Fierce (34 page)

She seemed totally unaffected by that idea, and I couldn’t have said why that bothered me so much. I didn’t tolerate clingy women. I preferred them detached, wanted them to know the ropes and understand the rules as well as I did. They didn’t complicate my life, and I didn’t complicate theirs. An arrangement that worked perfectly well for both of us. Here Hope was doing exactly what I wanted, and it was driving me mad. 

“Good,” I said, trying to remember what we’d been talking about. “It’s an experiment, but what’s life without risk, eh.”

“And if the experiment works?”

“Then maybe I’ll look into making some other changes as well.
If
it looks like it could be profitable, if we could position it well.”

“Body positive,” she suggested. “Socially conscious.”

“That’s it. And anyway,” I found myself saying, “I’m Maori. The women I grew up with are tall. Strong. Curvy. ‘Body positive’ works for me. It’s why I’m a designer. Women’s shapes are beautiful. I enjoy...decorating them. So why not show that?”

“Mm.” She had a faraway look in her eyes now. “You know what would be awesome?”

“No, but I have a feeling you’re going to tell me.”

“A campaign where you used lots of Polynesian models. Men and women. I don’t mean
all,”
she hastened to add. “Just
lots.
You could spin it with that idea. Cultural relevance to you personally. Maori themes, or just Pacific themes.
Very
cool. Women love it when it gets personal. Plus body positivity. Part of the campaign, and beyond it, too.”

I’d stopped with my sandwich halfway to my mouth, and she said hastily, “It was just an idea. Just a concept. I’m just a publicity assistant, I know. It’s only if you can use it.”

“No,” I said slowly. “No. But what if...”

“What if what?” she prompted when I didn’t go on.

I shook my head, unable to explain the rush that had just swamped my brain, exactly like being tumbled in a wave. The creative thunderbolt that hit you now and again. If you were lucky.

“Just a thought,” I said. “An idea about...a line.” Woven flax and carved wood, the sea and the bush. Vibrant blues and greens, deep browns and reds. Color and texture and pattern. 

“Hemi,” she said. “Did I just...did you just get inspired? Really? Did that just happen?
Does
that happen? Like that? Like...suddenly?”

I smiled at her. “You did. You saw it. Because you had an idea first, didn’t you. And it was a good one. It’ll pay off. It’ll work.” Somehow, I knew it. All of it.

“Because it’s all about the bottom line,” she said, her own smile teasing. “Because you’re nothing but a cold, hard businessman.”

“Yes.”

She was still smiling at me. And then she reached across the table, put her hand on my cheek, and said, “You’re a good man, you know that?”

The corner of my mouth jerked at that. “No. I’m not.”

“Hemi.” The smile was gone, and she wasn’t looking like a kitten now. She was looking like a woman. “Why do you think you can’t be both? Because I think you can. I think you
are.
Why don’t you believe it? Who told you that? Who made you feel like you weren’t good enough? That you weren’t...lovable, or capable of...of good things? Because they were
wrong.”

I knew I’d stiffened, and I couldn’t help it. “Nobody. Are you finished?”

No. She wasn’t.

“You know,” she said, “I told you about my mother. I’d tell you more if you asked, even though I don’t want to. I don’t enjoy going there, but I would, for you. But you’ve never told me anything. I think you had bad parents, and a good grandfather, and that’s all I...not even what I
know.
What I
think.
So what happened? What’s
your
sad story? I told you mine. How about telling me yours?”

“Hope. Drop it.” I wanted to push back from the table, to walk out. I wanted to move, so instead, I forced myself into stillness. Into discipline. “This isn’t a subject I discuss.” 

Why did women always have to push, to poke and prod at the painful things, to try to open the wound? It had all hurt enough the first time around. I didn’t see any point in letting it hurt me again. 

“You’ve helped me so much, though.” Once again, she was begging, making herself vulnerable, and she didn’t even care. “With Karen, especially. Why can’t I help you? Couldn’t we…can’t we even
talk?”

“No.” I knew my voice was too harsh, could see her wince at it, and I couldn’t help it. “We can’t. I told you. I don’t do that. I don’t do relationships.”

I stood, and after a moment, she did as well. “I’ll take you over the Golden Gate Bridge,” I said, trying to wrestle my emotions back under control. This was why I didn’t let them out. It was too hard to put them back. “As that was what you wanted.” 

I turned to go, but Hope said, “Just a minute. I’ll meet you up at the front,” grabbed her purse and shopping bag, and headed toward the back of the restaurant.

I ran a hand over my hair and sighed. I’d softened too much, let her think it was more than it was, and look what had come of it. All I’d done was upset her, and probably hurt her as well. And upset myself, come to that, which I couldn’t afford. I should’ve kept it at sex. That, I knew how to deal with. 

From now on, I’d take care to do just that. If I didn’t promise anything, she wouldn’t be disappointed when I couldn’t deliver it. 

I shot the bolt on the door of the cubicle, hung up my purse, put both hands flat against the door, and leaned my forehead against the cool metal.

Stupid. 

I
knew
Hemi had that soft side hidden beneath the disciplined exterior. The way he was with Karen, and even the way he was with me. As fierce and demanding as he was when we made love—when he was holding me afterwards, I could feel all the emotion he couldn’t express. At least I’d thought I could. The gentle touch of his hand stroking down my back, a kiss on my forehead. Surely that meant something. 

How would I know what it meant, though? For all I knew, it meant he’d had good sex, and that he was relaxed, and maybe even a little grateful for it. If I started wishing for something more—that was when I’d start asking to be hurt. 

I’d told Hemi I didn’t want pain. Well, a woman who didn’t want pain shouldn’t lie down and ask for it. From now on, I vowed, I’d keep it light. If something more developed between us, fine. If not...I’d call it good sex and be grateful myself. Yeah, that was what I’d do. Well, I’d try.

And then I sat down and realized pretty quickly that that wasn’t going to be in the program, and why I’d only felt like having soup for lunch. The ache in my lower belly wasn’t from those Chinese dumplings after all, and the wetness I’d felt while Hemi’d been talking to me, smiling at me, sharing with me hadn’t been arousal.

Oh, great. 

When Hope came out again to join me, I braced myself. 

“Ready,” she said, and that light was gone. If her open, pretty face could ever look pinched and tight, it was looking that way now. 

I considered apologizing, then gave it up. We’d cleared the air, and that was always a good thing. “We’ll walk back to the hotel,” I said as I held the door for her. “Got a car there.”

“Fine.” She hitched her purse up over her shoulder. "But I need to stop at a convenience store along the way. I’m afraid your weekend isn’t going to go exactly the way you’d planned. The sexy part of it’s over.” 

“Oh?” If my voice was cold, it was because I felt that way. She was withholding sex because I hadn’t told her what she’d wanted to hear? I hadn’t thought that of Hope. If she’d been anything, she’d been honest. But then, that just showed how foolish I’d been to let down my guard the way I had. “I’ve never told you I’d...share my feelings, or whatever it is you wanted. But I’m not going to push it. I’m not interested in an unwilling partner. Or in bargaining for sex.”

She huddled a little more deeply into her coat against the wind. “You’re right. You never told me you’d share. But no. The point is, I got an IUD when I got back from Paris. For birth control.”

“I’m aware of what an IUD is.”

“Yeah. Well. They told me it might make my periods irregular and heavy for a while, and voila. Real life messes with your carefully planned arrangements once again. I’m sure there was a form for this, too, but I didn’t sign it, so...” She sighed and put a hand to her lower belly, rubbed a little. “I’m rambling. I feel pretty crappy all the way around, and you’re mad, and I’m embarrassed. And if you want to just skip the rest of this and go back to New York...well, you made it clear what our deal was, and I’m not going to do my part of it. So there you go.”

I was taken aback, I couldn’t deny it. This didn’t happen, I guessed because the women I spent time with scheduled their dates with me around it. And I’d never heard Hope sound like this. Stroppy, yes. Defeated, never. And I couldn’t stand it.

“No,” I said. “Of course I don’t want to go back, unless you do.” I tried to think of what else to say, and I couldn’t.

“I don’t,” she said. “I probably should, but I don’t. Could we just...pretend for a while? That it’s all right?”

Something happened to my throat at that. Some...some blockage, and I had to look away and take a moment.

What was I doing with this girl? I should let her go, should break it off, and I knew I wasn’t going to. That I was too selfish for that, even though there was nothing in it but pain for her. Exactly what she’d said she didn’t want.

“Yeh,” I said, then had to clear my throat. “Yeh. But I don’t have to pretend to like you, you know. I do like you. I know that’s not enough, but it’s what I’ve got. So if you still want to see it, let’s go look at this bridge.”

And there he was, back to being sweet again. Waiting for me to get myself fixed up, then driving me over the Golden Gate Bridge and telling me stories about its construction as if he wanted to be here, as if he were enjoying himself.

“Eleven men died building this,” he told me. “And then there were the ones who didn’t. The ‘Halfway to Hell’ club. They put a safety net underneath, and a couple dozen more fell into that and lived to tell the tale. Something to think about, eh.”

“How do you know?” I asked. “When you aren’t even American? How do you know this? You knew the language of flowers, too. Do you have a photographic memory or something? I’ve wondered ever since that day.”

He glanced quickly at me before turning his attention back to the narrow roadway as the suspension cables flashed past. “Because I looked it up beforehand. Wanted to impress you, maybe.”

“Really?” It shouldn’t have warmed me. It should have seemed calculated, and maybe it was. But it was effort, wasn’t it?

“Yeh,” he said, concentrating on the road. “Thought you might like to know, so I checked.” 

Yes. It
was
effort. “So if it’s the Golden Gate,” I said, filing that away for later, trying not to let it get to me, “why is it red?”

“Golden Gate’s the strait. The gateway to the bay. Not the color. What d’you reckon? Think it’d look better gold?”

“No,” I decided. “It’s perfect. I love that it’s red. And where are we going?”