Atlas Shrugged [176]
"I'll wake you up."
"Ok".
She sat, watching him as he remained silent. He had looked tired when he came in; the lines of exhaustion were gone from his face now.
"Dagny," he asked suddenly; his tone had changed, there was some hidden, earnest note in his voice, "why didn't you want to see me in public?"
"I don't want to be part of your . . . official life."
He did not answer; in a moment, he asked casually, "When did you take a vacation last?"
"I think it was two . . . no, three years ago."
"What did you do?"
"Went to the Adirondacks for a month. Came back in a week."
"I did that five years ago. Only it was Oregon." He lay flat on his back, looking at the ceiling. "Dagny, let's take a vacation together. Let's take my car and drive away for a few weeks, anywhere, just drive, down the back roads, where no one knows us. We'll leave no address, we won't look at a newspaper, we won't touch a phone-we won't have any official life at all."
She got up. She approached him, she stood by the side of the couch, looking down at him, the light of the lamp behind her; she did not want him to see her face and the effort she was making not to smile.
"You can take a few weeks off. can't you?" he said. "Things are set and going now. It's safe. We won't have another chance in the next three years."
"All right, Hank," she said, forcing her voice to sound calmly toneless.
"Will you?"
"When do you want to start?"
"Monday morning."
"All right."
She turned to step away. He seized her wrist, pulled her down, swung her body to lie stretched full-length on top of him, he held her still, uncomfortably, as she had fallen, his one hand in her hair, pressing her mouth to his, his other hand moving from the shoulder blades under her thin blouse to her waist, to her legs. She whispered, "And you say I don't need you . . . !"
She pulled herself away from him, and stood up, brushing her hair off her face. He lay still, looking up at her, his eyes narrowed, the bright flicker of some particular interest in his eyes, intent and faintly mocking. She glanced down: a strap of her slip had broken, the slip hung diagonally from her one shoulder to her side, and he was looking at her breast under the transparent film of the blouse. She raised her hand to adjust the strap. He slapped her hand down. She smiled, in understanding, in answering mockery. She walked slowly, deliberately across the room and leaned against a table, facing him, her hands holding the table's edge, her shoulders thrown back. It was the contrast he liked-the severity of her clothes and the half-naked body, the railroad executive who was a woman he owned.
He sat up; he sat leaning comfortably across the couch, his legs crossed and stretched forward, his hands in his pockets, looking at her with the glance of a property appraisal.
"Did you say you wanted a transcontinental track of Rearden Metal, Mr. Vice-President?" he asked. "What if I don't give it to you? I can choose my customers now and demand any price I please. If this were a year ago, I would have demanded that you sleep with me in exchange."
"I wish you had."
"Would you have done it?"
"Of course."
"As a matter of business? As a sale?"
"If you were the buyer. You would have liked that, wouldn't you?"
"Would you?"
"Yes . . ." she whispered.
He approached her, he grasped her shoulders and pressed his mouth to her breast through the thin cloth.
Then, holding her, he looked at her silently for a long moment.
"What did you do with that bracelet?" he asked.
They had never referred to it; she had to let a moment pass to regain the steadiness of her voice. "I have it," she answered.
"I want you to wear it."
"If anyone guesses, it will be worse for you than for me."
"Wear it."
She brought out the bracelet of Rearden Metal. She extended it to him without a word, looking straight at him, the green-blue chain glittering across her palm. Holding her glance, he clasped the bracelet on her wrist. In the moment when the clasp clicked shut under his fingers, she bent her head down to them