Summer Storm Read Free Page B

die.
     
    She listened, breathless, caught in the magic of that voice. Then he rose and moved toward the front of the stage and she really looked at him for the first time. He was a splendid young male, beautiful and tall, slim-hipped and black-haired, with a virility whose impact she felt even across the distance that separated them. She sat rooted to her seat throughout the entire performance. She had never dreamed, she thought, that a boy like this could really exist in the world.
    Afterward she and her date, whose name she never afterward remembered, went out for something to eat. They stopped around first to see a friend in one of the dorms, so they were late getting to the local eatery they had made their destination. When they came in the door the place was crowded. Her date had taken her arm and was steering her into the room when someone called his name. They turned and saw a tableful of students eating pizza and drinking beer. One of the students was Christopher Douglas. The boy who had called to them spoke for a minute to her date and then, as they were turning to leave, her escort said to Kit, “We just saw Twelfth Night. It was terrific.”
    “I’m glad you liked it,” the beautiful voice replied pleasantly. He looked at Mary and stood up. “Why don’t you two join us? I’ll round up a few extra chairs.”
    Before she quite knew what was happening, Mary found herself sitting next to Him. “Did you like the play as well?” he asked her.
    “Yes, I did,” she answered. “Very much. Your interpretation of Orsino was fascinating.”
    He raised a black eyebrow.“Oh?”
    She subjected him to an appraising blue stare.“Ifyou were even the slightest bit effeminate,” she said at last, “you couldn’t have gotten away with it.”
    He grinned appreciatively. “Do you know the play?”
    “Yes. The English Renaissance is a particular interest of mine.”
    “Ah. An English major.”
    Her date caught his last words and leaned across her. “Not just an English major, a summa cum laude English major.”
    Mary flushed with annoyance. “Perhaps I ought to tattoo it on my forehead in case anyone should miss the fact,” she said lightly. The remark passed completely over the head of her date but he looked at her even harder.
    “Hey, Kit,” called one of the students from further down the table. “I meant to ask you if you’d seen the latest production at the Long Stage.”
    “No,” he answered, easily pitching his superbly trained voice down the length of the table, “I haven’t.” A jukebox was playing and a few couples were up in a small dance area. “Would you like to dance?” he said to Mary.
    “Why, all right,” she replied, startled, and he took her by the hand and led her out to the floor.
    “I’m afraid I didn’t get your name,” he said, drawing her competently into his arms.
    “It’s Mary O’Connor. Did I hear someone call you Kit?”
    “Mm.” His mouth wore a faint smile. “After Kit Marlowe, the Elizabethan playwright. Jim thinks I look the way he must have.”
    Mary thought of Marlowe, brilliant, poetic, and dead in a barroom brawl at the age of twenty eight. She laughed. “He may be right.”
    He pulled her closer until she could feel the whole hard length of his body pressed against hers. The music was slow and dreamy. Mary felt herself relaxing against him, relaxing into him. “Do you live on campus? Can I take you home?” he murmured into her ear.
    The music stopped and she pulled away from him. “No, you may not take me home,” she said with what she hoped was firmness. “I came with someone else and he will take me home.”
    She turned and made her way back to their table. Her date looked both grateful and relieved when she sat down and immediately began to talk to him. They stayed for another thirty minutes during which time she could feel Kit’s dark gaze boring into the back of her head. When they got up to leave she smiled generally around the table and