Private Affairs

by Judith Michael

  / want everything. I want to do everything and see everything, sing every song, taste every food, love ecstatically and be passionately loved. . . . I want everything and I want it now . . . why do I have to go a step at a time when I want to fly?

  The air had turned chilly. She unlocked her front door, but before she could go in she heard behind her the sound of tires on the gravel drive. She turned, and saw Tony Rourke stopping his car a few feet away.

  She caught her breath. He was so beautiful and he was like a dream— someone she knew but hadn't seen for so long, except on television—and she could only stare at him as he got out of the car and came up to her, smiling a little crooked smile that seemed so sad she almost couldn't bear it. He took her hand and kissed her cheek, and he said her name, and then, through the jumbled thoughts in her head she heard herself say, "I'm sorry ... I mean I'm not sorry, but . . . mother isn't . . . here."

  "But can't I wait?" he asked, still with that sad little smile.

  "She's not here. She's in San Francisco."

  The smile disappeared. "San Francisco?"

  "Taping ..." She swallowed; it was so hard to talk because she wanted to tell him how beautiful he was and she'd missed him and she thought about him so much and he made all the boys at school seem like children and why did he look so sad? But finally she said only, "They're

  taping her on the Sherry Todd show tomorrow morning; she'll be home in the afternoon."

  "Sherry Todd." He nodded. "Very big." His mouth drooped. "I was so sure . . . Sunday night, you know; I was so sure she'd be home . . . and I wanted so much to apologize. . . ."

  "Apologize? Apologize for what?"

  Tony's brows drew together. "She didn't teD you?"

  "You mean about your show? She said she was mad at Bo and you didn't agree with her about what he'd done and how the show should be handled, and so she decided not to be on it anymore. But it sounded like she was mad at Bo. Did you fight with her?"

  "No ... oh, no, we'd never fight, we were good friends, you know, and we worked together, we were partners, but I said some things that your mother really didn't understand and she did seem angry at me and I've felt so alone, Holly, because I thought she didn't like me anymore and I had to come and tell her how sorry I—" He looked down as if only then realizing he still held Holly's hand. "I never thought she wouldn't be home, you know."

  Blushing, Holly pulled her hand away, then wished she could put it back; it had felt so warm and lovely in his. "She'll be here tomorrow. You could stay in town and wait for her."

  He shook his head. "My father has ordered me to Houston." He gave her a small boy's smile. "When he does that, I always wonder what I've done wrong."

  Holly felt a rush of protectiveness. "You could go to Houston tomorrow."

  Again he shook his head. "I've already disobeyed my orders; I was supposed to be in Houston by now. Holly, could I ask you for something to drink? Are you allowed to offer Scotch to a friend, or would I be corrupting a minor?"

  "Don't be ridiculous," Holly said angrily. "Come in. You're probably hungry, too; wouldn't you like something to eat? There's lots of leftovers—"

  The telephone rang and Holly ran through the living room into the den to answer it. "Just making sure you're there," Saul said. "When a beautiful young woman refuses my offer to accompany her home—"

  "You follow up with a chivalrous phone call. You're sweet, Saul, but you always say exactly the same thing."

  "I always feel exactly the same way about letting a woman walk home alone. You forget, I'm from New York."

  "I don't forget; you keep reminding me. Anyway, this isn't New York, I only walked four blocks, and I'm fine."

  "You're sure?"

  "Of course."

  "You sound breathless."

  "I was outside . . . looking at the stars, and I ran in to answer the phone. Saul, stop worrying. You're worse than Mother."

  "Could be. Okay sweetheart, we'll see you soon. We loved having you, as usual. Come any time."

  "I had a good time, too. Thank Heather for me. And thank you." She hung up and looked through the doorway and met Tony's eyes. He had followed her as far as the living room and had been listening as she avoided mentioning him to Saul.

  We have a secret, she thought.

  "Leftovers," she said, leading the way to the kitchen. "You probably don't remember, but I offered you leftovers a long time ago. You and Mother were going out and I wanted you to stay and I tried to tempt you with paella. I suppose you don't remember. Do you want some dinner?"

  "I would love dinner." He was smiling at her, but it wasn't a sad smile anymore; it was bright, as if he were thinking about something new. "And of course I remember that night; I wanted to stay here but your mother wanted to go out. What I don't remember is where we went."

  "Rancho Encantado." Holly went to the refrigerator, trying to be calm, but she was so excited she was almost shaking. For years she'd dreamed about being alone with Tony and she'd made up all the things they would say to each other, but nothing she had ever imagined had been anything like this: warm and exciting and so happy.

  Drinking his Scotch, Tony sat at the round table where, long, long ago, he had watched Elizabeth fix a lunch for him and Matt. This time he watched Holly fill a platter with cold sliced meat and jalapeno cheese, slices of avocado fanned out with circles of red pepper, and, in the center, a pile of fresh tortilla chips. "How wonderful you are," he said when she put it before him. "But part of this is for you."

  "I ate with friends, just before you got here."

  "The phone call just now?"

  She nodded. "We ate early so I could come back and practice my music."

  "For. . . .?"

  "The senior musical. I have the lead."

  "You always have the lead, as I recall."

  She flushed and nodded. "So far."

  He was eating ravenously, as if he'd been starving for weeks, but he kept looking up at her with that curious brightness in his eyes. "Holly, would you sing something for me?"

  "Of course. Shall I play the piano or sing without it?"

  "Without."

  So, sitting where she was, with no accompaniment and no self-consciousness, Holly sang, in French, one of the Songs of the Auvergne. Lush and sensuous, the long notes rose and fell, the melody lingering, then fading slowly to silence. Tony never took his eyes from hers and she held his look through the whole song, completely poised for the first time since he had appeared. He was stunned by her loveliness. He'd always thought of her as a child, but as he watched her, sitting straight, her head high, so confident in her singing that she looked directly at him instead of fearfully left and right and at the floor, she was a woman. She was a young Elizabeth, with no experience in her face. Her ash-blond hair fell like silk about her shoulders, her mouth was wide, exquisite, and vulnerable, her gray eyes were . . . her gray eyes, fixed on his, were adoring.

  He forgot the emptiness and helpless anger of the past month, when he could not drink enough to wipe out Elizabeth's words and the contempt on her face. He forgot his fears about "Anthony" 's future, the humiliation of dealing with Bo now that he knew Bo represented his father, and his father's peremptory order to come to Houston. In the bright kitchen, everything disappeared but the lovely girl across the table. The blush in her translucent skin was caused, he knew, by Tony Rourke, nothing else.

  But she's Elizabeth's daughter. She's only seventeen or eighteen, still in high school — and Elizabeth's daughter.

  Of course.

  "Dearest Holly," Tony said, and a tremor came into his voice. "I've never been so moved by a song. You almost made me weep."

  "Oh." Her face was radiant. "Thank you. I can't tell you what that means to me."

  "I can't tell you what your singing means to me. And I thank you." He leaned forward. "May I ask just one more favor?"

  "Of course. Anything."

  "If I could have one more drink before I leave—"

  "But you're not le
aving for a long time!"

  "I have my marching orders, remember."

  "But . . . wouldn't you like coffee? You can help yourself to Scotch, but you must want some coffee, too!" Jumping up, she filled the cof-feemaker. "Would you like cookies? Or ice cream?"

  "No, my dear. You're taking very good care of me. But I would like to sit in the living room. Would that be all right?"

  "Oh, yes, of course, it's much more comfortable. Do you want some coffee?"

  "If you'll share it with me."

  "Of course."

  He carried the Scotch; she carried the coffee carafe and two mugs, and they sat at either end of the couch. Holly switched on the lights on the placita, just beyond the sliding glass doors, and the trees and tubs of green plants sprang into view. "It's too bad it's so bright in here," Tony said. "It dims that lovely picture through the glass."

  Without a word, Holly rose and turned off the living room lights. They sat in the soft glow that reached them from the outside lanterns and Tony sighed, loosening his tie and stretching out his legs. "This is the first time I've relaxed in over a month. Thank you for that, dear Holly. You've made me feel wonderful."

  "I'm glad." Her face was hot, her voice almost inaudible. Her hands were clenched in her lap to hide their trembling.

  "Tell me about yourself," he said. "I heard you're going to the Juilliard School. What will you study? What do you want to do?"

  "Everything."

  "Good. Tell me."

  She poured coffee into their mugs and talked, hesitantly at first, then more easily, about college and travel, her favorite books and music, the concerts and operas she dreamed of. She made no mention of high school graduation in two months.

  "Go on," Tony said when she stopped. He refilled his glass, then put his arm along the back of the couch, leaning toward her. "I have to know all about you. You are the most extraordinary woman—unbelievably lovely—and your voice—! I want to know you, dearest Holly; everything about you."

  Holly was dizzy. His voice was dark velvet, wrapping her in soft muffling folds. She sank into it. "I don't know what else—"

  "What kind of jewelry do you like? And clothes? And perfume? What do you dream of? Whom do you love?"

  There was no more talk of his leaving for Houston. It was a dream, Holly thought: Tony Rourke, alone with her, neither bored nor impatient, but interested, admiring, intent on everything she said, wanting to stay. He took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, and, with his elbow on the back of the couch, leaned his head on his hand, watching Holly's face grow animated as she talked.

  "I feel like everything's just waiting for me; the future—all of it— foggy, you know, not really clear, but I know that it's all going to be amazing and incredibly wonderful . . ."

  "To believe in that," he said. "A fairy tale. . . ."

  "But I know it's there, waiting for me—it's mine and it's real, waiting for me to find it. I just can't get there yet. It takes so long and I get impatient because it hurts to want something so much and not know exactly how to get it. ..."

  "You want someone to teach you about the world," Tony said very softly.

  "Yes, all of it: everything there is to learn and see and feel . . ." She was giving away secrets she'd told only Luz—and some she hadn't told anyone. But she was floating in the embrace of Tony's eyes and his dark velvet voice and it was almost like talking to herself: he was so quiet and so absorbed in her he made her feel safe. He made it seem they were the only two people who were real; the rest of the world was distant and shadowy, but he could lead her through it; he would take care of her.

  The lantern light cast shadows on his face, hollowing his cheeks, deepening his eyes, making his thin lips seem fuller. His eyes never left hers, his smile was only for her. I wish he'd kiss me, Holly thought; why does he sit so far away?

  Unexpectedly, the thought frightened her, and she gave her head a little shake. "I'm talking too much about myself. You're hardly talking at all."

  "Later," he said. "I've never talked to you; you wouldn't deny me the chance now, would you? What if I asked you"—his voice became casual —"to appear on my show? A young woman at the beginning of her career. ..."

  "Oh ..." The word drew out into a long sigh. "Could I? I'm not a famous person; no one knows me. ..."

  "I know you."

  "But your producer-—Bo—doesn't he decide—?"

  "I make the decisions. No one else. The show is 'Anthony,' remember? Leave it to me, my lovely Holly; I'll make you famous. People will forget about me—all they'll remember is that I'm the man who discovered Holly Lovell. My bewitching Holly; lovely and so very sweet, so full of life and excitement. ..."

  "Oh, don't," Holly whispered. For some reason she felt like crying even though she was breathing rapidly and her heart was pounding. "Don't tell me things you don't mean. ..."

  "I would never he to you. You're a dream I've longed for all my life. I

  came to this house and found a vision, more exquisite, more warm and welcoming than I ever could have imagined; a desert flower, hidden away, waiting to be found. Thank God I found you. Dearest Holly, you would make the days bright and the nights even brighter for any man lucky enough—"

  "Not any man," she whispered.

  Tony moved along the couch until he sat beside her. "No, you're too precious to love any man . . . you have the whole world to choose from . . ." He touched his fingertips to her eyebrows, and lightly stroked them, again and again, following their curve to the soft skin beside her eyes and along the sides of her face to her chin, then moving back to her eyebrows, his light touch stroking the delicate outline of her face, past her mouth quivering at the corners, and down to her small chin.

  Holly closed her eyes. She was melting; her body flowed toward Tony's. She began to lift her arms, to embrace him, but she was not sure, she didn't know what he wanted, so she lowered them, her hands in her lap, waiting. She felt heavy, barely able to move, sinking, as if a door had opened below her and she was falling through it into a darkness that had nothing in it but the touch of his fingers sending pulsing ripples through her body, to the soles of her feet and the palms of her hands and her mouth, open, waiting for him. "Tony," she whispered, loving the sound of it. "Tony . . . Tony. . . ."

  Slipping his arm around her shoulders, he eased her back until she lay full length on the couch. He leaned over her, brushing her lips with his, forcing himself to go slowly. Very lightly, he brushed them again, barely a kiss, feeling them quiver beneath his. With feathery fingers, almost imperceptibly, he began unbuttoning the long row of tiny buttons that ran from her throat to the hem of her white dress, cursing the number of them, but patiently taking them one at a time. "Tony," Holly whispered, and made a slight move to sit up.

  "Dearest Holly," he murmured. His hands held her down. "My sweet enchantress; you've woven a spell around both of us ... I won't hurt you, my lovely, lovely one; I promise I would never hurt you ... I only want to love you. . . ."

  The top of the dress was unbuttoned and he slipped it back over her shoulders, sliding his hands slowly around her back, her skin warm and silken beneath his palms. She shuddered as he unhooked her brassiere, freeing her breasts, small and firm with a slight curve hinting at fullness. Just like Elizabeth's. . . .

  For Holly the room had turned dark; there was a roaring in her ears like the sea when it thundered just before a storm. She was trembling;

  sighing in little bursts; not thinking, just feeling. The cool air on her breasts was a caress and she waited for Tony's hands to hold them. In her mind she could feel his hands and his lips: she had never let any boy touch her breasts, but she had imagined an unknown, perfect man doing it—she had imagined Tony Rourke doing it—and now she waited, her nipples taut and puckered as if Ins hands and mouth were on them. . . .

  But he did not touch her. Holly thought she would burst from the trembling of every nerve. Touch me, please touch me, Tony. Please kiss me; I can V stand it if you don 7. . . .
<
br />   She opened her eyes and saw him watching her. holding his hands above her breasts, curved to match their curve. It gave her a little shock to see him. his eyes dark on hers, his hands held above her. refusing the caress she ached for. but she was barely aware of the shock before he her a small smile and bent again to her buttons, those tiny buttons that marched down the pure white of her dress. He slipped them from the small loops that held them, his hand moving slowly from one to the next until the dress lay opened on either side of Holly like the petals of a flower spread apart to expose its hidden center.

  "My God." he murmured. "So fragile and perfect, like porcelain . . " He slipped his hands beneath the waistband of her pantyhose, lifting her and pulling them down, his hands burning on Holly's skin as. very slowly. he drew the sheer nylon down her thighs, her legs, and over her slender feet.

  Silently he studied her. from her silken hair to her long legs. He was as taut as a wire, wanting to bite and tear into her. to pound her. but he devoured her first with his eyes, watching, with the faint smile that never left his face, the ripples of her muscles, the arched back that lifted her breasts to him. the plea in her eyes. She wanted him: she was begging him to take her.

  He stood and tore off his clothes. When he turned back. Holly's eyes were closed— Just like Elizabeth, the first time —and he lay beside her. whispering her name as his tongue played in her ear. then kissing her nipples, taking them into his mouth, rolling his tongue over them, sucking until she was making small breathless gasps. He raised himself on his elbow and parted her legs, stroking the inside of her thighs, exploring her wetness with his ringer. And then at last Tony Rourke lay on Holly Lovell's slender body. Elizabeth, he thought, and ruthlessly thrust himself into her.

  Holly cried out at the pain, like a knife twisting inside her. Desire fled: languor and sensuality vanished. Her eyes filled with tears, pain radiating through her as Tony moved inside her. What am I doing?

  But then, through the pain, his name rang in her mind like a song. Tony. Tony was making love to her. For years she had dreamed it, and her dream had come true. So it had to be all right, it had to be wonderful and ecstatic and passionate. Because Tony loved her. She just had to wait for it to be wonderful; she had to be careful not to disappoint him, and then everything would be perfect, as it always was in her dreams.