Every Time I Love You (22 page)

She hesitated just the fraction of a second. “A desk. Do you like it?”

“It's great.”

“I have to clean it up.”

“Do you have to do it right now?”

“No, it can wait.”

“Feel like posing for me? Just for an hour or so. Then we can drive out somewhere and have a long, leisurely lunch. Then we can come back here and have a long, leisurely night. What do you say?”

“Fine.” She smiled at him, wondering why she hadn't shown him the maps or the sketches. She brushed past him. “Let me take a quick shower—I'm all cobwebby. Then I'll be in the studio.”

He followed her out of the old kitchen and she nearly sighed with relief. They had no secrets—until now, she thought, feeling a little ashamed of herself. Still, she didn't want him to see the pictures. Not yet.

By that night she had almost forgotten the tempest that had passed between them. She had posed for about half an hour, a comfortable pose, stretched out on a couch and swaddled in some luxurious white fabric. And when Brent had finished, the expression he gave her was so hesitant that she stretched her arms out to him, then came running over to him to press herself against him, naked. He held her tight, admitting he'd been afraid to touch her, and they'd even begun to laugh and tease. They never left the studio, though. They stayed right on the couch.

Later they showered and, as Brent had promised, they went out for a long drive, stopping in a quiet town at a roadside cafe for a delicious lunch of baked ham and succotash and scalloped potatoes. They sipped coffee out of fragile china cups, and on the way home Brent stopped by a horse farm. They talked about buying a pair of Arabian mares since they had more than enough space for them. Eventually they drove home, and the evening was terribly romantic; Brent built a fire in their bedroom and they just watched the flames and talked, entwined together.

Geoff had tickets to a ball game on Sunday; they all went and their team actually won. Sunday night, when everyone had gone, Brent was as tender and solicitous to Gayle as he had been the night before. She thought about showing him the sketch, and she thought about sharing an even more personal secret, but then she decided that she would wait. She could barely remember the things that had happened Friday night, but she still felt that their relationship was on delicate ground, and she didn't want anything to ruin the new intimacy they were achieving.

On Wednesday after work she went back to Dr. Shaffer for her appointment. It was a miserable hour. She started to tell him about Brent's strange behavior; then she realized that she couldn't tell this little man about all of Brent's behavior, so she hemmed and hawed and made a lot of excuses. Shaffer asked her if she thought that he should suggest to Brent that he come in.

She definitely thought that Brent should, but then she remembered how Brent felt about coming in himself. His attitude was something that she resented, but at that particular time she didn't feel like arguing it out.

Brent couldn't have been any more careful of her feelings than he was in the week that followed. One night when they returned from an antiquing trip, Brent surprised her with a cleaned-out stable—and the pair of Arabian mares they had looked at together. Mary warned them that she wasn't going to be looking after horses, and Brent assured her that he'd hired a foreman for the place. Gayle stroked the smaller mare's neck and said she wasn't sure she wanted anyone else looking after her new baby, and Brent assured her that she wouldn't mind having a few boys around to clean up after her new baby.

Mary told them both good night—she and her husband were going to drive into Richmond for the evening to meet their daughter. Brent stayed with Gayle in the stable until they were gone; then he slipped his arms around her.

“Ever fooled around in the hay?”

“No—and it's amazing, considering how long I've been married to you now.”

He laughed. “Well, get ready to ravish.”

“To ravish, or to be ravished?”

“Your choice.” Brent brought a blanket and laid it over the pile of hay. Laughing, they fell into it. The smell of the hay was sweet and clean, and there was something especially exciting about being out in it. The cool air caressed them as they lay there, feeling very decadent in their naked flesh.

As darkness fell completely Gayle lay against him, feeling languorous and too tired to move. The problem with the stable, she decided, was the lack of a refrigerator or even running water that she trusted. “We'll have to put a refrigerator out here,” she murmured; then she rose and stretched, sighing because she would have to dress to go back to the main house. No one should have been on their property then, with the Richardsons being in Richmond, but she was certain that if she decided to sprint like a jay from the stable to the house, a million cars would suddenly come pulling into the drive.

“I'm going to go and get—”

“You're not going anywhere.”

Gayle froze. She recognized the tone of voice because she had heard it before. It was Brent speaking, of course, but then again, it wasn't Brent at all.

She backed away from the pile of hay, trying to reason while jumbled thoughts crashed through her mind. It was happening again. She had tried to pretend that it hadn't occurred at all, but it was happening again, and she couldn't begin to understand it.

“I just want a drink of water—”

“No! You can't leave here. Not tonight.” He bounded to his feet, sweeping his arms around her and dragging her over to the window. Gayle swallowed sharply and looked up at him. His eyes fell to her.

She expected to find the hatred in them, to feel the loathing he had shown her before.

It wasn't there, or perhaps it never really had been hatred, just anger and terrible pain and reproach. There was torment there and haunted anguish and a fire that burned passionately, but nothing of hatred.

And nothing of evil.

“Brent,” she said softly, “I just want water—”

“No!” He screamed out in exquisite agony, and she found herself swirled around again and down beside him in the hay. He was over her, and he stroked the sides of her hair and stared down into her features. “How could you go to him, my love. I'd rather die a thousand times over, don't you know that?”

“Brent, please—”

“Do you know it? Or do you care? Was the temptation too great, or were you ever on their side?”

“Brent—”

“No! By God, I don't want to hear it! They're here now, aren't they? They'll stumble upon us soon, and you'll stand there with them. You were there when I had the fever. You bargained—oh, Jesus—you bargained with them...”

“Brent—”

She tried to push away from him. He shook his head almost sadly. “Not tonight, my love. Not tonight. You'll not go running out tonight. You'll remember me. I swear it.”

He cupped her chin between his hands, and a glaze of tears shimmered on her eyes. “Brent...please...not like this, oh not like this! I don't—”

He kissed her, slowly and softly. It wasn't that he hurt her; it was that she was so very afraid. He wasn't hateful; he was in agony, and she was the cause of that pain.

He kissed her forehead and his hand cupped her breast and his whisper came against her ear. “Katrina, how could you betray me so? Oh, my God, all the years and all the love—and all the deceit and the hatred!”

The tears fell from her eyes. She caught his wrist and tried to push him from her. She could not budge him.

“Brent! I'm not Katrina. Oh, God, please stop this. I don't understand. I want—”

“You'll not leave me again. A kiss, and that kiss is death, my love, but we'll wait it out together. There's no escape, is there? The cordon is around us. You married me; you swore you loved me; and if life ends tomorrow, then tonight at least you are mine.” He smoothed her hair from her face. Her tears continued to dampen her cheeks, and she turned in the misty darkness to stare out the door at the moon.

He was gentle and tender, then ardent and fierce. He didn't strive to hurt her, but she felt as if it poured into her, all the tempest that raged in a maddened soul. He whispered a name, over and over.
Katrina.
He railed against her for betraying him, and he told her that she was a slut. And then he made love again, telling her that he loved her anyway. He would never let her go. Never. Until death did them part.

When he was done with her, Gayle was exhausted, physically and emotionally. He collapsed again into a death-like slumber, and nothing that she could do or say awakened him. She had to keep assuring herself that he was alive because even his breathing was shallow. Gayle was startled to touch his cheeks and find them damp. He had been in so much pain...

She let out a soft sob, wondering again what in God's name was happening to them. She bit into her lip, and pulled the blanket from the hay to wrap around herself. Feeling as if she were in shock, she crawled into the corner of the barn and watched him as he slept. She felt so lost. Bewildered. She didn't know what to do. Her world was falling apart, drifting through her fingers.

Brent was her world.

She lowered her head and her tears began to fall again and she wondered why. Love was so very hard to come by, and she and Brent had had it all. Maybe she should have expected something bad would happen. She'd learned that life was hard and seldom fair. She had been too happy.

Outside, dawn began to come, arriving with a very soft and gentle pink light. She must have dozed finally because when she opened her eyes Brent was staring at her, and she knew that she had her husband back at last.

“Gayle?”

“I'm here.”

“I've got an awful headache. Did we fall asleep in here? God, my mouth feels like rubbish.”

Her mouth curled painfully. “You don't remember?”

“What? No, nothing. I must have dozed off early.”

It was awful again, the headache that he had. He was going to have to see a doctor about it. Maybe he was getting migraines. He sat up and stretched and then scratched; the hay was itchy against his body.

And then he took a good look at Gayle, and his heart seemed to sink to his feet.

She did not stare at him with anger or even reproach. She seemed ill herself and stricken. Like a wounded doe, wondering why a trusted hand had shot an arrow into her heart.

His own heart thudded hard. She was curled into the corner, with the blanket about her shoulders. Her hair was a wild tangle of golden curls around her shoulders, giving her an air of innocence, while her eyes seemed to have aged with the night.

“Gayle?” He winced as he whispered her name, squeezing his eyes shut. What had he done now? He had no damned memory! He wanted to touch her; he didn't dare try.

“Gayle, what...I didn't hurt you, did I?”

She lowered her eyes. “No,” she said softly. “You didn't hurt me. And you don't remember anything. Again.”

“I don't understand—”

“No,” she said wearily. “And you don't want to, do you?”

“What do you mean?” he demanded defensively.

She stood up, dropping the blanket from her shoulders. She was so beautiful with the pink light playing over her body, the firm mounds of her breasts and the peaks of her nipples, the dips and curves and planes of her hips. He felt an instant erection, but knew it was no time to think of sex, or anything else, except for keeping her near him.

“Gayle—”

“You need a psychiatrist, Brent. You are losing your mind. You spent the night calling me Katrina, whispering that I'm a little slut and a traitor—but you love me anyway.” She began to dress.

“Maybe I was dreaming—”

“It was demented behavior, Brent.”

“Gayle, damn it, I can't see a psychiatrist. Gayle, wait a minute—where are you going?”

She was dressed and headed for the door. He caught her wrist. She stared at his hand coldly.

“Gayle! Where are you going?”

“I'm going up to the house. I'm going to make coffee and then I'm going to shower. And then, Brent, I'm going to leave you.”

“What?” he roared, his hold upon her tightening like a vise. He couldn't believe she could even say such a thing.

But she was serious. She nodded sadly, meeting his eyes. “I can't go on like this, Brent. Never knowing what is going to happen. And you don't care. You just don't care.”

“What do you mean, I don't care? I love you! Christ, you know that! I love you more than anything—”

“Except for your pride, Brent.”

“I—I don't know what I'm doing! I would never hurt you on purpose, you know that. I can't stop what I don't know. I'll try, though, I swear it. I—dammit, Gayle! Marriage is for better or for worse!” He told her bitterly. “I thought that you loved me.”

“Brent! I do love you. And you know that—”

“Then you can't leave me!”

“You won't try!”

“Try what?”

“A psychiatrist. I went because you asked me to, remember?” She didn't wait for an answer. She watched him just a moment longer; then she turned and headed for the door again. He watched her. She looked determined.

She really meant to leave him!

“Gayle!”