CHAPTER XV
When Deane opened the door Rio was standing there. He bent his head a little as the light from the room beyond fell upon him. He looked at the back of his wrist where an ugly scab, ripped by a loose strand of cable, seemed an offensive sight in front of this woman. He tried to cover up the wound with his cap. It was such a painful moment as he stared at his great crude hands that Deane moved instinctively toward him. She saw the hurt, shamed child in him, but more than that, within the tense breach she saw the man. Rio’s arms, which now hung by his side as though he were disgraced, fascinated her, then became repellent by her very daintiness. Yet she ventured still further. What a wide cloth across his wrist! And why the heavy jaw and painted muscles of his neck—dark by one edge and golden by his collar!... What a tie!—so hideous, that clarified the purpose in his eyes! For now he was looking down at her.
“Close,” he said in a low voice. “Very close,” he repeated, remembering the urge, the fomenting inspiration when he had left her before. In his eyes Deane had the appearance of a small, dark seal. It was more than the shimmering under her dress—more than a watery sea movement of her hips that led him on until he touched her. As he held her by the arm her black velvet gown fell sharply away from her throat, and he looked for the first time at her breasts. The maturity, the obvious, sleek movement contained within her resembled his own feeling now. He lowered his head. Deane closed the door and clasped her hands behind his neck. His lips were burning her unbearably. She tried weakly to brush them off.
“I can’t help it,” she almost cried. “I can’t.”
Rio took his face away from her throat and laid his hands upon her thighs. Without effort he lifted her high above him. He was calm. There was no note of hysteria in his voice, only a slight tension of his muscles. Then he said, “Spit!” turning his face sideways so that he could feel it better. “Two dogs,” he repeated intensely. “Spit!”
Held like a doll above him—understanding his meaning, accepting the fact of her treachery, Deane turned as wild as the awakened animal beneath her. She knew that she was floating, knew that she was full of hatred for Martin and not Rio. She opened her little red mouth and spat against Rio’s cheek—once, twice, three times!—until she was breathless. And Rio, grim, lost again from his friend, lowered her and shook her by the hair until they came together squarely and the dull sound of illicit kisses moaned through the empty corridor.
When Rio released her they stood apart, looking at each other with only Deane’s breath and the metallic drops upon his cheek as a memory. Then Rio sighed and wiped his face with the cuff of his sleeve.
“Whatever kind of God there is,” he said, “I’m damned! Now I’ve showed Martin the kind I am!” he continued as if to himself. “He’s crazy—he’ll know.... And as for you,” Rio turned to the woman once more and whispered fiercely, “you’re a black witch.”
Deane was leaning against the wall, still breathing heavily. She made no attempt to answer and Rio continued.