The Seduction - Art Bourgeau (26 page)

A few moments later she realized that in her hurry to
shower and dress she'd left him no clean towels. She went to the
linen closet and followed him to the bathroom, hoping to find him at
least bare-chested.

He had taken off his jacket, that was all, and was at
the sink with his sleeves rolled up, washing his hands . . . And
there, next to him in plain sight, was the ovulation predictor kit.
In her hurry she had forgotten to move that too. The tubes, the tray,
the booklet, there was no way he could miss them, and she felt
embarrassed, like the first time her father had caught her smoking.

She lay the towels down carefully on the counter near
the exposed kit, not looking at him but sure he was watching her in
the mirror while he washed his hands.

"I see you've found my little surprise,"
she said, lightly stroking the edge of the test tube rack with her
fingertips. "Well, it doesn't matter. I was never very good at
holding out surprises anyway."

Still bent over the sink he looked at the kit, and
then at her, clearly puzzled.

She smiled. "It's called an ovulation predictor
kit. It measures when a woman is fertile . . ."

Straightening, he picked up the instruction booklet.
"I can see that from the title," he said, holding up the
blue—and—white booklet. "But what has that got to do with
me?"

"Darling, really, don't be dense. It means that
today I'm fertile. I know how much you want a child, and being with
you has made me want the same thing. I want to have your baby."
Astonishment crossed his face. Replaced by uneasiness. "Missy,
don't you think you're . . . rushing things a bit? We haven't even—"

"That, my darling, is the reason for the
rushing, as you put it."

Her smile was gone. "I have a fire going in the
bedroom. We can take the champagne with us—"

"Missy, back up a bit, none of this is making
sense——"

"—and afterward, we'll toast each other and
pick out names for the baby, our baby. It will be wonderful, just
like it should be . . ."

She was looking at him while she talked, but her
voice sounded flat, distant, making it seem as though she was talking
to a shadow or perhaps an imaginary playmate.

Felix, carefully drying his hands on one of the fresh
towels, never took his eyes off her . . . "Don't you think we
should at least discuss this first?" His voice had the tone of
someone indulging a headstrong child, but she seemed to miss it.

"If you like," she said, standing there,
waiting.

As he took her arm and they went back to the living
room, she felt calm, assured. She knew Felix so well, knew what he
wanted and how to be what he wanted . . . His touch on her arm felt
so strong and reassuring. She wanted to be kissed by him. And she
wanted to drive him crazy with what she could do for him . . . but
she held back, still determined, for the moment, to remain the lady,
knowing well how temporary restraint could be a catalyst, and certain
that once they were together she would make herself unforgettable to
him.

He led her to the sofa and they sat facing each
other, their knees almost but not quite touching. "Missy, tell
me, where did you get this idea about a baby? What made you think of
it?"

Still the indulgent father.

"I felt it that first night when you brought me
home from Lagniappe . . ."

Shaking his head, "I don't think I quite
understand . . ."

Missy took his hand and brought it to her knee,
stroking his scarred knuckles with the other.

"I know, with you it all comes naturally—"

He took his hand away and reached for his champagne
glass. She went on. "When we were alone you made me feel wanted,
even without going to bed. Which"—she smiled brightly—"I
assure you I look forward to . . ."

Felix set the glass down.

"What's wrong?" she said, voice rising.
"It's Dom Perignon."

"I know," he said quickly. "Sometimes
champagne, even the best, doesn't especially agree with me."

She smiled. He really was sweet. "Would you like
something else?"

He hesitated. "You don't happen to have any
beer, do you?"

"Sure, I'll get you one—"

"No, no, I'll get it. You stay right here."

When he came back with a Beck's in his hand he didn't
sit down on the sofa with her. He sat in a chair across from her.
Taking a long drink from the bottle he said, "I'm so dry after a
day at that site that all I can think about is a cold beer." He
was sweating.

Missy was losing patience. Here they were, one minute
sitting next to each other talking about her pregnancy and going to
bed, and the next he was sitting across the room talking about
goddamn beer.

"That's nice, darling. Whatever makes you
happy," she said, thinking to herself that after their marriage
Felix's beer drinking was one habit that was going by the boards and
fast. He would drink champagne and learn to love it.

"Now about this pregnancy business—-"

"Darling, you don't have to talk about it like
it's a construction problem. This is our child we're talking about,
not a shipment of cement blocks or girders or whatever the hell."

She lit a cigarette, got up from the sofa, began to
pace with cigarette and champagne glass in the same hand. Watching
her, he couldn't help thinking of Bette Davis building to one of her
cinematic tantrums.

"I mean, sometimes I don't understand you. You
come over here, I have a grand spread for you, you don't drink the
champagne, you don't eat the oysters—I thought all Louisiana men
liked oysters—"

Felix shook his head. "Missy, do you hear
yourself? You call me up, invite me over, and then out of the blue
announce that you're fertile and want to have my baby when we hardly
know each other. Then you get hysterical because I didn't appreciate
the hors d'oeuvres or the champagne . . ."

It felt like a reprimand, and it stopped her short.
Just like with her father . . . "I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . .
what I wanted was for everything to be just right for us tonight."
She tried to keep the anger she felt out of her voice.

Felix stood, walked to the window and stared out into
the rain. "It's all very nice. I'm sorry I haven't been
appreciative, but, Missy, it's not right, it's unreal . . ."

She didn't say a word, only kept looking at his back.

He turned to face her. "I don't know quite how
to put this . . . well, this just isn't the kind of relationship we
have. I want us to be friends, I don't want to be your lover, and I
really don't want you to have my baby——"

"Why? Aren't I good enough?"

"That's not it at all. Right now I don't want
anyone to have my baby."

"But the other night at the opera you said that
your marriage broke up because—"

"Yes, I know, but the key word there is
marriage. I was married to Cynthia; she was my wife. It's a normal
thing for a man to want his wife to have a baby."

She took a deep drag on her cigarette. "What
about me? What about me? I'm talking about our baby"—she
hesitated, then said it—"our marriage . . ."

"I'm sorry, Missy. You flatter me but it's out
of the question. There's just not going to be any baby, or marriage .
. . or anything else between us—"

"There's someone else, isn't there?"

Her tone was not the usual accusatory one of a
jealous woman . . . It was, Felix thought, deep, almost a growl, and
damned unsettling. Still, she was right, there definitely was someone
else, and he decided now was the time to tell her so, regardless of
her temper, and stop this craziness. "Yes, there is, so you see
what you're proposing just isn't possible."

The storm he was expecting didn't happen. Instead she
showed him a tight smile. There was no competition, she thought. He
just didn't know it yet. He was no doubt thinking sweet Cynthia was
out there waiting for him. He hadn't heard the news, just as she'd
thought earlier.

"Who is it?" she said, wanting to hear him
say it, and thinking of Cynthia's pointless struggle at the close of
their evening together.

"It's not important—"

"Yes, it is. To me it is important. I want you
to say her name."

She was savoring her triumph, as she waited.

He looked at her, shrugged. "It's Laura Ramsey."

Missy shook her head. "But what about Cynthia?"

"Cynthia? Good lord, there's nothing between
Cynthia and me. We're just friends now, and not very good ones at
that."

"I don't believe you."

"It's true; believe it."

"And you want her to have your baby?"

"Look, Missy, you've blown this baby business
all out of proportion. With Cynthia I now realize I was using the
notion of children to hold a shaky marriage together, to get Cynthia
to give up her career. I was wrong, but that's water over the dam.
I've learned, and the important thing for me now is to be with Laura.
I figure the rest will take care of itself—"

"When did this Laura business happen? You
couldn't have seen her more than a couple of times . . ."

"True, but sometimes that doesn't matter——"

"You stupid . . ." She stubbed out her
cigarette. "What am I saying? I'm the one that's stupid. I let
you use me. I went through hell deciding to have your goddamn
precious baby."

"Missy, I said I'm sorry. I think we've both
said enough. I really have to go now . . ." And so saying he
moved toward the door, quickly opened it and was out in the rain.

As she watched him go she said aloud, "Yes, we
have said enough. More than enough."

It was the voice she once used with her dolls, with
Barbie and Ken, when they were bad and needed to be punished.
 
 

CHAPTER 24

IT WAS after eight when Laura finished her story on
the rape-murder of Cynthia Ducroit. The bone-deep tiredness of the
morning had returned, but this time she was at least satisfied with
her work. And along with covering Cynthia's death she had done a
follow-up piece on Terri, Marie and Cynthia, all tied together by the
common bond of their murderer. She called it "Evil Knows No
Neighborhood," a head that Stuart clearly approved.

The newsroom was empty now. The few still working
were on their dinner break, and she thought how cold and impersonal
it felt without colleagues around.

Hours had passed since she had heard from Sloan. She
couldn't wait any longer to hear about Felix, so she called Sloan,
who told her that he couldn't be located at his office, his apartment
or his construction site. Clearly Sloan was burning up over the lack
of results.

Not until after she hung up did she find the message,
taken earlier by Gene, from Felix telling her to meet him for drinks
at Lagniappe. She briefly considered calling Sloan back, telling him
where he could find Felix, letting Felix clear himself, then decided
against it. lt would be better to see him first herself. As she
pulled on her trenchcoat and belted it against the rain she knew that
no matter what George Sloan thought, Felix was not hiding from the
police. Somehow they were just missing each other. She would go over
to Lagniappe, meet him for the drink and get the whole thing
straightened out.

The streets were empty in the rain and she even found
a parking place on Market near the subway entrance. Turning up her
collar, she made a dash up Second Street.

Tem, the Mongolian doorman, greeted her and helped
her with her coat. When Laura asked if Felix had arrived, Tem's face
darkened.

"I don't know. You'll have to ask Justin or Lois
about that. They're in the back," he said coolly.

As she walked through the bar toward the dining area,
his tone struck her as odd. Normally Tem was much warmer. What was
wrong with him tonight?

Justin and Lois were at a table in the corner
finishing their dinner. When he saw her Justin frowned but Lois
smiled and invited her to sit down. Felix was nowhere to be seen.
Hesitant to intrude, especially since Justin's brief frown made her
feel unwelcome, she remained standing. "I'm supposed to meet
Felix here."

Lois pressed until Laura joined them. "It's cold
and wet out there. How about an Irish coffee to warm you up?"

When Laura again mentioned her date with Felix, out
of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Justin shaking his head
slightly. Finally Lois said, "He was in earlier but he left . .
."

Justin was not being at all subtle. He obviously did
not want Lois to talk about Felix, and it wasn't until Laura laid her
cards on the table that Lois came over to her side.

"Look, I'm not here as a reporter. I'm here
because Felix asked to meet me here. I know what's happening, I've
been with the police all day and I want to help him—"

"Tell me one thing," Lois said.

"What?"

"Are you in love with him?"

Laura felt decidedly uncomfortable as Lois and Justin
stared at her, waiting for her answer. Well, she thought, might as
well level with them. Secrets didn't last long in this place anyway .
. ."Yes, I guess I am," she said quietly. "I know you
think I'm mixing business and pleasure, but sometime before that
and—"