me in a room with only my paint brushes until I cry uncle and allow her to organize the opening party for me in Florence.”
Johnny watched as she eyed the cognac, biting her lip as though deciding whether or not she should drink it. The gesture was so unintentionally erotic that he almost lost his focus.
“This meal was perfectly delicious,” she said, laying her napkin on the table. “You’ll have to roll me out of here if I’m not careful. I haven’t stopped eating since I arrived.” She glanced about the restaurant, seemingly enchanted by the atmosphere, the open fireplace, the low-beamed ceiling and the intimacy.
“That’s what Gstaad’s all about—relaxing, eating and having fun.”
“I guess you’re right,” she agreed. “I’d forgotten how people here in Europe know how to enjoy life.” Her huge chestnut eyes had taken on a wistful expression that gave her an air of vulnerability. She was a compelling and complex woman, he decided, with an intriguing layer of uncertainty beneath that well-bred confident exterior. She was also perceptive, he mused; she’d sensed his discomfort at discussing Marie Ange and had immediately tried to redirect the conversation. Usually he deeply resented personal questions, and yet he hadn’t minded Elm’s. For some reason he didn’t feel threatened—although part of him knew he should, for she was entirely capable of upsetting his well-ordered world.
He hadn’t come to Gstaad for a fling, but he felt a surprisingly strong sexual attraction to her, and he hoped that the subtle undercurrents he’d sensed signaled an equal interest on her part. The question was whether either of them was in a position to do anything about it. The prospect was both alluring and dangerous. He’d be willing to bet that if they acted on their impulses, they’d both be getting far more than they bargained for.
He watched as she took a fleeting look at her wrist. “Oh, dear. It’s almost eleven-thirty. Time’s flown. Maybe I’d better be getting back to Gioconda’s.”
“Already?” he asked, surprised at the regret he felt that the evening was coming to an end.
“It’s getting late.”
“Really? Gosh! I’m dreadfully sorry. I didn’t realize Gioconda had turned into such a stickler—an eleven o’clock curfew’s pretty strict.”
Elm laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m not good at this,” she admitted, pressing her long, smooth hands together again in an elegant yet nervous gesture. “It’s been a long time since I went out to dinner with anyone except my hus—ex—oh, God, when will I get this right? Soon-to-be ex-husband.”
“How long?” he asked softly.
“Well, let’s see.” She twiddled the snifter. “I married Harlan right out of college, so a long time. Twelve years, still more if you count the engagement.” She gave a nervous laugh and glanced quickly up as the waiter hovered solicitously, seeing if they needed anything.
Smiling, Johnny reached across the table and took her hand in his, casually turning her fingers. “I was thinking that perhaps we could either go to the Bellevue—probably meet up with some of our old pals.” He grimaced comically. “Or preferably we could go somewhere else on our own for a nightcap. That is, if Gioconda won’t get too worried about the lateness of the hour.”
“Oh, shut up,” she giggled, allowing his bronzed hand to stay put over hers,
“Well?” he prodded, “any thoughts on the matter?”
“Perhaps,” she murmured cautiously, and he wondered if she was conscious of his fingers lightly clasping hers.
“I’ve got a perfect compromise,” he said temptingly. “How about going to the Green Go at the Palace Hotel for old times’ sake?”
“You mean dance as if we’re teenagers again?”
“Hell, why not? Let’s go relive our youth.”
“Your youth, perhaps, not mine,” she chuckled. “I can assure you that we never danced together as teenagers—I expect I would have expired from the thrill.” She drew her hand away, pausing for a moment. He could read her hesitation, her doubt that this was all happening too fast, then sensed the moment when she was ready to take the plunge.
“Shall we?” he asked.
“Yes. Why not?”
Late that night, Elm curled under the duvet, her feet aching deliciously from hours of dancing, unable to wipe the silly grin from her face. Johnny was handsome, gallant and wonderful and not at all daunting. Still, all evening she’d been conscious of his strong masculine aura, the magnetic pull of his personality; all the things she’d imagined he would be when she’d scribbled her longings and dreams in her tattered high-school diary. It seemed so ridiculous, like a soppy novel, that he was turning out to be exactly the kind of man she’d imagined in her fevered schoolgirl dreams. She thought of the chaste kiss he’d dropped on her cheek as he brought her to Gioconda’s door, and realized wistfully that had she not married Harlan so young and for all the wrong reasons, she might have instead built a life with someone like Johnny.
She tucked her arms under the pillow, propped up her neck and stared at the silver moon piercing the crack in the curtains, picturing what people back in Savannah would say if they knew she’d danced the night away in the arms of an Irish viscount. She burst out laughing, imagining the shocked murmurs, the conjecturing gleam in the eyes of her peers, the rabid curiosity. It was liberating to realize she didn’t give a damn. In the past weeks her priorities had suddenly changed, and kowtowing to Savannah society, with its petty, restrictive rules, wasn’t even on the list.
Thinking of Savannah brought Harlan to mind, and she sighed heavily. Of course, the divorce wasn’t de facto yet. There would probably be some bitter battles up ahead, she acknowledged. Harlan wouldn’t easily relinquish all their marriage had brought him. For him, it had meant an entrée into a world that would otherwise have been far harder to broach. It wasn’t her that he’d wanted, she thought angrily, but rather everything that she represented. And if she hadn’t been so blind, so determined to maintain the fiction that her marriage was fine, she might have recognized sooner that, emotionally, it had been over for a while.
Had she ever really been in love with Harlan, or had she just fallen for his good looks and suave manner? Surely she’d felt true affection for him at the beginning? He’d been so charming and ambitious, had seemed so much like her father. Indeed, the two men had taken an instant liking to each other; they supported the same causes, and Harlan had flattered George Hathaway with assurances that he was the younger man’s role model. She’d known that by marrying Harlan, she’d be able to give her father the son he’d always wanted, one who could fulfill the ambitions he hadn’t believed his daughter could meet.
Of course, it hadn’t taken her long after the wedding to find out just how selfish Harlan could be, and to realize that his boyish good looks and suave manners were all part of the same facade he used with his electorate. And if you looked carefully enough you’d realize that his smile never reached his eyes.
Still, she’d spent a good part of her life at his side, and there had been some great times together. Moments of affection and intimacy that she still believed were real, especially before his political career took off and he’d begun to spend so much time in D.C. She sighed again. It was sobering to realize there just hadn’t been enough of those moments to make the marriage worth fighting for.
In fact, all that was left of
