Borrower of the Night - Elizabeth Peters [3]
‘Oh, have you?’
‘Yes. What you need is to be dominated.’
‘Is that right,’ I said.
‘That tough exterior is a defence,’ Tony explained. ‘Underneath, you are looking for a stronger shoulder to lean on. But since you are a superior female, you need to be convinced that the male is even more superior.’
‘All right,’ I said, between my teeth. ‘You may be stronger than I am, you ape, but just try those gorilla tactics on me and you’ll get something you – ’
‘No, no, I’m not talking about anything as crude as physical domination. I intend to convince you of my intellectual superiority.’
‘Ha, ha,’ I said.
‘You doubt that I am your intellectual superior,’ Tony said calmly. ‘Of course you do. That’s your trouble.’
I bit back the yell of outrage that was right on the tip of my tongue. He wanted me to lose my temper; that would prove my emotional immaturity.
I leaned back on the couch, crossed my legs, and took a deep breath. Tony’s eyes glazed, but he didn’t move.
‘And how,’ I inquired, practising deep breathing, ‘do you propose to convince me?’
Tony was a funny colour. With some effort he dragged his eyes away from my torso and stared at the fire.
‘I haven’t figured that out yet,’ he admitted. ‘But I will.’
‘Let me know when you do.’ I fell back onto the couch, hands clasped behind my head. I kicked off one of my shoes. ‘Did I tell you I expect to have two articles published by the end of the year? How are you coming with the one you started last fall?’
That was too much. Tony growled and lunged. I was ready for him; I slid out from underneath and stood looking fondly down on him as he sprawled awkwardly across the couch.
‘Since you are going to dominate me mentally, there’s no point in this sort of thing,’ I said, slipping my foot back into my shoe. ‘Call me when you’re ready to start dominating.’
He was ready sooner than I expected.
It was one of those awful March days in the Midwest, when ice and snow and sleet seem doubly outrageous because they follow a few days of mild weather. Slogging along through the slush, I was not in my best mood, even though the evening ahead looked interesting. Tony was about to share one of his finds with me – a man, not a theory of history. Jacob Myers was one of the big wheels in our little town. Actually, he was the only wheel of any size. One of his ancestors had donated the land on which the university was built; the family automobile plant was the leading industry. The public library, the main street, and the park were all named after members of the clan. Having too much money (if that is possible) and a weakness for culture, Myers dispensed fellowships and research grants with a lavish hand. Oddly enough, one of the few faculty members who hadn’t profited from this generosity was Tony, though his father and Myers were lodge brothers, or something. I happened to know – though not from Tony – that he had even paid back the money Myers had loaned him to finish graduate school. Myers hadn’t liked that. My informant declared the old man used to light his cigars with Tony’s cheques until Tony threatened to leave the town and the university.
I never said Tony lacked good qualities.
Anyhow, this was the night on which I was destined to meet the great man. And if he was inclined to throw any research money my way, I was fully prepared to accept it.
Tony should have picked me up that night, but that was one of his weapons in our not-so-unarmed cold war: no concessions to femininity, not even common politeness. If I wanted to be liberated, Tony’s manner implied, I could damned well be good and liberated. I had no intention of engaging in a vulgar debate on the subject; if he couldn’t see for himself that basic courtesy has nothing to do with sexual competition, I was not the girl to point it out. I would have picked him up if I had owned a car, on such a stinking wet, dreary night.
With my thoughts running along those