Martin stiffened for a moment, and then with one last series of wild plunges he, too, achieved release. It was, Christina decided after her mind resumed functioning, the most thrilling and wonderful experience of her entire life. She hoped she’d be able to persuade Martin into many more such experiences.
Ten
Dear God, what had he done?
Martin lay gasping for breath at Christina’s side and wished he could do it all again. And again and again and—
No, no, no.
That was the wrong attitude. He was supposed to have resisted. He’d always resisted before when actresses had tied to seduce him. Why had he succumbed to Christina, when she meant more to him than any of the others, and she, above all others, he wanted to honor, not despoil?
He was a cad. A brute. A beast
“Oh, Martin, you’re wonderful.”
As he’d been in the middle of an orgy of self-recrimination, Martin was shocked by Christina’s tone of rapture. And her words. He dared to open his eyes, turn his head on the pillow, and look at her. He didn’t know what he’d expected to see, but he was pretty sure he hadn’t expected her to look as though she were happier than she ever been in her life.
He said tentatively, “Um, I am?”
She shocked him again when she fairly leaped from her pose of magnificent repletion and threw her arms around him He was so weakened by their recent joint exercise that he could hardly lift his arms, but he managed to do so, and to wrap them around her beautiful, supple, slender body. She was so splendid. So perfect. So—
“I’ve never felt anything so amazing in my life!” she cried.
He hadn’t, either. After hesitating for a moment, wondering if it would be wise to say so, he decided he’d already done his worst. He might as well tell the truth. “Me neither. You—you were—” Aw, hell, he didn’t know what to say that didn’t sound stupid. “It was perfect.” There. That was the truth, and it didn’t sound silly.
“Was it?” Her huge eyes gazed down at him; she seemed to be studying his expression for signs of deceit. She smoothed her fingers over the planes of his face. “Was it really, Martin? It was my first time. I was afraid you wouldn’t enjoy it with someone who didn’t know what she was doing.”
Didn’t know what she was doing? Was she trying to kid him?
But no. He inspected her beautiful face closely and decided she’d really meant it. He nodded. “Absolutely. You’re perfect. Wonderful.” Because he was feeling a trifle nervous talking about it, he kissed her, hoping to stifle any more declarations, confessions, or questions.
Martin’s sexual experiences weren’t vast, but they’d always before been carried out with females who had a lot of miles on them. They’d been pleasant, happy experiences, with no expectations on either side except that of momentary pleasure.
He wasn’t sure what this liaison with Christina meant. If she were to be believed, she wanted only a temporary sexual affair with him. He feared he wanted much more than that from her. In fact—and Martin had never seriously considered this possibility before—he wouldn’t mind setting up permanent housekeeping with Christina Mayhew.
Good Lord, did he mean that?
By God, he did. Martin had eschewed getting involved with pretty young actresses from his first association with motion pictures, because for the most part he’d found them insecure and desperate. He didn’t need that sort of female in his life on a permanent basis. Actresses were difficult enough to work with, with their egos and their tender feelings and their maniacal tendencies; marriage to someone like that would be pure hell.
But Christina wasn’t a typical young actress desperate to make a name for herself in the new picture industry. She was about as different from the majority of the young actresses he’d met as a lioness was from a tadpole.
Because his heart was full, and because he suspected he loved her, and because he felt guilty, he said softly, “Will you marry me, Christina?” Then he could have bitten his tongue.
Still, it was the gallant thing to have done. It was the gentlemanly thing to have done. It was proper. It was good. It was—
“Oh, Martin, thank you, but you don’t have to do that. No, I won’t marry you.”
He jerked to attention instantly. What had she said? “Urn, I beg your pardon?”
She stopped hugging him, which left his chest area cold and lonesome, a sensation that started creeping from his skin into his heart. Picking up a pillow and fluffing it vigorously, she set it against the headboard of his bed, sat against it, and hugged her knees. Her skin glowed, and her face held a radiance the likes of which Martin had never seen. She was so perfect. So beautiful. She made him want to cry with pure emotion. He’d never do such a stupid thing.
“Thank you very much, Martin, but that’s not what I want, so you needn’t feel obliged.”
“Obliged?” He was offended. “Now, see here, Christina, I—”
Her smile was so sweet, Martin felt as though he might drown in treacle if she kept it up. “Oh, Martin, you’re so nice. You’re the nicest man I’ve ever met in my life. And the most honorable and sensible and—oh, everything. You’re perfect.”
No, he wasn’t. Too befuddled to formulate a response, Martin continued to listen, the coldness in his heart deepening with every word Christina spoke. “But I’m not interested in marriage.”
He blinked at her. “You’re not?” He’d never heard of such a thing as a young woman not being interested in marriage. It was absurd. Incomprehensible. Very unlikely. Yet Christina Mayhew, of all the women in the world, didn’t seem inclined to utter falsehoods.
She shook her head. “Nope. I’ve got plans for my life, and they don’t include marriage.”
Good God. Feeling chillier and chillier with each passing second, Martin dared to ask, “Um, and what sorts of plans do you have?”
She looked like a goddess propped against the pillows that way, serene and happy, overflowing with sexual satisfaction, almost smug in her happiness. Martin didn’t understand why he didn’t feel as good as she looked. Oh, physically—emotionally, even—he’d never experienced such a grand sexual encounter. But his heart now felt strange and icy, and fear had begun to nibble away at his confidence.
Giving him a slantwise look and a somewhat secretive grin, Christina said, “Well, I don’t tell most people this, because nobody understands except my family, but”—she took a deep breath—“I’m going to be a doctor.”
Martin continued to stare at her blankly, his mind unable to take in the significance of her statement. It penetrated gradually, and when he finally understood what she’d just told him, he had to hold back a snort of disbelief.
But—a doctor? Women didn’t become doctors. It was flat impossible for a female to be a physician. Martin knew it. Everyone knew it.
Everyone except Christina. Unwilling to spoil the moment entirely, Martin didn’t say any of that. Heck, he might honestly love this woman; he didn’t want to scoff at her now, of all times.
“Um,” he said after a pregnant pause, “is that so?”
Her grin vanished. Her eyebrows lowered. Her air of happiness dimmed. “You don’t believe me, do you?”
Aw, hell. She would have to ask him that, wouldn’t she? He scrambled for something to say that wouldn’t get her riled. “Well, ah, it’s only that—that—” That what? Oh, yes. “It’s only that I’ve never heard of a woman becoming a doctor.” A thought struck him. “You are talking medical doctor here? Or were you planning to obtain a doctorate in some other field?” A faint hope flickered. It died with her next words.
“Yes.” Her voice had gone cold. “I am going to attend medical school in Los Angeles and become a physician.”
Deciding the idyll was over and hoping it wouldn’t be forever gone, Martin sat up, edged to the side of the bed, and looked around the room for his clothes. His back to her, he murmured, “I see. That’s . . . interesting.”
He felt, rather than saw, her flounce as she maneuvered to
the other side of the bed and sat up straighter.
“You think I’m crazy, don’t you?”
“Crazy?” He glanced at her over his shoulder, even as he reached for his socks. “No. You’re far from crazy, Christina. But . . . well . . .”
Dash it, Martin Tafft had always been an honest man; he hated that his honesty in this instance might lose him Christina, whom he hadn’t even won yet. Not really. Not permanently. Nevertheless, he spoke the truth as he saw it. “It’s just . . . well, women don’t become physicians, Christina.” He gestured feebly, wishing he could think of better, more ennobling words. “I mean, look around you. Do you see any female doctors anywhere?”
The bed dipped as she got out of it and stood up. “Not yet.”
He heard the whisk of a garment as she snatched it from the floor and ventured tentatively, “Not yet?” He stood, too, feeling lost and deflated. Only moments earlier he’d been basking in a haze of ethereal delight.
Damnation, why had this subject come up, anyhow?
Oh, yes, he remembered. He’d asked her to marry him and she’d refused his proposal. Because she wanted to be a doctor.
God save me from this impossible woman, he thought uncharitably. Then he took himself to task for the thought. He knew full well that most women had as much in the way of brain power as most men since most of both genders were stupid. But . . . a doctor? He simply couldn’t get a handle on that one.
“Yes, Martin Tafft.” She sounded the tiniest bit frosty. “Not yet. It’s only because women are discriminated against that you don’t see any woman physicians But the time is coming, believe me.”
He heard a rip and a soft, “Damn.” Uh-oh. If she was ripping her clothes and swearing, she must be really angry with him.
Because the idea of Christina’s anger directed against himself made him feel sick and sad, he decided to try to unruffle her feathers. He pulled on his trousers and walked around the bed to her as he buttoned them up. She was glaring at her shirt and inspecting the underarm seam, which was gaping slightly, He suspected she’d yanked on it in her annoyance, and it had come apart. He felt bad for having angered her.
“Listen, Christina, I’m sorry if I sounded unenthusiastic about your plans.”
“Unenthusiastic?” Her tone held a sharp edge of venom. “You don’t believe me. You don’t think it’s possible. You think I’m stupid for wanting a job in a man’s profession.”
“Well, I wouldn’t—”
She cut him off. “Don’t you? Damn it, Martin, tell me the truth!”
He did. “I don’t think you’re stupid. Or crazy. I only think you’re being a little unrealistic.”
She jabbed her arms into the shirt, ignoring the hole in its armpit, and buttoned it up furiously. She hadn’t bothered putting on her chemise, and when Martin saw her lovely breasts disappear under the fabric, he felt deprived.
“Oh? I’m being unrealistic, am I? And why is that, pray tell?”
He shrugged, feeling defeated and hating the feeling. “For heaven’s sake, Christina, look around you. Do you see any female doctors anywhere? No, you don’t. And why is that? It’s because women—women—” Even as he struggled to find the appropriate words, he started questioning his reasoning.
“Women what?” she demanded, not giving an inch. “Women are too stupid? They’re too emotional? They’re too tenderhearted? They’re too compassionate? Tell me why women can’t be doctors. Please, Martin. I want to know.”
“No, no, no. None of those things But they have other—other jobs in the world.”
“Aha. I see.” She sounded vaguely triumphant. “They’re supposed to sit home and raise the children while the men tackle the important tasks in this big, bad world, is that it?”
“No!” Lord on high, how had he got himself into this mess? “But, well, it’s the women who have the babies, after all.” He knew that point shouldn’t sound weak, because it was the God’s honest truth—but it did sound weak.
“Right. And, of course, it would never occur to anyone that a woman could be a mother and a physician at the same time, would it?”
“Well, if you’re going to put it that way . . .”
“What way would you put it?”
Hell’s teeth, this conversation was going nowhere. Fast. “All right, perhaps I was too hasty. Perhaps women can and should be doctors. I—I’ve just never considered it as an option before now. I, ah, hadn’t considered the possibility that a woman could have a family and a job, too.”
“Fiddlesticks.” She glared around the room, looking for something else, although Martin didn’t know what. “Women have had families and worked for centuries. Only most of the time, the only jobs they’re able to secure are for slave wages.”
“Um . . .” Suddenly Martin’s mind filled with images of sweat shops and of Jacob Riis’s monumental work of the last century, How the Other Half Lives. Christina was right about the types of jobs women were allowed to have, by God.
“What’s more,” she went on as she made another swoop, retrieved her chemise and stuffed it in a pocket, “they’re paid cents on the dollar that a similarly employed man would make for doing the same job. It’s not fair, Martin Tafft.”
“But . . . but, it’s the men who support the families. Don’t you think women shouldn’t take jobs away from men who need them to support their children?”
If her eyes got any bigger, they’d pop. “Surely you’re joking with that old saw, aren’t you?”
“Well . . . no.” Martin had what he considered an inspirational thought. “And don’t forget that it’s always women and children first when it comes to rescue. Remember last year when the Titanic sank? It was the men who drowned, if you’ll recall!”
“It was mainly the poor ones who drowned, Martin. Besides, that only illustrates my point”
“It does?” This was getting confusing.
“It does. How do you expect those poor widows and children are going to live now? And don’t forget that for every man who drowned on the Titanic, there are thousands of others who don’t have such a good excuse for not supporting their families. Do, you have any notion how many women have to support their families because they’ve been deserted, or because their husbands. have died or are injured or are merely useless drunks? The figures are phenomenal, Martin. and I think you should know it.”
Hmm. Actually, he did know it. Brenda Fitzpatrick, who had made a fortune in films, had started working because her family needed her to support them. Brenda had always admitted to having been lucky in her looks. She’d never taken any credit at all for having been born beautiful, and she’d always stated with perfect honesty that if she’d been ugly, her family would have starved. “Um, I guess you’re right about that, Christina.”
“You’re darned right I’m right. So you agree that it’s not fair for women to be paid less than men for doing the same job.”
He knew how to respond to that one. “Absolutely. It’s most unfair.” He felt minutely better. She didn’t speak for a moment, but stuffed her shirttail into her trousers and considered him. Her scrutiny made him feel uncomfortable, so he decided to look for his shirt. He found it and put it on before she spoke again.
“Thank you for saying that,” she said at last. “At least you admit that your objections to women working at regular jobs spring from long-held prejudice and weren’t formed through any study or effort on your part.”
Was that a rebuke? The words might be so construed, but Christina’s tone when she’d uttered them didn’t sound critical, but thoughtful. And since she hadn’t lashed out at him and backed him up against a wall, instead of bridling or getting defensive, Martin considered what she’d said. Were his opinions formed from mere prejudice and lack of cogitation and analysis?
The conclusion he came to was that she was right. By God. Who’d have thought it? Slowly, he nodded. “Yes,” he said finally. “Yes, I see your point.”
“Thank you.”
This wasn’t the fir
st time she’d thanked him for something he didn’t understand needing to be thanked for. Gazing at her, finding her lovely in every particular, he decided it might behoove him to try to understand her. If he could only do so without allowing his belief system—his wall of intolerance?— to rebel in anger, perhaps there might yet be hope for . . . for what? For an affair?
His blood ran cold. He didn’t want an affair with her.
Immediately, his conscience told him not to be an ass. Certainly he wanted an affair with her. She was the most sexually attractive woman he’d ever met.
But he believed he also wanted more than a mere sexual association with Christina. He’d thought it might be marriage, but now he wasn’t so sure. In an astoundingly short space in time, she’d managed to knock his own particular set of notions and beliefs askew.
He was pleased when, after they’d finished dressing, she let him kiss her one last time before they parted. He didn’t want to part from her. Ever. But, he chided himself, this is what he deserved for succumbing to his baser urges and not waiting.
Waiting for what? For her to leave him forever?
Aw, hell. The Christina situation was too complicated for his poor, sore brain to figure out now.
As he opened his door and surveyed the hallway—no matter how modem a female she claimed to be, Martin wasn’t going to subject her to malicious gossip—he wondered if being permanently attached to Christina Mayhew would be an altogether comfortable proposition.
In spite of their parting words, Christina felt a blissful sense of euphoria as she went back to her room in the Desert Palm Resort. She knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that she loved Martin. The deep and profound feeling in her soul couldn’t be anything else.
And the sex had been grand, too. She hoped this would be only the first of many encounters of a like nature they would share.
Her Leading Man Page 15
