Makin' Whoopee (13 page)

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Sara replaced the telephone and leaned back in her chair, a satisfied smile on her face. At last the Bradys had decided to sign a contract. The sale pleased her, and not only because her commission was a large one. She knew the Bradys would be happy in the house on Evergreen Circle.

As she laced her hands behind her head, she gave herself a moment to luxuriate in the warm glow that enveloped her. She knew the warmth wasn't due entirely to a successful business deal. In fact, although the sale brought intense satisfaction, it couldn't account for a fraction of what she was experiencing. The blame for the silly-grin-huggy happiness could be laid squarely at Charlie's door.

She chuckled, thinking of the night a month ago.

That night, that wonderful night, had been the beginning. Their relationship was finally complete and out in the open. Now Charlie popped into her office twenty times a day, sometimes to give her a kiss that left her dazzled, sometimes just to say hello. And still the work got done. It was as though he were determined to show her they could be lovers and business partners as well.

After that first night neither of them had brought up the subject of their living together, and so it had startled her when, less than a week after they first made love, she had suddenly found two of his shirts hanging in her bedroom closet.

For a moment she had simply stared at them as though they had popped in from another dimension. Then she had hunted him down.

"Charlie," she said, frowning as she walked into his office. "Are the shirts in my closet a gift? If they are, you'll have to take them back. They're not my size."

"Shirts?" he asked, not fooling her for a minute with his faked confusion. "Oh, yeah, those shirts. I just thought in case you ripped one of mine off me some afternoon when you get real rowdy, I would need a spare."

"Have I ever ripped one of your shirts off you?" she asked.

"No . . . but a person can dream, can't he?"

She could only laugh and let it go, but gradually more and more of his things turned up in her bedroom. After two weeks she again stalked into his office.

"Charlie, did you notice that half—that's fifty percent, Charlie—of my closet space is gone? Your motley rags are crowding my expensive but tasteful clothes." When he simply grinned, she placed her hands on his desk and brought her face close to his. "Charlie, your jockey shorts are in my bureau drawer next to my panties. What do you have to say for yourself?"

"They look kind of cute together, don't they?" With his hands on her hips he pulled her across the desk and into his lap, along with assorted papers and the telephone wire. Against her lips he said, "I always knew my shorts belonged next to your panties."

She laughed huskily, giving in again, needing his lips and his hands too badly to deny him anything. Then, three and a half weeks after they had first made love, on Irma's night off Charlie stayed late to cook a special dinner for her. He never left. Whether they had agreed to it or not, Sara Love and Charlie Sanderson were cohabitating.

She smiled now as she thought of the way he had maneuvered and sneaked and charmed his way into every corner of her life. She should have expected nothing less from Charlie. He always got what he set out to get. His good nature hid iron-willed determination.

She moved restlessly, feeling a little of the warmth slip away as she thought of the giant difference between them. Charlie was so damn sure of everything. Why couldn't she be more like that? She loved being with him, and she saw now that their intimate relationship had been inevitable all along. But beneath the surface there was always doubt. And sometimes there was even fear.

Sara didn't like to think of all the nights she woke up in his arms, trembling, staring into the darkness with only one thought in her mind—I'm scared. I'm so scared. That was the entire thought. There was never anything solid to go along with it, nothing she could work on or analyze. She only knew that she was afraid.

When it happened, it would always take awhile for her to begin to rationalize. She had to lie beside the man sleeping with her and enumerate over and over again all the facts, all the reasons why being afraid of nothing was crazy. She had to force herself to believe that everything was going to be all right, fighting, with all the reason she could summon, an unreasonable fear.

She would win, she told herself now, holding her chin high and firm. She had to. Whatever she was fighting, she would conquer it. There were too many real things in her life to be dealt with. She couldn't afford to waste time and energy and emotion on cowardly illusions that attacked in the darkness.

Although she hadn't heard him enter, she suddenly felt her hair being lifted and warm, firm lips on the back of her neck. Her eyelids drifted down as an involuntary sound of pleasure escaped her.

"You ought to have your lips bronzed for posterity, Charlie," she said, her voice husky.

He swung her chair around so that she faced him. "How did you know it was me?"

"I knew it was either you or Mr. Hubbert, and Mr. Hubbert never kisses my neck before dinner."

He leaned closer. "Mr. Hubbert doesn't know what he's missing," he murmured, brushing his lips across hers.

She laughed softly.

"What's funny?"

"How can I take you seriously when you've got that thing on your head?" she asked, gazing at the aviator cap.

"You're so innocent," he said, scoffing. "Didn't you know leather is sexy?" .

"I've heard that . . . but somehow I didn't think that meant an aviator cap."

"Wait until you see me with nothing on but the cap. Then you'll think it's sexy."

The image brought a sharp spurt of laughter. "You wouldn't really do that to me, would you?"

"There are all kinds of things I want to do to you," he said. Kneeling before her chair, he wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her breasts. "So many things."

For almost anyone else, kneeling would have seemed a subservient position. But Sara knew the truth. Charlie would never be subservient. Simply by giving so much, he took control away from her. She could demand that he kiss her hand, and he would go one step further and kiss her feet.

Charlie was a giving man, but he was also a shrewd one. Several times, for her own peace of mind, she had tried to prove that she was in control during their lovemaking. But he had turned the tables on her. By freely admitting that she had power over him, by willingly turning control over to her, he had shown her that power wasn't at all what she wanted. Of his own accord he became her slave and forced upon her the knowledge that there was no room for dominance in their relationship. They were equals.

"You're a wonder, Charlie Sanderson," she said softly. "When I think of all those years I wasted." Her hands tightened on his shoulders for an instant. "I was furiously jealous of the women in and out of your life. But I was too scared to become one of them. I was afraid of what would happen when you left me for the next one."

"And now you're not afraid anymore?" he asked without lifting his head from her breast.

She closed her eyes. Lord, if only he knew. But he couldn't.

Forcing a light tone she said, "I refuse to think about it. When it happens we'll work it out. You're too good a friend—almost a part of me—to lose. When it's time we'll go on to the next step."

For a moment he stiffened against her. Then he inhaled deeply and moved away. "That's right, kid," he said, a strange smile twisting his lips. "We'll take it one step at a time." He stood up, and his grin seemed more normal. "And right now the next step is getting our lawyer to goose Findlay into signing the contract. He's been stalling too long. He accepted the terms; now I want the lodge in our name." He bent over to give her a quick kiss. "See you at dinner."

After he had left she stared at the door for a long time. Sometimes he baffled her. Just when she thought she had figured out the way his mind worked, she would sense in him a mood, a foreign sadness, that set her off balance.

They talked constantly, but were they really communicating?
she wondered for the first time. What was there in his life that brought on those fleeting moods? She knew that their love affair was still as fresh for him as it was for her. There were some things that couldn't be faked. But was there something missing for him?

She leaned back, feeling thoughtful and, for no good reason, a little sad. It was something they needed to talk about. She had never had a full-fledged affair, and didn't quite understand the rules. Maybe, for survival's sake, the two parties had to keep'a portion of themselves separate.

Frowning, she admitted there were things she could never tell Charlie, things that she kept hidden deep inside, things she was afraid to examine herself. Those terrible things that came to her in the middle of the night.

Although the idea seemed ridiculous, maybe Charlie was fighting ghosts too.

Before she had a chance to explore that extraordinary idea, Irma walked into her office. She stood in front of Sara's desk, her hands on her hips.

"I'm taking the rest of the day off," Irma said bluntly. "Is that okay with you?"

"That's fine," Sara said, hiding a smile at her housekeeper's gruff manner. "I hope Marilyn isn't having problems again."

Irma nodded shortly. "Same as before. She's going into the hospital tomorrow for more extensive tests. They'll take at least a week—maybe two."

"Then of course you need to be with her. You do what you have to do, Irma." Sara stood up. "In fact, if you want to take a couple of weeks off, we can manage without you for a little while."

"That won't be necessary ... at least I hope it won't."

As she turned to leave, Sara called out to her. "Irma?"

"Yes?"

Sara glanced down at her desk. "Irma, you haven't said anything about Charlie's staying here with me." She smiled hesitantly. Now that she had opened the subject, she wished she hadn't. "We've tried to see that it didn't cause you any extra work."

"Cooking for two isn't any different from cooking for one," Irma said, shrugging. "And as for the cleaning, he may look like a carnival hustler half the time, but I'll say one thing for him, Charlie doesn't leave his clothes scattered all over the house, the way some men do."

Sara drew in a deep breath to give herself courage. She might as well go the whole distance. "What do you think about it, Irma? I mean about me and Charlie . . . being here together."

Irma met her eyes squarely. "What do you need my opinion for? I've got nothing to do with it. But since you asked, I think you're happy. I think you'll be even happier when you finally marry him."

Sara stiffened in shock. What had given Irma an idea like that? Certainly not anything Sara or Charlie had said.

"But ..." Sara began, sputtering slightly. "Oh, Irma, I don't think you understand. You see, Charlie and me . . . Marriage?" She shook her head vehemently. "This isn't that kind of thing. We're just friends."

Irma snorted loudly. "Tell that to a movie magazine. I suppose you lie around telling ghost stories in your bed every night. I understand, all right. I've lived a good many years more than you have, missy. And whether you want to admit it or not, it is exactly that kind of thing. At least it is for Charlie. And I'll tell you right now, if you're only fooling around with him, then you're not the person I always thought you were."

Before Sara could even prepare to defend herself Irma walked out of the room, leaving a confused silence behind. How on earth had she gotten the idea that Charlie was serious? Sara wondered frantically. The idea was—Lord, it was laughable.

Then why wasn't she laughing?
she asked herself, biting her lip.
Marriage. A family.
She couldn't even think of such a thing calmly. When her hands began to tremble, she clenched them into fists.

Why had she even asked Irma?
she wondered angrily. Did she really need someone else's opinion about her relationship with Charlie? She frowned. Apparently she did or she wouldn't have asked. Now the only question was—had she been hoping for a positive or a negative response?

Moving her head sharply, she shook away the irritating questions. There was no sense in looking for trouble. And no matter what she had been hoping for, she hadn't gotten it from her housekeeper. Irma was wrong about Charlie; she had to be.

Later, when Sara was fixing the dinner Irma had prepared earlier in the day, she tried to put their talk out of her mind, and almost succeeded. It was on her list of things to consider at some future date.

She even smiled as she set candles on the table. Everything was ready, but Charlie still had not appeared. He usually helped her in the kitchen. In fact, although she would deny it with her last breath, Charlie was a much better cook than she. He could throw in a pinch of this and a twist of that and create a masterpiece. He seemed to know instinctively which spices and herbs combined favorably. Sara, on the other hand, had to follow a recipe exactly, and still occasionally created a royal mess. Somehow it didn't seem fair.

When the table was set to her satisfaction, she walked to the back of the house and stuck her head around the door to his office. He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed, as though he were working out a problem.