Scent of Triumph (43 page)

“You’re still a woman with feelings.” He tilted her chin up and looked into her eyes. “And I still have feelings for you, Danielle, I always have, from the first moment we met. I will never deny it, no matter what our circumstances might be. There was a time, right after Max died, when I should spoken up, told you how I felt, but I thought it was too soon for you. And then when I did...what a disaster. I’ve made so many mistakes with you.”

She laughed softy. “And now it’s too late for us. We’re both married.”

“It doesn’t change the way we feel about each other. I know what you don’t say in your letters. And I’ve always known that when I saw you again—”

“Shh,” she said, kissing him softly. Her lips were warm, her kiss gentle, and he felt his resolve melt under her tender touch. Then she pulled away, her hand lingering on his face. “Let’s just enjoy the day,” she said, as he turned into her hand, kissing her palm. “I have a bottle of champagne in the refrigerator.”

“I’ll get it,” he said, and kissed her lightly before he released her.

“I’ll get the flutes from the bar.”

Danielle left the kitchen and made her way through the living room. Pausing, she leaned against the bar and drew a hand across her face. She knew what she felt for Jon, she knew what she wanted, but wanting didn’t make it so. And yet, if there was one lesson learned in the past few years, it was to seize the moment and whatever joy might come your way. What if Jon never returned from the Pacific? The war was still raging there. How would she feel if she never saw him again?

How would she feel if she did?

Her attorney had already drawn up her divorce papers. But Jon was still married. And Victoria had a baby.
And I shouldn’t be thinking this way.

She chose two tall flutes from the glass shelves behind the bar and went back to the kitchen.

Jon had opened the champagne and he poured two glasses. “To us,” he said.

They drank to the toast, then Jon helped her fill the vases with lilies and roses. Together they placed the arrangements throughout the house, with Jon listening as Danielle told him about her girls’ accomplishments in school, and Marie’s fortunate recovery. They talked about Abigail’s work with orphans, and Jon’s parents, but when they spoke about their postwar plans, Danielle noticed that Jon was vague, so she didn’t ask him about Victoria.
What’s the point?
she thought.

They returned to the kitchen, and had another glass of champagne along with some fruit and cheese that Danielle prepared, but neither of them were very hungry. Jon wanted to know everything about the way she lived there, and how her business was going. “I want to show you something,” she said, taking his hand and leading him into a room at the rear of the house. As she opened the door he said, “Wow, what’s that incredible smell?”

She smiled, pleased at his response. “This is where I work at home when inspiration strikes. My main laboratory is in my office building, not far from the Flower Pot, but I like to dabble here after everyone is asleep and I have time to think and imagine and create. It’s always been my private room.”

He peered in through the doorway. The room was tidy, but her creativity was evident. On one side sat a small perfumer’s organ, with neat rows of amber bottles, and across from it was a drafting table. A pair of comfortable brocade chairs, a stack of books, a potted palm, beautifully framed impressionist paintings, and a phonograph completed the comfortable room.

“What’s this?” Jon asked, motioning to an open sketch book on the drafting table.

“These are ideas for evening gowns for my winter collection,” she said, showing him her sketches, and touching a stack of jewel-toned fabric swatches as she spoke. She felt Jon’s eyes on her, and their fingers brushed as she showed him her drawings.

Jon asked several questions, and he seemed genuinely interested in everything she was doing, unlike Max or Cameron had been.

While they talked, she opened a set of French doors to the backyard, where a swimming pool sparkled in the sunlight, a waterfall cascaded with a pleasant rippling sound, and a soft breeze billowed the drapes of an open-air pool house.

Jon turned around, taking in the room. “You once described this room to me in a letter. It’s exactly the way I imagined it to be.” He moved toward the perfumery organ. “And this is where you blend your perfumes?”

“Many of them. Here’s one I’ve been working on.” She picked up a small amber bottle, opened it, dipped a slender white blotter strip into it, and held it up. “Tell me what you think.”

He took her wrist and guided the strip under his nose and closed his eyes, inhaling. “It’s fresh, very modern, smells like California in the summer.”

He has a good nose
, she thought to herself, acutely aware of his hand on her wrist. “That’s California orange blossoms, and I added a fresh accord, reminiscent of the Pacific Ocean.”

“It’s spot on, Danielle.” He took the blotter strip from her, trailed it along her throat, and leaned closer to smell her neck. “A great perfumer once told me that it’s better to experience scent on skin.” He nuzzled her neck. “Remember when you told me that?”

Danielle let her head fall back, exposing her throat to him, and savoring the warmth of his touch. “It was in Grasse, after Jasmin was born. I was so glad you were there with me. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

Jon slipped his hand under her hair and held her neck, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. “Do you remember the first time we kissed?”

“How could I have forgotten?” she murmured, tasting his lips with her tongue.

He picked up the perfume bottle, poured a small amount of perfume into his palm and, unbuttoning the top button of her shirt, pressed the fragrant oil into the skin on her chest between her breasts. A small moan escaped her lips as he bent to her, intent on experiencing the aroma as it emanated from the gentle curve of her breast, warmed by his touch.

He slipped another button free, trailing the perfume on her skin with his fingers, past her lace brassiere, and onto her firm, flat stomach, pausing to caress her skin with his nose and lips and fingertips.

His breath felt hot on her skin, she felt his pulse quicken as he held her, encircling her with his hands and arms, engulfing her in a passionate embrace.

At once he stopped and cradled her face in his hands, his eyes dark with desire, then he lifted her easily in his arms.

“Take me outside,” she whispered, and he stepped through the French doors. “To the cabaña,” she added, leaning against his chest and feeling the beating of his heart.

Jon carried her past the sailcloth curtains that lifted in the gentle breeze, and into a slate-floored room with sliding glass doors and a stone fireplace. He placed her on a marine blue, double-width chaise lounge, and Danielle lay with her hair fanned out beneath her. Jon propped himself up on one arm next to her and gazed at her. “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known, Danielle. We’re meant to be together, you know that as well as I do.”

“I know, Jon, I know,” she murmured, pulling him close and unbuttoning his shirt. He stopped her, then finished the job and tossed his shirt to one side. He bent to kiss her and she met his lips again, gently, then more passionately, as their desire flamed against the cool spring breeze.

“I want to make love to you, Danielle, more than anything I’ve ever wanted to do. You are my heart, my soul, I love you, Danielle.”

She felt the warmth of his breath on her neck, as his words seeped into her soul, warming her to her core. A thought sprang from deep inside of her:
I love this man...I always have.
She ran her hands through his hair and pressed him toward her, then hesitated, checking her desire. She knew what she wanted,
but should she?

He brushed his lips against hers and said softly, “Danielle, I once promised Max I would look after you. Will you let me?”

Jon’s words hung in the air as she met his intense gaze. “But there are others....”

“Who don’t have to figure in our future.”

Danielle sucked her breath in.
Do I dare hope?
“Until then, let’s just lay together, Jon, there’s no harm in that.”

The minutes turned into an hour, and then another, and they explored one another’s bodies as they lay together, whispering their desires and sharing their passion, and knowing that someday, somehow, they would share their lives. It would be so. As the sun set, Jon rose and started a fire in the fireplace, and Danielle lit citrus-scented candles. Jon brought the champagne and cheese and fruit from the house, and they laughed and drank and ate, then caressed another again, enjoying each other’s touch.

Finally, the champagne unleashed their inhibitions, and Danielle opened herself to Jon, who hesitated only for a moment before entering her with an ease and naturalness that surprised them both at first. They fell into rhythm with one another’s bodies, their scents mingled, merged, and exploded with passion, while their lovemaking soared on an arch of joy and intensity, and they knew no boundaries between them.

Danielle felt herself transported on wave after wave of pure joy, pure love, pure feelings.
And this feels so right,
she thought
.

Satiated at last, Danielle gazed at Jon’s profile against the flickering fire, basking in the glow of their love. For the moment, she was simply happy, and felt closer to Jon than she’d ever been with another man. She smiled, and thought,
I feel truly, deliciously loved.
She knew he would be leaving soon, but rather than feeling sad, she felt that this day was a gift, a rare glimpse into the future, a snapshot of what could be.
If only...
she stopped herself, not daring to spoil their moment of pleasure with doubts or questions of the future.

The last thing she remembered was Jon covering her with a blanket and kissing her—kissing her face, her lips, her hair, and then she must have dozed off, for when she awoke, he was gone.

Cameron Murphy’s rich baritone rang out, resonating with the rounded warmth of a well-aged cognac. The long months he had spent in the sanitarium had been good for him. He knew he sounded better than he had in years.

The young sound engineer, Rex, gave two thumbs-up through the glass window that separated them.

“That’s great, Cam,” Harry said through a microphone. He sat beaming next to Rex, the sound engineer, at the control board. Next to him was Danielle, and she nodded her approval through the glass. “Okay, let’s do the third number now.”

“Sure, old man.” Cameron grinned and continued his masterful vocals, gliding through one love song after another, the words of each smooth ballad flowing like a slow rippling stream. He was in top form, and it felt grand.

Cameron completed the song, then everyone took a break while Cameron stretched and drank a glass of water. He’d put in a good day’s work. As far as he was concerned, his vocals were almost finished.

He had to admit, his treatment had benefited him in every way—physically, mentally, and emotionally. Still, he missed the excitement of living on the edge. “There’s a lot to be said for a normal routine, for peace and calm,” his doctor had told him. But the way Cameron figured it, there’d be time enough for that when he was cold in the ground.

He wasn’t one for a mundane, workaday existence. Not like Danielle, he thought, pitying her. Yet, he realized that his actions had inflicted extreme suffering on Danielle and the girls. On Erica and Harry and Lou, too. On every friend he’d ever had, and for that he was genuinely sorry.

But he had thrived on the heightened reality produced by drugs and alcohol. The passion it brought to his work was electrifying.
How could he explain this to anyone? How could he exist, and still write great music, without it?

Cameron finished his water. Motioning to Harry, he returned to work.

Danielle sat in the sound-proofed engineering booth. She had her sketch pad before her, working on next season’s designs for her ready-to-wear line, a new perfume bottle, and costumes for Erica’s new movie. Actually, Cameron’s music had always inspired her, despite their problems. And now, she squeezed as much work into a day as possible so as to spend time with her family in the evening. Yet invariably, she found herself over committed, and she often worked late into the night in her studio at home after the girls had gone to bed.

She closed her sketchbook as Cameron began the last song of the session,
Perfumed Letters
, a song he’d written for her during his confinement. The title referred to letters she’d written to him before he was well enough to receive her visits. The song was a ballad of star-crossed lovers.

Shivers gripped her spine as she listened to him spin the tale, then the haunting finale: “
And in my still hands they’ll find, yellowed with time, perfumed letters from my love, my love for all time
.” What a beautiful arrangement, she thought, as she blinked back sudden regret.
It’s sure to be a hit.

And then she thought of Jon, and all the letters he had written her, too.
It was just one delicious day
, she thought, remembering Jon’s visit.
And nothing more.

She dragged her attention back to Cameron. She hadn’t told him about the divorce. The past months she’d been supportive of him, though she was careful not to encourage him romantically. But their marriage was over. She knew that now, and she’d known it even before Jon’s visit. Otto Koenig had already drafted the legal documents for the divorce.

“You’re being extraordinarily fair,” Otto had remarked. She planned to vacate the house and relinquish the deed to Cameron free of encumbrance. After all, it had been his home when they’d met, though she had paid it off for him. National Music was to remain her sole property, and she had insisted on a generous contract for Cameron’s recording and tour. “I’ll take only what I’ve personally developed and built,” she had instructed Otto.

Cameron’s final vocals hung magically in the air, and a hush gathered in the room. Harry leaned forward and tapped the microphone. “That’s a wrap. It was absolutely perfect, Cam. You’re free to go.” Harry stood, glanced at his watch. “Danielle, I’ve got to make a call.” He walked from the room.