furnishings—a table, a desk, three chairs, a small couch to the right of the door, and an immense dressing table—were of the same glowing brown leather. Not masculine, either; feminine. Delicate and heady, like the fine-beaded whisky of the last century. The sprawling mirror over the dressing table was auburn-tinted and as clear as a tropical summer’s twilight.
An exciting room. A sensuous and sensual room. A room of wantonness and lurking sin.
I turned and left, rapidly, and as I approached the stairs I found myself wanting more air, wanting above all to escape. But I knew then that I would not escape.
I had seen my face in that huge tinted mirror and it had been the face of a stranger—a stranger who was already running backward on a forward-racing treadmill; a stranger afraid.
• • •
We had supper that evening at a table on the flag-stoned patio in front of the house, directly beneath Petra’s room. The patio was surrounded by tall hedges. Petra and I talked mechanically, but her eyes—and probably mine, too—spoke a different tongue.
She said only one disrupting thing, and that was as we rose from the table. Her arm brushed mine. She turned and said, “I wonder what Madge would think, Alex.” Then she walked away.
I followed, and behind us both I heard the light, rapid shuffle of the old woman’s carpet slippers and the abrupt tap, tap of her cane. I wondered about that cane. She didn’t always have it with her, obviously didn’t really need it. I began to feel watched, as Petra said
she
was.
Again, as Petra and I walked down the inside hall, she turned and said, “Oh, God. I wish that old crow was dead!”
That night she came to my room.
Chapter Eight
I HAD BEEN in bed about an hour wondering why I hadn’t locked the door when the door opened. I knew then why I hadn’t locked it.
Moonlight sprayed in the windows on the side of the room where the head of my bed was. As she entered, she said nothing. She simply closed the door. And I lay stiffly beneath a single sheet.
She turned. “Hello, Alex.”
I didn’t answer. She wore a thigh-length nightgown as thin as gauze. I later found out the color of it was red; you couldn’t tell in the moonlight. She was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen as I watched her long white legs gleam toward me and the bed.
“I had to see you,” she said.
“Get out, Petra!”
The short nightgown folded inward beneath her thrusting breasts and fell to a rustling caress against her hips. She sank slowly to the bed, crossed her legs, and smiled at me. The moonlight was over my shoulder, full on her. The bed sank with her weight, and the full warmth of her hip pushed against my leg. There was that sheet between us. I hauled myself back against the head of the bed, pulling the sheet with me.
Her hand snagged the sheet, tore it down to my waist. She chuckled. “I sleep that way too,” she said. “I only put this on for you.”
“Go away.” It seemed to me I could hear the shuffle of carpet slippers, the rap, rap, rap of a cane.
“No.”
“Petra.”
“No.”
She laid her hand on my arm. I didn’t move. I could see her breasts clearly through the thin gown. Her thighs gleamed in an ivory curve. She later told me she liked the length of the short nightgown, that it felt like feathers tickling the tops of her legs.
“I didn’t come to cause any trouble. I wouldn’t worry you for the world, Alex.”
“Liar.” Her every breath was tantalization.
“You’ve got to listen,” she said, and for the first time tonight I noticed the strain in her face and eyes. She wasn’t smiling now, and she seemed to draw her breath in almost fiercely. She wheeled on the bed, facing me, uncrossed her legs. It only made things worse. The hem of her gown was up as far as it could go without refuting gravity. I had a sensation of being completely trapped. I tried to think of Madge, to concentrate on her.
“It’s about Verne,” she said
An exciting room. A sensuous and sensual room. A room of wantonness and lurking sin.
I turned and left, rapidly, and as I approached the stairs I found myself wanting more air, wanting above all to escape. But I knew then that I would not escape.
I had seen my face in that huge tinted mirror and it had been the face of a stranger—a stranger who was already running backward on a forward-racing treadmill; a stranger afraid.
• • •
We had supper that evening at a table on the flag-stoned patio in front of the house, directly beneath Petra’s room. The patio was surrounded by tall hedges. Petra and I talked mechanically, but her eyes—and probably mine, too—spoke a different tongue.
She said only one disrupting thing, and that was as we rose from the table. Her arm brushed mine. She turned and said, “I wonder what Madge would think, Alex.” Then she walked away.
I followed, and behind us both I heard the light, rapid shuffle of the old woman’s carpet slippers and the abrupt tap, tap of her cane. I wondered about that cane. She didn’t always have it with her, obviously didn’t really need it. I began to feel watched, as Petra said
she
was.
Again, as Petra and I walked down the inside hall, she turned and said, “Oh, God. I wish that old crow was dead!”
That night she came to my room.
Chapter Eight
I HAD BEEN in bed about an hour wondering why I hadn’t locked the door when the door opened. I knew then why I hadn’t locked it.
Moonlight sprayed in the windows on the side of the room where the head of my bed was. As she entered, she said nothing. She simply closed the door. And I lay stiffly beneath a single sheet.
She turned. “Hello, Alex.”
I didn’t answer. She wore a thigh-length nightgown as thin as gauze. I later found out the color of it was red; you couldn’t tell in the moonlight. She was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen as I watched her long white legs gleam toward me and the bed.
“I had to see you,” she said.
“Get out, Petra!”
The short nightgown folded inward beneath her thrusting breasts and fell to a rustling caress against her hips. She sank slowly to the bed, crossed her legs, and smiled at me. The moonlight was over my shoulder, full on her. The bed sank with her weight, and the full warmth of her hip pushed against my leg. There was that sheet between us. I hauled myself back against the head of the bed, pulling the sheet with me.
Her hand snagged the sheet, tore it down to my waist. She chuckled. “I sleep that way too,” she said. “I only put this on for you.”
“Go away.” It seemed to me I could hear the shuffle of carpet slippers, the rap, rap, rap of a cane.
“No.”
“Petra.”
“No.”
She laid her hand on my arm. I didn’t move. I could see her breasts clearly through the thin gown. Her thighs gleamed in an ivory curve. She later told me she liked the length of the short nightgown, that it felt like feathers tickling the tops of her legs.
“I didn’t come to cause any trouble. I wouldn’t worry you for the world, Alex.”
“Liar.” Her every breath was tantalization.
“You’ve got to listen,” she said, and for the first time tonight I noticed the strain in her face and eyes. She wasn’t smiling now, and she seemed to draw her breath in almost fiercely. She wheeled on the bed, facing me, uncrossed her legs. It only made things worse. The hem of her gown was up as far as it could go without refuting gravity. I had a sensation of being completely trapped. I tried to think of Madge, to concentrate on her.
“It’s about Verne,” she said
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