had walked up the steps at the shallow end and found one of the loungers. He even heard and identified the ritual of opening the lotion, the replacement of the bottle on the tile beside the chair.
He found himself imagining her fingers moving against her arms and legs, against her neck, her breasts. “She can’t hurt me,” he had told Suzanne, and in those images he knew that for the lie it was. He leaned, as she had, against the window and for the first time allowed himself, almost against his will, to remember.
* * *
“ARE YOU SURE you don’t mind if I leave you?” Suzanne questioned as she slipped her feet into her sandals. “Julien’s here, and we’ll be home before dinnertime, I promise. Knock on his office door if you need anything. He’s really a very nice man, doesn’t bite or anything.”
“I’ll be fine,” Caroline reassured. “I’m going to address the letters we got through this morning, so Andre can take them to mail tomorrow. Don’t worry.”
“I just need to pick up a few things and get out of the house. Unless you want to come with us?”
Caroline shook her head, knowing the invitation was only a polite afterthought. She had been hired to do a job, not to join in family outings.
* * *
SHE WORKED A COUPLE of hours in Suzanne’s small office and didn’t realize until she heard the rain how dark the sky had become. The coming storm was clearly visible from the long windows that looked out on to the patio. She was surprised to notice that all the furniture had been removed.
The flagstones stretched gray as the roiling clouds, and the wind pressed strongly enough against the long glass of the windows to rock them in the wooden frames. She thought briefly about the open boat and wondered if they would return now in time for dinner. She walked back to the office to finish sealing the last of the envelopes, wondering where she should leave them so Andre wouldn’t miss them. She wished she’d asked Suzanne.
By the time she reentered the living room, she had to turn on one of the lamps against the growing darkness of twilight and the storm. The wind and rain beat against the glass, and she watched a moment. She wasn’t afraid of storms. They were elemental and always made her feel strangely alive, turned on to the power they created.
She decided on a quick shower before dinner to wash the pool’s chlorine out of her hair. When she entered her bedroom, she opened one of the long windows, but the wind was too strong, blowing the rain in a fine mist over the carpet. She stood a moment, raising her face into the force of the storm, and then she closed the window and turned on the low light beside her bed.
* * *
JULIEN WAS STANDING by the sink in the kitchen when he heard the upstairs shower begin. He lowered his head and listened to the pounding of the wind and rain against the glass. He touched his watch to feel the time, and finally he walked to the box against the outside wall. His hand moved unerringly to open it and find the handle he sought. He pulled it, waiting before he walked back to the sink.
He concentrated against the growing noise of the gale, and he could still hear the water from upstairs rushing down through the pipes. He walked then to the clock above the doorway to touch the face. The slight vibration of the electric motor that drove the hands was still, and in spite of his determination, he found himself hurrying to the stairs, climbing too quickly to lean against her door.
He wondered again at his own motives, but since he had listened to Paul Dupre’s description, he had known that this moment would come. Finally he would confront her. There had been no doubt in his mind from the beginning that what would happen tonight was inevitable. He breathed deeply to calm his trembling fingers before he knocked.
She had stood a long time with her eyes closed under the hot spray of the shower, feeling it relax a tension she hadn’t even been aware of.
Enough, she urged herself mentally. This is something you’ve conquered. Enough.
The soft knock was an interruption, and she opened her eyes to blackness. She fumbled briefly for the controls of the shower and, in the sudden silence when the water stopped, she heard him call her name.
“Ms. Evans? Are you all right?”
She groped for her towel and dried her face and hair before she wrapped it sarong fashion to answer the repeated knock.
“I’m all right. I was in the shower. What happened to the lights?” she asked, adding unnecessarily, “The lights are out.”
“I know,” he said, his amusement at her explanation clear even through the barrier of the door. “I have a computer that talks. Suddenly it stopped talking to me, and I realized you must be in the dark. It’s the storm. We have our own generator, but this happens too often. I thought you might like to come downstairs.” He waited, and then he said into the silence, “If you’re afraid.”
The door opened suddenly, moving away from his fingers, and he could smell her. The same soap, the same shampoo, Kerri had always used. God, how could she know that? He closed his eyes behind the lenses of the dark glasses, but that didn’t stop the tightening of his groin, the painful engorging that even her smell, after all these years, could cause.
“I’m not afraid,” she said. “I like storms, but I would like to come downstairs. If you’ll wait while I get dressed.”
“Of course,” he said. He wondered if she could hear the tightness in his voice. “Do you need any help?” he asked seriously, and heard her laugh.
“I’ve been dressing myself a long time. I think I can manage.”
“So had I,” he said softly, a rebuke against her amusement. When he spoke again, he had lightened the darkness. “But if you get it wrong, I certainly won’t notice.”
This time he smiled when she laughed. She closed the door, and he smiled again in satisfaction and leaned against the wall to wait.
It wasn’t long before the door reopened. He could hear the movement of whatever she wore against her body, could smell her fragrance. For the first time, he was uncertain about what he had planned to do, so she was forced to stand in the open doorway waiting. He could hear her breathing, and finally he spoke.
“There’s a proverb for situations like this,” he said.
“But you’re not, surely, going to say it,” she answered, her voice calm and unembarrassed. He was surprised to feel her fingers close around his upper arm. He pressed them against his side and wondered if he could do this, if he still wanted to. He guided her, without speaking, to the stairs and loosened her fingers from around his arm to place her left hand on the railing. He was surprised when she touched him once more, gripping his sleeve.
“Don’t,” she said into the darkness. He could hear, for the first time, unease in her voice. “Don’t leave me.”
“I’m right here. I just thought the railing might be easier. I have you.”
She moved down the stairs beside him, but he felt the deep breath she took when they reached the bottom.
“I don’t think I could do that,” she said softly. He didn’t respond, didn’t want to form an answer, because he understood. He hadn’t thought he could, either. He had—out of necessity and because he had had no choice.
