Fever Dreams

by Laura Resnick

  Madeleine's farewell with Charlotte was awkward, but Caroline was always able to forget an argument as quickly as she started one.

  “Will you be back in time for Dad's birthday party?” Caroline asked Madeleine.

  “Yes, of course. I should be back long before that.” Seeing Preston's inquisitive expression as he helped her into her coat, Madeleine explained, “It'll be my father's sixtieth birthday. The family's throwing a big bash here.”

  Thackery added, “You're invited, of course, Preston.”

  “I'll look forward to it, sir.”

  Madeleine was quiet on the drive back to the city. Luckily traffic was light, and the journey went quickly. Her mind was awhirl with concerns, not the least of which was what she should do about Preston. How could she continue to “think about” his marriage proposal? Surely a woman knew when she wanted to marry a man, didn't she?

  Madeleine looked across at his handsome profile. No answer revealed itself to her, and she was swept by a wave of loneliness. She wished she could tell Preston about Ransom. About her shame and embarrassment. About her fear of the man and the unpredictable emotions he aroused in her.

  She leaned her head against the cold glass of the passenger window, wishing someone could hold her and make it all go away: the sudden, hurtful argument with her sisters; the heaviness she always felt after seeing her mother; her worries about going to Montedora; the weight of the responsibilities she bore; her whirling confusion over Ransom. She wished someone could cuddle and comfort her, and rock her to sleep.

  She shifted her legs and remembered vividly how Ransom had done all of that, and more. He had taken a desperate, lonely, leaden night and turned it into magic. He had stripped her of all sorrows and weariness. He had ravished her worries and cares and chased them into the darkness. He had taken her outside of herself, made her live only in the moment, and then made each moment more joyous than the last.

  If he weren't such an overbearing, foul-mouthed louse, she might even thank him for it someday. She might even ask him to do it again.

  Madeleine's eyes flew wide open and she sat bolt upright. No! That was wrong. She would never, ever ask him to do it again. What could she be thinking of?

  She looked desperately at Preston again as he steered the Mercedes down East 73rd Street. He was the man who wanted to marry her. Why couldn't he take away the demons tonight?

  Preston brought the car to a stop outside Madeleine's elegant apartment building. He met her gaze and smiled slightly. “Are you all right?”

  Yes, why not Preston? They had never slept together. She had said she wasn't ready, and he hadn't pushed her. Yes, why not tonight? She had a feeling she was as ready as she'd ever be, and she needed ... someone. Why shouldn't that someone be the man she might well marry?

  “Why don't...” Madeleine's voice was dry and brittle, fading before she could complete the sentence.

  “Yes?” he breathed, seeing something new in her expression.

  “Would you like to stay with me tonight, Preston?”

  * * * *

  Ransom rolled away from the woman beside him and lit up a cigarette. Sex had been a mistake. He'd known that even before they were done undressing. He shouldn't have done it, shouldn't have called her. But he'd desperately needed something. Someone.

  “What's wrong?” Gwen lay on her side and studied his troubled frown. “Is it Montedora?”

  He shrugged.

  “I thought maybe it was,” she said, “since you've been...”

  “What?” he snapped. Stop it. Don't take it out on Gwen. He liked Gwen, and his bad mood wasn't her fault.

  Gwen was a divorced corporate executive who worked long hours, travelled often, and—in her own words—didn't need a man hanging around and driving her crazy. They had met on a plane more than a year ago and had been occasional lovers ever since then. There had never been more than that between them, and it had suited them both. Ransom didn't know if the relationship had been exclusive on her side, though her busy schedule made him suppose that it had. And except for that single night with Madeleine, he hadn't slept with anybody else. He was a one-woman-at-a-time kind of guy. And that's what was wrong tonight. The woman on his mind wasn't the one whose bed he was in.

  “Well, you haven't been yourself ever since you came back from Montedora.” Gwen sat up, pulling the sheet up to cover herself. “Did something happen to you down there?”

  He shrugged again, uncomfortably aware that he was being churlish. “Sort of.”

  She hesitated. “Want to talk about it?”

  He shook his head. “Nah. It's not your problem.”

  She stared at him for a moment, then shrugged. “Have it your way.”

  “I'm sorry, Gwen, I—”

  “It's okay.”

  He gestured vaguely toward the twisted sheets. “No, I meant, I'm sorry about...”

  She grinned. “Nothing to apologize for, Ransom. The sex was good. The sex is always good. That's why I let you disrupt my schedule from time to time.”

  He smiled wryly. “I suspect you're going easy on my fragile male ego tonight.”

  She shook her head. “No. I'll admit, we've had better nights. But even when you're obviously thinking about something else,” she paused and raised her brows significantly before continuing, “you still know your way around a woman's body.”

  He drew on his cigarette. There was a companionable silence for a few moments before he said, “I should go.”

  She didn't try to keep him. She never did. It was one of the reasons he had continued to see her occasionally after returning from Montedora. Ransom drew on his jeans and slipped into his shirt while she watched. He pulled on his shoes and socks, picked up his jacket, and turned to say something to her.

  “See you around, Gwen,” seemed to be as eloquent as he could get tonight.

  “See you around, Ransom.”

  He usually kissed her goodbye. He didn't tonight. She usually walked him to the front door. She didn't tonight.

  He stopped in the bedroom doorway, turned around, and tried to think of how to tell her what he really needed to tell her.

  “You won't be calling again, will you?” she said quietly.

  “I...” He shook his head. “No, I won't, Gwen. It's nothing to do with you. I think I'm going crazy.”

  Her eyes watered a little. She looked away for a moment, then looked back, covering the moment with a bright, artificial smile. “Well, then I guess I won't be calling you either. So thanks for the good times and ... take care, Ransom.”

  “You, too, Gwen,” he said softly.

  He drew on his battered, brown leather jacket as he left Gwen's apartment building and stepped out into the brisk night air. October. He loved October. Hell of a time to be going down to Montedora, where there would be heavy rains.

  He pulled another cigarette out of his pocket and cupped his hands around it as he lit up, fully aware that he had smoked twice his usual number of cigarettes since seeing Madeleine Barrington yesterday.

  Just the thought of her sent his blood rushing through his body in hot wonder and confusion. And he didn't like it. Not one damn bit.

  The memory of that night was like a fever dream, more real than reality. The colors, scents, sounds, and textures of that night were sharper and more vivid than any other sexual experience of his life, and they had stayed with him all this time, as sharp and stirring as if he'd held her in his arms only five minutes ago.

  He thought briefly of the woman he had been holding in his arms just a few minutes ago, then shook his head. Damn Madeleine Barrington! She had ruined sex for him. Sex with Gwen had failed to satisfy the hungry, longing beast stirring inside him ever since that night in Montedora, but seeing her from time to time had been more agreeable than contemplating pursuit of other women. He wasn't interested. He knew who he wanted, had known all along. He'd just never known where to find her.

  Well, now he knew. Now he was going to be stuck with her day and night until thi
s business in Montedora was over. And he had sworn not to touch her.

  Christ, why did he always have to do things the hard way?

  CHAPTER SIX

  Sex had been a mistake. Madeleine had known that even before they were done undressing. She shouldn't have done it, shouldn't have invited Preston to spend the night. Now, in the cold light of day, as she faced him over her first cup of coffee, she castigated herself for not considering a few alternative options last night.

  Why hadn't she phoned a late-night call-in radio show? Why hadn't she cleaned her oven? Why hadn't rented a few movies—some maudlin weepies, or maybe even a serial killer story? Why hadn't she taken a cab to West 42nd Street and bought some adult novelty items—a wriggling latex phallus, or perhaps something with fringe on it?

  Madeleine gurgled with startled laughter, then choked on her coffee.

  “Are you all right?” Preston asked.

  She rubbed her forehead and muttered, “I think I'm going mad.”

  “Don't blame yourself, darling. It's my f—”

  “No, it's not. Please, let's not have this discussion again.”

  “Of course. I didn't mean to—”

  “What time is it?”

  “Almost eight o'clock.”

  “He'll be here any minute,” she said with dread.

  Her suitcase waited by the door. She was dressed in a pale linen suit. She'd needed more make-up than usual this morning; the dark circles under her eyes had made her flinch when she'd first looked into the mirror.

  “I'll miss you,” Preston said, taking her hand.

  Madeleine nodded, smiled faintly, and tried desperately to think of a way to convince him to leave now. This very moment. But she hesitated, afraid of hurting him even more.

  Preston was a considerate, if somewhat restrained, lover. He was attentive and experienced, and he had so wanted to give her pleasure last night.

  “But, darling, why?” he had protested when she had finally suggested they try to get some sleep. “I know you haven't ... Just let me—”

  “No, please!” She had flinched away from his hands, hurting him even more than her unresponsiveness had already hurt him. “Not tonight, Preston. It's not your fault. Really. You must know it's not. I just can't relax. Please, I feel terrible about this, b—”

  “I'm the one who should feel terrible,” he protested. “And I do. I want to give you—”

  “I should never have chosen tonight to ask you to stay.” Then, wanting to soothe the hurt she had caused, she lied, “I'm just glad you're here with me tonight. Really, Preston. It means a lot to me that you're here.”

  Well, after that, the poor fellow had had no choice but to stay all night. Pouring herself another cup of coffee, Madeleine reflected that he must be terribly puzzled and disappointed. Eager for forgetfulness, seeking safe harbor, she had thrown herself into his arms and kissed him with passionate longing. But by the time he had carried her into the bedroom, she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that whatever she longed for, she would not find it with him. Her change of mood had destroyed the evening, and she couldn't even explain it to him; not without making things much, much worse than they already were. She felt so ashamed.

  And, oh, how she hated Ransom! In this moment, she hated him more than she had ever hated anyone in her whole life. He had brought some strange, inexplicable alchemy to their coupling in that shadowy hotel room, and its absence had ruined last night for her. Without that soul-destroying need, without that primitive drive which swept away all reason, without that savage passion which obliterated all sense of time and of self, sex suddenly seemed a rather awkward and embarrassing pursuit. She had found herself floundering with Preston, unhappily missing things she had never needed or known about before meeting Ransom.

  When it was already too late to turn back, she'd realized that if she couldn't mindlessly crave every inch of Preston, inside and out, then she just didn't want him at all. If she couldn't glory in her own abandonment beneath his gaze and revel in his desire for her, then what was the point of even being with him? In the absence of that natural, overpowering passion she had once known, she just felt sad, self-conscious, and eager to get the whole thing over with.

  Poor Preston, she thought. Despairing of ever re-gaining the equilibrium she had lost in Montedora, she looked at her watch again and felt her stomach heave. Eight o'clock. Ransom would be here any second.

  Poor Madeleine, she thought. She grimaced with self-disgust and swallowed another scalding mouthful of coffee.

  Oh, yes, she hated Ransom for unleashing this thing inside her that would never be satisfied now. What on earth was Preston supposed to do with a woman like her? She didn't even want him to know about this appalling aspect of her character! She didn't want to know about it! She could kill Ransom for this. She hoped he did get himself captured, shot, or killed down there in Montedora. It would serve him right for seducing her and forever ruining her peace of mind.

  She jumped when the intercom phone rang in the entrance hallway.

  “I'll get it,” Preston said with unexpected alacrity.

  It was undoubtedly the doorman announcing Ransom's arrival. Madeleine said, “Tell him I'll be right down,” and fled to the bathroom with inelegant haste.

  When she returned, ready to leave, Preston informed her, “He's coming up.”

  “Here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I asked him to.”

  “I don't want him in my home!”

  Preston blinked.

  She realized that had sounded a little hysterical, so she amended, “There's no reason for him to come up here.”

  Once again off-balance, Preston said, “I'm afraid it's too late. He'll be here any second.”

  She didn't need to ask why he had asked Ransom to come up. He was clearly intent upon staking his claim to her, just in case Ransom had any doubts. When he admitted Ransom to the apartment a moment later, Madeleine saw Ransom's eyes swiftly take it all in: Preston's presence in her apartment at this early hour; the masculine tie and jacket which lay draped across a chair; the two cups of coffee on the table by the bay window.

  Ransom responded to Preston's courteous greeting with a curt nod and impassive expression. He looked at Madeleine and said, “Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Go ahead, darling,” Preston said. “I'll lock up for you.”

  Madeleine looked at him helplessly. He didn't have a key for the dead bolt on her door, but she didn't want to embarrass him by saying so. “I'd rather you came down with us,” she said at last.

  This seemed to please him, and he agreed. The elevator ride to the ground floor would have taken place in stony silence if he hadn't been with them.

  “You'll call me when you get there, won't you? And let me know the moment you know the date of your return. I hope you won't have to be away for long, darling. And you're sure you'll be back before your father's birthday party?”

  He was still chatting as they crossed the lobby and left the building. “You'll take good care of her, won't you, Mr. Ransom? I wouldn't like anything unpleasant—anything at all—to happen to her.”

  Ransom nodded, handed Madeleine's suitcase to the driver of the limousine parked in front of the building, and opened the car door for Madeleine. He glanced briefly at Preston, then met Madeleine's eyes with a sardonic expression. “Say goodbye.”

  She glared at him. “Would you mind giving us a moment alone?”

  “On the streets of Manhattan?” he responded dryly.

  “Get in the car and wait for me,” she snapped.

  “As you command, milady.” He went round to the other side of the car and got in. She could have sworn he was smirking.

  “Maybe I'll get lucky, and rebels will shoot him,” she muttered.

  “One can only hope,” Preston said, taking her in his arms.

  It was for his dignity that she had insisted on having a moment alone with him. Now she wanted to get it o
ver with quickly. Best not to even mention last night. Taking command, as had long been her habit, she said calmly, “I'll be back before you've had time to miss me. Don't worry.”

  “I miss you already,” he breathed. His kiss was not inappropriate for a lover's public farewell, but it was more than she was comfortable with, knowing that Ransom might be watching.

  “Goodbye,” she murmured, sliding away from him.

  “You'll call when you arrive?” he urged.

  “I promise.” The driver held the car door open for her, discreetly looking elsewhere.

  She stepped into the car, her relief at leaving Preston behind suddenly overwhelmed by her apprehension at being in such close quarters with Ransom. He glanced up briefly from the newspaper he was reading as he lounged in the spacious back seat of the car.

  Determined to stay in control of the situation, Madeleine sat back in the cushioned seat and placed her purse and briefcase between them. Once she was settled in, Ransom leaned forward and briefly tapped on the glass separating them from the driver, indicating they were ready to go. The limousine pulled smoothly out into the street. Madeleine turned briefly to wave to Preston. The car rounded the corner a moment later.

  God, she wished she could love Preston! She wished he could have made her forget all about this dangerous man whose very presence was like an electrical charge. She sighed and put Preston out of her mind with finality.

  “So,” Ransom said absently, turning a page of his paper, “I take it Preston got some last night?”

  She was instantly furious. “Mind your own business,” she snapped.

  “It's certainly improved his mood more than yours,” he chided. “Is he always this talkative after he gets laid?”

  “Are you always this inquisitive about other people's love lives?” she shot back.

  “Ah, so it's love, is it?” Ransom shrugged and continued perusing his paper. “Yeah, I guess it must be. You told him your name, after all.”

  Inexplicably compelled to sink to Ransom's level, she said, “Are you always this nasty when you don't get laid?”

  He finally looked up from his paper. There was a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Ah, but I did get laid last night. Would you like me to tell you all about it, Miss Barrington?”