He reached to catch the silk that lined the box and draw it out. It dangled from his fingers, attached to white silk cords that formed a shape that was familiar, all too familiar. It was a fringed white silk G-string, a G-string much like the one she had worn on Bourbon Street except for the finer material.
Rebecca lifted her gaze from the silk fringe to stare at her husband. He met her eyes, the look in his own beseeching. “Just this once,” he said, his voice husky, shaking slightly. “Please?”
She had thought that she had put that part of her life behind her. She had thought she could forget the humiliation of it and start again. To discover that it wasn’t so drove the color from her face and left her hands icy.
“Don’t look like that,” he begged in ragged tones. “I need you to do this because of what I am, because I’m a vile old man. It has nothing to do with what you once were or what you are.”
She heard his pain, felt it, and abruptly her own was gone. She forced her lips into a smile. “You aren’t vile. You could never be vile, or old.”
He made no answer but waited, scarcely breathing, as she put down the pearls, untied the robe she wore, and let it fall, then took the G-string from his hand. She stepped into it and pulled it up, settling it into place so that the fringe lay cool and silky over her pubic area. Then she turned to face him.
He did not look at her but reached for the pearls. He draped them around her neck and fastened them. Their weight settled between her breasts. He touched them, pressing them into her skin so that they became warm with her body heat and her flesh seemed to take the same soft, creamy-pink sheen.
He cupped her breasts in his hands, bent his head to kiss their tilted tips, then slowly he lowered himself to kneel at her feet. He let his hands trail down her body, following the curves, clasping, holding. Whispering her name, he pressed his face to the silken fringe she wore.
She could feel his warm breath, then the wet and heated flick of his tongue. She drew in her breath in protest and embarrassment, but he would not let her go. She closed her eyes. Her movements stilled. Her skin grew moist and heated. She gasped, a small sound in the back of her throat, quickly stifled. The blood throbbed in her veins. The lower part of her body felt heavy. She put her hands on his shoulders, squeezing them hard, holding on. The rapture started deep and rose in slow waves, engulfing her. It banished thought and fear, becoming a goal that beckoned. She wanted it, needed it, could not bear not to reach it.
Abruptly it burst over her. She gave a soft cry as she felt her knees giving way. Cosmo toppled her backward onto the bed, then struggled out of his dressing gown and dropped it to the floor. Stalwart in his nakedness, he put his knee on the mattress, then hesitated as if uncertain he was welcome. Rebecca opened her eyes and reached out to him.
FOURTEEN
THEY STAYED IN FRANCE FOR THREE MONTHS. Cosmo took great delight in showing Rebecca the monuments and museums, also in outfitting her at the great fashion meccas and escorting her to the places dedicated to the enhancement of feminine beauty. He enjoyed sitting at some sidewalk café while allowing her free rein in the shops along the Rue de la Paix and the Champs-Élysées. To his considerable amusement, she preferred the Galeries Lafayette for her shopping. He was not so amused, however, at her insistence on dragging him with her into the Metro to explore obscure corners of the city or for long walks that invariably took them past the book and flower stalls along the Seine or in and out of the antique shops of the Left Bank.
He took her to the Paris offices of Staulet Corporation, where he introduced her with every indication of pride and showed her the view of the Eiffel Tower from the top-floor windows. They had a long and leisurely luncheon with the president of the Paris branch, a man who treated Rebecca with a blend of flirtation and condescension that caused her to retreat into muteness. She didn’t like the man, though when she told Cosmo so later she was unable to say precisely why.
“Shall I fire him then because you don’t like him?” he asked with a quizzical smile.
“You mean you would do that?”
“I’m a great believer in a woman’s intuition.”
“I don’t mean him any harm. I was just saying—”
“You must learn to take responsibility for what you say, my love.”
“Can’t I have an opinion without it meaning a man’s job? Can’t I say what I think to you without—without—”
“Without consequences? It hardly ever works that way. There are always consequences, no matter what we intend.”
“In that case, it’s a wonder people ever talk at all.”
“Isn’t it?” he said, and laughed.
They hired a car and drove into the countryside, crossing and recrossing the Seine that, once away from Paris, became as clear and as green as grass, and rambling through the wine country where the grapes were greener still.
Rebecca’s birthday was celebrated somewhere near Marseilles, her seventeenth. Cosmo bought her a pair of diamond and aquamarine earrings and also a small purse-size pistol that he taught her to use. He would not always be around to protect her, he said. A knowledge of firearms would give her confidence at least to try to defend herself; sometimes just trying was enough.
They sunbathed topless on a beach near Nice, where they checked each other rather more often than was strictly necessary for sunburn and talked in a desultory way of buying a house in France, perhaps in the wonderful, unspoiled countryside they had come across near Menerbes. It was then Rebecca learned that Cosmo already owned houses in Colorado and on an island in the Bahamas. She could not for the life of her think what he needed with another one and told him so, which made him catch her and roll her in the sand and, lying with her clasped atop his long body, with their foreheads pressed together and her hair falling around their faces, tell her for the ten-thousandth time that he loved her. Because it made him happy, she told him she loved him, too, and was not certain it was not the truth.
The time they spent in France made a difference. Rebecca was not the same person when she stepped off the plane in New Orleans as she had been when she left. It was not just the fantastic cut and sheen of her hair or the delicate perfection of her makeup, nor was it the designer labels of the clothes she wore or the reflected luster of the pearls around her neck. It was the sense of having her own style, a casual and confident elegance that hinted at the aristocratic without straining after it. It was also the grace with which she moved, the tilt of her chin, and the clear, newly cultured tones that yet carried a rich hint of her undisputed background. Most of all, it was the warmth of her smile and the way she looked everyone she met squarely in the eye.
No one was more aware of the changes than Rebecca herself. She also knew it was due to Cosmo’s subtle coaching, unstinting support, and impeccable example. She was grateful for all three, but especially for his subtlety, which had saved her from feeling awkward or in any way lacking in the qualities he expected in a wife. It had made her work harder to be what he wanted, what he obviously needed, even if he expressed no overt wish for it.
There was also the matter of her name. Cosmo had begun to call her Riva instead of Rebecca while they were in the South of France. She no longer looked like a Becky, he had said. Riva was another form of Rebecca, one with more style. Getting used to the change had taken a little while, but by the time they were ready to go home she had decided she rather liked it.
Noel met them at the airport with George and the limousine. The courtesy was unexpected. The last they had heard from him, he had moved out of Bonne Vie and was living on campus at Georgia Tech where he had transferred from LSU for the fall semester. The decision was sudden, but it was one Cosmo accepted with little surprise and no attempt to dissuade his son.
Riva was glad to see Noel and gave him a shy smile. He hardly spoke to her on the long drive home, however, concentrating instead on bringing his father up-to-date on the events that had taken place in their absence. Now and then he sent her a measuring glance but looked
away the moment their eyes met.
He was uncomfortable with her, Riva realized. The question was why. She studied him covertly, trying to decide. It might be the change in the way she looked, of course, though somehow she didn’t think so. She had learned on Bourbon Street to recognize appreciation in a man’s eyes and she saw it now. At the same time, she thought he was covering something that went deeper, something very like a wariness close to fear. If that was so, something was going to have to be done. She did not intend to live with awkwardness or any kind of misunderstanding between Cosmo’s son and herself.
Dinner was waiting when they arrived at Bonne Vie, a marvelous spread of all the Southern-style garden vegetables and spicy Creole and Cajun dishes they had missed so badly while away. Riva made a determined effort to join the conversation at the table and was rewarded by near normal give-and-take among the three of them and an appreciable easing in the atmosphere. They seemed almost a family, at least until the meal was over.
There were one or two business matters that Cosmo wanted to check on at once. Now that he was back in home territory, the corporation and its problems assumed a priority they had not had for months. He excused himself from the table and went away to the library to use the phone, leaving Riva and Noel alone. Riva, noticing the butler hovering as if ready to clear the table, rose from her chair. Out of politeness, Noel got to his feet also. As Riva moved out into the hall and turned in the direction of the back gallery, he walked beside her.
It was warm outside but not unpleasantly so since the humidity of summer was waning with the hot season. The darkness under the gallery overhang was soft and inviting. Riva moved to lean with one shoulder against one of the columns of the great house. Almost at random she said, “It’s nice to breathe fresh air again.”
“There was no fresh air in Europe?”
“Oh, sure. I just meant after all the planes and airports and air-conditioned cars.”
“You enjoyed your trip, then?”
“Very much.”
“It seems as if the honeymoon was a success.”
She turned to face him, putting her back to the plastered bricks of the column that still held the slight warmth of the sun. “I suppose it was.” When he made no comment, she went on. “Noel?”
He was watching her in the dimness, standing at ease with one hand in his pants pocket. The light from the hallway slanted across his shoulder and the side of his face but left his eyes in shadow.
“Yes?”
“I…want you to know that I’m no threat to you.” The words were low-spoken but earnest.
“Aren’t you?” The tone of his voice was politely dubious.
“Nothing’s going to change, not really.”
“No, because they’ve already changed.”
“What I mean to say is, I don’t want anything that belongs to you, will never take anything that is yours.”
He stared at her for endless moments there in the semidarkness. There was in his face a tightness that seemed to hint at repressed anger and sadness and also a curious longing.
Finally he said, “You already have.”
She stared at him in blank surprise. “What?”
He stepped closer. Reaching out, he picked up the strands of pearls that lay against her breasts. “By tradition, these are mine as the first-born son, to be given to my wife.”
“You don’t have a wife yet.”
“And my father does. But when I do, when that time comes, will you give them up?”
“If that’s the way it’s supposed to be, yes.” She meant it, though the words caused her a pang she did not want to consider.
“What self-sacrifice.”
Stung by the derision in his tone, she said, “I didn’t ask for them. Cosmo gave them to me!”
“I’m sure he did. The impulse must have been irresistible.”
“You can have them back now, if that’s what you want!” she cried, reaching up to unfasten the catch. “I don’t want anything that’s going to cause problems between us.”
In a swift movement, he caught her hands to stop her fumbling at the clasp. “Don’t be ridiculous! I don’t want the pearls.”
He was so near she could smell the aromatic wood and lime tang of his aftershave combined with a hint of starched linen and his own fresh maleness. The aura of his presence surrounded her, invading her senses. It was so intense, so peculiarly familiar, that she swayed toward him. In consternation, she recognized what was happening to her as the now familiar prelude to desire. It was so unlikely that she exerted every ounce of will she possessed to suppress it.
“I only—” she began, stopped, then started again. “I only want you to like me.”
There was a moment of profound stillness before a sound left him that might have been a soft laugh or an exclamation of pain. He released her with deliberate slowness, then stepped back and thrust his hands in his pockets. “It’s too late for that,” he answered. “Much too late. I’d better go, since I have to be back at school in time for class Monday. I’ll just say goodbye to Dad.”
A mosquito buzzed around Riva’s face and flitted away again. She didn’t notice. “You aren’t going tonight?”
“I think it’s best,” he said, his voice strained. “I really do.”
He gave her no chance to answer but swung sharply and walked away, moving back into the house. After a long few minutes there came the sound of his car springing into life on the front drive. It was longer still before Riva moved to go back inside.
She and Cosmo settled into a routine. At first she stayed at home, but after so many months of being constantly with her husband, she found it dull. She embarked on a course of reading, starting in Cosmo’s library and expanding to the public institutions in New Orleans. It was a program whose purpose was to repair the deficiencies of her interrupted education, one that was to continue for the rest of her life. For a few months that held her interest, but eventually it was not enough. There were clubs she could join, teas and luncheons she could attend, but she had no interest in them. It seemed Cosmo was reluctant to be away from her for so long also, for when he learned of her discontent, he cleared the office next to his own at the Staulet Building and installed her there.
For the first few days, he merely joined her for coffee twice a day and occasionally stayed with the door locked for a snatched half hour. Gradually, however, he began to discuss various problems with her, using her to blow off steam about the incompetence around him or to toss around new ideas.
She had no formal business training, and certainly no experience, but she had a quick and retentive mind and more than ample common sense, and she hated sitting twiddling her thumbs and doing nothing for hours on end. More than that, she was good with people, able to sense with some perception she could not explain the ones who were bright and genuine from those who expected to get by on fast talk and flash, those who were aboveboard from the ones who were underhanded. Within a month, she was doing small tasks for Cosmo, from making phone calls to compiling lists and composing memos.
There was a brief problem with his secretary of fifteen years who felt her position was being usurped, but once Riva admitted ruefully that she couldn’t type or take dictation, and had only the sketchiest idea of filing and didn’t care to learn more, there was peace. The woman was soon typing the memos Riva dictated and taking messages for her as well as making her reservations and appointments for the hairdresser. At the end of six months, Riva was recognized as Cosmo’s personal assistant, the person to see if anyone needed the boss’s attention.
It was also widely known that in spite of being the young wife of an older husband, it was best not to come on too strong to her. She could freeze a suggestive comment with a single look, and a man was lucky if that was all that she froze. Any male so ill-advised as to lay a hand on her could be thankful if he got his fingers back.
When Cosmo’s secretary first told her of what was being said about her coldness toward men, Riva was dismayed. She ha
d not realized it was so obvious, though she had heard enough lascivious and degrading suggestions to last her a lifetime and had learned the hard way how to put them down. The more she thought about it, however, the less surprising it seemed. The truth was, she did not care for mindless, sexually shaded banter or even overt admiration from the men around her. Inside her there was something cool and hard toward them. It was there, sometimes, even for her husband.
It had not been that way in France. She had felt for a long time that she was a normal, healthy female with all the right responses, It had not lasted. It often seemed since their return that Cosmo made love to her by rote, as if it were something he had learned out of a book lately, a recipe he had to follow, so much of this and so much of that without regard for how she might be reacting. At other times it seemed that if she showed her pleasure in some caress or position, he immediately changed or shifted, as if her reaction was too exciting to him so that he came close to losing control, or else too stimulating to her so that she might reach her moment of greatest pleasure before he felt she should.
It seemed, in fact, as if he were thinking too much about what he was doing instead of feeling it, remaining too detached, watching her too closely to be certain she was fully satisfied. It made her do the same, so that the pleasure seeped away or else the frustration of unfulfilled desire grew so painful that she could bear it no longer and simply turned it off. Either way, she was left empty and cold.
Talking about it did no good, for she tried. The subject seemed to embarrass Cosmo nearly as much as it did her; moreover, he seemed to take anything she said as a complaint. His reaction was withdrawal from making love or, worse, the inability to make love to her. Her only choice then was silence and pretending what she did not feel except on rare occasions. And increasingly she worried that it was something within herself that made it so difficult for her to find physical completion with a man.
Crimes of Passion Page 127
