by Nora Roberts
“Does it show?”
“I’m very perceptive,” Melissa told her carelessly. “Didn’t you know? My guess is that you and Lance had a tiff.”
“Your term is a bit mild,” Foxy murmured as she pushed open the door to the first floor. “But we’ll go with it.”
“Whose fault was it?”
Foxy opened her mouth to blame Lance, closed it again on the thought of blaming herself. She gave up with a sigh. “No one’s, I suppose.”
“That’s the usual kind,” Melissa said briskly. “The best cure is to go out and buy something fabulous to boost your ego. Then, if you want to make him suffer, you can be coolly polite when he gets home. Or”—she gestured fluidly with her hand—“if you want to make up, you send Mrs. Trilby home early and have on as little as possible when he gets here.”
“Melissa.” Foxy laughed as she watched her retrieve her coat and purse from the hall stand. “What a lovely way you have of simplifying things.”
“It’s a gift,” she said modestly, studying her reflection in the antique mirror. “Are you going to be fun and come shopping with me, or are you going to be horribly industrious?”
“I think,” Foxy mused thoughtfully, “I’ve just been insulted.” On impulse, she leaned over and kissed Melissa’s cheek. “You tempt me, but I’m very strong-willed.”
“You’re actually going to work this afternoon?” The look she gave Foxy was filled with both admiration and puzzlement. “But you even worked this morning.”
“People have often been known to work an entire day,” Foxy pointed out, then grinned. “It can get to be a habit...like potato chips. I’m starting a series of photographs on children, so I’m off to the park.”
Melissa frowned as she slipped into her short fur jacket. “You make me feel quite the derelict.”
“You’ll get over it,” Foxy comforted as she ran a curious finger down the soft white pelt.
“Of course.” Melissa swirled around and kissed both of Foxy’s cheeks. “But for a moment, I feel guilty. Have a nice time, Foxy,” she said as she swung out the door.
“You, too,” Foxy called over the quick slam. With a laugh, she pulled her own suede jacket from the closet. In a lighter frame of mind, she swung her purse over one shoulder and her camera case over the other. As she turned she all but collided with Mrs. Trilby. “Oh, I’m sorry.” Crepe-soled shoes, Foxy thought with an inward sigh, should be outlawed.
“Are you going out, Mrs. Matthews?” Mrs. Trilby stood stiffly in her gray uniform and white apron.
“Yes, I have some work planned this afternoon. I should be back around three.”
“Very good, ma’am.” Mrs. Trilby stood expressionless in the archway as Foxy moved to the front door.
“Mrs. Trilby, if Lance . . . if Mr. Matthews should call, tell him I . . . ” Foxy hesitated, and for a moment the unhappiness and indecision was reflected on her face.
“Yes, ma’am?” Mrs. Trilby prompted with the slightest softening of her tone.
“No,” Foxy shook her head, annoyed with herself. “No, nothing. Never mind.” She straightened her shoulders and sent the housekeeper a smile. “Goodbye, Mrs. Trilby.”
“Good day, Mrs. Matthews.”
Foxy stepped outside and breathed in the crisp autumn air. Though her MG had been shipped from Indiana and now sat waiting in the garage, Foxy opted to walk. The sky was piercingly blue, empty of clouds. Against the unrelieved color, the bare trees rose in stark supplication. Dry leaves whirled along the sidewalk and clung to the curbs. Now and then, the wind would whip them around Foxy’s ankles until they fell again to be crunched underfoot. The crisp perfection of the day lifted her spirits higher, and she began to formulate an outline for the project she had in mind.
Mums were still stubbornly beautiful throughout the public gardens. There were flashes of rich color along the paths where rosy-cheeked children darted and played. The afternoon was fresh and sharp. Babies were rolled along in carriages or strollers by their mothers or uniformed nannies. Toddlers practiced the art of walking on the leaf-carpeted grass.
Foxy moved among them, sometimes shooting pictures, sometimes striking up a conversation with a parent, then charming her way into the shot she wanted. She had learned from experience that photography was more than knowing the workings of a camera or the speed of film. It was the ability to read and portray an image. It was patience, it was tenacity, it was luck.
She lay on her stomach on the cool grass, aiming her Nikon at a two-year-old girl who wrestled with a delighted bull terrier puppy. The child’s blond, rosy beauty was the perfect foil for the dog’s unabashed homeliness. A pool of sunlight surrounded them as they tussled, finding each other far more interesting than the woman who crawled and scooted around them snapping a camera. The dog yapped and rushed in circles, the child giggled and captured him. He escaped to be cheerfully captured again. At length, Foxy sat back on her heels and grinned at her models. After a quick exchange with the girl’s mother, she stood, prepared to load a fresh roll of film.
“That was a fascinating performance.”
Glancing up, Foxy found herself facing Jonathan Fitzpatrick. “Oh, hello.” She tossed her hair behind her back, then brushed a stray leaf from her jacket.
“Hello, Mrs. Matthews. A lovely day for rolling in the grass.”
His smile was so blatantly charming, Foxy laughed. “Yes, it is. Nice to see you again, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
“Jonathan,” he corrected and plucked another leaf from her hair. “And I’ll call you Foxy as Melissa does. It suits you. Now, may I ask what it is you’re doing, or is it a government secret?”
“I’m taking pictures, of course.” With a grin, Foxy continued to load her camera. “I make a habit of it, that’s why I’m a photographer.”
“Ah yes, I did hear that.” As she bent her head over her work, the sunlight shot small flames through her hair. With admiration, Jonathan watched them flare. “Professional, are you?”
“That’s what I tell the publishers.” Finished, she closed the camera and gave Jonathan her attention again. The resemblance to his sister was striking, yet she felt no discomfort with him as she had with Gwen. He was, she thought on another quick study, an exact opposite of Lance: fair and smooth and harmless. Instantly annoyed with her habitual comparisons, she gave him her best smile. “I’m working on a project with children at the moment.”
Jonathan studied her, taking in the easy smile, the large gray-green eyes, the face that became more intriguing each time it was seen. He completed his examination in a matter of seconds and decided Lance had won again. This was no ordinary lady. “May I watch awhile?” he asked, surprising them both. “I have the afternoon free. I was just crossing to my car when I spotted you.”
“Of course.” She bent to retrieve her camera case. “But I’m afraid you might find it boring.” Turning, she began to walk in the direction of the Mill Pond.
“I doubt that. I rarely find beautiful women boring in any circumstances.” Jonathan fell into step beside her. Foxy cast him a sidelong look. He had the smile of the boy next door and the profile of an Adonis. Melissa, Foxy mused, is going to have her hands full.
“What do you do, Jonathan?”
“As I please,” he answered as he slipped his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. “Theoretically, I’m an executive in the family business. Import-export. In reality, I’m a paper shuffler who charms wives when necessary and escorts daughters.”
Humor sparkled in Foxy’s eyes. “Do you enjoy your work?”
“Immensely.” When he looked down with his easy grin, she decided he and Melissa were ideally suited for each other.
“I enjoy mine as well,” she told him. “Now stand out of the way while I do some.”
There was a bench by the pond where a willow dipped into the mirrorlike water. A woman sat reading while a chubby toddler in a bright red jacket tossed crackers to paddling ducks. Nearby, an infant snoozed in a stroller in a square of s
unshine. A forgotten rattle hung limply in the curled fingers. After exchanging a quiet word with the woman on the bench, Foxy set to work. Taking care not to disturb him, she captured the delight of the toddler as he threw his crumbs high in the air. Ducks scrambled for the free meal. The boy squealed with pleasure and tossed again, sometimes sampling a cracker himself while the ducks vied for the soggy offering. She translated the sound of his laughter onto film.
Using sun and shade, she expressed the peace and innocence of the fat-cheeked infant. Changing angles, speeds and filters, she altered moods and heightened emotions, until, satisfied, she stopped and let the camera hang by its strap.
“You’re very intense while you work,” Jonathan commented as he moved up to join her. “You look very competent.”
“Is that a compliment or an observation?” Foxy asked him, then snapped on her lens cover.
“A complimentary observation,” Jonathan countered. He continued to study her profile as she secured her equipment. “You fascinate me, Foxy Matthews. I find you one more reason to envy Lance.”
“Do you?” She looked up, revealing a guileless interest that surprised him. “And are there many others?”
“Scores,” he said promptly, then took her hand. “But you’re at the top of the list. Is it true your brother’s Kirk Fox and that Lance snatched you from the racing world?”
“Yes.” Foxy was immediately on guard. Her tone cooled. “I grew up at the racetrack.”
Jonathan lifted a brow. “I’ve struck a nerve. I’m sorry.” He ran his thumb absently across her knuckles. “Would it help if I said I’m curious, not critical? Lance’s racing career also fascinates me, and I’ve followed your brother’s as well. I thought you might have some interesting stories to tell.” His voice, Foxy noted, was not like Gwen’s; it was far too honest.
“I’m sorry.” She sighed and moved her shoulders. “That’s the second time today I’ve been overly sensitive. It’s a bit difficult being the new kid on the block.”
“You were a bit of a surprise.” His touch was so light that Foxy had forgotten he still held her hand. “There are those who require everything well planned and predictable. Lance seems to prefer the unique.”
“Unique,” Foxy murmured, then shot Jonathan a direct, uncompromising stare. “I don’t have any money, I haven’t a pedigree. I spent my adolescent years around garages and mechanics. I didn’t go to an exclusive college, and all I’ve seen of Europe is what I could squeeze in between time trials and races.”
Watching her, Jonathan observed the tiny flecks of unhappiness in her eyes. Sunlight flickered through the willow leaves to catch the highlights of her hair. “Would you like to have an affair?” he asked casually.
Stunned, Foxy stepped back, her eyes huge. “No!”
“Have you ever ridden on the swan boat?” he inquired just as easily.
Her mouth opened and closed twice in utter confusion. “No,” she managed cautiously.
“Good.” He took her hand again. “We’ll do that instead.” He smiled, keeping her fingers tightly in his. “All right?”
Warily Foxy studied his face. Before she realized it, a smile began to tug at the corners of her mouth. “All right,” she agreed. Melissa will never be bored, she decided as she let Jonathan lead her away.
“Would you care for a balloon?” His voice took on a formal note.
“Yes, thank you,” she returned in a matching tone. “A blue one.”
The next two hours were the most carefree Foxy had spent since she had begun her social duties as Mrs. Lance Matthews. With Jonathan, she glided on the Mill Pond, tucked in a swan boat with tourists and sticky-fingered preschoolers. They walked through the gardens eating ice cream with Foxy’s balloon trailing on its string at their backs. She found him undemanding, easy to talk to, a tonic for depression.
When Jonathan pulled up in front of the brownstone, Foxy’s mood was still light. “Would you like to come in?” She shifted the strap of her case onto her shoulder. “Perhaps you could stay for dinner.”
“Another time. I have a dinner engagement with Melissa.”
“Tell her hello for me.” With a smile, Foxy opened her door. “Thank you, Jonathan.” On impulse, she leaned across the seat and kissed his cheek. “I’m sure it was much more fun than an affair, and so much simpler.”
“Simpler anyway,” he agreed, then brushed a finger down her nose. “I’ll see you and Lance on Saturday.”
“Oh, yes.” Foxy made a face before she slid from the car. “Oh, tell Melissa I totally approve of her plans for May.” She laughed at his puzzled face, then waved him away. “She’ll know what I mean.” Slamming the door, she shivered once in the cooling air before moving up the path to the house. The front door opened as she reached for the knob.
“Hello, Foxy.” Lance stood in the doorway. With a quick scan, he took in her smile, bright eyes, and blue balloon. “Apparently you’ve had an enjoyable afternoon.”
Her buoyant mood left no place for remnants of anger from yesterday’s argument. They could talk and be serious later, now she wanted to share her pleasure. “Lance, you’re home early.” She was glad to find him waiting and smiled again.
“Actually, I believe you’re home late,” he countered as he shut the door behind her.
“Oh?” A look at her watch told her it was nearly five. “I didn’t realize. I suppose I lost track of the time.” With the balloon tied jauntily to its strap, Foxy set down the camera case. “Have you been home long?”
“Long enough.” He studied her autumn-kissed cheeks. “Want a drink?” he said as he turned and walked back into the drawing room.
“No, thank you.” His coolness had seeped through Foxy’s elated spirits. She followed him, calculating the best way to bridge the gap before it widened further. “We didn’t have any plans for this evening, did we?”
“No.” Lance poured a generous helping of scotch into a glass before he turned back to her. “Do you intend to go out again?”
“No, I...” She stopped, paralyzed by the ice in his eyes. “No.”
He drank, watching her over the rim. The tension that had flown from her during the afternoon returned. Still, she could not yet bring herself to speak of Kirk or racing. “I ran into Jonathan Fitzpatrick in the public gardens,” she began, unbuttoning her jacket in order to keep her hands busy. “He brought me home.”
“So I noticed.” Lance stood with his back to the wide stone fireplace. His face was cool and impassive.
“It was beautiful out today,” Foxy hurried on, fretting for a way out of the polite, meaningless exchange. Warily, she watched Lance pour another glass of scotch. “There seem to be a lot of tourists still, but Jonathan said they slack off during the winter.”
“I had no idea Jonathan was interested in the tourist population.”
“I was interested,” she corrected, then pulled off her jacket with a frown. “It was crowded in the swan boats.”
“Did Jonathan take you?” Lance asked mildly before he tossed back the contents of his glass. “How charming.”
“Well, I hadn’t been before so he—”
“It appears I’ve been neglecting you,” he interrupted. Foxy’s frown deepened as he lifted the bottle of scotch again.
“You’re being ridiculous,” Foxy stated as her temper began to rise. “And you’re drinking too much.”
“My dear child, I haven’t begun to drink too much.” He poured another glass. “And as for being ridiculous, there are some men who would cheerfully beat a wife who spends afternoons with other men.”
“That’s a Neanderthal attitude,” she snapped. She tossed her jacket into a chair and glared at him. “It was perfectly harmless. We were in a public place.”
“Yes, buying balloons and riding on swans.”
“We had an ice cream cone as well,” she supplied and jammed her hands into her pockets.
“Your tastes are amazingly simple.” Lance glanced briefly into his glass before lifting it
and swallowing. “For someone in your current position.”
Her shocked gasp was trapped by the obstruction in her throat. Absolutely still, she stood while all color drained from her face. Against the pallor, her eyes were dark with hurt. Swearing richly, Lance set down his glass.
“That was below the belt, Fox, I’m sorry.” He started toward her, but she backed away, throwing out her hands to ward him off.
“No, don’t touch me.” She took quick, deep breaths to control the tremor in her voice. “I’ve had to listen to the innuendos, I’ve had to put up with the knowing smirks and tolerate the sniping, but I never expected it from you. I’d rather you had beat me than said that to me.” Turning quickly, she fled up the stairs. Before she could slam the bedroom door, Lance caught her wrist.
“Don’t turn away from me,” he warned in a low, even voice. “Don’t ever turn away from me.”
“Let go of me!” she shouted, trying to pull away from him. Before she thought about what she was doing, she swung out with her free hand and slapped him.
“All right,” he said between his teeth as he locked both her arms behind her back. “I had that coming, now calm down.”
“Just take your hands off me and leave me alone.” She struggled for release but was only caught tighter.
“Not until we settle this. There are some things that have to be explained.”
“I don’t need to explain anything.” She tossed her head to free her eyes from her hair. “Now take your hands off me. I can’t bear it.”
“Don’t push me too far, Foxy.” Lance’s voice was as dark and