Facets. Part 19

"Because it makes sense. Doesn't it?"

He didn't answer. The feel of her naked hip against his naked groin was arousing, as was the warmth of her body, the softness of her skin, the musky scent surrounding them both. So he kissed her hard by way of punishment for her good sense, then kissed her hard again by way of recognition of her s.e.xiness, then kissed her hard a third time by way of expressing the unbridled desire that her s.e.xiness sparked. His last thought before he tumbled her to the floor was that he would enslave her to keep her in Boston until he was good and ready to let her go to New York.

Four months later, when plans for the New York store were still in the dream department, she went. John supposed that he might have been more attentive during those four months, but a string of social engagements had kept him busy. He hadn't had time for her. Weeks had gone by when he had been so engrossed in all Facets was becoming that he didn't think of her. Then, typically, when the pressure built inside him, when he found he needed someone to talk to, when he found himself hungering for the fire that only she had, he called.

She didn't complain. She didn't nag or whine or ask why he hadn't called sooner. She gave him her all for the weekend that he spent at her apartment. Three weeks later, she moved to New York.

He knew that it was revenge, and it infuriated him. Pam had been the one-what pleasure she'd gotten from that-to hand him the new address. Hillary hadn't even had the guts to tell him herself.

So he fought fire with fire. He didn't call, didn't try to see her, although he was often in New York buying gems. Two months went by, then a third and a fourth. He tried to fill the gap with other women, but no one excited him for longer than an evening. There were none of the prolonged orgies he and Hillary had, none of the wild, impulsive couplings where he could really let himself go and pour everything he had into uninhibited s.e.x. That wasn't part of the image. Nor was talking over his worries. He missed Hillary for that, too. When she had lived in Boston, she was his for the taking. When the mood hit, he could be at her apartment within the hour. He couldn't do that now. Seeing her required forethought, which was an annoying imposition.

After stewing about that imposition for a good long time, he finally capitulated and called her, which annoyed him all the more-which in turn meant that when they saw each other for the first time in New York, he had a plethora of anger and frustration to slake on her. It made for hot, hard, heavy s.e.x.

Hillary didn't complain. She was as hungry as John was, which told him that she hadn't yet met anyone to take his place. Buoyed by that thought and by the fact that she had received him with open arms despite the long silence, he returned to Boston feeling smugly content. She had been right after all, he realized. It didn't matter where she was. They could still see each other.

In some respects, having her tucked away in New York was very convenient. It meant that he could move freely through the Boston social scene without worry that he'd be a.s.sociated with her. No matter how sophisticated she became, she was still from Timiny Cove. She wasn't part of the Facets lure. She didn't have the sparkling clear s.h.i.+ne that his future did.

She did take the edge off his hunger, though. Because she satisfied his wildest s.e.xual needs, he was in greater control with other women. He could play the consummate lover, be gentle and considerate, put his partner's satisfaction before his own. He could foster the gentlemanly image without worrying that the more earthy of his desires would be exposed.

Unfortunately, s.e.x wasn't as exciting that way, so he found himself cutting back. There were still a few women-he had no intention of anyone thinking him queer, and his appet.i.te was in no way diminished-but his playmates were chosen more for their social importance than for any physical satisfaction they might bring.

The tactic paid off. He came to be regarded as a slightly aloof, vaguely mysterious, but highly appealing and eligible bachelor. He rather liked the image. It had the scent of the upper crust-clean, controlled, dignified, genteel. It went a long way toward countering the image of the miner from Timiny Cove.

It also held an element of truth. Aside from those bawdy weekends in New York with Hillary, he was clean, controlled, dignified, and genteel. As for aloofness, he chose to call it individuality. He wasn't a groupie. He mingled with society's cream, but only on a pick-and-choose basis. He wasn't afraid to go his own way or to let people know that he did. It added to his mystery.

It also compensated for the fact that, despite his connections and the inroads he'd made, he remained apart from the Beautiful People. He went to their homes, entertained them at his own, but still he wasn't fully accepted. No matter how elegant an appearance he made, how intelligently he spoke, how impeccably he behaved, he was still, somehow, an outsider.

He told himself that he was different, special, superior. But none of those arguments held much weight on the occasional nights when he was home alone and feeling restless. Occasionally he would hustle up a squash partner for a last-minute game or call a woman for a late dinner. Often, though, he stayed home, prowling the library, thinking about Facets, plotting the next step in his ascension to prominence.

But his restlessness remained. He didn't understand it. At thirty-two, he had the world at his fingertips. He was already a man of substance and was becoming more so by the day. He'd become a patron for the Inst.i.tute of Contemporary Art, had had his name listed at benefits for the Cancer Society, the Opera Company, and the Lahey Clinic in that year alone. Facets was doing well, as was the St. George Company. The media were familiar with his name and face. What more could he ask?

He wasn't sure. And the restlessness persisted. That was when he went looking for Pam.

Chapter 12.

PULLING THE CAR INTO THE courtyard, Pam cut the lights and the engine, pocketed the keys, grabbed her books, and slid out. She'd been up late three nights running and was tired, still her step was quick and light as she trotted up the back stairs. Thanks to four cups of coffee, the adrenaline would keep flowing for another few hours, which was all she figured she would need. She had to read through one last chapter and her notes, then pack. She'd crash over the weekend.

Breezing through the front hall, she checked the table beneath the mirror for messages. Finding none, she swung around toward the stairs without breaking stride, only to b.u.mp into John.

She gasped. "Sorry. I didn't see you there."

"You're late."

She didn't have to check her watch. She'd had an eye on the Cougar's dashboard all the way home. "It's eleven. That's when I told Marcy I'd be back. Didn't she give you the message?"

"I didn't ask for the message. Eleven's late for a school night. Where have you been?"

He didn't sound angry, exactly, still Pam was cautious. She had found that that was the best way to handle him. Arguing did nothing but raise the level of tension between them, which made living in the same house unbearable. "I was at Ginny Taylor's. We were studying. The American history midterm is tomorrow."

She held her breath while he considered that.

Sounding benign, he asked, "You've been studying all this time?"

"Uh-huh. I went to Ginny's straight from school. Mr. Harris piled extra reading on top of everything else, so like there are gobs of names and dates to memorize." She slipped past him and started up the stairs. "I have to finish."

She went straight to her room. Quietly closing the door behind her, she leaned against it for a minute, then quickly crossed to the bed, dropped her books and jacket, and picked up the phone.

"It's me," she said softly when Ginny answered. "Did he call?"

"Not yet. What's his problem, Pam? He said ten-thirty. He promised ten-thirty."

Pam slid down to the floor, back braced against the bed. She kept her voice low. "He must not be home yet."

"They were having dinner at seven-thirty. He thought for sure they'd be done by ten. Ten-thirty was playing it safe."

"He has a big family. Maybe it took a while to serve them all. Maybe they got a bad waitress."

"I don't know. Oh, Pam, I don't need this. Not tonight. Not with this test in the morning."

"You'll ace the test. And we'll get off like we planned. And they'll both be there, Robbie and Bill."

"Robbie will. He's wild about you. I'm not so sure about Bill and me."

"He'll be there," Pam insisted gently, then looked up when a movement caught her eye. John was opening the door, pus.h.i.+ng it back all the way, slowly scanning the room before dropping his gaze to her.

"Maybe something happened to his car," Ginny went on. "I mean, like it's been making strange noises all week. What if he can't get it started?"

John just stood there, saying nothing, giving Pam no hint of what he'd heard and what he hadn't. She had been speaking softly enough that he shouldn't have caught the bit about Robbie and Bill unless he'd had his ear to the door. She wouldn't have put that past him.

Speaking in the same soft voice that implied she had nothing to hide, she asked Ginny, "Did you finish the chapter?"

"What chapter?"

"I've got to do it now. So we're on for seven?"

"Uh-oh, someone's there. Is it John?"

"Be ready, please? I'll be dead if I don't get to the library before a.s.sembly."

"What if Bill doesn't call?"

"Relax. You'll do fine."

"Pam, what if-"

"Gotta run," she said smoothly and hung up the phone. Seconds later, she was on the bed, reaching for her books. "Was there something you wanted?" she asked John.

He leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed on his chest. "What was that about?"

"I was reminding Ginny to be ready in the morning. She has a way of forgetting that I'm picking her up, not the bus. If she wants to keep them waiting, fine. But, like, I've got lots to do."

He seemed to consider that while he looked around the room. "She must like being driven."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm surprised her parents haven't given her a car."

"So am I. She's envious of me."

"Do you like the car?"

Pam freely admitted it. "I love the car." She'd had it for only four months, but it had changed her life. It had given her the kind of freedom for which she had waited for years. She'd been independent and self-sufficient for a while; without a mother in the picture, she did her own shopping, took herself to the beauty salon, the dentist, the doctor. Having wheels made it all much easier.

When he asked, "Where are you off to this time?" her heart beat a little faster. She followed his gaze to the canvas duffel on the floor. Marcy, bless her heart, had neatly folded and packed the things Pam had piled on top.

"We're going to Ginny's place on the Vineyard. Just for the weekend. We'll be back Sunday night."

"Will Ginny's parents be there?"

"Uh-huh."

"The whole time?"

"Uh-huh."

"Like Allison's parents were in Vail the whole time?"

She'd known that was coming. He wasn't about to let her forget it. But if he used it to spoil the weekend she and Ginny had planned, she'd be furious. "Allison's parents were supposed to be there. They flew out with us, then Allison's grandmother took sick, so they had to fly back early. But we weren't alone. Allison's brother was there. He's a freshman at Duke."

"Why doesn't that make me feel better?"

"Because you're a naturally suspicious person. Nothing happened, John. I'm telling you. We went skiing, we went to dinner, we went to bed. Nothing happened. We were fine. Ginny's parents called every day. They were comfortable. So were we."

"I'm sure you were," he said. "You've been comfortable a lot, lately. It's a pretty nice life-ski trips to Colorado, weekend trips to New York and Martha's Vineyard, a car for your birthday-"

"Did you have any less when you were my age?"

"I wasn't flunking out of school."

So that was it. "I'm not flunking."

"I wouldn't call C's and D's a stellar report."

"There was only one D, and that was in math because I happen to have the worst teacher in the school. I'm getting a B-minus this term. And there were only two C's. And you didn't mention the A's and B's."

"In art and literature enrichment. Both electives."

"Both interesting, not boring like the rest."

"Boring or not, if you want to get into a decent college, you'll have to get your marks up."

"I'll get them up."

In point of fact, Pam didn't care what college she went to, as long as it was beyond commuting distance from Boston. That would mean she had only two more years of living at home, which was a wonderful thought. She was tired of tiptoeing around John, tired of being grilled about what she'd been doing and whom she was with. Things were okay when he was busy and out of the house. When he was home and had time on his hands, his favorite activity was bugging her, which was just what he proceeded to do.

"It might help if you cleaned this place." His lip curled as he eyed the desk. "What is all that c.r.a.p?"

"Note cards and research stuff for a term paper I'm doing." When he arched a brow at another pile, she said, "Drawings. I have to do zillions to get the one I want."

"Doesn't Marcy clean?"

"She does everything but the desk. I won't let her touch that. I know where everything is."

"But you can't possibly work there."

She patted the bed. "I work here. It's more comfortable."

"You talk on the phone there." His expression was growing darker. She could see that he was getting caught up in his cause. "You've already blown it for Penn. Even as an alum, I couldn't pull enough weight to get you in with C's and D's."

"B's and C's," she corrected quietly, knowing she wouldn't go to Penn even if John paid her. It was his school. And it was in the wrong direction. She didn't want to go south of Boston. She was thinking of going north, to Bates or Bowdoin.

"You may not think it matters where you go, Pam, but it does. The contacts you make in college are important."

"I know."

"Do you? Go to a lousy school, and you'll meet lousy guys. Bring a lousy guy home, and there's no way I'll approve of the marriage."

"Marriage?" She held up a hand. "Whoa. I'm sixteen years old. I'm not thinking of marriage."

"Isn't that what you and your friends spend hours talking about?"

"No!"

"Girls always talk about boys," his eyes fell to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, which pushed gently against her sweater, "and since you're finally looking more like a girl than a boy-"

"John-"

"You are."

"I know that." But she could still remember the agony of being the flattest of her friends, year after year. She couldn't begin to tally the sleep she'd lost worrying that she was never going to develop or get her period. After suffering in silence for months, too worried to mention her fears to Marcy or Hillary lest they confirm that she had a problem, she finally took herself to a gynecologist whom one of her friends had seen. The examination was uncomfortable and embarra.s.sing, but the doctor found nothing wrong that time wouldn't fix. Pam had been fifteen then. Sure enough within three months she started to fill out.

"You're looking pretty, Pam," John went on. "Don't tell me the boys don't notice."