When she opened the door Ronald smiled at her, and his appearance belied his age. His eyes were a bright blue and he still had all his hair. Although he was almost sixty, his hair was still a glossy black except for a slight greying at the temples.
But Carla barely noticed Ronald and scarcely heard the words he was speaking. All her attention was focused at once upon the man at Ronald’s side, a man she took to be Charles Butler. She couldn’t take her eyes away from him.
He was not at all as she had expected him to be. She had anticipated an evening with one of Ronald’s typical friends — short, bald, old, and pot-bellied. But Charles Butler possessed none of these qualities.
She estimated his age at anywhere between 35 and 45. His blond crew-cut made him look young, as did the sparkle that was always present in his eyes and the half-smile that formed frequently upon his lips. He was tall and slender, moving gracefully and easily. She watched him constantly while they had drinks in the living-room and continued watching him over the dinner table. She had never met anyone quite like him in her entire life.
“I guess you could call me an overgrown playboy,” he explained at one point. “My grandfather made a fortune, my dad made a good try at losing the whole bundle, and I’m content to merely amuse myself with what money is left.”
“But what do you do?” she asked, fascinated.
“Travel, read, whatever I want. There are always things for a man to do and new places to see.” Then he changed the subject quickly, seemingly unwilling to talk about himself.
In spite of this, she managed to discover quite a bit about Charles Butler during the remainder of the evening, and everything she learned served to stimulate her interest in him. He was decidedly attractive — not in the brutish way of the gas station attendant, but with a polish and suavity which appealed to her strongly.
She learned that he lived alone, in a bachelor’s apartment at the Tiffany, one of Buffalo’s most luxurious residential hotels. He had the touch of the connoisseur about him, a deep interest and appreciation for quality and taste in everything from food and wine to clothing and home furnishings. Carla guessed immediately that the same appreciation for quality carried over into his love life. It was easy to see that he was a man of extensive experience. Although he never gave her the frank and hungry stare she had come to expect from men, she knew that he found her desirable. Several times at the dinner table his glance found hers and held it for a split-second, and once or twice she noticed his eyes surveying her figure casually.
She wondered what it would be like, being possessed and loved by such a poised and smooth person as Charles Butler. The thought bothered her, but she couldn’t force it from her mind.
It was late in the evening before he took his leave. He took her hand in the doorway and held it just a little bit longer than necessary. The subtle but insistent pressure of his fingertips upon the palm of her hand set her trembling against her will. She was actually afraid of him, afraid of a man who could excite her so easily.
What was the matter with her? Perhaps it was true, as her mother had said years ago: she must be a tramp, an insatiable slut who never got enough in the way of loving. Here she was, married to a wealthy and loving husband, coming fresh from the embraces of a rough boor and ready for a fresh go with a friend of Ronald.
What was the matter with her?
No, she decided firmly, she couldn’t let Charles make love to her. With a man like the gas-station attendant she was safe: he didn’t know who she was and she would never see him again, at least not for a good long while. But Ronald and Charles were friends, and if anything started in those quarters it would be bad for her.
Usually when she made a decision her mind was able to relax. Now, however, things didn’t seem to work that way. Although she told herself repeatedly that she wouldn’t have an affair with Charles, there was a nagging doubt in the back of her mind as she recalled the look in his eyes and the touch of his hand on hers.
For the second night it a row, it was a long time before she drifted off to sleep.
In a far less imposing room on the other side of town, Danny Rand had his own troubles sleeping. He tossed feverishly on his creaking army cot, trying to concentrate on the problem at hand.
The problem was money.
While he made a good salary running the gas station, Danny knew there was no future working for somebody else, especially in his business. If he could only save up some dough he could buy the station on time from his company, and then the money would start to come in. He lived frugally enough, paying six bucks a week for the hole-in-the-wall of a room he had and taking his lunches with him. But whenever he got a little pile together, something always came up and he blew the dough on some damn thing he hardly wanted in the first place.
It was time for him to settle down and save his money. Christ, in another year he would be thirty, and what did he have to show for it? No money, no home, no wife and no kids. A fat string of zeroes.
The problem was money, and he had to find a way to keep from spending what he managed to save. But he couldn’t manage to concentrate on his problem. His mind kept returning to the woman he had met that afternoon, the woman who liked her loving on a grease-room floor. At first, smarting from the way she had left him and patronizingly advised him to keep the change, he had dismissed her as a rich little bitch hunting for kicks.
But she was more than that. The bit in the greaseroom was no act; he ran his finger across his throat and could still feel the tooth-marks where she bit him in a moment of heightened passion. Closing his eyes, he could recall perfectly the shape of her perfect breasts and the slope of her thighs. He remembered the way her skin was all satiny beneath him. She was a beautiful and passionate woman, and although he was no raw schoolboy when it came to dames, this one had him knocked for a loop. He had to admit it — he was pretty hung up on her.
But what kind of a chance did he have? Those clothes cost plenty of money, and the MG wasn’t a toy. She was used to luxury and he sure as hell couldn’t give her that. He was just a game for her, someone to satisfy her when she needed loving. She didn’t care any more about him than about a meal she had already eaten and digested.
Forget her, he advised himself. Keep on working and save your money and marry one of your own kind, a gal who doesn’t expect a mansion and servants.
But he couldn’t put her out of his mind. Christ, he didn’t even know her name! He had to find out who she was, had to get some idea of the kind of person he had enjoyed himself with so completely.
He had to see her again.
He sat up suddenly and turned on the overhead light, blinking at the sudden brightness. He found what he was looking for in the pocket of his slacks — a tiny scrap of paper with a hasty scrawl on it. For a moment he hesitated, uncertain. Then, resolutely, he put on his bathrobe and stalked into the hallway to the pay phone. He dropped a dime into the slot and began to dial a number.
Chapter Four
Her shower the next morning left Carla refreshed and awake, but she found herself unable to rinse the events of the previous day from her mind. Perhaps it was no more than her imagination, but her hand still seemed to tingle where Charles’ fingers had held it so firmly. He was a new type of man, a man infinitely more sophisticated than any of the boys she had grown up with, yet far more romantic and intense than any of Ronald’s other friends.
Her vow of last night didn’t seem to help matters. Although she knew how fatal it would be to have an affair with Charles, she felt weak and powerless inside. If only there was someone for her to talk things over with! She couldn’t figure everything out by herself, not when so many things were happening so quickly.