Sabrina had looked as fetching as ever tonight, but Bertrand couldn’t stop thinking about Piper. He listened to his wife’s even breathing and fantasized that it was Piper lying beside him in bed. Bertrand imagined Piper’s long, lithe body snuggling against his.
Marguerite was a good wife, supportive and loyal, but there hadn’t been passion between them for a long time. Working together all day at the bakery, talking bakery business at home, the constant togetherness had gradually worn down his desire for her. Marguerite’s frequent complaints of weariness and headaches didn’t help either.
Marguerite was familiar. Piper, with her smooth white skin and shining green eyes, held the allure and excitement of the unknown.
Sighing deeply, Bertrand turned over onto his stomach. Then he turned to lie on his back again. He fluffed his pillow and tried to get comfortable. He needed to relax but couldn’t.
He watched the digital clock numbers change, again and again and again. Finally Bertrand gave in. Realizing that he wasn’t going to fall asleep, he got out of bed.
After the drive from their home in the Garden District, Bertrand let himself in to the bakery and switched off the alarm. He thought about what he would tell Marguerite if she woke up and found that he wasn’t there. He could tell the truth. He had gone to the bakery. He’d be able to think of a logical, believable reason. Beignet batter left unmixed, a wedding-cake design to be finished, a new recipe to be tried before inclusion in the next book. There was always something that could provide a credible excuse.
The night-light provided just enough illumination. Bertrand walked quietly past the glass display cases and through the salesroom. When he got halfway down the corridor that led to the kitchen, he stopped.
He took off his shoes and lined them up on the floor beneath the door to the dumbwaiter. Carefully Bertrand opened the panel and climbed inside the compartment. He sat on the platform, hunching his compact torso over his crossed legs. The space was cramped, but any discomfort was overshadowed by the pleasure that lay in store for him.
Bertrand reached outside and pushed the button on the wall beside the dumbwaiter. Quickly pulling his hand back inside, he felt the platform begin to move upward. He held his breath, though he knew that the journey could be made almost silently.
Bertrand felt his pulse race. He pictured Piper sound asleep, totally unaware that he was on his way.
Higher, higher. Finally he was at the level of the apartment. Piper was only a wall and a few feet away.
He pushed at the dumbwaiter door, and it opened into the closet. Bertrand swung his legs out and down, landing softly on the floor. He uncurled his body and took a small flashlight from his rear pocket.
Bertrand pushed through the clothes that hung on the rod, pausing a moment to enjoy Piper’s scent. He closed his eyes in the darkness and buried his nose in the skirt she had worn that night at dinner.
Light from the lamps on Royal Street came in through the French doors to the balcony, bathing the small apartment in a soft glow. Bertrand clicked off the flashlight, parted the closet curtain, and tiptoed into the hall. He silently made the short trip to the bedroom doorway. Then he stood there, watching her.
Piper’s blond hair fanned out across the pillow. Her mouth was slightly open. One leg protruded from beneath the bedcover, her toenails painted a much darker shade than her pale skin. He could detect the sound of her breathing. Soft breath. Warm breath. Youthful breath.
He edged closer. Now he could actually see her chest moving up and down evenly. Funny. Marguerite had been breathing evenly, too, but the rise and fall of his wife’s breasts hadn’t affected him at all. He’d had no desire to wrap Marguerite in his arms and smother her with caresses and kisses.
Yet it took every bit of control Bertrand had to keep himself from climbing into bed beside Piper.