by Andrea Barry
"But you won't trust me with anything else?" His eyes shone mischievously in the light of tall candles set in elaborate candelabras placed on either side of the table. "Oh how I wish you would trust me with more than just choosing a dinner menu." He sighed, placing his long sensuous fingers over Patricia's hand.
He shifted his legs and the velvety cushion they were sharing gave just a little under his weight, so that the length of his long hard thigh pressed against Patricia's.
"You are a beautiful woman, Patrice," he said in his melodious voice pronouncing her name, as he always did, in the French way.
Patricia felt a warmth rise in her throat and spread all over her body. She made an effort to control a shivering sensation that began where his thigh touched hers. Even through the fabric of her dress and his trouser leg, she could feel the heat of his body.
"Tonight you are especially alluring. Your eyes are greener than ever. They blaze with fire."
He squeezed her hand, his look a penetrating one. "The climate of the Ivory Coast must agree with you," he said.
Patricia averted her eyes from his in an effort to prevent an exquisite liquid warmth from engulfing her.
"Oh, yes," she said weakly. "I like tropical weather."
"Do you have any idea of the effect your beguiling eyes have on me?" His sensuous mouth formed a smile. "They send arrows that pierce my heart in a hundred places."
Patricia reminded herself she shouldn't be swayed by Armand's romantic ways.
"You said you wouldn't pay me empty compliments," she pointed out, still dangerously fascinated. The long tapers now made his eyes flicker with tiny stars.
"How cruel you are to say my words are empty compliments—are you so impervious to emotion, ma belle Patrice?" His voice was velvety soft. "How many other hearts have these languid green eyes of yours broken?"
"No more than yours, I'm sure, Armand."
"Ah, so you admit that you have dallied with men's hearts!" He seemed pleased to pounce on an innocent statement she had made.
"Is that an accusation or a question?" Patricia parried his attack lightly.
"It is only an assumption of a man who has fallen under your charm, beautiful Patrice," he sighed.
The waiter appeared with their drinks.
"Here we are." Armand smiled pleasantly. "You are my welcome guest in Abidjan, just as I promised you would be when we toasted on the plane—shall we have another toast now?"
"I had no choice in the matter," Patricia corrected him. "My stop-over in Abidjan was not planned."
"Touché!" Armand laughed gallantly. "Then I must drink to the airline that forced you to be here. Better yet, let us drink to Fate."
Patricia raised her fruit juice to his glass of wine. He is like a little boy sometimes, she thought. He must have the last word—so why not let him? She was beginning to like his ways. He certainly wasn't dull—and he did make her feel very attractive.
Armand now raised his hand summoning a bellboy. In a hushed tone he said something Patricia could not hear.
In a moment the bellboy returned, carrying a small box. Armand took it from him and handed it to her.
"This is for you," he said simply.
It was a white oblong box, tied with a white ribbon, such as a florist would use.
It must be a corsage, Patricia mused, as she untied the satin ribbon. "Thank you, Armand," she said.
Patricia removed the top of the box. Inside she could see a spray of delicate mauve orchids. But it wasn't a corsage. When she lifted the flowers she saw they were attached to a bracelet. Delicately woven of silver and gold, it was the twin of the bangle she had admired earlier on the wrist of Armand's sister. So this had been Armand's secret errand when they had visited the Treichville market earlier in the day. He must have had the bracelet made especially for her by the artist, Bedou, who fashioned Marinette's bangle. Patricia was touched.
"But, I… I can't accept a gift such as this from you…" She was thrilled at the gesture but didn't feel right accepting jewelry from a man.
"Oh, Patrice…" There was a hint of amusement in his voice. "This is just a small remembrance of Abidjan—a trifle—don't you like it?"
"Oh, no—I mean, yes—I like it very much. It's just…" Patricia could tell she wasn't handling the situation well at all.
He seemed to read the reason for her hesitation. "There are no ulterior motives to this small gift, Patrice," he said. "It is meant to be a memento for you—to be enjoyed. Let it remind you of Abidjan, and my sister. It was her idea as much as my own to have this bracelet made for you."
Patricia decided to give in. She loved the bracelet. And she had to appreciate Armand's thoughtfulness.
"All right," Patricia said, blushing. "Thank you very much, Armand." She slipped the exquisite bangle on her wrist. It was so light she could hardly feel it. It fit perfectly.
Three musicians appeared on a small podium. The leader, a tall, handsome guitarist, bowed his head and smiled in the direction of Armand, obviously used to his presence here.
"Our dinner will not be here for a while,"
Armand said. "Would you care to dance, Patrice?"
Before Patricia had a chance to answer he swept her off her feet and led her to the highly polished circular dance floor, lit in multicolor spotlights muted with decorative scrims. Like stars, little lights twinkled from the ceiling. Effortlessly and with the utmost grace, Armand's arms encircled her small waist, his hands barely touching Patricia's back as they began to dance.
Patricia found herself responding naturally to Armand's movements, her steps immediately in rhythm with his, his motions exactly the ones she would choose. They were in total unison as they moved gracefully to the sensuous beat of a bossa nova. She glanced at Armand's aristocratic features, keeping her own eyes half closed under her long lashes. She was sure he had the most sensuous mouth she had ever seen.
"You are beauty incarnate," he whispered, his mouth becoming even more beautiful as his lips parted in a smile. His fingers now pressed the small of Patricia's back ever so lightly, indicating a turn, which she was already starting.
"We must have gone to the same dancing school," Armand teased her. "You anticipate my every step. What a dance partner you are!"
"Thank you." Patricia couldn't take her eyes off his mouth. She wondered if he would try to kiss her again later on. "Perhaps it is because I was trained in ballet," she said, to make conversation.
"Bah—that has nothing to do with it. I have found ballet dancers are often the worst when it comes to ballroom dancing."
"You are an exceptional dancer yourself, Armand."
They executed a fast turn, ending in a perfectly timed whirl.
"Dear Patrice." Armand's lips were on her hair. "It is you, chérie, who are such a responsive partner. Might one hope you would be as responsive in love?"
Why did he have to bring everything down to physical love? Patricia could feel her cheeks redden.
"You'll never know the answer to that question," she snapped in a tone indicating the subject was ended. But even though Armand had annoyed her, she didn't move her body away from his. She remained encircled by his arms, feeling his heartbeat against her breast, as they continued turning and swaying together, aware of only the music and each other.
"Don't blame me if I try my best to find out the answer," Armand murmured, taking no offense at her rejection. His smile was as deliberate as hers had been.
He pushed her away, gently holding her at arm's length, as the beat of the music changed to a tango. He was as expert at the tango as anyone Patricia had ever danced with. She enjoyed the complicated steps as Armand continued to lead her knowingly around the softly lit room, holding her very close at times, then letting her twirl away from him, the flouncy hemline of her dress opening up like a pretty flower.
The rhythms slowed. Armand's fingers crept up to the nape of Patricia's neck, caressing her. Patricia closed her eyes. Dancing with Armand was like dreaming.
&
nbsp; "Comment allez-vous, mon cher?" A high-pitched female voice sounded next to Patricia's ear. A statuesque brunette towered above her. Her throat was covered with sparkling jewels and a revealing strapless gown clung suggestively to her full frame.
Unceremoniously pushing Patricia aside, she threw her arms around Armand's neck. Patricia noticed the rather short and plump man beside her who smiled tolerantly as though used to this kind of behavior.
"You naughty Armand," the tall woman continued, ignoring Patricia's presence and turning her back on her escort. "Here you are, back in Abidjan, and you didn't even phone. When did you get back, mon cher?"
Armand extricated himself from her embrace, and reached to put a protective arm around Patricia.
"May I introduce Mademoiselle Simone Beau-port and Monsieur Michel Laval," he said stiffly. "This is Miss Patricia Wells, a very special guest from the United States."
"Oh, how do you do?" Simone extended her gloved hand in Patricia's direction, but kept on babbling, her eyes on Armand. "Dear Armand, you simply must come over first thing tomorrow. Papa has just gotten me a new addition to the stable, a beautiful white colt—you must be the first to try him, he is absolutely wild."
Monsieur Laval moved away from his partner and wedged himself next to Patricia.
"Enchants, mademoiselle." He kissed Patricia's hand and held it in his clammy palm before she could wrench it away.
"What beautiful hair you have, Miss Wells." He gave Patricia a frankly admiring look as she glanced at Simone who was still talking to Armand.
"Red hair is even more unusual when so bright," Michel went on. "May I have the pleasure of this dance, Miss Wells?" he asked.
"Why certainly." Patricia was unsure of how to say no gracefully and annoyed at Armand who didn't seem to care what she did. But she immediately knew she had been wrong; Armand's hand grasped her waist, restraining her none too gently.
"Sorry, old boy," Armand said, obviously quite aware of the exchange between Patricia and Michel Laval. "We were just about to dance ourselves."
"Oh, but of course. Do forgive me for intruding," Michel mumbled.
"How protective of your lady-love you are, Armand. As you should be, when she is such a beauty." Simone gave Patricia a slow stare.
Patricia was very annoyed. What gave this creature the right to assume there was an intimacy between her and Armand! Calling her his lady-love!
"By the way," Simone went on. "How is the glamorous Brigitte Duval these days, Armand? You were with her in New York, weren't you? Is she coming to Abidjan again soon?"
Patricia had to make an effort to remain calm. What an affront to have the name of Armand's known paramour thrown right in her face!
"I'm not sure when she is coming, Simone," Armand answered casually.
"I do hope it's soon." Simone now gave a sugary smile to Patricia. "So nice having met you, my dear, see you again."
Patricia stood immobile as Simone and her date walked away. The romantic spell of the evening had been broken. She was flushed with anger.
Armand seemed unaware of her feelings—as though nothing of importance had transpired. They had been standing on the edge of the dance floor but he now steered her, almost pushing her, toward the center of the room, then, deftly he encircled her waist with his arm. Patricia saw red. Didn't he realize that speaking about a woman who was known to be his mistress was an affront?
"You know, Armand, I'm really all danced out," she said through clenched teeth, slowing her steps so that he had to do the same. "It would be best to go home early. I'd as soon not have dinner."
"Not have dinner?!" Armand's voice was an explosion. Patricia was afraid other dancers might hear him. "What is that supposed to mean? The evening has hardly begun! Are you throwing a tantrum because I happened to speak with some old friends?" he added menacingly.
He pulled her to him so hard, Patricia almost lost her balance. In spite of herself she followed his steps, but she made sure he wasn't able to hold her as close as he tried. What a cad he was, romancing her while he waited for his mistress to show up!
"It's obvious you're nothing more than a playboy," she hissed, moving her head sideways, away from his cheek, knowing that she couldn't very well leave even if she wanted to. She was trapped—after all, Armand was her host. He wasn't about to take her home and fighting in public was definitely not good manners. Patricia forced herself to control her anger, and kept on dancing.
"Is that what I am, a playboy?" Armand said derisively.
"Well, how many women have you seduced lately?" Patricia turned to stare at him icily.
Armand's lips twisted into a sarcastic smile. "Why Patrice, I had no idea you were interested in my sexual exploits. How flattering you should ask such a question. Let me see… do you want me to just name the round number, or give you specific details?"
The conversation was getting out of hand. Patricia couldn't let Armand ridicule her. She decided to come right to the point.
"I'll ask you a very simple question, Armand. And I want a simple answer—yes or no." She enunciated each word carefully.
"At your service, Mademoiselle. I promise to be as simple as I can."
He pressed her to him gently, steering her expertly around the dance floor. Patricia felt helpless. Her courage failed her—what could she say? She realized that she had wanted to know much more than one simple question—if Brigitte Duval wasn't Armand's mistress now, had she been his love before? What was she to him? There was no way to ask, Patricia knew, without making a complete fool out of herself. She simply had to let the matter go for now.
The heat of Armand's body penetrated hers, as they kept dancing, filling Patricia with a pleasurable sensation that was so overwhelming, it banished all other feelings and thoughts.
"Oh, how I wish you weren't leaving tomorrow, ma Patrice," Armand whispered and she felt his lips brush themselves against her ear. There was no menace, no derision in his voice now.
As he moved his head to look at Patricia all anger and doubt left her when she saw his guileless, shining eyes. Wise or not, she believed Armand when he looked at her like this. The devotion, the look of total admiration, a smile that spelled affection, they were all there, plain to see, leaving no room for doubt.
The music stopped and Armand led Patricia back to their table.
It was almost three in the morning when Armand escorted Patricia to his car. She sat next to him on the white leather seat, remaining under the spell of their evening, intoxicated with his nearness. She felt cherished in his presence. She had never met anyone who pleased her as much as he did.
Armand rolled back the sliding roof of the Rolls Royce and the sky above, inky black, shone with a myriad of stars and a magic white moon that was almost full.
"I want to show you a special place," Armand said, then added, "I mean another special place." For during the short time Patricia had been his guest in Abidjan, they had been to several fascinating spots.
"This one is on the Gulf of Guinea, not far from here."
"I'd love to see it," Patricia said dreamily, her head on Armand's shoulder.
Strange, Patricia thought, how Armand can be so frightening and so maddening at times, and then so gentle. She never dreamed, a few days ago, that she would feel as comfortable and safe alone with him, as she did now, trusting him, and reveling in his nearness.
"Ah, we're almost there," Armand said, shifting gears to climb a hill. The car came to a stop on a cliff suspended above the pounding surf. Armand helped Patricia out of the car and led the way to a small stone ledge way above the churning waters that shone eerily in the bright light of the moon.
"I used to come here, to this very spot, when I was a little boy." His voice was low and melodious. "There was no road here then. I would sit on top of the cliff for hours and hours and watch the moonrise."
"I hadn't thought of you as such a romantic," Patricia mused.
"How then had you thought of me, Patrice?" he asked under his breath. "Tel
l me."
Patricia felt him very close to her now, dangerously close, as the fragrance of his musky cologne tantalized her nostrils. She felt his arm rub against her shoulder. It was a pleasant feeling of closeness and she delighted in it. She moved her hand to touch his and she could feel an instant response as his fingers closed around her own.
She had no wish to push him away, remembering that when she did so that afternoon, he had simply let her go—and she had felt foolishly disappointed. As confused as she was by his proximity she was willing to stay put—at least for the moment.
"You didn't answer me," Armand pressed on, his face so close, she could feel his breath, warm and exciting. "Are you afraid to tell me what you think of me, Patrice?" he insisted.
"I don't think of you at all." Patricia lied. Why did he have to pry into her innermost thoughts? She could never admit to him that he attracted her as no other man had. She wished that he would stop talking, baiting her, and… and what? She suddenly knew she wished he would kiss her.
But it was plain to see her wish was not forthcoming. Armand's tone was mocking as he moved his head away. She could see his face clearly, his fine bone structure accentuated by the pale light of the moon.
"Well, well—so you haven't given me a thought, have you?" He sounded amused. "That's good. It would appear then that you couldn't possibly dislike me—am I wrong?"
"You're wrong!" Patricia was irritated at the way he seemed to play cat-and-mouse with her. "I wish you wouldn't…" She searched for the right word that would put him in his place. But she never got the opportunity to find it.
Armand's mouth was upon hers so suddenly, she gasped for air. His arms encircled her, pulling her body against his. Patricia's lips, as though with a will of their own, opened to his penetrating kisses, her hands entwined themselves around his neck, her fingertips touching the short curly hairs on the back of his head.
"I've dreamed of this moment, petite tigresse." His lips moved to her throat and she trembled at the flickering of his tongue. "I wanted you the moment we met. It was love at first sight… Do you believe in such a thing?"
