Wild Heart (21 page)

"Who wants to go first?" His cheeks burned when he remembered Lily's laughter following him down the hall, down the stairs, after he had told her he didn't want to do it with her. "Why not, honey? You scared? Oh, c'mon, you'll love it." She'd rubbed her hands on him, inside his jacket, and every time she had taken a step toward him he'd taken one back. Finally he'd smacked up against the door with his back—even Philip had laughed at that. "What's the matter, honey? Don't you like Lily?" He hadn't wanted to hurt her feelings, so he had blurted out, "I don't have any money," fumbling behind him for the doorknob. But that hadn't stopped her. "Well, you are such a big, handsome thing, I think I'll give you a
discount."
He could only imagine what a discount was—a strange position? some different way of doing it? "No, thank you. I—I'm—" What was that excuse Sydney used to get off the telephone? "Well, I know you're busy, so I'll let you go." Even as the words were coming out of his mouth, he had known they sounded idiotic.

But he couldn't help it. Lily had laughed and laughed, but still he could never have told her the truth: that everything about her was wrong. Her smell, her voice, her pretend-friendliness. The emptiness behind the made-up interest in her eyes. She was
other.
She was
off.
The main thing was, she wasn't Sydney. Mate with Lily? No, he couldn't. It would be like ... a wolf mating with a bear. Upside down. Not natural.

Across the street the door opened again, and this time the man who came out was Philip. He looked around, but he didn't notice Michael until he walked out of the stinking alley and came toward him. The rain had turned into a fine mist. Philip turned his collar up, hunching his shoulders, and met him in the middle of the street.

He looked pale and sick. "Jesus," he said, "look at you. You're soaked through." He shuddered inside his jacket; his teeth chattered.

"Are you all right?"

"No. Christ, Michael, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry."

"It's okay. Let's go home now." He took Philip's arm.

At the station, they bought coffee and carried it in paper cups on board the train. Michael couldn't help remembering the day he gave all Sam's money away and they had to walk home. That had been an interesting day. Last night with Philip had been interesting, too, but in a different way.

Too bad Philip was sick. He took one sip of his coffee, turned green, jumped up, and stumbled out of the car. When he came back a few minutes later, he looked white and sweaty, but at least he wasn't shaking anymore.

It was so early there were only two other people in the car, and they were at the other end. All the same, Michael kept his voice low, and leaned across the space between their seats to ask Philip, "How was it? With Lily? Did she keep laughing at me?" He smiled, pretending he didn't care.

Philip lifted his head out of his hand. The whites of his eyes were pink and watery. Instead of answering, he asked, "Why did you leave? Not because you were scared."

"I was a little scared." But Philip was right, that wasn't the real reason. "It didn't feel right," he said slowly. "It's hard to explain. Being with her—it's all right for you, but not for me."

Philip groaned, and went back to pressing the heels of his hands against his eye sockets. "Why?"

"Because . . ." He shifted, not knowing how to say it. "It's personal. I don't think I should tell you. I don't think you would like it."

"That you're in love with my sister?" He didn't even lift his head.

Michael put both hands on the edge of his seat and sat back.

"That's it, isn't it? If so, I already knew it."

He felt hot and cold at the same time, and his skin prickled with anxiety. "How do you know?"

"Ha. You're not exactly a Sphinx when it comes to your emotions."

"A what?"

"You're no good at hiding what you feel. That's not an insult, by the Vvay."

He stared at Philip's bent head, watched his fingers press hard against his temples. "What do you think about it?" he got up the courage to say. "Are you angry with me? Because of Sydney?"

"No." Finally he looked up. "Want the truth?"

"Yes."

"I'm afraid it might not work out."

Michael had to look away from the sympathy in his eyes. He was afraid to ask why. Besides, he already knew the answer.

"So. Is that why you didn't stay? Because you were being true to Sydney?"

He shrugged. It sounded foolish when Philip said it. "Aren't you in love with Camille?"

He sat up straight. A little bit of color came into his gray cheeks. "What?" he said softly, narrowing his eyes to warn him, looking as if he wanted to fight.

Michael smiled, and then shrugged. "You aren't a Sphinx, either." Whatever a Sphinx was.

The fight went out of Philip; he sagged against the
window, pressing his forehead to the glass. Michael thought the conversation was over until he said "I wish I were like you."

"What?" . "I used to be."

He tried to laugh. "When you were seven years old."

"No." Philip wrapped his arms around himself, shuddering again. "I used to be able to see things the way you dp. Everything fresh and new. I wasn't like this. Sydney says . . ."

"What?"

"She says I'm
not
like this." He shook his head. "I don't know what the hell I am." He hunched his shoulders and turned his face back to the window.

"I wish I were like
you."

He gave a bitter laugh. "Why?"

He thought. Not because of Philip's looks or his clothes, his gestures, not even his cleverness or the easy way he had with people—all the surface things Michael admired about him and tried to copy.

"Why?"

"Because Sydney and Sam and your father love you. Three people love you."

Philip looked at him strangely, and after a moment Michael turned away, afraid he might see pity in his friend's long, thoughtful stare.

Chapter 12

“This is sissy. I don't see why I have to learn this."

Sydney got a better grip on Sam's stiff, stubborn little body and maneuvered him into another box step, roughly in time with the waltz tune playing on the gramophone. "You have to learn this because you're a gentleman. Gentlemen dance."

"I'm not dancing with anybody. Ick, I hate girls."

"Even me? Who's going to rescue me from all those buffalo-footed men Saturday night? You're the
only
one I want to dance with." She smiled over his shoulder at Michael, who was lounging against the terrace wall, watching them.

"Hmpf," said Sam. He didn't really believe her, but he liked the idea.

"Besides," she added, playing her ace, "isn't this better than lessons at Mrs. Waring's?" Mrs Waring taught cotillion dancing for the children of Chicago's rich and privileged. Sam had gone to her class one time, and vowed afterward never to return.

"Yeah, I guess," he grumbled with a little inward shudder.

"Then pay attention. The sooner you learn this, the sooner you can go out and play."

If only he
would
go out and play. In truth, she was taking time out of an incredibly busy day to teach Sam the waltz for the express purpose of keeping him out of everybody else's hair. "I can't even turn around because
he's always underfoot," the cook complained, and the maids said the same thing more politely. The house was in chaos. Hired caterers had taken over the kitchen; maids were attacking the house as if it had never been cleaned before; extra gardeners were at work on last-minute landscaping to accommodate an orchestra platform in the yard. All the confusion had disrupted Sam's routine; he had grown overexcited and hard to control. Or ... not quite as sweet-natured and easygoing as usual, Sydney amended fondly.

"Now here's a wholesome family scene."

Sam tried to pull out of her arms, embarrassed for Philip to see him in such a "sissy" attitude, but Sydney held on tight. "Michael's next," he said defensively. "He can't dance, either."

"No? I'd better teach him, then." Laughing, Philip pulled Michael to his feet. "I'll be the lady," he declared, and to Sam's delight, the two of them began to box-step around the terrace in ungainly circles.

Sydney laughed with them—Philip's example was good for Sam. But even more, she was happy to see him so lighthearted, not quite the same cynical, morose loner he had been all summer—sarcastic observations about wholesome family scenes notwithstanding. She wasn't sure when his fou] mood had begun to lift, but she was glad for it.

The music stopped; Sam slipped out of her grasp like a wet fish. "I learned it. I can do it, Syd. I was doing it perfect, wasn't I?"

"Perfectly. You were better, but—"

"Perfectly! You said so! Now I can go help the workmen put up the tent."

"Sam—" Too late; he had already skipped off down the path toward the lake. "Oh, Philip," she wailed. "He'll drive them crazy."

"I'll get him," he said, chuckling. "I'll take him for a walk."

"Bless you. Philip?" He stopped and looked back.

"Could you do something with him tomorrow, too? Take him to the zoo or something?"

He shrugged. "All right. Michael, you want to come with us?"

"Sure." He looked thrilled. "What's a zoo?"

Philip gaped, then laughed. Sydney sympathized: staying on top of what Michael knew and what he didn't know was getting more and more complicated. Sometimes it was the simple things—zoos, for instance—that eluded him nowadays, while bigger, more complex phenomena—God, Republican politics—held no mystery at all.

"We'll surprise you," Philip told him, winking at Sydney before he trotted off to find Sam.

Michael leaned against the wall with his hands in his pockets, watching her. She had almost grown used to the silent, alert, penetrating way he looked at her. Almost. She found it disconcerting but not frightening; she never felt like a predator's prey, in other words, or a hunter's target. She did feel studied, though. Brooded on. Fathomed.

Would she have known there was something special about him if they had met for the first time last night, say, at someone's dinner party? She thought so. Even if they only shook hands and said, "How do you do?" she thought she would know. "Gorgeous," Camille called him. A slight exaggeration. Anyway, he was better than gorgeous with his pale green, intelligent eyes, his aristocratic nose. The long, thin scar on his cheek added mystery to his face, a suggestion of wildness. And his hair . . .

"Hmm," she said critically. "Your hair could use a trim before the party. I'll do it for you if you like."

"All right," he said agreeably. "But don't think you can get out of teaching me how to dance."

Laughing, she gave the phonograph a few fresh cranks, put on a new disk, and held out her arms.

Her smile faltered when she saw the undisguised wanting in his face as he came slowly toward her. She almost dropped her arms. This invitation was suddenly too intimate; she hadn't been offering what it was so clear he wanted to take. Had she?

But they came together, and it was like coming home. The momentary tension evaporated, and all she could think was how perfectly they fit together, and how much she had been wanting to touch him. The downward glide of his lashes hid his expression, but a faint flush on his cheek gave him away. "The waltz . . ." she murmured, distracted by the hardness of his shoulder, the neat way his hair grew behind his ear. When he blushed, the scar on his cheek stayed white, accentuating the pinkness around it. He might be perceptive, his senses keen as an animal's, but there wasn't much he could hide from her, either. "The waltz is a very simple dance. It's in three-quarter time, with the accent on the first step."

His arm around her waist flexed, bringing her closer. "I like this dance." His low voice thrilled her. But they really weren't dancing at all, and the music had become a barely heard accompaniment to this embrace. "Last night, Sydney, when you lit the candles in the paper lanterns..."

"Japanese lanterns," she murmured. "They're pretty, aren't they? They'll be nice for the party."

"That's how your skin looks. Soft light shining through thin white paper. Ivory and gold. I wish I could paint that color."

She closed her eyes briefly. "You're dangerous."

He smiled, complimented, and drew her closer.

"Michael . .. I'm afraid someone will see us."

"What do you want to do?"

"Dance? Remember, it's—"

"One,
two three."

They didn't move, though, except to sway lightly against each other. He dipped his head and kissed her hand clasped in his, and a fresh wave of ineffectual anxiety swept over her.

"We can't stand here doing this," she told him, whispering for some reason. "Somebody will see."

"The dining room?" They were standing in front of the open glass doors. It would be so easy. Michael's mouth moved against her forehead, kissing her between her eyebrows. He whispered,
"One,
two, three," and they waltzed in graceful, perfectly executed circles, off the terrace and into the dining room.

"You've been practicing," she accused, breathless, just before he backed her up against the oak sideboard and kissed her on the mouth.

He hadn't been practicing kissing. He did it too hard, with his lips closed tight and his eyes open. She liked it anyway, because of the newness, and his intense, single-minded focus on her alone. And because it was Michael.

"Like this," she told him, stroking her fingertips across the firm, elegant line of his lips. "Softly." She leaned in and pressed a soft, soft kiss to his mouth.

His eyes closed; he sighed. "That's better," he agreed, nuzzling her. He brought his hands to her face and caressed her while they gave each other slow, sweet, experimental kisses. "Sydney, you are . . ." He never finished, because she diverted him by giving his bottom lip a little tug with her teeth. His eyes flew open. "It's playing," he realized. He looked delighted. "I thought it was ... it looked so . . ."

"What? What did?"

Before he lowered his lashes again, something flashed in his eyes; she would have said it was guilt, but that couldn't be. They kissed again, and cutlery rattled when her elbow struck something on the sideboard; she was dimly aware of the smell of silver polish and furniture wax, but every other sense was concentrated on Michael. He stopped kissing her to look into her eyes while his hand slipped from her shoulder to her throat and then lower, inside the demure neckline of her blouse.
May I?
he was asking without words. He took her trancelike silence for permission, which it was, and touched her.

She wore no corset today, only an old cotton shift under her shirtwaist. His fingers fumbled, and she helped him—
helped
him—unfasten the first few buttons of her blouse.
What are we doing?
she thought hazily, but she didn't stop him. She loved the intense concentration in his face.

The whole world shut down, and there was only Michael, caressing her in this unbearably sweet, breath-stealing way. "Kiss me again," she whispered, and he did, in the new way she had taught him while his careful hands teased and fondled her.

"You like it," he noticed, murmuring the words against her mouth.

She hummed in agreement and slipped her tongue between his teeth. He drew in his breath; his hand on her bare breast went still. "This is playing, too," she whispered, tasting him. "Like it?"

Surprised laughter, low in his throat, vibrated under her caressing fingers. He began to stroke her, long, hard, lustful sweeps of his hands over her hips, down her buttocks, even her thighs. This was a different kind of playing, much more serious, and she knew better than he did where it might lead. But she couldn't stop, not yet. With her arms wound tight around his neck, she kissed him freely, passionately, not holding back, and they turned in slow, lazy loops, until the wall was a steadying surprise at her back. He pressed his hard thigh between her legs, and her knees buckled.

What might have happened next never happened. Instead, the bottom dropped out of her life.

"Sydney?"

She jumped—Michael whirled. Aunt Estelle stood in the doorway to the hall, a drift of yellow dahlias clutched in her hands so hard, the stems shook. Her face—she had lost all color; she looked like a wide-eyed corpse, gaunt cheeks sucked in, absolutely motionless.

Michael's broad shoulders weren't a big enough shield—her aunt saw Sydney's frantic fumblings at the buttons on her blouse. She went even whiter, more rigid, and her black eyes burned with fresh outrage. "You. Get out." She pointed at Michael, then at the terrace door behind him.

He didn't move. Sydney touched his shoulder. "Go," she whispered.

His expression heartened her; there was no shame in it, not even embarrassment. Only surprise, and that sharp, animal alertness he never lost. And a hint of defiance. He shook his head.

"It's all right," she assured him. But her aunt's fury was almost palpable, filling the room like a bad smell, and Sydney understood why he didn't want to leave her alone. "Go," she said again. "I'll find you." She nodded, telling him she was all right.

Still, he hesitated. To Aunt Estelle he said politely but firmly, "Don't you hurt her." If the situation hadn't been so awful, so unrelievedly horrible, Sydney would have giggled. He meant it, though; the stare he leveled at her aunt, whom he had effectively silenced, held a very definite warning. With a last glance at Sydney, he walked out through the terrace doors and disappeared.

As soon as he was gone, she wanted him back.

* * * * *

He waited for her in his room, thinking she would look for him there first when she finished with the aunt. He could tell time now, and he sat on his bed and looked at the hands on his clock, trying to catch them moving.

He wished Sydney had let him stay. It hardly ever happened that there was something he could do for
her,
but this was one time, finally, when he thought he could have. Maybe. She was gentle and soft, and the aunt was hard. For once she needed him to stand with her, to make the aunt understand that what they had done, was right, not wrong.

Very right. He couldn't stop thinking about what it had felt like, kissing Sydney, touching her. Kissing: what a wonderful invention. Animals did it, sort of, but it was more like nuzzling; they didn't really
connect
the way people did. He wanted more of it. The hands on his clock wouldn't move. It must be broken.

He understood everything about sex now. All the things that had been vague and scary and mysterious made sense to him. He wanted Sydney to be his mate for life. He wanted to lie down with her and make love. Not like the man and woman in the whorehouse—that was rutting, not loving. Wolves made love. In the early spring, when the snows began to melt. The she-wolf grew more and more playful, like a puppy, her voice high and silly, beautiful, and her mate turned passionate and tender, yearning for her. And after they made love, they sang.

"Michael?"

He sprang up. How quietly she had come. He went toward her and reached out to touch her, just his hand on her arm, but she shied away. He jerked his hand back in surprise. "Sydney, what's wrong? Did she hurt you?"