In Name Only (16 page)

"You did."

She tasted the icy sweetness of caju. Simon sat down beside her, and they remained silent, the peace of midnight almost physical.

"I think you don't spend much time just hanging around looking at stars," Jill said at last.

"Not lately."

Jill placed the empty glass on the ground. "You even sound different," she said carefully. "Not so wound up, so impatient."

"Maybe you have that effect on me, little one."

She laughed. "Little one? Is that what I am?"

He reached out and slowly removed the hibiscus blossom from her hair and then undid the braid.

"The tropical flower has come home," he said tenderly, pulling her into his arms and kissing her. She did not resist. There was too much magic in the moment. Whatever else happened, she would have this magic forever. He seemed to be controlling his passion, to let his lips linger against hers in a long, ruminating kiss, this kiss of a first date, of comparative strangers not willing to make a commitment, but attracted, nevertheless.

It was a kiss, chaste and perfect. A movie kiss that promised more in the next scene. She was a participant in the kiss, her body a reservoir of desire, and yet a viewer. Like the night, it could go on forever. She smelled the vague lemon scent of his soap, mingling with the fresh scent of his warm skin. Her breath quickened. It could not go on that way. His hands, tightening his grip, would begin to explore soon. She would have to surrender. She would want to surrender, and the magic—the romance—would become something else, something she might not be able to handle, not when she loved him, and he did not love her.

His tongue began to make experimental moves. Jill knew she had to get away. She pulled out of his arms, not daring to look at him. She unaccountably picked up the ruined, dying hibiscus blossom and ran into the house and up the stairs to her room. She closed her door and again tested the lock that separated their rooms.

Jill threw herself down on her bed, letting the flood of emotions toss her about, giving in to the raging seas of her tormented body. What she was feeling was pure sexual desire, and what she wanted was his love. She wanted him to awaken or unlock the exquisite physical feeling he had given her a taste of, but sexual desire was not enough. She wanted to know that it was love spurring him on. But it could not be. He had made it clear. She would be just another conquest, in this case one he had had to purchase a little more dearly.

"I'll make him love me," she told herself, and for a moment it seemed possible. But then she remembered the stately blonde in the box at the Teatro Amazonia, Simon bending over her, their bodies arched toward one another. Jill buried her face in her pillow. How could she compete with someone as beautiful and sophisticated, as free of inhibition as that woman must be?

The sound woke Jill. Sitting up in bed, her heart pounding, she couldn't quite understand what it was, or even the direction from which it came. She looked over toward the window, afraid that someone had managed to climb onto the balcony and was trying to make his way into her room. But even in the black night, she could see no ominous figure. She turned on the light and checked her watch. It was two in the morning. She had drifted off to sleep, still wearing her evening gown, the cold chain of diamonds still around her neck. Then she saw where the noise came from. The porcelain knob of the door that connected her room to Simon's was being slowly turned. She felt a strange moment of triumph, and then one of fear, as she realized she had left him hungering for more. He wanted her flesh and was too proud to ask her. She lay there trembling, afraid he might want to force the lock, but afraid, too, that, given another moment, she would relent, and would make peace between them the only way she could. She found herself holding her breath, clenching her fists so tightly her fingernails made deep ditches in her palms.

And then it stopped. The knob stopped turning, and from his room she heard the faint tread of his footsteps, and then silence.

She let her breath out slowly, wondering how she could endure his closeness much longer.

Jill was alone in the sunny breakfast room, dawdling over her morning
cafezinho
and sweet roll, when the telephone rang. She was slow picking up the receiver, and slow responding, so that she was able to check herself almost at once. Simon, his voice hard and angry, was speaking in Portuguese. She had not even known he was still at home. The door between their rooms was shut and she had not heard a sound as she slipped into her morning wrapper. She found herself eavesdropping on the conversation, something about the urgency of his tone, forcing her to listen.

"You must realize this is my home. This call could easily have waited until I was in the office," he was saying.

A woman's voice, deep and musical, answered him. "That was never a problem before."

"I was never married before."

"And on your honeymoon, I suppose."

There was a slight pause, and then Simon, his tone devoid of emotion, spoke the words quickly. "And on my honeymoon."

"You don't sound too happy about it."

"I'm not happy about the call," Simon said.

"I thought you promised help when I needed it. You told me you would always be there."

"I keep my promises, Angela. I'll get back to you later."

Jill, tingling with an emotion that she couldn't describe—fear, anger, embarrassment, jealousy—heard the sound of the disconnect. She hung up quickly as if the receiver were too hot to touch. The words had a familiar ring.
If you ever need my help, you can count on it
. Was it part of his technique to sell himself to women?

Angela Branco, the blonde of the Teatro Amazonia. So there was something between them. Numb, Jill looked out the window at the sunny garden, although she didn't really see it.

"Ah, you're up." Simon, breezing into the room, put his arm briefly about her waist and kissed the top of her head. He was wearing a white suit with a pale blue shirt and white tie. "You look a little pale," he said frowning. "I don't like that. What's the matter? Aren't you sleeping?" He reached over and picked up her half-finished coffee and took a sip. The gesture seemed such a tender one, his remark so sweet and concerned, that Jill almost reeled under its impact. He showed no sign of having spoken with Angela Branco just seconds before. She no longer knew what to feel and wondered for a hysterical moment whether she had understood his Portuguese correctly.

It wasn't possible and she knew it. Portuguese, from the first, had been a language in which she felt entirely comfortable.

"I've got to run," Simon went on. "I'm really late. What are your plans for the day?"

"I'm not certain yet," Jill said, trying to echo his carefree tone.

"Good." He reached over and picked the sweet roll from her plate and took a bite. "It's time you became self-sufficient. The city closes down for siesta between twelve and two. You have Claudio drop you off at Ca D'Oro Restaurant at one and we'll have lunch. After that I'll go to the bank with you and set up an account."

"I'd like to see your office," Jill said timidly.

Simon shook his head. "Closes down between twelve and two. Some other time."

"You can show me around."

"Don't worry about it, Jill. Your job is to enjoy yourself. Mine is to run Carteret-Todd."

"I'm not a child," Jill responded.

Simon checked his watch, his mood turning to one of impatience. "I can't stay around to quarrel with you. Let's reserve it for another day."

She did not answer him right away. It was important to have control over her own affairs. The rest could come later. Still, his silence about the telephone call and Angela Branco rankled. She could not resist making her point. "Exactly what are we reserving for another day? A visit to your office, or the quarrel?"

He stared at her for a moment, not showing any annoyance, the look one of interest, as if deciding how much string he would allow her, before reining it in. Then he gave a brittle laugh. "I'll see you at one at Ca D'Oro. Don't forget." He bent over and kissed her cheek. "Lovely perfume you're wearing."

"I'm not wearing perfume."

"Even better." He was out the door and gone before she had a chance to answer him.

To meet her husband, Jill wore a white cotton camisole dress trimmed with antique lace with a sheer white cotton jacket over it. Her dark hair was parted at the side and worn loose. She hoped the white against her skin made her look less pale. She had always thought she looked dark-skinned and exotic, but Simon insisted upon seeing her as fragile. She wore frail, high-heeled white sandals and dabbed on a light, almost imperceptible scent. Even as she examined her toilette, she was angry at the care with which she had dressed. It was for Simon alone, and she couldn't help it. In spite of the great change in her life, in the move to an exotic place that was the opposite of steel and concrete Chicago, her total obsession was with her husband. It was an obsession that was a cross between love and hate, and she could not make the distinction.

Traffic crawled along the avenue, in spite of the fact that everyone was supposed to be taking a siesta. The limousine was late drawing up to the Ca D'Oro restaurant. Hot, moist air hit Jill forcefully as she ran the few steps from the car to the air-conditioned restaurant.

"Traffic was awful," she told Simon who was waiting for her in the bar.

The restaurant, paneled in mahogany and filled with broad-leaved plants, was crowded but subdued. In spite of the year-round heat, businessmen dressed very formally in suits and ties, and it was clear that this was an expensive businessmen's restaurant with deals being concluded at the starched-white tables.

When they were seated, Simon wasted no time ordering their lunch. "
Muqueca de Camarao
," he told the waiter.

"How do you know that's what I'd like," Jill asked, as soon as the waiter was gone.

"Thought you'd like a typical Brazilian dish.
Muqueca
is a stew which is served with fish or eggs. I thought you might like to try it with shrimp."

"Why not," Jill shrugged. "I'm easy to please."

"There, you see," her husband said jovially, "we're beginning to make progress."

When the
muqueca
arrived twenty minutes later, steaming, Jill examined it closely before trying it.

"Won't bite," Simon told her. "Go ahead."

"What's in it?"

"I'm not a cook. Shrimp mixed into a paste made of salt, pepper, tomatoes, herbs, onions cooked in dende oil. That's oil from the dende palm. Try it. Oh, and add a tiny bit of this." He pushed a small dish of sauce toward her. "Pimenta. Be very careful. It's hot as the devil."

The sharp, piquant taste of the Pimenta mixed well with the shrimp that had been cooked briefly in the
muqueca
paste. "It's good," she said, digging in happily.

"Do you like to cook?" he asked.

"I cooked for my father," Jill told him, "but I haven't had much chance in the last couple of years. I suppose it's something we may never have to deal with," she added wistfully, wondering if things between them would not go easier if they lived in less of a goldfish bowl.