“You wait right here,” she repeated, standing up suddenly and walking from the room. His eyes followed her until she was gone. Then he glanced once more around the room until he became more or less accustomed to the furnishings.
Only then did he realize how tired he was. He hadn’t slept well for nights — too many nights. He tried to lose himself in his work, but that had helped only a little and left him more tired than ever. He leaned back in the armchair, wondering how long it would be before Mrs. Macon returned.
Charles recommended the Chicken Paprikash. It was good, but this didn’t surprise her any more than the fact that the wine was excellent and the perfect dessert came as a surprise. Perfection was perhaps the best summation of Charles Butler, she thought. He always did exactly the right thing, even if he didn’t seem to have any particular feeling for it. How could any man care so much about art, music, food, wine — almost everything there was to care about? It seemed to her that he didn’t really care that desperately, that he was more concerned with “being right” than with the final result.
“What’s the trouble?”
“Nothing,” she replied, looking up at him and smiling automatically across the tiny marble-topped table. “I was just thinking.”
“What about?”
“Things.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Mysterious tonight, aren’t you?”
“A little. I was just thinking how nice it is to have dinner with you.”
“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it.”
She put a cigarette between her lips and started to reach for a match, then stopped and let Charles light it for her. “I wish we could do it more often.”
“We can,” he said. “Whenever Ronald goes out-of-town.”
“That’s not exactly what I meant. I—”
“I know,” he said quickly. “I know precisely what you meant, Carla. Let’s not discuss it, shall we?” And he smiled, ending the conversation.
In the car driving back to his apartment they were silent. Perhaps he wouldn’t discuss it yet, but at least she had managed to show him what she wanted. Now she would have to make him more dependent on her and at the same time show him that his freedom wouldn’t end with marriage.
It would be difficult, she decided, to reduce a man like Charles to a state of sexual dependence. He had possessed so many women that it would be no easy matter to make him crave for her and no one else.
But it might be fun trying...
He woke up like a man coming out of an opium trance. The house was dark, much darker than when he had come in, and he cursed himself silently for falling asleep. How long had he slept? The girl had said she would be home any minute, but she didn’t seem to be home.
Dimly he realized there was music playing, a slow and sensuous Spanish melody. He glanced around the room, trying to locate himself. Someone — the girl, he guessed — had drawn all the shades and turned off the lights.
The volume of the music increased. Suddenly the girl entered the room, but she was no longer wearing the uniform. The shapeless white cotton no longer hid her body from his eyes.
She was wearing nothing at all.
His eyes fastened on her breasts, fuller and more perfect than he had believed possible. The two bright red nipples seemed to glow in the dark. His eyes travelled downward past the flat stomach and rounded boyish hips, embracing the dark triangle and sleek thighs. He caught his breath and tried to get to his feet.
“Don’t move,” she said.
That was all she said.
Slowly her body began to weave in time to the music, picking up speed as the tempo of the Spanish dance increased. She moved closer to him, her whole body an orgy in rhythm, and he caught a sensual whiff of sandalwood perfume as one liquid-brown arm passed close to his face.
She stretched backwards, arms akimbo, proffering her hips to him in an offering of love, her proud breasts pointing at the ceiling. She twisted constantly like a woman in the throes of passion, her body keeping perfect time with the music.
His breathing became faster and harder. He felt himself caught up in the savage beauty of the dance, unable to take one iota of his attention from the fantastic spectacle before him. It was new and old, pure in its beauty and outrageous in its wanton lust. It was Heaven and Hell all enwrapped in a whirling brown body and an evil, passionate dance.
She moved closer and closer to him, never missing a beat in the music. One hand darted out and played with the buttons on his shirt and he was powerless to resist her or to aid her. He could only watch fascinated, fascinated as a bird is fascinated by the mad dance of a snake.
The music came faster and faster until the speed of her movements became unbelievable. She raised him to his feet, pressing her body to his and kissing him on the face and lips. Her tongue darted into his mouth and set him on fire while her slender hands slipped under his shirt and her nails raked his flesh. He felt her soft firm breasts pressing against his bare chest and her hips grinding into his.
Then she was pulling at his clothes, hurrying, and he was helping her, finally able to move once again. Her mouth found his again and she kissed him, rubbing against him all the while, making sharp little cries from deep in the back of her throat. With an agonized groan she fell back to the floor and pulled him down on top of her.
The record of the Spanish dance played over and over and over...
Much later she said: “Come upstairs with me.”
“What’s upstairs?”
“My bed.”
“But—”
“There’s more room in a bed. And it’s more comfortable.”
“Look,” she said when he didn’t answer, “Mrs. Macon isn’t home and she’s not coming home, not tonight. And Mr. Macon won’t be home until tomorrow either.”
“Then why did you tell me to come in?”
She giggled. “Why do you think, silly? You’re not sorry, are you?”
“Of course not.”
“Then come on upstairs.” On the stairway she said: “You’re in love with her.”
“How did you know?”
She shrugged. “I always know,” she said. “I can tell. But it doesn’t really matter, you know. She can have her love — all she wants of it. I like what I have.”
Her bedroom was on the third floor. “My name’s Lizzie,” she announced at the doorway. “What’s yours?”
“Danny,” he said. “Danny Rand.”
“That’s a nice name,” she said. “Let’s go to bed, Danny.”
Chapter Seven
Carla relaxed as she drove the MG home. She held the steering wheel in one hand, letting the other arm rest on the back of the seat. The air was cool and fragrant with the smell of morning, and little currents of wind toyed with her hair. She liked the wind in her hair — it made her feel free, and she always enjoyed the feeling.
Freedom was a remarkable state, a state she wanted and at the same time rebelled against. While she had spent all her life escaping such rule as her mother’s hairbrush, she still felt the overwhelming need for someone strong. Sometimes she felt free and powerful, but there were other times when her spine turned to jelly and she felt weak as a kitten.
This morning she felt half-free and half-bound. She could still feel Charles holding her and hear him whispering in her ear, and the clean smell of him lingered in her nostrils. She had spent the night — and what a wonderful night! — in bed with another man.
But she was not entirely free. If she were, she wouldn’t be racing back home at this hour to meet her husband. If she were free, she wouldn’t need Charles as desperately as she did. Her plan of getting a strong hold over him by making him need her physically wasn’t working at all. As a matter of complete fact, it was backfiring. She knew that she had no hold whatsoever on Charles, that he could do without her with ease. No matter how desperately she gave herself to him, there were times when she felt like a toy, a plaything he used for his own amusement and nothing more.