Freda sneezed. “Pardon?”
“Sex,” Lorna repeated clearly.
Freda’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Has a stranger just walked into this kitchen?”
“I’m just trying very hard to be honest with myself-”
“Honey, for two years I’ve been urging you to give free rein to your libido. But not with this man. You can’t build a relationship on sexual attraction alone, kiddo. You’ll get broken up into little pieces if that man uses you.”
Lorna shook her head and headed for the door, her eyes suddenly distant. “Only one man ever used me, Freda, and no one else is ever going to do it again. For now, not to worry. Pour yourself another cup of tea and crawl into bed.”
Lorna, wearing a pale coral slip, was riffling through her closet with a look of dissatisfaction. She worked at home and didn’t have to dress for success; consequently, her wardrobe was decidedly limited. So was her decision-making ability this evening. Everything was wrong. The raspberry shirtwaist was too bright. The coral print too busy. The mauve too dull. All the shirtwaists were boring. The suit she’d thought she loved she now hated… Her fingers touched the softness of an angora skirt and hesitated.
A few moments later, she’d exchanged the coral slip for a black one, pulled on a scoop-neck black cashmere sweater, and was stepping into the angora skirt, which had a bold black, gray and purple patchwork pattern. She’d made the skirt a year ago. The project had been fun. The dramatic colors appealed to her, and the angora added substance to her slim hips. So why haven’t you put it on before? she asked the mirror absently.
The answer came easily. Because she didn’t wear low-cut sweaters on dates, or skirts that kissed and told on her figure. You don’t advertise what you aren’t selling. The mirror was just full of answers she just wasn’t all that interested in hearing, so she turned away from it. She was looking in the closet for her black leather sandals when Johnny rapped on the door
“I’m going over to Brian’s now, Mom.”
“Fine, honey. Have a good time.” She emerged from the closet three inches taller. “Be good?”
Her son gave her a lazy grin. “What’s it worth?”
“To behave? Your hide.” She gave him a swift kiss and smile before heading back toward the dressing table, first applying a moisturizer and then a subtle mauve eyeshadow. Mascara and blusher, lipstick… She glanced up again and saw Johnny still standing in the doorway. “What’s wrong, sweetie?”
“Nothing.” He dug his hands in his coat pockets. “You gonna be late tonight?”
“I don’t know,” Lorna answered truthfully. Her silky hair crackled under the vigorous brushing, gleaming like mahogany in the soft bedroom light; she drew it back with a small jet comb at her crown, then let the gleaming waves fall to her shoulders. The effect pleased her and she reached for a perfume bottle.
“That Matthew guy’s been calling a lot. And you didn’t go out with Hal last weekend, even though he called, too.” Johnny hesitated, shifting his feet restlessly. Lorna knew he had more to say, but he wasn’t saying it. “Watch yourself,” he said finally, and promptly disappeared. A moment later Lorna heard the slam of the front door.
Watch yourself? She smiled ruefully. Who was taking care of whom in this household? She stood up, checking her image one last time in the mirror. The stark black sweater clung lovingly to her high breasts, showing off the pillow-soft flesh of her throat and her collarbones. The skirt stopped just below the knee, leaving a long expanse of shapely legs in dark, sheer stockings. Her eyes were a smoky gray, and her hair, freshly washed, radiated life, as well as the sheen of glossy chestnut. She felt feminine to her toes; the tingling of mixed anticipation and apprehension only increased when she saw the attractive reflection peering back at her. Watch yourself, Lorna, she told the mirror wryly.
Laughing, Lorna carefully folded herself like an accordion into the narrow Morgan. “I feel as if I’m trying to fit my legs into a bumper car at a carnival!” Matthew’s automobile was a classic, dark green with a long, low front. When Lorna was seated, she could no longer see her toes, and she felt as if she were sitting an inch off the ground, although the rich leather seats were comfortable and the gadgets on the dashboard a study in luxury.
Matthew slammed the door on his side, effectively taking up all the rest of the available space and then some, and scowled at her. “If you insult my car, I guarantee it won’t start.”
Alarmed, Lorna promptly patted the dash. “Good baby, good baby.” If the heat didn’t come on soon, she was going to turn into an icicle. So much for open-weave skirts and bare throats.
Matthew grinned, giving her a sidelong glance as he turned the key in the ignition. When he’d called for her, he’d taken in every inch of her from the top of her head to her toes; she couldn’t imagine why she flushed now. Because he was suddenly so close, she supposed. Because they both appeared to be rather taken aback at how startlingly fast, how violently fast, they seemed to be aware of each other in a completely new way. Because his dark coat and dark eyes and dark hair sent a starkly sexual message directly to her bloodstream. Because his shoulder was brushing hers, and because his hand on the gearshift was only inches from her thigh. Because…
“I hope you don’t mind a little change in plans, Misha.” The engine was purring smoothly now, and the car was cozy as toast.
She glanced at him. He had stopped at a stoplight, and reaching behind him brought forward two white bags, which he handed to her. She opened both, revealing two huge corned beef sandwiches, potato chips, pickles and chocolate éclairs. Except for the pickles, she had no objections, but it was not exactly the kind of dinner she had dressed for.
“And we’ve only got ten minutes to eat.” Seeing the expression she was trying so hard to hide, he chuckled. “It isn’t exactly what I had planned, either. But unless you’ve changed your taste in music, Misha, I think you’ll be pleased. I heard this afternoon that Diana Krall is going to be at the Bluebird for tonight only. So…”
“You’re not serious.”
“If you would rather just go to a nice restaurant, this stuff will keep.”
She forced one of the sandwiches rapidly in his hand, not wasting any more time talking while she munched on her own. He chuckled again at her enthusiasm. She had no idea how he remembered her love of jazz; Richard hadn’t liked it, and she had rarely played her cherished recordings while he was at home. She didn’t care for avant-garde jazz, but she loved the traditional music, beginning with Bessie Smith in the twenties. She especially loved the type of song where the pianist picked up a love story and retold it in his or her own way.
When Matthew stopped the car less than ten minutes later, Lorna opened her door before he could come around to do it for her. Impatiently, she lifted one foot and then the other, waiting while he locked the car on his side and approached hers. A light covering of snow blanketed the sidewalks, and the silvery flakes were still falling. She was shivering.
“Don’t you ever wear boots?” he chided.
“Oh, stop it, Matthew. What time does Krall start?”
“In seven minutes. We’ve still got time for a brisk walk around the block, if you-” He laughed at her horrified expression and draped a warm arm over her shoulder as they started walking. The swift kiss on her forehead startled her. “I was beginning to think you’d lost it, Misha. That little-kid ability to get all excited and just…be. Just laugh because of nothing at all.”