by Amy Summers
Their father had already arrived right on time in his shiny white sports car. Suzi and Trish had stayed in the bushes, keeping out of sight, and he'd gone on in. But now Suzi was out on the walk beside the driveway, surrounded by admiring men as usual.
She can't help it, Trish always told herself, mostly as consolation. It's in the pheromones or something. She gives off some sort of a subliminal vibration that men can't resist. They're drawn to her, and they don't even know why.
Trish sighed. She had to admit she'd had twinges of envy now and then.
Not that she'd ever been a wallflower exactly. But the men who were interested in her never seemed to be just what she was interested in herself. She'd always thought that maybe if she had the vast numbers to select from that Suzi had, she'd find that perfect man.
Then again, it didn't seem to have done Suzi much good. She still dated a different man every night. "There's safety in numbers," she would say carelessly when anyone questioned her about it. "Endless variety keeps me from making mistakes."
The perfect man was evidently elusive.
The perfect man—as if there really were such a thing. Trish sighed again and watched one car after another drive up. The doorman in white livery stepped smartly about each car, helping out the ladies and allowing the attendants to park the cars in the nearby lot. Every now and then Trish spotted someone she knew, and at moments like that she was glad to be hiding in the greenery. At least she didn't have to try to explain why she was hanging around outside and wouldn't go into the banquet room.
"Hi, Trish," a voice said suddenly from the walkway.
Trish looked up quickly. Howie Servig smiled at her, his hazel eyes bright with appreciation, his silver-blond hair slicked down on his round head, the quintessential surfer, all grown-up.
"Oh. Hi, Howie." She smiled back, then licked her lips nervously. Howie had been her number one suitor since seventh grade. The more she tried to turn him gently away, the more stubbornly he clung. He'd gone away to college, then for a four year stint as an officer in the navy, and each time she'd breathed a sigh of relief, thinking this time, for certain, he would find someone else to fixate on.
But no. He came back with that same smile, that same light of love in his eyes. Like a huge cocker spaniel, he would never desert her.
"You look great," he said, examining her rainbow pastel sundress, its skirt cut like tattered silk rags, its bodice low and revealing, its back showing a lot of bare skin with crisscrossing straps. It was Suzi's, actually, and a lot more daring than the things Trish usually wore.
"Body language," Suzi had told her. "Learn it. Use it. Display it in a dress that knows the idiom."
Trish felt slightly awkward dressing in something that looked like it might have been picked up in a lingerie shop, but she knew she did look good.
"You really look great," Howie repeated. "As always."
"Thanks. So do you." She smiled again and nodded, hoping he would take the hint and go on into the building.
But no. He reached out to part some branches so that he could get a better look at her. "Want some company?" he asked, his voice childishly hopeful.
Resisting the urge to shoo him away, she tried to smile again. "No, thanks just the same."
Ignoring her answer he took a step forward and glanced around curiously. "What is it?" he asked. "Are you meeting someone in here?"
She started to make a quick denial when it came to her that this might be just the chance she'd been searching for all these long years. For once she actually was meeting someone. It wouldn't be a lie at all.
"Why... uh... as a matter of fact, yes, Howie," she told him. "That's exactly what I'm doing. Meeting someone." Her smile quivered at the corners. "Secretly," she added for emphasis.
"Oh, I see." Howie never got angry, never got jealous. It was as though he thought if he just waited long enough, she'd get over her silliness and admit she loved him, too. "Who is he?"
"Uh... you don't know him."
"Does this mean…" He came in closer and looked down at her sadly, his eyes huge and melting. "Does this mean it's all over between you and me?"
Trish swallowed and looked around for help. There was nothing between them, and never had been, except for some figment of Howie's fertile imagination. He was so sweet about it, she hated to risk hurting him. And so she always did. Because he couldn’t seem to see reality. But maybe he would feel better if there were a definite end to it. Just maybe that would set the poor man free. It seemed worth a try.
"I guess it means exactly that, Howie," she said shakily. "You know this has been coming for a long time. We’ve had fun, but it’s over now. It's been... interesting."
He took her hand and gazed at her soulfully. "He must be a wonderful man, Trish, if you've finally given your heart away."
She frowned. "Well, Howie, I haven't exactly..."
He put up a hand to stop her. "You don't have to apologize to me. I want what's best for you. And if this man is what you want, he's what I want, too."
She didn't know how to answer that, but maybe it didn't matter. At least he was backing away.
"Do you want me to stand guard or anything?" he asked helpfully.
"No. No, Howie, I don't think that will be necessary. But thanks for asking."
"Oh. Okay, then. I guess I'll go on in."
"Yes, you go on in. Say hi to everyone for me. Tell them I'll be in there too in just a little while."
She waved. He waved. And finally he was gone.
Diverted by Howie she hadn't noticed that her mother and Chris had arrived until she heard her mother's voice greeting Suzi. Quickly she slipped out from the camellias. Suzi threw her a significant look, drawing Laura with her toward the path to the rose garden. Trish knew Suzi would tell her mother not to worry about Chris, that Trish would entertain him until Laura was free again. She looked at the man as he got out from behind the wheel and took a deep breath. At least he was dressed for once.
She hated this—especially after the way she'd lost her head over him the other day. Once she put this little plan into motion, he would really think she'd flipped over him. Knowing that made her moan and bite her lip. But there was no other option that she could see. She had to do it for the sake of her parents' marriage.
"Here goes," she whispered to herself, stepping quickly to his side.
"Hi there." She put on her brightest smile as she approached him. Did she look coquettish? Or just plain demented? There was no way to tell. His reactions would have to be her guide.
He turned and looked at her in surprise. "Hi," he replied but it was almost a question, and there was nothing but question in his eyes.
He was dressed in a light suit, his white shirt starched to perfection, his rich, dark hair combed back carefully. Altogether, he was stunningly elegant looking. Her smile wavered a bit. Clothes didn't help. He was still a slice of pure erotic enticement in her book. But she couldn't let that throw her.
"I want to talk to you," she told him softly, slipping her hand into the crook of his arm and looking up at him with what she hoped was a seductive glance from under her eyelashes. "Will you come with me to a place where we can be alone?"
"Alone?" His eyes said, Is this a trick? but he nodded warily. "Sure," he said aloud. "But Laura..."
They both looked around. Laura and Suzi were disappearing around a far corner. Chris frowned. Trish moved in closer.
"Suzi's been waiting to talk to Mom. And I..." She batted her eyes and simpered, feeling sick but driven, "have been waiting to talk to you."
He looked at her for a long moment, his gaze skimming over her face, her shoulders, her body, tracing the low neckline, the soft swell of her breasts. She resisted the urge to put her hands up to cover all that bare skin. She could hardly stand this!
There'd been times in her young life when she'd mulled over trying for a more alluring role. It had seemed that it might be fun to play the seductive woman once in a while. Now she knew how wrong she'd been.
She felt like a bit player in a Mae West movie.
Get me out of this! she pleaded silently, glancing toward the building. Just a few more moments and she'd have him up on the captain's walk where she planned to keep him away from everyone else. Then she could drop this pretense and go back to being the real Trish Carrington again.
But for now she was Miss Femme Fatale. Leaning close she clung to his arm. "Come on," she whispered provocatively.
Chris looked down at her. At first his gaze was quizzical, but as he took in her melting look and the picture she made in her skimpy dress, the look changed for one flashing second, opening up and revealing exactly what he was thinking. For the first time in her life Trish gazed straight into a look of pure, undiluted male hunger.
Her head snapped back and she gasped. But he didn't seem to notice. His arm tightened on her hand, tucking it in against his body. "Sure," he said huskily. "Let's go."
Her heart was thumping like crazy. They walked toward the entrance, arm in arm, but had to wait at the doorway. Six or seven other couples were lined up, taking their time going into the banquet room. She could feel Chris studying her but she didn't look up. She'd done her seductive number and she wasn't prepared for an encore just yet. She only wished the line would hurry up so she could get him up those stairs.
And then what? She shivered suddenly.
"Cold?" Before she could stop him he'd shrugged out of his suit coat and draped it around her shoulders and it was too late to tell him she wasn't cold at all, just nervous.
"You ought to put this back on," she warned him. "They might not let you in without a jacket on."
He only grinned again. "Pretty silly, isn't it? They won't let me in without a jacket, and yet they'll let you in without much more than a G-string and tassles."
Indignation swept through her, but at the same time she flushed with embarrassment. Glancing down at her filmy dress, she protested, "I didn't think it was that bad."
"Not bad. Good." His gaze began a lazy trip up and down the length of it. "Very, very good."
Trish struggled, but it was no use. She tried to bring back the seductive pose. She tried to smile and cock her head to the side and flutter her eyelashes. But it wouldn't work. She'd done all the posing she could possibly do in one day. In spite of all her efforts the real Trish sputtered forth.
"Listen, Chris Dawson," she said evenly through gritted teeth. "This dress is a Galvaton original. There's nothing G-stringy about it."
"Isn't there?" He continued his caressing examination of her. "No, I guess you're right. It's more like.... Have you ever heard of that stripper back in the thirties who danced with veils?"
She punched him in the shoulder, then purposely let the coat drop. He caught it just before it hit the ground. At the same time he took hold of her arm, pulling her around to face him.
"Okay, Trish," he said softly. "Fun's over. Do you want to tell me what's going on here? What exactly you are playacting at?"
She gasped, trying to summon up a hot sense of outrage. "I'm not...."
"You are."
She swallowed hard and pulled away from him, starting to back away, shaking her head, leaving the line behind. The femme fatale was so far gone now she knew she would never get it back.
"Trish!" He covered the distance between them and stood in the way of her retreat. "Let's have it. The truth."
"I don't know what you're talking about. I was just trying to be friendly."
"No." He dismissed her answer out of hand. "The role of seductress doesn't suit you at all. You don't have the knack for it." He glanced down at her dress again. "Though I must say, you do have the body."
She flushed, sputtering.
His hand went to her chin, tilting her sparking green eyes up toward his face. "What is it, Trish?" he asked, his dark gaze full of humor, but knowing. "Why can't you be straight with me?"
She still didn't answer. What would he do if she told him the truth, that she was trying to keep him away from her mother so her father could have a chance? Would he be insulted? Angry? She couldn't tell.
His fingers tightened. "It must be something pretty important," he said softly, his eyes darkening, filling with more than humor, more than question. "Coming on to me like that could have dangerous repercussions. Don't you know when you're playing with fire?"
She couldn't seem to catch her breath. With him so close, touching her, she had an overwhelming sense of his strength and of her own lack of it. She tried to think of something to say, some way to cover for what she'd been doing, but her mind seemed to be spinning in a fog of confusion.
Through the mist, she heard her name being called. Looking up, slightly dazed, she saw Howie coming their way, his wide face jovial, his hand stretched out.
"Is this him, then? The lucky man?"
"What?" She looked at him blankly, then remembered. "Oh, yes, I guess….” Then she hiccupped as she realized what she was doing. “No! No!" she cried.
But it was too late. Howie stuck out his hand and Chris took it rather gingerly. "I just had to meet you, lucky man," Howie said solemnly. "Howie Servig, here."
"This...this is Chris Dawson," Trish admitted reluctantly.
"Chris Dawson. I'll remember that name." Howie beamed. "I just want to congratulate you. You're getting a fine woman. I hope you know that."
Chris's eyes clouded over. He looked from Howie to Trish's evasive gaze and back again. His expression was incredulous.
"Thank you," he said, though it sounded almost like a question.
"I know she'll make you happy. She's a lovely, lovely woman."
"Oh, yes." Chris's smile was slow and wondering. "I can see that. And you're right." His glance swept over her. "I'm sure she'll make me very happy."
Trish didn't like the sound of his voice. She smiled nervously at Howie and wished the earth would swallow him up. "Thank you, Howie," she said as he bent to kiss her cheek, her voice much too high.
"No, Trish," he said solemnly. "Thank you for all the years of joy. They're over now." He sighed heavily. "But I guess the best man has won."
Turning, he walked sadly away. Chris grabbed Trish's arm and pulled her close again. "What the hell was that?" he muttered through clenched teeth.
She tried to pull out of his grasp but it was no use. "Never mind," she whispered back. "We've got to get back in line or we'll never get in to the party."
They started back but before they reached the line someone else was calling to Trish.
Jerry Bates was the club photographer, and now he was rushing forward, camera in hand and hailing them, his thin face animated, his thin arms flailing.
"Ah, Miss Carrington, we've heard about the forthcoming nuptials." He beamed at them both, then whipped out his tripod in the manner of one who'd done exactly that a thousand times before. "So pleased, indeed, so pleased." Waving for them to stand closer, he went on as though they'd ordered this session themselves. "We'd love to get a picture of the two of you for our yearly photo collage. Do you mind? So nice of you!" He set his camera. "Now if you'd just kiss the bride-to-be, sir..."
Chris looked down at Trish, laughter in his eyes. "I didn't know we were getting married," he said.
She tried to smile. "I...I can explain everything..."
"Later," he agreed. "Right now I've got to kiss you."
"No, oh no!" She shook her head vehemently. "No, you don't have to do that."
He glanced at the beaming photographer, then looked back at Trish. "Yes." He reached for her. "I do." And from the gleam in his eye she knew he was going to do it.
"Nooooo," she protested, trying to back away. But he'd already swept her up into his arms.
Chapter 7
"They want to see us kiss, darling," he said firmly. "I think we owe it to them. Don't you?"
"No!"
“Just kiss me,” he murmured.
She shook her head again but it was no use. His face was close, his breath hot and ticklish against her lips, and then his mouth was on he
rs and she might as well have fallen down a rabbit hole.
It hit her like a tidal wave. Again. Something magic happened. She'd expected to be thrilled by his kiss. In fact, in her secret heart of hearts, she'd actually wondered what it would be like to kiss Chris. Stirring, she was sure. Exciting. But she'd never expected this.
It was the kiss on the banks of the Seine, the kiss in Rick's cafe, the kiss in the South American jungle as the arrows zing through the air. It was the old-fashioned movie kiss that she'd dreamed of all her life and never had before. Here, in front of all these people, it happened.
His arms around her were hard and steady, supporting her as she'd never been supported before. His breath was sweet and warm, his face slightly rough, but his touch was tender, and his mouth... his mouth was a deep, rich velvet cloak that took her into its folds and caressed her with infinite tenderness, infinite delight.
She was floating, sinking, turning, and the rest of the world was fading away, a soft background, like music, like the wind. She melted in his arms. There was no other word for it. Her body turned soft and pliant as wax in the sun and she flowed against his hard, male angles, fitting her curves to his design.
Never end, never end—she wanted the kiss to go on forever. It had everything, warmth, tenderness and a provocative touch of sexuality that seemed to bring her senses alive. His taste was minty fresh but rich as Belgian chocolate. His smell was male and musky, orange blossoms crushed against a masculine chest.
Never end, never end.
When he finally began to draw away from her, she found herself yearning toward his retreating face, as though she couldn't bear to ever be apart again.
Onlookers in the crowd at the entrance emitted a massive involuntary sigh.
"Wow," breathed the photographer.
"Wow," breathed Chris, staring down at her as though he'd never seen her before.
Trish couldn't say anything. Her body and soul were still in shock.
