John Abbott - Scimitar

“Sure,” he said.

“I should have asked first,” she said. “I just thought...”

“I’d really like to,” he said.

“Good,” she said. “Though to tell the truth, I’m not all that hungry.”

“Neither am I,” he said.

They walked in silence for several moments. He could hear the murmur of the ocean against the shore. He could hear her breathing beside him in the darkness.

“Why don’t I take some hamburgers out of the freezer?” she said.

“Okay,” he said.

They walked a bit farther in silence.

“Start a little fire on the grill,” she said.

“Okay,” he said.

She stopped suddenly. Turned to him. She was still holding his hand. Standing quite close to him now. Sandals hanging from the other hand. She looked up into his face. Raised the hand holding the sandals, and draped it over his shoulder, the sandals dangling. Moved in closer to him, released his hand, and brought her liberated hand up behind his neck, the fingers widespread. He heard her catch her breath.

“Start a little fire,” she whispered, and kissed him.

Tuesday morning, the last day of June, dawned bright and hot and harsh. In the four-poster bed in the master bedroom of Martin Hackett’s beach house, Carolyn blinked her eyes open as sunlight struck her full in the face, a single slash of light knifing its way through the narrow opening where the drapes failed to meet. Disoriented for a moment, the blink of annoyance turned to one of confusion. Where...?

And then she remembered.

And rolled over to see if he was still there, her delicious swordsman with the green tattoo on his chest.

There were only rumpled sheets beside her.

“Scott?” she called.

There was no answer.

“Scott?”

“Yes?”

Thank God, she thought.

“Good morning,” she called.

“Good morning.”

His voice was coming from the bottom of the stairs. She got out of bed, went to the chair where she’d tossed her slip the night before, and slipped it on over her head. Not quite as form-fitting as the one Kathleen Turner had worn in Cat , but that one had been hand-tailored, and this one was snug enough. Carolyn was thirty-nine years old and knew that whereas total nudity might be wonderful at the Metropolitan, it wasn’t too terrific when it came to seduction.

Nobody had eaten any hamburgers last night.

They’d come directly back here, which she’d preferred, anyway, just in case the gentleman turned out to be a dud, a premise she’d sincerely doubted after their first kiss, when she was standing close enough to him to make some fairly accurate predictions and entertain some reasonably great expectations. Better nonetheless to be in his bedroom, or at least Martin Hackett’s bedroom, where she could leave whenever she chose, rather than in her own bedroom, where she might have difficulty evicting a poor lover at best or a violent maniac at worst.

Barefoot now, and wearing only the white slip, she stepped into the doorframe at the top of the stairwell. He was standing below, looking up at her.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hi.”

“You’re up early.”

“I got hungry.”

“Is there coffee?”

“Eggs, too, if you’d like me to make some.”

“I’ll be right down,” she said.

She went into the bathroom at the end of the hall, squelched a desire to peek into Martin Hackett’s medicine cabinet, washed her face instead, squeezed toothpaste from a tube on the sink, used her forefinger to brush her teeth, and then performed what The Late Colonel used to call her “morning toilette ” — didn’t his redheaded driver ever pee ?

She went back into the bedroom, and debated putting on the high-heeled sandals again; the first time he’d fucked her last night, she was wearing only the sandals. She decided they might look a little trashy so early in the morning, opted instead for the Barefoot Contessa look, and went downstairs to where he was sitting at the kitchen table reading The New York Times . He was wearing a black silk robe sashed at the waist, a red monogram over the breast pocket, the letters MH. For Martin Hackett, she thought. Wears a black silk robe, how about that for a lobster fisherman?

He put down the newspaper at once.

“How would you like your eggs?” he asked.

“No good-morning kiss?” she said, and went immediately into his arms.

“Good morning,” he said.

“Good morning,” she said, and kissed him fiercely.

“Listen, if you want those eggs...” he said.

“You know what I want,” she said, and kissed him again.

She could feel him growing immediately hard in the opening of the black silk robe, pressing his naked hardness against the thin nylon of the slip. Let him suffer a bit, she thought, and pulled away from him, and said, “Know how to make an omelette?”

“How many eggs?” he asked, and grinned. Knowing the game. Enjoying it. The grin telling her he was going to fuck her brains out the minute she finished breakfast. Good, she thought. Do it.

“Two,” she said, and sat at the kitchen table, and crossed her legs.

“Want some orange juice?” he asked.

“Please,” she said.

Watching him. The way he moved. So sinuously.

He poured a small glass of juice for her, carried it to the table. She picked up the glass, drank.

“Coffee now or later?” he asked.

“Some now, some later,” she said.

“Mmm,” he said, and slid his hand up her leg and under the slip.

She let his hand stay on her for a moment, working her for a moment, then gently took it away.

“My coffee,” she said.

He went to the stove, poured her a cup, carried it back to the table. She poured a little milk into it, and then sipped at it. It was strong and it was hot. At the stove, he was cracking eggs into a bowl.

“What’s in the paper?” she asked, and picked up the Times .

“I didn’t get past the front page. Bush is coming to town.”

“So I see, the bastard.”

“You don’t like him?”

“Do I like scorpions? I wish someone would shoot him.”

“That would leave us with Quayle.”

“Shoot him, too,” she said, and turned to where he was beating the eggs. There was an odd look on his face. Smile on his mouth, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Don’t tell me,” she said. “You’re a staunch Republican, right?”

“No. But...”

“Then surely you can see through this, can’t you?”

“How do you mean?”

“This speech at the Statue of Liberty. It’s a campaign speech, that’s all. New York’s going down the tubes, but he’s going to make a speech about freedom and opportunity. Why can’t he...?”

“Where does it say that?”

“Say what?”

“That he’s going to talk about freedom and opportunity?”

“It doesn’t. But why do you think he’s chosen the Statue of Liberty? I can write his speech from memory,” she said, and shook her head sourly and opened the paper to page twelve where the story was continued.

“How do you want this omelette?”

“Not too runny,” she said. “Says he’ll be speaking at twelve noon. Catch the West Coast while it’s waking up, right? CNN and the three networks’ll be covering it. What’d you think of Buddy Johnson, by the way?”

“Nice man. Would you like some toast?”

“Please,” she said.

He popped two slices of bread into the toaster, and came to the table to pour fresh coffee for her.

“Oh, lookee,” she said, “the Marine Corps Band’ll be there, too. Play a few choruses of all the old wartime favorites, and end with a rousing rendition of ‘God Bless America.’”