Oh, you poor man! Sylvia thought as she watched him peruse the bookshelves with such studied nonchalance. He's lost everything. His wife has left him, his house has burned to the ground, he can't even get into his own office, and he stands a good chance of losing his license to practice medicine. His past, his present, his future—all gone! God! How can he stand there without screaming out to heaven to give him a break?
She didn't want to pity him. He obviously wasn't wallowing in any self-pity and she was sure he would resent any pity from her.
Yet it was certainly a safer emotion than the others she felt for him.
She wanted him so badly now. More than she could ever remember wanting any other man. And here he was, in her home, alone—Gladys had gone for the night after putting Alan's wet clothes in the dryer, and Ba had beat a hasty retreat to his quarters over the garage. Alan had nowhere else to go, and all the moral restraints that had separated them were now gone.
Why was she so frightened? It wasn't the storm.
Sylvia forced herself to go to the bar. "Brandy?" she said. "It'll warm you."
"Sure. Why not." He came closer.
She splashed an inch or so into each of two snifters and handed him one, then quickly retreated to the far corner of the leather sofa, tucking her legs under her and hiding them in the folds of her robe. Why in God's name had she undressed and put on this robe? Just to make him feel more comfortable in Charles'? What was the matter with her? What had she been thinking?
Obviously she hadn't been thinking at all. Her hands trembled as she tipped the glass to her lips and let the fiery liquid slide down her throat.
She didn't want this. She didn't want this at all. Because if she and Alan came together, it wouldn't be another casual affair. It would be for keeps. The Real Thing—again. And she couldn't bear another Real Thing, not after what had happened to Greg. She couldn't risk that kind of loss again.
And she would lose Alan. He had an aura of doom. He was one of those men who was going to do what he had to do, no matter what. Greg had been like that. And look what had happened to him!
No. She couldn't let it happen. Not again. No matter how she felt about Alan. She would keep her distance and help him out and treat him as a dear friend and that would be it. No entanglements.
So she put on her just-good-friends face and watched him stalk the room.
But as she watched him, she felt a flame inside glowing, trying to grow and warm her, trying to ignite her need to touch him and be touched by him. She smothered it.
She was not going to get burned again.
Alan watched Sylvia out of the corner of his eye as he pretended to scan the titles on the library shelves. He barely saw the books. Like the song: He only had eyes for her.
Jeez, she was beautiful sitting there in her burgundy robe with her hair down and falling about her face. He had always felt attracted to her, but now… fate seemed to have thrown them together. She was sitting on the sofa over there with her robe demurely tucked around her, but he had caught sight of a length of long white thigh before she had arranged herself, and it was as if one of those lightning bolts arcing across the sky outside had struck him in the groin.
This was crazy! His life had completely fallen apart—he didn't even have a home anymore, for Chrissake!—and all he could think about was the woman across the room from him.
Yet where was all her banter, where were her come-ons when he needed them? He didn't know how to handle this, what to do, what to say.
Hi! You live around here? Come here often? What's your sign?
He took a gulp of the brandy and felt the fumes sear his nasopharynx.
But at last he could admit to himself that he wanted Sylvia, had wanted her for a long time. And now they were here, alone, with all the walls broken down. But instead of playing Mae West, she was suddenly Mary Tyler Moore.
He couldn't let the moment pass. He wanted her too much, needed her too much, especially now. Especially tonight. He needed someone to stand up with him, and he wanted Sylvia to be that someone. She had the strength to do it. He could go it alone, but it would be so much better with her beside him.
He wandered along the wall, gazing at the spines of the books, not seeing their titles. Then he came around behind the couch where she was sitting and stood directly behind her. She didn't turn around to look at him. She said nothing. Merely sat there like an expectant statue. He reached out toward her hair and hesitated.
What if she turns me away? What if I've read her wrong all these years?
He forced his hand forward to touch her hair, laying his fingers and open palm gently against the silky strands and stroking downward from where they fell from the center part. The tickling sensation in his palm sent a pleasurable chill up his arm. He knew Sylvia felt it too, for he could see the gooseflesh rising on the skin of her forearm where it protruded from the sleeve of her robe.
"Sylvia—"
She suddenly jumped up and spun around. "Need a refill?" She took his glass. "Me too."
He followed her over to the bar and stood at her side, desperately searching for something to say as she poured more brandy into the snifters. Alan noticed her hand trembling. Suddenly there was a deafening crash of thunder and the lights went out. He heard Sylvia wail, heard the brandy bottle drop, and then she was in his arms, clutching him in fear, trembling against him.
He put his arms around her. God, she was quaking! This wasn't an act. Sylvia was genuinely frightened.
"Hey, it's all right," he said soothingly. "Just a near miss. The lights will go on soon."
She said nothing, but soon the tremors stopped.
"I hate thunderstorms," she said.
"I love them!" he said and held her tighter. "Especially now. Because I was racking my brain for a way to get my arms around you."
She looked up at him. Although he could not see her expression in the darkness, he felt a change come over her.
"Stop it!" she said. Her voice was strained.
"Stop what?" She was still against him, but it was as if she had just pulled herself a step or two away.
"Just stop it!"
"Sylvia, I don't know what—"
"You know and don't pretend you don't!"
She slammed her right fist against his chest, then her left, then she was pounding at him with both at once.
"You're not going to do this to me! It's not going to happen again! I won't let it! I won't! I won't!"
Alan pulled her tightly against him, as much to comfort the pain he sensed within her as to protect himself.
"Sylvia! What's wrong?"
She struggled fiercely for a moment, then slumped against him. He heard and felt her sobs.
"Don't do this to me!" she cried.
"Do what?" He was baffled and shaken by her outburst.
"Don't make me need you and depend on you to be there. I can't go through that again. I can't lose one more person, I just can't!"
And then he understood. He tightened his arms around her.
"I'm not going anywhere."
"That's what Greg thought."
"Nobody can guarantee against that kind of tragedy."
"Maybe not. But sometimes it seems like you're courting disaster."
"I think I learned a big lesson tonight."
"I hope so. You could have been killed."
"But I wasn't. I'm here. I want to be with you, Sylvia. And if you let me, I will be with you—tonight and every night. But especially tonight."
After a long pause he felt her arms wriggle out from between them and slip around his back. "Especially tonight?" she said in a small voice.