Roberta Leigh - Not a Marrying Man

by Roberta Leigh

  Entering the living-room she felt a sense of pleasure in it which she had not experienced before, and ruefully decided one could get used to any decor if one lived with it long enough.

  Humming gaily, she dumped her things in the bedroom, slipped into a housecoat and went into the small kitchenette. This was the one room which made her realise more than anything else the bachelor existence

  Bruno lived, for she had the distinct impression that apart from the electric kettle, none of the other equipment had ever been touched.

  She switched on the coffee percolator, buttered some crispbread and spread it with smoked salmon, a gift which had come from Alistair that morning.

  She was ensconced in the tiny dinette when she heard the sound of a door opening. Not sure if she had imagined it, she stopped munching and listened. There were soft footsteps on the carpet. The hair of her scalp prickled and she looked wildly round for something to use as an instrument of defence, wishing at the same time that she had remembered to slip the chain on the door. The footsteps came nearer and she pressed further back into the corner of the dinette, remembering all too vividly the stories she had read of the crime rate. A shadow fell across the doorway and she clenched her hands on her cup of coffee, glad it was still boiling hot. If she flung it in the intruder's face it might give her a chance to rush past him into the living-room and reach the front door.

  She raised her hands and held the cup poised as the shadow moved and a dark-clad shoulder thrust itself forward. Fear curdled her saliva and made it hard for her to swallow. She lifted her hands higher as the figure advanced and the shoulder gave way to crisp curling hair and a muscular neck.

  With a gasp of relief she clattered the cup to the saucer, though, as her fear died, anger took its place. How dared Bruno give her such a fright—and anyway, what on earth was he doing here when she believed him to be in England ?

  'Do you make a habit of barging in unannounced ?' she demanded.

  'In my own home, I do,' he said with some amusement, and then paused, as if waiting for her to say something. Only then did he notice her pallor and the amusement faded from his face. 'I'm sorry if I gave you a fright.'

  'So you should be!' She glanced at her coffee cup. 'You're lucky I didn't scald you. I was going to use it to defend myself.'

  'You may still need to,' he murmured.

  The comment made her aware of her silk housecoat and she wished it were less clinging.

  'Why didn't you let me know you were coming?' she asked.

  'It was a spur-of-the-moment decision. I had to go to Tokyo and I decided to return to England via New York.'

  'A slight detour only,' she commented dryly.

  'I wanted to stop over on the coast—California,' he explained, seeing her blank look. 'I had to see someone there.'

  She thought immediately of some beautiful starlet and must have given away her thoughts, for his lower lip jutted forward in the mocking way she knew so well. 'Not a woman, suspicious Sara, but a great friend of mine who's just celebrated his twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.'

  'You went there for that?'

  'Why should it surprise you?' he asked.

  'I don't see you as sentimental.'

  'I'm an Italian by birth,' he smiled. 'We're all sentimental.'

  She edged out of the dinette. 'It won't take me long to pack.'

  'You're not going anywhere.' He barred her way.

  'I can't stay here with you.'

  'Don't you trust me?'

  'No.'

  He laughed. That's honest, at least. But then you're always honest, aren't you? But you've no need to be worried that I'll try and seduce you. I don't believe in wasting time on an unwilling woman when there are so many willing ones around!'

  'Sound reasoning,' she replied, and continued to edge past him.

  'You aren't going anywhere,' he repeated. 'I only came to the apartment to collect a few things. I've already checked in at the Pierre.'

  'That's ridiculous.'

  'I agree.' There was a glint in his eyes. 'But since you don't trust me enough to let me stay here…'

  'There's only one bedroom.'

  The settee turns into a bed.' His tone was bland but his glance was mischievous. 'Changed your mind?'

  'No.'

  'I thought you wouldn't.'

  'But I still think I should be the one to stay at a hotel,' she persisted.

  'Forget it.' He led the way out of the kitchen. 'Do I have your permission to go into your bedroom and collect a few of my things?' he asked with mock seriousness.

  'It's your bedroom,' she said stiffly.

  'It's our bedroom,' he replied, straight-faced, and ignored the colour that came into her cheeks. 'Scared to come in and talk to me while I pack?' he asked from the bedroom door.

  Cheeks still burning, she marched past him and sat on the bed, watching stony-faced as he went to the wardrobe.

  'May I ?' he asked, his hand on the knob.

  'Don't be silly.'

  He slid back the door and took out an armful of suits, each in its own plastic bag, then bent to a drawer and took out a pile of underthings which he came over and dumped on the bed beside her. His gaze was still quizzical and Sara knew he was deliberately trying to embarrass her.

  'You won't succeed,' she said aloud, not bothering to explain what she meant since she was convinced he knew. 'I grew up with two brothers in a very small house and I know what underpants look like.'

  'I'm glad you don't suffer from mock modesty. That's one thing I dislike about women.'

  'One thing among many.'

  'Oh?' he asked with interest. 'What other things don't I like about them ?'

  'You don't like them being competitors, argumentative; having a mind of their own and————'

  'I don't object to them having a mind of their own,' he interrupted, 'so long as they don't prevent me from having mine I' He strode into the living-room and returned with a black holdall into which he dumped all his underclothes. 'Anyway, you're generalising. I much prefer to particularise with you.'

  'I don't follow.'

  'What I'm trying to say is that on you a career looks good.'

  It was an unexpected compliment and she wanted him to continue. But he zipped his case closed and put his suits over his arm.

  'I take it you have a date for tonight?' he asked casually.

  'Yes.'

  'With Alistair?'

  'No.' She felt some explanation was necessary. 'He took me out the first evening I was here and I met a couple of men who————'

  'Are you free tomorrow night?' he interrupted.

  'I'm afraid not.'

  'Make yourself free. Ring your date and tell him your boss has arrived in town.'

  She frowned. Since she had accepted the hospitality of Bruno's home it seemed rude to refuse his invitation for tomorrow.

  'Very well,' she said, and wished her heart was not beating so foolishly fast as he gave her a wide grin and left the apartment.

  Throughout her evening with Bob she was annoyingly conscious of Bruno and her curiosity to know where he was and with whom; mainly with whom. The thought did nothing to give her any further peace of mind, though it did increase her amazement that—with all his girl-friends available in a city that was his home—he should wish to spend tomorrow night with herself.

  The whole of the following morning she was tense, anticipating he would call her to arrange a time to pick her up, and jumping nervously every time the telephone rang. She lunched with the head saleswoman at the Salon and enjoyed talking business and not thinking her own personal thoughts—which were becoming increasingly more chaotic—then spent part of the afternoon on another tour of the shops; the cheaper department stores this time where she could pick up presents for her family without having to worry too much about the cost.

  It was later than she had intended when she returned to the apartment, for she had found it impossible to get a taxi and had been forced to walk twenty blocks. Bec
ause of this her shower was brief and she was still only half-dressed when the doorbell rang. Knowing Bruno had a key, she peeped through the spyhole. It was him and she quickly opened the door.

  'You didn't ring the bell yesterday,' she said by way of greeting.

  'Tonight I'm being a diplomat.' He eyed her towelling robe. 'Though I seem to have called undiplomatically early.'

  "You aren't early,' she apologised. 'I'm late. But if you'll just give me ten minutes…'

  'I'll double it and you still won't be ready.'

  'Time me,' she challenged, and rushed back into the bedroom.

  With a minute to spare she emerged, looking more soignee outwardly than she felt inwardly. As always when she was unsure of herself she chose black, knowing it was a colour that gave her sophistication. The dress was one she had bought here, a copy of a Paris original at a fraction of the cost, that covered her slender body yet gave subtle indication of its curves. She had intended to wear her hair up, but because she had been determined not to keep him waiting she had left it loose to fall on either side of her face like a gold curtain of silk.

  'I'm glad you keep your hair styles simple,' he commented. 'It really is the most astonishing colour. Normally I don't like blondes.'

  'Thanks!'

  'I've always found them too insipid,' he explained. 'But you've got a brunette personality!'

  She laughed. 'I forgot to ask you to help yourself to a drink while you were waiting for me. I suppose I subconsciously thought it rude to offer you something in your own home.'

  'I've already helped myself.' He indicated the whisky he was holding. 'Can I get you one?'

  She shook her head and he drained his glass and set it down. 'Then let's go. I feel a bit restricted here with you. I get the urge to play host, yet I don't want to get my face slapped!'

  Ignoring his remark, Sara moved ahead of him to the elevator. They went down in silence and she felt his eyes upon her. She was wearing high heels and their eyes were almost level. Yet his powerful physique made her feel fragile.

  'I'm taking you to a special haunt of mine,' Bruno said as they went across the foyer and out to where a black Italian roadster was parked.

  'What a super car,' she commented, taking her place in it.

  'It's the only thing I miss when I leave New York.'

  'I know at least three young women who'd be furious to hear you say that!'

  'Oh?' he said, and waited for her to continue.

  'I've had a few calls enquiring about you,' she went on. 'One female was particularly irate and refused to believe you weren't with me.'

  'I take it you managed to convince her otherwise?'

  'Would it worry you if I hadn't?'

  'Not at all. But I thought it might worry you.'

  Why should it?' she said coolly. They don't know who I am.'

  He chuckled. 'It's a good thing I don't rely on you to make me feel a wanted male.'

  He slowed for the lights and then picked up speed again. They made little further conversation and she watched to see where he was going. They seemed to be heading uptown in the direction of the East River. The main rush-hour traffic had ceased and he was able to drive with speed, though she noticed he was careful not to exceed the limit nor overshoot any traffic lights.

  'A car like this is wasted in town,' she commented. 'It needs the open road.'

  'It used to get it at the weekends,' he replied. 'I have a house in Connecticut—at least Aunt Rosa does—and I used to go there.'

  She wondered how his girl-friends liked the country, particularly in winter, for she could not see him spending Saturday and Sunday alone.

  'I always loved getting out of the city,' he continued, 'and being entirely alone without having to talk to anyone.'

  Unwittingly he had corrected her mental picture of him, and she was astonished at the pleasure this gave her. Before she could analyse why she felt like this they had stopped outside a dimly lit entrance where a man in uniform took the keys of their car, leaving Bruno to lead her up a short flight of steps into what looked like a town house but turned out to be a private club. He was well-known here and they were led at once to a table by a wide picture window that gave them a romantic view of the river, dark and gleaming below them.

  Bruno fitted in with his surroundings: his hair like satin in the half-light, his eyes dark pools narrowed against the spiral of smoke curling up from the thin cigar he was holding. She realised she had never seen him smoke before and commented on it.

  'It isn't a habit of mine,' he confessed, 'but when I've been under a strain I find it relaxes me.'

  'Have you had a hard trip?'

  'Flying around the world in a matter of days is always hard. And I didn't get much sleep in California, nor last night either.'

  She held back a sarcastic comment, though she might as well not have done, for he gave her a distinctly amused glance.

  'No, Sara of the candid eyes, I wasn't with a woman! I spent the whole of last night going over things with my manager.'

  'Don't make me feel guilty for misjudging you!'

  'Such a thing was never in my mind.'

  'You're not a good liar,' she said softly.

  'I'll have to take some lessons.'

  'I can't believe you need any.' 'Only in lying.' He peered at her. 'The light is too dim for me to see if you're blushing.'

  'Of course I'm not.'

  'Pity. You change colour like a chameleon. It's most attractive and unusual to find a girl doing it these days. The ones I know are usually capable of making the men blush.'

  'I'll bet.'

  He chuckled. 'I led with the chin on that one.'

  'You did it deliberately.'

  That's true. I like to see sparks shooting from your green eyes. And they're genuinely green, Sara, no hazel nonsense about them. Your mother must have been frightened by a Persian cat.'

  'I've got claws too.'

  'And sharp teeth,' he reminded her. 'You've already drawn my blood.'

  This time she did blush, and he noticed it and chuckled again.

  The waiter came up to their table and, unlike most restaurants where there was a vast menu, the one he handed them was small, not much bigger than a postcard with some dozen dishes only.

  They specialise in grilled meat or shellfish,' Bruno told her. 'You'll find it the best anywhere in the States.'

  'Maine Lobster and Texas beef,' the maitre added, joining them. 'Fresh each day.'

  'I think I'll have lobster,' Sara said.

  Bruno nodded to signify he would have the same and then deliberated over the wine list. Sara leaned back in her chair and watched him. His black mohair suit, almost like a dinner jacket, complemented his wide shoulders, while his white shirt increased the tan he had acquired in California. Until tonight she would have said he was a man who could never relax. But as he sat beside her now, head on one side as he studied the wine list, large hands quiet on the tablecloth, it was easier to envisage him in repose. He ordered the wine and the steward left them.

  'I haven't yet offered you an aperitif.' Bruno said.

  'I don't want one. I'd prefer to stick to wine.'

  'Suits me. At least you won't have an excuse for only sipping half a glass.'

  'I'd never do that. I love wine.'

  'Do you also love ice cream and carrots?'

  'What?'

  'Love,' he said, waving his arm. 'How often we misuse that word.'

  'You're right,' she agreed. 'Let's say I appreciate the bouquet of a good vintage!'

  He smiled. 'I can see why my aunt is so fond of you. I've said that before, haven't I ? But it's true. Good looks and brains are a rare combination. It's a pity I didn't meet you years ago.'

  'What difference would the time have made?'

  'You might have stopped me from becoming a cynic. Now it's ingrained in me.' He tilted his head. 'What were you like when you first joined the company?'

  'Rough and raw.'

  'You mean because of your backg
round?'

  'You remember it?'

  'I remember everything you tell me. Even that you come from a place called Clapham.'

  She smiled. 'What an unromantic name that is! Baldoni is much prettier.'

  'Poverty is ugly wherever it is,' he said ruefully. 'Though compared with the rest of the villagers, we lived like kings. My aunt sent us money from the time she left Italy.'

  'What made her go to England?'

  'Ambition. She didn't have enough of a market among the peasants for her creams. She really did concoct them over the kitchen stove, you know. My mother used to tell me amusing stories about it.' Unexpectedly there was sadness in his voice as well as humour. 'I still miss my mother. She was one of the few people with whom I could totally relax. Fourteen or so is a bad age to lose someone you love.'

  'You had your aunt.'

  'Yes.' There was a slight tightening of his lips. 'But people who give generally want something in return, and with Aunt Rosa it was a hundred per cent of my time and emotions. She loves to rule,' he added. 'As I'm sure you know.'

  'She's left you pretty much alone since you've been in England,' Sara felt duty-bound to say.

  'She's a wily bird and she's playing her cards carefully. You know the old story of giving a steer plenty of rope. Once she has it safely knotted around my neck, she'll start to pull it in!'

  Sara laughed and protested that he was judging his aunt too harshly, a comment with which he refused to agree.

  'She's still pretty shaken from her heart attack,' he said, 'and she hasn't recovered from the shock of realising she's human like the rest of us. But once she has, she'll want to take over again—unless by then I've managed to make her Life President of the company.'

  'Your aunt thinks you're going to settle in England,' Sara said. 'When will you tell her you plan to return to New York?'

  'I'm not sure I will return. It's struck me of late that England makes a convenient base. It's fine for the Continent and with supersonic travel I can be here in next to no time.'

  'I can see you as an English squire yet!'

  'Country homes are for married men with families,' he replied. 'I'm strictly a Park Lane or Park Avenue type.'