Читать книгу Fire And Spice - Karen Van Der Zee - Страница 8

ZOE could not deny it. Something was going on between them—something elemental and instinctual that had nothing to do with reason or logic. Her heart was racing, her whole body tingled with anticipation’Yes,’ she said huskily.

He pushed himself away from the wall. He stood very close. She stared at his chin, afraid to meet his gaze, afraid of what he might read in her eyes. This was crazy. She felt like a nervous teenager rather than the mature woman of twenty-nine she was. She knew what she wanted. She knew what he wanted. He was so close she could feel his body warmth, smell the clean scent of him, feel his breath brush across her cheek. With her heart throbbing, she raised her eyes to his.

Everything fell away—the small entryway with its faint smell of floor polish, her worries about Paul, time itself. His eyes mesmerized her, drawing her nearer.

She felt his arms surround her, saw his face bend towards her and then his mouth was on hers-warm and urgent.

Her whole being reacted to this kiss, wild tumult everywhere inside her as a storm of need swept over her. A soft moan escaped her and his kiss intensified. She kissed him back with a hungry passion that came from somewhere hidden deep inside her.

Finally, reluctantly, he released her mouth and with his arms still around her he leaned back against the wall again, her body resting against the length of his, her face against the warmth of his neck. His breathing was ragged, as was her own, and Zoe closed her eyes, not moving, trying not to think. Thinking would spoil everything. She wanted to feel, only to feel.

Then, gently, he put her away from him and looked into her eyes. ‘It’s a good thing I’m not eighteen,’ he said softly, a note of humor in his voice.

Her reason came back. And with it acute embarrassment. Sexual desire had its time and place and this had not been the time and place, surely. She hardly knew this man. It wasn’t in her nature to lose control so totally, so quickly.

‘I think I’d better go up,’ she said with difficulty,

wishing she could die on the spot. She had acted like a love-starved nymphomaniac. ‘Thanks again for dinner.’ She tried to be dignified as she walked up the steps, but her legs felt like rubber.

‘Goodnight, Zoe.’ His deep voice floated up behind her, intimate, knowing.

‘Goodnight.’

Soon after, she lay in bed, unable to sleep. She thought of Bryant on the floor below, also in bed. At least, she assumed he was in bed. Was he thinking about her, wishing he had swept her straight into his apartment and taken her to bed and made passionate love with her?

She should not flatter herself. He was probably sitting on his sofa reading some report or other, contemplating the state of the infrastructure of some poor Third World country.

Then again, maybe he was taking a long, cold shower. She groaned into her pillow. What was the matter with her? Never in her life had she felt so totally bowled over by a man. It was terrifying. She wasn’t sure how to handle it, what to do.

Well, one thing she did have to do: try to hold on to her sanity, not to let matters progress too fast so she’d lose control. A real relationship took time to develop and she wasn’t in the market for something fast and fancy.

She pushed her face into the pillow. What she wanted was something solid and long-term. What she wanted more than anything was to find a soul mate, someone for the long haul. A man to build a life with, a man to be the father of her children.

Behind her closed eyelids was the image of a man with blonde hair and brilliant blue eyes.

She did not see or hear from Bryant in the next few days, which was a relief of sorts, even though she had expected it. He had told her during their dinner that there was a week-long international convention in town which meant he’d be busy till all hours.

Although she didn’t get a glimpse of Bryant coming or going, what she did notice was a young blonde woman in the hall one afternoon with a grocery store paper bag clutched against her chest. She had a key and was trying to get into the Sinclair apartment.

‘Hi!’ she said cheerily, and gave Zoe a white-toothed smile. She was in her early twenties, Zoe guessed, and she had a fresh prettiness.

‘Hi,’ said Zoe, and started up the stairs, only to hear the sound of something dropping to the floor and a muffled curse. She glanced down. The girl had dropped the bag and the contents had fallen out.

Zoe went back down. ‘Let me give you a hand.’

‘Oh, thank you. That damned key. It wouldn’t work.’ She laughed. ‘I’m such a klutz.’

She didn’t look like a klutz. Her slim body looked sleek and sporty and well-coordinated. She wore slimfitting jeans and a sweatshirt that read ‘Georgetown university’.

Zoe put the stuff back into the bag-boxes of macaroni and cheese mix, a frozen pizza, a packet of hot dogs. The girl had managed to open the door and Zoe handed her the bag.

‘Thanks a lot. Do you live upstairs?’

‘Yes. I’m Zoe Langdon.’

‘I’m Kristin Meyers. It’s nice to meet you.’ Her smile was bright. She radiated cheer and peppiness. ‘See you!’

Zoe climbed the stairs to her own apartment wondering who Kristin was. Not that it was any of her business. Come to think of it, she hadn’t noticed Mrs Garcia lately. Was she no longer working for the Sinclairs? Zoe stood in front of the window and looked down at the street, noticing Paul. His school bag hung by one strap from his shoulder. His head drooped and he focussed on his shoes as he kicked a pebble along the pavement. He’d been held after school today to do make-up work, work he had not done at home.

Maybe Kristin was a sitter, or a tutor, or a combination of the two. Then again maybe she was Bryant’s woman of the week. ‘Oh, stop it!’ she said out loud to herself. It wasn’t her business. She didn’t care.

Yes, she did. Secretly, she kept waiting for Bryant to call or knock on her door, in spite of the blasted convention that made him come home late every night.

She turned away from the window. Something was happening to her and she didn’t like it. She didn’t want to feel this way. She didn’t want his image in her head all the time. She didn’t want to hear his words over and over in her mind.

‘I think something is going on between us.’

She was not going to sit by the phone like a lovesick teenager and wait for Bryant to call her. He had kissed her very nicely—well, okay, passionately, she corrected herself—but that did not mean that he was now going to spend every night knocking on her door. He was busy and so was she—at least, she could make herself busy. She should do something about her social life, make friends.

She started a cooking spree and invited some of the teachers to dinner. She signed up for an evening class at the university. Maxie took her to a seminar on Indian spirituality on Friday night.

She wrote letters to her friends, called her mother in Italy, took long walks and read a big book, or tried to.

None of it helped one little bit. Her mind was determined to occupy itself with thoughts of Bryant, thoughts of him kissing her, touching her.

The trees had started to turn in vivid colors, the fiery orange and red of the maples joining the rich golden yellow of hickory and the warm, coppery brown of the oaks. In the morning the air was cool and clear and to Zoe it was like a gift of the gods. Walking to school she would drink in the air like champagne, feeling light on her feet and smiling at the world in general. Ah, fall was so glorious!

The six-weekly report cards came out, and Paul’s was a miserable collection of failing grades. With a sigh of despair, Zoe sent a note home with Paul saying she wanted another conference with Bryant. He called her at home that night and just hearing his voice made her tingle all over.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘How was your convention?’

‘Deadly. But it’s over now. I received your note,’ he went on, and there was a change in his voice, subtle but real. ‘I have no time to come to school in the morning, and frankly I do not expect a conference to change anything.’

The lovely tingling stopped instantly and anger rushed through her in its stead.

‘Have you seen his report card?’

‘Yes.’

‘Paul is in trouble, Bryant. You are his father. Don’t you think you ought to do something?’

‘I don’t think a conference is going to accomplish anything.’

Not if he was not willing to cooperate, not if he didn’t want help. ‘So you’re going to stand by and let him fail? Don’t you understand that his behavior is a cry for help?’

‘Listen,’ he said impatiently, ‘I’ll come up and we can discuss it now if you like, but I can’t do this on the phone with him in the next room.’

‘Then come to my office tomorrow.’

‘Your office, your apartment, what’s the difference?’ He sounded annoyed.

There was a big difference, but she didn’t want to argue over time and place. In view of the situation, she was glad to have a chance to talk to him about Paul at all.

So she agreed, raced into the bedroom, looked at herself in the mirror and groaned at her faded jeans and sweatshirt. She put on some lipstick, brushed out her hair and a knock came on the door. He was dressed in jeans and a cotton sweater, and her heart leaped at the sight of him in his casual clothes. He looked sporty and strong and utterly male.

She told him to take a seat and busied herself pouring them each a cup of coffee, her hands shaking. She sat down opposite him, willing herself to concentrate on Paul rather than Bryant.

She took a fortifying sip of her coffee. ‘What did Paul say about his grades?’

He waved his hand casually. ‘That this school is “stupid” and he wants to go back to his old school in Buenos Aires. I told him it was out of the question.’

She stirred her coffee. ‘What did you say to Paul about his report card, specifically?’

‘What do you think I said? I told him it was a disgrace and that I expected better from my son. I found him a tutor, but apparently that has not improved matters.’

Ah, Kristin. She couldn’t help feeling a tiny sense of relief.

‘The problem isn’t that he needs help with his homework,’ she said calmly. ‘He knows how to do it; he just doesn’t. He systematically refuses and that refusal is a symptom of the problem.’ Her mind produced the picture of Paul slumped in his chair, head down, fiddling with a paper clip. ‘Something is bothering him. He’s not happy.’

He gave a crooked grin. ‘He’s twelve years old. Puberty’s looming. Of course he’s not happy. The world is a terrible place. Nobody understands him. Unfortunately, it’s a phase he’ll have to go through like the rest of humanity. It’s growing-up time. He’ll have to learn to adjust to changes and accept the inevitable.’ He sighed. ‘We can’t go back to Argentina. There isn’t a thing to be done about it.’

‘Your move here was a big change and it’s not easy to adjust to big changes like that,’ she said.

He looked straight at her. ‘Oh, I know,’ he said slowly. ‘Believe me, I know.’ There was something odd about the way he said it, and deep down, way behind the brightness of his blue eyes, she saw a dark shadow.

Had any of this to do with his wife, Paul’s mother? But she’d looked through all the records from Paul’s school in Argentina and there’d been no mention of a mother-no name, no address, nothing.

‘If you know,’ she said gently, ‘then you should be able to help him deal with it.’

He crossed his arms. ‘I’m trying. We’re having long father-son talks and I tell him it’s important not to give in to these feelings, not to dwell on them, which is what he’s doing. We eat huge bowls of ice-cream while I try to explain to him that what matters is the present and the future and that it takes courage to move forward without dwelling on the past.’

‘It sounds easy, but it’s a lot to ask of a boy of twelve. Maybe it would help if you acknowledged his feelings instead of telling him he shouldn’t have them. He has the right to his feelings, you know. He’s not miserable because it’s so much fun.’

He stiffened. ‘He is not miserable. I’ve been too busy lately, but the work is easing up and I’ll be spending more time with him.’

She nodded. ‘That’s good.’

He came to his feet and stood in front of a water-color painting of an African market scene. After a moment he turned and glanced around. ‘You have a nice place. Very personal, very cozy.’

‘Thanks.’ The tension had lessened, the atmosphere changed subtly. ‘Can I get you a drink? I have Scotch, rum, dry sherry and white wine.’

‘Scotch on the rocks, thanks.’

She went into the kitchen and he followed her in. When she took the Scotch bottle, he took it from her

hand and set it on the counter. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes and her heart began to thump.

‘I wish you were just my upstairs neighbor,’ he said, his mouth curving in an ironic smile.

‘Yes,’ she said. She did not avert her gaze. ‘But I’m not.’ She was his son’s school counselor and she didn’t like the way he dealt with his son.

‘No, you’re not. But could we for now pretend you are?’

Yes, said one part of her. No, said another. Pretending is dangerous.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said with difficulty, ‘I can’t just pretend.’ She slipped out from under his hands and took a glass from the cabinet

‘You’re angry.’

‘I’m frustrated.’

‘Why? Why does Paul matter so much to you? There must be all kinds of kids with problems much more serious than his. Alcoholic parents, drug problems, whatever.’

True enough. She sighed, pushing the hair from her forehead. ‘I’m frustrated because I know Paul is unhappy and I don’t think your attitude is right.’ She picked up the bottle of Scotch and poured out a measure into the glass.

‘You don’t think my attitude is right?’ he repeated, a note of warning in his voice.

‘Correct.’ She looked straight into his eyes as she handed him the glass. ‘You seem too casual about it. You don’t seem to take it seriously.’

Silence. She felt a distinct chill in the air. He stood very still as he observed her.

‘Are you saying,’ he said slowly, ‘that I don’t care about my own son?’

Her heart pounded wildly. ‘No, that’s not what I’m saying. What I’m trying to say is that you give the impression of not taking his unhappiness seriously. You think all he has to do is be tough.’

‘It’s a tough life,’ he said quietly, and there was nothing casual about his tone.

‘So it is. And a little tender loving care and some understanding will help.’

He gave a humorless little laugh. ‘You know it all, don’t you, Counselor?’ His voice mocked her. He tipped his glass back, finished the whisky in one go and with a forceful thump deposited the glass on the counter.