Not Even for Love (7 page)

Impatiently she jerked her mind away from him and ticked off her wardrobe in her mind. What should she wear? She finally decided on a soft teal wool skirt and sweater. The skirt was full and fashionably hemmed and went well with her black suede boots. The outfit would be nothing spectacular without the triangular plaid woolen shawl that went with it. Six-inch fringe hung luxuriantly around the bottom. She put it over one shoulder and belted it at her waist with a wide gold belt. The corners of it almost reached the edge of her skirt. The prim “shopkeeper,” as Reeves had called her, looked more like a high-fashion model. Indeed, she had bought the Laurent copy last year in a Paris boutique.

She shook her hair free of its confining bun and fluffed it around her face, letting it settle softly on her shoulders. She was misting Norell around her head when she heard the knock on the door. Hastily she grabbed her gray suede coat and the purse that matched her boots and went downstairs.

The door rattled slightly as she pulled it open. “Hello, darling. I was just telling Reeves that I wish I could persuade you to come live with me in the château and give up this dismal little shop and apartment.” Helmut kissed her on the cheek and took both her hands in his, making note that she wore his ring. “Alas, Reeves, she’s a morally stubborn woman. She refuses to engage in such goings on until after we are married.”

Despite her determination to remain aloof, Jordan flushed hotly. It was true that Helmut had argued with her over her scruples against living with him until they were married. She had claimed that her need for independence was the reason. The fact was that she was in no hurry to sleep with Helmut. She had enjoyed his tender, passionate embraces, but they hadn’t made her heart sing. Not like …

She swiftly looked at Reeves and saw his eyebrows cocked in incredulity. Think what you want, she longed to fling at him. It’s true. I haven’t slept with Helmut.

She had always imagined that Helmut would make love with the same economy of words and deeds with which he transacted a business deal. He would get straight to the point, waste no unnecessary time. It wouldn’t be lingering and leisurely. He wouldn’t stroke, and caress, and kiss, and tease just as much afterward as before. He wouldn’t …

She pulled herself upright and said calmly, “Hello, Helmut.” Rising on tiptoes, she kissed him softly on the mouth. Then, with a triumphant look, she turned to Reeves. “Good evening, Mr. Grant.”

He stepped forward and took her hand. Helmut couldn’t know, unless he read the shocked expression on Jordan’s face, that Reeves’s thumb was stroking her palm. “Under the circumstances, I think you should call me by my first name, don’t you, Jordan?”

CHAPTER 4

H
is words stunned her speechless and she could only stare, marveling at his daring. Then she realized that only he and she were cognizant of the “circumstances” to which he was referring.

To confirm her deduction, Helmut said heartily, “He’s right, Jordan. Reeves will be with us constantly, for the next several days. Indeed, he may want to photograph you alone. By all means, let’s be on a first-name basis.”

She couldn’t meet Reeves’s mocking grin.

Helmut draped her coat around her shoulders, for even this early in the season the nights could be quite cold. They strolled through the alleyways until they reached a thoroughfare where Helmut’s chauffeur was waiting with the silver Mercedes limousine.

Jordan found herself ensconced between the two men on the black velour seat. Though Helmut held her hand as it rested on his thigh, it was the other man she was painfully aware of.

Reeves was wearing jeans again, but this pair was creased and starched. A caramel-colored Cardin sport coat over a beige shirt molded to the breadth of his chest and shoulders. He had on highly polished cowboy boots. Perversely, he didn’t look out of place, for jeans and Western boots were almost a uniform all over Europe these days for men and women alike.

When he leaned across her to speak to Helmut, she caught the brisk, clean-smelling fragrance of his shaving soap and cologne. It was pungent and potent, but not cloying, perfect for the man who was wearing it.

While the two men discussed some facet of Helmut’s enterprises that Reeves found interesting, Jordan remained quiet and listened only to the inflection of Reeves’s voice. He spoke with conviction and intelligence. Somehow her right shoulder had become sheltered beneath his left one, where it felt warmly secure. When he brought his arm back after making a gesture with his left hand, it skated across her breast.

Holding her breath, she slid her eyes toward him and met a gaze as alarmed and electrified as her own. Gratefully she felt the car slow down as they reached their destination.

Stadtkeller was a popular restaurant-nightclub in the city of Lucerne. An evening there was included in virtually every organized tour. The rustic tavern was loud, raucous, friendly. The specialty of the house was fondue, and while patrons gorged on the hard bread dipped in chafing dishes of melted cheese, they were entertained by performers in native costume.

The men wore lederhosen of gray suede trimmed with dark green leather with white, full-sleeved shirts. Knee-high socks with red tassels covered their legs, made muscular by mountain climbing. The women wore blouses embroidered in bright colors, black velvet basques laced tightly over their bosoms, and full skirts.

They sang, yodeled, danced folk dances, played the massive and unique alpenhorns—all to the enthusiastic endorsement of the crowd. Reeves snapped the shutter of his camera with a speed that awed Jordan. He changed lenses, filters, and film with machinelike accuracy. His film captured a toddling little girl with rosy cheeks and blond curly hair. She alternately stuffed bread or chocolate into her cherub mouth while clapping her hands excitedly in rhythm with the wheezing oomp-pa music.

“Who knows,” Reeves said when he returned to the table and Helmut teased about his interest in the child, “I may sell an Alpine piece to
National Geographic
. Or she’s pretty enough to go on a poster. I’ll see how the pictures turn out. Anyway, I love kids. They’re great photographic subjects in any culture.”

He rubbed his hands together eagerly after he closed up his camera for the night and dug into the stringy, chewy cheese and hard bread with a healthy appetite.

Helmut poured white wine into their chafing dish and mixed it with the cheese. Soon all three of them were feeling mellow and laughing at the adventurous stories Reeves regaled them with.

“Would you like coffee before we take Jordan home?” Helmut asked when they left the noisy nightclub.

“Sounds great.”

Helmut signaled his chauffeur to follow them with the car and they walked a few blocks to a restaurant across the street from the lake shore. They sacrificed sitting outside because of the cold and went inside to the quiet, elegant ambiance of the restaurant, where Helmut and Jordan were formally greeted by the maître d’.

“I know Jordan wants hot chocolate. Reeves?” Helmut asked.

“Coffee,” he said.

When their waiter brought back their order, Jordan sipped at the steamy mug topped with foamy whipped cream. Never had she enjoyed dairy products so much until she came to Switzerland. They were unsurpassed anyplace in the world.

She ran the tip of her tongue along her foam-flecked lips, but when she sat back Reeves saw a drop of the whipped cream in the corner of her mouth. Without even thinking on it, he reached toward it and flicked it away, then licked the cream off his finger. They smiled, caught up in a private, intimate moment that hadn’t been planned, but had happened on its own and for no other reason, than that they had looked at each other.

Helmut, who had been lighting a cigarette, didn’t see the reason for the silence he interrupted by saying, “Jordan has one vice, I’ve found. She has a penchant for our Swiss chocolate. I fear that in her old age she’ll grow quite fat.”

“I will not!” Jordan exclaimed heatedly, and they laughed at her vehemence. Embarrassed, she went back to her cup of chocolate and drained it while they lingered over their coffee.

“Why don’t you take Reeves across the bridge,” Helmut suggested.

“What?” she asked too quickly, startled.

“By now you know the history of it as well as I,” Helmut said. “I’ll sit here and drink another cup of coffee and smoke another cigarette while you take Reeves across the bridge and back. You haven’t yet seen it, have you, Reeves?”

Reeves wasn’t looking at Helmut. He was staring at Jordan. Finally he answered, “No, I haven’t seen it except at a distance. I’d love to know everything about it.”

Jordan shot him a quelling look. “We can wait until you’re finished, then we’ll all go,” she said to Helmut.

“Darling, you know that I despise sight-seeing in general. Be hospitable to our guest for me.”

“Very well,” she said, standing up abruptly. Better to get it over with. “Let’s go,” she said as ungraciously as she could without raising Helmut’s suspicions.

She reached for her coat, but Reeves was too quick and grabbed it out of the vacant chair. He held it for her as she slipped into the sleeves. “We’ll be back shortly, Helmut,” she said, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“Take your time.” He reached up and patted her hand. “I may have two cigarettes.”

As Reeves held the door of the restaurant open for her, she hurried past him, cramming her hands deep into her coat pockets and hunching her shoulders against the chill. She stepped out into the street, daringly crossed it in front of a honking tourist bus, and reached the other side almost at a run.

Reeves pulled up beside her and clasped her elbow. “Is this to be the whirlwind tour?”

“Don’t you dare try to be cute with me after the things you said last night.”

“You’re not being hospitable,” he chided in a singsong voice.

She ground her teeth. “You wanted to see the bridge, so okay, I’ll show you the damn bridge,” she said unreasonably. “Why didn’t you just decline Helmut’s offer and sit there and smoke a cigarette with him?”

“I’ve quit smoking again.” He grinned. “Besides, I really want to see the bridge.”

By now they had reached one of the two covered bridges that spanned the Reuss River. The river divided the city into the modern town on the west and the old town on the east. The clear water gurgled and rushed under their feet as they stepped onto the ancient wooden bridge.

In a bored, flat, tourist-guide voice, Jordan said, “The bridge dates back to the Middle Ages. As you will see overhead there are myriad panels. Each panel has two paintings, one on each side, that depict an event of regional history. The paintings date back to the early sixteen hundreds.”

“Very interesting,” he said dryly.

“The Lake of Lucerne covers over forty square miles. Four Swiss cantons, or states, border it. It—”

“Jordan,” he said harshly, and jerked her around to face him. “Why aren’t you living with Helmut?”

“None of your business,” she shouted. When her voice reverberated loudly from the ceiling of the covered bridge, she lowered it. “None of your business.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is, dammit.”

His hands were digging into the flesh of her upper arms and, in spite of her heavy clothing, his grip was painful. When she flinched, he realized how hard he was holding her and let her go immediately. She continued walking as if he hadn’t spoken.

“Why?” he persisted.

She spun around to face him, glad that there was no one else on the bridge at the moment. “Because I don’t want to. I don’t believe in living with someone without being married to him.” That expressive eyebrow rose in disbelief. Frustrated, she said, “The other night was an…an accident. I didn’t plan it, nor did you. It just… happened.” She didn’t look at him, but she didn’t move away either. He seemed to hold her like a magnet. She could feel his eyes boring into the top of her head as she stared at the toes of his boots. “I told you then that I don’t … don’t sleep around. If you didn’t believe me then, you won’t now either. I don’t care if you do or not.” But she did.

“Do you love him?”

“Helmut?”

“Are there others?”

She sighed in exasperation. “No. There are no others.” He completely disoriented her. She couldn’t think clearly, especially with him standing so close. Trembling fingers rubbed her forehead, which had begun to pound with the tension from within.

“I don’t love Helmut. At least, not in that way. He’s fun, he’s charming, polite, and, yes, rich. I can’t deny that I was flattered when he began seeing me. I was. Any woman would be. But don’t you see, Reeves?” Now she looked up at him imploringly. “I’m a novelty. He has everything in the world he could possibly want. He plays. He goes on lavish vacations. He buys impulsively and compulsively. Right now I’m like a new toy. I’m not rich, not a jet-setter, not a socialite. When he tires of me, that will be it.”

“If that’s true, why did you consent to marry him?”

“I haven’t ever exactly
consented
—I just haven’t adamantly
refused
. Since I realize I’m a temporary fascination, I haven’t pressed the point. My constant arguing to the contrary would only increase his determination to have me. Understand? Helmut, despite his Old World charm, is over-bearing when he wants something. He only hears what he wants to. He hasn’t given me a chance to tell him how I feel.”

“And how do you feel? I mean, if the novelty should wear off tomorrow, how would you feel if he did as you predict and dropped you?”

“I told you, I’ve never intended to marry him. I never intend to marry anyone.”

“Why? Because of Charles?”

“Yes, partially.”

“Partially? Do you have something against the institution of marriage?”

His pious tone stung. “No. Do you?” she snapped. “You’re not married either.” Then a thunderbolt struck her. She looked up at him with remorseful eyes. “Are you?” she asked timorously.

“No. I was once. A long time ago.”

“What happened?”

“Would I get clouted if I said, ‘None of your business’?”