Part 1 (2/2)
She stole a glance at him, but his attention was on the notebooks.
”Now, looking just at these two pages and pretending you know nothing about the people who wrote the notes, what would you think?”
Constantly aware that he was holding her hand, Sam had to admit that her handwriting was florid, with graceful curves and arcs that flowed across each line. His letters were more regimented, standing straight up as if at attention. Where her thoughts blended together as she connected ideas as she wrote, his were in a bulleted list, lined up along the side like troops on dress parade.
She smiled shyly. ”Well, so my handwriting is fancier than yours. Most women have fancier writing then men.”
He shook his head as he released her hand and put away his book. ”Most women write with that silly over-round style and put hearts instead of dots over the 'i's.' Your style is older, one that brings to mind a quieter time, and still waters that run deep, Samantha.” He held her gaze and those deeply guarded fantasies leapt into her mind. For a moment, an image of her body spread between two poles on a busy street corner flashed through her mind. A man came up to use her, his strong fingers closing over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s-and he had Peter's face. Fl.u.s.tered, she broke his look, struggling to rebuild the walls around her by turning to put her own notebook back on her seat.
”You know, most people just call me Sam,” she told him as she took a drink of her soda to cover her momentary unease.
”Do you mind if I don't? Samantha is a much more fitting name for a woman. It's too beautiful a name for too beautiful a person to shorten in such a way.”
She blushed. Why did he make her feel like a giggly schoolgirl? ”That's fine, I mean, if you want to call me Samantha, that's okay,” she stammered. ”I've heard some of the others in the cla.s.s calling you 'Pete,
' but I have to admit, you're more a 'Peter' to me.” ”I am.” He nodded and Sam thought she saw a flash of anger in his eyes, quickly smothered. ”I do notcare for people who shorten my name without bothering to find out if I care or not. And those who doinquire, generally wouldn't do so unless they know me. But by the time they know me, they know Iprefer...” his hesitation was momentary, but Sam noticed it. ”...Peter.”
The pizza came and they spent several moments getting slices off the tray and onto their plates.
”So, Samantha,” he cut into his pizza, it being too hot to hold just yet, ” may I venture a personal question?”
”Sure, go ahead.”
”Are you seeing someone?”
She almost choked on her pizza. He'd asked it casually, but looking into those depths she could not
fathom, she heard the implication. Clearing her throat and steadying her nerves, she replied, ”No. I'm not.”
”So then if I asked you for a date, a real date, you might say yes?”
As her heart jumped into her throat, she pushed it back where it belonged. ”I couldn't-and you can't ask me. As I recall, you have a girlfriend.”
For a moment he looked puzzled. Then his face cleared. ”Ahh, the husband-catchers from the first day.No, I don't own anyone at the moment-I just told them that to dissuade them.” If she thought his phrasing odd, she ignored it. He was available and asking her out! Her heart soared. ”Well, if you asked me out, then I guess I'd say yes.” She smiled coyly at him. ”A yes, or a no, Samantha. Would you let me take you on a date?” His voice was stern with a lack of mirth in his eyes that surprised her a bit. ”Very well, yes.”
”Good.”
He insisted on paying for the meal, even though she told him she wanted to pay him back for the free advice about her papers. ”If you paid, then the advice wouldn't be free, now would it?” She acquiesced at that point.
Their cars were parked side-by-side, but he still walked her to her car door. There was the awkward moment once she unlocked her door, but hadn't yet said goodbye. It wasn't a date, she reminded herself; there would be no kiss, even though she wanted one. Out of long habit, the term ”good girl” was broadcasting itself over all her speakers. He shut her door once she was inside and leaned on the open window.
”Friday night, 6:00. Be ready and I'll pick you up.”
She grinned. ”Be prompt!”
With a smile, he thumped her door and sauntered around to the other side of his own car. Sam waited till his engine turned over, then pulled out. She was halfway home before she realized she hadn't told him where she lived.
* * * * * After spending a fruitless Thursday trying to find an address for him, she gave up. Peter was not listed in any directory she could find and the college treated that information as confidential. Sam really wanted this date. In spite of her intentions to remain entanglement-free until after graduation, she had really fallen for this guy. He was everything a girl could want-witty, charming, gorgeous, and above all, s.e.xy. On the off chance that he would somehow find out where she lived, she was ready at 5:45, trying not to peek out her apartment window every other minute.
Peter hadn't told her where he was taking her, so Sam dressed in good, but not dressy slacks with a cream-colored turtleneck and scarlet knit sweater. Red definitely was her color and brought out the healthy glow of her complexion. Briefly she considered donning makeup, and just as she decided she would the ring of the doorbell startled her. Hurrying to the little window in her steel door she peeked through to see Peter's face distorted by the tiny gla.s.s. Suddenly nervous, she opened the door.
The first snowfall of the season had yet to fall, but the nights were definitely getting colder. Peter stood before her looking every inch like a magazine model in dark pants and a crisp, white s.h.i.+rt that accentuated his dark hair and those wonderful eyes. No tie graced his neck, but he did wear an unb.u.t.toned black wool coat. Her breath caught and she tried not to stare.
”Good evening, my lady,” he bowed before her and she laughed. Locking the door, she turned and dropped a flawless curtsey learned in years of ballet.
”Good evening, fair sir,” she replied.
”Mmm...I like that you call me 'sir.' It sounds quite right coming from you.”
She laughed again, thinking he was teasing her. He did not tell her otherwise, instead gesturing to the car at the curb. ”This isn't your car!” she exclaimed.
”Yes, it is...Oh! You mean the car I had the other night? That's my winter rat. This one goes into storage this weekend-but I thought we might get one last run in it before spring.”
The bright red MGB gleamed in the streetlights. The top was down and he handed her a scarf for her hair. She tied it around her chin like she'd seen the women do in the old 60's movies and they started off.
What a glorious ride! Never before had she ridden in such a tiny car-or so close to the road's surface. Once she realized they were not going to sc.r.a.pe bottom, but rather glide over the road's surface, she relaxed, letting his ease in traffic soothe her anxiousness.
The noise of the road precluded her asking where they were going. He pulled the sports car into a spot near one of the art house movie theatres and she felt again as if she had stepped back in time. The marquee read ”Gaslight. Starring Charles Boyer, Ingrid Bergman and Joseph Cotton.”
”I love the old movies and this place shows them the way they were meant to be seen-on the big screen,” he explained as he led the way to the old-fas.h.i.+oned ticket booth.
Sam often had enjoyed the old black and white films, but had never seen this one. She knew the plot of course; everyone did. They munched on popcorn and watched as Charles Boyer drew his evil net closer and closer around Ingrid Bergman. Even as she applauded Joseph Cotton as he entered in the nick of time to save the luckless woman from her maniacal husband, there was a stirring deep inside her; to be so completely dominated by a man-a man she could trust-excited her in a very primal way. She felt Ingrid Berman's fear, but inside herself, it was mixed with a shameful excitement. Sam was grateful Peter did not get up to leave as soon as the words appeared at the end of the film; she needed a moment to regain her composure and hide away those shameful thoughts.
Heading out of the theatre, Peter suggested they go for a walk before returning to the car. It wasn't late and many of the businesses were still open. The street, known for its offbeat boutiques, stretched for several blocks. Peter took Sam's hand as the two of them meandered along, peering into the windows of an antique shop, a bicycle shop, and a head shop before coming to a leather goods store. A customer was just leaving as they approached and the wonderful scent of leather came out to greet them. Sam took a deep, appreciative breath.
”You like leather?” Peter asked her.
”Oh, yes,” she answered, a blush coming to her cheek. ”My gloves are of leather, my boots, too. I've looked at the leather coats, but haven't bought one...yet.”
”Why not?” he asked, and held the door open for her to enter.
”Haven't had the nerve, I guess. The type I like aren't exactly 'proper.'” She couldn't believe she just admitted that to him. What was wrong with her?
”Show me-I'm sure they have your 'type'. They have a good selection of leather goods here.”
It didn't take long to find the style she wished she had the courage to wear. It wasn't really a coat-and that's what held her back. A coat was socially acceptable. But the leather bustier she now fingered was not. She ran her fingers over the soft, supple leather, knowing she would feel so s.e.xy in it. His hand closed over hers, his fingers entwining the laces between their clasped hands and Sam's heart beat faster.
”I would love to see you in this,” he murmured in her ear.
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