Authors: Heather Graham
He didn’t leave the wall. He slowly crossed his arms over his chest. “What are you interrupting?”
“David, Miss Jameson—”
He frowned. “Miss Jameson left with the friends with whom she came.”
“Well, why? That was stupid!”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“How can you be so callous! She’s in love with you!”
“Vickie?” He smiled bemusedly. “No, she isn’t. She’s a friend who understands me.” He reached out a hand to her casually. “Shall we return to the table?”
Susan sighed with exasperation. She didn’t take his hand, but he cupped her elbow with it.
Erica and John were head to head when Susan and David reached them, but they quickly broke apart. “How about a carriage ride through the park?” John suggested cheerfully.
“It’s a little cold, isn’t it?” Susan murmured. “I think I’ll pass, but you all go ahead—”
“Oh, come on, Miss Anderson. Where’s your spirit of adventure?” David said smoothly, and she couldn’t protest further because he and John started arguing over the bill, John saying that he was entertaining a client, David arguing that the client was his author. David won; Susan had the feeling that he would always win—charmingly.
Before they could enter the limo outside, David managed to pull Susan back against him and whisper. “Where’s your empathy for young love? If you refuse the carriage ride, they certainly won’t go!”
And so, fifteen minutes later, John and Erica were pulling off in one carriage, and she and David were following in another.
He was businesslike at first, asking her if she was satisfied that the book would be handled to her taste. She told him quite honestly that his employees were all pleasant, enthusiastic, and very capable of inspiring trust.
“So, you see,” he said softly, “it won’t be such a nightmare, after all.”
It was a nightmare, she wanted to scream, because she was feeling the way she had on that night they had spent together. He was against her, he was warm, his arm was draped casually around her, and his scent was a subtle taunt. She found herself staring at him and smiling ruefully, thanking him in person for the flowers. He laughed and told her that his secretary didn’t always attend to his personal affairs. And for a moment, in the moonlight, his eyes looked like the frosty eyes of a mischievous Satan, and then they appeared smoky, a sensual blue. His features were dark in the shadows, and he was moving toward her, kissing her.
It was a gentle kiss, an exploration. It filled her with warmth and longing, and it made her quiver and wonder. His hand caressed her cheek while his lips moved warmly over hers, and then he moved, pulling away to watch her with eyes that were now cobalt and enigmatic.
“Susan…” His whisper touched the breeze, resonated with the steady
clip-clop
of the horse’s hooves. It might have been a shout, and it was so light that she might have imagined it.
“I could have—”
The driver called out a command; the horse stopped. David was rising, pulling the blanket off their legs, then helping her from the carriage.
And minutes later they were all back in the limo.
They drove to her hotel first. David walked her in, and in front of her door he smiled whimsically, brushing a stray hair from her cheek. She didn’t say anything. He hesitated, then took a breath and spoke softly. “I meant it, Susan. The olive-branch-of-peace business. The house is yours, and you can feel comfortable in it. I—I won’t be making any sudden appearances. I don’t understand any of your past, but I’m not your enemy. Just do me a favor, please, and be careful. Make sure that the security is in and that it works. And if you ever need anything, call me. You know where to reach me.”
He grinned, pulled her close to him for a minute, kissed her forehead, then turned and walked down the hall. He didn’t wait for the elevator; he took the stairs.
Susan flew back to Maine via a commercial airline and, to her total annoyance, spent her first week home waiting for the phone to ring. It rang, but it was never David on the other end. The longer she was away from him, the worse it seemed to hurt and the more irritated she became with herself.
It couldn’t be over because it had never begun.
But life had become mechanical for her. Jerry had commissioned a security company to wire the house; if anyone ever tried to break in, the police would know immediately. But she wasn’t frightened; Harry Bloggs had been a fluke.
She spent time walking along the cliffs; she spent time working. She bought half a dozen new nail polishes and changed them every day.
Another week passed, and she found herself sitting at Peter’s desk, playing with his pipes, thinking of him, missing him.
“Oh, Peter! Of all people, I know what it is to love and lose. I can’t even think of this thing in such a light! And when you do love and lose, Peter, the therapy is to pick up the pieces and get on with your life.”
There were just so many shattered pieces to her life. She didn’t know where to start picking them up.
When friends called, she didn’t seem to have the energy to go out. And despite the thoughts of David Lane that she could not quell, she discovered that she was spending ridiculous amounts of time sleeping.
By the end of her third week home, she determined that she had picked up some kind of flu—she wasn’t lovesick, she was simply sick, and if she could beat the illness, she could get going.
Susan didn’t really have a doctor, so she called Harley Richmond at the hospital.
“Sue, I’m a cancer specialist—”
“Harley, couldn’t you just take some blood or something and make sure I’m not anemic? I’m not deathly ill, I just think I need some vitamins or something.”
“Sure, kid. Come on in, then.”
Relieved, and sure that a shot of vitamin B would rid her not only of exhaustion but of David Lane as well, she cheerfully dressed for a visit to the doctor.
S
USAN WAS DAZED WHEN
she walked back into the beach house. She didn’t remember the drive back; she couldn’t remember thinking. All that touched her mind was the awful shock.
She wasn’t sick, she was pregnant.
She should be grateful; she’d not allowed herself to really think about it, but she knew that though certain diseases weren’t necessarily hereditary, they were prone to occur in certain families. And after Carl’s illness she should be very, very grateful for such a totally clean bill of health. But pregnant? It was just so … stunning.
And then she began to think of it all as such a ridiculous trick of fate that she started to laugh in the foyer, laugh so hard that she doubled over, catching herself only when she realized she was going to start to cry.
It’s not real, it’s not real. It can’t be real, she told herself. She could wait for nightfall, go to sleep, and then wake up and prove to herself in the morning that it was all a dream.
She didn’t really feel anything. She was refusing to face this thing, she warned herself. But maybe that was good. Maybe that was a survival instinct coming to the surface. She needed some time to get over the shock before dealing with the facts.
She noticed that there was dust on the coffee table. With a whirl of energy she raced into the kitchen, dug out the chamois and polish from beneath the counter, and hurried out to the parlor to set to industriously cleaning the table. Her eyes fell on the fire—cold now. But it had been here, right here, that she had fallen. She winced, bringing the knuckle of her thumb to her mouth and biting down hard. This was it, the scene of the crime. One haphazard, stupid indiscretion in her adult life, and she was certainly being brought to task for it. Here … right here.
But maybe it hadn’t been here. Maybe it had been upstairs. In his room. Of all the nights in the world to have gone as mad as a March hare….
Susan brought her hands to her face and sank down to the sofa, feeling extremely sorry for herself and hateful toward fate. One night! If David Lane had just shown up a week later, she might have hated herself, but she wouldn’t be in this predicament. If the storm hadn’t come, if she hadn’t walked out to the sand, if a branch hadn’t broken her window…
If she’d had the common sense to stay away from him at all costs!
None of it mattered now. The ifs hadn’t occurred.
The phone started to ring. Not really giving a damn who it was, Susan ignored it. Eventually the shrilling stopped. She continued to sit on the sofa, her thoughts a jumble, then blank again.
About fifteen minutes later the phone started up again. Mechanically she rose. Mechanics! If she could just get the mechanics down for the next few days at least! Eat, sleep, work. See people, laugh, talk. Surely then she would get her mind back and be able to deal with things.
She answered the phone with assurance, quite positive that it wasn’t David Lane. Since New York, apparently he had called a truce that he intended to keep. He had decided to leave her alone.
It wasn’t David. It was Joan, her sci-fi editor.
“How are you?” Joan asked cheerfully.
Just wonderful. Pregnant by a man who thought she was an exorbitant call girl who preyed on rich old men.
“Real good, Joan, thanks. How are you? Did you get away to California with your husband?”
“Yes, and we had a great time.” Joan went on to tell her a bit about the vacation, then asked what she had been doing. Susan mentioned a few nights out with her friends and sounded amazingly cheerful. Joan teased her for a few minutes about working on a real-life romance, then switched the conversation to business.
“I was just calling about your last proposal and outline.”
“Oh, good. I should get going on it, I guess. Is there a problem?”
“Oh, no. I love the concept! Murder on a space shuttle station. I just have a few minor suggestions. Got a pencil and paper?”
“Ah … yes,” Susan murmured, quickly rummaging through the top desk drawer for a pad and pencil. “Can you hang on for a second? I’ll find my copy.”
She set the receiver down and dug into the bottom drawer, glancing quickly over the manila envelopes there. She found the correct one and straightened up. See? she thought, taunting herself. Nothing had changed. She didn’t become green or sprout ten extra fingers. Keep at it, it’s very calming….
“I’m all set, Joan,” she said.
“Great, great. Okay, chapter two, spice up the argument a bit. A little more heated. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“In chapter four, I don’t think your heroine would walk out like that, not without saying something. See what you can come up with, okay?”
Susan scribbled on the paper. “Okay.”
“Now, chapter eight—this is my only real problem with the outline. I don’t think the heroine should seem so defenseless against the enemy when she’s taken and accused of the murder. She needs to be stronger, stand up to them, and fight back—even if she is scared out of her mind. Susan, are you there?”
Oh, yes, she was here, she thought hysterically. The strong, defensive, fighting back—pregnant woman.
“No problem,” she heard herself say calmly. Her pencil skidded across the paper, digging into it. The point broke.
“That’s it, then,” Joan was saying, “I can’t wait to read the complete manuscript!” She went on to say that she hoped the weather didn’t get too cool too quickly, chatted a few more minutes, then hung up.
Susan laid her head on the blotter on the desk and started to laugh again. This time her laughter turned to tears.
“There’s nothing to be alarmed about,” Harley had said, trying to soothe her. “There are choices today. The point is that they must be made very, very carefully.”
“What are you saying?”
“That you don’t have to have the child.”
She had even laughed then—dryly and in control. “Are you condoning abortion, Harley?”
“I’m not condoning or condemning anything. I’m a doctor, not a lawmaker, and this isn’t my line of expertise. And it’s certainly not my business to pry into your personal life, but you look as if you think you mated with the devil.”
“You’re the one who told me I needed a social life!”
“Susan—”
“Oh, Harley! It’s just impossible….”
“Susan, I do not believe in immaculate conceptions. Not since the Christian calendar began, at any rate.”
“But—”
“Susan! You could spend every night of the month with a man. Twenty-nine of those days wouldn’t matter. The thirtieth would. And even if that thirtieth was the only one, it’s the one that counts. That’s the way it works, kid. Look, I really don’t mean to pry, but I know you so well. I mean, you must have felt … something. Is there still a relationship? It could all be really wonderful. Maybe he would just love to have children. Maybe marriage—”
“Marriage is out, Harley.”
“Susan—”
“Hey! You promised not to pry, right?”
“Yeah, I did,” he muttered.
He hadn’t let her leave right away; she had been too shaken. He had given her a cold beer with a rueful smile. “I know that they’re convinced alcohol is really bad these days, but this is mild and should bring some color to your face.” She had sat there numbly, drinking the beer. And when she finally had risen to leave, he had cleared his throat and spoken with her one last time.
“I’m giving you two business cards. One is a friend of mine, the best OB guy I know. The other is a psychologist in family counseling—”
“I’m a psychologist, Harley.”
“Every healer needs a healer now and then, Susan. See him. Talk to him. I—I well—”
“What, Harley?”
“Sue, you’re young. Life stretches ahead of you, all the best now. You deserve it; you should go for all the riches and promise out there. But I don’t see you—never mind. Like I said, I have no right to comment or pry.”
And she smiled then, feeling so vulnerable that words had come slowly from her.
“I don’t know what I’ll do, Harley. I still can’t believe it. I don’t feel anything, and I really can’t believe it’s true. But I can’t imagine myself doing something about it, either. Oh, Harley! I’ve been around the aged so much, around death … This is life and I … I don’t know.” She shook her head. “I’m going home. I’m all right. I’ve got some time to think, right?”