The Making Of A Gigolo 8 Felicity ChumleyChapter 2
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Chester wasn’t in the bedroom. In fact, Felicity couldn’t find him anywhere. She felt helpless. As maddening as he was - imagine the nerve of the man, calling her ‘darling’ and correcting her in front of the servants! - she had to admit that he was a strong, confident man. She had hoped he’d just give up and go home when she made it clear she didn’t like him. She’d been fine, as long as he was clear down the table from her. But, both when she’d gone to him, and when he’d come to her, those blue eyes seemed to be pools of endlessly deep water, that she could drown in if she wasn’t careful. She was trying to hate him, but it was hard! If he’d be a little hateful in return, it would help, but he wasn’t cooperating. Not only was he being civil to her, he was being nice to the servants too.
She stormed through the house, looking for her husband, with no success. And, to make things worse, the servants all seemed to have vanished into thin air. She turned a corner and saw the source of her problems sitting in the parlor. He’d worn the same clothes as before ... a work shirt and jeans, with boots. He had looked ridiculous, sitting at the formal dining table dressed in those clothes, but at the same time, he looked at home in them, like they belonged on him. They wouldn’t do for the reunion, of course. She’d have to dress him up a bit for that. She felt a sinking sensation as she realized that would mean she’d have to go shopping with him ... probably to Wichita, since she certainly couldn’t take him anyplace around here, where people knew her. That would mean riding in the car with him ... all that way ... both there and back.
She didn’t want to feel like she felt already, and with dismay, she somehow knew that it could only get worse. He had treated her with respect, mostly. It would have helped if he’d have leered at her, or been coarse. But he wasn’t. And he was sitting there, costing them money, while she ran around like a chicken with its head cut off.
Squaring her shoulders, she took the first tentative steps toward the parlor.
She sat down and looked at his shoulder, instead of his eyes. That helped a little bit.
“Look,” he said, before she could speak. She didn’t know what to say anyway, so she just listened. “It’s obvious you aren’t interested in doing this. I have nothing to lose, because Mr. Chumley said he’d pay me even if it didn’t work out.”
She looked at his eyes then, frowning. Chester hadn’t told her that.
“I’m not going to hold him to that,” said Bobby. “I’m not interested in torturing any woman, not the least you. I’ve been here about an hour and a half, and was here an hour last time. How about you just pay me twelve dollars and fifty cents for my time, and we’ll call it even. I’ll go back to work, and you can relax.”
She pulled her eyes away from his with an effort. She had more conflicting feelings. He was being a gentleman about it, that was plain. And he wasn’t gouging Chester either, when he could, technically, if he wanted to. He had given her a way out of this horrible situation. All she had to do was give him twelve-fifty.
She frowned. Was that all she was worth? Twelve and a half dollars? She did some calculations in her mind. She was good at math. At a thousand dollars a week, for say, fifty-six hours - that would be seven eight hour days - he would be making almost eighteen dollars an hour. Of course, the three days and two nights they’d be going to the reunion would be twenty-four hour days, so that would be only about six or seven dollars an hour then. And he was willing to settle for five dollars an hour to endure her presence.
“Well?” he said, interrupting her flow of thought.
“Hush,” she said. “I’m thinking.”
She didn’t look at him. That was too dangerous. He was too pretty, with those eyes, and that smile, and that hair. Her eyes went to his hair against her wishes. He’d need a haircut. For what he did every day, this was fine ... delicious, in fact ... but not if he were her husband. She frowned. How could she think about him as her husband? She should just give him the money and be rid of him.
She found herself on her feet, ready to go get her purse and pay him, when she thought about Chester. He wanted her to do this. That seemed so strange to her. She loved him. She didn’t need a young man to feel passionate. Some place in her mind asked the question: “Why does he bother you so much, then? Why are you so afraid of him?”
“Because he’s gorgeous!” she answered in her mind. “He’s strong, and tall, and I know it would feel so good to be in his arms!”
“Isn’t that what Chester wants for you?” asked the part of her mind she wished would go away.
“Yes, but ... what if I can’t resist him?”
“Does Chester want you to resist him?”
“No, but ... it’s not right!“
“Chester seems to think it’s fine.”
She closed her eyes and put her fists in them, ruining her makeup, as tears came. She didn’t know what to do! A sob escaped her throat, and she felt shame, crying in front of this stranger.
“Hey,” came his soft voice from right in front of her. “Don’t cry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I didn’t know you were that disgusted by all this.”
She took her hands away and looked at him. This was okay, because she was looking through tears, and he looked all wavery. He had something white in his hand, and he pressed it to her left eye.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll go away and you’ll never have to see me again, okay? I don’t want you to cry, Felicity.”
She stood, helplessly as he dabbed at her eyes. Finally her hands came up to take the handkerchief from him, and she touched his hand. Her name sounded so strange on his lips. As her eyes cleared, they were captured again by his. There was concern in them. He actually cared how she felt! With an agonized sob, she fell against him, her arms going around his neck, as she sobbed, heart breaking heaves wracking her body. His arms came around her, holding her. He was strong. His arms felt like steel around her. All he did was hold her, and pat her back.
She got herself under control. She didn’t have to push him away. He sensed, somehow, when she was strong enough to stand on her own.
“I don’t want to be ... intimate ... with you,” she whimpered.
“Then we won’t be intimate,” he said. “That’s not a problem. I’m not here to make you do anything. If I can help, that’s good, but I don’t want to make you unhappy. This isn’t worth that, to either of us. It’s just play acting ... that’s all.”
“Just play acting?” she said, the whimper still in her voice.
“That’s all,” he said. “You tell me how to act, and that’s what I’ll do. If I think you’re wrong, we’ll talk about it. We’ll just be two actors, performing a little play for your friends, okay?”
“You’re being very decent about this,” she moaned.
“No I’m not,” he said. “I didn’t come here intending to try to take you away from Mr. Chumley, or anything like that. I just don’t know what you want. If you want me to leave, I will. If you want me to stay, I’ll do that too. If you want me to bark like a dog, we’ll have a little spat, while we work that out.”
She couldn’t help but giggle, hiccuping as she reacted to his goofy comment. He really was nice. Part of her brain pointed that out. “He’s gorgeous and nice! Her nose notified her that he smelled good, too, even dressed like that! Danger, Danger!” But he’d said she was in control, and that made her feel better. Chester had said the same thing. She was in control. It would be all right, because she was in control.
“We need to get you some clothes ... and a haircut,” she said.
“Clothes and a haircut,” he said firmly. “When? Today?”
“I’m worn out from all this right now,” she said. “How about tomorrow? We’ll go over to Wichita and go shopping.”
“What time do you want me here?” he asked, his voice businesslike.
“Eight?” she said, not sure if that was too early for him.
“Eight it is,” he said. “Your car or mine?”
“Mine,” she said, laughing. “Yours looks like it might break down at any minute.”
“Awwww,” he moaned. “And I was all ready to stop out in the middle of nowhere, and tell you I was out of gas.” He looked positively sad, but she knew he was teasing her. That was okay. She’d acted horribly toward him today, and she knew it. He was flirting with her too, she realized. She couldn’t believe how good that felt. There was the dim murmur of “Danger, Danger!” in her mind, but she pushed it away again. She was in charge! Everything would be fine.
The next day went better, depending on how you looked at it.
Felicity answered the door herself, in a pair of Bermuda shorts and a cotton top. Her hair was pulled back and held with combs and clips. Sandals completed her outfit. She looked critically at Bobby, who, as usual, was in jeans, and a faded blue work shirt. This time, though, he was wearing tennis shoes. Felicity glanced at his face, but nothing more.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Ready!” he announced.
They took her car, which was a 1971 Mercedes 280 SL convertible. It was beige, with a chocolate interior, and, probably, a chocolate top under the boot, which was covering the folded down roof. Bobby felt like he was soiling it when he got in, even though his clothes were clean.
She drove with skill that said she knew how to handle the engine, which had a throaty purr, and let the passengers know it was powerful. He wondered if she’d chosen it because the wind noise would make it difficult to chat. He found out differently when, at seventy-five miles an hour, he had no trouble hearing her.
She didn’t say much, in the beginning, so he started drawing her out, asking her about Kansas City, and the place she lived when she went to the school they would be going to. She described it in some detail, and talked about the public swimming pool she had spent hours each day at. It was built among a group of caves, and the caves were used as dressing rooms. She talked about the school too, and the pep club and her cheerleading. They were “The Indians”, she said, and they had good teams all the years she went there.
“Any chance you’ll be running into any old boyfriends?” he asked.
She shrugged. There had been four or five, none serious. The squad had taken most of her extra curricular time. In her last year she’d worked at a little corner store, tending the counter part time.
It sounded like an ordinary life, for a girl who would end up marrying a millionaire, and he said so. She darted a glance at him, her eyes invisible behind sunglasses.
“I didn’t marry him for his money,” she said.
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