Sweetly Contemporary Collection - Part 2 (Sweetly Contemporary Boxed Sets)

by Jennifer Blake

  What else could she do? She wanted him to think she was resigned, didn’t she? She wanted him to believe that she was falling for him, if ever so little. Wasn’t that the plan? Such thoughts were no more than brief flashes across the outermost surface of her mind as she melted against him, spreading her fingers over the muscled firmness of his chest.

  He ended the kiss with a soft laugh. His voice low near her ear, he said, “That was very nice, chérie. I have been wondering what it would be like to have a little cooperation since the first time I held you.”

  Abruptly she pushed away from him. “So now you know.”

  “Yes,” he said, an odd inflection in his voice, as if he were trying not to laugh, or else deliberately refraining from showing his annoyance. “And now, what would you like for dinner?”

  The wind was diminishing, the thunder rumbling away. The rain had tamed to a steady downpour that already showed signs of slackening to a soft, all-night drizzle.

  Kelly moved a few steps further away from him. “Fish,” she said over her shoulder. “I would like fresh-caught fish dipped in cornmeal and fried in hot fat.”

  “Sorry. Fish isn’t on the menu.”

  “We always used to have it the second night we were here, after the judge and the boys had gone fishing.” She went on, more for something to say than anything else. “Fresh fish, thick-sliced French fries, light, golden brown hush puppies with onion and pepper inside, and cole slaw.”

  “By the boys, you mean the judge’s sons, I suppose. Which one was it you had the crush on?”

  “Peter,” she answered without looking at him.

  “Do you still see him?”

  It almost sounded as if he were jealous. “I haven’t seen him in three years, not since I went off to secretarial college on my own.”

  “But you still care?” he inquired, his voice tight.

  “Heavens, no. That was over years ago, after that one summer. Peter killed it quite dead himself when he put a handful of cold, dirty, wiggling fishing worms in my bed.”

  Positive amusement lacing his tone, he said, “That really was unforgivable.”

  “It was. Though the boys thought it was hilariously funny. The judge sentenced them to wash the sheets, but even he thought it was comical. Girls that age have such a strong sense of outraged disgust.”

  “I would have liked to have seen you at that age.”

  “I doubt you would have been impressed,” she said, giving her head a reminiscent shake. “I was all hair, eyes, legs, and injured feelings.”

  “A charming picture.” His comment was quiet.

  “Yes, isn’t it?” she said wryly, and turned quite naturally to smile at him. “I don’t know how the judge and his wife put up with me.”

  “Easily, I should think,” he answered, a soft note she had not heard before in his voice.

  Why did he have such power to disconcert her? She was continually off balance in his presence, never certain of her ground. She could almost believe it was deliberate, a campaign to confuse her, to prevent her thought processes from becoming too coherent so she might figure out exactly what he was doing. If that were the case, it was working admirably.

  As he reached out to touch her arm, she drew in her breath with a sharp sound. “May I remind you that we had an agreement. You gave me your promise that I would be free from molestation.”

  He drew back as if he had been slapped. It was a moment before he answered, but when he did, the words held no heat. “You are entirely correct, and from now on I will do my best to remember.”

  “Good,” she said, though the triumph she would have expected from his concession was missing.

  “About dinner. I’m afraid the best I can offer is ham and eggs, unless you would like to do the honors.”

  The ham and eggs became omelets filled with chopped ham and flavored with shallots and a sprinkling of herbs. With it they ate a crusty loaf of French bread. Charles drank white wine with his repast, while Kelly, who was not used to wine with her meals, settled for water. Afterward, when the dishes had been cleared, she accepted a glass of Alsatian Riesling. With Charles carrying the bottle by its neck, they moved into the living room. He set his glass and the wine to one side, drew out a small phonograph from the bookcase cabinet, and set up a stack of records to play. The selections were classical, the first being a Chopin sonata, one of Kelly’s favorites. Unless the tastes of the judge and Mrs. Kavanaugh had changed, the records must belong to Charles. The judge tended to prefer country and western music above all others, while his wife was happiest with string instrumentals and Broadway show tunes.

  The rain dripped from the eaves, making gurgling, splashing sounds that seemed to blend with the music. The air conditioning had been turned off and the doors thrown open to the rainy night. The leather couch, as Kelly settled herself in one corner, had a damp feel to it because of the humidity. Charles moved to stand in the doorway, staring out into the drenched darkness beyond the veranda. Kelly let her glance touch his broad back for an instant, then shifted her gaze to the bookcases with their collection of westerns, murder mysteries, historical romances, and back issues of National Geographic. She thought of going to her bedroom for her book, then decided against it. As long as Charles showed no sign of settling down to some such innocuous way of passing the evening, she could not either.

  “Do you play gin rummy?” he asked, turning to lean in the door frame.

  “Not very well.”

  “Scrabble? I believe there’s a board in the cabinet.”

  She gave him a level look. “You don’t have to entertain me.”

  “I was thinking of myself.”

  “Were you?” she inquired skeptically. “You don’t seem like the gin-rummy type to me.”

  “And just how do I strike you?”

  She tilted her head. “Book, pipe, and slippers?”

  “Close,” he agreed, one corner of his mouth tugging in a smile, “though I don’t smoke.”

  “Or else a good restaurant, the theater, and a few night clubs before dawn.”

  “Closer still, but don’t stop there.”

  “Playboy Club?”

  “Wrong,” he answered with a grimace. “I prefer my women without rabbit ears, false cleavage, and cuteness.”

  “Let me see, then,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Preservation Hall Dixieland jazz? Café au lait and beignets at the Cafe du Monde at three o’clock in the morning?”

  “Are you certain you have never been to New Orleans?”

  “I told you, I read a lot.”

  “You must let me take you there sometime.”

  “It seems unlikely,” she said, her tone sharp with the sudden desolation the rebuke cost her.

  “Who can say?”

  The hostage mentality worked both ways, she reminded herself. The captor enjoying complete control over another human being often experienced feelings of affection not unlike that of a parent for a child, especially if some form of communication could be established, and if the captive responded with the proper subservience. Charles felt responsible for her, perhaps even pitied her helplessness even though he himself was the cause.

  She ran the tip of her tongue over her dry lips. She seemed to have lost the thread of what they were saying. Oh, yes, an occupation for Charles for the evening hours. “I — I suppose before I came the others kept you company, even stayed here with you?”

  “Not really. I’m not addicted to television, and I prefer my privacy.”

  “Having me here must be a trial for you.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, the smile creeping back into his eyes, “but not in the way that you mean.”

  Kelly did not dare to let herself think about that. “If you have something to read, I don’t mind.”

  “I’m not certain,” he said slowly, “that it wouldn’t be more interesting exploring a few more of your opinions. For instance, what do you think of politics?”

  She sent him a swift look, reminded of her earlie
r curiosity concerning him and the senator. “Not much. It seems to be a thankless undertaking for men of principles, or else a dirty game for men who have money, or want it.”

  “You don’t like money,” he queried softly.

  “Of course I do,” she answered with a quick gesture of her wine glass, “but there are limits to what I will do for it.”

  “And men with money?”

  “You don’t seriously want an answer to that?” she asked, a frown between her eyes as she wondered what he was getting at.

  “Why not? Or have you never considered the matter?”

  “You would never believe that, would you? Men with money,” she went on thoughtfully, then said with a sly look, “Old men or young men? Well, it doesn’t matter. I don’t like ostentation; flashy diamond rings, satin dinner jackets, or foot-long cigars. I don’t like noisy sports cars that are expensive enough to be quieter. I don’t like expensive houses built in the United States to look like something found in Europe. I don’t like people who complain about the burden of sudden riches, nor old monied families who consider the wealth sufficient reason for their existence,”

  When she came to a pause, he inserted skillfully, “Is there anything you do like?”

  “Quiet elegance, old houses carefully restored, vintage automobiles, handsome old silver, hand-made lace —”

  “I was speaking of the combination of money and men,” he reminded her.

  “That’s harder,” she said, tipping her head to one side, “since I haven’t run across the two together very often. I suppose I like the experience that a certain amount of money gives a man; the knowledge of how to order in a restaurant, and how much to tip. I like the assurance and the dynamic sense of power you feel around the movers and shakers of the world.”

  “Fascinating,” he commented.

  She sipped at the golden liquid that filled the glass in her hand. “You needn’t jeer. You asked what I thought, and I told you, but it doesn’t mean anything. What a man is like has little to do with money.”

  “Most people have a hard time separating the two.”

  “By that I suppose you mean most women?”

  “Unfortunately, yes, and before you pounce on that and accuse me of being a chauvinist, I think I will find that book!”

  It had been a peculiar conversation. Lying in her bed some time later, listening to the softly falling rain, Kelly went over it in her mind. What had been his object in drawing out her opinions on the subject of politics, men, and money? What could they have to do with him, or with the situation they were in?

  Could it be that there was a political motivation behind his kidnapping of the senator? Was he a radical of some sort, an activist fighting for the common man with nothing but contempt for politicians and wealthy men? If that were the case, then what did he think of the views she had expressed? Had she shown herself to be too much the moderate capitalist? Would he, as time went by, try to persuade her to his views?

  She lay frowning up into the darkness above her, trying to sort out her own feelings. She held no brief for political terrorists, men who committed horrible deeds in the name of the common good; and yet, wasn’t it better to think that what he was doing sprang from deep conviction instead of simple larceny?

  What was she doing? Surely she was not attempting to condone what he had done? What was the matter with her that she could not hold her anger or resolution where he was concerned? He had only to smile at her, or look at her with that warm expression of humor in his eyes, and she began to make excuses for him. This must stop. No matter the reason, what he was doing was outside the law, an interference with the basic freedom of not one but two people, a crime for which the punishment would be life imprisonment. He had spoken with the utmost casualness of the death of the man he was holding and as far as she knew, he would be just as casual about her own demise.

  Kelly arose early after a restless night. The effects were plain to see as she looked in the mirror while she ran a brush through her hair. She was pale, and beneath her eyes lay the blue shadows of fatigue. It didn’t matter. She cared not at all what she looked like, and it certainly made no difference how she appeared to Charles. In fact, it might be all to the good if she presented herself looking wan and hollow-eyed, though she suspected that if he noticed at all, he would be more likely to send her back to bed with a sleeping pill than to be sympathetic.

  A sleeping pill. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? He had some with him, she thought. He had mentioned it when he was trying to force her to take his aspirins. If only he could be persuaded to down a few. While he was comatose, she could search his room, or even him personally, for her car keys and billfold. By the time he awoke, she could be miles away, telling her incredible tale to the police. It seemed that was the only way she was going to escape. He was much too light a sleeper, much too alert to her every movement, for anything else to be possible. She had only to wait until he left her alone in the house again, giving her the opportunity to search for the pills. Then she would have to manufacture an opportunity to slip them into his food or drink, that was all.

  That was all? The mere thought of carrying out such a plan tied her stomach in knots. What he would do if he caught her at any stage was something she dared not contemplate. Still, she could not just do nothing, letting the minutes, hours, and days go by, accepting whatever he might say or do while she staked her future on a vague feeling that he was attracted to her. Such a thing would mean less than nothing, especially if she should prove a danger to him.

  The rain had stopped in the early-morning hours. The sun was out, brightening the house with the peculiar golden light of September. Charles was seated at the table with a cup of coffee in front of him when she entered the dining area. He saluted her with the cup. “It’s freshly made and still hot,” he said. “I would have brought it to you, but that didn’t go over too well yesterday morning.”

  She moved past him into the kitchen where she poured herself a cup of the steaming brew, then returned to slide into a chair at the round oak table.

  “You are walking better this morning,” he commented.

  She had forgotten to limp. Her reply was short. “Yes.”

  His gaze flicked over her, returning to her face. “How would you like to go fishing?”

  “Fishing?” Her head came up and she stared at him.

  “It’s the only way I know of to provide the fish dinner you were talking about.”

  “This morning?” she asked, enthusiasm slowly lighting the gray of her eyes.

  “I don’t see why not.”

  Her face fell. “We haven’t anything to use for bait.”

  “I doubt the bream will be biting after the storm last night, but the striped bass are schooling, and the judge had a good assortment of rods and reels and artificial baits. Since he said we were free to make use of them, I intend to take him at his word. We may be lucky enough to catch a few bass to eat, and if not, it’s still something to do.”

  So he was not immune to boredom, or the problem of spending long stretches of time with one person. “I suppose so,” she agreed.

  “I’m not particularly hungry just now. What about you?” As she shook her head, he went on. “We can pack something to eat in the middle of the morning then. We won’t have to be in any hurry to return.”

  They weren’t long in putting such a simple plan into action. Laying out a battered, much-used picnic basket, they loaded it with a box of raisins, a jar of dry roasted nuts, a can of processed meat, a loaf of bread, and a jar of pickles. While Charles was putting cold drinks on ice, Kelly ran to her room to slip on her blue bikini under her shorts and shirt. If the day grew as hot as she suspected it might, this would be a fine opportunity to work on her tan again. Also, you never could tell. It seemed unlikely there would be a chance to part company with Charles, considering how good a swimmer he was and what close quarters they would have to share in the boat, but it was best to be prepared.

  It crossed he
r mind to dart into his room for a quick search of the medicine chest in his bathroom while he was busy in the kitchen. It was a good thing she did not act on the impulse, for as she emerged from her room, he was just leaving his also, after changing his pants and sports shirt for a pair of cut-off jeans and a tee-shirt.

  A life vest had to be found for both of them, as well as a hat to protect their heads and faces from the sun, a suitable rod and reel each, and a tackle box containing a fair collection of lures, plastic worms, top-water baits, and all the other paraphernalia necessary for bringing home the catch. With these things in hand, they made their way to the boathouse. Charles unlocked it, and they stowed their gear in the judge’s bass boat. There was another delay while the outboard motor, unused for some time, was checked out. Charles filled the double gas tanks from the drum of spare fuel, handed Kelly into the boat, and cranked the motor.

  At last they were edging out into the lake, pushing an iridescent swell before the heavy boat, stirring a not unpleasantl fishy smell from the water. Their progress scared up a young family of ducks, half-grown birds that erupted from the water with a great squawking and flapping and tip-toeing over the surface before they took to flight. Kelly sat in the forward captain’s chair of the two that were bolted to the bass boat, since the controls for the outboard motor were in the rear. She turned to Charles with a grin, her eyes alight with pleasure.

  There was an invigorating purity to the air this morning, as though it had been washed clean by the rain. The sun was warm, and would be warmer still as the day wore on, but it lacked the sullen, oppressive strength of the day before. As the boat gathered speed, the wind in her face was agreeably fresh and sweet. Kelly sat at ease in the armchair while they wove in and out among the green fringed cypresses and the standing snags of trees long dead on their way to the channel of the lake. It was odd, but she trusted the instinct and ability of the man guiding the boat, even if she trusted him in nothing else.