Part 19 (2/2)
One evening he came late to her room to find her in bed reading. In his arms he carried thirty long-stemmed pink roses, and while she laughed and protested he began to cover her with the fragrant blossoms. Once the flower coverlet was complete he stretched out beside her.
”You devil! If you poke me with thorns. . . .”
”I pulled them all off.”
”You're crazy. How long did that take?”
”Hours.”
”And didn't you have anything better to do with your time?”
He rolled over, wrapping his arms around her. ”I didn't stint my patients, I promise. I did it at weird o'clock this morning.” He nuzzled her ear, and when she didn't push him away he switched to her mouth. His lips played over hers, tasting the sweetness and the promise, and excitement coursed through him when her arms tightened about his neck. ”Will you make love with me?” he whispered against her mouth.
”Is that how you ask all the girls?”
”No,” he cried, stung by the laughter in her voice. He sat up, and brushed petals from his coat of dull rose.
She stripped petals from several roses. ”You have quite a reputation. According to Dr. Bonners you've slept with every nurse on this floor.”
”Bonners is an old busybody, and besides, some of them aren't pretty enough.”
”Then you admit it.” She used the denuded stem as a pointer.
”I admit I like to sleep with girls, but with you it would be different.”
She lay back, a hand over her eyes. ”Oh, spare me, Lord, I've heard these words before.”
”Where?” he asked, suddenly curious, for he sensed she wasn't talking about Henry.
”On the Riviera, when I was much younger and a good deal more foolish.”
He cuddled in close. ”Oh, tell me.”
A rose slapped him on the nose. ”No, you tell me about seduction on Takis.”
”I prefer to do my flirting while dancing.”
”Why dancing?”
”Because it's vastly romantic.”
The covers were flung aside, and she began shrugging into an amber peignoir. ”Show me,” she commanded, opening her arms.
He slipped his arm around her waist, and took her right hand in his left. ”I'll teach you Temptation. It's a very pretty waltz.”
”Does it live up to its name?”
”Let's try it, and you tell me.”
He alternated between humming in his light baritone and calling out instructions as they walked through the intricacies of the dance.
”My! Are all your dances so complicated?”
”Yes, it shows off what clever, graceful fellows we are.”
”Let's do it again, and this time just hum. I think I've got the basic steps, and you can just shove me when I get off.”
”I will guide guide you as befits a man with his lady.” you as befits a man with his lady.”
He was turning her under one arm, gazing down into her laughing blue eyes, when an outraged ”hrrmph” broke the moment. Blythe gasped, and seemed to realize what a scandalous picture she presented; her feet bare, unbound hair rippling across her shoulders, her filmy lace peignoir revealing far too much of her decolletage. She scurried back to bed, and pulled the covers up to her chin.
”Archibald,” she squeaked.
”Mr. Holmes,” said Tachyon, recovering himself and holding out his hand.
The Virginian ignored it, and stared at the alien from beneath knotted brows. The man had been a.s.signed by President Truman to coordinate the relief efforts in Manhattan, and they had shared podium s.p.a.ce during several frantic press conferences in the weeks immediately following the catastrophe. He looked a lot less friendly now.
He stepped to the bed and dropped a fatherly kiss on the top of Blythe's head. ”I've been out of town, and returned to find you've been ill. Nothing serious, I hope?”
”No.” She laughed. It was a little too high and a little too tight. ”I've become an ace ace. Isn't that remarkable?”
”An ace! What are your abilities-” He broke off abruptly, and stared at Tachyon. ”If you'll excuse us, I'd like to speak with my G.o.ddaughter alone.”
”Of course. Blythe, I'll see you in the morning.”
When he returned, seven hours later, she was gone.
Checked out, the desk said; an old friend of the family, Archibald Holmes, had picked her up about an hour before. For a moment he considered stopping by her penthouse, but decided it could only lead to trouble. She was Henry van Renssaeler's wife, and nothing could change that. He tried to tell himself it didn't matter, and returned to his pursuit of a young nurse up in the maternity ward.
He tried to put Blythe from his mind, but at the oddest moments he would find himself recalling the brush of her fingers across his cheek, the deep blue of her eyes, the scent of her perfume, and most of all, her mind. That memory of beauty and gentleness haunted him, for here among the psi-blind he felt very isolated. One simply didn't join in telepathic communication with everyone one met, and hers had been his first real real contact since his arrival on earth. He sighed and wished he could see her again. contact since his arrival on earth. He sighed and wished he could see her again.
He had rented an apartment in a converted brownstone near Central Park. It was a sultry Sunday afternoon in August 1947, and he was wandering around the single room in a silk s.h.i.+rt and boxer shorts. Every window stood open in the hope of catching a breeze, his teakettle was whistling shrilly on the stove, and Verdi's La Traviata La Traviata blared from the phonograph. The extreme decibel level was dictated by his neighbor one floor down who was addicted to Bing Crosby alb.u.ms, and who had been listening over and over again to ”Moonlight Becomes You.” Tachyon wished Jerry had met his current girlfriend in sunlight on Coney Island; his musical selections seemed dictated by the times and places where he met his inamoratas. blared from the phonograph. The extreme decibel level was dictated by his neighbor one floor down who was addicted to Bing Crosby alb.u.ms, and who had been listening over and over again to ”Moonlight Becomes You.” Tachyon wished Jerry had met his current girlfriend in sunlight on Coney Island; his musical selections seemed dictated by the times and places where he met his inamoratas.
The alien had just picked up a gardenia and was debating how best to place it in the gla.s.s flower bowl when there was a knock.
”Okay, Jerry,” he bellowed, lunging to the door. ”I'll turn it down, but only if you agree to bury Bing. Why don't we have a truce and try something nonvocal? Glenn Miller or somebody. Just don't make me listen to that harelip anymore.”
He yanked open the door, and felt his jaw drop. ”I think it would be a good idea if you did turn it down,” said Blythe van Renssaeler.
He stared at her for several seconds, then reached down and gave the tail of his s.h.i.+rt a discreet tug. She smiled, and he noticed that she had dimples. How had he missed that before? He had thought her face was indelibly printed on his mind. She waved a hand in front of his face.
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