R Is for Rebel (25 page)

And then take every piece of him in her turn.

“Yes,” was all she said.

Abigail felt like that dead gilt Bond girl in
Goldfinger
. She was splayed listlessly across the huge bed, spread eagle on her stomach, shamelessly nude, one arm hanging off the side, her mess of black hair flung across the pillow and partially concealing her face.

Eliot came out of the bathroom and stopped to take in the erotic tableau. “Jesus, Abigail,” he whispered. He stalked around the bed to get a better look at her slack-jawed expression of bliss, carefully moving aside a lock of her hair to better see her face. She was in her netherworld: a place that Eliot now adored, the half-sleeping-half-waking zone she collapsed into after her most powerful orgasms. Her body fully sated, warm, and flushed. Her lips slightly parted. Her tongue making the occasional, lazy reminiscent foray to the corner of her mouth. Her eyelids were closed, but pulsing as if the visions of pleasure and satisfaction were replaying there behind the tender skin.

He smiled to himself as he contemplated the never-ending vortex of pleasure the two of them could devolve into. When he saw her like this, he wanted her more vehemently than ever. And so it began again, her gentle denouement serving only to ignite him anew.

Eliot breathed a small sigh of displeasure; the cycle had to be broken just now. Eliot had a full day of meetings and preparations for the various Danieli-Fauchard clothing labels that were showing this week. Of course, his brand managers and salespeople and marketing people were in charge of everything, but his presence was expected everywhere, especially with the major buyers from the high-end department stores and the top editors from London, New York, Paris, Milan, and Tokyo.

Marcel might have been a bit of a pup when it came to dealing with Eliot's demanding fiancée (Eliot stuffed the attendant guilt that spiraled up as he thought of Marisa), but his Swiss assistant was a genius when it came to scheduling. All Helvetican clockwork comparisons aside, Marcel had put together seven days of perfectly orchestrated breakfasts, morning meetings, lunches, afternoon meetings, cocktails, dinners—not to mention allowing for Eliot's presence at all the requisite fashion shows.

Eliot picked up his phone and checked his schedule for the day, then looked across at Abigail's tempting body. He had already showered, he might have time for a quick—He shook himself of that foolishness and walked determinedly to the hotel closet with his neat selection of clothes. Since it was still the weekend, he opted for a clean pair of Fauchard blue jeans, a checked shirt from his shirtmaker in Rome, and a cashmere sweater from Ramazzotti. Something about finally closing that deal put his mind back to his first time with Abigail in Paris. Maybe she was right. Maybe it had been too soon then, too raw. The timing between them was off.

But now.

He sat down to check a few emails on his laptop then turned the desk chair so he could enjoy the view of Abigail's ass, still slightly raised how he had left her. Finally forcing himself to look away, he methodically laced up his favorite worn-in brown calfskin brogues. Eliot set his feet down when he was done, placed his hands on his knees, and inhaled deeply.

He had to go.

He got up and crossed back to stand over Abigail. “Hey, beautiful. Wake up.” He caressed her cheek, then pushed her disobedient hair back out of the way so he could enjoy one last unimpeded view of her gorgeous face.

“Mmmmm.”

“I agree, but I have to go.”

“Mmmm, Eliot…”

“Well, yes, it is.” He was dragging his index finger across her bottom lip, loving the feel of the satin edge, loving the memory of everywhere her mouth had touched him. He groaned and pulled his finger away as she tried to suck it into her mouth. “You are quite demanding.”

She opened her eyes slowly to look at him, her lids heavy with sleep and luxury. “And you are so good at meeting them.” She rolled onto her back, eyes closed again, and stretched out her entire body, arms extended toward the headboard, legs fully tensed and feet in full point.

She was pulled as taut as an archer's bow.

It was a physical, methodical gesture that she probably did every morning, but in that moment, Eliot had never seen anything more soul-satisfying. He reached his hand out, as if in a dream, and let his palm rest on her flattened stomach.

Her eyes flew open and she laughed at his touch.

“I am going to be so groggy today,” she croaked.

“Unfortunately, I cannot be groggy with you. I have more meetings in the next seven days than I have had in the past month. Our timing, as usual, is not the best.”

His hand stayed on her stomach as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “I'm afraid to get any closer to you or I won't have the willpower to resist. Give me a kiss and wish me well and get the hotel to move all your things up to this room. Here's an extra key for you.” He gestured toward the bedside table where the Ritz key card sat next to a glass of water. “What else?”

“You are stupendous. Marvelous. I can't think of enough words. I adore you.” She leaned up on one arm and flung the other around his neck, pulling him in for a quick kiss. “I shan't keep you. Go be your powerful, captain-of-industry self and just think of me every now and then.”

“Ha! If only it were now and then, perhaps I'd be moderately productive this week. As it is, I will be so distracted by the thought of you, the vision of you, as you looked when I came out of the bathroom just now—legs akimbo, arms flung out—I will be half-present at best. But present I must be. So kiss me one more time then release me.”

She leaned up again and kissed him gently on the lips, then on his neck, inhaling deeply, to take in the smell of him. “Just to tide me over,” she added, mimicking his words of the night before.

Eliot pulled his hand away from the warm silky skin of her abdomen and stood up reluctantly. “I am literally scheduled for every minute of every day. Do you want to come to any of the shows, or any of the cocktail parties or dinners? Some of them might be fun.”

She tilted her head a bit in consideration. “You know, I kind of like the idea of being your secret love slave, sequestered here in the room, available.” She winked at him. “But if you want me to trail after you on a satin leash, I'm happy to do that too.”

“You are so
not
what people think you are, by the way. Incorrigible.”

She laughed with seductive, mischievous humor. “It only matters that I'm everything
you
think I am.”

“Absolutely. All right, then, stay here and be my kept woman for the rest of your stay. I'll return like the conquering hero every night to claim my favor.” He pulled on a lightweight khaki-colored coat and put his slim wallet, phone, and room key into the pockets. “Be good.” He winked and was gone.

***

Abigail wasn't sure if she had been asleep for minutes or hours when the phone started ringing. She ignored it. It was still Eliot's room after all. The last thing she needed was Poor Marisa calling from Africa to fine-tune wedding arrangements. Unfortunately, it didn't stop ringing. It would pause for a few seconds then resume another lengthy, repetitive chorus of infernal ringing. During one of the brief pauses, she picked up the phone and called down to the front desk.

“Bonjour.”

“Uh, hello. I was just, um, visiting Mr. Cranbrook's room and the phone seems to be malfunctioning. Is there something wrong?”

The poor Frenchman cleared his throat and began carefully, “Excuse me, but ah, the Miss Sarah James was trying to reach, the guest of Mr. Cranbrook—”

An audible scuffle of the phone being wrenched from the appalled concierge and then Sarah: “What is Eliot's room number, Abby? Your cell phone is going straight to voice mail. This is ridiculous!”

Abigail tried not to laugh as she told her the number and put the phone back in the cradle. She looked around the room with fresh, practical eyes and made a clumsy, quick attempt to do away with at least the most egregious evidence of the past few hours: a condom wrapper that was peeking out from the edge of the bedskirt, and her silky underthings hanging half-off the edge of a side chair. The rest of her clothes she put in a neat-ish pile in the bathroom, and then she grabbed one of the enormous Turkish bathrobes out of the closet. She went back to the bed to yank the comforter atop the tangled sheets, in a feeble effort to cover the scene of the crime. As the duvet settled, a slight puff of air came to Abigail that was entirely Eliot. She closed her eyes to savor the small evocative moment, then tried to fortify herself when her sister-in-law's insistent tap-tap-tap sounded through the door.

Abigail must have looked like exactly what she was: a well-used lover.

Sarah stood, stunned, staring at her through the opened doorjamb. “Who are you?”

“Very funny. Are you planning on coming in or simply judging me from the corridor?”

“I haven't decided,” Sarah folded her arms. “Is it all sex-foggy in there?”

“What did you just say?” Abigail laughed and covered her mouth to hide her embarrassment. “Just don't go near the bed and I think you'll be fine.” Abigail opened the door wider and pulled Sarah into the room.

Sarah looked into the bathroom and then around the perimeter of the entire room, as if someone might jump out from behind a sofa or curtain at any moment.

“Sarah, Eliot left ages ago—”

“I know, I saw him at the shows this morning. I wish I had remembered to ask him his room number so I wouldn't have had to go through all that phone ringing business with the concierge. When I got back to our room and there wasn't a note or anything, I assumed you were still here… languishing.”

Abigail smiled. “Quite.”

“I'm trying so hard to be, you know, gracious, and not ask for sordid details, but you look so damned happy, I think you have to give me a tiny morsel. Was he fabulous?”

Abigail blushed and felt a range of strange, unexpected emotions. She didn't want to talk about Eliot, on the one hand, and diminish the importance of what had passed between them. Idle gossip might trivialize her profound experience.

But.

What they had shared, or created, or discovered last night was so incandescent, so intensely life-affirming, that Abigail felt it welling up and exuding out of every pore. She didn't even need to say anything, her physical being simply shone.

She looked up tentatively at Sarah through sleepy dark lashes.

Sarah took an involuntary breath. “Oh. My. As good as all that?”

Abigail smiled another conspiratorial grin and nodded her silent answer. She felt the skin on her neck prick and realized that she was not just conspiring with Sarah; she wanted to conspire with the whole human race. Her joy felt infinite and peaceful.

Sarah inhaled slowly and tightened her eyes. “Well. That about says it, doesn't it? Do you want to move your stuff up here or just have the hotel do it?”

“Would you mind? I mean, if I stayed here in Eliot's room? I know you were into the whole girls-week-out and all that.”

“You're such an idiot. Of course I would rather you stay with Eliot, but I couldn't very well come out and say that when I invited you, now could I?”

“You're such a duplicitous scoundrel… what is the female equivalent of a scoundrel? Witch?”

“Never say so! I'm a loving, guiding hand… gently directing you toward your happy fate.”

“That's one way of describing it. Did you really just bump into Eliot yesterday at the pool?”

“I swear. I never called him about you or said a word. That was all divine intervention.”

With how divine Abigail felt, she half believed her.

“Anyway, what are you up to the rest of the day?” Abigail tried to shake out her hair and shake off the residual glow of Eliot's touch. Her entire body felt like it was humming everywhere he had kissed her, which was, well, everywhere.

“I suppose I could accompany you,” Sarah said, “and your salacious mind around town. Shall we go see your mother and Jack for tea or dinner? I already have plans to see my grandmother later tomorrow. What are you in the mood for?”

Abigail flushed again.

“Change back into your clothes, you harlot. Come pack up your stuff and have the porter bring it here, then we can go out for a gorgeous late lunch. You have almost slept away one of the most beautiful winter days on record. Let's get you out into the bright beautiful world so you can shine your light.”

***

A week later, Marisa Plataneau was perturbed. The three-week trip to Tanzania had been a success, obviously. The school project had broken ground, the local officials were working surprisingly well with the aid workers. But she was ready for it to be over. She wasn't prissy when it came to staying in malaria-infested jungles or in Southeast Asian lean-tos with roaches the size of her laptop, but getting stuck in the Frankfurt airport for a six-hour layover when she was so close to home was simply too much. Everyone had their limits, and the Lufthansa frequent-flyer lounge after six hours was apparently hers.

She reset her expression to let the frustration drain slightly, then continued, “Yes, you have told me that the missing part is being installed. But that was already happening four hours ago. Perhaps I might simply retrieve my luggage and be on my way?”

“That is not possible. The luggage must remain in the hold of the plane. We cannot pick and choose from the luggage. If you would like to take a train back to Geneva, then you may do so, but without your luggage.”

“That is not possible,” Marisa parroted, then gave a mirror image of the small, thin line of a smile that Saskia-the-Berlin-Wall had recently presented to her. “I can't leave without my luggage.”

“Then that is your choice,” she said, then returned to typing what Marisa was certain were meaningless keystrokes.

What? Was this woman a nursery school disciplinarian? Her choice?

Marisa turned away from the yellow counter in disgust and returned to her seat in the corner of the lounge. The smell of strong, stale coffee permeated the lounge and made her want to gag. She opened her boring book and tried to pass the time.