Regret Not a Moment (22 page)

John gasped as she enclosed him in her warm mouth. “We don’t have time…” he said in an unconvincing attempt to stop her.

Devon drew away from him for a moment. “You don’t need much time,” she replied with a smirk. She found the easy access to him afforded by the costume incredibly exciting. She swirled her tongue around his member, enjoying his helplessness in the face of her seduction.

He closed his eyes and abandoned himself utterly to the pleasure she aroused in him. She cupped his buttocks with her hands, pulling him into her. As his excitement rose to a climax, he half opened his eyes. In the mirror, he saw their forms reflected. The image drove him over the edge until he felt his knees weaken and the hot juice come spurting out of him.

Devon cradled him in her hands until she heard his breathing return to normal. Then she stood and straightened their clothes. John drew her to him tenderly. “I love you so much,” he said.

“I love you, too.” Devon kissed him lightly, then stepped away from him, moving toward the bathroom. “But we’d better finish getting ready.”

A knock on the door interrupted them. “Come in,” Devon called.

Alice entered with a wreath of eucalyptus leaves. “I wove these for Mr. John,” she said with a smile. “I thought they’d set off his costume very nicely.”

“Alice, you are a she-devil,” John accused her with a broad laugh.

“I?” replied Alice, in a tone of complete innocence.

“I think I should refuse to wear that.”

“As you wish, sir,” said Alice, playfully sinking into a deep curtsy. “Pay no attention to the labors of those who serve you with devotion.”

“Get up, you wench, and send my valet in to help me with this ridiculous contrivance.”

Devon beamed from one to the other. She was glad that Alice and John enjoyed each other’s sense of humor so much, for she loved them both dearly. She sighed in perfect contentment.

When Devon emerged from the bathroom, she found John alone in the room holding the wreath on his head and looking in the mirror with a frown.

Well, don’t spend forever preening,” Devon joked, “or we’ll be late for the ball.”

“Better yet, let’s sneak out of here while Alice is fetching Wilkes. That way, I won’t have to wear this blasted thing.” So, giggling like two children, Devon and John quietly slipped out of Casa del Mar.

Light and music poured out of the open windows of the assembly hall in Casa Grande. The huge medieval-style room was lit with giant torcheres, the flames adding romance and mystery to the surroundings. The immense carved wood ceiling provided a dramatic counterpoint to the lustrous tapestries that lined the walls. The effect was one of grandeur, further emphasized by the priceless paintings, sculptures, and other treasures that filled the room.

“In the daytime this room seems gloomy, but it absolutely shines at night,” Devon said dreamily. John nodded his agreement and took her hand as they joined the group of partygoers. More guests had arrived during the day, so that the room, much too large to be actually crowded, was abustle with dancing and merrymaking.

“Even Gary Cooper looks silly in a toga,” John commented wryly.

“Well…” said Devon in mock hesitation. “Okay… I’ll grant you that.”

A passing waiter offered the couple glasses of champagne, which they took.

“Shall we get a bite to eat?” John asked Devon. She nodded in agreement and followed John as he made his way to the adjoining room. They stopped numerous times to greet fellow revelers before they reached the huge banquet hall, with its three long tables almost hidden under an extraordinary array of delicacies, along with more pedestrian fare. William Randolph Hearst enjoyed entertaining and was pleased to offer his guests the most exotic dishes, but he preferred more simple food himself. As a result, mixed in with the smoked quail and the medallions of venison with truffles and port wine sauce were meat loaf and potato salad. And, as always, bottles of ketchup were placed at regular intervals along the length of the table.

“Devon, John, how are you?” Their host greeted them heartily as he balanced a plate filled with ketchup-covered meat loaf, coleslaw, and lima beans.

“Wonderful party, W.R,” John said. “Where’s the lovely Miss Davies?”

“Oh, she’s around here somewhere. Look for a Roman slave girl.”

After a few more greetings and some sampling from the delicious buffet, Devon and John returned to the assembly hall, drawn by the sound of the band. A lindy hop left the couple breathless, but their heart rates slowed to normal after a slow waltz. There was a pause between melodies and John and Devon each took another glass of the proffered champagne.

Devon was facing John, talking to him, when she heard a voice coming from over her shoulder.

“John? Once again I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Devon turned with a smile, but her expression froze when she saw who had spoken. It was the tall, blonde girl who had been teasing the chimpanzees. In contrast to her earlier coarse behavior, the blonde’s breathtaking face was aglow with a charming smile. She was clad in a white satin toga that set off her tan and her silken blonde hair. A golden belt at the waist was the only adornment she wore, and it was all she needed; in that way, nothing detracted from the perfect shape of her breasts and hips. Devon noticed that like many of the other women present, the girl was braless, her erect nipples highlighted by the shimmer of the white cloth.

Devon’s gaze traveled from the girl to John. She noticed that he was beaming at the vision before them and that the girl was looking up at him with an expression that was a mixture of respect and coyness.

“Devon, have you met—”

“We’ve met.” Devon cut John off, her voice icy. John turned to look at his wife, puzzled.

The young woman, her face a mask of innocence, looked questioningly from Devon to John. “Have I intruded?”

“Not at all,” John said with heartiness that he hoped would gloss over Devon’s inexplicable hostility. “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Devon.”

“Your…” The woman raised one eyebrow, and, after a pause, uttered the word, “Wife? Well,” she said, seeming to recover from her surprise, “how nice to meet you. I’m Bebe Henley.” She put out a hand to Devon.

For a split second, Devon thought about refusing the gesture, but it went against her innate good breeding to do so. She took the young woman’s hand and shook it as briefly as possible.

“How do you do,” she said flatly.

“Lovely, thank you,” said Bebe, her voice honeyed.

John turned toward Devon and said, “Bebe’s father is an old friend of mine.” He felt terribly uncomfortable, though he was not quite sure why.

As the band struck up a romantic Cole Porter tune, Bebe turned to Devon and said, “Would you mind terribly if I stole your husband… just for this one dance?”

“What was I supposed to do? Refuse to dance with her?” John demanded, slamming the door to their Casa del Mar suite in exasperation.

“Don’t slam that door. There are other people here,” Devon said coldly.

“Screw the door,” John said, deliberately using the profanity to vex his wife, who he felt was being unreasonable, “and answer me.”

“It was not the dance that I objected to. It was the fact that you allowed her to plaster herself against you while you were doing it.”

Devon hated herself for showing the jealousy she felt for Bebe Henley. But there was something disturbing about John’s reaction to her. Other women had flirted with her husband since their marriage, but John had always appeared oblivious to them. That had not been his attitude toward Bebe, however. He had obviously enjoyed the young woman’s admiration—seemed stimulated by it. Devon knew he cared nothing for the girl. Still, every factor in the equation added to her fury.

After the initial dance, the band had gone on to play a waltz, then a tango. Altogether, John and Bebe had shared four dances as Devon looked on and fumed. She had concealed her anger in front of their friends, but had avoided John as much as possible for the rest of the evening. And it seemed that every time she looked up, Bebe was beside him. It was only on their way back to Casa del Mar that Devon had the opportunity to explain to John the basis for her dislike of the young woman—a dislike that in a few short hours had blossomed into something akin to hatred. The passion of her anger disturbed her, made her feel weak.

“Look,” said John in a conciliatory tone, “I can certainly understand why you’re disgusted by Bebe’s behavior this morning. I would have been too. But you can’t judge someone by just one incident. Maybe she had a bit too much to drink.”

“How can you say that? What circumstance justifies cruelty to animals? You always speak out against it. Why are you now excusing it just because it’s Bebe Henley?”

“I’m not excusing it. I’m just trying to say that there may be an explanation. She seemed perfectly well behaved this evening.”

Devon found the forced reasonableness of John’s tone particularly irritating. “Please don’t speak to me as though I’m a mental patient that has to be humored.”

“I didn’t say anyth—”

“I’m talking about your tone,” she snapped. Taking a deep breath, she began again, speaking deliberately and calmly. “I find your behavior toward this woman offensive because it’s different from the way you’ve treated other women who have flirted with you. I’m not stupid, John, I could see that you enjoyed the attention she gave you. But most of all, I don’t appreciate that you would excuse behavior in her that you would condemn in anyone else.”

“That’s ridiculous!” John lost control again, his voice rising in anger. “She’s nothing to me and I don’t excuse anything. I’m just not so judgmental as you are.”

Devon turned her back on John, trying to keep her anger under control. She already regretted the fact that she was showing jealousy over someone she knew was of no importance. It was probably wise to drop the matter, or to act nonchalant about the small flirtation. It was just a
small
flirtation, after all. Yet she found it abhorrent that she and John could disagree so violently on their opinions of another person’s behavior.

“I guess I expected you to share my opinion of her now that I’ve told you what she did,” Devon said bitterly.

“I agree that the act was terrible, but that doesn’t mean that the whole person is.”

“Well, I just don’t see how you can separate the two, but I suppose there’s no point in discussing it further since it’s apparent that we disagree.” Devon picked up her silk peignoir and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

John stared at the closed door, tempted to knock on it and demand that Devon come out and give him a chance to respond. But what can I possibly say? John asked himself. I
did
flirt with Bebe. I
did
enjoy dancing with her. She’s an enticing woman. I love Devon, but that doesn’t mean that I never notice other women. Anyhow, he told himself, it would be best if I just avoided Bebe in the future.

But that would prove to be a more difficult task than he had anticipated.

LIKE all racing Thoroughbreds, Firefly’s birthday was officially January 1. She would be three years old, which made her eligible to enter the Kentucky Derby.

“Fillies don’t win the Derby,” Willy insisted. He and Devon were in Willy’s small office, standing almost nose to nose arguing. The room was chilly, but Willy and Devon, both concentrating on keeping their tempers under control, were oblivious to the temperature.

“Firefly was our biggest money-winner last year,” Devon pointed out. Willy was over generalizing, Devon thought. It was true that fillies were not usually the champions that colts were. Fillies had a tendency to deliberately slow down when challenged by colts, a timeless instinct originating from life in wild herds, where a stallion always took charge of a harem of mares. But such was not the case with all fillies, and Firefly was proof of that, Devon believed.

“Aye, she won a lot. But mostly in all-filly races.”

“But not always. She won a race at Saratoga last summer against colts. And one at Pimlico.”

“That was different and you know it. We weren’t really challenging her, we were just testing to see how she’d do.”

“And she did marvelously!”

“Look, Missus Alexander,” Willy said, fixing Devon with a baleful glare, “only one filly has ever won the Derby in all these years.”

“Well, this year will make it two,” declared Devon.

“I happen to think that we’ve got a better chance with Fearless Leader. But maybe you don’t care what I think,” Willy harrumphed.

Devon glared back at him. She was exasperated, but afraid of saying anything to antagonize him further. She knew that in the past several months she had pushed the limits of his tolerance. He had flatly stated when they had bought the farm that he would brook no interference from owners in the day-to-day handling of the horses. Well, he had put up with more involvement from Devon than many trainers would have, she admitted to herself. At the same time, Devon’s input had been of value. She had served well as an assistant trainer and exercise rider, and Willy knew it, though he would never admit it aloud. Still, Devon knew he knew it. And that he had developed a certain grudging respect for her.

“I tell you what,” Devon said in a more conciliatory tone, “let’s see how they do this spring. We’ll let the Blue Grass Stakes be the deadline. We can decide after that. It’s only February, so we have some time. But let’s treat them both as though they were going to the Derby.”

“I’ve got no problem with that,” Willy conceded, his tone still gruff. “But I only want to put one horse in the Derby. The operation’s just getting up to speed again and I don’t want us to spread ourselves too thin.”

Devon knew that many of the top racing farms often entered more than one horse in the same race. In such cases, a bettor on one horse would win—even if his horse lost—if the other horse from the same stable placed in the race. For the owner, it heightened the chances of winning purse money. Sometimes an owner’s stock would place in more than one winning position, thus winning not only first-place prize money, for example, but also second- or third-place money. On the other hand, many owners considered dual entries a waste of horsepower and money because only one horse could win first place.