Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

“A fact the early settlers discovered immediately.”

“How long have you owned Le Retour?” She turned from the moonlit windows, her small form silhouetted against the silvery brilliance.

“My great-grandfather bought it in the eighties as a retreat. He was an amateur naturalist, and he enlarged the gardens, bringing in trees and plants from all over the world. Am I boring you?” he asked politely. He wasn't generally a conversationalist with a woman who aroused him.

“Will you show me the gardens in the morning?”

“I'll show you every last botanical eccentricity, if you wish. Great-grandpapa brought over a gardener he'd stolen from the royal court and Herr Schramm oversaw an army of native gardeners whose descendants still practice his style of horticulture.”

“My great-grandpapa raised cattle, and my grandpapa and papa do the same.”

Her words were like a soothing tonic, as though all the tension in his body and mind, all the raw nerve endings he'd been calming with heroin were tranquilized. He could imagine a quiet childhood on a farm generations old. Not that his family's homes weren't venerable, but the frenzy of his mother's social life was too prevalent, as was the unspoken disapproval of their wealth. Their fortunes were fostered by death. “My family made money on wars,” he said. He'd had no control over his feelings, no defense to bear the censure. Unlike Sylvie, he was sensitive to the slurs. “Would you like some champagne?” he asked, wanting to dismiss the plaguing inequities. With Mariel near, he'd found a new ease in banishing the past.

She came to him with a smile and sat beside him on the large, linen-covered bed. Taking off her jacket, she watched as he poured champagne into the two glass tumblers which had been on the pottery tray beside the freesia. Everything was anticipated and ready at hand, Mariel noted, down to the last small detail. Danish biscuits, no doubt a favorite of Egon's, were arranged on the tray, as well, only an arm's reach away. New magazines lay on the tables beside the chairs. Even the cologne on the tallboy was unopened and new.

“Do you come here often? It's very beautiful.”

“Not lately,” he said, offering her a glass. “Although,” he went on with a boyish smile, “if you like, we can come more often.”

“Be careful what you say,” she replied, her eyes serious. “I'm a simple farm girl and my head can be easily turned.” Her smile was winsome. “And I don't care to be hurt,” she added very softly.

“I'd never hurt you,” Egon said, his eyes sober beneath the wave of blond hair falling across his forehead. “I'm an authority on the subject.”

“Because of this?” Mariel said, reaching over to touch the needle marks on his bare arms. His short-sleeved linen shirt exposed the tracks of heroin use, and he didn't stop her from stroking the vestiges of bruises.

He gazed at his arms as though they were detached somehow, a landscape of misadventure he'd overlooked. “I forget how they appear to other people,” he said, shrugging away the familiar sense of error. “It's not habitual. I go off and on.”

“Could I help?”

He nodded, covering her small hand with his. “I'd like that.”

“Tomorrow?”

“It's not very pleasant.”

“Only if you want to,” she quickly added, conscious of her overwhelming presumption. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to be judgmental.”

He smiled. “A crusading female.”

“No!” Her small cry was instantly apologetic.

“Tomorrow's fine,” he softly said, stroking the back of her hand, wondering for a brief moment why he was agreeing with such pleasure to undergo the excruciating ordeal. But his feelings were inexplicable-not muddled or distorted, merely inexplicable. And he savored the feeling of bliss.

Reaching over, he set his glass on the bedside table and said, “This may sound off-the-wall, but have you ever experienced bliss?”

“Do I have to answer that?” she replied, uncertainty in her voice. She knew him too little to admit to the sensation she was experiencing, and was afraid somehow he was toying with her.

“No-no,” he quickly answered. “Are you through? Do you want more?” he asked. At her negative nod he set her glass next to his. “I'm sorry, I knew that was going to sound bizarre… and it's not the drugs talking. I've finally understood the sensation of bliss. That's all.”

“What's it like?” Mariel asked with a childlike inquisitiveness he found endearing.

“It's warm,” he said.

And she nodded in agreement, although he took it for understanding.

“Did you ever daydream as a child about something you wanted to happen and visualized how happy you'd be if everything worked out exactly like your dream?”

She nodded again, knowing how he felt, thinking he looked very strong, the muscles on his tanned arms powerful and taut.

“And it's like you've found the answer finally… and you wonder why you've never known it was there before.”

“But it wasn't,” she softly said.

“Exactly,” he murmured. “Until now.”

“Until now,” she whispered.

Their hands met and twined, and they both smiled a secret, understanding smile that transcended all the unknowns in their lives.

And she bent to kiss him.

He stopped her short inches away, both his hands on her shoulders. “You don't have to worry about the needles.”

“I'm not,” she whispered and tried to kiss him.

He held her firmly, his tone level. “You should. It could be dangerous.”

“You're not dangerous.”

He sighed, wondering how much he should tell her, wondering if she'd accept all his other escapades as benignly. Should he say, “I have my own private physician who runs blood tests weekly, and I'm healthy.” How would that play on the same stage with bliss?

“No, I'm not dangerous,” he said, humbled by her utter faith in him. “And I'm going to kiss you. Don't move.”

She held her breath until his mouth touched hers, and then exhaled a small sigh matched by his own gentle moan. Pulling her atop him, her slight weight effortless to lift, he held her tightly while they both felt the magic of warm daydreams come true.

After long minutes, he softly murmured against her mouth, “I'd like to-” he nibbled the sweetness of her upper lip, “take all night to please you.” His mouth trailed over her cheek to her ear.

“But…” she teased, feeling him hard against her, hearing the husky rasp of his voice.

“But,” he softly said, amusement in his eyes, “it's not going to work out… the pleasing.”

“Until next time?” she finished with a seductive wiggle of her bottom.

“Which won't be all that long,” he said with a sharp inhalation as she began to unzip his slacks. “Promise,” he whispered, her hand stroking his rigid arousal.

He was proficient at undressing women, and her Air France uniform was discarded swiftly along with her lacy underclothes and nylons. She smiled when he brushed her hands away as she attempted to undress him. “You'll be way too slow.” He grinned, kissed her straight small nose, and proceeded to shrug out of his clothes in record time.

She lay on his large soft bed, heated by his fierce desire, intoxicated by his impassioned need, feeling a sense of power and utter abandon. She would always remember the sweet tenderness in his beautiful eyes as he took her face in his hands and kissed her. “Hello,” he breathed only inches from her mouth, and his smile held the promise of pleasure. “Welcome to Le Retour.”

He was shaking when he entered her, touched by both passion and tenderness after a lifetime of pursuing only dalliance. But at least in his idle pursuit of pleasure he'd gained a flawless expertise, and he conscientiously set out to satisfy her. He moved with impeccable finesse.

As Mariel felt him glide inside her gently, she could almost anticipate each movement upward, and she trembled to feel him deeply and intensely.

He wanted more time, but knew that wish was useless in his present state. And rather than leave her unsated and possibly unhappy-something he rarely considered with the predatory glittering butterflies so often in his bed-he decided to discard thought of a leisurely lovemaking.

Egon concentrated on the readily roused portions of the female anatomy and proceeded to bring the lady to climax. It was a sensible action by a man known for his intemperance, for he wouldn't have been able to withhold his own intense orgasm much longer.

He felt as though he were drowning as he poured into her, his breath in sharp abeyance as acute pleasure washed over him.

And the small, soft woman in his arms wept with the intensity of her passion.

“Don't cry… I've hurt you. I'm sorry… don't cry,” Egon murmured, bereft at his incompetence.

“No… no, it was beautiful. I've never-” She hesitated at the clinical word, translating it into the more lyrical French. “I've never experienced le petite morte…”

Oh Lord, he thought and damned his own selfishness. He could have made it so much better. Enfolding her in his arms, he held her close. “I think I love you,” he gently said. He found the words infinitely easy to say, though he spoke them for the first time in his life.

“I think I like that,” she whispered shyly in return.

And he knew he'd found his elusive paradise.

W ith every room at Le Retour lighted, Carey knew Egon had finally arrived. Without discretion he and Molly entered the house. Standing in the center of the entrance hall, he shouted, “Egon! Goddammit, get dressed!”

Then, grabbing Molly's hand, he swiftly moved toward the stairway leading to the third floor. “Pretty polite guy,” Molly said, taking the stairs two at a time to keep up to him.

“No time for etiquette. Besides, Egon's used to me.”

And that casual statement made Molly wonder how many times they'd shared the intimacy of amorous escapades. When Carey pushed open the door into Egon's room without so much as a knock, Molly hung back, uncomfortable with the idea of barging into someone's bedroom.

“Get your ass out of bed Egon, pronto. Sorry,” he briefly apologized with a nod at Mariel who was clutching the bedsheet to her chest. “But we've got to get out of here-now!”

“They might not come.”

“And I'm the Virgin Mary. Get your clothes on.”

Carey's sudden appearance brought thoughts of Rifat flooding back to Egon's mind. “Have you seen them?”

“No, not yet. We might make it out. Meet you downstairs in three minutes. Here.” He tossed Egon's slacks to him and walked out of the room.

“Let's see what we can find for weapons,” Carey said, taking Molly's hand again and moving toward the stairway. “The study's downstairs.”

“What was the girl like?” Molly asked as they descended the stairs. “Did she seem frightened at your appearance?”

Carey glanced at Molly, his expression bewildered. His thoughts were focused on the need to protect themselves. “I didn't look at her. She'll be down in a minute.” He pointed toward a room at the base of the stairs.

“Can Egon handle a gun?” Molly asked.

“Yes,” Carey said, “if the damn things aren't rusted shut.” He was feeling extremely vulnerable at the moment with two women to protect and Egon's stability in question, though he'd seemed remarkably in control. One point for our side, Carey thought. When Egon was in command of his nerves, the man was prime. Like the time they were trap shooting in Austria, and he and Egon had both melted the bores on two shotguns, matching scores all afternoon. Egon had a good eye.

He glanced swiftly at Molly, as if to reassure himself. She smiled at him, and he squeezed her hand. She was so normal and rational, so fiercely lovable. Damn, she shouldn't be here. But then there shouldn't be brutality and injustice in the world, either… he couldn't control the universe.

After an inspection of the rifles and shotguns in the glass-doored cabinet, he found only two unusable. The others, while not modern assault weapons, were custom hunting rifles and shotguns capable of lethal damage. He was stacking ammunition on the large, polished desktop when Egon and Mariel appeared on the stairway. “In the study,” he shouted.

Egon held Mariel's hand when he introduced her, and none of the blasй indifference was in his voice. Carey looked at her with interest; she was fresh-faced and unpretentious, with innocent eyes. A decided change from the European models Egon normally chose to amuse himself. The ones who pretended so much and so often, they were no longer sure exactly who they were. This young woman apparently knew who she was.

“So you're Molly,” Egon remarked enigmatically when Carey introduced her.

“And you're Egon,” she replied with a mischievous smile. “We've been tracking you for hours.”