"Jollies? Trout? Please, what are those?"
"Never mind. You smug little con artist." He was so close that his breath feathered her lips. He looked not too adverse to kissing them, but she couldn't be certain. He continued to stroke her with the same slow, forceful movements of his fingers. "Are you or are you not fully recovered from what happened last night?"
"I'm fully recovered. Sleep and rest are the only treatments. I swear to you, there's nothing for you to worry about now. I love you for your worry, but you must trust me. I don't intend to destroy myself when I help others. I don't take foolish chances."
"Elena, when I woke up and looked at you, your face was red and you were breathing as if you were having an asthma attack.'"
"Hasn't that happened to your women before? I thought you were a worldly man. A man who knows what he's seeing when he looks at a woman who finds him exciting."
"But you, dear Russkie, couldn't be any more unique if you tried. I spend half my time trying to get information from you and the other half wishing I could understand what I do get."
"I didn't mean to deceive you a few minutes ago. But I was embarrassed to tell you what had happened." She spoke very softly. "I don't know the correct words to describe this in English..."
"Try," he growled.
"I had just made love to myself, on your behalf."
She saw the explanation click in his mind. "Aaaah," he said, looking startled. Then the sensual droop to his eyelids showed he was thinking about the moment he'd awakened with her overheating in his arms, and also imagining what had occurred to put her in that state. He cupped his palm to her and drummed his fingers lightly on a very sensitive spot.
"You'll have to show me how you accomplished this interesting phenomenon. I can't decide quite what you mean, since you don't know the proper English description."
"I doubt there's anything proper between you and me at this moment." They were both speaking in a hushed, private tone made for intimacy. His hand began visiting other regions under her slip. The bedcovers tantalized her widely spread feet; each time she curled her toes, the brocade coverlet seemed to be kissing them.
"Please, Ms. Petrovic, do try to explain," he urged, as if a deep baritone voice could sound prim. "The Victorian setting demands propriety."
She couldn't match his teasing mood. What had happened to her was too special. Feeling tears pool in her eyes, she told him softly, "I woke up thinking about you last night, the way you cared for me, the way you touched me. I moved close to you. You held me. I would never-have believed that a woman could feel so much just from a man's embrace. If I'm unique, then so are you, my love."
His eyes burned her with their pleasure and intentions. "Come here," he ordered. Playful talk was discarded for deep, erotic kisses and the shared melody of encouraging whispers and moans. She caressed him through his black pajama bottoms, smoothing the material over his legs and abdomen, fitting her hands into the hard angles and curves covered in fluid silk.
He caught his breath as the soft tie string gave up its duty to her nimble fingers, which were soon feathering over his naked belly, discovering everything about him. Velvety hot skin, coarse hair that tickled, and fascinating shapes transmitted waves of delight up her fingertips and back to him.
Audubon rolled over and dragged her across his chest, while one hand sank into the back of her slip. Already the hapless garment was barely covering her, the straps hanging down her arms, the bodice lace caught only on her nipples. Now his quick tug pooled it around her waist. He winked at her, so satisfied with himself, and she laughed, until his skillful hands and inventive mouth proved how right he was to be confident.
They undressed each other slowly. He lay on his stomach with his head and arms draped over one side of the bed while she nibbled and kissed him. She found herself sitting with her back braced against a bedpost, her hands wound tight around the carved wood behind her head, while he sat facing her, his feet tucked mischievously under her updrawn legs. The bedcovers jumbled around them in hummocks of fine fabric that tantalized by discreetly hiding, here and there, an attraction, an invitation, a blatant caress.
Sometimes she and he were polite, asking permission. May I? Would you like it? Then politeness would succumb to a selfishness that wasn't selfish at all, because it was designed to excite.
"We should stop now, before we go too far," he teased in a low voice raw with desire, as they faced each other, kneeling, fingertips tracing the differences and similarities between their bodies. "Go downstairs, have some breakfast--"
"What an ego! I've let you get away with it for too long!"
Seconds later they were tangled in the center of the bed, and his body pressed hers deeply into the delicious nest. She trembled as he stroked her hair, then cupped his hands under her head. His thumbs caressed the corners of her lips, then rubbed across the swollen surface to receive kisses.
He looked down at her with the flushed, tense expression of a man trying very hard to keep the necessary control. "Audubon," she said desperately, already beginning to ache inside.
"Don't let it happen," he ordered, his eyes alight with pleasure at what they both knew would occur when he entered her. "It will be too much for me."
But she whimpered with anticipation, and curled her legs around him tighter. "It's your fault."
His sloe-eyed scrutiny was an erotic challenge. "I take the blame. But only because I love you so much."
"I forgive you for making me this way."
"You might reconsider. I'm not done, yet. Not for hours, actually. And of course, we're not just talking about this morning. There'll be this afternoon, tonight, tomorrow--"
"Stop." A vibration ran through her at the wonderful images. "I accept my fate."
He settled deeper between her legs, teasing, moving forward. "Be calm. Use your willpower. I insist."
"Audubon, you dear monster. You dear tyrant. Audubon." As he sank deep inside her she cried out and arched repeatedly, clinging to him, while his own body shivered with control. She heard him saying wonderful words to her, praising her in lusty and gentle ways. But he lay still, every muscle braced, waiting for her to quiet a little. When she did, he began to move in a very slow cadence.
"Don't hold back," she urged, nuzzling his ear and kissing the damp, warm side of his neck. She was floating in another dimension, and she wanted him there with her. "I love you."
"I want this to go on forever."
She drew back and smiled at him. He stared at the love she felt shimmering in her eyes, then gave up forever with noble defeat. His sudden wildness made her wrap her arms around him and bury her head on his shoulder, crooning to him in Russian, loving the way his chest hair brushed her cheek in rhythm with his fierce movements.
He nuzzled her head back and kissed her, then kept his mouth lightly on hers, whispering her name. She felt the sensual twist of his body as pleasure shot through him. They were beyond perfection, balanced on the cusp of one of the greatest mysteries they could share.
Afterward, shaken and breathless, he met her eyes again. This time he smiled back, disheveled, vulnerable, completely open. "Wait here, darling."
He kissed her and lifted himself from her body, while she watched with bewilderment and rebellion, not wanting him to go. But he only stretched out on his stomach next to her, leaned over the edge of the bed, and pulled something from underneath. "Thank you," he said softly.
She turned over and craned her head alongside his. On the floor was a mountain of flowers blooming from a miniature white rosebush. Elena put her arms around Audubon's neck as he twisted to face her, studying her reaction intensely. "Were you testing me?" she asked.
"Testing myself, to see if I could make you happy."
She snuggled against his chest and held him tightly. "I could fill this room with flowers."
"You've already filled it with miracles."
She managed to catch her breath enough to kiss him. Then they curled up in each other's arms and began
making the miracle, again.
Elena was never far from his thoughts, even now. How could he put aside the memories of the long, glorious day they'd spent together? His offices had a secluded atmosphere that he ordinarily found appealing--the solitude had been part of him for years, and the unchanging artificial light in the windowless rooms made time seen endless... and forgiving.
But it wasn't. It demanded decisions and action. Dressed in rumpled trousers and a long silk robe of oriental design, Audubon went from fax machine to telephone messages from his people in Mexico. An old enemy's hatred struck out at Audubon.
A son for a son, Miguel de Valdivia warned.
At dawn, several hours after the phone in his suite buzzed with Clarice's call, Audubon dragged himself upstairs. He found Elena asleep on a couch in his study. The glow of a lamp gave her blond hair a warm, feminine contrast to the burnished leather, and her hands were furled gently against the collar of a white turkish robe.
She had dressed for propriety, he thought with a pang of affection, noting the bulky robe and the high neckline of a blue satin nightgown. Looking at her, no one would suspect that nakedness suited her the way it suited a Greek statue, that earlier that day she had danced for him wearing nothing but a lace curtain draped around her, that she'd fed him grapes while he played the violin in bed. Both of them had been laughing, naked, as joyful as children.
Her carefree moments were just for him. He knelt beside her and smoothed a hand over her head.
"Audubon." She rubbed her eyes and sat up quickly. "I was worried when you stayed away so long."
"I'm sorry, love." He was surprised by feelings of guilt for not bringing her down to the offices. Years ago he'd accepted the need for secrecy, and no lover had ever been part of his work.
"Is the emergency finished?"
"For now." It was brewing, not finished, but there wasn't anything else he could do that night. He sat down on the floor and leaned back against the couch, massaging his forehead wearily. "You must have a thousand questions."
"And you don't want to answer any of them." She spoke without rebuke. "I don't think it's because you distrust me, so I'm not hurt. Not too much, anyway."
He chuckled. "You know more about me than anyone else in the world. Be patient."
"You know me too."
"I know that you love ballet, peanut butter, and borscht; that when you were growing up, you watched Elvis movies dubbed in Russian; that you want to hike the Grand Canyon and visit Disney World; that you favor simple clothes and complex books. A hundred little things. That leaves slightly less than a million more to learn."
"Give me time. I've been preoccupied." She caressed his cheek and looked at him somberly. "Is your adopted son still in trouble?"
"Yes."
"Will you be going back to Mexico?"
"Perhaps. The next few days will tell." He leaned his head against the couch, and she rubbed his temples. He felt the tingling glow in her fingertips. She was relaxing him, making the dull tension fade, seducing him so he'd confide in her.
And possibly say too much. She must never know she'd been a game piece in his plans. It would destroy everything between them. He'd spent the past few hours plotting his new course of action--and its consequences made sharp pain well in his chest.
"What's wrong?" she whispered, and laid her cheek against his hair. "What hurts you so much?"
"Turn off your psychic antennae. You're getting your signals crossed. I have a headache, that's all." He reached behind him and grasped her hands then pulled them in front of him, where he gently trapped them inside his own. "There. Behave, my little Slavic nymph."
"I'm too old and large to be a nymph. And too modern. Yes. I'm going to be a sophisticated American woman, like the ones in all your magazines."
"So you're going to consult your horoscope, try a new diet every week, learn how to power-walk, power dress, and have power-lunches, while doing a study of techniques for keeping your boss, lover, husband, parents and/or children free of waxy buildup. Oops. Pardon me. I'm getting my articles confused."
"You're very smug." But her tone had a smile in it. "No, I'm just not going to be passive and dependent."
"You're neither of those now."
"Oh? I have no money and no home, and I depend on you for everything."
"And that bothers you?"
"Am I your mistress? Is that what Americans call it?"
"No, you're my personal love slave. How's that?"
"Hmmmph. It requires one to know one."
"It takes one to know one. Yes, you're right. We're in the same boat as love slaves."
"What's this about boats?"
"Never mind." He rubbed his thumbs across the backs of her hands, doing a little seducing of his own. "So you don't want to depend on me."
"I don't want you to feel sorry for me. I'm not one of your rescue missions. I'm not a child you can adopt. Where do I fit into your life?"
"I don't think there's any point in discussing this until you're established in this country as a permanent citizen. How can you know what you want until then?"
"I want a bookstore. With a coffee machine and comfortable chairs and lamps in one corner, and a stereo that plays pleasant music to read by. I want my own home to come back to every night with a cat that purrs when it sees me and a dog that wags its tail."
"I've always planned to invest in a bookstore. And I think I'd like to have a dog. I had a dog once, when I was little. A champion Afghan. I got to pet it every morning when the trainer took it for a walk. Yes, a dog would be nice, as long as you didn't want a trainer with it. Cats don't impress me one way or the other--my mother had a Persian. Lady Alison of Gallantree, and she was only entertaining because she'd upchuck fur balls on the maid's bed."
"And how did you know what the cat did on the maid's bed?"
"I had an interest in housework, I was fourteen at the time. Housework fascinated me."
"She taught you a great deal about it, did she?"
"Fur balls?"
"Beds."
"She was plump and cuddly."
"The maid?"
"No, the cat."
Elena lowered her head beside his and bit his ear. "You love to manipulate a conversation, don't you?"
"Ouch. Yes. So... a bookstore, a dog, a cat, and a home. No problem. You can certainly consider this your home. I'm awfully glad we settled all that. I'm getting sleepy."
"Audubon, why haven't you married?"
Silence settled between them. He wanted the strained yet teasing mood to continue, but it had fallen like a souffle. He wanted to tell her he had never considered marriage a worthwhile institution before he met her. But that discussion would have to wait until Kash's problem was settled. He wouldn't make promises he might not be alive to keep. And she might not want them anyway. "Not everyone is qualified to be married. In fact, damned few people are any good at it."
"Then all this talk about pets and bookstores is not a marriage proposal?"
"No. But it's an offer of genuine love and my way of telling you that I don't want you to leave me."
"I see. I'll have to think about it. So much has happened to me in the last few weeks. My whole life has changed."
"And you're not certain if anything you feel right now is going to last."
"I didn't say 'I love you,' because I was confused. And I didn't mean that I love you if you marry me, or give me a bookstore."
"It's the dog and cat you're negotiating for, then," he joked weakly.
Her hands cooled. She pulled them away and got up from the couch. Audubon felt the whole conversation had gone badly, but for now he could only let explanations lay dormant. She scrutinized his face while frowning sadly. "I want to come out of hiding. It's time I went to your State Department and asked for asylum."
"Soon, but not now."
"Why are we waiting?"
"It's not safe yet. Be patient."
"You have reasons you won't admit."
"I want to
protect you. More than ever." He got up, the silk oriental robe riding his shoulders like a mantle of lead. He felt a hundred years old. He felt cruel for keeping secrets from her. He knew he couldn't use her future to save his son's, so the only future he had left to bargain with was his own. He wanted all of her memories of him to be wonderful.
"I would rather die than let anything bad happen to you," he whispered. "Don't ever doubt that."
She grasped the front of his robe and stared up at him with fear in her eyes. "Don't say such things! Why do you have to be so melodramatic? You belong in a dark play by Chekhov!"
In a quick, powerful sequence of moves that caught her off guard, he swung her sideways, bent, scooped his arms under her, and picked her up. "I love you and I only want the best for you," he told her. "Men aren't nearly as good with words as women are, so all I can do is show you."
He carried her upstairs, but not to his suite. Instead he went to hers, and stopped outside. His throat was raw; his eyes had a grainy feel. Lack of sleep. Not emotion. He wouldn't let himself cry from worry and frustration, or even desperate love. He never had before and he was too old to start now.
"I don't make ugly demands on the people I love. You need time to realize that. Do you want to stay in your own room for now?"
"Yes."
He put her down and she went inside immediately, one hand cupped over her mouth as if she were about to cry. He went back to his own suite, almost stumbling with fatigue, loneliness throbbing painfully in his head. He was trapped in a lifetime of solitude, and he wondered if he'd found Elena too late. He had asked her to accept too much on faith.
Dawn made pale borders around the heavy drapes in his bedroom, giving the room a gray, cool light that seemed like emptiness incarnate. Audubon sat on the side of the bed, avoiding the moment when he'd have to lay down in the happily jumbled covers scented with crushed flower petals and passion. He rubbed his face harshly and tried to will his emotions back into the tidy vault inside him where they belonged.
From the front room came the soft rattle of the door latch. He walked in just as Elena slowly shut the doors behind her. She grew still and looked at him with faltering dignity that reminded him of his own. "How could such a lovely day turn into such a mess?" she whispered.
Silver Fox and Red Hot Dove Page 14
