straight as the blade of a knife until it curled up on the shoulders of his jacket. He was perhaps a year or so younger than she was, and brash—she saw that, too. His cheekbones were high and flat, his mouth thin. But it was his eyes that ultimately held her attention. They were hard black marbles flecked with amber. And they were incredibly vulgar.
It wasn't a lecherous vulgarity she saw there. He didn't try to undress her visually or make an exploratory trip down her body. Instead, she saw the vulgarity of too much intensity of expression for too short an acquaintance.
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she said.
"I want to see Joel Faulconer."
"He's unavailable."
"I don't believe that."
Why did he keep looking at her as if she were some sort of exotic species on exhibit at the zoo? "If you'd like to meet with him, i suggest you call his office for an appointment."
"I did that. The bitch who answers his phone keeps brushing me off."
Her voice passed from cool to cold. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."
"That's bullshit."
A small pulse began to throb in her throat as he slowly rose from the chair. She knew she should call for help, but she had grown so very tired of talking to overweight countesses and gouty vice-presidents. Would it be so terrible—not to mention dangerous—to wait just a few more minutes and see what the outspoken stranger who had invaded her father's library had in mind?
"Saying you can't do anything is bullshit," he repeated.
"I'm asking you to leave."
"You're what—his wife, his daughter? You can do anything you want." He snapped his fingers in the air in front of her eyes. "Just like that, you can arrange for me to see him."
She raised her head ever so slightly, so that she was looking down the length of her nose at him in the deliberately hostile fashion her father employed so effectively. "I'm his daughter Susannah, and he's entertaining tonight." Why had she told him her name?
Whatever had possessed her?
"Okay. Tomorrow, then. I'll meet him tomorrow."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible."
"Christ." He looked at her with disgust and shook his head. "When I first saw you—those first few seconds—I had this feeling about you."
He fell silent.
It was as if he'd tapped out the initial seven notes of Beethoven's Fifth, but left off the eighth. She waited. The white organdy ruffle rose and fell over her breasts. She was frightened so badly that her palms had begun to perspire. Frightened, but excited, too, and that frightened her even more. She knew all too well that disaster could appear from nowhere—on the sunniest of June days, from behind the merry mask of a clown. Still, she couldn't seem to force herself to break away from him and go for help. Perhaps it was the aftereffect of her meeting with Paige, perhaps it was simply a reaction to spending too many evenings with people who were so much older than herself.
"What kind of feeling?" The words seemed to have left her mouth of their own volition—
she who never spoke impulsively.
He walked around to the front of the desk, those dark, amber-flecked eyes never moving from hers. When he spoke, his voice was low and intense, barely more than a whisper. "A feeling like maybe you'd understand."
She heard the sounds of the string quartet playing another world away. Her mouth felt dry. "Understand what?"
Now his eyes did roam over her, suggestively, unapologetically, as if he alone could see the red-hot wanton who was hidden beneath her composed exterior. An erotic image flickered unbidden through her mind of his hand reaching out and lowering the bodice of her dress. The image lasted only a second, but the effect was almost unbearable—
flooding her body first with heat and then with self-disgust.
He grinned—as if he had read her mind—and his brash young lips parted. She became aware of a tapping sound and followed the noise with her eyes. He was bumping the toe of one of his motorcycle boots against an
It wasn't a lecherous vulgarity she saw there. He didn't try to undress her visually or make an exploratory trip down her body. Instead, she saw the vulgarity of too much intensity of expression for too short an acquaintance.
"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," she said.
"I want to see Joel Faulconer."
"He's unavailable."
"I don't believe that."
Why did he keep looking at her as if she were some sort of exotic species on exhibit at the zoo? "If you'd like to meet with him, i suggest you call his office for an appointment."
"I did that. The bitch who answers his phone keeps brushing me off."
Her voice passed from cool to cold. "I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do."
"That's bullshit."
A small pulse began to throb in her throat as he slowly rose from the chair. She knew she should call for help, but she had grown so very tired of talking to overweight countesses and gouty vice-presidents. Would it be so terrible—not to mention dangerous—to wait just a few more minutes and see what the outspoken stranger who had invaded her father's library had in mind?
"Saying you can't do anything is bullshit," he repeated.
"I'm asking you to leave."
"You're what—his wife, his daughter? You can do anything you want." He snapped his fingers in the air in front of her eyes. "Just like that, you can arrange for me to see him."
She raised her head ever so slightly, so that she was looking down the length of her nose at him in the deliberately hostile fashion her father employed so effectively. "I'm his daughter Susannah, and he's entertaining tonight." Why had she told him her name?
Whatever had possessed her?
"Okay. Tomorrow, then. I'll meet him tomorrow."
"I'm afraid that won't be possible."
"Christ." He looked at her with disgust and shook his head. "When I first saw you—those first few seconds—I had this feeling about you."
He fell silent.
It was as if he'd tapped out the initial seven notes of Beethoven's Fifth, but left off the eighth. She waited. The white organdy ruffle rose and fell over her breasts. She was frightened so badly that her palms had begun to perspire. Frightened, but excited, too, and that frightened her even more. She knew all too well that disaster could appear from nowhere—on the sunniest of June days, from behind the merry mask of a clown. Still, she couldn't seem to force herself to break away from him and go for help. Perhaps it was the aftereffect of her meeting with Paige, perhaps it was simply a reaction to spending too many evenings with people who were so much older than herself.
"What kind of feeling?" The words seemed to have left her mouth of their own volition—
she who never spoke impulsively.
He walked around to the front of the desk, those dark, amber-flecked eyes never moving from hers. When he spoke, his voice was low and intense, barely more than a whisper. "A feeling like maybe you'd understand."
She heard the sounds of the string quartet playing another world away. Her mouth felt dry. "Understand what?"
Now his eyes did roam over her, suggestively, unapologetically, as if he alone could see the red-hot wanton who was hidden beneath her composed exterior. An erotic image flickered unbidden through her mind of his hand reaching out and lowering the bodice of her dress. The image lasted only a second, but the effect was almost unbearable—
flooding her body first with heat and then with self-disgust.
He grinned—as if he had read her mind—and his brash young lips parted. She became aware of a tapping sound and followed the noise with her eyes. He was bumping the toe of one of his motorcycle boots against an
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