Stella shrugged. “Just my opinion, just my impression.”
“Really?” The quick bump under her heart at the idea was painful and nice. “I don’t know. I think if he has a crush on anybody, it’s Lily. But I could think about maybe giving it a little push, see what happens.”
“Positive thinking. Now, let’s get these dish gardens done.”
“Stella.” Hayley poked a finger in the dirt. “You swear you won’t say anything about this to Roz.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” Stella held out her palm and, mimicking the sacred rite she’d seen her sons perform, spat in it.
When offered the hand Stella held out, Hayley stared at it, and said: “Eeuuww.”
IT MADE HER feel better. Having somebody else know what she was thinking and feeling took a weight off. Especially when that somebody else was Stella. Who hadn’t been shocked, Hayley reminded herself. Surprised, sure, but not shocked, so that was good.
Just as it was good to take a couple of days and think about it. In fact, she was thinking about it, a little dreamily, when with Lily down for the night, she stretched out on the sitting room couch to unwind with some TV.
Idly, she channel surfed and decided how nice it was to have nothing to do for an hour. Still, reruns, repeats, and other summer dreck, she decided, wasn’t what she wanted for a lazy hour of entertainment.
She flipped to an old black-and-white movie, something she didn’t recognize. It seemed like some kind of romantic drama, where everyone wore gorgeous clothes and went dancing every night at elaborate clubs where they had orchestras and voluptuous girl singers.
Everybody drank highballs.
Why did they call them highballs? she wondered, yawning as she snuggled down. Because the glasses were tall, okay, but why were the glasses called balls? She should look it up sometime.
What would it be like to wear those incredible gowns and glide around a dance floor with everything all Art Deco and glittering? He’d be wearing a tuxedo, of course. She bet Harper looked awesome in a tux.
And what if they’d both come with someone else, but then they saw each other. Through all that silk and shine, their eyes met. And they just knew.
They’d dance, and everything else would wash away. That’s the way it was in black-and-white. It didn’t have to be complicated; whatever separated you could be vanquished or overcome. Then it all washed away except the two of you together as the end music swelled.
And when it did, you’d be in each other’s arms, your face tipped up to his as your lips came together in that movie-perfect kiss. The kind you felt all the way down to the soles of your feet, the kind that meant you’d love each other forever.
Soft, soft kiss, so tender as his hand brushed over your hair, then deepening, heating just a bit when your arms locked around his neck. Up on your toes so your body leaned to his.
Line, angle, curve, all beautifully fitted.
Then after it faded to black, his hands moved over you, touching where it tingled and ached. Stroking over silk and skin so that your mouths met now with little gasps and moans.
The taste of that kiss was so potent, so powerful, the flavor of it streamed through your whole system, woke everything up, made everything swell.
And everywhere you’d felt cold and tired warmed again because you wanted, and were wanted.
Candles were flickering. Smoke and shadows. Flowers scented the room. Lilies, it had to be lilies. The flowers he’d brought her, bold and red and passionate. His eyes, deep brown, depthless brown, told her everything she wanted. That she was beautiful to him, and precious.
When they undressed each other, her gown melted away into a pool of glittery white against the black of his jacket.
Skin to skin, at last. Smooth and soft. Gold dust and milk. His shoulders under her hands, the length of his back, so she could feel those muscles tense as she aroused him.
The way he touched her, with such need, filled her with excitement so that when he gathered her up in his arms—oh—she was quivering for him. He laid her on the bed, the big white bed with sheets as soft as water, then sank into it with her.
His lips skimmed her throat, captured her breast so appetites quickened, and the tug, that long, liquid pull in her belly made her moan out his name.
Candlelight. Firelight. Flowers. Not lilies, but roses. His hands were smooth—a gentleman’s hands. Rich hands. She stretched under them, arched, adding throaty purrs. Men liked their whores to make noise. She stroked her hand along the length of him. Ready, more than ready, she thought. But sh
e’d tease him a bit longer. It was wives who lay passive, who let men do what they willed, to have done with it.
That’s why they came to her, why they needed her. Why they paid.
She brought her shoulders off the mound of pillows, so her curling mane of golden hair spilled back. And she rolled with him, lush breasts and hips to entice, rolled him over on the bed to slither her way down, to nip and lick her way down his body to do what his cold-blooded, prim-mouthed wife would never do.