"Marlowe."
It is the same routine as the previous night. Marlowe is curled up on her side with a pillow bunched under her head. And Lucas, crouched down next to her, is slowing working his way up the horizontal line of her sleeping form, trying to wake her. It didn't occur to him before that she was a heavy sleeper. But here she is, sober and yet still dead to the world.
Lucas turns on the lamp next to the bed and glances at the clock. It's seven forty five. He'd spent an hour in the fitness center, running and accomplishing what he could with the tired nautilus machine, before deciding that it was an appropriate hour to invade Marlowe's room and make sure that she changes her plans for the next couple of days. He has no idea when she was planning to leave, but it doesn't matter; she can't leave now. He shifts on his tired calves and reluctantly rises to go to the bathroom. He doesn't want to touch her face until he washes the salt slick sweat from his hands.
Lucas runs the tap and reaches for the bar of hotel soap next to the basin. He thought of showering before he came to her room, but he was anxious about the hour. It will be better if they get ready at the same time. On top of that, he was anxious about her, anxious to see her. He can't explain why his desire to be in her presence is escalating so quickly, but he has been mystified by women before. He doesn't question it too deeply; he just accepts it. There is no halfway in the life of Lucas Klein; when he makes a decision, it is as binding as a blood covenant. He made his decision about Marlowe Ross last night in the stairwell, when she nearly ran into him and for a moment, there was nothing between them but space and the desire to close that space. He saw it in her eyes, not desire exactly, but awareness. She saw him, as a man, and she neither flinched nor looked away.
People are funny that way, especially women, in his experience. The answer to almost any question he wants to ask is usually right there in the eyes. Lucas prides himself on having mastered the art of hiding his emotions; most of the time, there is nothing to betray him but his actions and words, both of which he uses conservatively. He negotiates his way through the world of women by reading their eyes and to a lesser extent, their body language, which is much trickier terrain. A self conscious woman may fidget and blush as red as a rose when a man looks at her, but a smart man can tell from one flick of her lashes whether she is flattered or repulsed.
The only thing Lucas can say with certainty is that he has a chance, however slim, with Marlowe Ross. If she doesn't want him, she will at some point come right out and say it - she isn't shy. Lucas has already decided that he will wait until that moment to figure out what he will have to do to change her mind.
After using the facilities, he washes his hands again and then splashes some water on his ruddy face. His hair is honey colored with perspiration; it sticks up off of his head in spiky tufts. Lucas grins. This is his morning after look. It thrills him, in a way, to know that Marlowe will see him like this.
When he swings open the bathroom door, a very lucid and cranky Marlowe sits up in bed and glares at him. She is not at all impressed by his rugged, post-exertion good looks. In fact, she doesn't even notice.
"Uh, what are you doing in here?" Her tone borders on shrill, poised as it is between indignation and fear.
She looks rested and sharp and, Lucas notices with a slight frown, extremely uncomfortable. "I came to wake you up. I took your keys last night."
"You took my keys?" Marlowe repeats. "What for?"
"You were drunk."
Marlowe's face heats up. She doesn't want to remember that. She doesn't want to remember anything that happened between leaving the reception and waking up in bed. When she heard the flush from the bathroom, she woke with a start and thought her heart was going to pop. She remembers everything, but that doesn't help much; she is too proud to be pleased that she was carried to her room like a child. "You didn't have to take my keys," she snaps. "Where was I going to go? I was asleep."
Lucas shrugs, backs up against the bathroom door, and sticks his hands in the pockets of his track pants. He doesn't offer any apology or additional explanation; clearly, she would not be pleased to know of his ulterior motives.
Marlowe frowns at his casual stance, and she coolly looks him up and down. He obviously doesn't see anything wrong with letting himself into her room and using her bathroom while she slept. It doesn't occur to her that he would feel that they had established a casual intimacy, like two friends complicit in a harmless secret. Instead, she expects him to treat her with the same deference he would give to any strange woman, because that's how she sees him: as a stranger, a tall, white, strange man crowding up her hotel room and making it feel uncomfortably small.
"Look - I appreciate all your help from last night; I really do. But now it's the next day, and you really should not be here," she says, almost laughing with incredulity. She stares at him, looking for a sign of comprehension.
Lucas doesn't give her one. He understands completely; he hears in her voice the same thing that he hears from Roderick's friends, the silent implication that there is a line that he would do well not to cross. But the contrary streak in his nature prevents him from backing down, from acting as though he has done something wrong. "Since you sleep like the dead, I thought I should come and wake you up in person, instead of calling. Roderick is expecting us in an hour."
She reacts the way he expects her too: her face flushes with irritation and a small measure of shame. She was also planning to skip town and ignore Roderick's invitation.
"It's almost eight o'clock," Lucas says, straightening from his lean against the door. He moves to the entry way and places his hand on the knob. "We're going to church. I think this is a good look for you, but if you want to change, you'd better get the lead out of your ass. I'll be back at a quarter 'til." And he calmly walks out with the keys to the rental car safely stowed in his pocket.
Marlowe stares at the door for a long moment after it closes, her lips parted in surprise. Slowly, she lowers her head and examines the wrinkled and dank condition of her dress. She looks a mess, but instead of frowning, she gasps and turns three shades of red. Her dress is cinched up to her hips. Lucas isn't a stranger anymore - he knows her preference in panties.
