Just One Night: The Stranger Part 13

I shrug but in my mind I answer the question.

Chemistry is the sparks that ignite inside me when Mr. Dade's fingers brush against my neck. It's the quickening of my pulse when he kisses that same spot, tasting my salt, licking that delicate patch of skin. It's the throbbing I feel between my legs when his hands travel from my shoulders to my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, to my stomach . . . lower. . . .

"It's the study of atomic matter," Robert says, pulling me out of my thoughts. "It's the description of how different chemical elements react. But more importantly it's the study of the makeup of those elements."

"I think I should go."

"In order for two elements to react to one another, they have to meet," he continues. "They quickly latch on to and, in some truly primitive way, recognize the details of the other element that will lead to a chemical reaction."

"I have no idea what you're getting at."

"We wouldn't react to one another the way we do if we weren't able to sense something fundamental about one another's nature. When I saw you . . . when I touched you, I sensed that there was something in the very makeup of who you are that would cause me to react in ways that I simply wouldn't, couldn't react to others. We're baking soda and vinegar, Diet c.o.ke and Mentos-"

"Scotch and soda?"

He smiles at my unexpected contribution to his monologue.

"I don't know that scotch and soda actually cause a chemical reaction."

"Maybe not," I admit. But now I'm thinking about the cool, mild sting of the scotch when he had dabbed it between my legs, I remember the taste of it on his tongue.

Chemistry.

"I love him," I say again. The sun is getting higher in the sky. I feel it beating on my shoulders. A small bead of sweat rolls down from my hairline. It's the sun I'm reacting to. I say the words to myself. It's the sun . . . not the heat.

"I almost believe you," he says. For a moment I think he's hearing my thoughts as well as my words.

"You should believe me." I brace myself, find my courage, and tear my eyes away from the horizon to meet his. "I have never lied to you."

"But you lie to him."

"I love him," I explain. "Everyone lies to the people they love. They're the only ones worth the effort."

"Then you must love yourself very much."

Something catches in my throat. I don't know if it's a giggle or a scream.

"Does Dave love this freckle as much as I do?" He stands again, puts his finger on the freckle that rests above the scoop neckline of my s.h.i.+rt, right where my breast begins to swell.

"Do you s.h.i.+ver when his hands slide to your waist, when his hands slip underneath the silky fabric of your top?" His hands are on my waist; his thumbs slide underneath the bottom of my s.h.i.+rt so that they now press into my flesh.

"Does he make you tremble when he pulls you to him." His hands move to the small of my back and apply just enough pressure to move me forward, into him. "When he lifts you up." I'm in his arms; my feet are lifted from the ground as I cling to him. "When he takes you-" He's carrying me down into the cabin, through a kitchen, a living room, into a bedroom. . . .

And just as he predicted, I s.h.i.+ver.

He has left his words on the deck of his yacht. In the cabin there is just the sound of each one of our breaths mingling together to create a pressing but jagged rhythm. As he lowers me onto the bed, I forget. Dave, my work, my ideals . . .

. . . and I remember . . . the kisses, the taste of him, the feeling of him inside me.

I exhale as my s.h.i.+rt falls to the floor; my bra isn't far behind. I gather the blankets beneath me into my fist as he grazes his teeth over one nipple, then the next.

Some feelings are almost too strong. They can't be harnessed. Some desires can do nothing short of overwhelm.

I arch my back as his hand slides up the inside of my thigh.

I can't think. . . . I won't think. . . . Just the quiet scent of his aftershave screams seduction to me now.

My pants are still on but they might as well not be. They offer no protection from the heat of his touch as he presses his hand into me.

His radio is on, playing softly through the speakers-cla.s.sic rock; the genre fits him. He's the grit of Jimmy Hendrix and the eerie mystery of Pink Floyd and the groovy elegance of the Doors.

He has the top b.u.t.ton of my waistband undone; I feel my pants loosen as he pulls the zipper down and the air on my thighs as he pulls them off of me.

"Stairway to Heaven" is fading into something else . . . ah yes the Rolling Stones. It's "Ruby Tuesday."

Rubies.

My eyes open and suddenly I can see, not just the room around me but the path I'm on. I reach down and cover his hand with mine just as he's about to pull my panties off of me.

He pauses, hoping that the gesture isn't the stop sign he senses it is. But I keep his hand still, gripping it firmly, not with pa.s.sion, but with resolve.

"Kasie," he says, looking into my eyes.

"I love him," I say. The boat sways ever so slightly; Mick Jagger croons good-bye to "Ruby Tuesday." "I love him . . . and that's not just a feeling, it's a decision."

"You're choosing prison over the unknown."

"We're all in some kind of prison," I point out. "But I can pick my cage, and the cage I'll live in with Dave is gilded."

And with that, I pull away, sit up, and reach for my bra, the remnants of his touch still warm on my breast, my body still aching for him; my devil is still pulling me toward him. . . .

But I've made my decision. This is not my place. Robert is right; he is the unknown. And I reject the adventure of discovery. Maybe my life with Dave really will be a sort of prison but it's the Ritz-Carlton compared to the dingy prison of my guilt.

"Don't go," he says.

I whirl around. I'm still wearing nothing but my undergarments but I feel an invisible armor building up around me, s.h.i.+elding me from the attacks of temptation. "Why are you doing this?" I ask. "Why me? Is it that you want what you can't have?"

"I thought . . . I hoped I could have you," he says quietly. "Every taste of you intensifies the craving. Like the Turkish delight the White Witch gives to Edmund in Narnia. I just have to have more."

"So that means you're Edmund, a modern metaphor for Judas, and I'm the personification of evil."

"No," he says with a sad smile. He stands and carefully lifts my s.h.i.+rt and pants from where he dropped them on the floor, but he doesn't hand them to me. Instead he holds them like they're a treasure, or a last hope. "My metaphor isn't holding up. Obviously what we have isn't anything like a children's fairytale. What we have is . . . darker, richer . . ."

"It isn't right."

"But it's us."

I shake my head, staring at the s.h.i.+rt in his hand. I could pull it from his grip but I'm not ready. I can't bear the idea of being so aggressive and violent in this moment. He will never see me in any other form of undress again. I'm determined to make sure of that.

But I do want him to see me now. I want him to look at me one more time. I didn't cherish that last touch; I didn't predict my own fort.i.tude. But I want to feel his eyes on me. I want that to be a memory I can fall back on when life gets so rough, fantasies become hard to conjure.

"You think you know what you want, but you don't," I whisper. "You think you want me but what you want is a string of stolen moments like this one. You think you see through my facade but you can't see that the facade is as much a part of me as the wildness beneath. You don't want me."

"But you can get rid of the facade."

"Don't you get it?" I scream. Suddenly I'm not the Harvard-educated businesswoman, I'm not the fiancee of a young lawyer from an old family. I'm anger, desperation, frustration, unrequited pa.s.sion.

"I don't want to get rid of it!" I grit my teeth against the violence that's welling up inside. "You're asking me to toss aside my thick-soled shoes and walk barefoot by your side, but look down, Robert! The ground we're walking on is covered with rusty nails! I want my protections. They are part of me! I love them more than I love the . . . the savagery of my underlying nature and I want a man who loves the part of me that I celebrate! Why can't you see that?"

"Because I'm a savage," he says simply. But his eyes are sad; there is no savagery on display.

"Then find yourself a woman raised by wolves. I was raised to be civilized."

"This is your definition of civility?"

"We have business, Mr. Dade. Shall we get to it?"

He sighs, "Ruby Tuesday" is gone, and its absence adds a small chip in my resolve that I can ill afford. I hold out my hand.

"Give me my clothes."

He hands them to me without any resistance.

"You and I, we're not the good guys," I say as I slip back into my pants. "We did something wrong."

"If you do this," he says, watching me carefully, "if you marry a man you don't love, you will not only hurt me but you will damage yourself. And most importantly, you'll torture him."

I pause but only for a moment. "I'm doing what I need to do." The floor is cold under my bare feet.

"I think if you listen to me for even five minutes, you'll realize that you have choices."

I look up at him. There's so much he doesn't know. So many secrets and skeletons. And I no longer know if I'm running away or being led to a fate. All I know is that I'm going to survive. It's more than my sister was able to do.

He examines me; his hazel eyes draw me in as they always do. "There are things you want to tell me?" he asks.

I smile despite myself. No one has ever been able to read me so easily and I've known this man for less than two weeks.

He nods. "I'm going to go up to the deck, pour two gla.s.ses of wine. I hope that once you've dressed we can talk."

"Oh, now you want to talk? So it's really not just about s.e.x?" I say with only partial sarcasm.

"I told you, I want to know you in every way. I'm going to go up to the deck. If you come up to talk, then I'll know that at least there's some hope that you'll let me."

And with that he leaves the cabin. I listen to his footsteps fade away only to hear them again after he goes above board and starts to walk the deck, which is now acting as my ceiling.

With a jolt I realize that Robert Dade is no longer pus.h.i.+ng me. He's not trying to tempt me or overwhelm me.

Robert Dade just asked me if we could talk.

Like I would talk to a normal person? Have we ever done that? It's always been pa.s.sion and teasing and excitement. Have we ever just sat down and had a conversation that wasn't about work?

No.

But maybe we could. The possibility bewilders me and then quickly builds up a mysterious appeal. We could be more than the roar of a sports car, more than a rash night in a luxury hotel.

I close my eyes for a moment. The images that swirl before me are different from the fantasies I've entertained over the last few weeks. In these imaginings I see Robert and me sitting side by side at a movie theater eating popcorn. I see us poring over the Wall Street Journal and LA Times while eating Sunday brunch. In my fantasy our brash impulses are supported by a bond that is every bit as strong as the beams that hold up his decadent house on the hill.

Robert is the man who unlocks my inhibitions and revels in their display. But if in addition to all that he could also be my friend and my partner . . . if he could be a man who willingly walks with me on firmer ground, maybe, just maybe that would change things.

Robert has always appealed to my devil, but what if I gave him the chance to befriend my angel?

If he could, then maybe, just maybe I could be a woman who has it all.

Little sparks of hope ignite inside my heart but the ringing of my cell phone jars me out of my musings. It's coming from my purse that sits discarded on the floor.

It's Dave's ringtone.

I pull out the phone but don't pick up. Letting my cool and collected recorded message greet him. I can't talk to him now, not while in this place and certainly not before I have more time to sort through my thoughts and emotions.

But then I hear that he's sent me a text. Which he never does.

I know where you are, I know what you're doing.

I try to make sense of the words. He can't mean . . . how . . .

The next text comes.

I'm supposed to call Dylan Freeland soon. He doesn't know what you're doing . . . yet. But if you don't get off that boat and meet me by your car in five minutes I will make sure Dylan, our families, EVERYONE knows.

I stare at the screen, my eyes wide and unblinking. Dave has never threatened me before, not with anything, let alone the destruction of my career. But then I have never betrayed him like this before.

I look down at myself; my pants are wrinkled and my s.h.i.+rt's still in my hand. I'm shaking. I'm ruined.

Another text.

Leave him, now. I'm giving you one chance. Take it. Take it or I'll take everything.

I have never felt so cornered or more scared. It's not just that he could cost me my job. He could cost me my entire professional reputation. He could cost me my parents' respect. He could take away their conviction that we, as a family, are good.

With unsteady hands I put on my s.h.i.+rt, gather up my purse, and go above board.

"Kasie," Robert says, his tone so soft I could curl up in it like a blanket. "We just need to talk for a bit. You don't have to leave. We don't have to play these games. . . ."

But his voice fades off as I walk past him without stopping. I get off the boat and walk away. I can feel him watching me. He thinks I've made a choice. He thinks I'm running away from him.

But I'm not. I'm not even being led. I'm being pushed.

And it occurs to me that I have never ignored him before. My lack of response to his conciliatory words might actually be the one thing that will keep him from pursuing me. It may be the thing that makes him give up.