Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [99]
They were quiet for a long time. Lucy felt warm, as if she were glowing; she had never felt so warm in all her life. When their breathing subsided she could hear the storm outside. Henry was heavy on top of her but she did not want him to move…she liked his weight, and the faint tang of perspiration from his white skin. From time to time he moved his head to brush his lips against her cheek.
He was the perfect man to have this with. He knew more about her body than she did. His own body was very beautiful…broad and muscular at the shoulders, narrow at the waist and hips with long, strong, hairy legs. She thought he had some scars, she was not sure. Strong, gentle and handsome. Perfect. She also knew she would never fall in love with him, never want to run off with him, marry him. Deep inside him, she sensed, there was also something quite cold and hard—his reaction, and explanation, when she came into his room was extraordinary…she wouldn’t think about it—some part of him that was committed elsewhere…. She would have to hold him at arm’s length and use him cautiously, like an addictive drug.
Not that she would have much time to become addicted, he would, after all, be gone in little more than a day.
She stirred, and he immediately rolled off her and onto his back. She lifted herself on one elbow and looked at his naked body. Yes, he did have scars: a long one on his chest, and a small mark like a star—it might have been a burn—on his hip. She rubbed his chest with the palm of her hand.
“It’s not very ladylike,” she said, “but I want to say thank you.”
He reached out to touch her cheek, and smiled. “You’re very ladylike.”
“You don’t know what you’ve done. You’ve—”
He put a finger over her lips. “I know what I’ve done.”
She bit his finger, then put his hand on her breast. He felt for her nipple. She said, “Please do it again.”
“I don’t think I can,” he said.
But he did.
SHE LEFT HIM a couple of hours after dawn. There was a small noise from the other bedroom, and she seemed suddenly to remember that she had a husband and a son in the house. Faber wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter, that neither he nor she had the least reason to care what the husband knew or thought; but he held his tongue and let her go. She kissed him once more, very wetly; then she stood up, smoothed her rumpled nightgown over her body and went out.
He watched her fondly. She’s quite something, he thought. He lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. She was quite naïve, and very inexperienced, but all the same she had been very good. I could perhaps fall in love with her, he thought.
He got up and retrieved the film can and the knife in its sheath from under the bed. He wondered whether to keep them on his person. He might want to make love to her in the day…he decided to wear the knife—he would feel undressed without it—and leave the can elsewhere. He put it on top of the chest of drawers and covered it with his papers and his wallet. He knew very well that he was breaking the rule, but this was certain to be his last assignment, and he felt entitled to enjoy a woman. Besides, it would hardly matter if she or her husband saw the pictures—assuming they understood their meaning, which was unlikely, what could they do?
He lay down on the bed, then got up again. Years of training simply would not allow him to take such risks. He put the can with his papers into the pocket of his jacket. Now he could relax better.
He heard the child’s voice, then Lucy’s tread as she went down the stairs, and then David dragging himself to the bathroom. He would have to get up and have breakfast with the household. It was all right.