'Surgery won't do anything to the shape, darling,' she assured him. 'Nor will it harm your sense of taste and smell. They say that sort of thing only happens in five per cent of cases.'
'Five per cent!' He was aghast. 'That's a damned high percentage.'
Trying to keep a straight face, Leslie watched him through her lashes, aware that mention of the word 'surgery' and the high failure rate would keep him miles away from a doctor's consulting room.
'You're very knowledgeable on the subject,' he muttered.
'Only because the husband of one of my girl-friends snores non-stop.'
'He obviously didn't have this operation, then!'
'No. Their doctor didn't agree with it and advised separate bedrooms.'
Dane pulled a face. 'Sounds like an equally painful cure!'
'We can always part,' Leslie said with a little-girl laugh as she snuggled up to him. 'I read somewhere that snoring can be grounds for divorce.'
'Try it, and I'll get every one of my exes to testify in my defence!'
'I'd get a tape recorder and prove them liars!'
'OK, you've talked me out of that one.' His mouth twitched humorously. 'How about a peg on my nose?'
Leslie had to smile at the image it conjured up. 'Effective perhaps, but hardly conducive to romance.'
'Don't sneer before you've seen it. Lady Hamilton found Lord Nelson's eye-patch irresistible!' Dane's hand slid underneath Leslie's nightgown. 'Speaking of romance, how about indulging in some ourselves now our sleep's been ruined anyway?'
Leslie forced a yawn and gave him a gentle push. 'There's four hours to go before our alarm call, and that's better than nothing. I'm exhausted and I'm going to try out the dressing-room. I only hope I won't hear your snores from there.'
'77/ go,' Dane said gallantly. 'But don't expect me to be like your friend's husband. I'm old-fashioned where marriage is concerned, and don't approve of separate rooms.'
'You don't have to preach to the converted,' she replied, and leaning across the bed, kissed him lightly on the lips.
But despite Dane's assertion, by the end of two weeks, sheer exhaustion drove him into the dressing- room permanently, for Leslie had relentlessly woken him three or four times night after night. Separate rooms might not diminish his sexual need of her, but it would undoubtedly lessen the togetherness that came from sharing a bed, where he would cradle her close and unburden himself of all the problems of the day, as she in turn had found herself doing with him. Indeed it had been surprisingly comforting to have a broad, protective shoulder to lean on, and an intelligent mind that pierced through the gloom of her worries and made them less onerous.
His understanding and compassion surprised her, making his toughness in court all the harder to comprehend, and she analysed it continuously, unable to work out why he didn't focus his talents on something constructive rather than destructive.
She was certain it had nothing to do with the financial rewards from this side of the law. Dane was brilliant enough to make his name in any branch. Nor was it because it gave him entry into the world of glitter and glamour that might otherwise have been shut to him, for since his marriage he seemed as happy to stay home alone with her as to go out.
So why was he so ruthless professionally? As always the answer eluded her, and though intuition told her his scathing denunciation of December/May marriages stemmed from a personal reason, she knew he would never admit it to any woman—particularly one he had married because it was the only way of getting her into his bed!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The weeks leading to Christmas flew by, and basking in the aura of a husband who was happy to indulge her every whim, Leslie frequently had to remind herself that she had married Dane to make him suffer—not be happy!
Despite separate rooms, their physical relationship had not diminished one jot. While it had lost some of its spontaneity, this was more than compensated for by its frequency. It was as if Dane could not have enough of her, and she in turn found herself attracted to him like a moth to a flame.
He had only to look at her, touch her, to set her alight. It was a response that she felt demeaned her, turned her into a primeval being with no control over her emotions, and she became increasingly afraid of being trapped in a sexual abyss from which there would be no escape. After all, how could one coldbloodedly plot the downfall by day of a man with whom you shared the greatest intimacy by night?
Which brought her to the loaded question. How to stop his lovemaking yet have him believe the abstinence was hurting her as much as him?
Her reason would have to be watertight, and the only acceptable one was to feign illness. A slipped disc perhaps? But that would mean acting the invalid, and she had no intention of staying away from the office. A broken leg? That was out for the same reason, and she restlessly paced her room, unable to concentrate on the plans she was drawing up for a school in West Hollywood.
Marriage to Dane was occupying too much of her thoughts, not only because she was busy devising and discarding schemes that would eventually lead them into the divorce court, but because she was desperately trying to hold her emotions aloof from their life together, a task she was finding increasingly difficult.
For this reason alone their sexual intimacy had to be nipped in the bud, not that 'bud' was the right word. Full-grown passion flower more like it! Momentarily she closed her eyes, remembering this past weekend. Conchita and Pedro had gone away for two nights, and she and Dane had decided to stay at home and catch up on some work. To this end, he had switched on the answering machine and drawn the curtains in case any friends took it into their heads to drop by.
None had, but nor had any work been done. The simple casserole Leslie had elected to make as a change from Conchita's more elaborate cooking had gone down so well that Dane had insisted on helping her tidy the kitchen. The sight of him in an apron had made her laugh so much that he had chased her round the living-room to extort a penance.
Not surprisingly the penance was paid for on the roomy settee, and led to the abandonment of all further work for the evening. Saturday passed the same way, both of them in lounging pyjamas, munching ad-hoc meals as and when the fancy took them, though their main fancy was directed towards possessing each other.
'This can't go on,' Leslie muttered to herself. 'I must stop him making love to me.'
The very word 'love' made her hackles rise, reminding her that as far as Dane was concerned she was simply a sex object he wanted to possess.
'I've got to think of an illness,' she said again, speaking aloud in the hope that it might help her find one. It daren't be too specific because that could lead to problems, so why not say it was gynaecological, and leave it at that? It covered a multitude of ailments, and was an area most men found embarrassing to discuss. If Dane didn't prove to be one of them, he was bound to respect her reticence, and attribute it to newly-wed reserve.
Determined not to waste time, she told her secretary she wasn't feeling well, and left the office early, repeating the same lie to Conchita on reaching the apartment, where she put herself to bed to emphasise the point.
Fetchingly attired in baby-pink lace, with matching satin ribbon confining her gold-blonde hair, Leslie proceeded to study the medical tome she had collected from the library on her way home. With her face devoid of make-up, save a touch of mascara on her long lashes, she looked young and innocent as she nestled against the frilly white satin pillows.
By the time she heard Dane's incisive step, she knew more than she wanted to know about the female anatomy. Most of the book had been too technical for a layman, but she had nevertheless absorbed sufficient jargon to impress anyone but a doctor.
Feigning sleep, she waited till Dane was beside the bed before slowly opening her eyes. How handsome he was, towering above her, his expression tender, his dark eyes filled with a concern she found both surprising and confusing.
'Why—why are you home so early?' she asked sleepily.
'It's
not early, darling—it's past seven.'
'Impossible!' she gasped. 'You mean I've been asleep three hours?'
'You have.' He seated himself on the bed beside her. 'Conchita says you aren't well.'
'I keep getting pains in my stomach.'
'Have you spoken to the doctor?'
'No. It's probably something I ate for lunch. I'm sure I'll be fine in the morning.'
'If you're not, I'll take you to see him.'
She yawned prettily. 'I'm afraid I haven't called the Barbers to say I don't feel up to having dinner with them, but there's no reason why you can't go without me.'
'I wouldn't dream of leaving you.' Dane slid an arm beneath her back and pressed his mouth tenderly to her shoulder. 'IH go and phone them, then get Conchita to serve us something on a tray.'
Nothing Leslie said could dissuade him from remaining by her side, and after their meal he donned his dressing-gown and watched television with her, then insisted on staying until she fell asleep.
Waking at seven next morning, she was astonished to find Dane out for the count in the armchair beside her bed. He had clearly spent the night there. Stubble darkened the line of his jaw, softening its aggressiveness, and lending him a look of vulnerability that gave her an unwelcome urge to smooth away the lines either side of his mouth.
As if aware of being watched, his eyes flew open, and he stretched lazily, giving her a tired but warm smile. 'How do you feel, my darling?'
'Well enough to go to the office. But you shouldn't have stayed with me. I told you there was nothing much wrong.'
'At least my snoring didn't disturb you.' He paused. 'Or did it?'
'Only as far as waking me this morning,' she lied.
'I was worried you'd feel ill in the night, and I wouldn't hear you call me. You know what a heavy sleeper I am.' He shrugged broad shoulders.
'You don't look as if you got much sleep last night,' she said. 'Why didn't you come and lie on the bed?'
'I was less likely to snore sitting up!' He yawned again. 'One restless night won't harm me. Before moving into the dressing-room I had fourteen in a row!'
Leslie stifled a laugh, and watched him saunter to the door. 'I'll go shower and shave. Do you feel up to having breakfast with me?'
Leslie nodded, realising she was ravenous. Hardly surprising, considering she had made herself refuse supper last night!
'I think I can manage a little something,' she said carefully.
'Good. See you in twenty minutes, then.'
That evening Dane returned home to find her in bed again, though to forestall him calling her doctor, she told him she had seen one on her way home.
'He's arranged for me to see a gynaecologist in the morning,' she elaborated. 'He thinks it's some kind of infection.'
'I'm going with you,' Dane stated.
'You can't. You have to be in court. Anyway, there's no need. I'm not having an operation—only an examination!'
'OK. But call my secretary as soon as you're out, and she'll get a message to me.'
Leslie could not help being touched by his solicitude, but reminded herself he deserved everything he was getting.
Next day he was home by five, and Leslie, coming out of the shower, bumped into him as he walked into the bathroom.
'Hey!' he smiled, steadying her in his arms. 'I could have given you a black eye.'
How easy it would be to pretend it wasn't accidental, she mused, storing away yet another snippet for her war of attrition.
'My mind was miles away, darling,' she smiled back. 'How come you're home this early?'
'I was worried about you and wanted to be sure I'd got your message right. So everything's OK, is it?'
'Sort of.' Leslie knotted the sash of her towelling robe more securely around her slender waist, and perched on the edge of the bed. The slightly damp material clung to her body, outlining her firm breasts, the skirt parting to reveal long, shapely legs. Poor Dane, she thought, seeing him eye them hungrily. For all the pleasure he'd be getting from them, they might well be made of wood!
'My doctor was right,' she continued. 'I have an infection and have to be on antibiotics for a few months.'
'Are you sure it's nothing serious?' Dane asked anxiously.
'Yes, but…' Leslie lowered her head and looked away from him, giving every sign of being nervous.
'But what?' Taking her chin with a firm but gentle hand, he turned it his way. 'Out with it, Leslie, I'm your husband and I want the truth.'
Still refusing to meet his gaze—there was no way he could control her eyeballs!—she stammered, 'It's d- definitely not serious, but the gynaecologist s-said I— said we shouldn't make love till it's cleared up completely.'
'Is that all?' The tightness in Dane's voice had disappeared completely, and glancing quickly at his face, she saw his smile was broad. 'For a minute you had me running scared!'
'Scared?'
'I've grown used to having you around, and I…' His smile vanished, leaving him sober and older looking as he put his arm around her waist and drew her back to rest against him. 'Sex is an important part of our relationship, sweetheart, but these past months have shown me that a good marriage has much more going for it than that.' He placed his cheek upon hers and breathed in the fragrance of her. 'And that's what we have, Leslie, a real good marriage. I've never been happier in my life.'
'You sound like a man in love,' she teased.
He released her with startling abruptness. 'Isn't it enough for you that I'm happy with you? Must you nag for the stars as well as the moon?'
The words stung her to anger, yet unaccountably also brought her to the verge of tears. But not until she was alone again—Dane having gone to change—did she try to work out why he consistently managed to arouse such mixed emotions in her; one minute making her melt in his arms, the next, whipping her into such fury that vengeance for her stepfather's death seemed the only path to pursue. The trouble was, she couldn't sustain either feeling for long, and she felt as if she were perched on a seesaw—up one moment, down the next.
In the ensuing weeks her emotions continued to vacillate. Believing her to be below par healthwise, Dane insisted on curtailing their social life, which meant they spent many evenings and most weekends alone together. Yet they were never bored with each other's company, and found innumerable things to discuss and do together: driving out of town to explore the countryside, browsing in bookshops and poking assiduously in junk yards.
'Soon as we're in our new home,' he pronounced one Sunday, 'I'm going to turn one of the rooms into a painting studio.'
'I never knew you were a painter.'
'Watercolour's always been a hobby of mine.'
This surprised her even more, for when he had mentioned painting, she had envisaged him in front of an outsize canvas, sloshing on colours with a large brush. Yet thinking about it, she could see him being an excellent watercolourist, for he was a stickler for detail, and was extremely neat and tidy.
'What's your hobby?' he broke into her thoughts.
'Knitting,' she confessed.
He stared at her, then collapsed with laughter. 'Knitting? You're having me on!'
'What's funny about knitting?'
'Nothing. And my mother's the world's best. But it's not something I ever associated with a five-foot-eight curvaceous blonde!'
'Shows how stereotyped your mind is,' sniffed Leslie. 'I happen to be pretty damn good at it.'
'Then I'd like a sweater for my birthday,' he said promptly. 'Navy or grey, in fine cashmere.'
'All you'll get from me is chunky knit. I like quick results!'
She waited for him to make some sexy comment, but he didn't. Come to think of it, since their life of celibacy he had avoided all talk of sex, apart from one evening when they had petted so heavily that she had found herself but a moment away from orgasm.
Subsequently she had told him—with a great deal of pseudo embarrassment—that her gynaecologist had advised her to steer clear of
any kind of arousal, and Dane had accepted the injunction without argument and had sought other ways of keeping them both occupied. She was not surprised therefore when, learning of her interest in knitting, he returned home on the Monday following their conversation with a pattern for a sweater and some black and white flecked wool, together with several painting manuals for himself.
Their cosy evenings together continued, and Leslie increasingly wondered if she had been wise to fake illness, for being alone with him was putting a great strain on her. It appeared to have the opposite effect on Dane, who had never looked happier.
For the first time in years she found herself dreading Christmas, afraid that once they were alone in Hawaii, he would lose his self-control and persuade her—which would be all too easy—to lose hers.
But here too he proved her wrong, for despite the romantic setting, his platonic behaviour never wavered. Leslie was discomfited by the strength of her own sexual drive, and one morning as they sunbathed on the terrace outside their suite it was all she could do not to reach out to him.
Dane, oblivious of her erotic thoughts, acted like a loving brother. They swam, snorkelled, went canal paddling, golfed, played tennis, and then revived themselves on sunbeds on the palm-shaded beach. Without doubt the Mauna Lani lived up to its name, for translated it meant 'mountain reaching to heaven'.
'We'll come back in the spring,' Dane promised as their plane bore them high above Waikiki and
Diamond Head, en route for Los Angeles. 'It's just the place to make babies!'
Leslie bit her lip. So what if Dane was happily planning a family! This time next year their marriage would be over, and he would probably be winging his way across the emerald ocean with another sex object.
As always, the thought of him with another woman filled her with anger, and she was dismayed by her dog-in-the-manger attitude. She didn't want Dane herself, yet she hated the idea of anyone else having him!
Her depression intensified when, early in January, he went to New York on business for a week. Left alone for the first time since their marriage, she was devastated at how dependent she had become on him as companion and friend, and though she was asked out every night for dinner, without him there was no enjoyment, merely a marking time until his return.
Roberta Leigh - Too Bad to be True Page 11
