Going to Extremes

Again his heart sped up and his breathing went shallow. Get a grip. There was no reason to expect the worst. In fact, the trip might be healing for them both. He could apologize for his immature behavior, how out of control he’d been and the abrupt way he’d broken it off. They could acknowledge the power of what they’d shared, experience closure and, perhaps, end up friends.

He straightened his tie, ran his fingers through his hair—God, he was primping—and stepped out into the hall.

Her room—a named suite, actually—was unnervingly next door. He saw that a waiter was attempting to drag a cart with an ice bucket of champagne into the room. Champagne had been her favorite liquor, he recalled—not easy to afford on a student budget, but she’d managed. Some things are worth the sacrifice, she’d say. He smiled at the memory. To this day, the bubbly liquid made him think of her.

These days, he rarely drank, and never champagne, which gave him an instant headache. Or it had since Kathleen—a psychosomatic reaction no doubt.

Dan held the door for the waiter, stepped in after him and found himself in a large sitting room, dotted with huge arrangements of exotic flowers. He could hear water running. Kathleen was in the shower. She loved water.

“It’s Dan,” he called out, not wanting to startle her.

“Be right out,” she called back, not sounding surprised. Maybe she’d expected him to drop in.

The waiter handed him the bill, which he signed, distracted by the complex scents that filled the room—creams, perfumes, powders, candles and mists. So Kathleen. He searched for her smell underneath all the commercial fragrances. He’d liked that scent best.

The waiter departed and he waited for Kathleen by the champagne. Condensation dribbled down the silver bucket like the sweat sliding down his body inside his shirt.

This was a familiar situation. In the old days, he’d spent lots of time waiting for Kathleen.

Waiting heightens the intensity, she used to say about sex. All true, of course. She would slow down, pull away, make him wait until he was nothing but pounding lust, his focus narrowed to her breasts, her mouth, her moans, her softness, being inside her…all the way. Around her, he was as shaky and enthralled as a kid on his first time.

An erection threatened. Over a memory, for God’s sake! Relax. Settle down, he coached himself, squeezing his eyes tight. Focus on what matters.

Which was his book—and figuring out how he and Kathleen would approach this tour. He was a professional therapist, dammit, but he felt like Tom Hanks in Big—a thirteen-year-old abruptly swimming in an adult’s baggy suit and grown-up life.

“Dan!”

He jerked open his eyes and saw Kathleen—naked, dripping and shocked. Embarrassment shot across her face, but she banished that with a sharp smile. She’d always pushed through awkward moments with bravado. She gave a light laugh that squeaked at the end, betraying her distress.

Heat and ice washed through him at the sight of her body, just as she’d appeared in so many guilty dreams. He turned away quickly, but he’d caught it all—her round, high breasts, pink nipples and that triangle of hair, golden against her pale skin. At least his mortification had iced down his erection. With his back turned, he explained himself. “I came in with the waiter. I called, but you must not have heard me. I’ll let you get dressed.” He started for the door.

“Don’t go. It’s fine.” She had the same husky voice—a whiskey voice in the vernacular of detective novels—and it warmed him like a quick shot. “I thought you were my agent JJ. I just popped out for my robe.”

He stayed with his back to her while a suitcase zipper scraped, a clasp rattled and fabric rustled.

“There. All covered, Dan,” she said, sounding amused.

He turned and found her wrapped in a black silk robe that clung to her breasts and ended high on her thighs. She was a voluptuous woman with a figure that rivaled Marilyn Monroe’s, except she was taller. She was a presence, a gathering of female energy that drew male eyes wherever she went.

He had the familiar impulse to touch—her skin, her silk-covered breasts, her shiny golden hair, loosely swept up on her head. Completely insane, of course. But the way he felt about Kathleen had never made much sense.

“I just wanted to touch…base…before we officially got together.” He felt himself redden.

“Good idea,” she said, her eyes restless on his face, then gone. That wasn’t like her. She’d always contemplated him carefully, soaking up every detail, every reaction.

He held out his hand to shake—as stupid as that seemed.

“Oh, please.” She lunged forward and threw her arms around him. But she held her body away from his and kissed the air beside his cheek—a gesture for show.

He was relieved. And stupidly disappointed.

She moved to a sofa thick with overstuffed pillows and patted a spot beside her. “Let’s talk. We’ve got time before JJ gets here. She’s always late. Just like me.” She laughed nervously again, which made him want to say something reassuring.

“You look the same. Beautiful as ever.”

“You look good, too. Losing the glasses was a good decision.”

“Thanks. They got in my way.” He was preoccupied with trying not to look at the curve of one breast visible through a gap in her robe. She had great breasts. A firm handful with nipples that had tightened into plump knots whenever he touched them. She’d loved him to spend time there. He’d loved it, too. What was not to love?

He moved his gaze, only to have it sink to the dark space between her legs, where the hem of her robe separated. Control yourself, man. “Why don’t you get dressed? I can wait.”

“No, no. I’ve got time,” she said, “Unless I’m making you uncomfortable…?” She was acting cool, sliding a red-painted nail along the edge of her robe, but the finger trembled and her breath was shaky and she still wouldn’t quite meet his gaze.

“If you’re fine, I’m fine,” he said, determined to manage his reactions. Her toenails matched her fingernails, he noted inanely, watching as she curled her toes around the edge of the table’s glass.

“How about some champagne? I was going to drink it with JJ, but she won’t mind if we get started. This is a kind of celebration, after all. The first time we’ve seen each other in, what, ten years?” She jerked the champagne bottle brusquely from the bucket, spilling ice on the floor, betraying her nervousness. This was new, too. Above all else, Kathleen had always been confident.

With her so jittery, he couldn’t refuse the drink. “Sure. For old time’s sake.” He leaned forward to help her hold the bottle that was now shaking in her hands.

“This is so symbolic,” she said. “We’ve taken different paths and now, ten years later, they’ve converged.” She popped the cork and her green eyes jumped at the sound. “Seems like kismet.”

He smiled. Or karma. A chance to make up for hurting her. He watched her pour the liquid into two tall, elaborate glasses.

“Don’t you just love these flutes? Hotels use those terrible saucers that allow the bubbles to zip away. I travel with these.” She was obviously chattering out of that nervousness.

“Very beautiful,” he said, feeling protective of her.

“Aren’t they?” She admired her brimming glass. “Made from a single piece of blown glass in a little shop in Italy. Perfect weight and balance. Just holding one of these makes me feel better.” She did seem calmer and she gave him the glory of one of her open smiles. This one almost lit her eyes, but not quite.

“To us,” she said, extending her glass. “To the past…which shall remain our dark secret.” She regarded him over the bubbles that misted above the rim. What did she want? She used to grab him with a look. He should be beyond that now, but he felt the tug like pain in a phantom limb.

I’ve missed you. The words formed in his head, but there was no point in saying them. It would just make things more awkward. “To the next two weeks.” He intended to tap her glass with his, but instead their fingers bumped.

Her eyes widened, and he felt a surge of heat, which he attempted to douse with a quick swallow of champagne. The stuff tasted almost otherworldly. Kathleen had that power over things. When they were at Arizona State together, she used to make every moment a celebration. Mimosas for the first sweet blast of citrus blossoms in March, a desert walk after every rain, marshmallows toasted in a chimnea for the first winter chill, the entire apartment filled with candles for something called Candlemas, homemade brownies—complete with a whipped-cream fight—for the end of finals.

She arranged every detail to intensify the moment, to make everything seem more significant than it was. He’d asked her about the source of that inclination—were her parents so celebratory? It’s just me was all she would say. But there was more to the story, he knew. With Kathleen, there always was.

“So, what do you think?” she asked him, playful now.

“I think it’s great you’ve done so well.”

“I meant the champagne. But thanks. I’ve been lucky.”

“It’s very nice. Very pink.”

“Exceptional, really. The tiny bubbles are the mark of a fine champagne. This one’s been fermented slowly in wood for a fuller bouquet, allowing the pinot to turn it rosé. It’s a myth that rosé champagne is sweet. This is a brut, which I prefer. You?”

“Champagne’s your drink, Kathleen. What did you used to say? ‘I am drinking stars’?”