Authors: Heather Graham
“Take this, please,” David said, passing her his as he carried the soup kettle over to the mantel. Down on his knees, he hooked in a spit over the fire and set the chowder over it to heat.
Susan hung up the coats uneasily, wondering why she wasn’t still at Jud’s. What a solution that would have been! What had brought her back?
David’s grip on her arm, she reminded herself uneasily.
He stood, his shirt damp and plastered to his chest, outlining the fine tone of muscle beneath. He gazed at her with his crystal-blue eyes, more enigmatic than usual, and said coolly, “I’m going to grab a shower and dry clothes. I suggest you do the same.”
He passed her and proceeded up the stairway. She heard the door to his room close, and she shivered, wondering if the sensation that rippled along her spine came from the wet rain or from David Lane.
She hated to follow any suggestion he made. But she was wet and cold, and a hot shower and dry clothes were needed.
She walked up the stairs slowly, wondering how the man could be so decent to an Irish wolfhound and so rigidly cool to her.
“Oh, I hope he rots!” she muttered aloud, slamming her own door and hurrying into her shower to quickly strip and suds herself beneath the hot water.
She should get out, she told herself. Give him his half of the damned beach house and get out of his life quickly. After all, she had intended to give up her half immediately; she hadn’t wanted the inheritance. But then she had come up against his attitude and decided that hell could freeze over before she did one blessed thing for him.
Susan stepped out of the shower and wrapped herself quickly in a towel, pressing it against her cheeks. Darkness had fallen along with the rain. It was night, a stormy night again. She had survived the afternoon, and in places it had been strangely absorbing, disturbing … watching him with the dog, helping him, collecting the quills as they came from Sam’s nose one by one. Watching his hands, so gentle on the animal, so powerful in their hold …
Hearing his innuendos! she reminded herself sharply.
But despite herself, she was remembering her last stint in a bathroom. Realizing that she was naked, that he had made her so, that he had touched her and cared for her and was still doing so.
“Argh!” she exclaimed aloud, and rose. She dressed in a nightgown and covered it with her full-length terry robe, securely belted, then brushed out her damp hair and walked resolutely down the stairs.
David was already down there, sitting on the sofa and sipping a glass of wine. The clam chowder was on the coffee table; bowls and crackers were set around it. The scene was pleasantly inviting. Too much so, Susan decided. The fire’s glow touched the room. It seemed so comfortable, a cozy haven that lovers should share.
Susan paused in the foyer; he hadn’t seen her yet. His eyes were on the flames, reflective and far away. She wondered what was going through his mind; she quivered a little bit inside because he was such an arresting man: a curious character etched into his features, his eyes such a haunting, brooding blue.
If she didn’t hate him, she thought, she would be drawn to him. She would want to know him, to laugh with him, to—
No! The word was an outraged shout in her mind. And she might well have laughed then, at herself.
She moved into the room. All she had to do was survive one more night—and pray that the roads would clear.
His gaze fell on her; she walked straight to the fire, stretching out her hands to warm them. “I do have to hand one thing to you,” she murmured. “You do all the work.”
He didn’t reply. She turned around at last and found that his brooding gaze was on her; his lashes fell, and the gaze was gone.
“You can serve,” he told her.
She sat down in front of the coffee table and dished out the chowder. “You could get me a glass of the wine,” she said, hinting dryly.
He shook his head.
“Well, really—”
“Give it one more night,” he said very softly, and to her amazement she didn’t argue with him. He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with an iced tea for her.
Jud’s chowder was delicious, filling, and perfect for such a night with the rain streaming and the fire burning. They both commented on it, and on Sam, and on how sad he had looked with all the quills in his nose. In fact, the conversation began so nicely that Susan relaxed and had to admit that she was enjoying herself.
But then it came time for coffee, which David had preplanned with his usual efficiency, and they were both on their opposite sides of the sofa, sipping it, staring at the flames.
“Harley Richmond is married, isn’t he?” David asked suddenly, and she felt a cold chill seep through her.
“Yes. Why?” He didn’t answer, and she hesitated and asked a little breathlessly, “You know Jud so well. Do you know Harley?”
“No, I don’t,” he said, stretching out to cross his ankles over the coffee table. “Jud moved up here about ten years ago. His son had a practice in Philadelphia then; we never happened to be here at the same time.” His eyes fell on her speculatively. “I was just curious as to how you knew him.”
“None of your damn business!” she snapped, furious at his insinuation. Apparently she bled old men and had affairs with married ones in between!
Of course, she could have told him then. Told him that she had met Harley through the hospice center; that she had worked for Harley at times; that his father had been dying of cancer….
She still couldn’t be that cruel.
She sighed, wondering whether to bother or not, then offered an explanation, her tone clearly informing him that she didn’t care whether he believed her or not.
“I’ve never had an affair with Harley Richmond, Mr. Lane, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
“I wasn’t insinuating a thing,” he told her. He stood and collected the dishes from the table.
“I’ll wash them,” Susan heard herself say.
He shook his head. “Why don’t we go back to Scrabble? That was fairly safe, and it went along all right for a while.”
He disappeared into the kitchen. Like the night before, Susan set up the game. He had been right; it had been safe enough for a while.
He returned from the kitchen in a matter of minutes, then took his same position, just as he had the night before.
And it did go well—for a while. They even laughed at the words they claimed each other was inventing; David pulled out his father’s dictionaries.
But the night ended frightfully like the one before it. David set out all his letters, attaching them to an
S
on the board. The fire flickered and Susan couldn’t make out the word. “Is it another one you’re making up?” she demanded, leaning over to see.
And that’s when she discovered that nothing had changed at all, that his eyes could still proclaim all the loathing and contempt he felt for her and burn into her like searing blue lasers.
“Mistress, Miss Anderson. It’s a word with which you should be extremely familiar. There are a few others, of course, that would fit, but this is probably the most civil.”
Susan stood, dropping the dictionary dangerously near his head. “Good night, Mr. Lane. I will definitely say my prayers for the rain to stop.”
She stalked to the stairs, only to pause on the first step again as he called her back. His voice was soft, husky, very curiously so.
“Miss Anderson, I must apologize again for a total lack of manners.”
She turned back to him, speaking coolly. “And not for a gutter-bound mind, Mr. Lane?”
His hands were on his hips; his legs were apart and firmly on the floor. A shock of dark hair eased over his forehead, and his eyes were touched by the glint of the fire.
“My apologies, Miss Anderson. Good night.”
S
USAN ALTERNATELY AWOKE AND
dozed, forever aware of the relentless rain that streamed against the window, sometimes easing to a drizzle, then streaming down again.
She thought about David Lane a lot, feeling heat creep over her body, then tossing around to really burn, exasperated and totally disgusted with herself. She would determine not to think of him and doze again, only to enter restless, disjointed dreams.
And peculiarly, they did not center on David Lane. Nor, for that matter, did they have anything to do with Peter.
They swept her back further in time, and she was sitting in Carl’s last hospital room, fighting the tears for her brother’s sake, incredulous at his serene conversation.
“The Muslims believe that Mohammed was invited to come close to God. And what Mohammed was able to see was light. Fierce, penetrating light. The feeling was to go to that light. That the light was comfort and peace. And you know, Sue, that’s what they all say. The people who have ‘died and come back.’ They say it’s light. That they’re going to it, trying to reach it. And that it’s very, very hard to pull away from it. Oh, Sue, don’t cry. Please, don’t cry. We all forget that everyone is mortal. We’re all going to die. The day will come when you have to face the light, and I’ll be there. I’ll reach out and touch your hand. I’ll be there, against any darkness, to reach out—”
A tremendous shattering sound crashed into her dream, making Carl’s image fade as a horrible, wrenching scream tore from her throat.
It was so dark. Dark and wet and cold. The rain seemed to have come inside, spattering her, driven by the frigid wind.
She shook her head to clear her mind and fight off the terror, then realized what had happened. The wind had risen again, and a branch on the tree outside had been torn off and slammed against the window, breaking it.
“Damn,” she muttered, wishing she’d had the sense to keep a flashlight in the room. The candle and matches were on the bedside table beneath the window and surely were soaked by now. She could barely make out the shape of the bed, barely see the curtain flying in with the wind.
She sat up and put her feet to the floor, swearing softly again as both her thumb and big toe caught pieces of glass at the same time.
“Susan!”
Suddenly there was light. Her bedroom door—previously locked—burst in with a force equal to that of the wind. She raised a hand to her eyes against the brash glare of the huge flashlight aimed at her. Beyond the glare she could just make out David’s form.
“I’m … I’m all right.” She laughed a little nervously. “I’m sorry I screamed like that. It was just the window. A branch slammed against it.”
He didn’t reply. He strode across the room, checking the damage quickly, then gazed at her. With the glow from his flashlight she could see that she was surrounded by shards of glass.
“Damned lucky you weren’t any closer,” he muttered. Then he stepped forward and quickly lifted her from the sea of glass. She didn’t have time to think about it or protest; it was something he just did in his no-nonsense, determined way. She was clinging to his neck with little choice, noting that he smelled very clean, that he had thrown on one of his dad’s brocade smoking jackets, and that the hair on his chest just below his collarbone tickled her nose. She also noted that he was very warm when she had been so cold, that he held her with a complete sense of confidence, that the strength in his arms seemed incredibly secure.
In the hallway he paused, balancing her so that he could throw the flashlight’s beam around. “You can’t sleep in there tonight. I can board up the window, but the bed is already drenched.”
“I guess I can take your father’s room,” she murmured, lowering her head and wincing the moment the words were out; he had stiffened like ice.
“Yes, I suppose you’ll be comfortable there, won’t you?” he asked almost lightly.
He started walking again, quickly, as if he were truly loath to be touching her now.
He knew his way around and set her down in the center of Peter’s firm bed and quickly stepped back. “Is there anything you want from your room? That gown of yours is all wet.”
She stared down at herself uncomfortably in the yellow glare of the flashlight. The sleeveless silk gown she had put on with so little interest earlier was indeed drenched—and clinging to her skin so closely that not only were her chilled nipples clearly delineated, but the dusky color around them showed almost as plainly as if she’d been naked.
Her eyes rose to his with a start as she automatically shivered and hugged her arms around herself. There was a grin on his face now, but it seemed to be a bitter one.
He didn’t comment on her appearance, but the air between them seemed riddled with what he could have said.
“Would you—” Her voice caught, and she straightened, instinctively striving for dignity. “Would you mind grabbing my robe? It should be on the peg by the door.”
He nodded, then started to turn away, but paused. A frown creased his brow. “You’re bleeding.”
“What?”
He bent on a knee before her, a determined rather than a humble gesture, and his fingers gently caught the damp material at her thigh as he inspected the bloodstain there. “Where are you hurt?”
“I’m not—oh, it’s just my thumb, see? I must have brushed it against my gown.” She showed him the cut on her thumb, then automatically brought her thumb to her lips, sucking on the small cut. He stared at her for a long, strange moment, as he had done before. She couldn’t understand the look on his face. It wasn’t really tenderness—certainly not tenderness—and yet there was something … gentle, yet something that wasn’t really gentle at all in his eyes. It sent the whirling sensation in motion inside of her and made her feel as if a touch of velvet stroked along the length of her spine.
“I’ll get your robe,” he said briskly. He stood and left.
“Watch your feet against the glass!” she called. He didn’t answer. She sat in the darkness, awaiting his return, remembering that his feet had been bare, that he had really nice calves, which were tightly muscled and riddled with dark, crisp, masculine hair. Nice kneecaps too. The hem of the smoking jacket had been just above them. He wore the smoking jacket well, she decided. He looked made for it; the executive, the man in power, in nonchalant control. The black lapels and hem against the Chinese brocade made it a very elegant garment.