"Do you really think, knowing my background, that I would even consider such a thing?" she admonished him kindly. "No, Bart. I'll rear my baby by myself." .
He came back to her quickly. He spoke hurriedly as if he might change his mind before the words were out.
"Sweetheart, marry me. I don't care about the baby. I didn't mean those things I said. I was angry, honey. I've wanted you for so long. I swear it doesn't matter. Hell, everybody'll think the baby is mine anyway."
"But we would know different, wouldn't we?" she asked gently. "I don't want to live a lie like that, Bart. And I don't want you to have to either."
"I love you. I want you on any terms."
She sighed and ran her fingers through his thick, dark hair. "I know. But my answer is still no."
She had refused him and continued to do
so.
Bart wasn't as persistent as he had been the first time he asked her to marry him, but he remained close at hand as if hoping she'd change her mind.
But she wouldn't. She touched her stomach again lovingly just as the buzzer on her intercom sounded again and distracted her from her daydreaming.
"Yes, Betty?" she asked, pressing down the button on the panel.
"There is someone here to see you, Erin. Are you free?"
"Yes. Who is it?"
"A Mr. Lance Barrett."
Her heart skidded to a jolting stop. Respiration was impossible. Her eyes closed against a wave of dizziness that almost made her fall to the thick carpet. The world slipped off its axis and tilted crazily before righting itself. She managed to grip the edge of the desk and ease down into her chair.
"Erin, did you hear me?" Betty asked.
"Y . . . yes." What could she do? Lance was here. Just beyond that door. She had to see him. But how could she bear it?
What did he want? What if he realized her condition?
What could she tell him? The questions tumbled through her mind, but there were no answers. She would have to brazen it out and hope for the best.
"Send him in, Betty," she answered with a modicum of poise she was far from feeling.
She ran an anxious hand over her hair, licked her lips, and smoothed the bodice of her dress over her breasts, swollen with pregnancy. He mustn't see. His perception was so keen. His training was to see things—
He walked through the double oak door.
If she thought that her memory of him had magnified his physical attributes, she was wrong. He was even more handsome and virile than she remembered. His hair was casual, a trifle longer, and bleached lighter from the summer sun.
The blue eyes had lost none of their brilliance, though the lightened eyebrows were a stark contrast to his tanned face. There were fine white lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes that she didn't remember, but they were probably only more noticeable because of his tanned complexion.
If anything, the cleft in his chin lent itself to more arrogance. As he smiled at her, however, she noticed a vulnerability around his stern mouth that hadn't been there last February.
The most drastic difference in his appearance was his clothes. She had teased him about wearing a uniform of dark suits, white shirts, and dark ties. He had defended himself by saying that government agents shouldn't attract attention by wearing designer sport coats and flashy shirts.
His light yellow shirt wasn't flashy, but the cut of his dark brown coat was surely European. The tan trousers fit his thighs and hips in a way that denoted they had been tailor made. There was no necktie around his neck. Instead his collar was left open to reveal a peek at that tawny mat of hair that covered his torso.
Her resolve to remain cool and impersonal was vapo-rized when he seemed to invade this feminine domain with the masculine force of a rampaging vandal. She fell victim.
"Hello, Erin," he said.
She should stand and walk toward him and take his hand, but she was afraid to leave her hiding place behind the desk. If she stood, he might detect her pregnancy.
"Hello, Lance,'' she returned warmly. Her lips were quivering, but she was determined to appear cordial, as if greeting an old friend. "Come in and sit down." She indicated the chair in front of her desk. "This is a surprise."
He was just as aloof as she as he crossed the room, taking in the environs of the office with those penetrating eyes. There was no escaping them. She would stick to her wise decision and stay seated behind the desk.
"This is very nice, Erin," he said, indicating the office with a sweeping gesture of his hand. "I'm impressed."
He smiled at her as he took his seat, and her heart did an erratic dance. His teeth flashed whitely against his dark skin. He was devastating.
"Thank you. This isn't our busiest time of year. Things slow down in the summer. We won't be really active again until our clients start having fashion shows in the fall for the Christmas season." She would be very pregnant by then. How would she manage that hectic pace?
"I probably should have called before I came, but I thought it would be better to see you in person."
His words were almost verbatim what she had said to him when she arrived at the Lyman residence. He looked up at her. Did she remember? She did. They smiled at each other.
"You were right. I'm glad you came straight here," she parroted what his response had been. Then they both laughed self-consciously. For a moment there was a tense silence as they looked at each other. Lance unbuttoned his coat and that triggered Erin's next comment. "You look different."
"How?"
"Your clothes. They're not as . . . conservative as what you wore before."
He had noticed her pause and smiled that sardonic smile that she well remembered. "You mean not as
dull,
don't you?"
She laughed and admitted, "Yes, dull. Has the Treasury Department issued new uniforms?"
He shrugged and, watching her reaction to his words, said, "I don't know. I don't work for it anymore."
She was stunned. "What?" Her eyes were wide with unasked questions.
"I resigned awhile back. Actually I'm here today on my last official duty. I've gone into business for myself with another guy."
"Lance . . . " she groped for words. "I don't know what to say. Are you happy? Is that what you want? You were so good at your work."
"Thank you." He smiled. "I'm using my past experience for what I'm doing now. This friend of mine quit the department several years ago and started his own company. He goes into banks, businesses, whatever, and holds seminars on how to prevent and detect internal white-collar crimes. He also trains employees of said businesses on how to handle a criminal, like during a robbery or something."
He raised the ankle of one foot to his opposite knee.
"Anyway, he called me a few months ago. His business has gotten out of hand. He couldn't handle all his clients and wanted to know if I'd be interested in joining him. It had been awhile since he'd been out in the field and could use some of my expertise to update his material."
He dropped his leg back to the floor and leaned forward, emphasizing his next words. "Erin, I'm amazed at how lucrative this business is. Corporations are willing to pay us a tremendous amount of money in order to save them-
selves much more. We're making a lot of money and providing a valuable service at the same time."
His enthusiasm was contagious and Erin was happy for his success. He was so much more relaxed, less wary, than she had ever seen him.
"To tell you the truth," he said, "I grew disenchanted with my work after . . . San Francisco." His voice had lowered in pitch and volume with his last two words and his eyes pierced through her from under the golden eyebrows.
It had been five months, yet any reference to Ken still brought a lump to Erin's throat. His death before she could ever meet him was still a wound that opened frequently. She murmured, "I think I can understand that."
"Do you hear often from Mrs. Lyman?"
Erin's face brightened considerably. "Yes, Melanie moved to Oregon and got a job with a florist, which is a natural for her. I get frequent letters. She sold the house in San Francisco and loves her work and small apartment.
Last week she called me, and I'm convinced she'll be happy." Erin was smiling mysteriously.
"Why?" he asked with a curious grin on his face. He was really interested.
"Well, as it happens there is a Mr. Alan Carter who owns a nursery that sells plants to the florist. He is a
'sweet, nice man in his late twenties.' "
They both laughed over Melanie's description. "He was widowed when his wife was suddenly and tragically killed a year and a half ago, and he was left with-a two-year-old son."
"Aha!" said Lance.
"Melanie called last week to ask me if I thought it was too soon after Ken's death for her to go to dinner with Mr. Carter. 'Of course, it won't really be a
date.
Just two lonely people having dinner together. And his little boy, who is so
precious,
will come, too.' I think that's an exact quote."
"She's a terrific lady. I hope she's happy," Lance said seriously.
"I think Mr. Carter, or someone like him, is just what she needs. I'm only thankful that she's not in San Francisco with her parents."
"Amen to that."
Silence stretched between them again. They avoided looking at each other, though their awareness hadn't diminished at all. In fact they were captivated with each other. Every gesture was noted. Each breath was cata-loged. The tiniest inflection of voice was heard. The air was redolent with tension.
He had said he was on his last official duty for the Department of the Treasury. Partially out of curiosity and partially out of a need to break the palpable silence, Erin asked, "Why did you come to see me? Has it something to do with Ken? You said it was official."
"Yes. I have something for you." Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket he stood up. "Why don't you come over here?" He was walking toward the pastel sofa near the wide picture window. He apparently expected her to follow him.
She would have to stand up and expose herself to his uncanny perception. But refusing to budge would only draw more attention to her, and that was to be avoided.
Sucking in her breath to flatten her stomach as much as possible, she stood up on unsteady knees.
With trepidation that at any moment he was going to realize her condition, she crossed to the sofa where he was waiting. Only after she sat down did he take a seat at the opposite end.
"Erin, I've had this for several months." He indicated an ordinary white, letter-sized envelope. "Before Mrs.
Lyman sold her house, she sorted through drawers and files. Anything she thought I might use to complete my report, she sent to me in Washington."
He paused and looked deeply into her brown eyes. "I don't think she intended to send this. She probably didn't even know it was in with the other papers and documents.
I guess I should have sent it back to her, but I knew you would want to have it, and I think she would want you to."
Her curiosity knew no bounds. If his intention was to pique her interest, he had succeeded. He handed her the envelope. It was several seconds before her eyes dropped from his and looked down at what she held in her hand.
She lifted the flap and reached inside. Her fingers closed around the edges of a stiff piece of paper. Taking it out she saw that it was a black and white photograph, yellowed with age. Her heart began to pound and there was a roaring in her ears as her throat went dry.
From the clothes that the three people in the picture wore, she could tell that the time period captured was about thirty years ago.
A young woman sat on a stone bench in a surrounding that looked like a city park. Standing shyly next to her knee was a small boy, still a toddler. On her lap she held a baby. Round, dark eyes looked out from behind a lacy bonnet on the infant's head.
The woman stared directly into the camera, but she wasn't smiling. It was as if she didn't really see the photographer. Her mind seemed to be far away. Her eyes were sad, but very much like those of the young boy and the baby. Her features were delicate, almost fragile, as though she had a tenuous hold on her life. Her impermanence was evident in the way she held her head, in the way she clutched the baby to her, and the tender hand she rested on the small boy's shoulder. She seemed to bespeak a certain desperation. Only the softness of her features revealed her resignation to whatever tragedy had beset her.
Tears had long since blinded Erin's eyes, yet she continued to stare down at the photograph. The minutes ticked by as she assimilated every detail of the picture, trying to pierce the flat surface and see into the third dimension, into the woman's mind. Lance didn't interrupt. He didn't move. He scarcely breathed.
Finally, she looked up at him. God, she was beautiful, he thought. Even though her face was wet with tears, she was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. It had taken almost more nerve than he could muster to walk through the door to this office. The last time he had seen her, she was throwing poison darts at him with those dark eyes. A rational man would have retreated from where he wasn't wanted and left well enough alone.
But not him. Not Lance Barrett. No. He was a glutton for punishment. He had to see her one more time. He had to convince himself that what happened in San Francisco was only a fleeting fancy. Affairs like that were doomed to be short-lived. Too hot not to cool down. Wasn't that how the song went? He'd see her and then he could banish her ghost forever from his haunted mind.
But he knew it wouldn't be that way, and it wasn't.
Something had happened to him last February and he hadn't been the same since. He had fallen in love.
He argued that he was too old to be acting like such a damn fool over a woman. He snapped at his men for the least petty aggravation, venting his short temper on them.
One had awakened with a cracked jaw after suggesting that a toss with a winsome wench might improve Lance's irascibility. He couldn't sleep, couldn't eat. His family and friends grew to despise him. But no more than he despised himself.
Erin had once commissioned him to hell. Well, he had been, and he didn't like it. The only bit of heaven he had glimpsed for the last five months was the sight of her face as he walked through the door of this office.
Dammit! He was worse off now than ever before. He was quaking inside from being this near her, wanting to proclaim his love, yet not daring to.