The Dark Frontier A. Decker (i like reading TXT) 📖

And he saw his worst suspicions confirmed when Patricia gently kissed him and bade him “Take care” as he left.

With the delicate frame of her body, she pushed the door to and turned back towards Frank. A pensive smile played between her exquisite eyes and the conflict zone of her inviting lips. It was hard for Frank to judge whether the smile was meant for the just departed or for him the uninvited. For the time being, he preferred not to know.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“I told you. His name’s Léandre. I’ve known him since primary school in Avranches. He’s a very dear friend.”

Those last three words dug a deep trench through the pit of his stomach. He clammed up to stem the pain. And they sat watching each other, not saying a word, for some minutes. The pensive smile still lingered tantalisingly on her lips. But in her eyes it had given way to a disquieting expression that he could not identify.

“Why should he feel the need to trust me?” he asked at last.

For an answer she offered him some soup that was keeping warm on the stove and a glass of wine. Frank accepted, but he felt ill at ease, a sense of having been let down by the brief passage of time. When they had lunched together what seemed like just a short while ago, he had the impression that confidences had been shared – however small. Now it appeared that he was back at square one and having to work all the harder. But in the short time they had known each other, he had already come to realise that appearances can be deceptive when fashioned by the unpredictability of this beautiful sphinx.

As she returned from the cooking niche, she was carrying a tray that contained not only two bowls of soup and two glasses of wine, but also a small yet deliberate display of camembert cheese and two apples. She put the tray with studied care on the table in front of Frank.

“I’m afraid it’s Maggi soup,” she said apologetically.

“I’ve no quarrel with Maggi. Their soup may not be great, but they’re a socially minded corporation. Even Frank Wedekind worked for Maggi. He wrote advertising copy for them before he made his name in the theatre. So we’re in good company.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Patricia, raising her glass with a “santé.” And savoured a modest sip of the wine, looking over her glass at Frank with those mysteriously sparkling ebony eyes that had so captivated him the very first time they met.

“A Riesling from across the border,” she said. “A little more interesting than the Chasselas we had at lunch the other day.”

Frank was not used to a knowledge of wine being expressed by a woman, especially one who exuded such uncompromisingly feminine charm. He watched every subtlety of expression, every nuance of movement on her lips as she sipped her wine, as she spoke her words. He was not listening to what she had to say. It was her curiously melancholic beauty that enthralled him. And he was not willing to sacrifice the piquancy of the moment for the dullness of small talk. But she insisted, and once again she succeeded in surprising him.

“I was born in January 1913. Quite a good year I’ve been told. My father has a whole crate of 1913 Chateau Haut-Brion at home, which he says he’s keeping for the day I get married.” She smiled. “How long do you think a good Bordeaux will keep?”

Her question had a strangely prismatic quality about it – a simple statement that her beguiling smile managed to break down into a whole spectrum of possible meanings. She was like a traveller passing through customs and immigration, her only item of luggage a suitcase with a false bottom, and when she opens up the case with a smile, she appears to be laying bare every intimacy that she carries with her on her journey. But in truth, all her secrets remain as well concealed as they ever were.

This careless image reminded him of the half-hearted bargain he had struck with Achim and his initial motivation in seeking out Patricia’s company. But her manner left him uncertain how to broach the subject. And the existence of Léandre had created a new dimension of insecurity to cope with. He approached the situation cagily, skirting the issue with an ineptitude that did not escape her attention. He should have read the label on the display of camembert and apples. It was clear enough. But instead he allowed his unease to continue until these had long been digested by the acid in his stomach. And eventually he had to rely on her to save him from his own awkward clumsiness.

“What did you come here for, Frank?” she asked at last.

A simple enough question. But it was the way she wrapped her sensuous lips around the words that did it. And the way she used his first name. It was the cue he had been waiting for. As so often with seduction, the moment came unsuspectedly, leaving no space for cautious manoeuvres. And he jumped in with both feet, willing and easy prey, to deliver a basket of detail that seemed to capture her imagination and instil in her expression an intentness and energy that he had not seen in her before. And she seized on the story of his involvement with Achim with the eagerness of a hungry child. He had the impression that her estimation of him was growing with every mouthful. When at length he reached the announcement of his intention to play courier for Achim, the spell was complete – as if this was what she had been waiting for since they first met.

She leaned the slightness of her body towards him, took his hand, and pressed her lips gently to his cheek. The seducer was seduced.

“I’m glad,” was all she said.

From here to a final consummation of her regard for him was