Free Ammie, Come Home by Barbara Michaels Page A

d’oeuvres needed to be made, the drink tray set up, the rolls kneaded and shaped—a dozen little odds and ends, time-consuming and annoying, which every hostess knows.
    She had done her hair, but her person was attired in mules and a garment unattractively known as a duster. She had just plunged both hands up to the wrists in dough when the doorbell rang. She said “damn,” and wondered who on earth it could be. Sara was dressing and was probably unfit for society at the moment. She would have to answer the door herself.
    Snatching up a paper towel she stamped into the hall and flung the door open, prepared to give a short shrift to any luckless newspaper boy or lost tourist. One glance and she started to slam it shut.
    â€œGo away! Go away and come back in an hour. Of all the outrageous—”
    Pat had thoughtfully inserted one large foot in the door. Now he shoved.
    â€œI’m not a guest, I’m a waiter. Open up.”
    She had very little choice. He kicked the door shut behind him and headed for the kitchen, without further comment. Ruth trailed along, too curious now to be angry. But if the parcel he carried contained food or wine, she was prepared to rage.
    Pat deposited his bundle on the counter and unfolded it.
    â€œMy favorite bottle opener, my best carving knife, and,” he held up the white material which had contained the other items, “my apron. What needs doing?”
    â€œBut you—you…. Words,” said Ruth honestly, “fail me.”
    â€œThis last minute stuff is the worst part of the party. I’m trying to demonstrate,” he said, with a sidelong glance, “that men are useful things to have around the house. What have we here? Bread or something? Well, I’ll leave that to you. What are we drinking? Where do you keep the gin?”
    Twenty minutes later Ruth was shaping the last of the rolls while Pat put a shaker of martinis in the refrigerate and swept the kitchen with a comprehensive glance.
    â€œAll set, I think. I’ll light the fire now, while you change.”
    â€œJust a second, till I finish these.”
    He came up behind her and stood watching, and gradually Ruth’s movement slowed. She had expected this sooner or later and had not been sure how she would handle it—or how she wanted to handle it. What she had not anticipated was the mindless lassitude that gripped her at the first touch of his hands.
    â€œRelax,” he said, into her ear. “I don’t want flour all over my brand new jacket.”
    Leaning back against him, she heard his quick breathing, felt his hands move from her waist to her breasts. His lips slid down her cheek, seeking her mouth; without conscious volition she turned her face to meet his. So…. Those particular nerve endings were not atrophied after all. Through the years she had sought—perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not—partners who did not arouse the deadened emotions, and had told herself that they were gone for good. Now, wherever his hands and lips had touched she felt stripped, not only of clothing but of skin, as if the skillful fingers manipulated the nerves themselves.
    For several long unmeasured seconds her consciousness hung suspended on a single pivot of pleasure; then the automatic defenses, never so long defied, snapped into place. She stiffened and moved; and he released her at once, stepping back, hands touching her waist only to balance her.
    Staring dizzily at her own hands, Ruth saw a pathetic squeezed lump clenched between taut fingers. Automatically she began to pat it into shape.
    â€œWhat happened?” he asked quietly. His breathing was slower but still uneven.
    â€œNothing. I…squashed my roll, didn’t I?”
    â€œDo you find me that repulsive?”
    â€œOh, Pat—no.” She turned to face him, hands eloquent; with the beginning of a smile he fended off her floury fingers.
    â€œI thought the first reaction was