Petals on the Wind (Dollanganger 2)

"And incidently, Mr. Winslow, if you cut through the woods back of your place, you can reach mine and no one will see you unless, of course, you make a big show of yourself."

He put his palm up and nodded, as if we were both conspiring. "Discretion is the password, Miss Dahl."

The Spider and the Fly

. Exactly at seven-thirty the doorchimes sounded, punched by an impatient finger, forcing me to hurry lest he waken Jory who hadn't liked being put to bed at such an early hour.

If I had taken pains to look my best, so had Bart. He strode in as if he already owned the place and me. He left behind a drift of shaving lotion with a piney forest scent, and every hair on his head was carefully in place, making me wonder if he had a thinning spot--which I'd find out for myself sooner or later. I took his coat and hung it in the hall closet, then sashayed over to the bar where I busied myself as he sat down before the log fire I had burning (nothing had been overlooked; I even had soft music playing). By this time I knew enough about men and the ways of pleasing them best. There wasn't a man alive who wasn't charmed by a lovely woman bustling about, eager to wait on him, pamper and wine and dine him. "Name your weakness, Bart.

"Scotch."

"On the rocks?"

"Neat."

He watched my every movement, which was deliberately graceful and deft. Then, turning my back I mixed a fruity drink for myself, lacing it lightly with vodka. And with my two little stemmed goblets on a silver tray, I seductively ambled his way, leaning to give him an enticing view of my braless bosom. I sat across from him and swung one leg over the other to allow the long slit of my rose-colored dress to open and expose one leg from silver sandal midway to the hip. He couldn't take his eyes off it. "Sorry about the glasses," I said smoothly, well pleased with his expression, "I don't have room in this cottage to unpack everything I own. Most of my crystal is in storage and I have here only wine glasses and water goblets."

"Scotch is scotch no matter how it's served. And what in the world is that thing you're sipping?" By this time he'd shifted his gaze to the low V of my gown.

"Well, you take orange juice freshly squeezed, a dab of lemon juice too, a dash of vodka, bit of coconut oil, and drop in a cherry to dive after. I call it A Maiden's Delight.

After a few minutes of conversation, we drifted to the dining table, not so far from the fireplace, to eat by candlelight. Every so often he'd drop his fork, or spoon, or I would, and both of us would go for it, then laugh to see who was fastest. I was, every time. He was much too distracted to spot a missing fork or spoon when a neckline opened up so obligingly.

"This is delicious chicken," he said after demolishing five hours of hard labor in about ten minutes. "Usually I don't like chicken--where'd you learn to prepare this dish?"

I told him the truth. "A Russian dancer taught me, she was on tour over here, and we liked each other. She and her husband stayed with Julian and me, and we'd cook together whenever we weren't dancing or shopping or touring. It took four chickens to feed four people. Now you know the nasty truth about dancers; when it comes to eating we are not in the least dainty. That is, after a performance. Before we go on we have to eat very lightly."

He smiled and leaned across the small drop-leaf table. Candlelight was in his eyes, sparkling them devilishly. "Cathy, tell me honestly why you came to live in this hick town and why you've got your heart set on me for a lover."

"You flatter yourself," I said in my most aloof manner, thinking I was very successful in appearing cool on the outside while inside I was a web of conflicting emotions. It was almost as if I had stage fright and was in the wings waiting to go on. And this was the most important performance of my life.

Then almost magically I felt I was on stage. I didn't have to think of how to act or what to say to charm him and make him forever mine The script had been written a long time ago when I was fifteen and locked away upstairs. Yes, Momma, it's first act time. Expertly written by someone who knew him well from all the answers to her many questions. How could I fail?

After dinner I challenged Bart to a game of chess, and he accepted. I hurried to bring out the chessboard as soon as the table was cleared and the dishes were stacked in the sink. We began to set up the two armies of medieval warriors. "Exactly what I came for," he said, darting me a hard look, "to play chess! I showered, shaved and put on my best suit--so I could play chess!" Then he smiled, devastatingly winsome. "If I win--what reward?"

"A second game."

"When I win the second game--what reward?" "If you win two games, then comes the playoff.

And don't sit there and grin at me so smugly. I was taught this game by a master." Chris, of course. "After I win the playoff--what reward?" he insisted. "You can go home and fall asleep very satisfied with yourself."

Very deliberately he picked up the chessboard with its handcarved ivory chessmen and put it on top of the refrigerator. He caught my hand and drew me into the living room. "Put on the music, ballerina," he said softly, "and let's dance. No fancy footwork, just something easy and romantic."

Popular music I could listen to only on the car radio to cheer up a long, lonely drive, but when it came to spending my money on records I bought classical or ballet. However, today I'd made a special purchase of "The Night Was Made for Love." And, as we danced in the dimness of the living room with only the fire for light, I was reminded of the dry and dusty attic and Chris.

"Why are you crying, Cathy?" he asked softly, then turned my head so his cheek was smeared by my tears. "I don't know," I sobbed. And I didn't. . . .

"Of course you know," he said, rubbing his smooth cheek against mine as we danced on and on. "You are an intriguing combination, half child, half seductress, half angel."

I laughed short and bitterly. "That's what all men like to think about women. Little girls they have to take care of--when I know for a fact it is the male who is more boy than man."

"Then say hello to the first grown-up man in your life."

"You're not the first arrogant, opinionated man in my life!"

"But I'll be the last. The most important one-- the one you will never forget." Oh! Why did he have to say that? Chris was right. I was over my head with this one.

"Cathy, did you really think you could blackmail my wife?"