Opal Fires

by Lynda Trent

“Clare, are you sure?” he asked, as if he were reading her thoughts. “I want you. I’m fascinated by you. But I don’t want you to feel this is what I had in mind all evening, because it isn’t.”

  “I know. That’s one reason I feel it’s all right.”

  “The same promise holds,” he reminded her as he stroked her hair back from her face. “If you feel frightened at any time, I’ll take you home.”

  She nodded.

  The hotel was a rambling, two-story building with private doors that opened onto a grassy courtyard and palm terrace. Clare felt a momentary hesitation when she realized she could possibly be seen by someone she knew, but she put the small worry aside. After all, she was no longer a married woman, and more than anything else, she wanted to be with Ryan and feel his strong arms around her. And, somehow, being at an impersonal hotel, rather than in the home she had shared with Elliot, made it all right.

  They walked hand in hand to his room. He turned on a small lamp and she looked about. It was almost a suite rather than a mere bedroom. At one end was a dark blue couch and two armchairs grouped around a coffee table on which a jumble of charts and papers were strewn. At the other end of the room was a large bed with a blue and white bedspread. The maid had already turned it down for the night.

  Ryan put his arms around Clare and pulled her close. She let herself lean against him and felt the rough texture of his suit jacket beneath her cheek. For a long time, he held her, securely, tenderly. Then he cupped her chin in his hand and tilted her head up to meet his Ups. Clare reached up to touch his hair. It was softer than she had expected, and even thicker. She entwined her fingers in the tawny strands and again lifted her face to meet his.

  Ryan felt confused at the emotions she triggered in him. He had wanted to kiss her since he’d met her that afternoon, but hadn’t really expected she’d let him. Now she stood in his arms, in his hotel room, and he felt an intense longing, not only of sexual desire, but also of protection and caring. Of love. But how could that be? He had only just met her! With wonder, he cradled her head on his chest and breathed in the clean aroma of her hair. He felt shaken to the core by emotions he had never felt before. Had she been any other woman, he would have had her in bed by now with no hesitation, no questions asked. Ryan tightened his arms about her and felt her move even closer. “I meant what I said about taking you home if you want to go.”

  For a long time, Clare was silent. Then she lifted her’ head to look steadily into his eyes. “That won’t be necessary, Ryan.”

  As he bent his head to kiss her, she wondered at the gentle expression in his eyes. She had no way of knowing that her own eyes held the same softness. As his lips touched hers, she felt an urgent warmth spread through her; and as his large hand tenderly cupped her breast, the warmth kindled into flame. With growing desire, she ran her hands across the firm muscles of his back.

  Ryan placed kisses of fire along her cheek, her ear and down her neck, then nuzzled in the hollow of her throat. She sighed with pleasure.

  Slowly, he unzipped her dress, savoring each inch of creamy skin he revealed. He slipped it from her shoulders and let it fall loosely about her waist, then to the floor.

  As his eyes swept over her loveliness, his heart pounded. Almost reverently, he touched the full swell of her breasts and gently rolled the rosy nipples between his fingertips until they were erect and sensitive.

  He gently knotted his hands in the abundant silkiness of her hair and pulled her to him.

  “God, you’re lovely,” he said hoarsely. “I had no idea you’d be so perfect.” He kissed her deeply, passionately, then buried his face in the curve of her neck as he ran his hands over her satiny skin.

  Clare returned his kisses with equal intensity, savoring each moment, drawing out each pleasure. She unbuttoned his shirt and let her hands stroke the smoothness of his chest. His muscles were taut beneath her fingers, and as she removed the shirt, she brushed her breasts against his skin. With awe, she ran her palms across the hard perfection of his body. It was nothing at all like Elliot’s. Ryan’s lean belly was ridged with muscles, and there was no sign of surplus weight around his narrow waist. She liked it immensely. Clare bent her head and left a trail of butterfly kisses across his chest.

  Again she raised her mouth to meet his and marveled at the excitement of his tongue tracing fire between her lips. She’d never been kissed like this before, and she hungrily kissed him again.

  With a low laugh, Ryan smoothed her hair back from her face. “Clare,” he whispered as if her name were a caress. “Clare.” He held her closely, as though he couldn’t bear to let her go for even a minute. Then his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of her brief silky panties, gently easing them over her hips.

  Clare struggled with his belt, but soon he, too, stood nude, letting Clare roam her eyes over him. With a smile of delight, she stroked his erect maleness and felt it grow even harder in her fingers.

  Without a word, Ryan bent down and lifted her in his arms as easily as he would have a child, and carried her to the bed. He laid her down and lowered himself to he beside her.

  “Ryan,” she whispered, running her fingers along the firm line of his jaw. “Ryan, I’m so glad I met you.”

  His head lowered to her breasts and his hot tongue flicked across first one nipple, then the other. His hands were gentle on her body, but they were rousing her to undreamed of delight.

  As his fingers slid seductively between her legs and urged them to part so he could fondle her further, she moaned. She wanted him inside her, quenching the fires he had lit. But still he waited, teasing her to yet greater passion.

  “I want you,” she whispered as his hands smoothed over her body. “I want you.” She had never said those words before, nor thought them, but now they came easily to her lips.

  “And you will have me, love,” he reassured her, as he again felt the soft wetness of her most secret recesses. “We have all night.” He kissed her, teaching her to accept his searching tongue and to do the same to him.

  When at last he knelt between her thighs and entered her, she cried out with desire. It was as though she were in a whirlwind, spiraling upward, ever higher. She wrapped her legs around his hips, forcing him even deeper inside her as he held her tightly in his arms, kissing her.

  Clare thrust against him, giving herself to him totally. Suddenly, it was as though something deep inside her exploded, and she cried out in ecstacy as wave after wave of pleasure swept through her. A languorous warmth gentled her, only to be fanned again into a flame before she could question what had happened. This time, the newly found rapture came faster, easier, almost painfully in the intenseness of its passion. Clare clung to Ryan and buried her face in the curve of his shoulder.

  As the bubble inside her rose and burst into ecstasy, Ryan gave a low moan and held her tightly as his own climax was reached. For a while, they seemed to float in each other’s arms in a glow of love. Clare felt a great peace, a oneness that seemed to transcend all barriers, merging her soul with his. When she opened her eyes, she saw that he lay watching her, an expression of love on his face. She smiled and lay her hand on his cheek as he smoothed her tumbled hair from her face. Her body still trembled, and she snuggled closer in his arms.

  “I never felt anything like that,” she said at last, as he held her tenderly.

  “Never?”

  “No. I had no idea it could be so wonderful.”

  He kissed her forehead and stroked her silken shoulder. “You should have. A woman like you should be loved, not used. And often.”

  Clare smiled contentedly and kissed his neck where the pulse beat so quickly and steadily. She had been so fulfilled. With a sigh, she settled more comfortably in the circle of his arms and let sleep drift over her as he gently stroked her hair.

  Drowsily, Ryan sensed her breathing slow and deepen and knew that she slept. With a smile, he kissed the top of her head and wondered again at the odd emotion she had aroused in him. As he, too, dr
ifted into sleep, he put a name to this new feeling. He had fallen in love.

  Opening her eyes, Clare was confused at her surroundings. The window was in the wrong place and the bed wasn’t familiar. Then she stretched out her hand and felt Ryan’s warm body beside her and it all came back to her. Clare felt the memory of the previous night’s loving begin to warm and excite her. All she had to do was touch Ryan again, cuddle up to him, wake him. All the magic could be hers again. In the early morning hot beyond the curtained window, a car horn honked and brakes squealed. The everyday sounds woke Clare to reality.

  Suddenly, she was very aware that she lay naked under the sheet, as did Ryan. She had slept the night with a man she had not even met twenty-four hours before! Hot shame flooded over her. What on earth had possessed her?

  Slowly, ever so slowly, Clare slipped out of bed, taking care that there was no sudden movement that might wake Ryan. Quietly, she moved about the room gathering up her clothes from where they lay on the floor in careless abandon along with his. She dressed as quickly as possible, but when she found only one shoe, she panicked. For a moment, all she could think of was what people would say if she hobbled across the parking lot missing a shoe, or worse yet, if she were barefoot. She drew in a deep breath to quell the anxiety. Then she discovered the missing shoe beneath the bed. As she bent to retrieve it, she lost her balance and bumped the bed frame. Ryan moved in his sleep and put out his arm as if to pull her near. Clam froze. When she was sure that he slept on, she moved carefully away from the bed.

  Hastily, she grabbed her purse from the top of the dresser and hurried to the door, hoping that Ryan would sleep soundly a few minutes longer. She let herself out and stood motionless in the cool air. Clare Marshallsneaking out of a stranger’s hotel room at dawn! She clenched her teeth.

  At an outside phone booth, she called a cab; and, as the sky became more pale than dark, she entered the front door of her house. On tiptoe, she went through it, switching off the unnecessary lights. Had Betty or Eldon noticed they were on all night? Clare went upstairs and ran water for a bath. Now that she was safely at home, she could think more clearly.

  The night had been a revealing one. Not only had she discovered that her emotions were only dormant and not dead, but she had let someone love her for the first time in years and she had thoroughly enjoyed every minute of it. As she poured her favorite pink bath oil into the hot water, Clare recalled the way Ryan had touched her and kissed her and taught her to respond. There had been nothing dirty or shameful about it, as she had always been told. Only two people, together, expressing love.

  Expressing love? Is that what it had been? Clare thoughtfully turned off the water and took a fluffy washcloth and towel from the linen cabinet. She had never believed in love at first sight, and certainly was not the sort to hop from one bed to another without a qualm. Yet something had happened last night, something she was afraid to name.

  Feeling like a conspirator, Clare went into her room and rumpled the bed before she got into the tub. Her new-found emotions were too fragile to expose to Betty’s motherly questions, whether expressed verbally or merely through a look, and she wanted to keep her secret to herself.

  By midmorning, Clare had stretched several small to medium canvases and was deep in thought. Maybe New Orleans might be more than an ordinary outlet for her. Every year, hundreds, if not thousands, of tourists flocked there, most of them wanting to take home something of the grand city’s old-world charm. These were generally people who wanted a painting but could not afford tremendous prices. They usually bought a sketch or water color from a street artist and went away happy.

  Seeing no reason why she couldn’t create good yet inexpensive paintings, Clare armed herself with a book of photographs of New Orleans and began to sketch several views of the French Quarter, using a weak wash on the canvas. Although she was soon engrossed in her work, Clare found her thoughts drifting back to Ryan again and again. Had he ever paused under that archway, strolled by that fountain? In several pictures, she found herself sketching in a tall man with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. She scrubbed him out of a Mardi Gras parade, only to find him reappearing in an outdoor cafe scene. Every detail of their conversation stood out in her mind. Each of his movements and his voice inflections were as much a part of her memory as if she had known him for years.

  Slowly, Clare put down her brushes. Did every woman feel this way after having made love with a man? Was she merely being ridiculous because she had gone for so long without any physical contact? She longed to confide in Maria, but some part of her rebelled prudishly at just the thought of discussing Ryan, even with her best friend.

  “Well, it’s over. If he calls me back, I’ll be very cool and refuse to see him,” she said to herself. “New morality or not, I’m not going to jump in bed with just anyone.” Feeling somewhat reassured, she started painting again.

  Working on three canvases at once, she began building a scene. A parade with tall, papier-mache masks and brilliant streamers, a rain-misty courtyard with a fountain and a tall wooden sculpture and small tables beneath a red and white striped awning in front of a building with ornate black grillwork. With difficulty, she kept Ryan’s form out of all the paintings but one, and left him in that out of desperation.

  “After all,” she said under her breath as she cleaned her brushes in turpentine, “why should I be upset? He probably thought nothing of it.” Yet she knew it wasn’t true and that she’d be more disturbed if it were. “Blast!” she muttered, and threw her paint rag onto a chair.

  That afternoon she did several watercolors of New Orleans and blocked out three more. The oils were drying nicely and would be ready for more paint by the next day. As she washed in a pale sky, she wondered what it would be like to walk down that street with Ryan. It was a famous location and he was sure to be familiar with it. He had said he lived above one of the tiny, enclosed courtyards. It was possible that she’d painted the very building he lived in.

  Unable to fight herself any longer, Clare went to the telephone. When she found the number of the hotel and heard the desk clerk’s voice, she felt panicky.

  “Room, please,” she said in a businesslike voice. Surely there was nothing wrong in explaining her sudden disappearance, she reasoned.

  “I’m sorry, there’s no one occupying that room.” The clerk sounded bored, as if he were more than tired of his job.

  ”There must be. Will you look again? I’m looking for Mr. Ryan Hastings.”

  “Mr. Hastings was in that room, but he checked out this morning.”

  “Oh!” Clare felt foolish but she had to ask. “Did he leave a forwarding address or say when he’d be back?”

  The clerk sighed irritably. “No. No one ever leaves a forwarding address or tells us about plans.”

  Clare’s fingers were numb. She was suddenly aware that she was very lonely.

  Chapter Six

  The Antoine Thompson Art Gallery was located on one of Tyler’s busiest streets about halfway between downtown and the only shopping mall. Clare drove by it twice before she discovered that the entrance to its parking lot was around the corner, almost behind the building. As her Mercedes crunched to a stop on the gravel lot, she carefully examined herself in her rearview mirror. Clare had pulled her dark hair back into a chignona style that made her look more businesslike and confident. Her simple black suit was well-cut and obviously expensive, as was the white silk blouse she wore beneath it. The three strands of shimmering gold chains offset the severity, while also lending the perfect accent of elegance to her attire. But Clare was so nervous she smeared her lip gloss and had to reapply it. Was her clothing too straight-laced? she wondered. Did she look more like an accountant than an artist? The butterflies in her stomach fluttered wildly as she got out of the car.

  As she entered the store, a tiny brass bell jingled. Clare jumped in spite of herself, when a small, thin man came forward. He had a plastic smile and a tiny mustache that looked as if it had b
een applied that morning. His hair was slick, black and receding, and made his yellowish skin look even more sallow. When he stood directly in front of Clare, he smiled with his lips pursed. “Good day. May I help you?”

  “Yes. I’m looking for Mr. Thompson. Is he in?”

  “I’m Mr. Thompson. I’d be glad to be of service to you.” He rocked from heel to toe as if he were unable to stand still for more than a moment.

  Clare extended her hand, and he shook it using his fingers and thumb but not his palm. “I’m Clare Marshall. I’m looking for an outlet for some of my paintings and I thought perhaps you’d be interested. I have a formal still life and two landscapes in my car. Would you like me to bring them in?”

  “Marshall. Marshall,” he puckered his brow and became distinctly cooler now that he realized he was not addressing a customer. “Your name isn’t familiar at all. What are your credentials?”

  “I have a degree in art from Sam Houston State, where I attended college on an art scholarship. Presently, I’m teaching in Kilgore.” Her first class would be that afternoon so she felt this was honest enough.

  “Teaching? At the college?”

  “No, privately.”

  He looked at her as if she were a not too interesting insect specimen. “I see. What other credentials do you have? What shows have you placed in? What other galleries are you hanging in? How many private exhibitions have you held, and where?”

  Clare felt her courage ebbing. “None as yet. Perhaps if I bring in some of my work to show you? I have three canvases in my car.”

  “I think not, Ms. Marshall,” he said, smiling thinly, and only with his lips. “I don’t believe you are quite ready for the Antoine Thompson Gallery.”

  “But you haven’t even seen my paintings!” Clare protested. “Everybody has to start somewhere!”

  “Perhaps. But not here. Good day, Ms. Marshall,” he said as he indicated the door.

  Clare had no choice but to leave. She refrained from slamming the door with its tinkling bell as she left.