by Ramsay, Lex
Hell, she thought, she’d never been with a Negro man who wasn’t a slave before—well, that’s not quite true, she remembered, reflecting on her university days in Lausanne, Switzerland, but those were African men—an entirely different breed than the American Negro in her opinion. She didn’t know what she had expected, but it certainly wasn’t this.
Daniel wasn’t shy, deferential or intimidated by her, and while she knew he found her alluring, he wasn’t overly taken with her on that front either. Olivia felt like their connection was more profound than mere sexual attraction, and somehow more fundamental than either of them had ever experienced.
Even through his cloak of indifference, Daniel’s fascination with her was plain. He seemed to find her endlessly amusing, but recognized her sharp intellect as well.
They chatted about horse breeding and training, although Daniel knew nothing about that; and about tech innovations, even though she knew next to nothing about that. And their respective areas of ignorance just didn’t matter.
In fact, it hadn’t really mattered what they’d talked about, since they were communicating far beyond words. There was something about Daniel that put Olivia completely at ease, and she wasn’t someone who trusted easily.
The taxi pulled into the awning-covered portico of the stately Quincy House Hotel and Olivia jumped out as soon as the wheels stopped rolling. She thrust some bills into the waiting doorman’s hands to pay the driver and hurried through the double doors into the lobby.
Daniel was picking her up for dinner in a little more than an hour and she wanted the luxury of a leisurely bath first.
• • •
Patrick was disgusted with himself—but only a little. Not because he had deceived Olivia, that was business. But what wasn’t business were the feelings he had, and knew he shouldn’t have, for Olivia. And for that he was disgusted with himself—but only a little.
Maybe because his subconscious knew that nothing could come of it, or maybe because he had told himself it was necessary to his crucial work at the R.A.—never more crucial than now—whatever the reason, Patrick felt relaxed with Olivia. The dynamic they created held none of the usual tension that had always accompanied even the most casual flirtation in the past.
Now as he pulled up to the valet parking sign at the Quincy and handed his keys to the attendant, Patrick wondered whether his feelings of exhilaration at the thought of seeing Olivia again were reciprocated.
He punched in Olivia’s name in the computerized house phone and listened to the phone ring fifteen times before hanging up, crest-fallen. Turning toward the ornate spiral staircase at the end of the lobby, Patrick saw Olivia gliding down the stairs in a stunning velvet dress the same dark brown color as the highlights in her auburn hair.
For a moment he stopped breathing, all sound was swallowed and everything else in the room faded into the background as she floated down the staircase. So complete was his fugue that he didn’t hear Olivia as she called his name. Of course, in his current state, he probably wouldn’t have heard her anyway since it wasn’t his name she was calling softly, but “Daniel.”
Letting the veil of his assumed character fall over his features, Patrick smiled, a smile conveying pleasure, but hopefully not reflecting the kind of pleasure he was actually experiencing, the kind that was making his toes curl.
“Olivia …” Patrick paused to collect himself. “You take my breath away.” Damn, he thought, that certainly was cool, calm and collected.
A wry smile quickly slid across Olivia’s lips, as if in recognition of the fact that he had tried, and failed, to be appropriately nonchalant.
“Thank you Daniel.” Olivia decided to match his candor with her own. “I spent the last hour whipping myself into shape, just hoping I’d get that kind of reaction.”
Their eyes met, Patrick’s arched and questioning eyebrows and Olivia wide-eyed, and for once in her life, genuinely innocent … and both of them burst out laughing. That seemed to break the momentary tension, and somehow transport them back to the easy banter of the afternoon.
They arrived at Le Bateau Rouge, and, for the extra $50 Patrick slipped the maitre’ d, were shown to a table in an alcove that provided some privacy, and a startlingly clear view of the White House.
Olivia talked to Patrick effortlessly about the frustrations of life on the Protectorate, her feelings that her talents were wasted there, with the world spinning past her as she lived a nineteenth century nightmare. Olivia didn’t tell Patrick about her work with the R.A., but it was all she could do to hold her tongue, considering that she was starring into the eyes of a man whose ancestors her people had probably enslaved.
Patrick considered making her twist in the uncomfortable silence as the barbarity of the protectorate system collided head on with his African lineage. When he saw that she wasn’t going to unburden her soul to him about the R.A., though, he decided to let her off the hook, and told her about his family, and the fact that they had never been slaves.
He assuaged his own guilt at his overarching lie by telling Olivia the true first names, occupations and personalities of his parents and siblings. He talked about his domineering mother and his hen-pecked father, while at the same time imbuing their characters with the complexities that defied those stereotypes.
“And to think,” Olivia said as she swirled her Chateau Souverain in the glass, “it’s all lead to this moment, at this place, at this time in your life.” She teased him with a little laugh.
“You don’t know how true that is, Olivia,” he said with the depth of his feelings apparent in his usually unfathomable eyes. “I feel like I’m letting you crawl into my heart, and I’m more than a little apprehensive at the idea.”
“Daniel, I know you’ve got to be wondering what you’re doing with, what did you call me earlier, a ‘Southern Belle’? But look, how do you think I feel? I think … no I know … Daniel, you can’t always choose who you love, or … I mean … who you’re attracted to … or even like, maybe.” Her voice trailed off at her presumptiveness. “Well, hell, honey, you know what I mean.” Olivia mumbled the last few words, blushing at revealing so much of her heart.
She summoned her courage and tried again. “I mean, the fact of who we are, and that we so clearly feel what we feel, what does that tell you? It tells me not to question fate.”
“Fate, Olivia, is that what you think this is all about? Patrick asked quizzically. “I for one don’t believe in fate. I believe in calculation and computation and science. I believe in deductive reasoning and logical connections to piece together the meaning of the universe.”
“Okay, sugarplum …and again I ask, where has all that got you? Where has it brought you? It’s brought you to me … it’s brought me to you. You can fight it, but I’m gonna embrace it, ’cause you know what darling, ain’t no promises about tomorrow. All we’ve got is today—or, in our case—tonight.” Olivia lowered her lashes seductively at Patrick as she speared a plump strawberry and provocatively rolled it on her tongue.
Patrick watched Olivia’s moist lips caress the strawberry, turned to his left and caught the waiter’s eye. “Check please,” he said as Olivia started to giggle.
CHAPTER 24
Protector Askew was in a foul mood, he knew it and he didn’t give a damn who else did too. He’d spent the last two days undoing the mess his dolt of a son-in-law Bryce had made of the delivery of the field automation equipment.
He’d told that fool to muster a crew of Protector’s Assistants to go to the train depot and get the crated equipment, then have the crates delivered to designated warehouses at each field site, where they’d be stored under canvasses until later. No need stirring up the Servants of the Field with all that, because although they had been bred to be what they were, they weren’t all stupid.
That damn Bryce had gone to get the crates all right, but then he had the bright idea of having the slaves uncrate the machines and store them in the warehouses—uncovered for all the worl
d to see! Askew had gone around to inspect the delivery against the invoices, and lo and behold what did he find? Crews of S.F.s milling around this strange looking machinery trying to puzzle out its purpose and clearly knowing that something wasn’t right.
Askew strode over to the sideboard and opened the decanter of his favorite scotch, sloshing it over the ice that clattered in the glass. He had to chuckle to himself recalling his argument with Bryce. He’d told him that the slaves had limited intelligence, so he didn’t expect much from them, but that as a white man, what the hell was his excuse?
He’d had to pull a bunch of P.A.s together to re-crate each machine, and considering that over 300 had been shipped, that had meant diverting manpower away from the fields and dormitories, shutting down field operations for a time, and running around for two whole days behind Bryce cleaning up that ignoramus’s mess.
Askew wondered what would happen to his land once he passed it onto Bryce and Olivia. If only Olivia had been a boy, he thought for the millionth time, he’d have had a fine heir. But that Bryce was worthless, and his dreams of an heir, given the tattered state of that marriage, were fading fast.
Askew knew that the protectorate was already abuzz with speculation amongst the slaves about the machines. Even in an operation the size of his with over 5,000 acres of crops, the slaves still had a grapevine that worked almost as efficiently as a telephone.
He didn’t know how they did it, and mostly didn’t care, he just knew they always found a way to keep informed about the goings on around them. The key had been to make sure they were misinformed, since it was fruitless to try to prevent them from spreading what they thought they knew. The Rules taught that you couldn’t use punishment alone to whip the slaves into submission, because eventually that led to insurrection. No, instead you had to control their minds, then everything else would follow. That had always been Askew’s belief. Control their minds, and you didn’t really have to worry about the rest of them.
Askew sat down and took his boots off using the toe of one to push the heel of the other, and settled back to enjoy his drink. He stretched his legs out in front of him, pondering how the transition was going to work. He’d received a communication yesterday that the “retirement” date for the slaves had been moved up to the end of October, a mere three weeks away. Askew didn’t know the reason for the change of plans, but figured given the unrest caused by Bryce’s blunder, it might be just as well.
He’d tried to quell the ruckus by having the P.A.s spread the word that the new machines had been delivered so that the cotton could be processed here on the protectorate instead of being shipped to the urban center factories; but since some of the field warehouses that received the machines were for sugar and tobacco, that lie might not hold too long.
Well, thought Askew, what didn’t come out in the wash would come out in the rinse. He’d just have to keep things calm for the next three weeks, then, he thought wryly, he’d have a whole new set of problems to contend with.
Askew had let his head fall onto the chair’s headrest and was actually starting to doze, when he heard a squeal and felt something land on his outstretched legs.
“Grandpa!” Winston yelled. “I missed you, where you been?” Winston had grabbed onto Askew’s leg and was grinning with pure delight at the sight of his grandfather.
Eugenia had been walking around the Protectorate Compound with Winston, and followed him into the room a few steps behind. Just as she crossed the threshold, Askew erupted.
Standing up abruptly and kicking his leg out, Askew sent little Winston flying into the settee nearest his chair. “Goddammit Winston!” Askew bellowed. “Eugenia, get this little bastard out of my face. He’s the last thing I need right around now.” Askew stormed out of the room, leaving Winston crying and Eugenia stunned.
She hurried over to Winston and checked his little body over for injuries. Fortunately, his feelings were all that were hurt, so she tried to soothe him as best she knew how. Sitting in the settee, rocking Winston to sleep, she was puzzled over what Askew had just said.
Here in the South, particularly among the F.F.C., questioning someone’s lineage was a very serious thing. Oh she knew the word “bastard” may not always be used with precision among the P.A.s for example, but then, they weren’t F.F.C. It had been a founding tenet of their society that only certain people were eligible to rule, and the determination of who those people were was strictly a matter of genetics. As a result, calling another a bastard had a very particular meaning among the F.F.C.—it wasn’t a name that tended to be bandied about indiscriminately. What in the world had Askew meant, calling their grandson a bastard?
Eugenia narrowed her eyes in renewed hatred of her husband. She didn’t know exactly what wickedness motivated his outburst toward Winston, but she knew she wouldn’t stand for it. She looked down at the now sleeping child’s tear-stained face, and made a vow to him. He would never know the kind of cruelty at Askew’s hands that she had endured for so many years. Eugenia would take Winston away from all this before she would allow that to happen.
• • •
The heat in the car on the ride back to the Quincy was palpable, and it had nothing to do with the car’s interior temperature. Patrick and Olivia said little, each savoring the delicious cocktail of adrenaline and lust that had overtaken them.
They’d held hands like teenagers in the elevator up to Olivia’s suite, and were strangely shy with one another once they arrived. Closing the door to the bedroom, Olivia crossed the sitting room to where Patrick was standing and snaked her arms around him. Without words they sank into each other, running their hands over each other’s bodies and entangling their limbs until they were forced to seek refuge on the sofa.
Patrick had abandoned any hope of restraint as he breathed in Olivia’s scent and was devoured by her kisses. His mind and body was a jumble of sensations without thought, without calculation. He felt as if he was being reduced to his essence, and it was swirling into hers, joining them deliciously. He kissed her eyes, and her ears and her neck, all the while reveling in the thrill of having found someone with whom he could meld.
Patrick smoothed his hands over Olivia’s back, feeling her soft curves wrapped in the plush velvet of her dress. She pulled open his dress shirt, popping several buttons in her haste and was rewarded with his bare chest. She rubbed her cheek against the triangle of hair she found there and splayed her fingers to grab the crisp curls sculpting themselves to his muscular chest.
Drawn to the musky scent of his body, Olivia turned her head and played her tongue slowly around the aureole of his right nipple as her fingers lightly pinched the left one, driving Patrick to the edge of his restraint.
Grabbing two handfuls of Olivia’s thick auburn hair, Patrick gently pulled her head up, distracting her lips from their labors. Cupping her head with one hand, Patrick buried his mouth in hers, reaching with his other hand to feel the satin of her skin above the silkiness of her stockings, reveling in the tastes and textures and the scent of this woman who was driving him mad.
Feeling the throbbing desire emanating from their intertwined bodies, Patrick heard Olivia’s breaths come in panting gasps as she hiked her dress over her hips and wrapped her legs around him, pinning him to the sofa.
Suddenly, Patrick felt a coldness descend on him. His heart pounded loudly in his chest and he felt short of breath. He sat up and pulled his face away from Olivia’s, trying desperately to avoid what he thought he had vanquished and what he knew must come next. As Patrick fell back on the sofa, Olivia climbed over him, burying his face in her hair as she bathed his neck and chest with hungry kisses.
Feeling as if every molecule in his body had seized up, Patrick was gasping for air. When he finally could draw a breath, he smelled the acrid smell of ammonia, instead of the heady perfume of Olivia. The pungent smell filled his nostrils and went straight to his disoriented mind. The bliss of a few scant minutes ago had turned on Patrick with a stunning viciousn
ess, and he felt like he was fighting for his life.
Patrick jumped up from the sofa, away from Olivia, and staggered toward the door. Olivia was apparently too shocked to speak, but looked up at him with a questioning hurt in her eyes.
“Olivia … I just … can’t do this,” was all he managed to say before grabbing his coat and fleeing from the room.
CHAPTER 25
Olivia had thrown her clothes into her bag through tear-clouded eyes, barely able to discern one garment from another. She had been rejected before, but usually by men she had deliberately pushed to the brink of lunacy in order to avoid being the one to say good-bye.
She had even been dumped a couple of times, always by men she had been lowering herself to be with in the first place, which admittedly had added to the sting of the rejection.
But she had never experienced anything like the Jekyll and Hyde reaction she had apparently inspired in Daniel.
She swept past the doorman after checking out and snapped at the waiting cab driver to take her to Allenby’s. She might as well get a piece of the horseflesh she came up here for since she sure wasn’t getting any other kind.
As soon as she had the thought, she banished it as unworthy. Olivia knew that what she had shared with Daniel, in the short time they’d been together, was much more than animal attraction. She knew it … and that only made her anguish worse. For if she had felt more, then Daniel’s rejection of her could only be some shortcoming in whatever meager feelings he had for her.
Olivia moved like an automaton through the motions required of her at Allenby’s. She had set a limit for each horse of what she was wiling to pay, and even the excitement of competitive bidding failed to spur her on. Usually, she pursued whatever she desired with single-mindedness, and only used her budget as a rough guideline.
