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H
e had said that she needed time and that was precisely what he gave her. Though he sat across the dining room from her the next morning, he was a virtual stranger. If he had accused her of placing a block between them, things were now reversed. He looked at her; she looked at him. Whether he read the message of sadness she sent, she would never know, because his eyes were an impenetrable mahogany shade on his soul and she was totally shut out.
That was the last she saw of him for over a week. When she went to breakfast Thursday he wasn't there. Nor was he at the Hunt offices that afternoon. This time, though, she did mention him to Bob.
“I love the preliminary plans for the hospital.” She put on her finest smile. “Mark's done a great job.”
“He's a talented man.” An understatement, she reflected ruefully.
“Uh-huh.” She paused, feigning sudden puzzlement.
“I haven't seen him around. Is he all done here for a while?”
Bob sensed nothing amiss. “No, no. He'll be back. There was some sort of emergency that took him back to Savannah yesterday. He'll be in touch.”
Deanna wondered. The weekend was a particularly quiet one for her and she spent hour upon hour wondering. The first of the week came and went; still she wondered. Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday passed with no sign of him at either the hotel or the office. The subtle inquiries she made gleaned nothing. By Friday she was tired of wondering.
Time. An entire week. What insights had she gained? She'd begun to analyze the true nature of her fear and now saw that it extended far beyond the cooking of a single meal, even beyond her inability to conceive a child. Her fear was of the new and the different, both of which Mark Birmingham represented. In the brief times they'd spent together he'd demanded and drawn more from her than any other person had ever done. And she knew he would continue to do so if she agreed to pursue the relationship. In her near-thirty years she'd always known what to expect from life and those around her. Mark was from a different world, one that was strange to her. He was an unknown in so many regards. That frightened her.
The days of soul-searching had also drawn her thoughts to the fantasy, that original fantasy that had fused her to Mark in the first place. She recalled the fleeting fears she'd had at the time that the real man might not meet her overblown expectations. Now she understood that fear was a double-edged sword and she was convinced that she was the one who wouldn't measure up. Mark was bound to be disappointed as time went on.
She was neither an intellectual nor an aggressor and
she'd never functioned independently in her life. What could she offer Mark beyond poise and social standing? Despite all the money she had, she felt helpless. It was much as it had been for those ecstatic nights in his arms. Naked, she could only offer him her love.
Her love. That was the crux, the only thing of which she was increasingly sure as the days melded one into the next She had only to think of him and her heart ached with a need beyond the physical, though, heaven help her, that was there too in the emptiness she felt. It was worst at nightâthe physical torment. Recollections of the feel of his skin, the soft-textured hair on his arms and legs ruffling beneath her fingertips, the contrasting butter-smoothness of his hips gliding under her palms. Images of his strength encircling her, enhancing her. Memories of his passion, wild and demanding, offering her a unique brand of fulfillment at the cost of her love.
Her love. Wanting to be with him ⦠yet afraid. Needing to give to him ⦠yet afraid. Craving a tomorrow beside him ⦠yet afraid. In the end it all boiled down to one question: did she love him enough to fight that fear?
Friday morning broke with a heavy mist, a dull, dark day to match her mood. Galvanized solely by habit she breakfasted in the dining room, then returned to the suite. She was driven to the club, played tennis, then returned home. She even had Henry drop her at her favorite boutique in search of a new fall dress that might brighten up her spirits, but she returned to the hotel as empty-handed as she was empty-hearted.
Unable to face her own lonely company for another minute, she changed into jeans and a lightweight sweater, threw on one of her older trench coats, grabbed an umbrella and set out on foot, destination unknown. She'd brusquely told Irma she was taking a walk, which was precisely what she did, until even that tired her and
she sank down on a park bench to watch the late afternoon pedestrians scurry between the raindrops.
She was bored. After all this time as Deanna Cauley Hunt, she was truly bored! For years she'd done the same things day in and day out, followed the same schedule week after week, month after month. Now, suddenly, she was bored.
Bored. Lonely. Frustrated. Restless. Was one any different from the next? Had this all been Mark's doing ⦠or had eventual ennui been inevitable?
She wasn't sure how long she sat there with her umbrella shielding her from the world. Peering from beneath its scalloped edge, she studied the people passing and wondered what interesting lives they might lead. It was pure self-pity in which she indulged and she didn't feel an ounce of guilt. Sitting there half drenched in deck shoes, jeans and raincoat, she felt as if she'd attained a momentary measure of anonymity. It was delightful! In a burst of defiance she reached up, tore out the tortoiseshell clip that had held her hair, shook her head until the thick strands slithered freely down, then took a deep, satisfied breath. In a very strange way she'd never been so comfortable. And if her appearance shocked any of the hotel staff, who were so used to seeing her prim and proper ⦠tough!
With a mutinous tilt to her chin she rose from the bench and made her way back to the Hunt International, more relaxed now and enjoying her willfulness. She even stopped to buy a chewy taffy bar, then proceeded to eat itâas no fine lady wouldâwhile she walked on through the rain, into the hotel lobby past doormen and bellboys and clerks to the elevator. It was a petty sort of rebellion, she smiled to herself as she licked the last of the chocolate from her well-manicured forefinger, but it did feel good! The smile was still on her face when she let herself into
the suite, but it faded the instant she turned from the door. Mark!
“Where the devil have you been?” he yelled, striding from the living room at an angry pace. “I've been waiting for hours!”
Deanna caught sight of Irma in the background, but her main focus was Mark. “You haven't been waiting here for
hours
,” she contradicted calmly. “I haven't been
gone
for hours.”
“Where were you?” he repeated gratingly. “I've been worried sick!”
“You shouldn't have been. I was just taking a walk. Irma knew that.”
“Taking a walkâall this time? And here I had the impression you spent Friday afternoons sitting at home. Do you have any idea how dangerous this city is, Deanna?”
His persistent anger surprised her. “It's broad daylight. There are people all over the place. I wasn't in any danger.” Then she scowled, in part annoyed that her temporary good spirits had been dampened. “And why should you worry, anyway? It's been days since I've seen or heard from you. You sound as though we had a date arranged and I'd kept you waiting. Why
are
you here?” She paused to skim his lean frame. “And why are you dressed like that?” He wore well-worn jeans and a sweater of his own, topped by the denim jacket into which he now thrust his arms.
The hardness of his eyes didn't melt at all when he stepped forward, curved his fingers around her upper arm and turned her back toward the door. “I'm here to take you out. Let's go.”
“Now wait a minute ⦔ Deanna tried to free her arm but his grip only tightened. “What are you doing?”
He had the door open and paused only long enough
to call back over his shoulder, “Mrs. Hunt may not be in until late, Irma. Don't wait up for her. She'll be with me.”
“Mark ⦠!” Deanna lowered her voice out of habit when the door slammed shut and he led her down the corridor toward the elevator.
He too spoke in a more controlled voice now, deeper, somehow more dangerous, perversely exciting. “We're going out.” He jabbed impatiently at the call button, but still didn't release her arm. “You're the one who's not a big talker, so I'll happily accommodate you for the time being. Besides, we wouldn't want to cause a ruckus. Wouldn't be very good for the image.”
She heard his ridicule, felt its sting. But just when she would have lashed out in self-defense the elevator arrived. By the time it reached the lobby Mark's hold on her arm had slackened. Even in the muted silence of the populated elevator, he'd read her submission. For, despite her anger, her puzzlement, her hurt, she selfishly wanted to be with him. That was the bottom line. She'd never before been whisked away like this, almost by force, but not quite. It was another sort of fantasy, but one in which she knew her abductor, trusted him implicitly, was madly in love with him before the fact
She reflected on this when she found herself seated several moments later in his deep blue Mercedes, waiting, watching as he slid behind the wheel, started the engine and took off without another glance her way. She felt as though she were headed for adventure and given her erstwhile boredom she couldn't deny the sense of exhilaration that slowly stole through her.
Or was it Mark? It always came down to that. Was Mark the be-all and end-all, the root of her ebullience? She cast him a surreptitious glance, then caught herself and boldly turned her head to stare at him. He was gorgeous. There was no other word to describe those
devilishly dark good looks, dewy now from the moisture in the air and almost comically stern.
“What are
you
looking at?” he snapped, sparing a quick dark glance for her before returning his gaze to the road.
“You,” she replied, feeling more gutsy, more brazen than she'd ever felt in her life. If this was an abduction she had every right to be indignant, even if its edge was a bit too soft for credibility. And since she'd already decided that she couldn't measure up to Mark's ideal, she had nothing to lose by being as outrageous as she wished. “Where are we going?” she demanded.
“You'll find out when we get there.”
“Ah, such sweetness. Such concern for my peace of mind.”
His hands tightened on the wheel, his strong knuckles turning pale. “Right now I'm concerned with my own peace of mind, Deanna. Now, will you keep still? I need to concentrate.”
She followed his gaze to the rain-slickened road and realized for the first time that they were on Interstate 85, headed northeast of Atlanta. “Where
are
we going?” she murmured half to herself. When Mark didn't bother to answer she angled her head to the side and studied him again. “You know, you make a great ogre. You look terrific when you're angry.”
He smiled. Crookedly. “So do you. You also look great with your hair wild like that. But I told you that before, didn't I? Finally decided to take my advice? Or did you do it just to torment me even more?”
“You're an egotist. I had no idea you'd be at my suite!” she cried, raising a hand to smooth her hair, sensing the futility of it, letting it fall back to her lap. “I really look a mess. It'll serve you right when we stop somewhere and people stare.”
Mark offered a skeptical “Hmmmph!” but that was all. The rain had increased in force, so he turned away and switched the wipers to double time. Deanna settled back in her seat and peered through the rain-streaked window at the gently blurred rolling hills. There was something real yet unreal about the sight, much like the scene being played out in the car. It was diverting to a point, but as the minutes passed, the traffic thinned and the afternoon drew wearily toward evening, Deanna grew uneasy. Each minute took them farther from the familiarity of Atlanta.
“Mark, where are we going?”
“We're almost there.”
“Is there a ⦠restaurant in this neck of the woods?” She had assumed that the point of the jaunt was dinner out together, yet she could see nothing but the occasional turnoff and miles and miles of hilly, seemingly virgin forest The highway was scenic even in the rain, winding up and around lakes, leading ever deeper into the mountains of northeast Georgia.
“Why? Are you hungry?” It was the first solicitous note he'd offered.
“A little.”
“We'll be stopping in another twenty minutes or so.”
Twenty minutes. Twenty miles. She grew more and more wary. The germ of a possibility darted through her mind, but she promptly ousted it. He wouldn't do that â¦
But the signs all pointed to it when the stop he'd mentioned turned out to be a general store in a small blink-and-miss-it town in a pocket of the hills.
“Be right back,” he murmured, climbing from the car and dashing through the rain to the store, returning within five minutes with a large brown bag in either arm, stowing them in the trunk before sliding into the driver's seat again.