door. But he was deliberately slow, something spiteful in his teasing. He did enjoy her need and his power, meaning to punish for all the trouble she was causing him. But his cruelties only aroused her the more, and she welcomed the pain as evidence of his passion. This woman, he decided, was demented and so trebly dangerous.
Later, he left her on the bed and went into the kitchen for his cognac. He returned to the bedroom carrying the brandy, a glass pipe, a small packet of crystal chunks. She looked at him with dimmed eyes, then struggled upright.
'What's that?' she asked.
'Something new for you,' he said. 'It's called ice. The latest thing. You smoke it.'
'You, too?'
He held up the brandy. 'This is my out,' he said. 'The pipe is yours.'
She inspected the crystals. 'Ice,' she said. 'Like diamonds.'
'Exactly like diamonds,' he told her. 'It's the in thing. Everything else is declasse.'
That's all she had to hear, being a victim of trendiness, and she packed the pipe with trembling fingers, clutching it tightly while he held a match. She took a deep puff and inhaled deeply with closed eyes.
The rush hit her almost immediately. Her eyes popped open, widened, and she sucked greedily at the pipe.
'Good?' he asked her.
She looked at him with a foolish smile and leaned back against the headboard. She continued to fellate the pipe but slowly now, sipping lazily.
He put a palm to her naked shank and was shocked at how fevered her flesh had become. She was burning up.
The crystals were consumed. Turner took the glass pipe from Felicia's limp fingers and set it aside.
Suddenly she began to laugh, convulsed with merriment. Energized, she rose swiftly from the bed, stood swaying a moment, still heaving with laughter. She rushed into the living room, staggering, banging off the walls, and returned just as quickly, before he could move.
'How do you feel?' he asked curiously.
She looked at him, laughter stopped. She pulled him onto the bed with a strength he could not resist.
'I am the world,' she proclaimed.
'Of course you are,' he agreed.
'The stars,' she said. 'Planets. Universe. Everything and all.'
'And all,' he repeated.
She flopped around and crammed his bare toes into her mouth. He pulled away, and again he felt her incredible heat and saw how flushed her face had become. He put a hand to her breast, and the heavy, tumultuous heartbeat alarmed him.
'Are you all right, Felicia?'
She began to gabble incoherently: unfinished sentences, bits of song, names he didn't recognize, raw obscenities. The jabber ceased as abruptly as it had started. He left her like that and went into the kitchen for another brandy.
She was still at it when he returned to the bedroom. But now her face was contorted, ugly, and she was panting. He sat on the edge of the bed and observed her dispassionately, noting the twitching legs, toes curled. She seemed to be winding tighter and tighter, her entire body caught up in a paroxysm.
Suddenly she shouted, so loudly that he was startled and slopped his brandy. Her body went slack and her eyes slowly opened. She stared at him blankly, not seeing him, and he wondered where she was.
'Felicia,' he said, 'I'm Turner.'
'Turner,' she repeated, and soft understanding came back into her eyes.
'You're in my apartment,' he told her.
She looked at him with love. 'Do you want to kill me?' she asked. 'You may, if you like.'
Chapter 30
Mrs. Olivia Starrett, wearing a lacy bed jacket, sat propped upright by pillows, a white wicker tray across her lap. And on the tray, tea service and a small plate of miniature croissants, one half-nibbled away.
'He was such a dear man,' she said, dabbing at her eyes with a square of cambric. 'I would be even more desolated than I am if I wasn't inspired by his teaching. Accept all, he said, and understand that pain and suffering are but a part of the holy oneness. Are you sure you don't want a cup of tea, dear?'
'Thank you, no, Mrs. Starrett,' Dora said. She sat alongside the canopied bed in a flowered armchair. 'You have certainly had more than your share of grief lately. You have my deepest sympathy.'
Olivia reached out to squeeze her hand. 'How sweet and understanding you are. The passing of Lewis, Sol Guthrie, and Father Brian were sorrows I thought would destroy me. But then I realized that one cannot mourn forever. Does that sound cruel and heartless?'
'Of course not.'
'One must continue to cope with life, the problems of the present, and worries for the future.' She picked up the half-eaten croissant and finished it. 'You told me you have no children?'
'That's correct.'
Mrs. Starrett sighed deeply. 'They are a blessing and a burden. Have you heard about Clayton? And Eleanor?'
'Heard about them? No, ma'am, I've heard nothing.'
Olivia, alternately dabbing at her eyes and taking teeny bites of a fresh pastry, told Dora of her son's impending divorce.
'Eleanor has already moved out,' she said.
Then she spoke of Clayton's plan to marry Helene Pierce.
'Much too young for him, I feel,' she said. 'But I do so want a grandchild. Father Callaway, the last time I saw him, told me I am not being selfish.'
'He was right,' Dora said. 'You're not.'
'Still…' Olivia said, and looked about vaguely. 'Sometimes it is difficult knowing the right thing to do. Young people are so independent these days. They think because you are old you must necessarily be senile.'
'You are not old, Mrs. Starrett, and you are certainly not senile.'
'Thank you, my dear. You are such a comfort. Sit with me a while longer, will you?'
'Of course. As long as you like.'
'I could never talk to Lewis. Never. Not about important things. He thought I was just chattering on. And he would grunt. I love Clayton, of course. He is my son. But I can't talk to him either. Clayton is lacking. There is no depth to him. I love depth in people, but Clayton is not a serious man. He floats through life. He has never been a leader. Sometimes he lacks sense. Eleanor knew that when she married him. Perhaps that's why she married him.'
Dora listened to this rambling with shocked fascination. Shocked because she suddenly realized that Mrs. Olivia Starrett was not a flibbertigibbet, not just a soft, garrulous matron. There was a hard spine of shrewdness in her. Despite her religiosity she saw things clearly. She had depth and had been married to a man who grunted.
'Felicia…' Mrs. Starrett maundered on. 'So unlucky with men. A pattern there. She has taste in clothes, music, art. But not in men. There her taste deserts her. All her beaux have been unsatisfactory. Weaklings or cads. I could see it. Everyone could see it. But not Felicia. The poor thing. So eager. Too eager. Now she is running after Turner Pierce. Oh yes, I know. A man much younger than she. It is not seemly.' Her gaze suddenly sharpened. She stared at Dora sternly. 'Do you agree?'
'You're right,' Dora said hastily. 'It's not seemly.'
'You are such a bright, levelheaded young lady.'
'Thank you, Mrs. Starrett.'
