Holding the Dream (31 page)

Byron ran his tongue around his teeth, stared down at his plate. “I'm so ashamed. Setting this diabolical trap for you. It's unforgivable.”

“Don't you get glib with me, buster. You bought puppies. You tuned up my car.”

He rubbed his hands over his face before he rose. “Now I
got the dogs and fixed your car in order to blind you to my evil plot. Kate, you're making a fool of yourself.”

“I am not. I know perfectly well when I'm making a fool of myself, and I'm not. You set everything up in clever little stages until I'm practically living here.”

“Honey,” he said with a mix of affection and exasperation, “you
are
living here.”

“See?” She threw up her hands. “I'm living with you, without even realizing it. I'm cooking meals, for God's sake. I've never cooked for a man in my entire life.”

“Haven't you?” Touched, he moved forward, reached for her.

“Don't you do that.” Still blazing, she retreated behind the island. “You've got a hell of a nerve confusing things like this. I told you you weren't my type, that it wasn't going to work.”

His patience straining, he rocked back on his heels. “The hell with types. It has been working, and you're perfectly aware of just how well it works with us. I love you, and if you weren't so damn pigheaded you'd admit that you love me.”

“Don't you assume my feelings, De Witt.”

“Fine. Then I'm in love with you. Deal with it.”

“I don't have to deal with it.
You
have to deal with it. And as far as your half-assed proposal of marriage—”

“I didn't propose marriage,” he said coolly. “I told you I want you to marry me. I didn't ask you. Just what are you afraid of, Kate? That I'm a replay of that jerk Thornhill who used you until something more appetizing came along?”

She went cold. “Just how do you know about Roger? You've been poking around in my business, haven't you? And why am I not surprised?”

It was no use biting his tongue now. Better, he thought, to play it out. “When someone is as important to me as you are, her business is important to me. Her welfare is important to me. So I made it my business to find out. You mentioned his name to Kusack, I've kept in touch with Kusack.”

“You've kept in touch with Kusack,” she repeated. “You know it was Roger who set me up.”

He nodded. “And apparently so do you.”

“I just figured it out this afternoon. But at a guess I'd say you've known a bit longer and didn't find it necessary to mention it to me.”

“The trail led back to him. A personal clash between the two of you, access to your office. He made phone calls to New Hampshire around the time you were told about your father.”

“How do you know about the phone calls?”

“Josh's investigator accessed the information.”

“Josh's investigator,” she repeated. “So Josh knows, too. But still no one thought it necessary to pass any of this handy information along to me.”

“It wasn't passed to you because you'd have stormed right up into Thornhill's face and blasted him.” The way, Byron admitted, he'd wanted to take Thornhill's face apart with his fists. “We didn't want him tipped off before the investigation is complete.”

“You didn't want,” she shot back. “Too bad, because I've already blasted him and ruined your neat plans. You had no right to work around me, to take over my life.”

“I have every right to do whatever I can to protect you, and to help you. And that's what I've done. That's what I'm going to continue to do.”

“Whether I like it or not.”

“Essentially. I'm not Roger Thornhill. I'm not, and I've never used you for anything.”

“No, you're not a user, Byron. Do you know what you are? You're a handler. That's what you do, you handle people. It's what makes you so good at your job—that patience, that charm, that skill at easing people onto your side of an issue without them ever really seeing they've been maneuvered. Well, here's a flash for you. I will not be handled. I sure as hell won't be maneuvered into marriage.”

“Just a damn minute.”

He shifted to block her path before she could storm out.
When he closed his fingers around her arm, she yelped. Afraid that he'd misjudged his strength in temper, he jerked back holding her arm much more gently. But the bruises he saw on her arm were already formed. The haze that smothered his brain was dark and ugly.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded.

Her heart thudded hard into her throat as his eyes snapped to hers. “Let go of me.”

“Who put these marks on you?”

Her chin angled in defense. The fury hardening his eyes was as lethal as the slice of a well-honed sword. “I've seen your white knight routine already, Byron. I'm not interested in a reprise.”

“Who touched you?” he said, spacing each word carefully.

“Someone else who couldn't take no for an answer,” she snapped. She regretted the words, bitterly, before they were fully formed. But it was too late. His eyes went carefully blank. Smoothly, he stepped out of her path.

“You're mistaken.” His voice was cool and calm and deliberate. “I can take no for an answer. And since that seems to be the case, we don't seem to have anything left to discuss.”

“I'll apologize for that.” She felt the heat of shame burning her cheeks. “It was uncalled for. But I don't appreciate your interference in my business, or your assumption that I'd just fall into your plans.”

“Understood.” Hurt was a rusty ball of heat in his gut. “As I said, that seems to end it. It's clear you were right from the beginning. We want different things, and this isn't going to work.” He walked over to the table, more to distance himself from her than because he wanted the wine he picked up and drank. “You can get your things now or at your convenience.”

“I—” She stared at him, stunned that he could close the door between them so neatly. “I don't—I can't—I'm going,” she managed and fled.

He listened for the slam of the door, then sat, as carefully as an old man. He put his head back, closed his eyes. It was
a wonder, he thought, that she could assume he was such a brilliant strategist when a blind man on a galloping horse could see just how badly he'd bungled it.
 

She went home, of course. Where else did you go when you were wounded? The scene she burst in on in the parlor was so cheerful, so familial, so much what she had just been offered and refused, that she wanted to scream.

Josh sat in the wing chair near the fire, the pretty lights from the flickering flames playing over him and his sleeping son. Laura, her younger daughter at her feet, poured coffee into pretty china cups. Margo snuggled on the end of the couch with Ali so they could pore over a fashion magazine together.

“Kate.” Laura glanced up with a welcoming smile. “You're just in time for coffee. I bribed Josh to bring the baby over with one of Mrs. Williamson's honey-glazed hams.”

“He might have left a few scraps,” Margo added. “If you're hungry.”

“I only had seconds.”

“You had seconds twice, Uncle Josh,” Kayla pointed out, and got up, as she had every few minutes, to peek at the baby.

“Stool pigeon.” He tweaked her nose.

“Aunt Kate's mad.” Ali straightened up on the couch in anticipation. “You're mad at somebody, aren't you, Aunt Kate? Your face is red.”

“So it is,” Margo drawled when she took a closer look. “And I think I hear her teeth grinding.”

“Out.” Kate pointed a finger at Josh. “You and I, we're going to go round later, but right now, go away and take your testosterone with you.”

“I never go anywhere without it,” he said easily. “And I'm comfortable right here.”

“I don't want to see a man. If I do see a man in the next sixty seconds, I'll have to kill him with my bare hands.”

He sniffed, feigning insult. But he rose. “I'm taking J. T.
into the library for port and cigars. We're going to talk about sports and power tools.”

“Can I come, Uncle Josh?”

“Of course.” He gave Kayla his free hand. “I'm no sexist.”

“Bedtime in thirty minutes, Kayla,” Laura called out. “Ali, why don't you go keep Uncle Josh company until bedtime?”

“I want to stay here.” She poked out her bottom lip and folded her arms over her chest. “I don't have to leave just because Aunt Kate's going to shout and swear. I'm not a baby.”

“Let her stay.” Kate made a grand, sweeping gesture with her arms. “She can't learn too early what men are really like.”

“Yes, she can,” Laura corrected. “Allison, go into the library with your uncle or go upstairs and have your bath.”

“I always have to do what you say. I hate it.” Ali stormed out, stomping up the stairs to sulk alone.

“Well, that was pleasant,” Laura murmured, and wondered yet again what had happened to her sweet, compliant Ali. “What cheerful note would you like to add to that, Kate?”

“Men are pigs.” She grabbed a cup of coffee and downed it like whiskey.

“And your point is?” Margo said after a long moment.

“What do we need them for, anyway? What possible purpose do they have other than procreation, and with advances in technology we'll be taking care of that in a lab soon.”

“Very pleasant,” Laura decided and poured another cup. “Perhaps we don't need them for sex, but I still depend on them for large-insect disposal.”

“Speak for yourself,” Margo put it. “I'd rather kill spiders than give up sex. What crime did Byron commit, Kate, or do we get to guess?”

“The sneak, the conniving son of a bitch. I can't believe I was idiot enough to fall into a relationship with a man like that. You never really know a person, do you, never really know what's behind their beady little eyes?”

“Kate, what did he do? Whatever it is, I'm sure it's not as bad as you think.” As Kate tore off her coat, Laura's gaze settled on the bruises. She was on her feet in a blink. “Dear God, Kate, did he hit you?”

“What? Oh.” She dismissed the bruises with a wave of the hand. “No, of course he didn't hit me. I got this bumping into something warped at Bittle. Byron wouldn't hit a woman. It's too direct an approach for someone like him.”

“Well, what for Christ's sake did he do?” Margo demanded.

“I'll tell you what he did. I'll tell you what he did,” she repeated as she stormed around the room. “He asked me to marry him.” When this was met with silence, she whirled. “Did you hear what I said? He asked me to marry him.”

Laura considered. “And he has, what, a closet full of the heads of his former wives?”

“You are not listening to me. You are not getting it.” Struggling for calm, Kate breathed deep, pushed at her hair. “Okay, he cooks, pushes vitamins on me, gets me working out. He gets my juices all stirred up so I'm ready to fall onto any handy surface and have incredible sex. He goes to see Kusack, he's been working with Josh behind my back, tries to get all the worry out of my life. He sees to it that I have a closet so that I can just start leaving my clothes over there. Of course, he's bought that house,” she continued, pacing. “And those damn dogs that anyone with half a heart would fall for. My car hasn't run better since the day I drove it off the lot. And regularly, so you hardly notice, he brings flowers home.”

“Not flowers.” Margo pressed a hand to her breast. “Good God, the man is a fiend. He must be stopped.”

“Just shut up, Margo. I know you're not on my side. You're never on my side.” Certain of Laura's loyalty, Kate dropped down on her knees in front of her, clutched her hands. “He asked me to go with him to Atlanta over Thanksgiving and meet his parents. He says he loves me and wants me to marry him.”

“Darling.” All sympathy, Laura pressed Kate's hands. “I can see that you've been through an ordeal tonight. Obviously the man is deranged. I'm sure Josh can arrange to have him committed.”

Stunned, Kate yanked her hands away. “You have to be on my side,” she insisted.

“You want me to feel sorry for you?” The flash of anger in Laura's eyes had Kate blinking.

“No—yes. I—no. I just want you to understand.”

“I'll tell you what I understand. You have a man who loves you. A good, considerate, thoughtful man who's willing to share the burdens of living as well as the pleasures with you. Who wants you, who cares enough to make an effort to make you happy, to make your life run a little more smoothly. One who wants you in bed and out. One who cares enough to want you to meet his family because he loves them and wants to show you off to them. And that's not good enough for you?”

“No, I didn't say that. It's just . . .” She got to her feet, staggered by the heat. “I didn't plan—”

“That's your problem.” Laura—small, delicate-boned, and furious—rose as well. “It has to be in tidy order in Kate's plan. Well, life's messy.”

“I know. I meant—”

Riding on a fury and frustration she herself hadn't guessed at, Laura barreled over Kate's protest. “And if you don't think yours is adequate, try mine. Try having nothing.” And her voice was bitter. “An empty marriage, a man who wanted your name more than you and didn't even pretend otherwise after he had you. Try coming home every night knowing there's not going to be anyone there to hold you, that all the problems that need fixing come to you, that you have no one to lean on. And having your daughter blame you for not being good enough to keep her father under the same roof.”

She stalked over to stare at the crackling flames of the fire while her friends watched in silence. “Try feeling unloved, unwanted, and crawling into bed every night wondering how you're going to make it work, how you can possibly make it right again, then come crying to me.”

“I'm sorry,” Kate murmured. “Laura, I'm so sorry.”

“No.” Exhausted and ashamed, Laura moved away from Kate's comforting hand and sat again. “No, I'm sorry. I don't
know where that came from.” She leaned her head back against the cushion a moment, her eyes shut as the last of the temper drained away. “Yes, I do. Maybe I'm jealous.” She opened her eyes again and managed a smile. “Or maybe I just think you're stupid.”

“I should have moved back in here after Peter left,” Kate began. “I should have realized how much you were dealing with alone.”

“Oh, stop. It's not about me. I'm just a little raw.” Laura rubbed her aching temples. “That wasn't the first go-round Ali and I had today. It makes me edgy.”

“I can move in now.” Kate sat down beside Laura.

“Not that you're not welcome,” Laura told her, “but you're not moving in.”

“Blocked that escape route,” Margo murmured.

“I'm not looking for escape.” Kate struggled to get a grip on her tumbling emotions. “I could help with the girls, share the expenses.”

“No. This is my life.” Laura grimaced. “Such as it is. You have your own. If you don't love Byron, that's one thing. You can't tailor your feelings to suit him.”

“Are you kidding?” Margo reached for the coffeepot. “She's been cross-eyed over him for months.”

“So what? Emotions aren't any guarantee when it comes to something as big as marriage. They weren't enough for Laura.” Kate sighed, shrugged. “I'm sorry, but they weren't.”

“No, they weren't. If you want guarantees, send in your warranty card when you buy a toaster.”

“Okay, you're right, but that's not the whole point. Can't you see he was playing me? He's been handling me all through this relationship.”

Margo made a low feline sound. “Being handled by a strong, gorgeous man. Poor you.”

“You know very well what I mean. You'd never let Josh push all the buttons, make all the moves. I'm telling you that Byron has a way of undermining things so that I'm sliding along in the direction he's chosen before I realize it.”

“So change directions if you don't like the destination,” Margo suggested.

“He called me a detour once.” Remembering, Kate scowled. “He said he liked taking long, interesting detours. I actually thought it was sort of charming.”

“Why don't you go back and talk this out with him instead of arguing?” Laura tilted her head, well able to imagine the scene that had taken place in Byron's kitchen. “He's probably feeling just as unhappy and frustrated as you are.”

“I can't.” Kate shook her head. “He told me to pick up my things at my convenience.”

“Ouch.” Margo looked at Kate with genuine sympathy now. “In that polite, mannerly tone of his?”

“Exactly. It's the worst. Besides, I don't know what I'd say to him. I don't know what I want.” At a loss, she buried her face in her hands. “I keep thinking I know what I want, then it shifts on me. I'm tired. It's too hard to think rationally when I'm tired.”

“Then talk to him tomorrow. You'll stay here tonight.” Laura rose. “I have to put the girls to bed.”

“She's made me so ashamed,” Kate murmured when she was alone with Margo.

“I know.” Margo slid closer. “At least all she made me feel was like killing Peter Ridgeway if he ever shows his sorry face around here.”

“I didn't realize she was still so hurt, so unhappy.”

“She'll be all right.” Margo patted Kate's knee. “We'll see to it.”

“I'm, ah, not going to go into another accounting firm.”

“Of course you're not.”

“Everybody seems to know what I'm going to do before I do” Kate griped. “Bittle offered me a partnership.”

“Congratulations.”

“I turned him down this afternoon.”

“My, my.” Margo's million-dollar smile flashed. “Haven't we had a busy day!”

“And Roger Thornhill is the embezzler.”

“What?” Margo's cup clinked into its saucer. “That slimy weasel who two-timed you with your own client?”

“The very same.” It pleased Kate to see that she could say something that got a rise out of Margo. “It was the way he acted when I ran into him at Bittle today. He's smart enough to have figured out how to siphon funds, and I was his main competition for the partner slot. He gets a little playing money and screws me at the same time.”

“You've been to Kusack with this?”

“No, apparently Byron, the cop, and your husband, whom I will deal with shortly, already knew.”

“And left you in the dark.” Understanding perfectly, Margo pulled Kate to her feet. “Occasionally men have to be reminded that they are no longer hunting out of caves, fighting dragons, or blazing trails west while we huddle around the fire. I'll help you remind Josh.”
 

At nine forty-five the next morning, Kate opened the till at Pretenses. She would run the shop alone that morning. She took some pride in her competence. Laura was at her office at the hotel, and Margo remained on maternity leave. She decided to relish these last few minutes before she unlocked the door, turned the sign to Open.

She'd brought her own CD's. Margo preferred classical. Kate preferred the classics. The Beatles, the Stones, Cream. After putting the music on, she went into the powder room, filled the copper watering can. She was going to enjoy the pleasant little duties of nurturing an elegant business, she told herself.

She was not going to think about Byron De Witt.

He was in the penthouse suite by now. Probably in some meeting or on a conference call. He might be glancing over an itinerary for a trip to San Francisco. Didn't he say he had to fly up?

Didn't matter, she reminded herself, and stepped out on the veranda to water the tubs of pansies and impatiens. He could fly anywhere he wanted—to the moon, for that matter. Her
interest in his affairs was over. Finished. A closed book.

She had her life to worry about, didn't she? After all, she was beginning a whole new phase. A new career with a new goal to aim for. She had dozens of ideas to improve and expand the shop floating around in her head. Once Margo was back in gear, they would have a meeting. An efficiency meeting. Then there was the fashion show right around the corner. The advertising had to be placed. They needed to discuss other promotions for the holidays.

What they needed was a regular weekly brainstorming and progress meeting. She would set it up, fix it into the schedule. You couldn't run a successful business without regular structured meetings. You couldn't run a life without structure, without specific plans and goals.

Why the hell couldn't he see that she had specific plans and goals? How could he have thrown marriage at her, knocking down all of her carefully placed pins?

You didn't marry someone you'd known barely a full year. There were stages to a relationship, careful, cautious, and sensible stages. Maybe, just maybe, after two years, after you'd worked out the kinks in the relationship, after you fully understood each other's faults and foibles and had learned to accept them or compromise on them, you began to
discuss
the possibility of marriage.

You had to outline what you wanted out of marriage, assign roles and duties. Who handled the marketing, who paid the bills, who took out the trash, for God's sake. Marriage was a business, a partnership, a full-scale commitment. Sensible people didn't just jump into it without first fine-tuning the details.

And what about children? It was obvious who had the children—if there were going to be children—but what about assignment of responsibilities? Diapers and laundry, feedings and doctors' appointments. If you didn't nail down the details of responsibilities, you had nothing but chaos—and a baby needing to be taken care of by a responsible adult.

A baby. Oh, God, what would it be like to have a baby? She didn't know anything about having a baby. Think of all
the books she would have to read, all the mistakes she was bound to make. There were so many . . . things you had to have for a baby. Strollers and car seats and cribs.

And all those adorable little clothes, she thought dreamily.

“You're drowning those pansies, Ms. Powell.”

She jerked back, slopping water on her shoes. She stared blankly at Kusack while her mind whirled. She had just all but named a baby she hadn't conceived with a man she didn't intend to conceive it with.

“Daydreaming?” His lips curved in that now familiar paternal fashion.

“No, I—” She wasn't a daydreamer. She was a thinker. A doer. “I've got a lot on my mind.”

“Bet you do. Thought I'd catch you before you opened up. Do you mind if we go inside?”

“No, of course not.” Still fumbling, she set the watering can down and opened the door. “It's just me today. My partners are—aren't here.”

“I wanted to talk to you alone. I didn't mean to spook you, Ms. Powell.”

“No, that's all right.” Her speeding heart seemed to have settled back to a reasonable rate. “What can I do for you, detective?”