Danger Zone (20 page)

“It’s stone ground or stone milled—I forget—but the process doesn’t remove the husk from the wheat. Very nutritious.”

“Brown eggs,” he said, opening a box and pointing.

“Oh, come on, Steven, don’t be such a chauvinist. You’ve seen them at home.”

“And the milk,” he said, looking at her out of the corner of his eye, “comes in those glass bottles they used to deliver in the forties, with the cream in a layer on top. I haven’t seen one of them since the last Bowery Boys movie on the late show.”

“As far as I know,” Karen said dryly, “no one ever died from drinking bottled milk. They just don’t homogenize it, like we do now.”

“How do you know so much about the food?” Colter asked suspiciously.

“I was buying it in the stores the whole time you were in the hospital, remember? I couldn’t afford to eat every meal in the hotel dining room.”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “Well, since you’re still alive and I survived the Mandeville meal plan, I guess it’s okay to proceed with my next move.”

“Which is?”

“Cooking you a Colter homestyle breakfast.”

“You can cook?”

“Of course. When you’ve lived alone as long as I have, it’s either learn or starve.” He began to unpack the rest of his purchases, inspecting each item as he picked it up.

Karen watched him until he said, “What are you doing still standing there?”

“Waiting for my orders.”

“Very funny. Weren’t you going to take a shower when I came in?”

“Yes.”

“Then go ahead. I’ll build up the fire and have this ready when you come out. But first let me tell you about the shower.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah. It’s one of those handheld jobs, you know, with the little wand?”

“I see.”

“And it has a hook that you’re supposed to hang the wand on, except when you do it falls through and crashes to the floor.”

“Oh.”

“And if you try to hold the wand with one hand you can’t adjust both of the water taps.”

“I know I shouldn’t ask this, but why do you have to adjust both of the water taps?”

“Because the temperature keeps changing while you’re showering. I think it has to do with pressure problems in the tank, but the end result is that you need both hands free to fool around with the spigots when it runs too hot or too cold.” He raised his eyebrows at her as he unwrapped the bread and began to slice it.

“Maybe I should just dump a pail of cold water over my head,” Karen said gloomily.

“Maybe I should hold the wand for you while you shower,” he suggested, grinning wickedly.

“Never mind,” Karen said airily. “Just get cooking. I’ll be right back.”

It was the quickest shower of Karen’s life. Colter was right about the temperature control; it went from the hot of a Mojave Desert summer to the cold of an Arctic snow pit with no notice at all. She leaped out after about two minutes of it and ran, streaming and wrapped in a towel, into the living room. The cook burst out laughing at the sight of her.

“Oh, poor baby,” he said, with mock sympathy. “Are we uncomfortable?”

“I admit it. I’m a spoiled American,” she said, hurrying to the fire he’d restored and holding out her hands. “I like hot showers and hot coffee, cold lemonade and cold beer. I can’t help it.”

“You never drank beer in your life,” he said, grabbing a blanket from the bed and draping it over her shoulders. He stood behind her and crossed his arms over her waist, enfolding her in it.

“Figure of speech,” she replied, leaning back against him. 

He put his lips to the side of her neck and closed his eyes. “You smell scrumptious.,” he murmured.

“Steven,” she said warningly.

“Hmm?” He curled one hand inside the blanket, dislodged the towel beneath it and enclosed her breast.

“Steven, weren’t you doing something?”

“Yup. Making love to you.” He bent and slipped one arm beneath her knees, straightening and scooping her up in his arms. She squealed as he strode to the bed and tossed her on it, dropping beside her and peeling the blanket away from her body. Karen put her arms around his neck, subsiding as he kissed her deeply. But when his mouth moved to her cheek she began to sniff.

“Steven?”

“Give me a break. I’m concentrating.” He traced the shell of her ear with his tongue.

“The eggs are burning,”

“Let them burn.”

“But I’m famished.”

He sat up and looked at her, incredulous. “Are you telling me you want to eat brown eggs at a moment like this?”

“So did you until you started... you know.”

“Food, food, food,” he grumbled, getting up and going to the stove. “All you think about is food.”

“And all you think about is...” She stopped.

He chuckled as he scooped the omelet from the pan. “Go ahead, Miss Priss. You can say it. I was the guy in bed with you, remember?”

“You love to embarrass me,” she muttered, yanking the blanket around her in irritation and standing up.

“That’s because you turn such a peachy shade of pink,” he replied, examining the toaster. “This thing looks like a waffle iron,” he observed.

Karen padded over to the counter in her bare feet and stood behind him. “No, it opens up like a book, and you put the slices inside, see?” she said, showing him.

He turned and kissed the top of her head. “You’re such a smart cookie. Why don’t you go in and get dressed while I dish this stuff up? I don’t want you to catch cold.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” Karen said firmly, taking the spatula from his hand and pointing to the sofa. “Why don’t you go and sit down before you fall down? I’ll handle this.”

To her surprise, he obeyed, confirming her suspicion that his early morning errand was catching up with him. He sank onto the pile of rumpled sheets and sat with his back propped against the wall, watching her.

“All this looks pretty good,” Karen observed as she fixed the plates. “I guess you weren’t lying.”

“About what?” he said, taking his platter from her hand.

“Being able to cook.” She sat next to him and dug into hers with relish.

“What do you think?” he asked, around a mouthful of toast.

“Delicious,” she pronounced. “Especially on the heels of that peanut butter orgy last night. But where’s the coffee?”

“Instant,” he replied. “The kettle’s on the electric burner.”

There was silence for a while as they consumed the meal in indecent haste. Karen got up to turn off the water when it boiled, bringing their empty plates to the sink.

“No dishwasher, huh?” she said to Colter, looking around.

“Nope. Got to wash them by hand, just like those courageous pioneers. You can draw the water from the well while I boil the tallow for the soap.”

Karen had to laugh. “I really wish you would stop making fun of me,” she said, spooning the coffee into two mugs and adding hot water.

“I’m not making fun of you, sweetie, and I really wish I had a cigarette.”

“Wouldn’t this be a good time to quit?” Karen suggested brightly, searching the cabinets for dishwashing liquid.

“It’s never a good time to quit,” he replied darkly, sighing. “That old fool in the grocery didn’t carry cigarettes. Can you believe it? What kind of a ‘convenience’ store is that?”

“One that believes in promoting the health of its customers?” Karen said.

“There isn’t a store like that in the world.”

She closed the last cabinet and said, “The dishes will have to wait. No detergent.”

“I should have picked some up while I was out,” Colter replied. “I guess old lady Mandeville’s cousin likes dirt.”

“Dirty dishes, anyway. Oh well, maybe he eats out a lot.”

“I would too if I had a set of appliances like those.”

“I’m sure the Irish can figure them out; they’re used to them.” She joined him on the sofa, bringing the mugs with her. “Black?” she said, handing him the cup.

He nodded, taking a large swallow of the steaming liquid. Then he set his cup on the floor and took her hand.

“I bet I can make you put that down,” he said softly.

“No bet,” she answered.

“Why not?”

“I know you too well. I’d lose.”

He removed the mug from her hand and placed it next to his on the rug. “Do I have that much power, Karen?” he asked seriously, dropping the teasing tone.

“You know you do.”

“Just can’t resist me, huh?” he whispered, pulling her into his arms.

“No,” she answered softly, closing her eyes. “Sometimes I wish I could.”

“Don’t wish that,” he murmured. “People live out their whole lives and never have that magic with anyone.”

He drew her down beside him, and Karen submitted once more to the lure of his embrace.

Chapter 7

For the next three weeks Karen and Colter stayed at the cottage above the sea in Kinsale. It was a period suspended in time for both of them. They shared almost every moment, waking and sleeping, and grew so intimate that each of them could guess what the other was thinking from a comment or a glance. Colter mended rapidly. As he began to trust Karen more he listened to her, took it easy and let her help him without fighting it. After two visits to the local doctor that Miss Mandeville had recommended, he was pronounced recovered and dismissed from medical care.

During the day the two of them explored the Irish countryside in the comfortable Peugeot Colter had procured in exchange for the “roller skate.” They saw the old Norse forts that had become the coastal towns of Wexford, Waterford, Cork and Kinsale; the staggering beauty of Youghal Bay; the lakes and medieval castles of the Ring of Kerry to the west. And in the evening they would go out to dinner, then return to the cabin to make love in front of the fire. Each night they fell asleep entwined, like amatory gods on a temple frieze.

Karen had never been happier in her life. Although they were both careful not to mention the future, or even when their current idyll would end, she couldn’t imagine that Colter would part with her after what they had found together.

She discovered him to be much more than an ardent lover. He was a fascinating companion as well. He knew so much about the world from direct experience and could talk about things she’d never heard of and issues she’d never considered. He became a changed man from the hostile, guarded stranger who’d awakened in Mercy Hospital and told her to go home. Relaxed, and in her loving company, he was witty, intelligent and fun, intensely aware of almost everything around him, a man of simple tastes but complex emotional makeup. Why did he hide this wonderful person from the rest of the world? Karen wondered. It was so difficult for him to open up, and when he did he revealed a man whom she knew few people ever saw.

Colter insisted on paying for everything, and when she saw how important this was to him she agreed to let him do it. He seemed to have plenty of money and never mentioned taking another assignment, though she was afraid every day that he would bring up the subject. He acted, in short, as though their current circumstances would continue forever. And Karen went along with the game, hoping that in the end he would be as in love with her as she was with him and unable to let her go.

One evening as they were dressing to go to a restaurant in Cork, Colter came into the bedroom and examined the clothes she had put out to wear, looking over her things like a drill instructor inspecting a recruit.

“Where is that killer dress you wore on our date in Caracas?” he asked.

“I left it at home, Steven,” Karen replied. “I didn’t think I’d have much use for it while tending the wounded.”

“The wounded being me?” he asked.

“You got it.”

“Wounded no longer,” he said, grabbing her arm as she walked by and whirling her into his arms.

“Oh, no,” she said. “You’ve kept us late for dinner three times this week already. Why do you make the reservations if you intend to pull this all the time?”

“I guess I’m just disorganized,” he sighed, peeling the strap of her slip down one arm and kissing her shoulder.

“Out,” she said firmly.

“Oh, all right,” he answered, pretending to pout. He went through the door and then stuck his head back into the room.

“You’ll pay for it tonight,” he hissed in an exaggerated stage whisper.

“Goodbye, Steven,” she sang.

He slammed the door.

When she emerged into the living room ten minutes later he was reading. He had picked up a book on Irish history someplace and found it captivating. He was fond of quoting from its pages.

“Listen to this,” he said as she went to get her shoes. “During the reign of the Celtic tribes in Ireland, a female slave, or cumal, was worth a fixed price of three cows.”

“Charming,” Karen observed.

“What an unfair system,” he said, closing the book.

Karen waited. She could tell by the tone of his voice that something else was coming.

“I would say,” he went on, “that most women should have been worth at least four cows, and you, for example, possibly even five.”

Karen threw her left shoe at him.

He ducked it, laughing.

“What did it say about the men?” she asked him pointedly.

“Oh, quite a few things. They achieved reputation and status by staging cattle raids on one another’s herds, and the guy who wound up with the most beef at the end was the leader.”

“Your time is out of joint, my friend,” Karen told him dryly as he picked up her shoe and handed it to her. “It sounds like you would have fit right in.” 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, smiling slightly. “Such larcenous escapades were celebrated in song and story. One of the most famous poems from that period is called ‘The Cattle Raid of Cooley.”’

“Cooley was the chief thief?”

“I guess so.”

“Well, you have to admit it must have been easy. No fooling around with ballot boxes or electoral colleges, just count the cows.”

“What’s amazing,” he said, warming to the subject, “is that all of this barbarism was going on at the same time that one of the most sophisticated cultures in Western Civilization was developing right beside it. And both completely separate from the Roman Empire, by the way. The Romans never conquered Ireland, though they did think about it. Tacitus says they hoped one legion would be enough to subdue the island, but they never got around to making the trip across the water from continental Europe.”