Cause For Alarm (24 page)

R
ichard was late. Kate checked her watch for about the hundredth time in the past hour. Ten o'clock, she saw.

Where was he?
When she'd spoken with him right before lunch, he had said he'd be home early.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, worried. It wasn't like him not to call. If he'd had a last-minute dinner appointment or meeting, he would have let her know.

Kate began to pace, nearly hysterical with worry. She had called everyone she could think of—his partners, golf buddies, even his parents—had checked the health club and country club bar. She had tried the police and local emergency rooms. Nobody had seen him.

She drew in a shuddering breath, imagining him at the side of some road, bleeding or unconscious, his car a heap of twisted metal and broken glass.

Ten became ten-fifteen. Became eleven. Still no Richard.

When she finally heard his key in the lock, she flew to the door and yanked it open. “Richard, thank God! I've been worried sick. Where have you been?”

“Well, if it isn't my devoted and loving wife.”

He lurched past her, and she brought a hand to her nose as the smell of liquor and cigarettes hit her in a nauseating wave. “You've been drinking.”

“Give the little lady a gold star.”

He tossed his briefcase toward the couch and missed. It hit the floor with a loud thump. Kate glanced nervously toward the nursery. “Careful, you'll wake the baby.”

“The
baby,
” he mimicked, his tone snide. “It's always about the baby, isn't it?”

He hadn't just been drinking, she realized, a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. He'd been bingeing. And brooding. The way he sometimes had in college, the way that had always brought out the person she didn't like.

“Where have you been, Richard?”

“Out.” He swung to face her. “The more appropriate question is, where have you been?”

“Here. Waiting for you. Worried out of my mind.”

“I need a drink.”

He started past her; she stopped him with a hand to his arm. “I think you've had enough.”

“You don't tell me what to do.” He shook off her hand roughly. “Nobody does.”

Kate took a step back, shocked. This was a Richard she had only seen a couple of times, years ago. Still, she knew from experience that being confrontational when Richard was in this mode was counterproductive. When he was like this he had a hair-trigger temper, and when it snapped, it was terrifying.

She took a deep, calming breath. “Talk to me, hon,” she coaxed. “Tell me what's happened.”

“Why don't you tell me?” He took a step toward her. “Let's talk about the book, Kate. Tell me about
Dead Drop.
”

“Luke's book?” She shook her head. “I don't understand.”

“Sure,” he sneered. “How'd you get that autograph?”

Her heart began to rap against the wall of her chest. The last thing she wanted to bring up was her visit with Luke, not while Richard was already half crazy. “I told you how I—”

“That's bullshit!” he shouted. “You went to New Orleans to see him. Behind my back.” He took another step closer. “What did you do? Dig that fucking invitation out of the trash?”

She lifted her chin, meeting his eyes evenly. “As a matter of fact, I wanted to see him. I wanted to try to repair our friendship.”

He released a short bark of laughter. “Friendship my ass.”

“It's true. I wanted us all to get together. I called him several times, and when he didn't call me back, I decided to go see him.”

“And because it was all so perfectly innocent,” he said slurring his words, “you lied to me about it.”

She clasped her hands together, wishing she could go back, take back the lie, hating herself for it. “At first I didn't tell you because I knew you'd react like this. Then the other night, I didn't want us to get into it in front of your assistant. I'm sorry, Richard. Believe me, I wish I had been honest with you from the beginning.”

“Sure you do.” He took a lurching step toward her. “You lied to me. So you could see him. That bastard.”

“I'm not going to talk with you about this now,” she said, hanging on to her temper by a thread. “You're drunk.”

She tried to duck by him; he blocked her exit, face twisted with rage and jealousy. “You don't have the time or energy to devote to me when I need you, yet you have enough of both to drive into the city with Emma and wait hours in line so he could sign his precious, fucking book.”

“You're drunk,” she said again. “We'll talk about this in the morning.”

“The hell we will, we'll talk about it now!” He dragged a hand through his hair. “She saw you there. That night, she knew the truth about you and Dallas. You can't imagine how humiliating, how—”

“Who saw me there?” she demanded. “And what truth are you talking about? That Luke and I were friends and now we're not?”

“You know what I'm talking about.” He leaned toward her, swaying drunkenly. “You know.”

“Who saw me?” Kate demanded again. “Your assistant?” His expression said it all, and Kate felt sick. No wonder the young woman had been so interested in the book, no wonder she'd brought Luke up that night at dinner.

“She's a snake, Richard. You're just too smitten to see it.”

“You wish you'd married him, don't you? Now that he's Mr. Big and Famous Author. Now that he has more money than I do.”

Kate recoiled from his words, even as they tore at her heart. “How can you say that? How, after all these years together?”

“That's why you went to see him, isn't it? To tell him you made a mistake. That you wished you'd married him.”

“That's ridiculous,” she said stiffly. “You're being ridiculous. And I'm not going to listen to one more word.”

She began to turn away; he stopped her, catching her by her upper arms. “Why'd you marry me, Kate? For my money? So you could be Mrs. Richard Ryan and live in a big, fancy house?”

“Stop it!” she cried, losing her tenuous grip on her emotions. First Luke, now Richard. Didn't the men in her life know her at all? “Stop before this goes any further. Before we both say more that can't be taken back.”

From the baby monitor clipped to her belt came the sound of Emma stirring in her crib. A moment later the harmless snuffling became whimpers, then mewls of discomfort.

Kate yanked free of her husband's grasp. “Emma needs me.”

“I need you, too. What about me, Kate?”

She looked at him, incredulous. “She's an infant, Richard. Not an adult.”

She started for the nursery.

“Go on, then,” he called after her. “Like you went to Luke. You have time for everyone but me, don't you? Luke Dallas. The Bean. Your daughter.”

She stopped, turned and faced him. “Our daughter,” she murmured, voice shaking. “
Ours.
Though for all the time you spend with her, no one would ever know it.”

“Why should I? You're already spending twenty-four hours a day with her. What's left for me, Kate?”

Kate was stunned by his jealousy. His feelings toward Luke and Luke's success were bad enough. But to be jealous of his own daughter, a helpless infant? It made her sick.

“Grow up, Richard. Act like an adult instead of the spoiled little rich kid who always got his way.”

Kate hurried to the nursery, Emma's mewls full-fledged cries now. Richard followed. Before she could scoop the child up, Richard caught her by the arm and yanked her back against his chest. “You're mine, Kate. I won you and I won't let Luke or anybody else take you away.”

“Won me?” she repeated brokenly, remembering what Luke had said to her. “Is that what our marriage is about? Some sort of competition?”

He didn't answer, and she began to struggle against his grasp. “Let me go, Richard! Emma's crying.”

“Mine,” he said again, tightening his grip on her.

A moment later his mouth crashed down on hers in a bruising kiss. He ground his lips against hers, forcing them open, shoving his tongue inside. She gagged at the sensation and at the sickly sweet smell of bourbon.

She wrenched her mouth free, heart thundering, Emma's cries ringing in her ears. “Let me go! Richard—”

He brought a hand to the back of her head to hold her immobile as he found her mouth again. This time, as he forced his tongue into her mouth, he ground his pelvis against hers, his erection—and intention—obvious.

Hysteria rose up in her. She struggled, pushing against his chest, twisting and kicking. Dear God, who was this man? What had happened to the loving and gentle man she had been married to for ten years?

She jerked sideways and wedged her arms between them, then brought her heel down hard on his instep. With a grunt, he released her and stumbled backward, the pain seeming to penetrate his liquor-induced frenzy.

He looked at her, his bleary-eyed expression becoming one of dawning horror at his own actions.

She spun around, snatched up Emma and cradled her to her chest, talking softly as much to calm her own fears as Emma's. Tears burned her eyes and throat, choking her.

“Kate?” he murmured brokenly. “Kate?”

She couldn't bring herself to acknowledge the anguish in his voice, couldn't bring herself to even look at him—not now, when her mouth still burned from his brutal attack, when her limbs still trembled from the effort expended fighting him off.

“She's not even ours,” he whispered. “And still you love her more than me.”

Kate felt as if her world were crumbling around her. She'd never been so angry, so hurt, in her life. She looked at her husband then, acknowledging that he was a total stranger.

“What's wrong with you?” she asked, voice quavering. “How can you say that? She is ours. Parenting is about loving and nurturing. Not about a physical act of copulation.” She struggled to speak around her tears. “I thought we both believed that, Richard.”

When he said nothing, just simply stared at her, her tears welled and spilled over, her heart hurting so badly she feared it would break. She bent and pressed her head to Emma's. “Get out,” she said. “Get out because I don't want you around Emma. And I can't bear to look at you.”

Without a word, he turned and left the nursery. A moment later, the sound of the front door slamming echoed through the house.

Emma snuggled safely in her arms, Kate sank onto the rocking chair and sobbed.

R
ichard found himself at Julianna's front door. For long minutes, he simply stood there, staring at the door, wanting to knock but knowing he shouldn't. It was late. He was her boss. Being here crossed an invisible line, one that separated employer from employee, professional from personal.

Richard told himself to turn away, to head home, tail tucked between his legs. He stood frozen to the spot instead. He closed his eyes, imagining Julianna opening the door, ushering him in. She would gaze up at him in the way she always did, the way that made him feel ten feet tall and invincible. She would listen and understand.

Julianna believed in him. She thought he was special.

The way Kate used to.

He lifted his hand and rapped lightly on the door. The moment he did, twin emotions of exhilaration and panic coursed through him. Panic won, stealing his breath, bringing him to his senses. What the hell was he doing? He was a married man. Julianna was his employee. Forget the moral ramifications of his behavior, what about the legal ones? This could surely be labeled sexual harassment. He was a lawyer, for God's sake. He hoped to be St. Tammany Parish's next district attorney.

He took a step backward, then swung around and started down the steps, grateful some sense had wormed its way into his booze-fogged brain before it was too late.

Not before it was too late. Her door opened; light spilled out into the night. “Richard? Is that you?” He turned and met her eyes, and she made a sound of surprise. “What in the world are you doing here?”

He flushed, wishing he could think clearly, wishing he had not had so much to drink. “I'm sorry, Julianna. Kate and I…we had a fight, and I didn't know where else to—” He drew in a deep breath. “I feel like a total ass about this. I hope you can forgive me this horrible breach of professional etiquette.”

She opened the door a bit wider and stepped more fully into the rectangle of light. “You and Kate had a fight?”

Backlit that way, her gown became nearly transparent. Even as he told himself not to, Richard lowered his gaze. His mouth went dry; the blood began to pound in his head.

“Yes.” He dragged his gaze back to hers, both embarrassed and aroused. “I needed someone to talk to, and I…I thought of you.”

She pushed the door the rest of the way open. “I'll get my robe.”

Her apartment was small and shabbily furnished but neat as a pin. Even exhausted and inebriated, he noticed expensive, elegant touches here and there: a vase of exotic flowers, a shimmery, soft-looking throw on the couch, groupings of scented candles of varying sizes and shapes.

She returned several moments later, wrapped in a white chenille robe and carrying two steaming mugs of coffee.

“Have a seat,” she murmured, a smile tugging at her mouth.

Richard realized he hadn't moved from just inside the door and crossed to the couch and sat down. “I shouldn't be here. I feel like a jerk.”

“We're friends. I'm glad to be here for you.”

She bent and handed him his coffee. As she did, the front of her robe gaped open, giving him a view of her breasts, clear to their tight rosy nipples.

Arousal hit him, taking his breath. He jerked his gaze up to hers. “Thank you.”

She straightened; the flaps of her robe fell back into place. “Do you need cream or sugar?”

He looked blankly at the mug in his hand, then back up at her. “Black's fine, thanks.”

She took a seat at the opposite end of the couch, curling her legs under her. “Tell me what happened.”

He hesitated a moment, then began to speak. “You weren't wrong. She lied about the book.” He wrapped his hands around the mug. “She went to see Dallas.”

Julianna was silent for a moment, then she made a sound of regret. “I'm sorry.”

He shook his head. “Back at Tulane, we were all friends. Or so I thought. Then I discovered Dallas was in love with her. All along, while he pretended to be my friend, he schemed to steal my girl. The bastard.”

“Yet you remained his friend?”

“It wasn't until right before graduation that I found out what he'd been up to. He told me, flat out.” He looked at Julianna. “That's some balls.”

“It is,” she murmured. “I'm sure Luke Dallas meant nothing to Kate. After all, she chose you.”

Richard thought of his and Kate's fight, of the question he had asked her.
Why did you marry me, Kate? For my money?

She had denied it, of course. She had been indignant, incensed. He wanted to believe her, but a voice of doubt buried deep within him taunted that was exactly why she had married him.

“In college, Luke didn't have a pot to piss in. Now look at him, rich and famous. Brushing elbows with celebrities.”

Even without family money or connections Luke had bested him, Richard thought angrily. Just like he had always said he would. Cocky bastard, he hated him. Hated him with a fire that burned deep inside him, raging nearly out of control.

“He got lucky,” Richard said, setting aside his coffee and launching to his feet. He began to pace. “Lucky,” he repeated. “That's all. It could happen to anyone. To hear Kate talk, you'd think he was the second coming. Selling a couple of books certainly doesn't mean he's special. Or that he should be put up on some goddamn pedestal.”

“Of course not,” she cooed. “And I know some women find all that fame and money a powerful lure, though I don't understand it.” She hesitated, as if choosing her words carefully. “I'm sure Kate wouldn't be swayed by such superficial things.”

He stopped pacing and looked at her. “You really think so?”

“I do. Besides, so what if Dallas had a thing for Kate? It would be different if they had been lovers. But they weren't. Right?”

It would be different. It would make all the difference in the world.

He sat back down, his legs refusing to hold his weight a moment more. He flopped against the sofa back, resting his head against the cushion and staring up at the ceiling. All these years a suspicion that something physical had happened between Luke and Kate had burned in the pit of his gut. More than a suspicion, really; a kind of awful certainty. But he had been able to shrug off the suspicion by reminding himself that he, not Dallas, had won the prize.

Kate had lied to him. So she could see Dallas.

“Richard?”

“Right,” he said. “No sex. They were just friends.”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. Be patient. I'm sure she loves you very much.”

“I don't know.” He shook his head. “Just a few months ago I believed that. I believed I had the perfect marriage. Now I…now it seems like everything's falling apart.”

Disgusted with himself, with his self-pity and whining, he stood again and crossed to the window. Julianna's street was dark, deserted. Not a light shone down either side; Richard realized how late it must be. Was Kate still awake? he wondered. And if so, did she worry where he was?

Julianna came up behind him. She laid her hands on his shoulders and began to massage them, working at the tight, aching muscles. It felt great, and a sound of pleasure slipped past his lips.

“I should go,” he murmured, though leaving was the last thing he wanted to do.

“Yes.”

He turned and faced her. “Thank you for tonight. I don't know what I would have done without you to talk to.”

She smiled sadly. “How could she not love you? You're everything a woman could—” Her throat closed over the words, and she looked quickly away.

“Julianna?” He brought a hand to her face. “Look at me.”

She did and he saw that she was crying. He made a sound of surprise. “Baby, what's wrong?”

She shook her head and took a step away from him. “Nothing. Just go.”

He caught her hand, stopping her from leaving. “You're crying. Something must be wrong.”

A single tear rolled down her cheek. “It's not right for me to say. You're a married man.”

“I'm not leaving until you tell me what's wrong.” He brought both hands to her face, cupping it. “Talk to me, Julianna.”

She drew in a shuddering breath, tipping her face into his palm, rubbing herself against him like a cat. “All my life I've…I've waited for a man like you. And Kate, it's like she's just tossing…doesn't she see…doesn't she know how special you are?”

Warmth for this girl, this innocent, swelled inside him. “Sweetheart.” The endearment slipped from his lips, as naturally as his breath. She lifted her gaze to his again and his heart turned over. Her eyes were filled with longing—and with regret, that it was not to be.

At that moment he could think of nothing but her lips, their color, how they would feel against his, how they would taste. Giving in to the questions, his longing, he bent and ever so lightly brushed his mouth against hers.

Her lips trembled, then parted. With a groan, he deepened the kiss, spearing his tongue into her mouth, tasting, exploring. Conquering.

She curled her fingers around his shoulders, clinging to him for one perfect moment, then flattened her hands and pushed him away.

“No, Richard.” She sucked in a shaky breath. “We can't. You have a wife. A child.”

Richard struggled to get ahold of himself. Struggled for the equilibrium that until tonight had rarely escaped him.

“I'd give anything to be with you,” she said softly, “but not like this. You'd hate yourself later. And I couldn't bear that.”

“Julianna—”

“No.” She placed a finger against his lips. “Don't say anything. Just go home, Richard. To Kate. To your baby daughter.”

She was right, he knew. His responsibilities lay elsewhere. But still, he was torn. There was such a sweetness about her. Such vulnerability.

It called to him. She called to him.

He opened his mouth, though he hadn't a clue to say what. Nothing seemed adequate, everything meant nothing. Would change nothing.

He was a married man.

With one last look at her, he walked away.