Separate Beds by Lavyrle Spencer Page B

want to get roaring drunk go right ahead. Don't expect me to abet it by being equally as stupid.”
    He raised a sardonic eyebrow to Eddie. “The lady thinks I'm stupid.” Then he mumbled into his drink, “If she only knew the half.”
    In the crush of bodies and the assault of noise Jill didn't quite hear what Clay said, but he was troubled tonight, not acting like himself. “I don't know what's gotten into you tonight, but whatever it is, I don't like it.”
    “You'd like it even less if you knew.”
    Just then somebody came by and bumped Jill from behind, spilling a splash of her drink on her new sweater at the fullest part of her left breast.
    “Oh, damn!” she exclaimed, sucking in her stomach, searching in her purse for a Kleenex. “Have you got a hanky, Clay?”
    He reached for his hind pocket. “That's the second time this week that a lady has needed my hanky. Here, let me help you with that, mademoiselle.” He grabbed Jill by the hand, found a vacant corner beside the refrigerator and pushed her into it. With the hanky he began dabbing at the spot where the liquor had already darkened the sweater. But an odd, troubled look overtook his face. His motions stilled, and his eyes found hers. Then he grabbed hanky, sweater, breast and all and flattened himself against her long, lithe body, kissing her with a sudden fierceness that startled her. Fondling her breast, controlling her mouth, he pressed her into the corner where the refrigerator met the wall. She thought he'd lost his mind. This was not the Clay she knew, not at all. Something was more wrong than she'd guessed.
    “Stop it, stop it! What's the matter with you!” she gasped, breaking away from his kiss, trying to push his hand from her breast.
    “I need you tonight, Jill, that's all. Let's go someplace and leave this noisy bunch.”
    “I've never seen you like this, Clay. For God's sake let go of my breast!”
    Abruptly he released her, backed up a step, put the guilty hand in his trouser pocket and stared at the floor. “Forget it,” he said, “just forget it.” He raised his drink and took an abusive swallow.
    “You're going to get sick if you continue at this pace.”
    “Good!”
    “All right, I'll go with you, but to make sense, not sex, agreed?”
    He looked at her absently.
    “Whatever it is that's bothering you, let's talk it out.”
    “Fine,” he said, taking her glass almost viciously and depositing it and his back on the table which was littered with dozens of others. Without another word he grabbed Jill's wrist and started pushing his way through the mob.
    When they were halfway to the door someone yelled, “Hey, Clay, hold up!” Turning, he saw Stu Glass's ruddy face making its way toward him, both hands raised above the press of elbows, trying to keep from spilling a pair of drinks. Over his shoulder Stu shouted, “Follow me close, honey; I want to talk to Clay a minute.”
    The two couples converged in the milling crowd. “Hey, Clay, you leaving already?”
    “Hey, Stu, whaddya say?”
    “Haven't seen you around all week. Dad wanted to know if you and your father decided about partridge hunting next weekend yet.”
    The two fell to discussing hunting plans, leaving Bobbi and Jill to exchange small talk. They knew each other only slightly, through their relation with the men, but now, for the first time, Bobbi studied Jill Magnusson more assessingly than ever before. She took in Jill's expensive wine-colored sweater and skirt, that angel's face of hers, and the negligent way Clay Forrester's arm looped around her waist while he went on talking to Stu. If ever two people were made for each other it was these two, thought Bobbi. Jill, with her burnished skin, her cover-girl's features and that glorious mane of hair, and Clay with his sun-drenched good looks, flawless taste in clothing to match the girl's, and both of them blessed with self-assurance, wealthy families and preordained success.
    It struck Bobbi quite suddenly