She left him around nine o'clock, and went to her own room to get ready for bed. They were both tired, and Simon sensed that she was nervous. He heard her running a bath, and it was a long time before he heard sounds in her room again. He wondered what she was doing and how she looked in the ivory satin nightgown. It was something to wear on a wedding night, which was precisely how he had pictured their secret weekend. He walked slowly to the door, and knocked softly, and when the door opened, his breath caught as he saw her. The satin gown molded her perfectly and her red hair flowed softly over her shoulders, as the creamy flesh of her neck beckoned him to touch her.
“My God … you look incredible …”
“This is beautiful, Simon … thank you …” She looked shy as she took a step back into the room and looked at him. He had never seen anyone lovelier. She managed to look both regal and inviting and it was all he could do to force himself not to reach out and grab her. But he didn't dare, she looked like fine porcelain as she stood there, like one of Mrs. Whitman's delicate English treasures in her parlor.
“Zoya …”
She smiled slowly at him, not a girl anymore, but a woman, a woman who had come to love him deeply, with all his gentleness, and his thoughtful gestures and kindness to her. She knew as she looked at him that she had been blessed the day she met him.
“Why don't you come in for a little while.” She stepped aside, and her voice was husky as she invited him in. He stepped over the threshold feeling like a boy again, and then feeling the force of his manhood push aside his reserve, he took her in his arms, and the gown slipped slowly from her shoulders as he held her. It took the merest touch to drop it to her waist and then past her slim hips, and within moments she stood naked before him.
“I love you so much.” He could barely speak as he kissed her lips and her neck, and her breasts, and then let his lips drift over her body, and then with a single powerful gesture he swept her into his arms and onto the bed, and a moment later, he lay there beside her. He made love to her as he had longed to since the day they met, and the room was quiet when they lay beside each other at last, sated, and happy and bonded for a lifetime. She was everything he had wanted her to be. She was more than he had ever dreamed of.
“I love you, Simon.” And she knew as she said the words that she loved him as she had no other man before him. She was a woman now, and she was his woman, as she always would be. The present and the future were theirs, and the past was only a dim memory, as they went back to his room and turned off the lights, and lay in his bed, watching the fire turn to embers. And after they made love again, they drifted off to sleep in each other's arms, their dreams complete, their bodies one, their lives joined as surely as if they had been married that night at Mrs. Whitman's. It was the perfect wedding night, and the next morning, their breakfast appeared mysteriously on trays in Mrs. Whitman's parlor, as Zoya donned the ivory satin peignoir over her bare flesh and followed Simon downstairs with a happy giggle.
“This feels absolutely sinful, doesn't it?” she whispered over blueberry muffins. She handed one to Simon and poured his coffee. It was as though she had never belonged to any other man. It had been so long since she had been Clayton's wife, and she was someone else now. But Simon only smiled at her and shook his head.
“I don't feel sinful at all. I feel married.”
“So do I,” she said softly, and looked at him, her eyes filled with everything she felt, and without another word, he took her back upstairs, the muffins untouched, the coffee forgotten.
CHAPTER
39
In the next two weeks, everything between them seemed to change. They belonged to each other and they knew it. The only obstacle left to overcome was the fact that Zoya hadn't met his parents. She was nervous about meeting them, but he reassured her as best he could after surprising her one Friday night by telling her he had told his mother he was bringing her to dinner.
“What did she say?” Zoya looked at him worriedly, wearing a new black dress. He hadn't warned her, so as not to frighten her. He had just said they were going out. And now, suddenly, despite all that had happened between them at Mrs. Whitman's two weeks before, she felt like a young girl again, terrified at the prospect of meeting his mother.
“Do you really want to know?” He laughed. “She asked me if you were Jewish.”
“Oh no … and wait until she hears my accent. When she finds out I'm Russian, it's going to be awful.”
“Don't be silly.” But she was right. Simon had scarcely introduced them when his mother narrowed her eyes at Zoya.
“Zoya Andrews? What kind of a name is that? Is your family Russian?” She assumed she had been named for a grandmother, or some distant relative. She stood almost as tall as Simon, and looked down at Zoya.
