Another Kind of Love (2 page)

“She loves you, too,” said Laura. “Called you a slave driver among other things. She sends her best regards, anyway. In fact, I think she's putting you on the candidate list for husbands. Built-in publicity and all that.”

Walter shook his head. “I'll admit she isn't reticent about her personal life . . .”

“Amen! You should have heard her version of this divorce.” Laura smiled, grimly imagining the millions of shocked gasps that a verbatim quote would elicit from her unsuspecting fans.

“Don't let Saundra make you bitter about marriage,” Walter said softly, and rested his free hand on her thigh.

Laura turned and looked at his profile in surprised appreciation: how sweet he could be when he wanted to. She gave his hand a squeeze.

It was a beautiful night. Laura closed her eyes and let the crisp smell of dew-covered grass and cool night air relax her.

Walter placed a warm hand on her cheek and gently brought her head over to his shoulder. If he's being this sweet, Laura thought, I'm not going home alone after the martinis. . . .

That's a cruel thought, she scolded herself. I'm beginning to sound as blasé as Saundra. After all, I let this affair happen and wanted it as much as he did.

“Nick's all right for a martini?”

“Of course.”

“We'll be there in a moment.” His voice was tender and low.

Unexpectedly, Ginny popped back into Laura's mind, and she was tempted to ask Walter what he might know about her—but for some reason she didn't think it would be wise right now.

Snap out of it, she told herself. She sat up and took two cigarettes from the pack in Walter's custom-tailored Ivy League jacket. Lighting them, she wondered how often she had made this simple gesture. Thousands of times, she decided.

Walter glanced at her quickly, then looked back at the restaurant-lined street with its flashing neon signs. “Still thinking about Saundra?”

“Yes,” she lied. “I was.” She looked at his strong, masculine hands with mild awe and studied his body. Laura admired the way Walter kept himself fit, never allowing middle age to get the edge on him if possible.

“I've got a great lead for you,” Walter said gaily, imitating the well-known nasal whine of a highly overrated Hollywood columnist.
“Inspiringly valiant in her desperate search for love, Saundra Simons explained to this reporter in an exclusive interview . . .”

Laura laughed. “Well, after four divorces what
can
she say?”

“What difference does it make as long as it sells
Fanfare
?”

Laura shrugged and stared out at the hillside homes ahead and wondered how many of them were mortgaged to the hilt. Talk about the almighty dollar, she thought. She laughed silently.

What difference does anything make, she echoed to herself, as long as everybody
thinks
you've got money and thinks you love your spouse? What difference . . . who cares . . . make-believe emotions for make-believe lives. She suddenly felt very depressed and lonely.

Walter pulled into the parking lot at Nick's, and they entered the bar. The place was nearly empty, and somebody had let the fire burn down in the mammoth brick fireplace. It was too early for the nightclub crowds to stop by after the last show and too late for the dinner crowd.

Walter excused himself and walked over to a table where a group of men sat. They looked bored with each other.

Lively Hollywood atmosphere, huh? Laura sighed inwardly and walked alone to the bar and sat down, barely conscious of the admiring glances at her long legs, provocatively outlined by her tight linen sheath dress.

“Hi, José.”

“Ah, Miss Garraway. A pleasure to see you. But you are not alone?” José was an institution at Nick's, famous all over town for martinis that slipped down your throat caressingly—but smothered your gray matter within minutes.

“No. Mr. Hobson is with me, but he has business. . . .” She said it in an offhand way to show there was no resentment and nothing for her to mind. “I'll have one of your ‘Sneaky Josés' while I'm waiting for him.”

“Immediately.”

Walter came up to her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Sorry, Laura.” He gave her an apologetic peck on the cheek.

“Oh, that's all right.” It's amazing, she thought, how he always smells of just the right mixture of tobacco and shaving lotion. “But you'll miss me when you go back east. When are you leaving, by the way?”

“Next week.”

“So soon?”

Walter ordered a double martini. Then he raised a thick eyebrow, a quizzical expression in his deep-set blue eyes. “Sure you wouldn't like to come along? A few days in New York would be good for you.”

Laura deliberately delayed her reply while José placed their drinks in front of them. The old question caught her off guard. She had known for almost a month he was going, but she had been too busy to think about it. Thinking about it now and with a definite departure date, she was startled to realize that she was almost frightened at the thought of being without him for so long.

“Well?”

“You know I'd love to go, Walter,” Laura began in a voice that clearly showed she wasn't going, “but I've no desire to be named a correspondent in a divorce case. We've been all through this, Walter. Unless you can come up with a legitimate reason—business reason—it's rather foolish to keep rehashing it.”

She couldn't look at him. She could sense his expression and share his frustration. She wondered now what she would have done without Walter those first few months after Karl had left her . . . Karl. Big, hulking, crazy, adorable Karl. She had loved everything about him from his blond crew-cut hair down to his size fourteen shoe. God! What big feet he had, even if he was 6'3”. Karl could always make her laugh—he could make her do almost anything he wanted. It seemed as if the only time she was wholly alive was when she was with him . . . could touch him. Everything took on a new color, a new vibrancy, when he was with her. Karl.

But it didn't really hurt so much anymore. In fact, she was sure it was just her pride that was still hurt. After all, she had been around a lot more now—knew how to take life . . . and men.

Walter's hand on hers brought her sharply back to the present . . . sharply aware of her new situation and her upper hand. The contact with him was warm and reassuring; it offered a comfort that words would have destroyed.

“You're right about not going, of course,” he said slowly in his deliberate manner. “If I could only . . .”

His words trailed off. But he didn't have to finish his sentence. Laura knew what he was thinking immediately: if only he could get a divorce.

She suddenly found herself wanting to be in his arms, to press her cheek against the roughness of his jacket and feel secure and protected. But she fought down the feeling—fought it with all the hurt memories of Karl. She wouldn't be caught again; she wouldn't be hurt again. Oh, no. What was that old line? Better to have loved and lost . . . Laura mirthlessly decided that it was usually recited by those who had never gone through the pain of losing love. No. Her relationship with Walter was safer. He
loved
her, and she was “fond” of him—she liked him, respected him, and enjoyed his company—but her world would not fall apart again if he walked out of her life. She'd miss him, of course.... But then, he's only going away for two weeks . . . He'll be back. Nothing was going to change, not for a while anyway . . . unless . . .

“Hey,” Walter's deep voice interrupted her thoughts, “where are you?”

“Here, darling,” she answered, and looked again at his face as if she had lost something and was trying now to find it.

His hand tightened on hers. “You know you drive me nuts when you call me that. About the only time you ever use it is when we're . . .”

“Never mind,” she laughed.

She raised the frost-covered glass to her lips. “Cheers,” she said. Then she laced her fingers with Walter's. “Don't mind me. I suppose talking to Saundra tonight left me feeling a little ashamed of my own transgressions—silly as it may sound.”

Walter grinned slowly and put his arm around her shoulder in fraternal tenderness. “It's not silly, Laura. At least, not in you. One of your best qualities is that touch of old-fashioned morality. It's nice. I like it in a woman if it's sincere.”

She wondered if he'd still like it if he knew how really sincere it was. Basically, she was old-fashioned—she knew it. And she had taken great pains to hide it as a young girl in college. Even in New Hampshire, the times had changed and Laura had accepted the challenge. It hadn't been so difficult. All she had to do was juggle a few childhood taboos, tie them up into a tidy bundle, and store them away. Poor Mom, she thought. She tried so hard . . .

Walter gestured to José for another round and sat quietly for a moment. “Laura,” he asked softly.

She lifted her face toward him but said nothing.

“You would marry me if I were free, wouldn't you?”

“Yes,” she whispered. But she couldn't suppress a feeling of guilt—a feeling that she had no right to marry a man she didn't really adore. Childish romanticism, she scolded herself.

He blew her a discreet kiss. Then he looked miserable.

“Oh, Walter,” she said gently. “Don't torture yourself. Lots of men are unhappily married.”

“Yeah . . . but they can get divorces,” he replied bitterly.

“All right, but you have me, anyway. Would it be worth giving Edna everything just for a divorce?”

“It just makes me so goddamn mad,” he cursed under his breath. “If she'd just settle for plain alimony and child support! But no. Oh, no. She wants the magazine, and the house, and anything else that's not nailed down. I can't begin all over again at my age. . . .”

They both sat silently and stared into their drinks. It did appear to be a pretty hopeless situation. It seemed odd to Laura, but she realized she was almost glad that he couldn't get a divorce—almost glad that she would never have to go through with marrying him. But that was silly. Of course I'd marry him, she told herself.

“Let's change the subject, shall we?” Laura suggested finally.

Cupping his hand under her chin, Walter turned her face toward him. “All right,” he said, and brushed his lips against her cheek. “No morbid thoughts tonight. I'll go on to New York alone as originally planned . . . and we'll go along together as originally understood.” He smiled and stretched, then relaxed his arms. “Just as well. Who'd look after the shop if we were both gone?”

A few minutes later, finishing their drinks, they left the bar with a friendly wave to José.

O
n the way to Laura's apartment, Walter discussed his plans for New York. For months now he had been looking for a way to open a New York office of
Fanfare
magazine with financial aid from someone who wouldn't interfere with the way he ran it. Laura was well aware how big the magazine could grow if Walter had a chance. It was making a profit now, of course, but he would have to expand to make it really pay. He would look for a backer in New York.

They turned down Crenshaw Boulevard and, lost in discussion, found themselves at Rodeo Drive before they knew it.

Laura looked straight ahead, ignoring the ultramodern shops with the inevitable palm trees in front. All she could think of was that they were only three blocks from her apartment, and she knew that Walter expected to be invited up. It irked her that she should feel so torn about it—she knew damn well she wanted him to come up.

Bet Saundra never had this problem. Laura speculated thoughtfully, and Ginny's image crept back into Laura's mind. She tried to envision Ginny saying good night to a boyfriend, putting her arms around him and kissing him.

What's gotten into me? Laura asked herself guiltily. Do I have a secret yen to become a Peeping Tom—or would it be a Peeping Jane? She chuckled to herself. But there was something uneasy and slightly bitter about her humor.

Walter pulled up in front of the buff-colored stucco apartment building almost lost in the long row of other modern buildings. Each of the buildings had colored spotlights illuminating the entrances, and more of the palm trees.

Nostalgically, Laura asked, “Do you ever miss the drab, funny-looking houses of twenty years ago, Walter? All the fancy woodwork and slats?”

Walter smiled at her. “No,” he said.

“I mean,” she continued, “doesn't all this modern, straight-line, prefabricated, built-in-a-day trend sort of frighten you?”

“It's life,” he said. “Progress.”

“Progress, hell! Sterility. That's what I think.”

“Stop thinking, then,” Walter grinned, knowing this sort of teasing annoyed her. “You're too attractive to think. . . .”

“I thought you liked my mind.”

“Only at the office.” He slipped his arms around her waist slowly.

“You're not objective at all,” Laura scolded.

“Disgusting, isn't it?” Walter kissed the tip of her ear.

“I suppose you'd like a nightcap,” Laura suggested softly.

“You inviting?”

“I'm inviting.”

“Thank God!” Walter laughed. “For a horrible moment I thought you were going to send me away.”

They entered Laura's apartment in conspiratorial silence.

“Home again,” sighed Walter, sinking down on the couch.

“Help yourself, darling . . .” Laura gestured to the paint-it-yourself bar she had bought one day in an impetuous mood. “I'll just be a minute.”

She undressed and showered quickly, somewhat amused at the deliberate but detached quality of her preparations. Then she put on her only feminine dressing gown.

Who's seducing whom? she asked the tanned, slender reflection in the mirror, studying her smooth shoulders, the well-shaped breasts so invitingly contoured under the flimsy gown. Flimsy? It was practically transparent!

“Diaphanous,” the sales girl had called it. Some handy word, that. Covered a multitude of sinful intents. My God! If she didn't look like one of those classic wantons on a paperback historical . . . Well, it was eye-catching, anyway. Or rather, she amended wryly, man-catching.

Returning to the living room through the bedroom, she picked up her hairbrush and brushed her long light-brown hair with vigorous strokes. She enjoyed being one of the few women brave enough to flaunt long hair despite the dictates of fashion.

Walter, now jacketless, crossed the room carrying two tumblers and sat down next to Laura on the studio couch.

“Here, darling.” He placed the glasses on the low table in front of them carefully, almost awkwardly, then reached over and took the brush from her hand.

Abruptly he pushed her back on the couch, and she could feel the warmth of his body against her own . . . could feel his need for her as he kissed her.

“There's something about soap and water that affects me more than the best perfumes in the world,” Walter said with his lips against her throat. He bit her lightly and then pulled away.

Laura remained lying against the cushions, her eyes only half open and her lips still stinging from the hardness of his kiss.

She felt cheated—even a little insulted.

“Walter,” she said softly, “come here and do exactly as I say.” She smiled into his questioning eyes, feeling powerful as she saw the dark blue they turned when he was aroused.

He leaned forward hesitantly, and she slowly raised her arms, then folded them around his neck, bringing his face to within an inch of hers. “Now, just kiss me quietly and slowly . . . as though I might break otherwise.” It was something she had always wanted him to do but had never before had the courage to ask. . . .

Laura molded her mouth around his softly, hardly touching his lips at first; then, as his tongue tried to seek hers in sudden harshness, she lightly traced her fingers around his lips until he became more gentle.

Finally, he pulled away just far enough to ask, “Is that what you want?”

Laura gazed at him for a moment and then, without realizing why, felt hurt. As hurt as she would be if he had laughed at her. She didn't bother to answer him directly.

Instead, she laughed lightly and, with a slight wave of her hand, said, “Oh, it was just an experiment. Don't you like to try new things occasionally?”

She accepted the drink he offered her, sipping the bitter Scotch and letting its strong flavor remind her that men are strong, masterful. That's what a woman wants from a man . . . the rough possessive touch, isn't it? Only, she knew it wasn't true. Karl, she remembered, had always sensed her moods, her needs. Without a word he had always known just what she wanted. But how many men can do that? she asked herself silently.

Or is it me? she wondered. How can Walter sense what I want if I'm not in love with him? It was a disturbing thought.

Walter took her free hand in his and gently touched her arm with his lips. “I want you,” he said hoarsely. His eyes met hers with unguarded sincerity. “It's not that crude,” he explained hastily. “I don't want you to think that I consider you just another Hollywood party girl; you know I don't. Besides loving you, I really like you . . . before, and even more important, afterwards. It's not easy to find someone you can truthfully say that about.”

“I know; I know,” Laura said almost harshly. She realized that he was sincere, but somehow she found herself detached from the moment—detached from herself. The feeling of his lips and the visualization of how the scene would look to someone walking into the room . . . the entire situation was too much for her. She began to laugh but caught herself up short when Walter looked up at her, his face darkened with confusion bordering on anger.

“I'm sorry, Walter. I wasn't laughing
at
you. It was just . . . well, it seemed so much like a silent movie—the picture of us I had in mind as we sat here.” Well, she hadn't meant to hurt his feelings—at least, she didn't think she had.

He snorted lightly. “I see what you mean. The big embrace.”

He stood up slowly and ruffled her hair to show there were no hard feelings.

“Pour me another drink, will you?” She heard herself ask. It was as if her own mind was foiling any attempts she might make to consider matrimony or the possibility of letting down her barriers to share herself with a man for the rest of her life.

“Sure, darling,” Walter answered, and brought the half-empty bottle from the bar. “Here you go.”

Laura stared at him as he poured, and thought almost maternally that he was really an awfully nice guy.

“What's your interpretation of love, Walter?”

He laughed. “Hollywood propaganda to sell more movies . . .” He tucked the tip of his tie into his shirt and pulled Laura over onto his lap.

“I can see this is not the night to discuss anything serious with you.”

They sat quietly for a moment, each deep in thought.

“Walter?”

“Hmm?” His thick eyebrows raised slightly, making deep frown lines on his forehead.

“Kiss me. Kiss me hard so that I ache and cry for you to stop.”

“A minute ago you wanted to be kissed softly,” he chided lightly, and leaned over her. His nostrils were dilating, and there was a gleam of urgency in his eyes.

Laura's breath came heavy now; her eyelids felt thick and her temples throbbed. “That was a minute ago. A woman can always change her mind.”

He let his large hands wander over her roughly and took her mouth hungrily, as if his very existence depended upon his ability to envelop her mouth and reach into her with his tongue.

She could feel her lips being crushed under his teeth, and it was good.

It hurt like hell, but it was good.