by Janet Dailey
“Whatever you say, Mr. Townsend.” She reached in her purse for the bank envelope containing the money and handed it to him.
With the tube of lipstick from her purse, Sheila walked to the mirror and applied pale strawberry gloss to her lips. Brad was visible in one corner of the mirror. She absently watched him rip open the envelope and begin to count the money.
Sheila smiled faintly at his action. “All ten thousand is there,” she assured him.
“What?” His blank gaze met the reflection of her look in the mirror.
“I hope you don’t intend to count it all.” There was a trace of gloss at one corner of her mouth and she touched a finger to it to wipe it away. “I am getting hungry.”
“No . . . no, of course not,” he agreed absently and turned away from the mirror.
His attention immediately returned to the wad of bills in his hands. As if mesmerized, he continued to count it. Sheila smiled in silent understanding at his reflection. It was probably more money than he had ever seen at one time. Her gaze slid to his hands and she felt a twinge of uneasiness at the almost reverent way he fingered the bills. She turned slowly to stare at him.
Brad glanced up and quickly stuffed the money deep into the pocket of his slacks. The trance-like expression had left his face and he smiled quite naturally.
“You look very beautiful, Sheila,” Brad said.
Her imagination must have been playing nasty tricks on her. “I’m glad you think so,” she responded warmly. “Shall we go?”
After two margueritas on an empty stomach, Sheila started to feel light-headed. Brad had downed twice that number without seeming to suffer a similar effect; in fact, he appeared to grow more expansive and outgoing with each sip of the potent tequila cocktail.
He ordered a fifth and pulled a generous tip from the wad of money to place on the waiter’s tray. Sheila couldn’t help feeling uneasy at his uncharacteristic behavior.
“I’ve never known you to drink so much,” she said with forced casualness.
“A man doesn’t get married every day.” His detached, smiling glance was arrogant. “This occasion calls for some celebration.” And he lifted the glass containing the ice-cold concoction to his lips.
In the hotel restaurant, Sheila cringed at the show Brad made of tipping the maître d’. He drank his sixth marguerita while they were consulting the menu. Sheila suggested a glass of wine with their meal and Brad ordered the most expensive bottle in the house.
During the meal, a strolling duo of guitarists paused beside their table to serenade them. Brad immediately reached into his pocket and pulled out the money, peeling a large-numbered bill from the others. Again he made a project of tipping ostentatiously and not discreetly slipping the bill to the musicians.
When the two guitarists finally moved away from their table, Sheila gently commented on his tasteless extravagance. “You don’t need to be so generous, Brad.”
“I’m happy,” he defended with an uncaring shrug. “And I want everyone else to be happy.” He lifted his wineglass in a toast. “To you, Sheila, and our glorious future.”
Her smile was forced as she raised her own glass to her lips. The wine tasted sour and unpalatable. She tried to dismiss the apprehensions plaguing her, and her father’s remark that Brad was money-hungry. He was merely happy, she thought in an attempt to rationalize his actions. It had nothing to do with any exhilarating sense of power at having so much money in his pocket.
When the waiter removed their dinner plates, Brad asked Sheila, “Would you like some brandy with your coffee?”
“No,” she refused. And she couldn’t keep from adding tensely, “I wish you wouldn’t drink so much, Brad.”
“I’m not drunk.” His eyes widened at her censure. Then a smile of supposed understanding spread across his handsome face. “Ah, it’s our wedding night. That’s what’s bothering you, isn’t it?” A faint smirk lent an unattractive line to his mouth. “Are you concerned that I won’t be able to perform in bed tonight? I assure you there have never been any complaints on that score, drunk or sober.”
His coarseness flamed Sheila’s cheeks in revulsion. She lowered her gaze to the table, hating whatever it was that was changing Brad into a stranger.
“Maidenly blushes from my virginal bride.” Brad laughed.
“Brad, please,” Sheila hissed angrily, wishing he would lower his voice.
He shrugged. “Sorry, my love.” But he didn’t sound it.
The waiter returned. Sheila nearly sighed aloud when Brad asked for the check instead of brandy and coffee. Yet, again, he overtipped when paying the bill, flashing the wad of money for all to see as he did it. Sheila tried to pretend it didn’t mean anything.
Once inside their hotel room, Brad kissed the side of her neck and whispered huskily, “I believe it is traditional for the bride to have the bathroom first—so, after you, my lovely.”
Her luggage was on a stand near the bathroom door. Picking it up, Sheila hesitated. This wasn’t the way she had envisioned her wedding night. Brad was acting more like a stranger than her lover, but it was too late now for second thoughts.
Once out of the tub, she retouched her makeup and fluffed her dark gold hair. There was only one night garment in her suitcase. Her hands trembled as she lifted it out and slipped it over her head. The filmy gown was richly embroidered with lace at the bodice, two thin straps over her shoulders holding the see-through veil of turquoise-blue.
Fighting the fluttering of her stomach, she opened the bathroom door and stepped into the room. There Sheila paused, frozen, unable to move. Brad was slouched in a chair, a bottle of tequila in one hand and a glass in the other. His jacket and tie had been discarded. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, revealing a cloud of curling blond hair. Her gaze was riveted to the bottle in his hand.
“Where did you get that?” Sheila knew there had been no liquor in the room.
“Room service.” Brad studied her through half-closed eyes that still appeared alert. “Come over here,” he commanded. “I want a closer look at you.”
Woodenly, Sheila obeyed, her legs moving almost on their own volition. A foot in front of his chair, she stopped and stood motionless for his inspection. His gaze moved slowly from her face to her naked shoulders, trailing across the lacy bodice to the shadowy cleft between her breasts, then over their full, thrusting curves to the gauzy material blurring the flesh of her waist, stomach, and hips.
“Turn around,” he ordered.
Again, Sheila found herself obeying, her heart hammering like a snared rabbit. The skin along her spine seemed to crawl with the downward path of his gaze. She felt like a piece of merchandise that was being inspected for flaws. There was the thumping sound of the glass and bottle being set on the table beside the chair.
“Not bad,” Brad murmured. His hand stroked a rounded cheek of her bottom and Sheila flinched from his touch. It carried none of his previous arousing magic. “Don’t worry.” He laughed softly in his throat and turned her around. His hands rested on the sides of her ribs, pulling the thin lace of the gown’s bodice taut across her breasts. “I still prefer your beautiful breasts.”
“Brad, don’t.” Her voice wavered, sickened by the wine and liquor that saturated the breath blowing hotly over her face.
One of his hands moved to the point of a breast where a sleeping nipple was outlined by lace. He lifted the fabric away from it and fingered the lace as Sheila hunched her shoulders, recoiling her breast from his touch.
“This piece of sexy, blue nothing probably cost a fortune,” Brad remarked idly.
“Do you like it?” Sheila breathed in deeply, attempting to hide her curious dislike of his closeness.
“Like it? I’ll say I do.” Releasing her. Brad walked to the table to refill the glass sitting beside the tequila bottle. A saucer of lemon wedges was on the table. “I’m going to buy you one of those for every night of the week.”
“It really isn’t necessary,” she protested, flinch
ing inwardly at his bragging tone.
“You’re probably right.” He took a swallow from the glass before biting into a lemon wedge. “It’s better if you don’t wear any clothes at all.”
Sheila walked to the table and took the glass from his hand. “Don’t drink anymore, Brad,” she insisted tightly.
For an instant, he bristled. Then his arms were winding around her, pulling her close. “You’re right again. Why should I drink that fiery liquid when I can taste the intoxicating sweetness of my wife.”
His face moved closer to hers, his revolting breath filling her nostrils. She turned her head at the last second so that his mouth missed her lips and brushed her cheek, instead. But Brad didn’t seem to notice.
His arms tightened around her as he sighed into her ear. “You have no idea how happy I am tonight, honey.”
“Are you?” she returned frozenly. No matter how much she tried, she could not relax in his embrace.
“When I slipped that ring on your finger this afternoon, a whole new world opened up for me,” he mused. “You don’t know what it’s like not to have money, Sheila. All my life I’ve had to kiss somebody’s ass to get ahead, do somebody else’s dirty work. I’m tired of hustling broads for those rich bastards at the hotel.” Sheila blanched at his absent announcement. “Now, with you, that whole way of life is behind me. I’ll never have to do things like that again.”
The blood drained from her face, then raced back to fill it, staining her cheeks with red as surely as if he had slapped her. Sheila was beginning to realize there was a great deal about Brad that she didn’t know.
“No, you won’t.” She choked on the agreement.
His hand roamed over the fine angles of her shoulder blade before straying to her slender waist and the curve of her hip. “You not only have a beautiful face, but a gorgeous body, as well. It has been a temptation not to wait until tonight to take you,” Brad declared roughly.
Her arms had been rigidly at her sides. Now Sheila lifted them to wedge a space between them, then twisted free of his embrace.
“Brad, I want to talk,” Sheila insisted.
“There is no more time for talk.” He ran a mocking eye over her barely clothed body. “This is our wedding night—what we both have been waiting for and wanting. I have never met a girl who was so anxious to lose her virginity as you have been. I can’t believe you are getting cold feet.”
“It isn’t that. I just think we should talk.” She tried to keep her voice calm and reasonable, fighting the doubts raining in her mind.
“What’s the matter with you?” He frowned, his hand circling her elbow to turn her around. “You’ve been wanting me to make love to you for weeks.”
Sheila strained against his hold. “Nothing is the matter with me,” she protested.
His gaze flicked to her arm, studying her attempt to twist away from his grip. “But you like for me to touch you,” he reminded her. “It excites you. Remember?”
The face that Sheila had once considered handsome had somehow changed. She felt no excitement, no stimulation in his caress. She didn’t understand this change in her reaction any more than she understood this change in Brad.
“Bridal nerves.” Sheila tried to laugh off her apprehensions. “Just be a little patient with me, Brad.”
“Oh, no.” His mouth twisted in an unattractive line. “You aren’t going to play one of those numbers of ‘not tonight’ with me. You’ve been teasing me for too long now.”
Roughly, he yanked her back into his arms. His hand curled over the rounded curve of her bottom to squeeze the soft flesh of her cheek. He forced her hips to mold against his male hardness, the thin material of her gown acting as a second skin. Revulsion rose in her throat, a nauseous lump that nearly gagged Sheila.
“That’s what you really want, isn’t it?” Brad murmured thickly. “But you don’t think it’s ladylike to admit it, do you?”
“It isn’t that,” Sheila insisted. She was completely aware of her passionate nature and remembered Brad’s previous ability to arouse it. Only this time he didn’t seem concerned about arousing her desire.
The fragile strap of her gown slipped from her shoulder at the touch of his fingers. A side seam ripped as Brad pulled the lacy bodice downward to reveal the plump ripeness of her breasts. The one nearest to his hand he kneaded roughly while the loose-fitting gown fell to the floor around her feet.
“Brad, you are hurting me.” Sheila protested the painful massaging of her breast.
It stopped as an encircling arm flattened both of them against his chest, his curling hairs scraping her sensitive skin.
He grabbed a handful of blonde hair, pulling at the tender roots until Sheila gasped. Her lips were still, an easy victim for his ravaging mouth. Brad took them, hotly and moistly, bruising their softness. Sheila was incapable of repulsing him as his tongue explored the inner reaches of her mouth. She forced herself not to resist him and managed a weak response to his ardent demands.
Swinging Sheila off her feet into the cradle of his arms, Brad carried her to the bed and laid her on the turned-down covers. Her breath was coming in deep, uneven spurts. He loomed before her, staring at her naked length on the bed. Sheila lay motionless. Her eyes watched him undress, the message transmitted to her brain in a blur of unreality. It was a nightmare, something that was happening to someone else, not her. If she closed her eyes, maybe she would wake up and find the Brad she had thought she married instead of this indifferent stranger.
Her lashes fluttered downward for a fraction of a second, snapping open when the bed sagged to take his weight. She swallowed the choked cry that rose in her throat as he settled his naked body on the bed beside her, a hand closing over the jutting roundness of her breast.
Nipping briefly at a white shoulder, he buried his face in the curve of her neck. But he soon abandoned any attempts to tease and tantalize Sheila into desire. And her attempts to fake it were pitiful. Her arms were stretched spreadeagled above her head as he shifted his length on top of her.
“Please,” she requested stiffly, refusing to beg, “be gentle with me.”
He forced his way between her legs to mount her. “Relax, damn it,” he ordered tersely.
At the searing stab of pain, Sheila started to cry out, but his mouth covered hers to smother the sound until she could hardly breathe. He took her like a rutting boar, rolling off when he was satisfied.
Tears of shame and an odd sense of degradation drenched her cheeks, already moistened by the initial tears of pain. She felt used and abused, cheapened somehow by an act that should have been a consummation of their love. Weakly, Sheila tried to move away from the male form beside her, but her aching, trembling muscles wouldn’t obey.
Propped into a half-sitting position by an unsteady elbow, Brad studied her with a cynically amused look. “What the hell are you crying about?”
If he had been kind to her, if he had said one gentle word to make up for the callously indifferent way he had used her, Sheila might have forgiven him. She might have blamed it all on his heavy consumption of alcohol.
Instead, she briskly wiped the dampness from her cheeks with the back of her hand, pride surfacing to conceal her longing for a soothing hand, even Brad’s.
“Nothing,” Sheila retorted in a husky, throbbing voice.
“Good.” He rolled onto his side. “God, I’m tired,” he muttered in a sigh.
Within minutes Brad was snoring away, the liquor finally taking its toll. Sheila wished the tiredness would have claimed him earlier, before . . .
She slid from the bed, ignoring the fiery, aching soreness in her loins. Unaware of her nakedness, she walked to the hotel window overlooking the street below. There were people on the sidewalks and small boys hustling and begging.
Sheila had always considered herself a realist. She had never expected birds to sing or bells to ring. She had never thought she had any romantic illusions about love. Now Sheila realized that she had.
H
er system was shocked, her emotions appalled by the carnal knowledge of a man, a man who was her husband. Sheila had anticipated pain and a certain amount of displeasure, but not this disgust and rejection that coursed through her. Sex was not an intimate union of two lovers. It was a violation, a demanding act of subservience to a man’s will.
Brad had taken her selfishly for his own pleasure and satisfaction. The niggling question remained: Was it because of the liquor he had drunk? Would it be different when he was sober? How much of the revulsion she was feeling now was overreaction to a traumatic experience? And how much was justified?
The coolness of the night air wafted over her bare skin. Sheila turned away from the window, confused and uncertain. Her filmy nightgown lay on the floor. She hesitated, then picked it up and drew it over her head. Maybe by morning the memory of her experience would dim and everything would be all right again.
Chapter 4
Brad awakened with the sun the next morning. At his first stirring, Sheila feigned sleep, something that had been denied her as her mind kept replaying her wedding night.
He made no attempt to awaken her when he rose and began dressing. Through the slit of her long lashes, Sheila watched him tucking his shirt into the waistband of his trousers. He reached into his pocket and took out the wad of bills. Money-hungry, her father had called him, and now Sheila was half-convinced he was right. Brad had not sought out his new wife the first morning after their marriage. His first interest was her money.
“Come on, sleeping beauty, wake up,” he ordered crisply without glancing at her.
After a brief debate whether or not to obey his command, Sheila slowly opened her eyes, keeping them expressionless of her inner thoughts. He had not bothered with a greeting, and neither did she.
“What is it?” Her thighs were still cramped and sore, protesting any movement.
“I’ve decided we should go to Acapulco,” Brad announced, looking quite pleased with himself.
