“Steve, I don't want to do anything well both regret,” she said finally, knowing that if she didn't stop him now she never would. They were both adults, and had no one to answer to, and they had both lost people they loved dearly, and their emotions were still raw, their nerves more than a little jagged.

“I don't think I'd ever be sorry for anything I did with you,” he whispered to her. “Gabbie, I love you.”

But she couldn't say that to him, because she didn't. She still loved Joe, but Steve's hands seemed to work a thousand wonders. She wanted him to go back to his room, and yet she didn't. She wanted to be with him, and lie with him, and not be alone just this once. It was New Year's Eve, and just tonight she didn't want to think about anything but the present.

“Gabbie, let me stay with you. I don't want to go back to my room, it's so lonely there… I promise, I won't do anything you don't want to do. I just want to be here.”

She hesitated as she looked at him, and she felt the same way now. She didn't want to be alone with her memories, and they could be together, and not do anything they'd regret later. They were both strong enough to do that.

She nodded finally, and kept her blouse and her stockings on as she climbed into bed with him. He wore his shirt, and his underwear, and they lay side by side under the covers and held each other. He felt very different to her. He wasn't as powerful as Joe, and she didn't love him, but he was a kind man, and she wondered if in time she would come to love him. It was certainly a possibility, and as he stroked her hair and whispered to her, she felt safe with him, and that meant a lot to her. They were both so very lonely.

They whispered in the dark for a long time, and finally she began to doze off in his arms. It was so comfortable being there with him.

“Happy New Year, Steve,” she whispered sleepily, and a moment later she was nearly asleep, when suddenly she felt him. He was lying next to her, as he had before, but somewhere he had lost his underwear and he had his shirt off, and he was gently pulling down her pants. Her stockings were already off, and she wasn't sure she wanted to resist him. He touched her gently, and without meaning to, she moaned softly in the darkness. He was sensual and adept, and awoke a passion in her that even Joe hadn't touched, in all his innocence, Theirs had been the passion of two hearts, two souls, given completely to each other without reservation. And what she began to share with Steve now was very different, it was a passion of a sexual nature of the highest order, and what he unleashed in her would have frightened her if he hadn't been so good at what he was doing. He kissed and touched and stroked, and drove her slowly into a frenzy, and she wouldn't have stopped him now for anything in life. In fact, she would have begged him not to. Their clothes lay in a heap on the floor, and he played her body like a harp as she arched her back and keened to have him within her, and finally, with agonizing slowness he gave her everything she wanted from him. She was overwhelmed by him, and driven crazy by him as he made her come again and again, until finally she begged him to stop, she couldn't stand it any longer. And afterward, they snuck into the shower, and he made love to her again standing with her, and then lay her down on the bathroom floor, still soaking wet, and took her with a force and renewed sensuality that surprised her and left her spent and breathless. She had never known anything like it with Joe, and suspected she never would again, but it was a night she would never forget, and when they went back to her bed and he pulled her into his arms finally, and held her pressed against him, their bodies sated and exhausted, she slept like a baby.





Chapter 20




THE AFFAIR THAT began between Steve and Gabriella on New Year's Eve was consummated again the next morning before they got up, and several times that afternoon, and within days of becoming involved with him, it seemed to be all they did now. They were polite and circumspect when they were downstairs amidst Mrs. Boslicki's other guests, and the moment they could get away, they raced upstairs separately, met silently in her room, and made love with each other. They made love every way and every place they could, and he taught her things she had never known or dreamed of. It was nothing like the pure, sweet love she had shared with Joe Connors. But what she shared with Steve was something very powerful and highly addictive. She could hardly bring herself to leave him to go to work every morning.

She had begun her new job on schedule after New Year's Day, and she loved working there. The bookshop was everything she had dreamed of. And then her nights were spent with Steve, reveling in the spell he had cast on her. And when they weren't in bed, they talked and laughed and teased, and most of the time didn't even bother to eat dinner. They devoured each other instead, and lived on potato chips and cookies.

“I can't afford to feed you anyway,” he teased her, but whenever they could force themselves to get out of bed, she treated him to dinner. She knew the tables would turn eventually, and he would repay her the money she'd paid Mrs. Boslicki for his rent in January. But for the moment, he just didn't have it. He talked about moving out on the first of February, and she hated to see him leave now. She paid his February rent for him as well, although this time she paid it directly to him, so no one would know she'd done it. Professor Thomas was pleased to see she liked Steve, and he still thought highly of him, and always talked about how educated he was, but she knew that some of the others had begun to suspect the affair, and were less enthusiastic about it. Steve had been out of work for four months, and people were beginning to make comments.

He still got as many phone calls every day, but none of his leads ever panned out, in spite of his good looks, fine mind, and expensive wardrobe. People just weren't hiring men with his qualifications, or so he said to Gabriella, and she believed him. He said people were nervous about him, because they thought he was over-qualified, and some of them were just plain jealous, and she could see that. He had so much to offer.

She was doing less writing these days, and the professor had scolded her for it, and when her story came out in The New Yorker in March, he reminded her that it was time to write another story. He said she should strike while the iron was hot. But the only heat she wanted now was from Steve's body. She was discovering a world with him that was exciting beyond anything she had dreamed, and very heady. And the only dark note in her life was that the professor hadn't been feeling well since Christmas. Mrs. Rosenstein was urging him to get tests, but he always said he hated doctors, and said they invented trouble when there was none, and Gabriella was inclined to believe him. But there was no denying that he did not look well, and he still coughed constantly. It was a deep, wracking cough, and even if she hadn't been involved with Steve, the professor would not have been well enough to take her to dinner. He was happy she was busy with Steve, she looked better than she had in months. She seemed to be thriving with Steve's attention.

Steve came to visit her at work sometimes, and always had interesting exchanges with Ian. The two men seemed to like each other, which pleased Gabbie too, and on more than one occasion they went out to dinner with Ian and his girlfriend. And as she always did, Gabriella had to lend Steve the money. He just didn't have it. His bank account had been empty for three months now, and the only money he had was whatever Gabbie lent him. In effect, she was supporting him on the salary she made at the bookshop. It meant deprivations for her, but it seemed a small sacrifice to make in order to help him. And he was always very grateful, and repaid her by taking care of her, being nice to her, doing their laundry while she was at work, and more often than not making love to her for several hours the moment she came through the doorway. Sometimes he was already waiting for her in bed, naked. And she didn't want to tell him how tired she was, what a long day she had, or that she just didn't feel like it. He loved pleasuring her, it was the only gift he could give her, and he was more than generous with his body.

It was May before she even realized that he was no longer telling her about his interviews, or the companies he'd called. He seemed to have stopped looking for a job entirely, and was no longer as embarrassed to ask her outright to give him money. And he no longer called it a loan now. And the only thing that bothered her was that there had been a subtle change in their relationship, and he seemed to expect it. She found him going through her handbag more than once, and helping himself to whatever she had there. After that, she found that she had started hiding her money from him. She never told him what day she got paid. And on the first of June, she realized that she had paid his rent at Mrs. Boslicki's for six months, and she asked him how he felt about giving up his own room. Of the two, she liked hers better, though his was cheaper. But he didn't warm up to the suggestion.

“I think that would be embarrassing,” he said proudly. “Everyone would know you're supporting me. Besides, it's not good for your reputation.” But paying for his room every month was wreaking havoc with her budget. A salary that would have been adequate for her, though not overly generous, was vastly diminished by her having to pay his rent, his cab fare to appointments and interviews, and his daily food bills. She was ready to suggest he get a job waiting on tables, as she had. But when she tried to broach the subject with him after she'd paid his rent again, and couldn't afford to get her own clothes out of the dry cleaners, he got angry with her.

“Are you calling me a gigolo?” he accused her in a heated argument in her bedroom, and she was mortified that he would think so.

“I didn't say that. I'm just saying I can't afford to support you.” She had never covered this ground with anyone before, it was unfamiliar territory to her, and she didn't like it. It made her feel like a monster, and he seemed to feel she owed him something, and he was easily insulted.

“Is that what you think you're doing?” he shouted at her, wounded to the core. “Supporting me? How dare you!” But she was, no matter what he chose to call it. “All you're doing, Gabriella, is advancing me money.”

“I know, Steve… I'm sorry. It's just… I can't always manage it. My salary just isn't big enough. I think you have to get some kind of job now.”

“I didn't go to Yale and Stanford in order to learn how to wait on tables.”

“Neither did I, and I went to Columbia. That's a good school too, but I had to eat when I left the convent.” And he did too, but he had her to pay for it. And he made her feel guilty every time the subject came up, so eventually she stopped asking him, and decided to try to write some stories. But this time, when she did, every one of them got rejected. And the day the last rejection came in, she found Steve once again plundering her handbag. He had most of her salary in his hands when she came back from the bathroom.

“What are you doing with that?” she asked, looking panicked. “I haven't paid our rent yet.”

“She can wait. She trusts us. I owe someone some money.”

“For what? Who?” she asked, on the verge of tears. He was creating a situation she couldn't handle, and she had no other resources to draw on. It was rapidly becoming a nightmare, and when she tried to reason with him about it now, he got hostile, probably because he felt embarrassed, she explained to herself. But his answers had become vague, and this time he answered, “People.”

“What people?” she asked him. He didn't know anyone in New York. But then again, for a man who didn't know anyone, he sure got a lot of phone calls. For months, Mrs. Boslicki had complained that she felt like she was running a switchboard. There were a lot of things Gabriella realized she didn't know about him, and he wasn't anxious to share his secrets.

“I'm sick and tired of your questions,” he raged at her when she pressed him, and he had taken to slamming out of her room, banging the door behind him, and disappearing. Sometimes he vanished for hours, and she had no idea where he went to, but he always made her feel that his disappearances were her fault. He was good at that, and it was a role she had played for her entire lifetime. She was always willing to blame herself, and assume the innocence of others. And she knew he was under a lot of pressure. He had been in New York for eight months, and was mortified about not working, or so he told her.