Philip stood in the doorway to the sitting room a few moments studying the beautiful woman who leaned back gracefully on the deep gold velvet chaise lounge chair by the window, bathed in the warm early morning sunlight, reading L'histoire de l'oeil. She was wrapped in the seafoam-green silk dressing gown he’d gotten her in Paris the last time they were there, noticing she hadn’t bothered to put on anything underneath if the expanse of alabaster thigh on display was anything to go by. Her ridiculous, feathered, high-heeled house slippers sat waiting on the Persian rug for her to get up again. He wanted to sear every detail of this moment in his mind.
“You’re going to rot your brain if you continue reading that rubbish, kitten,” he chided, stepping into the room. The hour was growing late and he could no longer put off saying his goodbyes if he’d hoped to make the nine o’clock train to Leeds.
“They’re educational,” she reminded him, huffing, and not even tearing her eyes from the page.
There was no way he could begin to argue with that. Alice’s penchant for saucy novels was one of the first things he’d discovered about her years ago. He found it equal parts endearing, adorable and enjoyable. “Still,” was all he could come up with to counter her.
“It’s better than the rubbish you read.”
“I will have you know that Hemingway is the best writer of this age,” he stated, easily baited into their never ending ‘discussion’ over what constituted actual literature and what should end up in the dustbin. Alice knew how to argue her point, often employing the things she’d read about to sway things her way. Philip loved every second of it which was why he’d picked up the book she was currently engrossed in. Who was he to stand in the way of her further enlightenment?
“Be that as it may, it does not detract from his ability to tell a good story.”
“Says you,” she said disdainfully. “His writing is very terse, unimaginative. All he writes about is hunting, war and drinking.”
He’d never win this argument. Alice was quite set in her opinion of his favorite author. “Hemingway’s an amazing bloke though,” Philip insisted, unable to help himself and he could practically hear her eyes rolling as the words left his mouth.
“I know,” she sighed, “that one time in Paris when you ran into him in a bar and you drank long into the night while discussing the merits of Edgar Rice Burroughs and your exploits in Africa. He drank you under the table.”
“It was a great night,” he said wistfully, checking his watch for the time. She’d suffered through more than one recounting of that evening years ago, more or less in silence. “I must go.”
She leaned her cheek up for him to buss, still refusing to look up at him. “I know, handsome.”
It pained him whenever she acted nonchalant about his leave taking, but that was just how she was. His fierce, little kitten despised any outward display of weakness. They’d fallen into the habit of not actually saying proper goodbyes when they had to be apart for a job, her reason being nothing bad could happen if things were left undone between them.
“I’ll ring you later when I get in.” He stood gazing down at her, wishing he didn’t have to go.
“I’ll be waiting.” Her voice wavered a little bit and she turned a page.
There were many things on the tip of his tongue that he wanted to say to her, but knew she would not be receptive of any of them so he gave her a quick nod and turned on his heel to leave.
She waited until he’d almost reached the door before saying, “You better come back to me, Philip.”
It took only four strides for him to cross the room again, sitting on the edge of the chair to face her, and gather her in his arms. She offered no resistance when he plundered her mouth, slipping her arms around his neck to pull him closer.
“Always, kitten,” he swore, his forehead pressed to hers as they both tried to catch their breath.
“I will kill you if you don’t,” Alice promised with all seriousness, her fingers gripping the lapel of his black pinstripe suit. There was a hint of worry in her blue eyes that tugged at the pit of his stomach.
“I know.” He kissed the tip of her nose and chuckled, trying to lighten the mood. “Nine ways, each more painful than the last.”
