FANTA C

by Sandra Brown

  "Thirty-two or thirty-four what?"

  "Bra size."

  "Ahh." Thad squinted his eyes and let them linger on the bra cups of the teddy that were conforming to her shape. "That should be okay. Do these come undone?"

  He raised his hand to the row of pearl buttons down the front. With a flick of his fingers, the first two popped open. Their eyes sprang together just as quickly.

  Elizabeth dropped the garment onto the counter-top. "Have you decided?"

  "What does this do?"

  Entranced, she watched as his finger slowly and deliberately followed the high cut leg of the teddy to the tapering point that brought front and back together. A moan pressed against the inside of her lips. "It unsnaps," she answered in an unnaturally husky voice.

  "What for?"

  Distressed beyond the breaking point, she cried, "What do you think?"

  "Hmm, that's handy. And these are for stockings?" He ran his index finger down one lacy suspender.

  "Yes. But they're removable."

  "Throw in a pair of lacy stockings and I'll take it."

  "Cash or credit card?"

  "Credit card."

  "Fine."

  He had her so badly rattled that she could barely write up the ticket. She moved the shuttle so hard that her machine nearly ate his credit card. T. D. Randolph. She wondered if his name was Thaddeus and what the D stood for, then cursed herself for wondering. She didn't give a damn what his full name was.

  "Gift wrap?" she asked ungraciously as she rolled up the sinful teddy and stockings in pink tissue paper.

  "That won't be necessary."

  I'll bet. He was probably going straight to his lover's arms. Unwrapping the gift would take to much time and delay things.

  "Thank you," he said, accepting the Fantasy shopping bag from her outstretched hand.

  "You're welcome."

  "See you at home."

  Not if I can help it. She nodded coolly and averted her head before he was even out the door. But she surreptitiously looked through the paned glass and watched him leave the hotel with a carefree gait which she found disgustingly cocky.

  At least he wasn't conducting his shabby, reconciliatory affair in a room of the Hotel Cavanaugh. One of those motels out on the interstate would be more his style.

  She turned her back on the lobby and slapped his credit card receipt into her cash drawer. When the tiny gold bell over her door jingled again, she thought he had come back for something. Wearing a frown as discouraging as a "Do Not Disturb" sign, she turned to confront him.

  "Oh, hello!" she exclaimed with chagrin.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  «^»

  Adam Cavanaugh asked, "Am I intruding?"

  "No, of course not, Mr. Cavanaugh. I was just, uh..." This man, on whom she wanted to make a good impression, caught her for the second time in the midst of her foolish daydreams. "I was looking through some catalogues."

  "You seemed lost in thought."

  "Yes, I was. Please come in and sit down." This time he had come alone.

  "I can only stay a minute." Unabashedly he helped himself to the box of sample chocolates, licking his fingers with complete unselfconsciousness. "I'm between appointments. I would have dropped by sooner, but my calendar has been full."

  "I'm sure you've been awfully busy."

  "I was wondering if we could have dinner together Saturday night."

  "Dinner?" she repeated stupidly. Dinner with Adam Cavanaugh, international playboy and one of the world's most eligible bachelors? Her?

  "Are you free that night? If not, we can make it—"

  "No, I'm free," she said hastily. "Dinner on Saturday will be fine."

  "Great. I find business discussions much more enjoyable if they're conducted with a beautiful woman over dinner." He flashed her a Hollywood-worthy smile. "I'll get your address from the file and pick you up at seven-thirty."

  "Or I could meet you somewhere," she suggested, not wanting him to go out of his way.

  "I'd rather pick you up. Seven-thirty on Saturday?"

  "Yes, fine."

  "See you then, Elizabeth."

  For a full five minutes after he left, she couldn't believe he'd actually been there and made a dinner date. She pinched herself several times to make sure she wasn't in her dream world. He was so handsome, so charming, so well dressed and immaculately groomed, so everything that any woman could possibly want. And he had invited the Widow Burke to dinner!

  What would she wear?

  * * *

  Her sluggish Monday was compensated for by a hectic Tuesday when a regional association of veterinarians held a two-day seminar in the hotel. Their business kept her well occupied Wednesday morning as well. By the time the animal doctors checked out at noon, Fantasy needed a facelift.

  She straightened the shelves and reorganized the merchandise, which had been displaced by browsers. The mindless chore required little concentration. It was raining outside. Even indoors, the atmosphere was gloomy. She lit scented candles in the shop to make it appear warmer and more cheerful to potential customers.

  It was a perfect day for snuggling in front of a fireplace with a good book. Or for napping. Elizabeth grew sleepy. Her mind began to drift...

  * * *

  The curving stone staircase was dim. The stairs were uneven. The footsteps of ancestors had eroded them. I picked my way carefully, hoping not to spill anything I was carrying on the tray.

  At the landing, meager gray light was coming through one narrow window. Silver streams of rain trickled down the cloudy glass. Propping the heavy tray on my hip, I tapped on the oaken door at the end of the hall. He called for me to come in. As I pushed open the heavy door, my heart began to pound. It had done so each time I entered the spare bedroom where our "guest" was confined to bed.

  He'd been residing under our roof for almost two weeks. I vividly recalled the afternoon I had heard his biplane circling overhead and had run from the kitchen into the yard. The airplane had been trailing a plume of black smoke. He had managed to land it and climb out safely before it crashed and burst into flames.

  My father, who had been working in the fields, also saw the crash. Together we ran toward the fiery wreckage. The pilot had crawled free, but was obviously injured. Between us, we carried him inside and up the stairs to this room.

  He was American. Through teeth clenched in pain, he instructed Father to douse the fire so that the smoke wouldn't signal the Germans. He spoke only a smattering of French; we spoke no English. But he made himself understood before losing consciousness. Father hurried to do as he'd been told and left me to take care of the injured pilot.

  I removed his goggles and leather flight cap. As I sponged the grime off his face, my heart began to flutter. He was extremely handsome, with thick curly brown hair that fell over his brow. My fingers became clumsy when I tried to remove his clothing, but I had no choice but to do so. A dark red stain was spreading out on the sheet beneath him.

  I was to learn later that he'd been hit by a German machine gun during a dogfight. The rest of his squadron had been shot down. The bullet had ripped a hole in his side just above his waist. I cleaned the wound and bound it. His unconscious moans brought tears to my eyes.

  He would recover, but it would be a long time before he could return to active duty or even be moved to a military hospital. Since Father worked from dawn till dark, the responsibility of tending the American pilot had fallen to me.

  As I entered the room now, he was lying against the headboard, propped up by pillows. I lowered my gaze from his bare chest because each time I looked at it, a shameful, damp heat collected in my womanhood. The sight of him made my breasts tingle. His clothes had been so bloodstained that I'd had to destroy them. All but the long white silk scarf which I had carefully unwound from his neck and which now lay beneath the pillow of my own bed.

  I knew that he lay naked beneath the sheet. I also knew what he looked like naked, for I had sponged h
is body repeatedly when he was wracked with fever and delirium.

  Made timid by his scrutiny, I asked him if he felt like eating and he answered yes. The floorboards of the ancient house creaked as I walked across them to the narrow bed. Lowering the tray to the nightstand, I sat down on the edge of the bed, mindful not to let my hip bump against his thigh, which was clearly outlined beneath the thin sheet.

  My hand trembled as I spooned the soup into his mouth. Smiling, he complimented me on how good it tasted. I blotted his lips with the napkin after each bite. He ate all the soup.

  Before leaving him, I lit the candle on the nightstand to alleviate the gloom caused by the rain which could be heard dripping heavily from the eaves. Standing beside his bed, my hands nervously clasped together in front of me, I asked if there was anything else I could do for him.

  He said nothing, but raised his hand and placed it in the curve of my waist. I felt his touch through my clothing, as hot as a poker. Applying but slight pressure, he urged me back down beside him. His sparkling eyes entranced me. I was helpless to resist them. He lifted his hand and stroked my cheek with the backs of his fingers. He playfully tugged at the tendrils of hair that had escaped my bun. He told me the Americans called it the Gibson-girl style and he laughed at my accented efforts to repeat the words.

  Then his hand moved to my throat and the high collar of my shirtwaist. He ran his finger over the lace, around the cameo brooch which had belonged to my late mother, and down the row of buttons. One by one, he unfastened them.

  My heartbeat drummed against his palm when he reached into my shirtwaist and covered my breast with his hand, taking all the fullness within the gentle grasp of his strong fingers. Heat and confusion overwhelmed me. I swayed dizzily when he touched the tip of my breast and blushed with shame and pleasure when it jutted hard against the stroking pad of his thumb.

  He curled his free hand around my neck and pulled my head down onto the pillows next to his. He kissed me. I was shocked when his lips parted and he pressed his tongue into my mouth. I had never realized that mouths could be so intimate. Mating was a natural occurrence on the farm, but I had assumed that human beings approached reproduction with the same attitude of detachment as the animals. Never had I guessed that one's heart could beat so fast, or that one's blood could flow so hotly, so thickly. I hadn't known that such pleasure could be derived from coupling.

  His hands got inside my clothing and touched soft, secret parts of my body that I barely skimmed with my washing cloth. I had learned in church that touching "there" was sinful. But I didn't think about sin or my father or the chores waiting to be done. I thought of nothing but the American and the beautiful sensations his stroking hands were giving me.

  I heard myself moan when he palmed the soft nest of hair between my thighs. His fingers, deft and sure, discovered a deep pool of liquid desire inside me.

  In a rough, grating voice, he asked me to touch him, making himself understood by guiding my hand. It seemed an odd request since I'd been touching him for days. But as my hand slid beneath the sheet and moved over his smooth skin and the patches of crisp body hair, I knew that this kind of touching was different. He was different. Warm, but with another type of fever. His breathing was rapid, but not with delirium.

  He bunched my skirts around my waist and pulled me over him. I wanted to remind him of his wound, but he pushed aside my camisole and put his mouth to my breast. He pressed his tongue against my nipple. I couldn't speak. I could do nothing but open myself to the thru—

  * * *

  When the telephone rang, Elizabeth jumped in startled reaction. By an act of will she reduced the furious pace of her heart. She took several deep breaths. Her hand was shaking when she reached for the receiver. "Hello."

  "Hi, it's me. What's wrong?"

  It was Lilah. "Nothing."

  "You sound funny."

  "I'm busy."

  "Busy writing more fantasies, I hope. Lizzie, they're terrific!"

  When three days had passed and Lilah still hadn't called, Elizabeth had assumed that her writing had seemed too amateurish to be published or that Lilah simply hadn't liked her fantasies. Either way, she had been both relieved and chagrined that her writing career had been so short-lived.

  "You don't have to say that just to spare my feelings," she told her sister now.

  "I'm not. My Lord, Lizzie, I had no idea you were so imaginatively erotic. I read the two fantasies a dozen times apiece and was thoroughly entertained each time."

  "But you're my sister and you love me. It's natural that you—"

  "Right. I wanted them to be good, so I questioned my own judgment, even though I knew I was right. To make sure, I had four other people here at the hospital read them."

  "You didn't!"

  "Relax. I didn't say who wrote them. They'd never believe it was mousy little you anyway."

  "Thanks," Elizabeth said dryly.

  "Anyway, suffice it to say that both the women and the men who read them—"

  "You gave them to men?"

  "Women don't have the fantasy market cornered, you know," Lilah argued. "I thought it would be valuable to see if the fantasies worked for men, too, and they certainly did. They're on their way to New York already. The manuscripts, not the men," she added, laughing.

  "You've already mailed them?"

  "Yes, so you wouldn't have a chance to talk me out of it. I typed them myself. Made hundreds of errors, my hands were so slick with sweat. When do I get to read more?"

  "More? Who said there would be more?"

  "I did. Talent like yours isn't exhausted with just two fantasies."

  "I'm not sure it takes talent, and I don't know when or if I'll have time to write any more." Shyly she said, "I have a date Saturday night."

  "You're kidding!" Lilah squealed. "With who? The hunk with the chicken coop?"

  "It wasn't a chicken coop. The pen was for a litter of Irish setters. His name is Thad Randolph, and, no, my date isn't with him." She hadn't told Lilah about last Saturday night and the Fall Festival because her sister would have jumped to the wrong conclusion. Lilah would have hypothesized that Thad had gone on her account and not to please the children. "Adam Cavanaugh invited me to have dinner with him."

  "Really? Well, my dear sister, that should be fodder for another story. Remember every single, scintillating detail."

  "Lilah, it's only dinner."

  "Which, if you play your cards right, can last through breakfast." At Elizabeth's gasp of outrage, Lilah said, "Don't get all huffy. It's about time you started living some of your fantasies. Have fun, just don't fall in love with Cavanaugh."

  Lilah hung up soon after winning Elizabeth's promise to think about writing more fantasies. Elizabeth was surprised to see that she'd kept the shop open five minutes past closing time and locked up quickly. Mrs. Alder got upset if she was too late.

  Because of the rain, traffic was a nightmare. Then, before she could even get out of the car at home, Megan and Matt closed in on her with a problem.

  "Mom, something terrible has happened to Thad," Megan said theatrically.

  Edging her children aside, Elizabeth got out of the car and shut the door. "What do you mean, something terrible has happened to Thad? Good-bye, Mrs. Alder," she called to the departing baby-sitter. "Now, what's this about Thad?" Elizabeth asked her children who would have made a professional mourning duo look cheerful.

  "We think he's dead or something."

  Matt was so somber, Elizabeth covered a laugh with a cough. "What gave you that idea?"

  "Because his car is there, but he doesn't answer his door when we knock."

  "He could be out on his motorcycle."

  "It's in the garage."

  "Well, maybe he just doesn't want company." Or, more likely, he has company, Elizabeth thought. She hadn't seen him since he'd strolled out of Fantasy on Monday with the gift for his mistress swinging in the shopping bag in his large hand.

  Megan was shaking her head. "W
e can see breakfast dishes on the kitchen table. He doesn't like messes. He told me that a long time ago."

  "He probably just didn't feel like cleaning up today."

  "Or maybe he's dead. Maybe somebody came in and stabbed him or something. Then it'll be our fault for not checking."

  Where did Matt come up with these macabre ideas? Easy, she thought. He took after her.

  "Come on, Mom. You've got to go see."

  Each child had taken her by the hand and was pulling her across the yard. "I'm sure there's a logical explanation." She dug in her heels, but the children were genuinely worried. If she didn't relieve their concern, she'd never hear the end of it. They'd bug her about it until she relented. "Oh, all right."