She would just have to work it out, she thought. She could tell him she had to take a run into Xenia to buy a book for school, something like that. And by the time her parents found out her lie their knowledge would do them no good. By then she would be on the train for New York and they would not be able to find her.
She barely noticed the sports car. She was lost in thought and hardly looked up when it churned by, heading into Antrim. But she did look up when brakes squealed and whined. She saw the sleek foreign car spin around in its tracks, making a sharp U-turn and pulling to a stop in front of her.
She stared at the driver.
He was no one she had seen before. If she had seen him, she would certainly have remembered him. He looked vastly different from the sort of people she was used to.
His hair was long and jet black. He had combed it lazily back over his head. His skin was deeply tanned, his features sharp and distinctive. His black mustache was neatly trimmed — it gave him a rakish look.
But his eyes were the main feature, as far as she was concerned. No eyes had ever looked at her with that combination of tacit approval and total self-assurance. It would not be quite accurate to say that his eyes undressed her. It was more that they probed beneath her skin.
“I see you’re going my way,” he said lazily. “Hop in, girl.”
3
For a long moment she could only stand, stunned. She watched as he leaned easily across the front seat to open the door for her. The door swung free and she looked at the open door, at the empty bucket seat, and at the man who was still eyeing her appreciatively.
“Get in,” he said. “I won’t bite. Not unless you want me to, at any rate.”
“I was going to Xenia,” she said finally.
“I’ll drive you there.”
“I was waiting for the bus.”
“The bus costs forty cents,” he said agreeably. “I don’t have a meter in this thing yet, so I’ll drive you free of charge. Besides, I drive much faster than buses.”
“But—”
“Hop in, girl.”
“Where do I put my suitcase?”
“On your pretty dimpled knees,” he said. Come on.”
She seemed to have no will of her own. Automatically she climbed into the car, sat in the comfortable bucket seat, propped her suitcase up on her lap and closed the door. The man behind the wheel slammed the sports car into gear, let out the clutch and put the accelerator on the floor. The car leaped forward and she felt herself thrown forcibly against the back of her seat. The car picked up speed and the wind played with her hair, tossing it around recklessly.
She wondered who he was, where he lived, how old he might be. He was obviously several years older than the crowd she went around with, probably in his early or middle twenties, yet there was a distinctly youthful air about him. Well, she thought, it really didn’t matter. He was giving her a ride to Xenia and that was all. She would probably never see him again.
“You’re going to Xenia,” he said. “Right?”
“That’s right.”
“Why? What’s in Xenia?”
“A railroad station.”
“Going on a trip?”
“To New York.”
He nodded slowly. “When will you be back?”
She didn’t even think of lying to him. “I won’t be back,” she said. “I’m going to stay in New York.”
“Why?”
Was he going to ask her questions forever? “Because I don’t like Antrim.”
“God above. Does anybody like Antrim?”
“Some people may.”
“So you’re running away from home. That’s what it amounts to, isn’t it?”
“I suppose so.”
“God above,” he said again. He turned to look at her and she avoided the intensity of his gaze. “What’s your name, girl?”
“April.”
“Is that all?”
“April North.”
“April North,” he repeated. “A good name. I like it.”
“Thanks. I’ll keep it.”
He laughed, loud clear laughter that rang above the throbbing of the car’s engine. When he turned to look at her again she felt his eyes rubbing over her breasts like friendly hands. Her breathing speeded up and her hands trembled in her lap. She had never felt like this before. Just by looking at her he could set her nerves on edge.
And she did not even know his name.
Abruptly he swung the wheel, pulling the sports car off onto an asphalt road. He pressed harder on the accelerator and the car took up the challenge, racing along the black pavement like an angry demon. She saw the speedometer needle hover for an instant at eighty, move onward past ninety, close to one hundred. She had never gone so fast before. The thought occurred to her that she ought to be frightened, but somehow she was not scared at all. She felt intuitively that he knew what he was doing, that he was a good driver and nothing would happen to them.
She said, “This isn’t the way to Xenia.”
“It’s a short cut”
She knew he was lying but did not want to argue with him. She leaned back in her seat, enjoying the ride, abandoning herself to the tug of the wind at her hair and the excitement of speed. The low-slung car hugged the ground — this was far more exciting than riding in a regular car, far more exhilarating. She looked at his hands on the wheel, saw how he concentrated on the act of driving with all his being. It was as though he and the car were two parts of a single mechanism, she thought.
When he turned from the asphalt road and onto a gravel road, she knew beyond any possible doubt that they were not going to Xenia. He was probably going to take her somewhere in the country and seduce her, she decided. Maybe he would rape her if she refused, or else toss her out of the car to walk home. Well, he had no need to worry. She would give in, if that was what he wanted. If she could give in to Bill Piersall, she could just as easily give in to this man. At least he looked as if he had a better idea of what to do than Bill did.
Besides, she admitted, she was excited. Evidently the boys in Antrim were right, because she was excited and ready for sex. It was ridiculous — she didn’t even know this man. But she knew that she would do whatever he wanted her to do.
The car stopped with a screech of rubber. “We’re here,” he announced. “Get out of the car, April.”
“Where are we?”
“At my house. Do you like it?”
She stared. The house was set back some fifty yards from the road at the peak of a sharp hill, and it was unlike any house she had ever seen in Antrim. The architectural style was dramatically contemporary, somewhat in the manner of Frank Lloyd Wright, and no one else in the area had a house remotely like it April had seen similar homes in the movies and on television. But shoddy one-floor ranch homes were as close as Antrim permitted itself to come to the twentieth century.
This house was startlingly but pleasantly different. Sharp planes of brick and glass thrust themselves at odd angles. A circular courtyard made a mouth out of the house’s front entrance. The landscaping was precisely suited to the house and strengthened the impression that the structure had grown from the ground itself.
“Well? Do you like it?”
“Yes,” she said honestly. “I like it very much.”
“It’s my home,” he said. “The architect who designed it was a classmate of mine at Chicago. Before I was thrown out, that is. I’m glad you like it”
“Do you live with your parents?”
“My parents are dead.”
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” he told her. “I’m not. I didn’t like them. Come on inside, April.”
On the flagstone path leading to the front door, she remembered for the first time that she had been on her way to Xenia. She mentioned this.