The Casanova Embrace Read Online Free Page B

with a cold."
    It was while she was consciously being more guarded that
Eduardo came back into her life, a disembodied voice on the telephone. It startled
her, coming as it did in the middle of the day. Actually, she had heard the
ring as a faraway intrusion in her mind as she lay on the bed taking an
afternoon nap. Later, she would insist that it was déjà
vu, that she knew it was he at the other end of the line.
    She was cranky when she reached for the receiver, feeling
weights on her eyelids and a heaviness in her arms and legs, a frequent
aftermath of her afternoon naps.
    "Mrs. LaFarge?" the voice enquired. It was deep
and resonant with a touch of humor. Always, even in her memories of him, there
was a touch of humor. The recognition quickly activated her adrenalin and she
was fully alert in a moment.
    "Yes, this is Mrs. LaFarge."
    "I hope you will remember me. The Chilean fellow at
the Roumanian do." He said "do" with a British lilt as if he
were reading lines from a Noël Coward play.
    She hesitated deliberately. Was it merely coquettishness?
Or fear? She felt a sudden flush of warmth and she actually looked into the
mouthpiece as if she might see his face.
    "Of course," she answered. "The
Chilean." She had wanted to add with the silver-gray eyes and white teeth.
Her hands began to shake.
    "I never distrust first impressions," he said.
There was no uncertainty. No wavering. He had been that sure of her from the
beginning.
    "I have always been taught to beware of first
impressions." She was conscious now of being deliberately flirtatious. It
is delicious, she felt.
    "I thought perhaps we might have lunch."
    She thought for a moment. It was not the first time that
men had called. Lunch? It was a euphemistic term for tryst, a delicate first
probe. Her response had always been: I never have lunch with men. Sometimes she
actually had told her husband about it, knowing he would be secretly flattered.
But not always, although she had turned down all offers. She had hesitated too
long.
    "I suppose you think it rather forward," he said.
She wondered if his gray eyes looked innocent. Yes, she said in her mind.
    "Is there any particular reason?" she began. She
marveled at her own ability to prolong the titillation.
    "Reason?" She pressed the earpiece closer. She
could hear his breathing. "I suppose we must have a reason. All right
then. I am seeking a French response to the Chilean question."
    She had wanted to say: And what is the Chilean question?
The problem, she giggled inwardly, is what is the answer to the immediate
Chilean question?
    "My husband would be far more knowledgeable." He
must not think that I am easy, she told herself, shocked at the idea.
    "I am interested in the woman's viewpoint. This is
something peculiar to Chileans. Our women are extremely important. They have
attained much in Chile." He had suddenly become political. Was the moment
slipping away?
    "Well, I suppose that is quite harmless," she
said.
    "Why are you talking about harm?" he asked. But
the message had already been delivered, sealed and dropped irretrievably in the
slot.
    "All right," she said with finality. She had
heard someone at the door. The children. Claude returning early.
    "Tomorrow?"
    "Tomorrow."
    "La Niçoise in Georgetown. Twelve
o'clock."
    "Yes."
    "Wonderful." The word seemed sincere. She hung
up, lay back, closed her eyes, picturing him again. Then it occurred to her
that she had not said his name. Eduardo, she whispered. Eduardo Palmero. The
door opened and her daughter burst into the room, rushing into her arms. She
smelled of the outdoors, fresh and chilled.
    Expectation and anxiety made it impossible for her to
function smoothly. She forced herself to keep her mind on the business of her
life. The children. The meals. Her husband's problems. He was fond of long
monologues about what was happening at the office, the imagined slights, the
little successes and glories. He had a tendency to brag about his