Hot Siberian (6 page)

“What time is it?” she asked.

“Four-thirty,” Archer said before Nikolai could.

“The seventh's been run,” Vivian thought aloud. “I wish I could ring up and get the results.” She couldn't, because in keeping with some divine rule only Gareth could impart the good news. When a horse didn't win he just didn't call.

A couple of times Nikolai had expressed his opinion of Gareth. Vivian defended him, saying that indicated how short Nikolai was on faith. Nikolai didn't tell her how clearly he pictured Gareth choosing a race with a field of only five or six horses entered, then telephoning five or six people such as Vivian and touting each onto a different “given” horse. With a bet placed for him on every horse in the race, Gareth was indeed blessed with a sure thing. Vivian didn't mention it either. She also realized that was a possibility, but it just so happened she was perfect for Gareth's game, as much an avid believer in the supernatural as she was a habitual gambler.

Nikolai watched her mouth another chunk of chocolate bitterness and continue pacing. Her every step was provocative, a parting of the high slit skirt front to reveal her exceptional legs and flash of bare inner thigh. Archer had a slightly better view, Nikolai thought, because his chair was directly in line with Vivian's pacing and her turn was right in front of him, well within mental reach.

“Do you honestly think forty?” Vivian asked with a dubious glance at the three-legged Louis XVI monstrosity.

“At least,” Archer replied.

“Well.” She sighed, just heavily enough. “I'd love to accept it, Archie, I really would, but, as you can see, it just doesn't suit the rest of my things. If only it were Regence or whatever. Do you think it might by any stretch of taste go well enough in the country?”

“I doubt it,” Archer replied too quickly. “If anything it would be worse in the country, don't you think, Nick?”

“Yes,” Nikolai replied, his single line.

“Then I guess you'll just have to return it,” Vivian told Archer. “Surely they'll refund, or if they're stubborn about that just drop it off and cancel your check. I assume you paid by check.”

“Cash,” Archer fibbed.

“Where did you buy it?”

“A place on Davies Street. It was part of a shipment just in from Monaco.”

“They'll refund,” Vivian said.

“Their policy is no refunds. They were quite clear on that.”

“Or exchanges?”

“Or exchanges.”

“Oh dear,” Vivian agonized.

“Hell, just shove it in a corner behind a screen, or put it in the back of a closet,” Archer said. “One thing for certain—I'm not about to suffer the embarrassment of trying to return it, nor am I or Paggett going to lug it down the stairs. It's yours,” he said, as though the problem had depleted his patience.

Vivian did a little moan, a wordless compound of despair, resignation, and delight.

Nikolai had once been entertained by such charades, but they had long become too predictable. Each time the same play and characters; perhaps variations of the dialogue, yet always the same ending.

Archer Hamlyn-Howe was Vivian's ex-husband. At age twenty-five she had married him, age thirty-eight. She'd married him right enough, but he hadn't altogether married her. For too many years he had been assessed as a most splendid catch. Too long he'd been an automatic on most of the most-eligible lists, pictured time and again looking Savile Row as all get-out or fortunately yachty or eminently horsey or whatever in the magazines in which his sort of people approved of seeing themselves.

The accompanying caption usually went something like:
Archer Hamlyn-Howe, called Archie by his numerous admirers and well-wishers, schooled at Eton, member of Boodle's and Brooks's, a whiz at tennis, refuses to play bridge, reads Greek for pleasure, an ardent lepidopterist, immensely wealthy, for some time now has been on the lookout for a gratifying professional niche, very choosy when it comes to women, says he'd much rather continue hanging about than risk being disastrously married, spends at least half his time at his twenty-thousand-acre family estate in Devon
.

Such billing spoiled Archer. He became stuck on himself, not in the usual vain sense, but rather stuck in the psychological slosh that no woman worth a damn would want him if it weren't for his having been born, as they say, on the sunny side of the hedge.

If Archer had asked Vivian before their nuptials if she was marrying him for his money he could have saved them both legal bother. He put that to her in the middle of a night in the middle of their second week and she was absolutely forthright about it, told him of course his money had been a potent persuasive factor. Archer said nothing more. He got up, dressed, and went to a bed at one of his clubs.

Vivian had expected him to react more rationally. She'd done right in not sparing him the truth, she thought. Because the truth it was. Archer had happened to her at a time when she was especially tired of having to drag herself out of the cold waters of desperate straits. The stipend she had coming in every month from her trust was not enough, would never be enough, to subsidize her tastes and nature, unless she drastically changed both. Then, she felt, she'd no longer be herself, and that wouldn't do, because she liked herself, she genuinely, thoroughly enjoyed being Vivian Holbert. It seemed to her that living right out on the very edge presented a far more engaging scene. So what if she couldn't keep from gambling, was either mortgaged up to her nose or giving in to some irresistible reason why she should be. She was probably the world's most charming borrower, could smile a checkbook out of the tightest pocket. A half hour after meeting someone she could have him lending. She somehow always managed to repay, a bit late perhaps or only a partial payment, but she was never a deadbeat, took pride in that. Money that came into one hand went instantly out the other, as though the condition of being ahead was painful for her. What was solvency, anyway? Just having couldn't compare with the joy of spending. If ever asked what most gave her life its spirit, Vivian might have thought only a moment before replying: “Improvidence!”

Archer wanted the marriage annulled but was somewhat wounded when Vivian so readily agreed to that. Through his solicitors, Archer offered her a generous settlement. “For the inconvenience” was how the settlement papers put it. She had only to sign to be set for life. Archer was certain she would, but she turned it down. It hadn't, she said, been an inconvenience. As far as she was concerned what had been taken had been given, mutually. They were even.

At that instant Archer began really loving her, wanted to undo all that he had undone, but he was a legal document too late and Vivian wasn't one to retrace steps. She returned to spendthrifting and mortgage juggling, hocking and borrowing with renewed appreciation for such vicissitudes.

Archer never understood her preference for profligacy. Nor did it make sense to him that she wouldn't let him outright help her financially. Levitated by love, he opened substantial bank accounts in her name and had her notified. She didn't refuse them, just put that money out of mind, let it lie fallow. Archer gave up trying to give her money. He also gave up asking her to remarry him. Eventually she would come around, he hoped. Meanwhile he devised an acceptable way to contribute to her well-being.

Every so often, when Archer discerned the pressures on her becoming a bit much, he'd buy her a gift. Such as a precious, though homely, pair of Sèvres Rose Pompadour potpourri vases that had belonged to the infamous Madame la Marquise herself, valued at fifty thousand, or a rare English snaphaunce pistol circa 1590, or an antique silk Isfahan runner that was, dash it all, too long for any of her halls.

Vivian always went through the nicety of declining these “gifts” for one reason or another. Didn't need, wouldn't ever use, couldn't stand the sight of. And Archer always went through his obstinacy, refusing to take back. Thus they arrived at the accommodating impasse, with no recourse but for Vivian to dispose of them—in other words, to sell them.

That was the routine they were now just about getting to the end of with the ugly Louis XVI
petite table de salon
.

“It would be a shame to condemn it to storage,” Vivian said. “Don't you agree, Nickie?”

Nikolai had his glass to his mouth, so his yes sounded very hollow.

Vivian closed the subject by moving the little table from its position of attention. “Shall we drive to the country tonight?” she asked the moment more than anyone.

Her cat, Ninja, seemed to understand those words. He brought his slanted green eyes up to her, snaked his black-ringed tail slowly, and mewed just once as though saying, “Let's!”

“If we went down tonight we could rise early and do a bit of fishing,” Archer said.

Nikolai told himself he should be used to this “we” by now, and anyway, it wasn't really all that much of an assumption on Archer's part, seeing that Vivian's country cottage was situated in Devon, adjacent to Archer's land.

Vivian tried to forecast what would be her mood tomorrow. She decided fishing would be pleasant. As for tonight, however, if she didn't have so much want for Nikolai, she'd almost wish it were her poker night. With the money from the ugly table imminent she'd be flush enough to pull off some uncanny bluffs.

The telephone rang.

It was Gareth, supernatural tout.

Between her hello and ta to Gareth, Vivian issued only a couple of impassive mmm-huhs. But as soon as she hung up she whirled with her big smile and exclaimed: “The maiden is no longer a maiden! She paid eight to one!”

CHAPTER

4

THE DECISION WAS MADE IN FAVOR OF GOING TO THE COUNTRY
that night, as Archer had suggested. Archer also moved that they make the trip together in his Rolls. It would be great fun, he said. They would indulge in a bit of banter on the way, and besides, Paggett had just yesterday restocked the bar and if he, Archer, rode alone he would be drinking alone and that invariably led to his drinking too much.

“Poor Archie,” Vivian cooed and went to him, and he lowered his head to receive her peck of a kiss where his hairline had once been.

Nikolai wasn't opposed to riding with Archer. He foresaw Vivian sitting between them, sharing herself to that degree, but, after some miles and the effect of a drink and a half, choosing him to snuggle against.

“I think we should go in two cars,” Vivian said.

Archer insisted nicely but he gave in when Vivian closed her eyes and shook her head, which he knew meant her mind was unswayably set. He said at least they could follow each other down. Just in case she had some trouble with her old Bent was his excuse. Vivian could hardly deny that, and Archer, having achieved what he felt was his best possible position in this matter, left to go to his townhouse on Chester Terrace to sort out a couple of things. He'd be back in a jiff, he said.

Archer wasn't halfway down the stairs on his way out before Vivian and Nikolai were into a kiss. Having not really kissed since the night before they were both feeling deprived. Vivian embraced with both her arms and all her strength. In her four-inch heels she was equal in height to Nikolai, so her pelvic mound didn't have to reach, just press and perform. Her enjoyment was inspired by the fact that it had taken so little of her effort to cause him to become so hard so quickly. With her eyes closed she felt a bit whirly in the head, and when their mouths separated and she stepped back abruptly, she was breathing as if she'd just run up a hill. The space between them represented their quandary.

Should they do it now or later, go at it or wait?

They would double-bolt the door. They would ignore Archer's raps and honks. In the cave of their privacy they would undo, they would feed, feast, layer the air with their wants and havings, and float the intermissions with just some part of each other, perhaps only toes, kept in touch.

But if they did now, as much as they felt, it would take a torturous effort to rise and go around midnight, and although traffic on the road might be lighter then the drive would be reduced to a mere drive, an epilogue rather than a part of it. As well, such intense voluntary holding off was a not unenjoyable sort of torment.

Nikolai removed his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his shirt on his way into her bedroom, where he'd been allocated the top drawer of her dresser. He placed the tie in his drawer and decided against changing completely. He hung his suit jacket in his part of her walk-in closet and found a pair of his loafers among her half-hundred or so pairs of shoes on the floor. She was organized enough with her clothes and other accessories, but her shoes were always a satin, peau de soie, calfskin, suede, patent, and silk brocade scramble. Nikolai used his forefinger in place of a shoehorn to get into his loafers. He put on a cotton knit sweater and was ready. No need to take along a razor, toothbrush, and such. He now kept spares of those there at her place in the country, as well as here.

Vivian in the meantime changed into an easier, amply cut dress of white cotton. She shoved its sleeves up to her elbows, and after considerable grumbling and digging in the closet she surrendered some of her height to a pair of flat, special-heeled Italian driving shoes.

“Better pee now if you have to,” she told Nikolai.

He did.

Ninja, know-it-all cat that he was, awaited them downstairs at the front door. They went out to Vivian's Bentley. Ninja, like a child or dog finding satisfaction in being first, jumped up and in. Unlike the average cat, Ninja liked riding in a car. He sometimes stretched out across the top of the facia, dividing his hauteur between the driver, the passenger, and the road ahead. Most times his spot was on the rear window ledge between the stereo speakers, where he wrapped his tail around himself, tucked his head down, and was a black-and-gray furry mass being blasted.