An Improbable Pairing Read online

  “Scott, my dear—I do believe you are going to kiss me!” she said.

  “I was going to try,” he admitted. Desirée laughed gleefully at his yearning expression, sliding just slightly out of kissable range.

  “And if I let you, then what? I’m not one of those young girls you can toy with.”

  “Is this part of the fun you talked about earlier?”

  “It’s late. You can try to seduce me tomorrow.”

  With that, Desirée’s car eased down the drive and through the parking lot and disappeared into the night.

  sixteen

  IN SPITE OF THE COLD, SCOTT DECIDED TO WALK BACK TO the hotel; he needed to clear his head. What was he getting himself into? Desirée was not Marlyse. Or Millie. As she had warned, he would have little control over any relationship they might have. Desirée was unquestionably beautiful, intelligent, and interesting. And he loved their little games of repartee (and with all the self-assurance of a twenty-two-year-old, felt he’d held his own). But Scott was painfully aware of their differences. Age was only the first. She was seven years older, a much more experienced player. Next, their social standings. Desirée was a wealthy and cultured aristocrat; Scott, the son of a self-made businessman. And finally, culture. Desirée was European, with a wealth of travel and other experiences that Scott had only read about in books. Growing up in Charleston and attending university in the Midwest hadn’t prepared him for palaces, opera galas, and skiing at Gstaad. But somehow, these things didn’t seem to matter to Desirée. She’d never been snooty to the eager American student (at least, not in front of him)—at least not yet. She was rich, and he was a young man on an allowance. She liked nice things. Scott wondered if he were just Desirée’s latest nice thing. Would he be satisfied with that, or did he need more?

  The sun was shining brightly at breakfast the next morning. Seated by one of the windows in the grand dining room, Scott could view the entire village. Fresh snow covered the landscape. Tall evergreen spruces and chalets dotted the landscape in irregular patterns; smoke from chimneys rose across the valley and up the slopes. A sumptuous buffet was set with every fruit imaginable and baskets of bread—brioches, croissants, toasts, and pastries—as well as dried meats, les delices des Grisons, various juices and yogurts, and eggs cooked on demand in any fashion. He sampled everything.

  A hotel page approached him. “Monsieur Stoddard, you have a telephone call.” He guided Scott to the house telephone just outside the dining room, and there was no surprise when the call came through. Desirée.

  “Good morning,” she said. “Did you dream about me?”

  Scott laughed. “No, I didn’t.”

  “You are so mean. Are you mad that I didn’t let you give me a kiss?”

  “Should I be?”

  “Of course not, silly. Anticipation, I hear, is a most powerful aphrodisiac.”

  “I guess it’s more of an aphrodisiac for the one doling out the potion.”

  “Touché, my darling. Remember that we are having dinner tonight at eight with a few friends here at my chalet. For lunch, I thought we could go up on the mountain, get some fresh air, and take some sun. I’ll pick you up at eleven thirty. Dress warmly.”

  “Sounds good. Have any other plans for me?”

  “None that you need to know about.”

  GUSTAV AND THE BIG BLACK MERCEDES PULLED UP IN FRONT. A few guests, their breath crystallizing in the cold, gathered to catch taxis. Scott came down the few steps as the doorman opened the back door on the driver’s side. He slid into the backseat beside her; she turned one cheek then the other for his kiss, her lips a deep pink, her complexion flawless. A delicate scent of lavender and jasmine lingered in the air. Desirée’s form-fitting lilac ski pants contrasted brightly with the rest of her white ensemble: cashmere turtleneck, scarf, fox ski jacket and hat with matching white, furry boots. She looked like a photo from the pages of French Vogue.

  “Is this new?” she asked, touching his jacket.

  “Yes, you know I must do my best to keep up with the Countess de Rovere.”

  “It’s quite macho, my darling. It fits your style.”

  “It certainly fits your idea of my style.”

  Desirée slid her gloved hand through the crook of his arm, snuggling against him. “My dear Scott, you truly don’t know how to accept a compliment.”

  “I’m sure it’s one of my many faults.”

  Scott hadn’t intended to sound quite so, well, petulant, but there it was. Unlinking their arms, Desirée wagged a finger at him. “I think you are a little mad about last night. Am I right?”

  “Well, to use one of your French words, I thought your behavior coquette.”

  “Coquette? Moi?” she exclaimed in mock horror. “No one has ever even dreamt it.” Her laughter died away, and Scott’s clever response died on his lips when she leaned in close and whispered, “Tell me . . . do you still want to kiss me?”

  “Now?” Scott couldn’t break the spell of her aquamarine eyes.

  “Why not?”

  He glanced toward the driver before whispering, “What about Gustav?”

  “Gustav is blind to matters of my heart.”

  Scott put his hands on either side of her face and drew it within inches of his own. They gazed into each other’s eyes, and Scott thought he saw a promise in her clear blue-green gaze. He closed the gap, capturing her lips lightly with his own before fully enjoying their tender softness. As they separated, Desirée gave a little sigh, which Scott took as license to pull her close again. They kissed with more intensity and insistence, parting lips and thrusting tongues. It was no accident that she’d initiated their kisses in her car; with Gustav nearby, there was no worry that Scott’s passion would exceed any limits she intended. But that promise . . . Scott could see in her eyes and feel in the receptiveness of her body that their desire would not be denied for long.

  She relaxed into the leather and removed a compact from her bag. As she studied her makeup in the mirror, she said, “I was right about anticipation.” She wiped a smudge of lipstick from Scott’s face.

  “Are you always right?” He couldn’t help but grin; he was already anticipating their next kiss.

  “Had you rather I be wrong?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Take your time. I’m not in a hurry.”

  Gustav dropped them at the entrance to the station for the cable car that would take them up to Wasserngrat, one of the midpoint stops, where they could have lunch on the terrace overlooking the slopes. It was a perfect day—brilliant sunshine, fresh powder, and not too cold. The cable car was crammed with skiers and their equipment. Scott noticed that he and Desirée were the only cognoscenti aboard and then remembered that they didn’t intend to ski.

  It was a short walk from the cable car station to the restaurant. Their table gave them an unrestricted view of the valley floor below while the sun, flooding across the terrace, provided unexpected warmth. The altitude made the air thin and the sunshine feel quite intense.

  Scott watched Desirée all the time. He wasn’t staring; it was rather an unrequited and continuing gaze, the kind of careful attention to detail he’d give a rare and beautiful piece of art. She smiled when she caught him, and her easy gesture told him she didn’t mind, that she felt complimented.

  His mind wandered over the events of the last few months, all the way back to the SS United States, when he dared not pursue Desirée directly. All those days when he failed to call, principally because of his uncertainty about her response. All those incidents where he longed for just one moment alone with her. Now, he was basking in the promise of their next kiss.

  “Darling, you seem far away.” Desirée broke through his thoughts. She’d been watching him, too.

  “I was just thinking about the first time I saw you.”

  “When Millie introduced us on the ship. How is Millie?”

  “I don’t know anything about Millie.”

  He knew he would tell her wh
atever she asked. Basking in the sun, it felt as though they were the only two people in Eden. She said gently, “Tell me about the first time you saw me.”

  “I saw you long before we ever met, when you were boarding.”

  “Were you in love immediately?”

  “Yes.” Scott’s mouth was dry. All those months of carefully remaining aloof, waiting for some sign of interest from Desirée, were erased with one word. “Yes.”

  “Yes? That’s all? Tell me everything. I want to hear it.”

  “I’ll tell you tonight. You know, anticipation. It’s a good thing.”

  SHE SENT GUSTAV TO FETCH SCOTT FROM THE HOTEL AT seven thirty. It was only a short drive through the village across the bridge and up the hill into the private section of Gstaad, where tight restrictions forced the nouveau riche to be considerate of architectural tradition. The Swiss are firm believers that good paper makes good friends, and building laws and zoning kept these villas and chalets appearing modest, though they were the properties of Europe’s rich and famous. The countess’s chalet was located at the crest of one of the smaller hills, within walking distance of the village, yet protected from its neighbors by a series of fir trees. The two-story traditional wooden structure was hidden and disguised by its surroundings.

  A uniformed domestic opened the door to Scott’s knock before leading him to a great room to await the countess. The décor was decidedly modern. Various sectional seating, sofas, and lounges were arranged in strategic positions in relation to a large stone fireplace ablaze with a fire of crimson embers that cracked and popped. The room suggested comfort, laziness, and romantic foreplay.

  Lost in anticipation, Scott admired the fire, and so Desirée caught him unaware. “Darling, you are so handsome,” she said.

  Taking Desirée in his arms, Scott held her for a moment. He looked into her eyes, and the next he knew, Scott found he was kissing her flush on the lips. His heart pounded—this kiss was better, more reassuring and passionate, than the others because, somehow, they meshed perfectly.

  When at last they broke apart, Scott slowly turned Desirée; he wanted to take her in from every angle. She delighted in his admiration, her mischievous expression showing her pleasure. She had dressed for him, clothed in a black silk lounge pajama, piped with silver thread on the lapels and cuffs. Three rhinestone buttons decorated the bodice, and her breasts were loose and free beneath the lustrous fabric. The open back draped in a slow cascade, descending almost to the gentle curve of her lower spine.

  Desirée reclined on one of the sofas and patted the seat next to her. “Here. Let me tell you who is coming tonight,” she said.

  “I hope you don’t expect me to remember their names.”

  “Of course not; I just want to give you a little preview. We will be eight. You and I, that’s two; Yves and Jacqueline Bertrand, he’s with Paribas, the bank, and she’s from a champagne family in Reims; Jon and Louise Goosens, he’s director of a Dutch investment group, and she’s a director of a Dutch fashion house; Rheiner Honig, a journalist from Berlin; and Arianna Strozzi, a sculptor from Florence. These are friends of mine, and they have been coming to Gstaad for years.”

  The Bertrands were the first to arrive, followed by Rheiner Honig. The rest were together; the Goosens had picked up the sculptor, because she didn’t like to drive on the snowy roads.

  Desirée had hired extra staff for the evening to tend bar and serve hors d’oeuvres. Champagne was the drink of choice for all except Honig, who preferred scotch. Desirée introduced him as a friend from Berlin; without more clarity and any attendant detail, Scott’s curiosity and suspicion were aroused. Was the man truly just a friend or should he be wary of a potential rival?

  “Mr. Stoddard,” Yves asked once they were seated around the table, “is Geneva what you thought it would be or is it different?”

  “I tried not to form any preconceptions, but in general, I would say that people have been nicer than I had been led to expect,” Scott answered.

  “Had you heard that the Swiss are rude or don’t like foreigners?”

  “I have, and it wasn’t confined to the Swiss. Perhaps my informant was suspicious of everyone,” Scott said.

  Louise decided to try her luck. “Unless you’ve been many times to Europe or lived in Europe, it must be a difficult adjustment.”

  Scott answered with care. “I presume that any situation could prove difficult, especially if one is inflexible. I try to remain open to different ideas and customs and not be defensive about things I either don’t understand or don’t agree with.”

  “There are Europeans who don’t like Americans. Maybe it’s jealousy. Maybe it’s, oh, who knows?” added Jacqueline.

  “I hope present company excepted,” Scott said. “Overall, everyone has been truly kind, and if there were some problems, I can’t be sure they were not of my own making.”

  “But at times it must be frustrating, living in a foreign country,” Yves interjected. “The language, the expense, the differences. It goes on and on. And it must have been very difficult for you being so far away from the United States in November when President Kennedy was assassinated?”

  “Yes, the devastating news was sparse and incomplete regarding President Kennedy’s death. My classmates told me. Because all the lines were jammed, I couldn’t call home for several days. And you’re right, it is frustrating at times, but when I think that I could be in law school back in the States and not enjoying the experiences I’m having here . . . well, all these challenges are insignificant compared to the benefits of living here.”

  Next Rheiner, the journalist, chimed in. “The Americans must be very angry with President de Gaulle for threatening to pull out of NATO.”

  “Each country must follow its own ideas of sovereignty. It is unequivocal that France and America will always have a special connection,” Scott responded.

  Dinner was superb and the conversation lively. Obviously, Desirée’s guests had been intent on learning more about him. He thought the third degree went on a little too long, but deep down, he’d enjoyed the challenge.

  Eventually the guests left. When Scott heard the last car pull away, he breathed deeply with relief. “I’m glad that’s over.”

  “Don’t be cross. You were perfect, my darling.”

  “I’m not cross, but I came here to be with you, not spar with your nosy friends.”

  “They’re just protective. They like me best when I’m alone.”

  “Me too. Look, tomorrow is Sunday, and I will need to get back to Geneva in the evening.”

  “Tomorrow! You just arrived.”

  “I know, I hate to leave, but—”

  “Shhh, my darling. You need a reason to stay.”

  Extinguishing lights as they went, Desirée led Scott back into the great room. Settling into a corner of one of the sofas facing the fireplace, they were bathed in a faint, warm glow. She nestled in his arms, pulling him into the kind of kiss that inflames passion, that lights a fire that cannot be contained.

  Scott found Desirée to be a gift lightly wrapped. One gentle tug, a lift of her hips, three buttons undone, and her body was his to admire. Lying before him in the firelight, Desirée remained as still as a statue, enjoying how his eyes caressed each curve and soft place. And then she reached for him.

  seventeen

  WHEN SCOTT AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING, HE WAS alone in the countess’s massive bed. It had been dark when they made their way upstairs, but the rosy morning light now filtering in revealed a bedroom replete with luxury—silk sheets, fur blanket, and a padded leather headboard before a huge fireplace. Scott stretched like a satisfied lion.

  He quickly dressed and descended the stairs, moving through the chalet’s main rooms, looking for Desirée. There was the great room, already back in order, and the dining room, where they’d spent the evening with friends. He finally found her in a room off the kitchen, reading at a table set in a bay window. She was wrapped in a cashmere white robe with canary yell
ow sash, the matching hair ribbon pulling her thick golden locks back from her face. Devoid of makeup, her hair in a simple ponytail, Desirée looked good in the morning.

  “There you are, sleepyhead,” she said.

  Standing behind her chair, he circled his arms around her. She turned, and they exchanged another passionate kiss.

  The door to the kitchen opened, and a woman of some girth appeared. A stout and stern-looking Swiss woman of about fifty stood before him. “Helena, this is my friend Scott Stoddard. Could you prepare Mr. Stoddard some breakfast? Scott, tell Helena what you would like.”

  The expression on Helena’s face gave a warning, and Scott read it thus: Don’t hurt the countess. He figured it would take some time to win her over. He hoped he had that long.

  “Thank you. Just some coffee and a croissant, please,” he said. Helena nodded, turned, and returned to the kitchen. There wasn’t to be any wasted chatter with this one.

  “My darling, you are very quiet this morning,” Desirée said.

  “I’m enjoying the moment.”

  “Like you did last night?”

  “You noticed?”

  “I did. Are you still off to Geneva this afternoon?”

  “No, I found that reason to stay.”

  Beyond the light banter, Scott and Desirée didn’t discuss the night before. Nor did they delve into the significance of their quick progression from acquaintances to lovers. Possibly knowing the weekend was short, they reasoned that there was no time to waste. Perhaps it was due to anticipation; their attraction, sparked back in September on the boat, had intensified so quickly because they had been unable to explore their infatuation. Scott thought it was futile to question when the answers were unknowable. What he did know—his feelings for Desirée were intense and, rather than question why and how, he would let this romance play out and see where it would go. And whether his feelings arose from satisfaction of the conquest or something more profound, only time would tell.