by Helen Karol
On the last night, they planned to see another show. Julian was idly feeding silver dollars into one of the slot machines, while he waited for Claire, who was collecting a piece of jewellery from their hotel safety deposit box. Upon her return, she crept up to his seated figure and placed a kiss on his unsuspecting nape.
Slowly swivelling round in his stool, he had taken her in his arms, oblivious to the money the slot machine was spewing forth. They returned to the suite, the show they planned to see unimportant and forgotten.
Finally and reluctantly, they boarded the plane that carried them back to Los Angeles. They took a cab to Claire's apartment, collected some of her things and drove to the beach-house in her car. Despite the warm night, Julian lit a fire and they sat cuddled in front of it sipping liqueurs and listening to the crash of the surf against the rocks. Later they went to bed, making love once more, before falling asleep in each other's arms.
The next morning, they showered and dressed with an efficiency increased by the use of separate bathrooms. They made breakfast, and ate with a methodical swiftness. After a brief kiss of parting, they drove off to their respective places of business in their respective cars. The honeymoon was over.
Chapter Seven
"Tut-tut, Mrs. West, you're late."
Greg clicked his tongue, shaking his head in mock reproof. Claire grimaced at him and flopped into her chair behind her desk.
"The traffic was awful. I didn't realise how far it was from the beach-house to here." She looked at her watch. "Not bad, though, only ten minutes. I'll just have to leave earlier in future."
Greg gave an exaggerated sigh. "Ah, yes, the banes of married life. But..." he added with a cheeky grin. "…no doubt you'll find it has it's compensations."
Claire threw him a dampening look, but his grin only widened.
"Ignore him, Claire." Mary-Jane looked up from her desk, adding her own disapproval to Claire's.
"Yes, ignore me, I'm just jealous," he offered, sending a look over to Mary-Jane that was meant to impart soulful meaning, but which only succeeded in making him look like a lost puppy. He looked so ridiculous that, with one look at each other, Claire and Mary-Jane burst out laughing. Things were definitely back to normal thought Claire. The time she had spent in Las Vegas with Julian seemed a million miles away.
Greg's use of her married name had seemed strange. She had been called Mrs. West all last week by the hotel staff, so it wasn't as if she were hearing it for the first time. It was just that here in the office, and coming from Greg, it seemed somehow out of place. Claire shrugged; she was being silly and Greg would go back to calling her Claire, as usual, once he had exhausted the teasing mileage from her marriage.
"Did my article go in Thursday's issue?"
"Naturally, Stella would never let a chance like that slip past." Mary-Jane answered drily.
Claire looked at her blankly. "What do you mean?"
"Oh, come on, Claire. How often can someone read a profile with a romantic slant, written by the woman the guy just happens to be spending his honeymoon with? We had to go into second and third print and the website crashed regularly all week!"
Claire turned white and then mumbled. "Well, I'm glad it did well." A romantic slant, she hadn't realised. She'd have to read it again.
"You bet it did well. Let me tell you, it's a hard act to follow." Greg considered before adding outrageously. "Hey, do you think if I went all out, I could persuade Jenni Roberts to marry me before the next issue?"
The two women looked at each other, nodded in silent agreement, and threw their pencils at him.
"Hey, no fair," he claimed as he ducked, the pencils flying by him. "Two against one."
"I'll tell you what's not fair." Claire laughed. "Us having to put up with you, that's what. Can't you find something to do in the darkroom?"
Greg and Mary-Jane looked puzzled and then Mary-Jane said. "That's right. You don't know. We graduated to our own staff photographer last week. We don't have to put up with Greg's amateurish efforts anymore."
"Amateurish! How dare you." Greg attempted to look offended without much success. He would be the first to admit that he was a much better writer than photographer.
"Good. It's about time. Who is it, somebody local?"
"No, another import, like us." Mary-Jane answered. "Actually, he claims to know you quite well."
"Really, I wonder who ...” Claire's stomach somersaulted and her pulse began to beat a tattoo. It couldn't be; it had to be. There was only one photographer from head office who could make that claim. But how could it be, he always vowed he'd never leave New York. Seemingly from a distance, she heard Greg's voice.
"Yeh, you know anybody called Richard Blake?"
"Did I hear my name mentioned?"
Claire's eyes swung to the door from where the familiar New York twang had come. Everything went out of focus, Richard's figure swimming in front of her. Why? Why now the word echoed in her brain. Why now, when it was too 1... Claire refused to finish the thought. She shook her head and thankfully the room righted itself and she saw Richard walking towards her desk.
He hadn't changed. Why should he have, it's only been eleven weeks. Was that all - it seemed like a lifetime ago. He was just as tall as she remembered, and he moved with the same animal stealth she had always found so exciting. There was still that thick thatch of blond hair, those sensual features and the full sensual mouth. And looking at her, with a purpose which made her swallow convulsively, were those eyes. Those eyes, which had always been the bluest she had ever seen.
"Hello, Claire. Surprised to see me? You shouldn't be." He bent over, leaning either hand on her desk and brought his lips down on hers in a kiss, which to the startled eyes of the other two, lasted a little too long and was a little too passionate. And then for her ears only, he whispered. "You didn't really think I'd let you get away from me, did you?"
Didn't he know she was married! Twisting her rings, she informed him of the fact. He stared down at the gems on her fingers with disdain. Perching on her desk, he played with her paperweight.
"Yeh, I heard. I guess I could congratulate you, but I don't think I'll bother."
Claire wiped her palms on the leather arms of her chair. They were sticky and her mouth was dry. When she spoke she was sure it came out in a croak.
"Why are you here, Richard? You always said you'd never leave New York."
Richard smiled, that slow, tilted smile that always sent her heart plummeting and her temperature soaring. Get a grip on yourself, she thought. But she couldn't. She never could when he was around. She felt the almost forgotten electric tingles and the hot flush of passion his presence had never failed to arouse in her. She shook her head attempting to concentrate on what he was saying.
"Sure I did, but, you know - L.A. has it's attractions."
The emphasis he placed on the last word left no room for doubt and Claire felt the room swim once more. She had to get out of here. Gripping the arms of her chair for support and pulling herself up with a mumbled excuse, she managed to make it to the door, uncaring of the astounded stares of Greg and Mary-Jane. Reaching the ladies room, she closed the door, leaning against it, attempting to steady her breathing. She took deep, short breaths and gradually, she achieved some semblance of normality.
Walking over to the sink, she pulled out one of the paper cups and helped herself to several drinks of water. She looked in the mirror. Her face was flushed and her grey eyes glowed.
Damn!
She crushed the cup and threw it in the garbage disgustedly. How could she have allowed herself to react to him like that! Why couldn't she have smiled at him, coolly. "Hello, Richard, so pleasant to see you." And after that remark about not congratulating her. "Not bother?" She would have raised her eyebrows. “Why shouldn't you congratulate me, I'm very happy."
Then she would have smiled at him superciliously. "No? "Well never mind, allow me to congratulate you on joining our staff. The others have just been fillin
g me in on what's been happening while I was on my honeymoon." She would have lowered her eyes, drawing attention to the connotations of the last word. "Perhaps you have something you'd like to add." The talk would have turned to business then and their meeting would have passed over very smoothly.
Oh, why hadn't she acted like that!
Then she wouldn't have to face the others astonished, questioning stares and Richard's knowing smile. She wouldn't be hiding in here like some schoolgirl who's just had her crush on the teacher exposed to the rest of the class. But no, that really wasn't a very good comparison; schoolgirl crushes weren't like this. At least, hers hadn't been. Schoolgirls didn't feel that hot flush of passion or that wild aching need. What was the matter with her?
She'd thought of Richard when she first returned, remembered their passion. But gradually, his memory had given way to the present and the possible future. During Julian's quiet, but determined courtship, she had thought of Richard less and less, and lately not at all. Her growing love for Julian had slowly erased Richard's memory and during the idyllic week in Las Vegas, there had been only her and Julian and their tender, sweet lovemaking.
Julian.
She tried to conjure up his image. She succeeded until it was insidiously replaced. His dark waves gave way to straight straw blond hair, his green eyes to ones of a bright blue and his lips to ones that were thicker and fuller.
She tried to remember his lips on hers and his soft caresses. Instead, she remembered those fuller lips setting her own on fire, and the more distant memory of frenzied touches arousing an ardent hunger. Her thoughts ended on a sob and she leaned backwards against the wall, her face in her hands.
She thought she had forgotten him, thought he no longer held any power over her. She knew now she was wrong; the attraction was still strong. He could still make her feel as if she were being pulled into a vortex from which there was no escape. And, she admitted to herself, there was still a part of her that didn't want to escape. Nothing was changed, nothing was different.
She pressed her hot palms against her cheeks and the feel of her rings contradicted her last thoughts. She held her hand in front of her and the twin emeralds, the colour of his eyes she had thought when she choose them, seemed to reproach her. She was wrong, everything was different.
Claire felt a slow strength fill her. She squared her shoulders, checked her appearance and went to the door. Muffled voices from the hallway stopped her. She opened the door a crack and peered out. Richard and Greg, their backs to her, were entering the elevator. Claire closed the door.
Offering a silent prayer of gratitude that her strength was not to tested immediately, she opened the door and walked back down the hallway to her office. Before she reached it, Stella came out of her office.
"Claire, good-morning. I trust you enjoyed your vacation." She smiled the smile that never reached her eyes. "How silly of me, I mean your honeymoon."
"Yes...yes, it was very nice," Claire muttered. She didn't notice Stella's smirk at the use of the rather inadequate phrase, her mind was on other matters. "Stella, how long have you known Richard was joining our staff?"
"Oh, have you two met, or rather I should say re-met. You knew each other in New York, I believe."
Claire disliked the stress placed on the word knew, but she said nothing, waiting for Stella to answer her question. Stella shrugged.
"Let me see, for at least a couple of weeks." Her eyebrows rose. "You're not annoyed I didn't mention it, are you? I mean, it would hardly have made any difference, would it?"
Claire stared, feeling a fierce hatred for the other woman. She didn't answer her, walking past her with a sickening dread invading her. She didn't see the other woman looking after her with narrowed eyes. Would it, would it have made any difference? In her confusion Claire was unable to find an answer to the question, certainly not the one for which she hoped.
Reaching the writers’ office, she walked to her desk with desperate urgency. Grabbing her cell, she keyed in the speed dial for Julian. Greeted by his voicemail she didn't bother leaving a message. Gripping the desk telephone, she dialled Julian's office number.
"West Designs."
"I'd like to speak to Mr. West, please."
"I'm sorry, he's not available right now. May I take a message?"
"Look, just put me through to him, this is his wife speaking." In her urgency, Claire was abrupt. He had to be there!
"I'm sorry, Mrs. West, he really isn't available. He's out of the office right now. He has a number of appointments. Have you tried his cell?"
"Yes but he's not answering - never mind I won't bother him if he's so busy." The sound of her married name, which had seemed strange on Greg's tongue, now acted like a balm and the feeling of urgency left her.
"Oh, I'm sure he'll find the time to call if you leave a message."
Claire could imagine the indulgent expression on Delia's face. With a muttered thank-you, she returned the receiver to its cradle, feeling slightly foolish.
Turning around, she caught Mary-Jane watching her. The younger woman looked quickly away. No wonder she was embarrassed, Claire reproached herself, she'd made such a fool of herself. Unable to think of something suitable to explain her behaviour, she sat at her desk and began to sort idly through her mail. Finally she gathered the courage to say.
"So, you'd better fill me in. What's on the agenda for today?"
Mary-Jane looked relieved and began. "Well, there's a show this afternoon..."
The first few sentences were like Greek to her, distracted as she was, but eventually, talk of the work she had always found so fascinating seeped through and she found her interest managed to exclude her other thoughts.
Richard and Greg were out all morning, and she was out covering the fashion show most of the afternoon. The office seemed deserted when she returned to drop off her notes, and Claire breathed a sigh of relief that she had managed to get through the rest of the day so easily.
Flipping through her messages, she was noticing with a frown that Julian had still not got back to her when a sound at the door alerted her attention. A wave of panic washed over her when she saw the cause of the noise.
He was leaning against the door-jamb, a coiled energy emanating from him.
"Richard. I thought everyone had gone home."
He pushed away from the door-jamb and began to stalk stealthily towards her. "I wouldn't leave without saying goodnight to you, baby."
Claire felt herself shrinking against the desk, both hands moving behind her to grip the edge. Please don't let him touch me, she thought. If only he wouldn't touch her she would be alright.
But he did touch her.
If only he had done something unforgivable, something coarse or vulgar, she would have been able to resist him. Been able to stride from the room in indignant outrage. But, his slow touch on her shoulder was incredibly sensual. His hand crept down her arm, causing every nerve to scream out, and stopping just beside her breast.
It was all she could do not to sway towards him.
She brought her hand up from behind towards her breast in an instinctive gesture, unconsciously holding her rings in front of her.
"We have nothing to say to each other, Richard. You were the one who decided we were through, remember."
He began to massage her arm soothingly.
You know I didn't mean it, baby. I was angry at the time, hurt. We'll never be through, you know that." He lowered his head and began to nibble her ear.
"It's not true," she wanted to scream, "there's nothing between us." But she couldn't, because she knew it was a lie. He was nuzzling her neck now and she leaned heavily on her hand, terrified she would go limp in his arms
"Stop, Richard. Please stop."
Her voice was a barely audible moan and he ignored it. Moving back in an effort to avoid his spine-tingling touch, she spoke again, louder this time.
"Richard, I'm married."
He drew back from her then. He looked down
at the rings on the hand she still held clutched to her breast. "Do you really think that makes any difference to me - to us. Look at you. I could make love to you right now, right here, if I wanted to."
Claire shook her head in an attempt to deny it, feeling tears prick at her eyelids.
"Don't deny it, hon - you know it's true." He shook her slightly and then let her go." "Don't worry, I know I was wrong to rush you before – I won’t push you now - I'll wait for you. We'll be working together. You'll see me almost every day. It won't take you long to realise your marriage was a mistake."
He leaned forward, taking hold of her arm again. "Then you'll ditch this guy and come back to me, where you belong. Hey, come on, don't look so upset." Claire's eyes had widened, a stricken look overtaking her at his casual dismissal of her marriage vows. "Look, lots of people marry on the rebound. It's pretty common. Fortunately, the divorce laws are lenient, so you won't have to live up to your mistake."
He took her unresisting chin in his other hand and planted a firm kiss on her lips. "Go on home to your husband, Claire..." he drew her closer, his mouth very close to her ear, his voice husky,"...for now."
And then he was gone.
It wasn't until she heard the elevator doors open and then close that she allowed herself to breathe again.
She left the building almost immediately afterwards, her thoughts in a turmoil. Driving home on the freeway, she narrowly avoided two accidents, the other drivers honking at her as they whizzed angrily past.
She felt like screaming her frustration when she pulled into the garage and Julian's car was absent. If only she could see him, if only she could touch him, see his face light up with that familiar tenderness, she would know it wasn't true: that she loved him, that their marriage wasn't a mistake, that Richard was clutching at straws.
But he wasn't there.
Claire leaned her head on the steering wheel and almost gave way to tears. She sat up took a deep breath and got out of the car. Once inside the house, she walked through the dining room to the living room and leaned her palms and forehead against the glass, gazing out at the pounding surf.
