The Game Is Played

by Joan Hohl

With a smile on her lips that was pure honey, and tasted in her mouth like straight acid, Helen introduced Marsh to friends as they moved around the room. Helen was aware of more than one pair of eyebrows raised over eyes full of shocked disbelief, and she could imagine what everyone was thinking. She was rarely ever seen with a man, and when she was, it was usually with a close friend who was the husband of a closer friend. People who were her friends knew she simply did not indulge. Now here she was, not only with a man they had never met before, but a younger one as well. Helen had a feeling of certainty that the post-party conversations between husbands and wives would be loaded with speculation.

  Marsh seemed sublimely unaware of it all. The glittery, assessing glances from women of varying ages, the raised brows, even the sharp inspection from her chief, apparently went over his head. But Helen saw it, and she didn’t like it, not any of it.

  Along the one end of the long room a table had been placed for the retiree and his family. In front of that, placed informally, were the other tables. Beyond them a large space had been left clear for dancing, and at the other end a small combo awaited their cue to begin playing. Along the far wall a long buffet table had been set up, and next to that was an almost equally long bar.

  Marsh found a table, tucked against a pillar, barely big enough for two and that’s where they sat, turning down, with a smile, the numerous offers from friends to join them. Helen knew it was real friendship that prompted the offers, friendship and a big dash of curiosity.

  After the short speeches were made and the toasts given, the party’s planner invited everyone to help himself to the food and the dance floor.

  To the background music of a popular new ballad, Marsh asked, “Do you want something to eat or drink?”

  “Not yet.” Helen shook her head.

  “Good, let’s dance.”

  All the way to the dance floor Helen was called to, waved at, but Marsh would not let her stop. A smile on his lips, his hand firmly grasping hers, he kept moving, until, reaching the dancing area, he turned her into his arms with an exaggerated sigh.

  “I had no idea you had so many friends,” he groaned. “Didn’t you mention that only some of your friends would be here tonight?”

  “They aren’t all close friends, Marsh.” Helen laughed softly. “There are quite a few people here I only see at the hospital.” Her smile remained, but her tone went dry. “I think you’re the one causing all this sudden interest in me.”

  “I can’t imagine why,” he drawled. “I’m really very ordinary.”

  Oh, sure, Helen thought, about as much as Pavarotti was ordinary compared to other tenors.

  An attractive young nurse, a Linda something-or-other, not at all shy or reticent, tapped Helen on the shoulder. Glancing around, Helen’s eyes went wide with surprise at the young woman’s words.

  “Can I cut in, Doctor?” She smiled beautifully. “I was just saying to the girls I’m with that your escort is the best-looking man on the dance floor and—well—they dared me to cut in on you.”

  Astounded, Helen didn’t know what to say until, flicking a glance at Marsh, she saw the amusement tugging at his lips.

  “But of course,” she purred sweetly. “I was dying for something to drink anyway.” Moving out of Marsh’s arms, away from his mocking eyes, she wiggled her fingers at him. “Have fun.”

  Helen accepted the glass of champagne from the bartender and took a large swallow, her eyes gleaming with fury. And he says the difference in our ages doesn’t matter, she fumed. She swallowed some more of the wine then looked at the glass as if seeing it for the first time. No wonder I feel like a fool, she thought bitterly, I am one. And if I’m not careful, in another minute I’ll be a smashed fool.

  “Good evening, Helen. It’s been a long time.”

  The deep-timbered voice jerked her mind away from her own shortcomings and her head around to stare into the handsome face of Carl Engle.

  “Oh! Hello, Carl.” Helen smiled coolly. “You startled me.”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” He smiled warmly. “May I get you more wine?”

  Helen frowned at the empty glass in her hand. She didn’t even remember finishing it.

  “Yes, please.” Even though she didn’t want it, Helen decided she’d look like even more of a fool standing around with an empty glass in her hand.

  While Carl spoke to the waiter, then waited for a fresh glass of wine, Helen studied him unobtrusively. She had seen him at various functions over the past few years, but this was the first time she looked, really looked, at him.

  There was not a hint of gray in the fair hair that contrasted beautifully with the deep tan on his handsome face. And he had matured into a handsome man, Helen admitted. Tall, still slim, his brown eyes bright and alert, he’d catch the eye of more than his share of females. Helen felt a strange sensation at the thought. If he had exercised some judgment, acquired a little maturity while still in college, he would probably be her husband today. For some unknown reason Helen was very glad he hadn’t and wasn’t.

  “Are you here alone?” He turned back to her, the smile deepening, revealing even white teeth.

  “No, I came with—”

  “Me.” Marsh finished the sentence for her, his eyes somber as they went slowly over Carl.

  “Carl Engle, Marshall Kirk.” Helen introduced quietly. Marsh’s eyes narrowed a fleeting second, but it was the only indication he gave that he’d ever heard the name before. So much, Helen thought wryly, for his saying he’d thank Carl if he ever met him.

  Two arms were extended, hands were clasped and almost immediately released.

  “Kirk.” Carl mused. “Any connection to the accounting firm of Kirk and Terrell?”

  “The same Kirk,” Marsh answered quietly.

  “I’ve heard some very good things about your firm,” Carl murmured. “You’re connected with Hannlon Construction also, aren’t you?”

  “My grandfather,” Marsh admitted.

  “I know your sister, Kristeen,” Carl said, then smiled at Marsh’s raised brows. “I’m your niece’s pediatrician.” Before Marsh could reply, Carl smiled at Helen. “Another patient to thank you for, Dr. Cassidy.”

  “The choice is theirs.” Helen shrugged. “If they ask for a recommendation, I supply three names.”

  “Well, thank you for including me in the three.” Carl laughed. “Now, as the saying goes, may I have the next dance?”

  “Excuse me,” Marsh inserted before Helen could think of a polite way of saying no. “I promised Helen I’d take her to the buffet as soon as that dance was finished.”

  “Of course,” Carl replied. “Maybe later.”

  Marsh smiled thinly in answer, grasped Helen’s arm, and led her toward the end of the long table.

  “I distinctly remember telling you I was not hungry,” Helen chided coolly.

  “I distinctly remember you telling me you were not thirsty,” Marsh retorted, one eyebrow arched at her half-empty glass.

  They ate in silence, Helen picking disinterestedly at the small amount of food on her plate. When Marsh had cleaned off his plate, he tossed his napkin on top of it and pinned her with very cool blue eyes,

  “Did you want to dance with him?” His tone was cold and, Helen thought, somehow condemning. Her hackles rose.

  “Would it have mattered if I did?” She didn’t wait for him to answer, adding sweetly, “Did you enjoy your dance?”

  Watching his eyes narrow, Helen felt sick. Even to herself she sounded like a jealous, possessive woman.

  “Not particularly,” he finally answered. “I’m not turned on by gushy, clingy females.”

  “Too bad,” she purred, looking beyond him. “There’s another, probably the gushiest, heading this way. I imagine they’ll all ask you now.”

  Helen recognized the girl coming toward them, for it was the student who had referred to Marsh as “totally bad” on the day Helen met him.

  When she stopped at their table, Marsh
stood up, a charmingly polite smile on his lips.

  “Oh, Mr. Kirk.” The girl actually did gush. “Doctor, I hope you don’t mind, but Linda will be unbearable for the rest of the night if the rest of us don’t get a dance.”

  “How many are the rest of you?” Marsh asked warily.

  “Four,” the girl answered brightly. “Including me.”

  Helen saw Marsh’s lips tighten, but before he could say a word, she laughed softly. “Four’s not many. Go along, Marsh.” She dismissed him airily. “I’m perfectly happy here ... by myself.”

  Marsh made a motion with his hand for the girl to precede him, then before following her, he turned a thunderous look on Helen. “You’ll pay for this, woman,” he whispered harshly.

  Helen watched his retreating back, deriving a malicious pleasure in the stiffness of it. He certainly didn’t like being manipulated.

  “Time for that dance now, Helen?” Carl stood beside her, an expectant smile on his face.

  “Yes, thank you.” Helen smiled, thinking, Well, why not? Any thing’s better than sitting here like the proverbial wallflower.

  Carl had always been a good dancer, smooth, easy to follow, and after a few minutes Helen felt some of the angry tautness leave her.

  “You’ve matured into a beautiful woman, Helen.” Carl’s voice was low, oddly urgent.

  A tiny smile touching her lips at his unknowing echo of her earlier thoughts about him, she glanced up.

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you ever forgiven me, Helen?” he asked abruptly.

  Helen’s glance wavered then grew steady again. “There’s nothing to forgive, for nothing really happened.” No actual rape that is, she amended mentally, only two blows, the second with your fist. “I never think of it.” She lied. Then what, she chided herself, were you sobbing about in Marsh’s arms that night?

  “We could have made it together.”

  “What?” His incredible words shocked her out of her thoughts.

  “You and I,” he explained softly. “We could have made it very good.” He drew her a little closer, and amazed at his cool presumption, Helen didn’t resist. In fact she was hardly aware of him, for she had just caught a glimpse of Marsh with yet another girl in his arms, a little older, much prettier than the others.

  “We still could, Helen.” The urgent voice tried to draw her attention.

  “How?” Helen wasn’t even sure of what he was saying. All she was sure of was the hot jealousy running through her veins and the sick shame that jealousy spawned.

  “Don’t be naive, darling.” Carl’s lips touched her hair as he brought her closer still. “My wife would never know, and even if she did, I doubt if she’d care.”

  His lips, as well as his words, brushing her ear, brought her alert. She knew his wife and had heard of the number of mistresses he’d had.

  “I find that a little hard to believe,” she said carefully.

  “You needn’t, I assure you.” Again his arms tightened, and Helen felt anger replace her jealousy. “My wife’s a little girl playing house. Only in her case the dolls are our children and the playhouse furniture is life-sized. As long as her little domain is not threatened, she couldn’t care less what I do.” He paused then added fatuously, “You do understand, I have no intention of threatening that domain.”

  Of course not, Helen thought furiously, you’re not stupid. Why lose the goodwill of a very prominent and influential father-in-law, if you can have your cake and eat it. Helen placed her hands on his chest, about to push him away while she told him exactly what she thought of him. She didn’t get a chance to do either.

  “May I cut in?” Marsh’s voice was low, deceptively quiet “I believe you promised me this dance, Helen.” His arm slid around her waist, his fingers gripped painfully.

  “Yes, of course.” Helen was suddenly breathless with apprehension. Good Lord, she couldn’t allow him to make a scene here. “And then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”

  Marsh nodded, started to turn her away, but Carl, seeming to think her words were a good sign for him, said softly, “I’ll call you, Helen.”

  “No, you won’t.”

  Flat, final, the words hung between the two men like a sword. Marsh’s eyes cold, detached, bored into Carl’s. Carl’s dropped first as, with a shrug, he smile faintly and walked away.

  “Marsh, really, you—”

  “Be quiet, Helen.” Marsh’s tone matched his eyes for coldness. “Do you want to dance or do you want to go home?”

  “I—” Helen drew a deep breath. “I think we’d better go.”

  Without a word he turned on his heel, grasped her arm, and headed for the door. After hasty farewells to their host Helen found herself rushed to the cloakroom. Marsh asked for his car to be brought around, and as they stepped out of the door Helen gasped. There was at least three inches of snow on the ground and it was still coming down hard.

  Driving was bad, requiring all Marsh’s concentration, and the distance to her apartment was covered in silence. Helen could feel his anger beating against her like storm-tossed waves. Knowing there would be a confrontation when they got to her place, Helen almost dreaded arriving home. To her surprise he did not drive onto the parking lot, but pulled up, motor running, under the marquee that protected the entrance. She hesitated a second but when he didn’t speak or even look at her, she slid across the seat, got out, closed the door carefully, and ran into the building.

  Inside her apartment Helen went straight to her bedroom. She was wearing thin-strap evening sandals and her feet had gotten soaked in her short dash through the snow to the car. Now she felt chilled to the bone, not only from her foot soaking. She stripped, then took a hot shower, slipped into her nightgown and quilted, belted robe, and started for the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

  The doorbell’s ring stopped her in the kitchen doorway. Now who in the world? Helen glanced at the clock. At this hour? The ring came again, short, angry sounding. Helen walked slowly to the door, checked to see if the chain was in place, then opened the door two inches.

  Marsh stood in the hall looking every bit as angry as he had when he’d dropped her off less than forty-five minutes ago. He also looked the tough construction worker he’d once been, dressed in a suede, fur-lined jacket, brushed-denim jeans, and what looked like logging boots laced almost to the knee.

  “What do you want?” Slipping the chain, Helen stepped back. He walked in far enough to close the door. One eyebrow arched mockingly.

  “There are a few questions I want answers to.” He slipped out of his jacket.

  “But why didn’t you ask them when you brought me home?” She moved away from him edgily.

  “I wanted to get the car home.” He bent over, began unlacing his boots.

  “But—”

  “I have one of the company’s four-wheel-drive pickups,” he answered before she could ask. After tugging the boots off, he padded across the room to her. His eyes were cool, direct

  “Do you still feel something for him?”

  Helen gasped. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been that.

  “Carl?”

  The confusion in her tone seemed to anger him even more. Grasping her shoulders painfully, he pulled her close to him.

  “Yes, Carl,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “While you were in his arms.” His lips twisted, his tone grew sarcastic. “While you were held so very closely in his arms, dancing, did you find you still feel something for him?”

  “No.” It was stated simply, positively, but it didn’t satisfy him.

  “Then why did you allow him to practically crawl all over you?” he snapped. “What was he saying to you?”

  Helen could have cried aloud. She didn’t want to answer him. He was mad enough already. She hesitated a moment. It was a moment too long.

  “Answer me, Helen.” He gave her a little shake. “What did he say?”

  “He suggested an ... arrangem
ent.” She sighed. “He also assured me his wife would not interfere. You men are wonderful creatures, aren’t you?” she ended bitterly.

  A flame flared in Marsh’s eyes. “It takes two to play that kind of game. A man and a woman.” His fingers dug into her arms. “What did you tell him?”

  “I wanted to tell him to go to hell.” Helen’s eyes flashed back at him. “But you showed up before I could.”

  Helen could actually see the anger seep out of him. His face became less rigid; his fingers relaxed their punishing hold.

  “If he calls you,” he spat out, “or dares to try to see you—”

  “I’m sure he won’t,” Helen said quickly, feeling his fingers tighten again. “I think you made it very clear that he shouldn’t.”

  “He’d better not.” He drew her closer, his fingers loosening again, massaging her tender skin. Then her eyes widened as he breathed softly, “You’re mine, Helen. And the game is over.”

  “No, I’m—”

  His mouth caught her parted lips, silencing her. If the kiss had been rough or hard, she could have fought him. It was neither. Gently, tenderly, his mouth put his stamp of ownership on her. Melting, trembling, she felt his hand slide down her back, his arm gather her tightly to him.

  His mouth left hers, moved slowly across her cheek to her ear.

  “Helen, Helen.” The voice that whispered her name was raw. “Oh, God, I love you. Hold me, love. Please hold me.”

  Helen’s arms slid up and around his neck, and she closed her eyes against the quick hot sting inside. Turning her face into the side of his neck, she breathed in deeply. His cologne, plus the male scent of him, confused her thinking.

  “Marsh,” she whispered, trying to hang on to her evaporating reason. “You—we shouldn’t.”

  “Yes, we should.” His warm breath feathered her ear, tickled its way down the length of her body. “We should have long ago.”

  His mouth left a fiery trace over her face, back to her lips. And now she was ready for the driving force that crushed her mouth, made dust of her resistance. Tiny little sparks burst into flames inside her. Flames that leaped higher and higher as his mouth grew more demanding.