15

The car was an expensive sedan that blinked its lights and opened its door locks when Andrews touched his key at the top of the steps. “No driver?” Jane asked.

“Just me,” William said. “I was amazed that I remembered how to drive.” He tossed her bag into the trunk, ran around to hold open her door, and then raced around again to take his place behind the wheel. They drove to the Merritt Parkway and then headed west through Westport and Stamford. He took the last Greenwich exit, drove through winding streets, and made abrupt turns at dark intersections. Finally, they headed up a tree-lined path to an inn near the New York border and parked in the empty lot. Andrews lifted her overnighter and his own attaché case out of the trunk.

“Is this place open?” Jane wondered.

“It is for us. I’ve reserved the entire inn. I thought that on such an important night you might like to be alone.”

The innkeeper was waiting at the top of the steps to relieve Andrews of the bags. “They’ll be sent up,” he said in a tone that assured him they really would be. “The dining room is this way. Your table is ready.”

They were alone in the dining room at a table in front of the fireplace. The captain seated them, and there were two waiters standing by.

“You’ve been here before,” Jane commented with a wry smile.

“Actually, I haven’t. But I selected it myself and I made all the arrangements. It’s the perfect place to consummate an engagement. I even took the liberty of ordering for you. Oysters and clams, a duck in cherry sauce, and a few cheeses for dessert. A blanc with the appetizers, a Chablis with the main course, and maybe a port at the end. And, of course, coffee whenever.”

“They kept the kitchen open just for us?” Jane wondered.

“Just for you,” William answered. “All night and into the morning, just in case you want anything.”

They were both in a sexual mood even before the oysters arrived. He was leaning in toward her, ignoring the wine steward, who was being obsequious about opening the French white. She was reaching out to touch his fingertips under the table.

“Would the gentleman care to examine the cork?” the steward asked.

“Sure! But in the meantime, pour the wine,” Andrews responded.

They leaned in over the center of the table while they fed each other clams and oysters. Jane swallowed them whole, tasting them at the back of her throat. He smiled as each one went down. She dipped a clam in the cocktail sauce and held it out to him. Andrews contorted to get under the morsel and sucked it down like a pelican. Then he lifted an oyster, still in its shell, and tipped it over her lower lip. Jane was already feeling aroused when the duck made its entrance.

They stared at each other while the captain went through the rituals of flaming the duck, cutting it from the bone, and heaping on the cherries. When he put their plates in front of them, neither lifted a fork. An instant later, when he brought the Chablis, William waved away the ceremony of tasting. He simply lifted his glass and held it out to Jane.

The ducks survived, scarcely damaged by the two diners, who couldn’t take their eyes from each other long enough to break the meat from the bone. “Delicious,” Jane said after tasting the flimsiest morsel.

“Marvelous,” he added, even though his portion was untouched.

They decided to do without dessert. “Maybe just coffee,” he suggested, his eyes wild at the thought of taking her into his bed.

“Coffee to go,” Jane emended his order. They could have it in their room.

The room tried to mimic an inn along the Colonial stagecoach route. The ceiling was low and supported by hand-hewn beams. The walls were rough, whitewashed unevenly, and stenciled with patterns of birds. The wide-board floor was fastened with pegs and polished to a near-blinding luster. Taking up most of the space was an enormous four-poster with a mattress that was nearly chest-high. It was made up with lace-trimmed pillows and a feathery quilt. The other furnishings were sparse: a straight wooden rocking chair; a washstand with a basin, pitcher, and shaving mirror; a monk’s table with an elaborate oil lamp that had been fitted out with an electric bulb; and a giant armoire that cleverly disguised a closet, dresser drawers, and a television set.

The bathroom brought modern convenience to an eighteenth-century setting. The tub was copper, set into an oak base. But there were subtle whirlpool jets and a hook arrangement for hanging the shower hose. The sink was a freestanding basin with a pump handle for a faucet, and the toilet had an overhead water tank operated by a pull chain. It would be easy to believe that George Washington had slept here.

But Jane and Bill couldn’t have cared less. As soon as they closed the heavy wooden door, they were in each other’s arms. Within seconds they had undressed each other, scattering their clothes in a straight line from the door to the bed. He pulled back the comforter so that she could climb in, and then he joined her in a frantic, tumbling embrace. They ended with him on top, supporting his weight on his elbows, while she locked her legs around the small of his back.

She was fully receptive, but her delight wasn’t yet physical. She was enjoying his obvious pleasure, his nearly violent thrusting, his set jaw, the rush of his labored breathing. There he was, one of the most important men in the world, and he was as powerless as a hound filled with the scent of a bitch in heat. William Andrews, enjoying her so much that he was nearly crying out for joy.

When he settled next to her, she rolled on top, sat astride him, and leaned forward so that her breasts were in his face. Then she felt her own swelling of pleasure, and suddenly it was she who had to muffle her gasps.

Then they were side by side and face-to-face, their lips brushing.

“My God, but you’re wonderful,” he managed between breaths.

“Shh …” Jane held her fingertips to his lips. She was enjoying the touch of his body, well-muscled through the shoulders, firm buns, and rock-hard legs. He felt as if he should be an important person, an Olympic athlete or maybe a warrier king, and she had thrilled him to the point of paralysis. Like Judith, she could have his head without his uttering a word of protest. In a few minutes he was sound asleep in her arms.

They made love again in the morning, this time more slowly and patiently. But when the sun began to rise in the small glass panels of the Colonial windows, the economic titan returned. He was up and into the bathroom, showering in the copper tub. Seconds later he was dressed, sitting in the rocker with papers across his lap and a cell phone to his ear. He smiled at her when she climbed down from the bed wrapped in a sheet, picked up her unopened overnight bag, and disappeared into the bath.

“I have a car waiting to take you back to your apartment,” he said when she came into the bedroom. “I have to get to the airport for a Chicago flight.” He was stuffing his papers back into his briefcase. She stepped into her black dress and checked what was left of her makeup in the shaving mirror. “I’ll call you tonight. There’s a lot that we have to discuss. Like wedding plans, where we’re going to live and—”

She closed his mouth with a kiss. “Last night was the best night of my life,” she said. “I’m looking forward to many more just like it.”

He seemed taken back by the change of subject. Then he smiled. “What the hell is the matter with me?” he asked.

“Nothing I can’t fix,” she answered. She kissed him again.