Carla (8 page)

Her mouth fell open. At first she couldn't believe it; then, studying the face and eyes she remembered him all at once, remembered his arms around her and the smell of grease and the pavement under her bare skin. At first her pulse raced at the animalism of the memory. Then she realized fully just who he was.

“You—”

“Remember? I thought you would. But we never got to the introduction stage before, did we? My name's Danny Rand, and I guess you're Carla Macon.”

“Danny Rand,” she repeated half to herself. “I—How did you find me?”

He shrugged. “I just ran around ringing doorbells. How else would I do it?”

“How?” She felt her knees going weak and fought to control herself. This couldn't be happening, she told herself. She was dreaming, and any moment she would wake up and Charles would run his hands over her body and then she would—

“It was easy,” he said. “I got your license number, honey. You never even thought of that. My brother-in-law's a cop, and when I gave him your number he ran it through the license bureau and got me your name and address.”

Suddenly she was too weak to stand. She groped her way to a chair and fell into it, powerless to remove her eyes from his piercing gaze. He was talking, saying more about how he had found out who she was, but she half-heard him as if he was talking through a wall.

“What … What do you want?”

“What do you think I want?”

She breathed deeply. “How much?” she asked.

“What?”

“How much money do you want?” Her voice rose and she fought to control it, hoping that Lizzie couldn't overhear the conversation. Why had the girl let him in, she wondered. Why had he noticed the license number, and why was he here now, and what did he want from her.

“Money?”

“Money,” she repeated. “That's what you want, isn't it? You want to blackmail me. Well? How much do I have to pay?”

He looked at her in amazement, and for a moment neither of them spoke. She saw the muscles in his jaw go tight, then relax slightly. When he spoke the words came out clearly and distinctly.

“I don't want money.”

At first she felt an irrational swell of relief. Then, “What
do
you want?”

“You.”

“
What!!”

“You,” he repeated levelly. “Carla, you're like no woman I've ever had. You're fire and ice and everything, and no matter how much I try to forget you I can't get you out of my mind. I think if I go without you much longer I'll go crazy. I want you and I'm going to have you.”

“
Go
crazy? You're crazy already.”

“Carla—”

“You must be crazy,” she went on, the words flowing freely from her lips. “You must be out of your damned mind. I don't love you and I don't want you and I couldn't care less if you dropped dead tomorrow. I don't want to see you or look at you or have you anywhere near me. Why can't you get out and leave me alone?”

“Because I love you,” The words were almost savage.

“You
are
crazy
.
Well, I
don't
love you.”

“You did.”

She sighed. “You fool. I wanted a man and you were there so I let you have me. That's all. Period. If you think—”

His jaw was stubborn. “Not the way it happened. There was more than just wanting a man. It was
us,
Carla. Us. I've been around, baby. You're not the first woman I've had. And you wanted more than a man. You wanted me.”

“Oh, Christ!” She shook her head fiercely and drew a cigarette from the pack in her purse, lighting it and drawing deeply on it.

“Do you really think it was you that I wanted?” she demanded. “Is that what you think?”

“That's exactly what I think.”

“You're wrong.”

“Am I?”

She nodded. “You're completely wrong. Take a look around you, you blockhead. You think I want to give this place up for a stinking gas-pump jockey? You think I want to trade this place for a stinking flat and a houseful of brats? You think I want a man who comes home reeking of grease and gasoline?”

“I—”

She drew again on the cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. “You fool,” she said again. “Just what do you think you want? You want me, do you? What do you mean? You want me to roll around on the floor with you? You want to take me on the floor whenever I get a tankful of gas?”

“No.”

“Well?”

“I want to marry you.”

Carla felt numb all over. What did this idiot think he was saying? She couldn't even begin to think what it would mean to be married to a man like Danny Rand, to trade Nottingham Terrace for a cold-water flat. The idea of going back to the same kind of slum she worked so desperately to escape made her sick to her stomach. She wanted to scream for help, to shout for somebody, anybody, to come and get him away from her. She couldn't even answer him, could not even start to tell him how insane he was and how much she loathed him. Her mouth opened and shut involuntarily as she watched him stand up from his chair and take a step toward her. A muscular hand reached out for her and she shrank back against her chair to escape his touch.

“Get away,” she said, her voice taut.

“Carla—”

“And don't call me Carla. Just get out and don't ever come here again.”

“I—”

“Get out,” she snapped, feeling a sensation of power returning to her. “My husband is coming home any minute and if he sees you here he'll kill you.”

“I'm not afraid of him.”

“You should be,” she said, realizing at the same time that she was talking to a man who would not be afraid of anybody. “You should be afraid of him. He could buy you and sell you a dozen times over. “But that's not all. If you don't get out at once I'll scream. I'll tell the police that you came in here and tried to rape me, and whose word do you think they'll take? Mrs. Ronald Macon's or a gas-pump punk's?” He was silent.

“You can't prove a thing,” she continued, her voice filled with self-assurance. “You can't prove you ever met me before or anything else. You can just get out of here and go back to your rotten little gas station and stay away from me from here on in. And to think I was going to pay you blackmail money! You can't touch me, Mr. Danny Rand. Now get out!”

“All right,” he said. “I'm going. But get this: I'm going to be back and you're going to want me back. You think you want this house and the expensive clothes, but there are things you want more, baby.

“You're gonna want me. Me, understand? You're gonna come crawling to me, begging me just the way you begged me with that hot little body of yours. You're gonna forget all about being Mrs. Ronald Macon and driving a hot little foreign job. You're gonna crawl to me, and when you do I'll turn you over my knee and wallop all the spoiledness out of you. I'll beat you black and blue and you'll love every minute of it, understand?”

She started to form a retort, started to tell him how wrong he was. But the words stuck in her throat and before she could say a thing he was out the door. He slammed it behind him, loud. She walked to the window and watched until he was inside the Ford and the car had made its way down the street and out of sight.

When he was gone at last she sank into an armchair, totally exhausted. She was too weak to move, completely shaken inside. What a vile, impossible man he was!

While she sat motionless in the armchair, every detail of that first meeting with Danny Rand went through her mind automatically. She remembered the way she threw her clothes to the floor and the way he took her—harshly, violently, almost viciously. Every detail came back to her, every crude and frightening caress, every gesture, everything that passed between them until she drove away and left him behind.

Involuntarily she found herself mentally comparing Danny to Charles. That was ridiculous, she decided at once. The two men had nothing in common. Charles was refined, sophisticated, clever and gentle—in short, the perfect lover. But Danny was rough and crude and boorish, an animal without a brain in his head or an iota of sensitivity in his whole being. She hoped that she would never see him again, but she couldn't avoid feeling that he would be back, that there would be a scene between them once again.

Finally she pulled herself to her feet, shook her head forcefully, and walked into the hallway, calling for Lizzie. The girl appeared momentarily.

“Why did you let that man in?” Carla demanded. At the same time she fought to keep from revealing any of the situation. If she showed too much in the way of anger or irritation, the girl might guess the real situation.

“He said he knew you, Mrs. Macon.”

“And so you let him come into the house?”

Lizzie lowered her eyes. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Macon. He said he knew you and you would be expecting him, so I guessed it was all right.”

“Never mind,” Carla said, more gently. “He was selling something and he managed to waste some of my time, but there's no harm done. But be more careful in the future, will you? He could have been a thief, for that matter.”

Lizzie nodded. “I should have thought of that.”

Carla dismissed the girl, but she couldn't overcome a decided feeling of nervousness. Twice she started to call Charles and each time decided against it. She played several games of solitaire and started reading a couple times but couldn't concentrate on anything. When Ronald came home a few minutes after noon, there was nothing forced about her greeting. She was glad to see him, glad to have a man in the house with her.

Ronald told her about his trip. While she hardly listened to the details, she gathered that it had been neither wholly successful nor a total disappointment. The case was more or less the same, difficult without being impossible.

Once more she realized how disastrous scandal could be. Why, if that fool Danny came around again it could be the end of everything! That was all she needed—a juicy scandal involving her with a garage mechanic. Well, he would be afraid to show up for awhile at least. It was a good thing she had thought to threaten him with the police. The idea came to her on the spur of the moment and saved everything.

She was just beginning to understand how thoroughly the experience had shaken her. Ronald's presence helped but wasn't enough. She continually felt herself trembling with a mixture of fear and rage, and Ronald's arms could not chase the fears and let her relax. If Charles were only there she could get the memory of Danny out of her system, but Charles was at his own apartment and couldn't help her now. She remained with Ronald, listening half-heartedly to his talk and answering his questions, biding her time.

There would be time. Lizzie would be out that night and Ronald would be busy, and if she wanted to go out he wouldn't mind. She could see Charles, and even a half-hour with him would be heaven.

She needed him. She needed someone to take the taste of Danny Rand out of her mouth.

Chapter Eight

CARLA BANGED DOWN THE
phone in disgust. The air in the telephone booth was stuffy and clouded with smoke from her cigarette, but she didn't have the strength to get up and leave. She took a final puff of the cigarette and dropped it to the floor, grinding it out viciously with her heel.

Damn, she thought. Damn, damn, damn!

She was in a drugstore just a few blocks from her home. Ronald had said good-bye to her, too wrapped up in his work to even ask where she was going or when she would be coming back. After hurrying to a phone, she had called Charles at once. His voice over the phone relaxed her at last, but when she proposed a meeting his words set her on edge.

“I'll be busy this evening,” he had said. “I thought we agreed on afternoons?”

“But I have to see you.”

“I'm sorry, dear.” And then there had been an odd aura of finality in the click of the receiver in her ear.

She called back immediately and listened to the phone ringing over and over. After two dozen rings she gave up, resigned to the fact that he had left for the evening. But where had he gone? And why couldn't he give her the evening when she needed him so much? It wasn't fair.

She started to light another cigarette, then decided against it and rammed the cigarette back into the pack, dropping the pack into her purse and snapping the catch on the black alligator purse with the same touch of finality that she had noted in the click of the receiver. She was angry. She was angry in an illogical way, angry about Danny's visit and Charles's reply, angry and tired and tense inside. If she had ever in her entire life needed a man, she needed one now. If she ever needed relaxation and peace, now was the time.

But what was there to do? Going home was the only way open to her, but there would be nothing but loneliness and boredom there. Ronald was too busy to talk to her and Lizzie was out for the evening. Besides, she didn't want to spend too much time talking to the girl. One of these days she would give her hand away, and that was all she needed.

She left the phonebooth and returned to the MG, driving away from the curb and south on Delaware. Tonight driving didn't seem to provide the relaxation it usually gave her but it was certainly better than staying at home. She cursed Charles and Ronald and Danny, the harsh words making her feel better in a small way. But it didn't work; her hands were still clenched too tightly on the steering wheel and there was still an odd constriction in her throat.

Maybe a drink would help. Maybe a whole batch of drinks, one right after the other, would turn the trick. She sure as hell needed something before she went out of her mind.

She searched for a bar, driving methodically down Delaware and across Chippewa and down Pearl and combing the whole downtown area systematically. It was important to find just the right sort of place—one that was decent enough to let her feel comfortable, but at the same time brassy enough so that none of Ronald's friends was likely to drop in.