The Game Is Played

by Joan Hohl

Her own hunger aroused, Helen returned his kiss, barely aware of what he was doing, when she felt his hands loosen her belt, pull her arms down, slide her robe off. But she was aware of his hands moving over the silky material of her nightgown, was aware of the sudden need to feel those hands against her skin. The awareness brought momentary sanity. Tearing her mouth from his, she gasped for air, finally found her voice.

  “Marsh, no…” Helen couldn’t breathe properly and she paused to draw a short, shallow breath. She shuddered as his lips nibbled along the strained cord in her neck. “Oh, Marsh, no,” It was a feeble protest against his hands sliding the gown’s narrow straps from her shoulders. The gown slid to the floor silently, and then Helen’s body became electrically charged at the touch of his hands. His lips found the beginning swell of her breasts and she moaned softly. Moving lazily, the tip of his tongue driving the flame yet higher, his mouth retraced the trail to her lips. Reason was gone, common sense was gone; all that was left was the ache to be with him. Sliding her arms around his neck, she dug her fingers into his hair. Lifting his head, he stared down at her, his breathing ragged,

  “Sweet Lord, I can’t wait anymore,” he whispered hoarsely. “I won’t wait anymore.”

  Bending swiftly, he swung her up into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. He laid her gently onto the bed, then straightened, his eyes caressing her as he pulled his silky knit sweater over his head and tossed it into a corner. When his hand went to the snap at the waistband of his jeans, Helen closed her eyes. He was beside her in seconds, his skin warm and firm against hers. “Marsh, I—”

  “I love you,” he whispered fiercely, his mouth closing off any further protests from her. His hands brought every inch of her skin tinglingly alive, his mouth drove her to the edge of madness. Aching, moaning deep in her throat, she opened her eyes wide when he ordered, “Tell me you love me.”

  “I love you,” she repeated weakly.

  “Again.”

  “I love you.” A little stronger this time.

  “Again.”

  “I love you. I love you. Damn you, I love you.”

  “Good.” Blatant satisfaction coated his tone.

  Her nails punished him, but he laughed softly. “You have a hunger almost as great as mine, love.” He kissed her, his tongue probing until she arched uncontrollably against him.

  “What do you want, love?” he teased.

  “Don’t,” she pleaded.

  “Tell me what you want,” he demanded relentlessly.

  “You,” she sobbed. “I want you. Don’t torture me, Marsh, please.”

  “Torture? You don’t know the meaning of the word.” His lips teased hers, the tip of his tongue ran along the outline of her upper lip. “I wanted to hear you say it, Helen. I had to hear it.” His body shifted, blanketing hers, and with a whispered, but definite “Now,” his lips ceased their teasing, became hard, urgent.

  It was everything a younger Helen had once hoped it would be. And much, much more than her imagination had ever dared hope for. Slowly, gently, Marsh guided her through the first fleeting moments of discomfort, then, his passion unleashed, he introduced her to a world she’d never dreamed existed. A world of pure sensation, of tension almost unbearable, of pleasure so exquisite that it held a thread of pain. Finer, yet more defined, the sweet bud of agony slowly blossomed. When it burst into full bloom there was soaring joy, shuddering victory, and one brief moment of unconsciousness that filled Helen with wonder. And the most incredible thing was that the near perfection could be repeated, as Marsh proved at regular intervals, over and over again. It was after four in the morning before Marsh, with a softly taunted “Quitter,” let her drift into sleep.

  The eerie silence that smothers the world with a heavy snowfall woke Helen late in the morning. Without moving, she opened her eyelids slowly. The space on the bed beside her was empty. Turning her head, her eyes came to his tall form, standing in front of the window. Barely breathing, she studied that form, a sharp pain stabbing at her heart. He had pulled on his jeans, but nothing else, and with his fingers tucked into his back pockets, his muscles bunched tautly in his arms across his shoulders. Head up, somber-faced, he stared out through the window, a quality of waiting about him.

  Waiting for what? To laugh? To crow over his triumph? To be prepared to smile indulgently as she meekly accepted his terms? Helen squirmed inwardly at her own thoughts, hating herself for her own weakness—almost hating him for taking advantage of that weakness.

  Her eyes closed again, covering the pain and despair he could have easily read had he turned his head. She knew what she looked like in the morning. She faced that reality every day. Face pale, tiny lines of strain and years around her eyes and mouth. And this morning she would look even worse with her hair a tangled mess framing her pale face,

  Helen would have been more shocked had someone thrust a mirror in front of her, forced her to open her eyes. The afterglow of love still tinged her cheeks; the tiny lines of strain had smoothed out, been partially erased by the release of tension; and the disarray of her hair gave her an untamed, sensual look. In essence the image she would have seen reflected in a mirror, and that Marsh did see when he turned his head, was of a breathcatchingly beautiful woman. But no one did place a mirror in front of her, and Helen was convinced, on opening her eyes and finding Marsh’s brooding ones on her, that what those hooded eyes observed displeased him.

  Unable to bear those unreadable eyes on her, the taut, waiting stillness that held him, her hands curled into tight, determined fists under the covers. He had played his ace to her king, but if he thought he had won the game he was in for a shock. She still held one card and she would let him squirm awhile before she played it. The veneer of cool professionalism was pulled into place. In a voice withdrawn, detached from all the happenings of the past night, Helen clipped, “Are you happy now? Are you satisfied?”

  * * *

  Chapter 10

  Marsh didn’t move. A flame leaped brightly in his blue eyes, then was instantly, deliberately, quenched.

  “Am I satisfied?” His voice, devoid of emotion, had a frighteningly dead sound. “For the moment yes. Am I happy? Now? No.”

  Well, Helen thought dismally, you certainly couldn’t argue with a statement as definite as that. It wasn’t quite what she had expected, but then, when had he ever done anything quite like she’d expected?

  “Helen, about last night—”

  No! a voice screamed inside her head. No, she would not listen to terms or possible plans or—maybe—rejection, not while she still lay on the battlefield of her own defeat.

  “Marsh,” she interrupted quickly. “I want to have a shower, get dressed.” Dragging the sheet with her, she sat up.

  “Helen,” Marsh gritted impatiently, “we have got to talk about—”

  “Marsh, please.” She again cut him off. “Will you leave this room so I can get up?”

  His body stiffened, and she could see the battle that raged inside him. Then, with a curt nod, he turned and strode across the room, scooping his sweater off the floor in passing, and left the room, closing the door with an angry snap.

  Fighting the urge to run after him, to agree to everything and anything he wanted, Helen slid off the bed and ran into the bathroom.

  Twenty minutes later she walked into the kitchen to face him, her resolve strengthened, her course clearly mapped out in her mind.

  He had made a pot of coffee and stood leaning against the counter, a cup of steaming brew cradled in his hands. Her small kitchen radio played softly in the background. When she entered the room, he set down his cup, filled a matching one for her, handed it to her, then tilted his head at the only window in the room.

  “I’ve just heard a weather report,” he said quietly. “We had over a foot of snow during the night and it’s still snowing heavily. The weather bureau is calling for another three to five inches.”

  A very safe subject, Helen thought cynically, the weather. Falling in with
his lead, she murmured, “Driving is going to be a nightmare. It’s a good thing you took your car home.”

  He nodded and polished off half his coffee in several swallows. The subject of the weather exhausted, a strained, uneasy silence vibrated between them. They both jumped at the sudden, discordant ring from the phone. Helen snatched up the receiver on the second ring, beating her service to it.

  “Dr. Cassidy.”

  “Doctor, this is David Stewart. My wife fell a little while ago and is in labor.” The man rushed all in one breath. Gasping quickly, he hurried on. “What the hell am I going to do? I can’t even get my car out of the garage.”

  Conjuring up a mental picture of Cheryl Stewart, Helen asked calmly, “How far apart are the contractions?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered distractedly, then, “just a minute, my mother-in-law is timing it now.” There was a short pause, then, “Five minutes, Doctor.”

  “Mr. Stewart, give me your address, then go hold your wife’s hand,” Helen’s calm voice soothed. “I’ll send an ambulance out and meet you at the hospital.”

  “But can an ambulance get out here in this mess?” His voice was now frantic. Hearing an outcry of pain in the background, Helen knew why. This was the Stewarts’ first baby.

  “I’m sure it can, Mr. Stewart, if you get off the line and let me call for one.”

  The line went dead. A small smile pulling at her lips, Helen put through the call for an ambulance. The dispatcher’s harried “As soon as possible, Doctor” erased the smile, triggered a curl of unease. Her face thoughtful, Helen replaced the receiver. Glancing around at Marsh, she tossed the address at him.

  “Can you get me out there?”

  “Yes.” He caught on at once. “You don’t feel right about this?”

  “I’m probably running you on a wild-goose chase.” Helen smiled apologetically. “But no, I don’t feel right about it.”

  “So jump into your boots, grab your coat, and let’s go.” He was already moving toward the living room.

  Helen did exactly as he suggested. Less than ten minutes later, ready to go out the door, Helen paused, turned back to Marsh.

  “In the closet, at the far end of the shelf, there’s a black bag. Will you get it for me, please?”

  Walking to the elevator, bag in his hand, Marsh lifted a questioning eyebrow at Helen.

  “I don’t even know what made me think of it. I’ve never used it,” she explained softly. “My father gave it to me when I entered premed.” She hesitated, a gentle smile curving her lips. “He had hoped I’d follow him into general practice.”

  As Helen had predicted earlier, driving was a nightmare. Even with the four-wheel drive, negotiating the truck through the heavy wet snow required all Marsh’s concentration, and as Helen was busy with her own thoughts, the drive was completed in near silence. When Marsh turned onto the street where the Stewarts lived, Helen sighed with a mixture of relief and disappointment. She had hoped to see an ambulance, if only the retreating lights of one, but the street was empty, the snow virgin, smooth.

  As he parked the truck Marsh grunted, “At least a path’s been shoveled to the curb.” Stepping out, he advised, “Slide under the wheel and get out this side.”

  David Stewart had the door open before they were halfway up the walk.

  “Where the hell is that ambulance, Doctor?” His voice was heavy with strain, his face pale. “Her pains are getting closer.”

  “They’ll get here as soon as they can.” Helen’s tone was soothing as she walked into the small foyer. She removed her coat then went still at the outcry of a woman in pain. “Where is she? Ill—”

  “I don’t think this baby is going to wait for an ambulance. Come with me, Doctor.”

  Helen moved automatically toward the older woman who stood in an archway that led off the living room. Without another word the woman turned and led the way along a short hallway and into a bedroom. Cheryl Stewart lay on the bed, her face drawn with pain, her brow wet with sweat,

  “Oh, Doctor,” she gasped. “I’m so glad to see you. The pains are very bad.”

  “She’s been very good up until now, Doctor,” Cheryl’s mother offered. “I managed to get a plastic sheet and towels under her before her water broke.”

  Drawing the covering sheet away, Helen nodded her approval. It required the briefest examination to ascertain the truth of the older woman’s statement. This baby was not going to wait for anything. Cheryl gasped with the onslaught of another contraction, and Helen urged, “Don’t fight it, Cheryl, go with it.”

  About to call to Marsh to bring her bag, Helen smiled in gratitude when he placed it beside her, asking, “What can I do to help?”

  “I think there’s a packaged pair of gloves in there. Will you get them for me?”

  After that she simply had to ask for what she wanted and it was handed to her. Sheets were draped, tent-like, over the girl’s legs, and speaking quietly, encouragingly, Helen delivered the baby.

  “Stop pushing now,” Helen instructed Cheryl when she held the baby’s head and one shoulder in her hands. Then to Marsh, “The syringe ready?”

  “Right here” came the calm reply.

  Guiding the small form with her hands, Helen drew the baby into the world, then taking the syringe Marsh handed her, she cleaned the tiny mouth and nostrils of birth mucus. The infant sputtered, then began to cry, and Helen placed the red-faced child on Cheryl’s stomach.

  “You have a beautiful son, Cheryl,” she told the exhausted girl.

  When she was satisfied that the baby was breathing spontaneously, Helen cut the lifeline cord, unaware that the ambulance had arrived or that the two attendants waited in the hall to take over.

  They entered the room as she swabbed the blood from the baby’s face.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Helen ordered briskly, wrapping the baby up warmly while the attendants carefully covered Cheryl. “I’ll suture in the hospital. Marsh, if you’ll follow behind with Mr. Stewart, I’ll ride in the ambulance.”

  Marsh nodded, holding her coat for her, and as she slipped into it he whispered, “That was beautiful, Helen. You’re fantastic.”

  It had stopped snowing and the streets were in somewhat better condition by the time they returned to the Stewart house several hours later. After dropping off a much happier-looking David, Marsh suggested they go to his apartment for something to eat.

  “No, Marsh.” Helen shook her head firmly. “There’s plenty of food in my fridge. Besides, I need a shower. I’m tired. I want to go home and get comfortable.” She didn’t bother to add that her tiredness stemmed more from her lack of sleep the night before than the events of the day. She wasn’t quite ready to tackle that subject yet.

  After a relaxing shower Helen prepared a quick meal of canned soup and bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches. Although they kept the conversation light and general while they ate, Helen could feel the tension of the morning tautening between them again. When the supper things were cleared away, they carried their coffee into the living room. Coffee cup in hand, Marsh paced back and forth for several minutes, then came to an abrupt halt in front of Helen,

  “Can we talk now?”

  “There is nothing to talk about.” Glancing up, Helen saw his lips tighten.

  “Last night was nothing?” he asked sharply.

  “I didn’t say that” Helen stood up, walked to the window. Her back to him, she said, “What I meant was, it doesn’t change anything.”

  “Really?” Marsh mocked dryly. “I’d have thought it changed everything.” A small smile replaced the mockery on his lips. “Helen, I told you at the beginning that my intentions were honorable. I’m asking you to marry me.”

  “No,” Helen answered at once, afraid to give herself time to think, to weaken. “It wouldn’t work. My life suits me just as it is. I want no commitments, no strings.”

  “AH right, we’ll play it your way.” His smile deepened as he slowly crossed the room to her. “We’
ll live together without ceremony. You can move into my place or”—at her frown—”I’ll move in here.” He shrugged, coming to a stop before her. “It doesn’t matter where, as long as I know that when you leave the office or the hospital or wherever, you’ll be coming home to me. There’ll be no commitments, no strings, no pressures, I promise.”

  “No, Marsh.” Feeling sick, Helen watched the smile leave his face, his eyes narrow.

  “I believe you said you love me last night,” he said quietly.

  “That admission was forced out of me,” Helen snapped.

  “And that changes it?” he snapped back. “I also believe I told you I love you—at least fifty times.”

  “And I’m positive you believe it—now.” Helen backed away from the sudden flare in his eyes. “And I’m positive you believe you could be content with the arrangement you’ve suggested.” Holding up her hand to prevent him from interrupting, she hurried on. “But I’m also very positive that the day would come when that arrangement would not be enough, when you’d ask for more, and I’m not prepared to play the three traditional roles. Not even for you.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marsh was obviously confused. “What three roles?”

  Her heart feeling like a lead weight in her chest, Helen looked him squarely in the eyes and coldly, flatly, threw down her ace of trump.

  “The cook in your kitchen, the Madonna in your nursery, the mistress in your bed. For whether you believe it now or not, Marsh, I’m positive that the day will come when you’ll come home hungry at dinnertime and I won’t be here, either to make a meal or go out with you for one, and you’ll resent it. And I don’t need that.”

  “Helen.”

  “And the nights will come,” Helen went on, as if he hadn’t spoken, “when, after I’ve been called out, you’ll lay alone on the bed and the dissatisfaction will grow. And I don’t need that”

  “Helen.”

  There was a low, angry warning in his tone now, and yet Helen went on.

  “And the day will surely come when the desire for an extension of yourself, in the form of a child, will bring that resentment and dissatisfaction to an angry confrontation. And I don’t need that.”