred. "My working on holidays is about the only thing my old lady and I argue about." He paused, then laughed, "Except money, of course."
"What happened to the high roller that was putting the rush on you, Vichy?" The lead guitarist inquired in a bored tone.
Vichy stiffened, but somehow managed to keep her tone light.
"He went home to spend the holiday with his family." As she answered she slid off the barstool. The one thing she didn't need now were questions about the "high roller." Shaking her head at the drummer's offer of another drink, Vichy proffered her thanks for the one she'd had, wished them all a good night, and made her way reluctantly to her room.
Tired but not sleepy, Vichy had a hot, tension-easing shower, then, after slipping into a mid-length nightie, and a belted, fuzzy blue robe, she curled up on the bed with the romance novel she'd bought in the hotel gift shop the previous Monday.
Vichy was at a very touching scene in the story when a light tap at her door startled her so badly she dropped the paperback onto the floor. The tap sounded again and Vichy's eyes flew to the face of her small travel alarm. Eyes widening at the lateness of the hour, she swung her glance back to the door fearfully. Who in the world.
"Vichy?"
Although the voice was pitched very low, there was no mistaking it, and with a smothered gasp of joy, Vichy scrambled off the bed and went running to open the door.
"Ben!" She gasped his name as she swung open the door, and that was as far as she got, for Ben leaned forward and placed his cool lips against hers.
Without breaking the contact, he backed her into the room, kicking the door closed behind him. A bulky, crackly object he was holding in his arms prevented Vichy from getting close to him. When he lifted his head, she saw he was holding a supermarket-size brown paper bag.
"What in the world?" As she raised her eyes from the bag to his face, her voice deserted her. Ben's sherry-colored eyes caressed her face and a knee-weakening smile curved his hard mouth into tenderness.
"This?" he prompted, rattling the bag. At her nod, he murmured, "I had a feeling you'd skip supper tonight. Was I right?" Again she nodded in answer, and his smile deepened. "This"—he held the bag aloft—"my beautiful songbird, is your Thanksgiving supper, complete with wine."
"But the time…" Vichy began laughingly.
"Means nothing," Ben inserted softly, "now that I'm here."
Vichy wanted to dispute his assertion, but in all honesty she could not. Nothing outside her small room held any meaning for her, now that he was here.
"But I have no table in here," Vichy laughed, indicating the lack of furniture with a wave of her hand.
Ben's eyes surveyed the room, then looked down at the beige carpet.
"So we'll have a Thanksgiving picnic," he decided, setting the bag on the floor and shrugging out of his overcoat.
Vichy's breath caught in her throat, as much from the look of him as from his suggestion. Always before, he'd been dressed rather formally in suits or a sport coat, complete with dress shirt and tie. Now he was wearing faded jeans that fit snugly around his slim hips and flat stomach and clung to his muscular thighs. An equally faded sweat shirt with a barely disernible college emblem on the front enhanced the width of his shoulders and the breadth of his muscled chest.
Tearing her gaze from him, Vichy squeaked, "A picnic? In here? How?"
"Do you have a clean bath towel?"
"Yes, but—"
"No buts," Ben overrode her protest. "Get the towel and leave the rest to me."
Vichy retrieved a large white towel from the bathroom and following Ben's ordered "Spread it out on the floor next to the bed," she smoothed it out carefully, frowning all the while.
Dropping to his knees at the edge of the towel, Ben placed the bag beside him and proceeded to pull foil-wrapped packs from it, somewhat like a magician pulling rabbits from a hat. As he placed each item on the towel, he disclosed its contents.
"Turkey breast sandwiches. Lettuce. Sliced tomatoes. Pickles. Olives. Potato chips. The plastic container contains cole slaw. Plastic forks. Plastic knives. Paper plates. Paper napkins. Two real wineglasses. And"—he paused for effect—"the piece de resistance, a chilled bottle of Asti spumanti."
CHAPTER SIX
Vichy rested her back against the side of the bed and sighed with repletion. She had not even realized she was hungry, yet she had insisted Ben toss a coin to see who got the last half of the last turkey sandwich. She won the toss.
Vichy brought her glass to her lips and sipped her wine, gazing at Ben over the rim of the glass. He was stretched out on the floor across the towel from her, his fingers laced behind his head. From where she was sitting he looked long and slim and shatteringly attractive. Her gaze ran the length of him and back, coming to a crashing halt when her eyes met his.
"You have already eaten," he murmured teasingly.
"Wh—" Vichy had to clear her throat. "What do you mean?"
"That was a hungry look you cast over my person, songbird," he taunted. "Made me tingle—all over."
Incapable of coming up with a suitable retort, Vichy lowered her eyes and took several deep swallows of the sparkling wine. Talk about tingling!
The atmosphere around them had undergone a none-too-subtle change. Up until now they had behaved like two carefree youngsters on an unexpected vacation.
Ben had teased and beguiled her by relating amusing, and highly colored she was sure, incidents and misadventures of his growing-up years.
"My mother always insisted she was afraid to take her eyes off me for even a moment whenever I actively participated in any sport," he'd laughed in remembrance. "If I was playing basketball, and she happened to glance away from me for a second, when her eyes returned to the court, they invariably found me on the floor, usually all entangled with another player, fighting for possession of the ball." He'd grinned ruefully. "She always claimed I suffered more bruises, sprains, and broken bones than any six other boys."
"Played hard, did you?" Vichy laughed.
"Well, let's say I put everything I had into it," he conceded. "I remember one baseball game in particular," he'd reminisced. "Mother was in the stands, of course. I was defending first base, and I mean, I was defending first base. The batter hit a grounder to the second baseman and came galloping down the base line toward me.
The second baseman scooped up the ball and made a wild toss over my head. I jumped for the ball and came down directly in the path of that charging runner."
"What happened?" Vichy asked breathlessly, completely caught up in his narrative.
"He charged right into me. He flew to the right of the line. I flew to the left." He shook his head. "Hell knows whatever happened to the ball! I wound up in the hospital with a fractured wrist and a mild concussion. Poor Mom. I'm sure I'm responsible for every gray hair on her head."
At that point Vichy had softened, for Ben had thrown back his head, laughing delightedly.
"Mom always said I'd get mine someday, and she was absolutely right. I have had Chad in the hospital emergency so many times we're all on a first-name basis."
"Sounds like the apple didn't fall far from the tree," Vichy had observed dryly, and then had become totally confused because he'd answered grimly, "I guess not." Then he'd immediately changed the subject, becoming light-hearted and amusing again.
Vichy could not remember when she'd laughed so much at such ridiculous utterances, but it had been fun, and she'd enjoyed every minute of it.
Now, with one teasing thrust, Ben had created a charged awareness between them.
Gulping down the last of her wine, Vichy straightened up and began clearing away the debris from their impromptu picnic, all too aware of Ben's hooded eyes following her every move.
When the carpet between them was returned to normal, Ben caught her around the wrist and drew her down to the floor beside him.
"Ben, it's very late, I really think you should leave now." Suddenly nervous, Vichy tried to sit up. Ben simply rolled over and pinned her to the floor with his body. Startled, a little frightened, Vichy lay perfectly still, staring up at him.
"I've thought about you all day." Lowering his head, he brushed his lips back and forth across hers roughly, then blazed a trail of quick kisses to her ear.
"While I watched the Thanksgiving Day parade on TV with Chad, I thought about you," he murmured, circling the outer edge of her ear with his tongue.
