Tony was determined to wait him out. He looked at his watch.
Thirty seconds passed. A minute. Two minutes.
The battle of nerves between the two men was strangely like a childish staring contest, yet there was nothing childish about it. It was eerie. Goosebumps popped up on her arms.
Two and a half minutes.
It seemed like an hour.
Finally, Tony put down the phone. “He hung up.”
“Without saying anything?”
“Not a word. But he hung up first, and I think that’s important. I figured if I gave him a dose of his own medicine he wouldn’t like it. He thinks he’s going to frighten you. But you’re expecting the call, and you just listen like he does. At first, he thinks you’re only being cute, and he’s sure he can outwait you. But the longer you’re silent, the more he starts to wonder if you aren’t up to some trick. Is there a tap on your phone? Are you stalling so the police can trace the call? Is it even you who picked up the phone? He thinks about that, starts to get scared, and hangs up.”
“He’s scared? Well, that’s a nice thought,” she said.
“I doubt that he’ll get up the nerve to call back. At least not until you’ve changed numbers tomorrow. And then he’ll be too late.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll be on edge until the man from the phone company’s done his job.”
Tony held out his arms, and she moved into his embrace. They kissed again. It was still extraordinarily sweet and good and right, but the sharp edge of unrestrained passion could no longer be felt. Both of them were unhappily aware of the difference.
They returned to the couch, but only to drink their crème de menthe and talk. By twelve-thirty in the morning, when he had to go home, they had decided to spend the following weekend on a museum binge. Saturday, they’d go to the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena to look at the German expressionist paintings and the Renaissance tapestry. Then they would spend most of Sunday at the J. Paul Getty Museum, which boasted a collection of art richer than any other in the world. Of course, in between the museums, they would eat a lot of good food, share a lot of good talk, and (they ardently hoped) pick up where they had left off on the couch.
At the front door, as he was leaving, Hilary suddenly couldn’t bear to wait five days to see him again. She said, “What about Wednesday?”
“What about it?”
“Doing anything for dinner?”
“Oh. I’ll probably fry up a batch of eggs that are just getting stale in the refrigerator.”
“All that cholesterol’s bad for you.”
“And maybe I’ll cut the mold off the bread, make some toast. And I should finish the fruit juice I bought two weeks ago.”
“You poor dear.”
“The bachelor’s life.”
“I can’t let you eat stale eggs and moldy toast. Not when I make such a terrific tossed salad and filet of sole.”
“A nice light supper,” he said.
“We don’t want to get bloated and sleepy.”
“Never know when you might have to move fast.”
She grinned. “Precisely.”
“See you Wednesday.”
“Seven?”
“Seven sharp.”
They kissed, and he walked away from the door, and a cold night wind rushed in where he had been, and then he was gone. Half an hour later, upstairs, in bed, Hilary’s body ached with frustration. Her breasts were full and taut; she longed to feel his hands on them, his fingers gently stroking and massaging. She could close her eyes and feel his lips on her stiffening nipples. Her belly fluttered as she pictured him braced above her on his powerful arms, and then she above him, moving in slow sensuous circles. Her sex was moist and warm, ready, waiting. She tossed and turned for almost an hour before she finally got up and took a sedative.
As sleep crept over her, she held a drowsy dialogue with herself.
Am I falling in love?
–No. Of course not.
Maybe. Maybe I am.
–No. Love’s dangerous.
Maybe it’ll work with him.
–Remember Earl and Emma.
Tony’s different.
–You’re horny. That’s all it is. You’re just horny.