Chapter One

 

I was in his head, existing there an indistinct memory. He couldn't quite place me, but he hadn't forgotten my face. There was a street corner full of people around us, and all I saw were the clear gray eyes, not flat inexpressive gray, but ones with firelight glimmering in them.

"Bryan Joyce," he confirmed a name I long ago forgot. "Do I know you?"

"We slept together once, I think it was three years ago," I replied, wondering how that piece of news would set with him. I remembered that day distinctly.

"I picked up you up in a bar?" he speculated. It was sweet that he blushed recalling the memory of our millisecond in time affair.

"We were dancing, at a party, Scott Hemmingway's on the Lake."

He was remembering more. But the busy street was making it difficult to renew an old acquaintance, between the honking bus behind me and its fumes, and the way we were elbowed by those in a bigger hurry than we were.

"You want a cup of coffee?" he asked.

"Sure." I was anxious to get off the street and pursue his handsome face, and the pleasant memory of his body and mine.

We dropped into the first small cafe that we found, a black and white 50's diner that had greasy hamburgers frying on the grill and clattering china that made it nearly as difficult to hear as it was on the street.

It's awkward renewing a relationship when there'd been nothing but fast kisses and his hard-on between my legs, banging into my sopping puss. We were joined at the hip for hours in a cheap motel five minutes from the Hemmingway mansion. It probably wouldn't have happened without the alcohol.

Scott's party was a stuffy affair, too formal for either of us, though we were the only two who thought that way. Ducking away from waist-coated waiters, slithering evening gowns, and expensive champagne, we ended our evening happily in the motel. I remember the blinking neon red light, the way it flickered across his chest. I remember my hand running along the surface of that smooth skin, and when he toppled me over to the bed, how his mouth-the same mouth sipping coffee now-closed over my erect nipple. He was dangerous with nipples, liked them hard as rocks, and would tweak them with his fingers and suck them until they were stiff like two tiny mountain peaks atop my chest.

"So we meet again," he said. I liked his smile.

"Maybe we shouldn't have," I replied. "Doesn't look like we have anything to say." I looked chagrined, though I was clearly flirting.

"We did pretty well without saying a word before," he reminded me.

"I do recall," I replied.

He stared at my face. There was something there he admired, because he seemed content to look at it, while I was equally content to re-acquaint myself with his sandy blonde-haired good looks. The eyes that looked gray on the street changed hues inside, to some darker nameless intriguing color. I saw sadness in them and wondered what was behind it, though I wasn't about to ask. Some men carry sadness with them all time, the others acquire it.

He was quite tan.

"You been to the beach recently?" I asked.

"I work in the yard a lot," he replied.

"Fresh air's good for what ails you," I commented. Sounded silly to me, saying that, as if I were struggling for conversation; but he didn't seem to think so.

He was tall, and lanky. I suspected he still had hard muscles underneath his clothes, though he didn't have a hefty athletic build. He was probably a runner. Funny, the details you forget over time; those you remember. I remember sexual things from our past encounter, but not much about the overall picture of his physique, or his personality.

"You work downtown?" he asked me.

"No. I'm here shopping."

If only he knew how obsessively I was shopping right now, turning as much cash to real stuff as I could. It was my only defense against everything else in my life; or at least the only the defense that was working at the moment.

"You know, I haven't asked your name," he said.

"No, you haven't," I replied, keeping the remark coy.

"You going to tell me, or will you forever remain a mystery woman?"

I chuckled. "Paige Knox."

"God, I'm embarrassed," he said. "I don't remember."

He shook his head and looked genuinely chagrined not recognizing my name. Then again, I might have made up some name the day we met. Called myself Patricia Priest, or Anastasia Kasmanov, or Delila Samson. Anonymous affairs should remain anonymous was my thinking at the time of Scott Hemmingway's party.

"Good God!" he exclaimed, glancing at his watch. "I'm late. I can't believe this, I'm ten minutes late with the fucking banker, excuse me, I didn't mean to say that." He blushed again.

"Okay by me," I said. He threw a few bills on the table. "I'd like to buy you lunch sometime," he said.

"If you know how to get hold of me," I said, as he was about to take off. Whatever meeting he was late for was obviously important, but not too important to ask my phone number.

"That would help, wouldn't it?" he chuckled at himself. Reaching into his tan suit coat pocket, he found a pen. "Your number?" he asked.

I scratched it on a napkin and handed it back.

Even if I never saw him again, he was someone to dream about. As I watched him walking away from me, I enjoyed the way he moved-and the wistful smile of on his face when he waved to me from the doorway.

For a woman whose passions could go between her legs in an instant, I wasn't confounded by the lust. I was confounded by the kindness of the man. Had he been that way that evening in the motel? I wondered if he could turn into a raging bear the way all the others eventually do.

He had walked away leaving his Cross pen in my hand. Staring at it for some minutes, I wondered if I should go after him, but he was probably long gone in the middle of the crowded city. Other than knowing his name, Bryan Joyce, I had no way of knowing how to find him. At least he had my number stuffed into his suit pocket. Did I dare believe that he would find it there and call me?

 

***

 

The big old house was unusually empty for midday. The housekeeper and maid were both out on errands. It was just me and the dogs, Sleepy and Doc. Yes, they were named after the seven dwarfs, my mother-in-law's idea.

I liked this house. I don't think I could design one myself that better pleased my eye. But obviously, I wasn't suited for it, since in a matter of weeks, I'd be giving up its comforts. I had to get packing soon. But as some things grow on you, or you on them; I was dragging my feet. In such a short time I'd become as much a fixture in this old house as one of the potted plants or graceful arches.

When the phone jangled, there was no one to answer but me.

"Hello," I said, feeling the tiniest surge of independence, doing something for myself.

"Hello." The caller sounded nervous.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

"I'd like to speak to Paige Knox, please."

"I'm Paige Knox."

"Ah, Paige!" he exclaimed happily. "I wasn't sure if I read your scrawl right. This is Bryan. Bryan Joyce, we met . . ."

"Of course I know who you are. Your pen, you want you pen," I said immediately remembering the lovely gold pen with the odd insignia on the end, that was still tucked into the zipper compartment of my purse.

"My pen?" he queried me. "Oh, you have it?"

"I guess you really didn't miss it."

"I have others," he said.

"I see."

There was an uncomfortable pause.

"Why I called . . ." he started the conversation again, while I was simply glad to hear the sound of his voice.

"Yes?"

"This is going to sound horribly forward, but I got the impression..." he paused. I was meanwhile feeling that old familiar tingling between my legs, recalling what he meant to me. It was lust, all right, to be so easily provoked. Bryan continued, "What do you think of cheap motels now?"

I took some time to reply. His proposition was so vaguely guarded I hoped I understood what he was suggesting.

"I love cheap motels," I replied.

"I remembered a lot more about our night together," he said. "I know this sounds really tawdry, but I'd love another night with you. Then again, if you want to slap me in the face right now for even suggesting it, I'll understand. I'm not pressing, I just thought that we might see if it was as good as we remember."

I didn't say anything; I was thinking.

"You could just slam down the phone," he continued. "I wouldn't be offended. In fact, I'd rather you just come out and tell me I'm acting like a presumptuous ass, and I'll never bother you again." He still sounded hopeful even though he was fast backing away from the proposal.

Damn! He was charming me.

"So what cheesy motel were you thinking of?" I asked.

I imagined a look of surprise on his face.

"Lovejoy Terrace," he replied. "I know it's clean, the neighborhood is safe."

"I know where it is," I said.

"You're sure about this?" he asked. "I'm not trying to pressure you."

"I know. And I know my own mind, Bryan. I'd love to meet you there. When?"

"When can you be there?" he asked.

I glanced at my watch, nearly half past twelve.

"By one-thirty. Is that too soon?"

"Today. That's perfect," he replied. I could see him in my mind, relieved and smiling.

 

I had only enough time to catch a glimpse of my face in front of the bathroom mirror. I ran my fingers through my brown hair; the soft curls took just a minute to fluff into something sexy. When they fell to my shoulders, I smiled at myself, putting on the best seductive look I could manage. It was pretty silly, because I think Bryan was already seduced by a memory. I hoped I'd be as good as I was three years ago. I hoped he would be too.

 

The cheap motel wasn't all that far from Pacific Heights. What I like about San Francisco is that everything is all smashed together with seedy neighborhoods practically overlapping fancy ones. The jumbled effect suited my eclectic weirdo taste, even if the former man in my life thought I was positively wacko. He was always telling me how it would be a boon to the city to clear out some of the tackier neighborhoods and at the very least build high rise apartments, better yet, convert the charming old hills into fashionable neighborhoods like the one where we made our home.

Frankly, I thought tacky neighborhoods were glamorous. Then, I was prone to be fascinated by what went on behind the drapes and up the stairs, and in the kitchens and back rooms of the endless row houses along the city streets. I told him if he wanted to be segregated from the down and out, he should move to Hillsborough. Of course, he told me that he drove around the seedier sections of town. (I can still see his raised eyebrows when he said that.) I knew he did that when I was in the car with him. But, I couldn't be bothered thinking of such things myself, when my own head was always much too full of stuff to worry about the ambiance of city travel.

The Lovejoy Terrace Hotel is hardly in a bad district. In fact, it was in a neighborhood where I occasionally shopped when I was looking for outrageous "mood provoking" clothes for special occasions. There was a specialty paper store on the same block where I bought all those engraved invitations to his benefit ball, and the soiree at his aunt's beach house.

I stopped at the front desk of the hotel where a nondescript woman with stringy hair and a soiled sweater told me that Bryan had already checked in. Taking two flights of stairs to room 306, I knocked on the door, and waited anxiously.

Bryan answered with a happy grin on his face. He was the best looking thing in the neighborhood, but that was no challenge. I knew he'd be the best looking thing around even at the St. Francis.

"You look terrific," he said. He was already focusing attention at the cleavage popping above my sweater. I liked the way my flesh jiggled. I'm sure he did too.

"This place, it's all right isn't it?" he asked, being very careful.

"It's perfect," I said, looking about at the full-sized bed, covered by a pink chenille bedspread. The window was open because there was no air conditioning. A breeze fluttered the threadbare curtain, catching the drifting scent of some spring flower. It made me smile.

"Little Bohemian, perhaps," he suggested, staring around at the meager ambiance.

"A lot, I'd say."

He turned back to me, his arm coming around to draw me close to him and we kissed with full mouths. Erotic heat galloping though me thrust my ready body against his. For all my nervousness, I was very conscious of my sexual hunger.

With me in his arms, Bryan moved back step by step until we were at the bed, where we fell back on the old mattress, the springs creaking beneath us. Bryan devoured my face with kisses. I tore away the purple flowered tie at his neck. His hands went under my sweater to find bare skin; mine were dealing with the buttons on his shirt. Our mouths never stopped their probing.

When our two naked skins collided chest to chest, I was murmuring something that resonated in the warm air around us, like, "Oh, my God, yes," or "Hold me, please." It's too much a blur to remember. The common understanding of this carnal need made our passions all too swift.

It was so easy for him to unzip my skirt and have it at my knees, where I was finally able to kick it off. It was a little harder getting the buckle of his pants undone when we were pressed so tightly together. Finally pushing down the trousers, I took the jockeys with them in one grand sweeping gesture, looking for nothing but naked groin. And so pleasing . . . his pulsing erection was between my legs in seconds, and then pressing into my wet home as I parted myself wide for him.

We were at an odd angle with him on top of me. But there was something easier about the position than I remember missionary making love to be. Every moving in and out tickled my clitoris. I squirmed into him to feel it more. And then, he had me scooped up in his arms lolling about the bed, almost falling out of it, it was so small. There was a little bit of laughter when he had to catch himself with one leg on the floor, lest we fall out of the bed altogether. Pushing us back on, we resumed, Bryan consuming me with such spirit, I know it wasn't this good the time before.

He let loose with a crashing thrust, and cried, "Yeeeawww!"

I was squeezing all that fullness tightly to me, still dealing with a finale of my own that had not quite happened. But Bryan knew enough about my body response to know that all it would take was an attentive tongue and pair of lips to suck the sweetness from me. I have no idea what kind of cry, or groan or crazy expletive that came from me, but it was joyously delivered whatever it was.

With the wild reunion over, we sank back in the hammock like bed, stuck together with our sweat.

"You don't usually do these things," he said.

"Never. Well almost never; after all, I'm doing it now," I said.

He insisted that we lie face to face. Caressing my cheek with one hand, he admired what must have been a blissful expression on my face.

"I remembered your face," he said. "But not how good your body feels."

"I remembered your chest," I told him, peeking down at the sun-bleached hair, just the right amount, and the smooth tan muscles. "And your penis," I added. "It scared me when I first saw it."

"Three years ago?" he asked, bewildered.

"I thought it was perfect, but so big. I wasn't sure I could handle it."

"You did very well," he said.

"Of course I did. And it reminds me now, why we were so good together then."

We swapped affectionate caresses, like love birds paired for life. We were getting inside each other much farther than that first time, and at least for me, farther than I'd been inside anyone in a long time.

"You know, it's the strangest thing lying naked with someone in the middle of the day," Bryan said. "It's been a long time."

"A bit Bohemian," I suggested, thinking how much the word suited my mood.