R Is for Rebel (22 page)

“Hello… uh…” Her mouth looked suddenly dry. “…Eliot.”

“Did you forget my name?”

She looked down for a second then smiled that shy, blushing smile that he'd come to think he'd imagined. He felt the blood coursing through the veins in his neck.

Abigail stared into his eyes and the noise and chaos around them seemed to fade, as if they were in some sort of tunnel. She tilted her head the smallest notch, and reached up to touch her necklace. It looked like a motion she'd performed a thousand times, touching the charms and letting the bittersweet memory of him wash over her. She smiled and nodded, a small affirmative drop of her chin.

They were surprisingly able to conduct normal conversations with the other people at the table. Abigail spoke to Benjamin Willard at length about his photographic work and eventually got around to asking him if he would ever consider visiting some of the villages in Libya and Uganda where her foundation was currently involved.

“That sounds perfectly intriguing. I've never been to either country. Tell me more about what you have going on there.”

“Oh, it's hardly to do with me,” Abigail deflected.

Sarah rolled her eyes across the table.

Abigail tried again. “What I mean is, the Rose and Thorn Foundation has been investing, really, in the small female-owned businesses and health centers of fourteen villages in Libya and Uganda.”

Eliot took a slow sip of champagne and considered what else had been transpiring in Abigail's life, other than the slow boil of lust to match his own.

Sarah finally had had enough. “She is utterly impossible, Benjamin. In one year, Abigail's foundation has done more to improve the health and education of those women and children than any government or NGO has been able to accomplish in decades.”

“It's not me, though, it's the doctors and volunteers—”

Eliot smiled as Sarah became more furious. “Do you see what I'm dealing with? Eliot, you smile, but she is positively self-defeating. It is so boring!”

Benjamin Willard looked from the blond, confident Sarah James to the dark, self-conscious Abigail Heyworth and blurted out, “How many of you are there?”

“I beg your pardon?” Abigail asked.

“I mean, how many of this genus
Heyworthus Femina
roam the earth? Mothers, daughters, wives? I want to see you all in one room, preferably while I have my favorite camera and lots of time.”

Abigail looked embarrassed and Sarah looked ecstatic, practically trilling her enthusiasm. “Oh! That would be so fabulous! Can you imagine if we did it now, with Bronte pregnant out to here? She'd kill us. But with two more genus
Heyworthus Femina
on the way, it does seem a shame to rush. And then there's the long-lost sister, Claire, recently sprung from her life sentence in northern Scotland and loving New York. And Aunt Claudia! Oh my, she's not technically a Heyworth, but she is formidable.”

“I am at your disposal.” Benjamin nodded his head, first toward Sarah, then, with a bit more intensity, to Abigail.

“You are too kind,” said Abigail.

Dina leaned in front of Benjamin Willard to get a better look at Abigail. “You look so familiar.” She turned to Eliot and then to Willard. “Don't you think?”

Willard smiled and looked at Eliot, then back at Abigail. “I believe she bears a striking resemblance to all the models in the Danieli-Fauchard runway shows this season.”

Snapping her fingers, Dina said, “That's exactly it! Don't you see it, Eliot? You are making them all wear those crazy black wigs and all that kohl eyeliner, and you could have just hired this lovely woman to do your modeling for you.”

Abigail stared at Eliot and he stared back, eventually giving her a small smile. He turned to Dina. “I'd love to get Abigail to model for me, but she once told me she is not beautiful, so what could I do?”

Dina wheeled on Abigail, eyes wide. “You said what? Do you not have a mirror?”

Abigail laughed at the Russian woman's vehemence, then replied, “I do now.” She looked to Eliot and dipped her chin again.

Her shyness was the last straw. Eliot glanced at no one in particular and nearly growled, “Will you all excuse us for a moment?”

Dina and Willard looked up, surprised that the usually blasé Eliot looked so adamant. He stood up to let everyone scoot out of the large round booth, until Abigail was finally free of the banquette and standing next to him.

“Come with me.”

She smiled and trailed behind him as he headed toward the crowded bar area, eventually leading them to a more secluded section down a hall, near the public phones and the restrooms. He stood in front of her, staring, taking her in.

She said, “You have been a figment for so long, I think I forgot the real you.”

She reached for him and grabbed his wrist in a casual way, thinking she was merely illustrating her point—that she'd forgotten the physical reality of Eliot Cranbrook, her old friend—but it became a burning touch in an instant. He moved his other hand to cover hers, almost like he was holding her in place.

Touching her hand at that moment was the most pleasure he could ever hope for. He felt resolved. “I still feel it. Do you?”

“All the time. Especially at night.”

“I think we need to leave.”

“We just got here.”

“Exactly. I don't want to waste another minute.”

“Neither do I,” Abigail laughed through the words, “but I'm starving and I want to wait for my dinner.”

“Give me a little something, just to tide me over.” He pulled her closer to him, his grip tightening on hers. He reached his hand up to her face and stopped just shy of actually touching her.

She could feel the heat emanating from his palm, and her eyes shut in liquid anticipation. “Please touch me, Eliot,” she whispered.

“I don't know how.”

Her eyes flew open to meet his. “Of course you do.”

“I mean, I have dreamt and planned for this moment so many times in my imagination.” He was leaning in close to her ear, whispering hotly. “Sometimes I am tender and slow; other times I am rough and demanding; and now that I have you here, really here, I—”

Abigail wrenched her hand free of his, threw her arms around his neck, and pulled his face to hers, relieving him of the need to decide. She kissed him with abandoned desperation, moaning into his mouth, grasping handfuls of his hair in her eager fingers; after a split second's hesitation, Eliot was all over her. The restaurant noises and lights faded into a low, distant murmur.

His hands moved to her waist, her ribs, the underside of her breasts, and his knee moved between her legs as one hand moved to steady her balance at her lower back. She pulled at the front of his shirt, yanking out the fabric where he had tucked it in at his waist, her lips never leaving his. When her hand finally went flat against the warm, muscled texture of his stomach, skin to skin, she felt some ancient, lost cog of her psychic machine slip seamlessly into place.

Peace.

Love.

“I love you, Eliot,” she said between quick kisses. “I love you so much. I was so afraid.” Her lips moved away from his mouth to his neck, the soft lobe of his ear, the tender skin at his temple. “Oh, god, how I've missed you.” She was about to plant another kiss on his lips when he shook her roughly away, just a few inches, but enough to jar her.

“What?” she asked.

“What are you saying?”

“I'm saying what I was too insecure or too immature or too scared to say last year. You frightened me, Eliot. You were so… ardent.”

“Say it again. Now. While you are looking in my eyes.”

She blinked away the passion and spoke, as a vow. “I, Abigail Heyworth, love you, Eliot Cranbrook.”

He stared at her and all the vile anger and months of confusion washed away. “And I you, Abigail. I think I've loved you from the moment you walked into the drawing room at Dunlear, like a flashing wild Medusa, come in from the storm.” He traced the line of her jaw and the column of her neck, letting his finger pause at the black strings coiled around the base. “You've always been mine, Abigail, haven't you?” He put his index finger between the cord and her neck, watching, transfixed, as it tightened and pulled at her tender flesh. “I don't know why I didn't have the courage to demand you admit it. I was too easy on you. From the very first, I wanted to own you—”

She tilted her head back to feel the necklace grow even more taut, and bit her lower lip at the raw pleasure of it.

“It's all so obvious now, isn't it?” he whispered into her ear, then bit at the velveteen flesh around her earring. She wanted to drop to her knees and take him into her mouth right there on the century-old white mosaic tile. She wanted to adore him in every possible way. Every physical way. To give him every possible gift of pleasure.

“Oh, Eliot. I want you so much right now. I don't know if I can go back into the restaurant after all.”

He pulled back a pace and tucked his shirt back into his pants. “Come on, it will be fun. Let's go drink champagne and eat oysters and marvel at all the beautiful people.”

“Now it will be fun, eh? I think I see how this is going to go.” She shook her hair and looked down to make sure Sarah's silk blouse wasn't too obviously disheveled.

“You look perfect.”

She looked up quickly to see him drinking her in. “You had better not look at me like that when we get back in the restaurant…”

“Or what?” he asked.

“Or I might just slither under the table and start doing all the things I've been reliving for the past long, long year.”

He pulled her hand in his and started back toward the restaurant. “Pray tell.”

“It's a rather long and comprehensive list.”

“I love lists,” he said, then gestured for her to precede him into the large main room. “After you,
my
lady
.”

She winked over her shoulder at the old volley… about being his… and about being a lady. She winked because now it was all true.

When they were reseated at the table, they ignored Sarah's pressing glances and endless leading questions for the rest of the evening. They laughed and chatted with an ever-changing stream of models and writers and photographers, while Eliot's hand never lost contact with her body, whether trailing idly along her thigh, catching her hand under the table, or slipping one arm loosely, possessively behind her shoulders.

Near midnight, she turned to Eliot, thinking he was still engaged in another conversation with Dina, but he was silently watching her. She gave him a questioning look then asked, “Have you had enough
fun
yet?”

“Have you had enough to eat? You're going to need your strength.” His dark blue eyes sparkled, the sapphire irises nearly aglow.

“See?” she whispered. “Now that's the look that's going to put me under the table.”

“We're out of here,” he growled so only she could hear, then he lifted his chin toward Sarah. “You can pick up the tab. Just add it to the already outrageous amount you think Danieli-Fauchard should cough up to acquire Sarah James Shoes.”

“Value for money, Eliot. Value for money. Have fun, you two. I won't wait up, Abigail.”

Abigail groaned in embarrassment, but she knew Sarah was only trying to keep everything light. Abigail said her good-byes to Benjamin and Dina, and kissed Sarah on both cheeks. Abigail ducked into the taxi and just missed seeing her cousin, James Mowbray, enter the restaurant.

***

As the taxi sped down Boulevard Raspail, Abigail climbed across Eliot's lap, straddling him. She took his face firmly in her hands, almost as if she were chastising him. “Where have you been?”

“I've been right here.” He grabbed her narrow hips. “Right here,” he murmured as he began kissing her, pulling her more firmly against his lap. “Where have
you
been?”

She was kissing his neck—“Here”—then kissing his lips—“and here”—then just below his ear—“and often here.” Then she undid one button of his shirt and kissed the strong, warm flesh over his heart. “And always, always here.” She let her tongue slide over his nipple and felt his response in her lap and on her lips. “Oh, I've missed you terribly, Eliot. I'm so sorry for all the time I wasted.”

His head had fallen back onto the headrest of the taxi as he enjoyed her eager attention, but her apology brought him back to his senses. “No more of that. We were both foolish.” He took both of her hands in his and kissed the palm of each, then brought one of her hands back to his chest so she could feel the pounding of his heart. “You do this to me. Only you, Abigail.”

Her eyes faltered as she thought it was only her… and his fiancée.

He caught her change immediately. “What is it? We can't afford any more senseless misunderstandings. Tell me.”

“It just popped into my mind. I'm not trying to be difficult or self-defeating or whatever. But, only… only me… and your fiancée?”

“Oh god,” he muttered as he turned to look out at the passing streetlights. “Mari.”

“Ugh, she even has a cute nickname,” Abigail said as she rolled off his lap and settled into the seat next to him.

“This was all her idea.”

“What?!”

“Not this.” He gestured with a quick dismissive flick at his opened shirt and her mussed hair. “I mean, I told her last week that I wanted to postpone or cancel the wedding—”

“You did?” Abigail was momentarily thrilled that she wasn't entirely to blame for destroying poor Marisa's dreams. It was easier to think of her as Poor Marisa now that Abigail had won. She could afford to remember that her name was Plataneau and not Platypus, now that she was in a position to pity her.

“Yes, I did.” He smiled, but it was tinged with sadness. “And she told me she didn't want to call it off, but that she just thought I needed to get you out of my system.”