Sidney Sheldon's Chasing Tomorrow (Tracy Whitney) (4 page)

She started to sob.

“All right, sweetheart. Don’t panic.” Jeff dropped the coin and put his arms around her. This was Tracy,
his
Tracy. What was he thinking, getting so angry with her in her condition. “It’ll be okay. Just lie down.”

Jeff ran for the phone. “I need an ambulance. Yes, Forty-five Eaton Square. As fast as you can, please.”

CHAPTER 4

B
ELGRAVIA WAS PARTICULARLY BEAUTIFUL
in the springtime, Jeff Stevens thought as he set out from Eaton Square in the direction of Hyde Park. The cherry trees lining the Georgian streets were all in bloom, an eruption of white that mirrored the white stucco facades and laid a snowy carpet over the uneven paving stones. Frequent rain had left the grass in Chester and Belgrave Square a glowing, vibrant green. And everywhere people seemed cheerful and renewed, grateful to have emerged from another long, gray, relentless London winter.

For Jeff and Tracy Stevens, the winter had been longer than most. Tracy’s miscarriage had hit both of them hard, but Jeff carried an extra burden of guilt, afraid that it was the fight they’d had over that stupid Mercian coin that had triggered it. He had discreetly returned the coin months ago, and no one at the British Museum had been any the wiser. But the damage that had been done to his relationship with Tracy was not so easy to fix.

They still loved each other. Of that there was no doubt. But the coin incident had forced them both to realize that they’d been papering over some pretty seismic cracks within the marriage. Perhaps it was Tracy’s struggle to conceive that had obscured them? Or Jeff’s total immersion in his new job? Or both? Whatever the cause, the bottom line was that Jeff had changed since they gave up their old life of heists and capers. And Tracy, fundamentally, had not.

It wasn’t that she wasn’t prepared to give up the actual
act
of committing crimes. That she could do. The stealing of the Saxon coin had been a one-shot deal, which she had no intention of repeating. It was more that there was a part of her identity, an important part, that she didn’t want to let go of. Jeff, at long last, was starting to understand this.

He still hoped that a child would eventually fill the void for Tracy, the way that his passion for antiquities had filled the void for him. They began IVF with high hopes. But as one cycle failed, and then a second, Jeff could only stand by and watch helplessly as the dark sadness inside his wife grew bigger and bigger, like a tumor nothing seemed able to stop.

Jeff tried to make Tracy whole with his love. He started coming home early from work, took her on romantic vacations and surprised her with all sorts of thoughtful gifts: a vintage oil painting of the quarter of New Orleans where Tracy had grown up; a beautiful leather-bound book on the history of flamenco, the dance to which Jeff and Tracy had first fallen in love; a pair of jet earrings from the Whitby coast, where the two of them had once spent a memorably awful weekend in a dreadful hotel, but where Tracy had become intoxicated with the wild, moorland landscape.

Tracy was touched by all of them. But the sadness remained.

“It sounds like depression,” Rebecca suggested tentatively, listening to Jeff pour his heart out over tea in the museum café. “Has she seen anybody?”

“Like a shrink, you mean? No. Tracy doesn’t believe in all that stuff.”

“Yeah, well. Unfortunately mental illness happens, whether you believe in it or not,” said Rebecca. “Having someone to talk to might help.”

“She has me to talk to,” said Jeff. Rebecca could hear the despair in his voice.

“Maybe there are things she
can’t
talk to you about.” Reaching across the table, she squeezed Jeff’s hand.

Rebecca Mortimer had tried not to feel attracted to Jeff Stevens. It was unprofessional. But after months of working in close proximity to his gorgeous gray eyes and jet-black curls, his easy manner and his warm, infectious laugh, she’d given up the effort. How awful it must be to be married to a withdrawn, depressed wife who resented your work and shut you out emotionally. If she, Rebecca, had a husband like Jeff, she’d treat him like a king.

Jeff glanced up, as if something had suddenly occurred to him. “You know what? Maybe she
is
seeing someone. Maybe she has a shrink and is embarrassed to tell me. That would explain a lot.”

“Explain a lot of what?” Rebecca asked.

“She’s been . . . I don’t know. Cagey, recently. Like she has these mysterious meetings and won’t tell me where she is. Or she comes home late and she seems kind of happier. Less stressed.”

Rebecca nodded silently. Inside she thought,
Well, well, well. I wonder if the perfect Mrs. Stevens has a boyfriend on the side?
It was typical of Jeff that such a thought had clearly never even crossed his mind. Jeff Stevens worshipped his wife. But perhaps the goddess Tracy was about to come crashing down off her pedestal.

Jeff had reached the park now. When the weather was fine he often walked all the way to work, but he was already late this morning, so he hopped on the number nineteen bus.

Rebecca greeted him when he came in. She and Jeff shared an office on the second floor of the museum. If you could call it an office. It was really more of a broom closet, with room for only one desk and two chairs wedged side by side.

“Hey.” Rebecca handed him a cup of coffee, strong and black the way he liked it.

“Hey.”

In a pair of tight black jeans and a bottle-green sleeveless top that contrasted strikingly with her titian hair, Jeff noticed she was looking particularly beautiful this morning. He also noticed that she seemed unhappy about something. She was biting her lower lip nervously and avoiding meeting his eye.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing. I set up meetings with two different restorers for those Celtic manuscripts. I thought we could—”

“Celtic schmeltic,” said Jeff. “Don’t bullshit me. What’s on your mind?”

Rebecca closed the office door and leaned back against it. “I’m scared if I tell you, you’ll hate me.”

The surprise registered on Jeff’s face. “I won’t hate you. Why would I hate you?”

“I don’t know. People have been known to shoot the messenger. I don’t want you to think I’m a gossip. But I . . . I’m worried about you. I don’t like to see you being lied to.”

Jeff frowned and sat down. “Okay. So now you have to tell me. What’s this about?” Had someone in the museum been bad-mouthing him? Was someone after his job? It wouldn’t be unheard of. He
was
an amateur, after all, in a senior position. Perhaps one of his colleagues was—

“It’s Tracy.”

Jeff flinched as if he’d been stung.

“What about Tracy?”

“Last week, you told me she’d gone away to Yorkshire for the night. Some walking tour.”

“That’s right,” said Jeff.

“No. It isn’t.” Rebecca blushed scarlet. “I saw her.”

“What do you mean you saw her? Where?”

“In London. In Piccadilly, actually. It was the evening I left early to meet my mother, remember? I saw Tracy coming out of a restaurant. She was with a man and they were laughing and joking and—”

Jeff held up a hand. “You must be mistaken. It was probably someone who looked like her from a distance.”

“I wasn’t
at
a distance.” Rebecca spoke quietly, clearly terrified of provoking him. “I was right there. It was her, Jeff. She didn’t see me because she was too wrapped up in this guy she was with.”

Jeff stood up. “I appreciate you telling me,” he said with a stiff smile. “And I’m not angry because I know you meant well. But I assure you you’re mistaken. Tracy was in Yorkshire last week. Now, I’d better get down to the manuscript room. I’m twenty minutes late as it is.”

Rebecca stepped aside and he walked out, closing the door firmly behind him.

Damn it,
thought Rebecca.

THE NEXT THREE WEEKS
were torture for Jeff. He knew he ought to go home and confront Tracy after what Rebecca had told him. Not because he believed Rebecca. It was a mistake, it had to be. But so that Tracy could reassure him. Jeff needed that reassurance desperately, like a flower needs sunlight and water. And yet he couldn’t bring himself to ask for it. Whenever he tried, all he could think about was Louise.

Louise Hollander, a stunning heiress whose father had owned half of Central America, had been Jeff Stevens’s first wife. She had taken the lead in their courtship, chasing him relentlessly until he had given in. Jeff had genuinely loved her, despite her money rather than because of it. When he first overheard gossip about Louise’s affairs, he’d dismissed it. Louise’s friends were spiteful snobs, who wanted their marriage to fail. But soon the rumors grew from whispers to a deafening roar and Jeff had no option but to face the truth.

Louise Hollander broke Jeff’s heart. He vowed never, ever to become emotionally vulnerable to a woman again. And then he met Tracy Whitney and realized he’d never really loved Louise after all. Tracy was Jeff’s world, the mother he lost, the lover he dreamed of, the sparring partner he’d never been able to find.

Tracy wouldn’t deceive me. She couldn’t.

Tracy loves me.

Rebecca must be wrong.

And yet, something
was
up with Tracy. Jeff had felt it before Rebecca even said anything. He’d felt it for months. The missed dinners, the trips, the unexplained meetings, the total and utter lack of interest in sex.

Two weeks after Rebecca’s bombshell Jeff finally found the courage to make an oblique reference to Tracy’s Yorkshire trip. They were in bed, reading, when he blurted it out.

“When you went away a couple of weeks ago by yourself, didn’t you feel lonely?”

“Lonely?” Tracy raised an eyebrow. “No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know.” Jeff moved in closer, wrapping his arms around her. “Maybe you missed me.”

“It was only one night, darling.”

“I missed you.” He ran a hand down her bare back before slipping it beneath the elastic of her Elle Macpherson panties. “I
still
miss you, Tracy.”

“What do you mean?” Tracy laughed, wriggling away from his hand. “You have me. I’m right here.”

Are you?
thought Jeff.

Tracy turned out the light.

Whereas before, work had been a welcome respite from the emotional tension at home, now Jeff felt almost as ill at ease with Rebecca as he did with Tracy. He’d promised not to shoot the messenger. And yet on some, unconscious level, he realized he
was
angry with the beautiful young intern. Rebecca was wrong about Tracy. Wrong, wrong, wrong. And yet she’d sown a seed of doubt in Jeff’s heart that refused to die. Well meaning or not, in one fell swoop Rebecca had shattered his equilibrium, leaving him feeling awkward and out of place at the British Museum as well as at Eaton Square.

One rainy morning, Jeff arrived at their joint office dripping wet—he’d forgotten his umbrella and couldn’t face going back home to retrieve it—to find Rebecca packing up her things.

“What’s going on?”

Stuffing the last of her books into a cardboard box, Rebecca handed him a stiff white envelope. She forced herself to smile.

“No hard feelings, boss. I’ve had an incredible time working with you. But we both know we can’t go on like this.”

“Go on like what?” said Jeff. Irrationally, he found he felt even angrier than usual. “You’re resigning?”

“I’m leaving,” said Rebecca. “I believe it’s only called resigning if you get paid.”

“Because of me?” For the first time, Jeff felt a stab of guilt.

“I think you’re amazing,” said Rebecca. To Jeff’s astonishment, she put her arms around his neck and kissed him, just once, on the lips. The kiss wasn’t long but it was heartfelt. Jeff was embarrassed by how instantly aroused it made him.

“Look . . .” he began.

Rebecca shook her head. “Don’t. Please.” She handed him an unmarked disk. “Watch this, after I’m gone. If you ever want to talk, you have my numbers.”

Jeff took the disk and the letter, staring at them both dumbly. It was a lot to take in at nine o’clock in the morning. Before he’d recovered enough to say anything, Rebecca was gone.

Depressed and exhausted suddenly, he sank down into his chair. Outside, the rain was still beating down relentlessly. The splatter of droplets on the tiny single window above his desk sounded like a hail of bullets.

What’s happened to my life?
Jeff thought miserably.
I feel like I’m under attack.

Switching on his computer, he slipped the disk inside.

Within ten minutes, he’d watched the footage five times. Then he read Rebecca’s letter.

He stood up, his feet unsteady beneath him, and opened the office door. He started walking down the corridor. After a few seconds he broke into a jog, then a run. The elevators took forever, so he bounded down the south stairs, two at a time.

“Did you see Rebecca Mortimer?”

The girl at the front desk looked startled.

“Hello, Mr. Stevens. Is everything all right? You look—”

“Rebecca!” Jeff panted. “Did you see her leave the building?”

“Yes. She was saying good-bye to some of the staff in the café, but she just left. I think she was heading toward the tube on . . .”

Jeff was already sprinting out of the double doors.

TRACY WALKED DOWN MARYLEBONE
High Street with only a flimsy umbrella to protect her from the torrential rain, but nothing could dampen her spirits. It had been a long day but a wonderful one. She looked around for a cab.

It had been so long since she’d felt this happy, so long since she’d felt happy at all, that she almost didn’t know what to do with herself. There was a part of her that felt guilty about Jeff.
Poor Jeff.
He’d tried so hard to understand her grief over losing their baby. Tracy could see the effort he was making, but somehow that made everything twenty times worse. None of this was Jeff’s fault.

But it isn’t my fault either. I can’t help who I am. And I can’t stop needing what I need.

Alan understood. Alan got it, got
her,
in ways that Jeff never could.

Tracy had seen him again today. It had reached the point where simply being in the room with him had the capacity to make her happy, and hopeful for the future. Perhaps that was the key. Hope. Tracy had tried, she really had, but she’d felt so trapped in her married life with Jeff since they got back to London, so hopeless. Forty-five Eaton Square, the home that used to be her sanctuary, had become a prison.