A Calculated Risk by Katherine Neville (best time to read books .txt) 📗

“You needn’t bother,” I told him quickly. “I’ve found everything—the bathroom and all—for myself.”

He smiled and departed, softly closing the door.

I knew what was wrong, of course—I understood. I quickly disrobed and pulled the heavy flannel nightgown over my head. Tor made me feel weak, he drained my power. He had a way of sucking me into things way over my head, pulling me in deeper and deeper, as he laughed. I had been the most successful woman I knew—until this bank caper of his came along. But now I was in the quagmire neck-deep again, with no way out in sight.

But there was something else, far worse than this predilection for risking my neck. Other than my grandfather Bibi, Tor was the only one who could make me feel like a child that needed protection—not a feeling I’m especially fond of. He threw me into situations where I had no control—then raced to my rescue so I’d have to take his hand. He expected me to genuflect, like Tavish and all others, to his superior strength and intellect—to follow wherever he led. It really pissed me off. If I did what I knew he was thinking of tonight—he’d redouble his efforts, and try to steal my soul.

I poured water from the pitcher into the bowl on the washstand and splashed my face, looking at myself in the mirror. In those yards of cotton flannel, with that pinched face and mass of messy hair, I looked like a small boy dressed in a tent. Nobody would try to seduce someone who looked like that, I assured myself with a certain bravado. I scrunched up my nose in the mirror and stuck out my tongue.

Just then Tor came back into the room. He was wearing blue pajamas and had a pile of quilts in his arms.

“What are you doing running around like that in bare feet?” he said. “You’ll catch your death of cold. Get into bed.”

When I crawled between the cool, damp sheets, he tossed the quilts over me one by one. Then he lit the candle beside the bed and went over to flick the wall switch. The room was thrown into darkness, the candle glowing in a small circle. Golden fingers of light licked the walls, touching the oak armoire and brass bedstead. Beyond the lace-covered windows, the waves lapped the rocky shore.

Tor came over and sat on the edge of my bed, looking at me with those flame-colored eyes.

“Why are you sitting on my bed?” I asked him.

“I’m going to tell you a bedtime story,” he said with a smile.

“I thought you were so exhausted you couldn’t move.”

“Not quite,” he said. “This is something I’ve needed to do for a very long while.” I hoped that didn’t mean what it sounded like.

He leaned on the quilts, his hand resting over my belly. I could feel the warmth seeping through the thick goose down. I waited, without a word, for him to begin.

“Once upon a time, there was a little girl,” he said. “She was a very bad little girl.”

“In what way?” I asked.

“I think she wanted to be a little boy. She was very independent.”

“What’s so bad about that?” I said. “Sounds appropriately self-sufficient to me.”

“Don’t interrupt the storyteller, or you won’t hear the end,” he told me.

“Okay—what happened to her?”

“She got what she deserved,” he said. His voice was very soft. I felt the chill I always did when he spoke that way.

“And what did she deserve?” I asked—not at all sure I wanted to know.

“She deserved to get exactly what she wanted. Do you know what that was?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think you did.” He smiled.

“How on earth should I know what she wanted?” I asked.

“Because you’re the little girl,” he told me.

“Oh—then it isn’t a story at all,” I said.

“It is a story—it’s your story—and only you know the ending. Perhaps I’m a character in it—but it’s up to you to decide what part I’m going to play.”

“What part do you want to play?” I asked—realizing all at once that I was skating on very thin ice, this time without an iceboat.

He continued to watch me in silence, his dark eyes and coppery hair burning like flame in the candlelight. I felt weak and strange, and knew I couldn’t move. It seemed his eyes were searching a place in my depths—a place I’d never tried to seek myself—a place cut off from the world, as we were cut off, here on this island.

He closed the quilt slowly into his fist above my stomach, not looking at me. His voice was low—it seemed to cost him something to speak.

“I want to make love to you,” he said. Then, so softly it seemed he was whispering to himself, he said, “Very, very much.”

I could hear a clock ticking somewhere in the hallway, and the sound of the waves washing against the shore. I felt something falling inside of me—dropping away in pieces. I was scarcely breathing as Tor sat motionless, studying the flame of the candle as if he’d never spoken at all.

We remained there in silence for a very long time, neither of us moving an inch, his hand still gripping the quilt, as if it were a rock providing strength. After what seemed an eternity, I saw him close his eyes; he took a deep breath, and turned to me with an expression of irritation.

“Well?” he said impatiently.

“Well what?” I asked.

“I’ve just told you I want to make love to you.”

“What am I supposed to say?” I said defensively. I was shaken, really shaken, my resolution completely shattered. I hadn’t a clue what to do.

He stood up. “I’ve never before told a woman anything like that—and I may never do it again, when I’m met with such enthusiasm!”

“What do you want me to say? What do you want me to do?” I asked, sitting up abruptly with the bedclothes spilling around me. I was completely at sea.

“My God, you’re impossible!” he said. He threw