Dark Fever

‘I want you so much I feel sick.’

She quivered in response, sighing at the intimacy of having his mouth move there, over the satiny, cool skin. She reached for his hair, stroked it, then her eyes closed, and she rested her face on the top of his head.

‘I’ve never felt this way before,’ Gil whispered. ‘The first time I saw you, standing on your balcony looking down at me, my stomach seemed to drop out of me.’

A little gasp broke out of her. ‘That’s how I felt.’ It was a relief to say it aloud, to admit how she had felt that first day.

‘I’ve got to have you,’ he said in a thickened voice. ‘Bianca, let me make love to you—I’ve been thinking about nothing else since we first met; it’s driving me out of my mind.’

He lifted his head and she saw his eyes, volcanic with desire; his face was tense, jaw clenched.

What did he see? she wondered, staring back at him and feeling the same urgent, driving need she saw in him.

She didn’t know which of them moved first, but suddenly they were kissing with such passion that she almost fainted. Trembling, she fell backwards on the bed, and he came with her, on top of her, his body moving between her opening thighs as if they had done this a thousand times before. The weight of him was so familiar, so right; she put her arms around him and held him close, her legs going round him too, enfolding him.

Suddenly she remembered the morning of her fortieth birthday, her dream just before waking up, the dream where Rob had turned into a faceless stranger while they were making love.

Here it was again, but this time she was wide awake, it was no dream, and the stranger had a face.

Was that what she had been telling herself in her dream? That however much she mourned Rob the truth was that she was alive, and she still needed love—she was a woman with unfulfilled needs and had to stop living in the past? The man without a face had been a symbol more than a real man; the fact that he was a stranger had been the important thing about him—her unconscious had been telling her that she had to find someone else; she needed the fulfilment of sex as much as she needed air and food and sunshine.

> She had not wanted to admit that, was still nervous of admitting it now—but it was true, wasn’t it? This desire burning deep inside her for a man she hardly knew was not mere lust, it was a need for love, a very basic human need.

‘What’s wrong? Don’t turn off me again,’ Gil muttered, his face burrowing between her breasts. ‘Don’t think about him, damn you! Don’t you know how jealous that makes me? Every time you say his name I feel as if you’ve stabbed me.’

She lay still, horrified. ‘Gil!’ The admission shocked her; it hadn’t occurred to her that he might be jealous of her dead husband. She bit her lip. She had been so busy thinking about her own feelings, her own problems, that she hadn’t once tried to look at the situation through Gil’s eyes.

He lifted his head again to look at her, a faintly sulky look on his face. ‘What do you expect? You keep telling me how much you loved him and how much you miss him. I understand—I try to, anyway. But I want you to love me. I certainly don’t want you thinking about him when you’re with me.’

Anguished, she said, ‘Rob was part of my life, part of me, for twenty years, Gil. How can I forget him altogether? I feel guilty anyway because I’m here, with you, in bed.’

‘I know you do. You keep saying so.’ He was getting angry, his face fierce. ‘Just put him out of your head, Bianca. I want you all to myself; I’m not sharing you. I’m not making love to you while you think of him.’

‘I wouldn’t! I... That’s a terrible thing to say!’ She pushed at his shoulders, getting angry herself. ‘I don’t think this is a good idea; I shouldn’t be doing this. It’s a mistake. I think you should go.’

He stared down at her, his eyes glittering in the shadows. His voice deepened, became dark and husky. ‘I could make you want me; I could make you forget him.’

‘Not in this mood,’ she threw back at him. ‘You’re too angry. I wouldn’t enjoy making love to you when you’re like this. I’m sorry if it makes you jealous to know I loved my husband, but I’m not going to pretend I never think of him any more. I can’t erase him from my life. He’s still part of it, in my children, in my memories. I wouldn’t ask you to forget you ever met your wife.’

‘I wish I could,’ he said curtly. ‘It isn’t the same! You loved your husband. Mady was a mistake—she took me in completely, but once the illusion wore off and I saw the truth I walked away without a backward glance. I certainly would never think of her when I was with you. The two of you couldn’t be less alike.’

Then he swung off the bed and began to pull on his clothes. Bianca sat on the edge of the bed and did the same; she had just pushed her feet into her sandals when Gil strode out of the bedroom and into the living-room to throw open the shutters. The late afternoon sun flooded in, and she winced at the illumination of the scene: the dishevelled bed, the indentation in the pillows where their heads had lain.

While she was out the maids had been in and cleaned the whole apartment; if it weren’t for the disorder of the bed, you would hardly have known anyone was using the place, except that her clothes hung in the wardrobes and were folded in a chest of drawers, her nightdress was draped across the end of the bed, as the maid always left it, and there was a little pile of books and English women’s magazines on the bedside table.

Gil walked back towards her, his face taut and pale. ‘Let me know if you ever decide to rejoin the land of the living!’ he muttered.

She bent her head and stared at the white rug beside the bed, not bothering to answer.

After a tense little silence he picked up the top book on her bedside table, the latest detective story by one of Bianca’s favourite writers.

‘Have you read this?’

‘Not yet, I only began it yesterday, but so far it’s very good.’

‘I read it last week—it’s terrific; I couldn’t put it down.’ His long fingers flicked through the pages, then he closed the book and looked at the titles of the other books, which were all novels. ‘Do you read much?’

A bubble of hysteria formed in her throat. The exchange was so stilted, a polite conversation between two strangers—but then that was what they were, wasn’t it? Strangers...who had somehow got into this very intimate, personal situation far too fast, and now did not know what to say to each other.