Caprice

by Amanda Carpenter

  She could suddenly feel Pierce’s approach with every part of her blood-pounding, hot body. Jeffrey turned to her then and said, “Hey, you know who you really need to play is Pierce, here. He’d be a good challenge for you.”

  She pressed her hand to her side, feeling soreness where she’d had the stitch. “No.”

  Pierce had been saying something to Gwynne, his head bent to her, black hair and dark eyes and white, white smile. Jeffrey, with a typical obtuseness, ignored or didn’t hear her short reply, and turned to his older brother. “Wouldn’t you like to play Caprice? I’ll bet she just might be able to beat even you. What do you say, want to make a date of it tomorrow morning?”

  “I won’t play with him,” she said, quiet and still. Was it her imagination, or was there more significance to that statement than she’d meant to give it? Pierce looked at her. Their eyes met. An awkward silence fell over the group.

  That still expression, that mature, mobile body, those liquid, sparkling eyes, that proudly held, proudly molded head. She felt the blood leave her face, going quite pale under her tan, which left her eyes peculiarly large. He had expected no different, she could see. She made herself grin weakly as she offered a tension smoother. “After all, I came here to vacation, not to train.”

  A few smiled back, while Jeffrey, ever ignorant of deeper undercurrents, laughed. Pierce didn’t say a thing, nor did he react in any discernible way. Just those eyes, in dispassionate, clinical observation of her heat-streaked, taut face.

  She whirled away, feeling, for no clear reason, hunted, and she threw over her shoulder, “I’m going to shower! Tickets for sale at the box office!”

  She left them laughing, every time.

  After supper, Caprice lounged on a window seat, effectively taking up enough of the space so that no one offered to join her. The group was in the family room, and behind her, Jeffrey and Roxanne were playing a disjointed, ill-ruled billiard game while Petra and Emory made themselves scarce outside, and Lane, Ralph and Gwynne played records and drank wine as they sprawled on couch and armchairs.

  The afternoon had been idled away. Caprice, who had pleaded exhaustion after the tennis from that morning, had lounged in a garden recliner while the males, with Roxanne and Petra, played touch football. Gwynne kept her company, and they had talked while watching the others frolic laughingly on the green, smooth lawn. For touch football, they ended in tackles a surprisingly large amount of the time, though the young men took care not to hurt either of the girls.

  Pierce had disappeared, and had not been present at the evening meal, which had been more formal than Friday’s. She told herself she was glad and very nearly believed it. Certainly she did not feel herself to be under any tension, but the evening had a flat quality to it that she could not quite explain to herself.

  Ah, well. Tomorrow evening, and it was home again, home again, jigitty jog. The childhood phrase made her smile.

  She roused herself and whipped the rest into a game of charades, which somehow became imbued with a hilarity that made the rest of the downstairs echo from their laughter. Toward the end of the evening, she wandered out of the family room and into another, shadowed room, and she searched the wall for a light switch, curious to find what the room contained. It was a library, amazingly well stocked, she found, and she wandered through it, lightly browsing.

  As she reached a section almost wholly consisting of philosophy, both modern and classic, Jeffrey spoke from behind. “Those are Pierce’s. What’s more, he’s read them all, if you can believe it.”

  She turned with a smile. “Didn’t you read philosophy in college?”

  “I’m still waiting for the movie,” he said drily. He took a step forward and became serious, too serious. “Caprice—”

  At the same moment, she whirled away and broke through to say animatedly, “This is such a lovely place! I must remember to thank your parents for so graciously hosting this weekend party. They’re nice—I like them.”

  “Caprice—” he began again, more strongly.

  “And do you happen to know if Roxanne has gone upstairs yet?” she asked lightly, with a quick, neat turn of her head to meet his eyes. He wasn’t that obtuse, and his smooth skin darkened.

  “No. She’s in the family room with the others,” he replied shortly.

  Her eyes ungentle, her voice soft, she suggested, “Then I think we’d better join them, don’t you? Petra and Emory were so boringly obvious.”

  For a moment she thought he would balk, but good breeding and manners won, and he backed from the door to let her precede him into the hall. But in the family room, she bid them all a light and lilting good night, for she’d had quite enough. All she wanted was the privacy of her strange bed upstairs and to wake in the morning, knowing that she was leaving that day.

  Mr. and Mrs. Langston had left for the evening, and the upstairs hall was shadowed and dark. Her lavender dress slid cool and smooth against her legs as she strode for her door, already envisaging herself slipping between bedsheets, laying her head down on a soft pillow.

  A noise behind her, and a bare split second later Pierce said quietly, “And good evening to you.”

  She froze dead still and wished him gone. But then a neat pivot on her high heel told her that he was still there, coming down the hall, shadowed like he’d been last night. She replied, with finality, “Good night.”

  He came too close. She felt a thrill of recognition at the faint whiff of aftershave. “What?” he said, even lower. “So soon? It’s early yet.”

  “But then I was up early, and played strenuous tennis,” she pointed out, longing to back up a step but refusing to make that revealing move.

  “Oh, yes. This morning. What an energetic performance you gave.” His lifted hand, moving to touch at the hair of her temple, was featherlight. She couldn’t think why it shuddered through her. She used all manner of light caresses, especially with the opposite sex, as in straightening a tie, touching the cheek, that sort of thing. They didn’t mean a thing, and yet seemed to help ensnare the man’s attention, and she could now well understand why. “You were angry this morning for some reason,” Pierce said, his voice a mere rumble in his chest. “I haven’t figured out why.”

  “Angry?” she whispered. “Nonsense! You’ve a terrific imagination. Don’t look for hidden motives that simply aren’t there. You will be disappointed.”

  “I don’t know why you bother,” he said then, tapping her chin gently with his forefinger, rhythmically. “I don’t know why you play the charade. I don’t understand, and I don’t have to, but I will tell you this. Jeffrey, the others, I can see through like glass. You and your anger, and what goads you to your actions, I cannot fathom. That tells me louder than anything how different you are.”

  Now he was lightly rubbing the backs of his fingers up and down the side of her neck, and she pulled back with a jerk. Then she bent her head and ran her fingers through her hair, furious at how they shook. She snapped, “You don’t know what you’re talking about! For God’s sake, this is a ridiculous conversation.”

  “You’re angry again. What an intriguing emotion to be wasting on such a ridiculous conversation. I might almost think I’ve hit too close to home.”

  “Damn you,” she said, barely audible, abandoning all social lightheartedness.

  “No, really,” Pierce insisted, and now she could clearly hear the smile in his voice as he shifted closer. “If not that, tell me. Is it that you’re angry at how you shivered when I did this against the side of your neck?” His hand, touching warm and soft at her pulse point.

  She turned and confronted him, as an animal at bay will, and, with a light, tinkling laugh that almost convinced even her, she fitted her hand to the back of his head, feeling silken hair and bone structure, and then she gently propelled him down to press a kiss to his lips, hers softly open. For a moment, he held perfectly, even rigidly still. She had a fleeting impression of his body pressed along hers, and then she stepped back and co
cked her head to one side.

  “I don’t know,” she told him consideringly, devastatingly. “Not anything to shiver or get angry about that I can see. Good night.”

  She turned to go.

  But he wasn’t devastated, as many younger men had been by her almost contemptuous dismissal from time to time. It had always been a good weapon held in reserve: crush them when they became too pressing and uncomfortable, and they never came back.

  At least, before now. Now she was dealing out of her league, which she’d known all along. Now she was dealing with a mature, intelligent man, who thought quickly, was more secure, who reached out and grabbed her by the wrist to yank her laughingly back. She fell into his arms, one of which snaked around her waist and hauled her hard against him, one of which curved around her shoulders. She didn’t even see his head as it plummeted.

  Chapter Four

  But she felt his mouth drop down hard on hers; she felt that just fine. And she felt his lips open as he drove deep, pressing her entire body length, from top to slim hips, against his taller, slightly curved torso. Through her dress, she felt his slim belt and body heat. Her hands curled into the material of shirt at his shoulders as her head fell back and warmth flooded her.

  He took his time as he took her lips, leisurely, with a concentrated, enthusiastic thoroughness. The sheer sensuality of it had her longing to respond, but she wouldn’t, she wouldn’t, not to him, not this man, not to this. The force of her conflicting impulses sent a deep tremor through her.

  He lifted his head. Through the dimness, she saw him smile, and she knew he must have felt the shiver also. “Good night, Caprice,” said Pierce serenely, and he let her go to walk down the hall.

  Furious, shaking, she watched him leave and then came to life, bolting into her room and slamming the door shut behind her. What was even more infuriating was that she was reacting just exactly how he wished her to, and she kicked viciously at the end of her bed with a muttered, “Damn it!”

  It did not help her feel better.

  When she slept, she dreamed strange and disconnected images with the recurrent theme of entrapment threading through them. When she awoke, she lay for several minutes, thinking over the dreams and puzzling over their meaning. Her body warmth had made a snug cocoon between the sheets, and she was reluctant to move and disturb that. But finally her muscles protested, and she arose to shower and dress quickly and consider how she was to keep herself busy until the others emerged from their bedrooms.

  Avoid uncomfortable situations at all cost. Yes, she should keep busy doing that. It was her cardinal rule, especially involving relationships. But somehow Pierce, either by chance or design, managed to burrow under her skin, and he kept burrowing until it hurt. For God’s sake, they’d only danced together, rowed on a smelly lake, and shared a kiss. Or really, she supposed, it had been two. But, these days, any self-respecting eighteen-year-old should be able to handle that sort of thing, and she was no teenager, nor was she inept at dealing with people.

  Or manipulating them. A rather tired feeling, one that had nothing to do with time of day or length of her sleep, descended on her. That was the crux of the problem. She was used to being the master manipulator and having the ability to attract or repel people, according to the situation and her mood. It was not necessarily a bad trait, for she rarely used it for reasons other than her own comfort, but the problem was, Pierce refused to be manipulated. He did not go away on command, nor did he put a halt to his penetrating observations simply for her pleasure.

  What an awful man he was. She had at first been attracted to him, but she was thankful she was no longer, for now she knew better.

  Feeling much lighter at heart, she left her room and skipped down the stairs lightly, looking around her as she couldn’t decide what to do with herself. Perhaps the library? She could pick out a light novel and then move to the family room to listen to music while she read. But no, she felt too restless for that, and who wanted to read when the sun was shining so brightly outside?

  Sounds from the library, someone approaching, and somehow, somehow she just knew who it was going to be. A wild feeling, close to panic, came over her, and she nearly bolted for the front door, but it was too late. She would not give him such a view of her, scrabbling to escape. Instead, she turned to smile coolly as Emory came into the hall. Almost, she let surprise show ridiculously on her face, but he wouldn’t have been in any state to notice it anyway. Deep lines of exhaustion were cut into his face, and he looked older, discouraged; curiously, heart wrenchingly; not at all the puppy-dog personality she’d always attributed to him.

  “Good heavens, man,” she said quietly, shocked out of all social frivolity as she walked toward him. “What’s happened to you?”

  “Hm? Oh, good morning, Caprice,” he replied, a heaviness in his voice that was unusual. He looked around him as if seeing everything for the first time. “I—couldn’t sleep.”

  She regarded him sharply, frowningly, and then jerked her head toward the library. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  He followed her back into the room and, as she turned to stare at him questioningly, he strolled over to the large windows comprising most of the far wall, staring out, his blond head gleaming a pale gold in the reflected sunlight. He looked as if he would like to speak, and then just bowed and shook his head.

  “Come on, Emory,” she urged in a low voice. “If you’d like to talk, feel free. I don’t gossip, nor do I break confidences.”

  He glanced back at her, his good-natured blue eyes dark. “I proposed to Petra last night, and she refused,” he said simply.

  She blinked once or twice and tried to fit what he’d said into the framework of what she had observed of the pair. Petra had shown as much sincere interest in Emory as he had for her. “I find that a bit hard to believe,” she said finally, and she sat in an armchair, crossing her legs. “I could have sworn she was in love with you.”

  “I’d thought so.” His face shook, and she felt suddenly appalled. This was not a man with a sadly bruised ego or a disappointed heart. This man was shattered.

  “Emory,” she said as gently as she could. “Come sit down.” He sat, leaning forward and staring down at his hands, laced and hung between his knees. “Now listen. Several people have noticed you and Petra this weekend. Even I, who hadn’t met her before, could see that you two must have some sort of history together. And I’ve noticed how she would look at you. If someone else has noticed, then it can’t be your imagination. That girl does care for you.”

  “Then why?” he whispered to his hands. “Why did she say no?”

  “I suppose,” she replied drily, “you didn’t think to ask? No, I can see you didn’t. I don’t know; who can say what went through her mind? Perhaps she was simply afraid of the thought of marriage. God knows, it’s a serious commitment.”

  “I have a steady, well-paying career. I don’t smoke, rarely drink and never heavily, and my family has an excellent background. I—I’m a gentle man,” he said. “How could she be afraid?”

  “You’ll never know unless you ask her,” she said, leaning forward to touch at his hands. He looked up and into her dark violet eyes. She smiled faintly. “Take your time, get your courage up and your composure back, and then talk to her about it. Ask her to explain. It might have been nothing more than that she simply needed to hear what you would say if she refused you. Since apparently you didn’t even question her reply, she may now be as shattered as you are.”

  A hope was born in his eyes, and grew. “Do you really think that’s it?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Someone once told me, though, that we never do something without a reason. I didn’t say this to him, but he was right. It’s just that sometimes we don’t know the reason ourselves.”

  She didn’t know why, but she looked up and to her right. In the doorway, Pierce stood leaning against the doorpost, hands in pockets, making the material stretch tightly over lean hips, feet crosse
d. He appeared as though he had been listening for some time, face quiet, without a smile.

  She was shocked, immensely so, and feeling vulnerable. But Emory was walking then, and she had to drag her eyes back to him. “You’ve made me feel tremendously better,” he told her, gratitude sincere in his eyes. “I think I’ll go upstairs to shower and change. Maybe if I can bring myself to it, I’ll talk to Petra later today.”

  Caprice touched him again lightly. “Let me know what happens.”

  He stood and bent to press a kiss to her cheek. “Thank you. I will.” Then he turned to the doorway, and she was able to risk another glance in that direction. It was empty, for Pierce was already gone.

  Or at least she’d thought he was gone. When she followed Emory into the hall, feeling an absurd relief that Pierce had had enough sensibility to make himself scarce, she found that he had merely backed up in the hall and was just walking toward them again, as if having just come down the stairs.

  Emory saw him first and said to the older man, “Oh, good morning, Pierce. Nice day.” He turned to Caprice, and his expression softened. She gave him a small smile back, and he touched at her arm before running up the stairs to his room.

  Pierce and she were left looking at each other silently. He was in deep burgundy-red slacks, with the cream cardigan she’d borrowed yesterday over a pale rose shirt. In it he appeared darker than ever, and for the second time she noticed the beginning of lines that were carving themselves on either side of his thin nostrils.

  “Oh,” she said, deliberately offhand, eyes wary and pebble flat. “Good morning, Pierce.” She turned to walk away.

  He fell into step beside her, a slight smile beginning at the corners of his mouth. “Nice day. Running away again?”

  She lurched to a stop and refused to look at him as she said between set teeth, “What do you want?”