Makin' Whoopee (7 page)

"How do you figure that?"

"Because of my passion for old houses. The idea of working with them every day, finding people like myself to live in them ..." She shrugged. "It was just too right. At least I had to give it a try." She leaned forward, excitement shining in her sable-brown eyes. "I want to deal specifically with old houses. No, not just old—really beautiful pieces of architecture."

"You mean those things with ten-foot-high ceilings that never heat properly? They always have mouse-gray carpets, and furniture that you're afraid to sit on."

She glared indignantly. "I suppose you like the ones that have shiny red miniature swimming pools for bathtubs and skinny blinds that match the carpet and the paintings."

He nodded seriously. "And kitchens that have every modern convenience crammed into two square feet."

She drew in a deep breath, then eyed him suspicously. "You're teasing me again, aren't you?"

"A little," he admitted, his eyes laughing. "You're very teasable. But as a matter of fact, I like older homes. I like the modern ones too."

"How wishy-washy. Don't you have a preference?"

He shrugged. "I take each house individually and let it talk to me. Old or new, if it's a warm, loving house, it'll tell me so."

She stared at him for a moment in bewilderment. "Your father's right. You're weird."

He laughed outright this time. "Maybe so, but I think anything different is a plus in this business. I'll never wear a gold jacket or speak in real-estate-ese. I figure enthusiasm will take you a long way in any business."

"You're right," she said, laughing with him. "I can't wait to get started. My stint in the law office won't hurt either. I intend to have an office in the back of my home. That way, since I'm going to specialize, potential clients won't mind making the trip out."

"You'll make it," he said softly; then he smiled. "I'm going to specialize too. I intend to deal in expensive houses." When she gave a sputter of startled laughter, he said, "No, I mean it. No matter what the economy is doing or how the market fluctuates, the rich are always with us. That may not be an original thought, but it's true. There are always people who want something bigger and more expensive. I intend to be the one who sells it to them."

She smiled slightly. "And you will probably be very successful. I imagine you could sell just about anything."

"You think so?" he asked, the crooked smile appearing again. "I'd like to sell you something right now."

"Me? You picked the wrong customer. It took every spare penny I had to make the down payment on my house."

"It wouldn't cost you a thing. I'm selling me." He picked up her hand, and his thumb traced the lines in her palm in what seemed a shockingly erotic caress. "How about having dinner with me tomorrow night?"

Sara was taken aback. She hadn't expected to be forced to make a decision about him so soon. As she stared speechlessly at him, she began to understand what it was about Charlie that threw her. She had never felt an instant physical attraction to a man. The physical had always followed the emotional and intellectual attraction. But she had been instantly drawn to Charlie, and that worried her.

She didn't entirely understand her feelings. She only knew that something about being involved with Charlie frightened her. And she had learned to trust her instincts.

So that night she had turned him down, but that hadn't stopped him from trying again . . . and again. Somehow when the course in real-estate law began, Charlie managed to get in the same class with Sara. And in all the other classes. During the day she continued to work at the law office and Charlie was at his father's firm, but each of them was waiting for the future to begin. Then, months later, when they had completed all the required courses, they took their state exams together.

Three weeks after the test, Sara was at home polishing the silver, trying to keep her mind off the waiting, off the possibility that she had failed the test, when the doorbell rang. Charlie was standing on her doorstep with a champagne bottle in each hand.

"You passed," she said, not bothering to hide her envy as she showed him in. "Why haven't they called me yet? They're doing it on purpose." She groaned. "It's some kind of trial by fire ... or maybe they know I'll start crying when they tell me I failed." She glanced at him anxiously. "Oh, Charlie, I failed, didn't I? And no one wants to tell me."

He smiled slyly. "Did I ever tell you about my connection on the state board?"

"You know something," she accused him, grasping his arm. "What do you know, Charlie? Tell me!"

Laughing at her threatening expression, he threw an arm around her waist. "You passed."

Sara squealed, tossing her cleaning rag into the air in triumph. Then suddenly they were dancing together, around the room and over the furniture, in a pagan rite of victory. Exhilaration shot through them before they even uncorked the champagne.

Much later they sat together on the couch, their shoulders touching as they talked. One bottle of champagne was gone and the other well on its way.

Sara took a sip from her glass. "It was always in the future. Now it's here. I still can't believe it. There's so much to do."

Charlie groaned. "I've got to find an office. I've had offers from two real-estate companies, but that's not what I want. I want to set up my own place. I want to handle the houses I want to handle, not the ones that someone else wants me to." He glanced at Sara.

"How about renting me one of the rooms out back? If clients don't like what you've got, I can show them my listings."

She was silent for a moment. "You know, that might work."

"I was teasing."

"No, listen, Charlie," she said, sitting up straighter. "We could be partners. I'll take the older homes and you can handle the modern ones. It's perfect."

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Just think about it a minute," she urged. "Can you see any real drawbacks?"

"No . . . but it seems to me that I would be getting all the benefits."

"No, you wouldn't. The more business we can handle, the more customers well draw in. We take our commission off the top; then a percentage of that will go back into the business. Before long we'll be tycoons."

"I like it," he said, his blue eyes sparkling as he hugged her. "By George, I like it." He raised his glass. "To our partnership."

She laughed with excitement and drained her glass.

"Now we have to throw our glasses in the fireplace," he said, standing.

"That's my best crystal!" she said, grabbing his arm to pull him back.

He fell onto the sofa, laughing as he wrapped his arms around her waist. They had both had too much champagne, but that couldn't explain the explosion that took place when he kissed her. Somehow she had known it would be this way. She had known that once he touched her she wouldn't be able to think of anything else. Her hands trembled as she allowed them to touch his face, his chest, his thighs.

As they found wonder in exploring each other, a stark realization came to Sara. She knew beyond doubt that making love to Charlie was more important than anything in her life. The knowledge petrified her with fear.

Now, in retrospect, Sara thought she must have gone a little cra2y that night. She vividly recalled the feel of his body. The scent of him still lingered in her nostrils. And his hands, his beautiful, sculptor's hands—they had spoken to her much more clearly than any words she had ever heard.

She had called a halt to their lovemaking before it was too late, not realizing then that it had been too late the moment she met him. Even now, two years later, the craziness was still in her blood.

It hadn't been hard to convince Charlie that the champagne had been responsible for her heated response to his caresses. He had accepted the fact that they had to be friends and partners only. No sweat, he had said that night, as though nothing could be easier.

Restlessly Sara rolled over on the bed. No sweat. The promise had come so easily from him. Just like tonight. The attraction between them had been buried and ignored, at least by Charlie. She would never be able to ignore it herself, never be able to forget the feel of him against her. It had been months before she could sit on the couch without reliving every second of their love scene there.

The erotic, confusing dreams had begun after that night. They were always powerful, always disturbing. Sometimes she would go for months without the dreams disrupting her life. Then something would happen, some small thing—a touch, a feeling—and they would return full force.

And there had been times in the past two years when her need for him had nearly broken her. She continued to tell herself that what she felt was obsessive and wrong, and would fight it doggedly. Getting physically involved with Charlie would bring a pain she knew she wasn't equipped to handle.

Sara closed her eyes, remembering a night a year ago. She had been lying awake in bed in the early hours before dawn, when her resistance was at its lowest point. In an act of pure desperation she had reached for the phone and dialed his number. A woman had answered, her sleep-husky voice ripping at Sara's heart.

Anytime Sara felt like making her and Charlie's relationship more than a friendship, she would remember that voice. Pain and jealousy would shake her anew, bringing strength. She could handle a weekend with Charlie, she told herself now. She had to.

The next morning she lay for a while in bed. She dreaded going down to face Charlie. The scene between them was engraved too intimately in her mind, in her body. Would it show on her face?

Sighing heavily, she finally pushed back the covers. She couldn't avoid him forever. The only thing she could do was get it over with as soon as possible.

She heard him whistling before she reached the kitchen. He turned when she slowly pushed the door open.

"The basement," he said as she walked into the room, his voice portentous even through a mouthful of toast.

She stared at him for a moment, then felt a rush of relief. It was going to be all right. As always, Charlie was going to make it all right.

"Come again?" she asked, hiding her smile.

"The basement."

"You said that as though you were announcing the ides of March, or something." She poured herself some coffee.

"We haven't checked the basement yet," he said eagerly. "Who knows what evil lurks in the basement of man?"

"The Shadow?" she asked. "Charlie, I really hate spiders and bats. Couldn't we leave the basement for another time?"

He shook his head emphatically. "Do you honestly think a spider or bat would be stupid enough to attack you with Charlie Sanderson along?"

"What if it's from out of town and doesn't recognize you?"

"Impossible. My name is legendary."

"And all this time I thought it was Charlie." She took a last sip of coffee. "Okay. If we're going to do it, let's get it over with now."

"That's what I like—enthusiasm," he said as they left the kitchen.

The door to the basement wasn't locked, but it was wedged so tightly closed, Sara was sure no one had opened it in the last century. Even when the light switch at the top of the stairs proved ineffective, Charlie wouldn't let her back out. He produced a flashlight to guide them down the narrow wooden stairs.

"This was really a dumb idea, Charlie," she said, grasping his arm tightly.

"Oh, I don't know," he murmured, slipping his arm around her waist. "I think we should have done it much sooner. I kind of like your clinging to me."

"I'm not the clinging type."

"I know." His tone was regretful. "There are a couple of windows. Let me clear some of the dirt off one and maybe we can see."

He stepped away from her, and she could hear him rummaging through a box.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"Looking for some cloth. I may fight bats and spiders with my bare hands, but a dirty window is a horse of a different color."

When he had cleared several panes of a high window, sunlight spotlighted the area directly below the window. Since the window faced west the light was weak, but it was better than nothing.

Boxes and trunks were stacked everywhere, along with pieces of furniture that made the Spanish atrocities upstairs almost look good. Charlie was in his element here, Sara quickly saw. Rooting through the boxes, he found a fantasy world of times past.

"What do you think of this?" he asked, holding a faded green tutu against his body. "I wonder whom this stuff belonged to."

"This is just a wild guess, you understand," she said dryly, "but I would say it wasn't a man."

He struck a pose. "I don't know. This would show off my legs real well."

She snorted. "I don't think Baryshnikov has a lot to worry about from you."

"So who cares about a man who stuffs gym socks in his tights?" His voice echoed hollowly as he leaned down inside a huge box. "This junk is great. People don't save things the way they used to. Everything's disposable. You don't even see handkerchiefs anymore. Everything ..."

The last part of his sentence was muffled by whatever he was digging around in. Dust flew around him, making her sneeze.