Chapter 12
“Darling,” she murmured, her palm on his chest, her thigh crossed over his. “That was so wonderful.” Bartolla Benevente kissed his shoulder.
He was drifting in the pleasant aftermath of their wild lovemaking, not quite awake and not quite asleep.
Evan didn’t really hear her and he really didn’t want to.
The woman in his arms was exquisite, soft and silken and warm, her breasts full, surprising him, her legs somehow too long.
He succumbed and drifted deeper and when he realized that her hair was the most amazing shade of strawberry and terribly curly, his heart lurched with excitement.
Maggie. He wasn’t quite sure why she was in his bed but he wasn’t about to question it, oh no.
He ran his hand over her smooth silken skin again and again, turning to take her more fully in his arms. He was completely aroused and when Maggie kissed him on the flat, hard plane of his chest, he finally made a protest.
He moved over her, claiming her mouth, tasting her for what had to be the first time, tasting, inhaling her…She was so lovely, so sweet, so pure…like the sunshine, or an angel….
“Again?” she whispered with some surprise.
He could not speak and his answer was to slide deeply into her, shaking with excitement. And as he moved, as the desire instantly crested, he was jolted awake. She was moaning in pleasure, but so was he; he smiled, murmuring her name, opening his eyes, his hand in her wild, unruly hair.
He stiffened in absolute surprise as Bartolla climaxed before his very eyes and for a terrible moment, he could only stare, utterly dismayed.
Jesus.
He had been dreaming that he was making love to Maggie Kennedy.
Stunned—and aware of an impossible disappointment—he started to pull away from his lover. She clasped his arms. “Darling, what are you doing? What’s wrong?”
He smiled at her, and it felt ghastly. “Sorry,” he murmured, closing his eyes and finishing what he had mistakenly begun. And when he began to climax, the Irishwoman appeared in his mind, smiling at him, and no matter how hard he thrust or how hard he tried, she would not leave him alone.
He flung himself onto his back, panting wildly while Bartolla laughed, sitting up. “You are such a man, darling,” she whispered.
He threw one arm over his eyes, beyond shaken. He did not want to think about some pretty seamstress while he was making love to his mistress!
“Evan? Are you all right?”
He got up from the bed in one fluid movement, indifferent to his nudity. He gave her a brief smile and crossed the bedroom of his hotel suite. In the salon he poured himself a drink. His hand trembled.
And then he was angry. This was utter nonsense! Imagining another woman in his bed meant nothing at all—he had done so a hundred times, for God’s sake. And Maggie Kennedy was not his type of lady, oh no. She was too sweet, even meek, for God’s sake, and too damn good anyway for a rake like him.
“May I join you?” Bartolla asked.
He turned, quickly hiding his frown. Bartolla smiled in appreciation at his lean, hard body. She had slipped into her peignoir. A few weeks ago, shortly after their affair had commenced, she had begun leaving her possessions in his suite. He hadn’t minded then but now, suddenly, it irritated him.
He took a bottle of champagne from the ice bucket and opened it. Champagne was her choice of drink.
She accepted the flute when he handed it to her. “Shall I get you a robe? Not that I mind, but if a maid walked in, she might never recover from such a view.”
“Thank you,” he said, absolutely indifferent to her suggestion.
When she had left the salon he walked over to the window and gazed down at Fifth Avenue, where traffic remained heavy.
The city’s upper crust was out on the town, on their way to this fête or that, to a supper party, a ball, a charity or the theater.
The urge to walk down the block to a private club he knew suddenly overcame him. He tensed.
It wasn’t the first time. Every evening the urge came, and every evening he began to sweat, thinking about entering a game, any game, poker, craps, he didn’t care what it was.
God, there was simply nothing that came close to the rush of excitement of being at the tables, the stakes so high now, being life or death.
He tossed down his scotch.
Maggie’s image came to mind, sweet and smiling. Then she looked him right in the eye and shook her head no.
Bartolla returned, smiling, handing him his robe, navy blue velvet with his initials embroidered in black and gold on the chest pocket.
He slipped it on, belting it. “What are our plans for this evening?” he asked.
He wasn’t going to walk down the block. If he was very lucky, one day the urge would lessen, and if there was a god, it would even disappear.
“We have theater tickets, but I’m afraid the curtain goes up in an hour. I doubt I can be ready in time.”
He finally faced the fact, as he stared out of the window, that he would rather be alone that evening than be with his mistress. But he didn’t trust himself to be alone. Not one single bit.
“Darling.” She took his empty glass and refilled it, handing it back to him. “I must speak with you about something.”
Her tone was oddly serious. He glanced at her and saw that she wasn’t smiling and some alarm began.
Was she going to leave him? He truly liked her and definitely appreciated her skill in bed.
There had been a time when Evan had thought himself in love with the countess.
Now he realized he was not in love with her at all.
“It’s all right,” he heard himself say, and he realized he wouldn’t be dismayed at all if their affair ended. In fact, maybe it was time for it to end.
Maggie smiled at him.
He was so surprised, that he felt himself gape. Why was she haunting him now? Why?
“Are you unwell?” Bartolla asked, guiding him to a chair.
“I’m fine,” he said, very grim now. “I hope you’re not thinking of leaving me.” He had changed his mind. “I’m enjoying being with you immensely.”
Maggie’s eyes turned reproachful.
“You think I want to leave you?” she cried, clearly stunned. “Evan, darling, I am in love with you!”
There was no denying his dismay.
“Darling, I do hope you will be pleased.”
He just looked at her, thinking about the club and the tables there, able to hear the roulette, the die, the laughter and conversation, able to feel the excitement. All the while, he kept thinking about Maggie Kennedy, too. “What are you talking about?”
She clasped his hand. “I’m pregnant, darling. I’m pregnant with our child. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Even though it was only nine o’clock, Leigh Anne lay in bed, the lights out. But she wasn’t even trying to sleep. The events of that day replayed in her mind while she listened to the sounds on the street.
She had taken a walk with the girls around Madison Square.
Or rather, her male nurse had wheeled her chair while the girls had strolled alongside her, with Mrs. Flowers and Peter in tow.
The girls had been so happy, Katie regaling Leigh Anne with stories of her day at school and her new best friend, Dot constantly interrupting with her attempts at communication.
Leigh Anne fought the tears and the depression without success.
She bit on her hand to choke down a sob. She would never stroll in any park with the girls again.
How had she taken her health—her legs—her life for granted?
She wondered, not for the first time, if she was being punished for walking out on her husband four years ago, but she had never really believed then that she was walking out.
She had been certain he would follow her and bring her directly home and then change his life to suit her needs.
How naive, selfish and stupid she had been!
But, apparently, he had followed her. More tears came. Apparently he had come to Europe and then never identified himself, returning home alone. If only she had known he was there, nothing would have stopped her from finding him and returning with him.
But she hadn’t known and she had waited and waited, and after a year and a half she had allowed herself to be seduced.
She had been desperate for affection but the affair had been bitterly sweet.
It hadn’t eased the heartbreak and the comprehension that had then begun—her marriage might really be over.
At some point she had heard that he’d taken a mistress, a beautiful woman a bit older than he, a widow and intellectual, a suffragette like his mother.
She had been terribly hurt but had pretended to herself that it didn’t matter.
There had been days when she still expected to see him enter a room, arriving to bring her home.
But he never came, not after that first time, and finally she had returned home to nurse her ailing father, trying to ignore the fact that only miles of railroad track now separated them and not an entire ocean.
But when Bartolla had written her informing her that Rick was falling in love with another woman, she had rushed to New York City on the next departing train.
And he had despised her from the moment he had set his eyes on her.
Now he said he wanted to take care of her. She looked up at the ceiling and laughed while she wept. Never.
She wiped her eyes. Did he really think to attend political functions with his wife in a wheeled chair?
Did he think to wheel her about himself, or would her nurse be in attendance?
And did he think she could hostess their parties when she could not even go to the toilet by herself?
The tears fell. And what about making love?
The one thing she remained certain of was her husband’s amazing virility.
Would he be celibate now? She laughed rudely at the ceiling.
Or was she to look the other way as he took a mistress?
Pain stabbed her heart. He certainly wasn’t going to touch her now!