That Tender Feeling (9 page)

He collected a sticky mound of rice onto his fork. ‘That is a matter of opinion.'

‘I know this doesn't say so. But I
am
. This is not representative of what I can do.'

‘Oh, sure. Gremlins in the kitchen. Or perhaps the stove is faulty?'

‘There's nothing the matter with the stove, as you well know. You might be right about the other. At least, not gremlins—one gremlin.'

‘So you're blaming me again, are you?'

‘No. As you so rightly pointed out this morning, bad workmanship shouldn't be blamed on bad tools or anything else. I've cooked before more exacting audiences than you and haven't flapped. I'll get the dessert,' she said, rising from her chair and sending him a cool, challenging look that was not without its spike of humor. ‘You don't have to worry; it's fruit salad, and all I had to do was open the can. And cheese and biscuits. Likewise, I can be trusted not to make a mess of that.'

It was silly, but the gremlin theory was not entirely without credibility. The fact was, he put her off. Her awareness of him seemed to have stolen her ability to do even the simplest tasks.

Even the coffee wasn't up to her normal standard, but it provided a more relaxed atmosphere in which to talk. If being with someone who was physically exciting can ever be described as relaxed. It was balm to her self-esteem that he seemed as inclined as she was to tarry and chat. At first, about impersonal things—books, records, films, gaduating to old times. He didn't once mention her father. She might have thought that was odd, as he'd been working with him so recently, but for the fact that, as now, her father hadn't been around much in the old days. She must remember to ask Cliff how her father was getting on, but there was no desperate hurry. If anything had been amiss, he would have told her. When people don't say anything, it's because there's nothing to tell, or perhaps Cliff might think the antics her father got up to weren't right for a daughter's ears, she realized with a rueful, inner laugh.

Being so much older than she was, Cliff remembered her mother very well, which was a delight to her. It was one of Ros's big regrets that her mother had died before she'd had time to appreciate her. She sometimes wondered if she would even have remembered her face if the handful of old photogaphs that she had in her possession and frequently looked at hadn't kept her mother's dear face vivid in her memory. As Cliff drew a verbal picture for her, she could have sat and listened all night, and to this end she swallowed back a couple of yawns. The third one wouldn't be suppressed, however, and on observing it, Cliff declared that it was time they turned in.

As they went up the stairs together, the amiability they had shared went the opposite way. Ros was jittery, on edge. It didn't make sense, because when a man and woman are attracted to one another, any room, any place—lonely country lane, the back seat of a car—is a danger zone. There is as much temptation in a downstairs room as an upstairs one; the upstairs room only seems more hazardous, that's all. If he'd wanted to pounce on her, he would have done so when they were close in mood, not now that she'd gone away from him. He wouldn't try to penetrate the icy front she'd put up. Unless he saw it as a form of provocation. A ‘don't touch' with a dare in its tail.

She sneaked a sideways glance at him and hoped that he hadn't misconstrued her reasons for being there. Why do the hours of darkness cast a bewitching spell, while everything seems adult and logical during the hours of daylight? It had seemed such a sensible solution to share.

‘What's the matter?' he asked, puzzled.

Or was he only pretending to be puzzled? There seemed to be a veiled invitation in his manner for her to resort to her penchant for plain speaking. His cunning would get him nowhere. No way was she going to bring this out into the open. If she admitted to anything, it would be as good as asking him into her bedroom. On this issue, both her mouth and her bedroom door were going to stay closed to him.

‘Nothing,' she said, shrugging in a manner that she hoped would convey indifference. ‘Guess it's been a long day and I'm tired.'

‘Yes,' he said, his little finger so gently touching the delicate area under her eye, a mere feather stroke. ‘Those shadowed crescents shouldn't be there.' But the expression in his eyes was not in agreement with his words and asserted that tiredness was not the cause of her jumpiness.

How aware was he of the duel going on inside of her: her wish that she could have an easier attitude toward sex clashing with her insistence that it wasn't right in the absence of deeper feelings? To use the body for gratification without love was like drinking vintage champagne from an earthenware mug. To be fully appreciated, wine should be sipped from the finest hand-cut crystal, and sex shouldn't be to satisfy lust but to consummate the most tender and beautiful relationship known to mankind, the love between a man and a woman. A love so selfless that it almost reaches spiritual heights as it touches physical depths. A bodily union that encompasses the soul.

She knew that if she took one step forward, his arms would open to form the protective circle she wanted to walk into. Wanted it so badly that it jarred something inside. Her stomach muscles were tense in their pain. An ache of sweetness and vibrant intensity filled her throat. Her body was in the grip of some sweeping cataclysm; her mind was in a state of total confusion, yet running through it was a tiny thread of common sense. He would not be satisfied with having his arms around her to give—and glean—comfort for what was denied, and if she were honest with herself, neither would she. There was a hot thirsting passion between them that demanded to be slaked. A wonderful torment that was like an emotional whip that wouldn't stop cracking until their bodies were lashed together—in what? It had to be a commitment, not lust. It always came back to that. She would not satisfy his lust.

She took the vital step, the step toward self-dignity, which was the step away from him.

‘Good night,' she said, her chin high as she swept into her room.

‘Pleasant dreams,' he called after her, his voice pitched into sardonic darkness and cruel mockery.

Once inside her door, she leaned her hot cheek against the cold closed panel. It should have been his muscled chest. Just to think of being crushed close to his powerful body took the strength from her legs and turned her insides to water again. She resented his magnetism, and she was bitterly ashamed of her own response. She had to cram her fist against her mouth to stop herself from calling out to him. She knew that he hadn't moved and that he was standing on the other side of the door. He was waging a war on her nerves as well as her emotions. She didn't know how long she was going to be able to hold out . . . how long she would want to hold out.

As though blocking the door, she stayed where she was until he moved away—a gesture of defense that was meaningless because he wouldn't have pushed his way in but would only have entered by invitation. As his footsteps faded along the passage, she dragged her weak legs over to the bed where she collapsed, her thoughts in a dizzy turmoil. What was the matter with her? She was acting completely out of character. It wasn't like her to abandon herself in this stupid fashion, to give way to emotional lunacy. With these hectic thoughts, she dropped off to sleep.

The next morning, she bounced back, her normal almost-in-control self. She knew the control was not total when she again made a hash of the breakfast. If she hadn't been so irritated by the injustice of it all, she might have been quite amused.

The omelets she whipped up for lunch were a dream. But the goulash she made for the evening meal was so fiery it was like swallowing flames.

She gave Cliff points for eating it with apparent relish and without comment. She was, however, somewhat nonplussed, because she sensed what the follow-up question would be when he asked conversationally, ‘I believe you said you wrote books?'

She would like to have denied ever having made that rash statement, but as she had spent the day closeted in the front parlor with her typewriter, she couldn't.

‘Yes, I do,' she said.

Right on cue, he asked: ‘What kind of book are you writing?'

If she said a cookbook, she could imagine the meal of hilarity he would make of that.

‘It—er—sort of advises women on how to catch their man.' On pondering about it, she supposed that hadn't been a very inspired reply. If anything, it was worse than admitting to the dreadful truth.

‘You've got to be joking.'

‘Have I?' she inquired with disarming sweetness.

‘And you feel qualified to do this?' he said, cynicism biting deep in his smoky eyes. ‘If any publisher is unwise enough to publish it, be sure to send me an autographed copy.'

Her bristling defense came back with pleasing swiftness and matched the haughtiness of her tone. ‘I'll do better than that. I'll put a special dedication in it for you.'

She already knew what that dedication would say. ‘Eat your words, Cliff.' She'd like to make him eat his words on both counts—on her cooking prowess and on her ability to catch her man. The man, of course, being him.

She dared not meet his gaze in case he read this last wistful reflection in her eyes.

When he replied, the lazy indolence in his tone whipped her, yet it also was not without a reflective quality that she found oddly surprising. ‘I would have thought that any reasonably gifted female wouldn't have any difficulty in catching her man,' he said. ‘Men like to think of themselves as the hunter, but it's an indisputable fact that they are prey to a woman's allure. But allure is a strange, mystic thing. In my experience, it wears off. Once a man has been enticed—'

‘Got what he wants, you mean,' she snapped back sarcastically, giving full rein to her blunt tongue.

‘If you care to put it so crudely, yes. A woman then becomes less alluring.'

‘That is a very cynical viewpoint.'

‘Maybe it's my misfortune, but it's the only one I've been given.'

‘Don't you believe that a man can find a satisfying, lasting relationship with a woman?'

‘I must. Otherwise, I wouldn't keep looking.'

Latching on to the implication of that, she said, ‘And in the search, somewhere along the line, someone is going to get hurt. As your feelings are never sufficiently involved, it isn't going to be you. It will have to be the poor cast-off female. I hope you meet your match. By the law of averages, you're going to come up against a girl who finds you less alluring on acquaintance and gives you the big elbow. I just hope I'm around to see it. But I doubt that very much. I don't think you are capable of the kind of deep affection that goes with a lasting involvement. Well, just watch it. You aren't going to be a devastating thirty-two-year-old forever with a convoy of girls ready to fall into your arms. Time could be running out for you.'

As she jumped up from the table and stalked away on that note of victory, she couldn't know how bitterly she was going to regret saying those words.

He followed her and caught up with her by the door, grabbing her wrists and bringing her round to face him, his dark eyes glowering. ‘You little fool. Don't you realize that I know all this already. I'm trying my best not to hurt you.'

‘Your consideration bowls me over.'

‘And so it should, seeing as you're not worthy of it. To make this crazy arrangement of sharing a home work, even short-term, you've got to play your part. A casual affair with a girl I knew in pigtails and ankle socks is out of the question, especially when the girl has only thrown away the outer trappings of childhood. I'm not that much of a heel. But stop tempting me; otherwise—'

‘What?' she challenged rashly, incensed by his uncomplimentary opinion of her.

His lashes closed, reducing his eyes to slits. ‘I'm only human, Rusty. Bearing this in mind, I'm sure your vivid imagination can be relied upon to draw its own torrid conclusions.'

* * *

She hardly saw Cliff the next week. She wasn't sure whether that was by design or circumstance, possibly a combination of both. He explained his absences with plausibility. A hospital checkup took him into town and necessitated an overnight stay. ‘Strictly routine company policy,' he had assured her on seeing her wide-eyed look of alarm. Another two days, with three overnight stays, was essential to some business that needed his attention. Perhaps it was legitimate and not put-up excuses to keep out of her way.

She used the time well and made great strides with her book. Like the ones that had gone before it, it wasn't just a compilation of recipes. She slipped in enough text to make it a witty and informative read. It was said that more people bought Rosalynd Seymour cookbooks to read than to cook by. A droll smile came to her lips as she thought what Cliff would have made of that. In her head, she could almost hear the cynicism in the imaginary voice of Cliff as he said, ‘Judged on the efforts you've served up for me, that's just as well.'

The frustrating part of it was, now that he wasn't here to cook for, she had regained her skills. Everything she turned out achieved a peak of perfection. In a very busy schedule, she also found time to bake a Christmas cake that she had decorated with a roughed-up snow scene. She wondered if it would snow for Christmas. She hoped so. Up there in that remote area, snow transformed it into a white fairytale world that was frequently cut off from the rest of civilization. It was cold enough for it, and snow was forecast. She wondered if Cliff would be spending Christmas with her at the cottage—or would he make some souped-up excuse to stay away?

He arrived back just as an early dusk was falling on December the twenty-third. Her heart lifted so high she wondered how it managed not to catapult her to the ceiling.

‘Business go okay?' she asked, gripping her hands tightly behind her back and feigning indifference at seeing him.