The dirty laundry was forgotten. Stephanie spent the afternoon taking a bath, washing and setting her hair, and trying on a half a dozen outfits before finally deciding on the rust-colored dress she had worn when she and Perry had dined with Brock and his blond companion that first day she had met him.
Without transportation since Perry had the station wagon, she had to call the local cab. Precisely at five o'clock she was standing in front of the door to Brock's suite. Mentally she rehearsed the speech she was going to make, then knocked on the door.
Brock opened it within seconds. There was a moment of silence as their eyes met. Stephanie thought she saw a flicker of something in the gray depths, but it was too quickly veiled for her to identify it. Her senses reacted to the coral silk shirt he was wearing, half-unbuttoned to give her an inviting glimpse of sun-browned skin and his dark chest hairs.
"You're right on time. Come in." A smile curved his mouth, but it lacked warmth.
"Thanks," she murmured as he stepped to one side to admit her. She nervously fingered the metal clasp of her purse, ill at ease with him and not understanding why.
His sharp gaze noticed the way she was fiddling with her purse. "Would you like a drink?" he suggested.
"Please." She felt in need of some kind of fortification. At the questioning lift of a male eyebrow, Stephanie added, "A whiskey and soda will be fine."
As Brock walked to the concealing gold-leafed screen, her gaze made a nervous sweep of the room. The room was immaculate. Except for his briefcase sitting on the floor near the phone, there wasn't any evidence that the sitting room had been used. The door to the bedroom was shut, but Stephanie suspected the same would be true in there.
Yet the atmosphere in the living room was teeming with invisible and dangerous undercurrents. She could feel them tugging at her.
Her gaze ran back to Brock, so aloof and so compelling. He had fixed two drinks, one for her and one for himself. Carrying them both, he crossed the room to hand Stephanie hers. The drink was not accompanied by an invitation to sit down and make herself comfortable.
Realizing that, she held the glass in both her hands and stared at the ice cubes floating in the amber liquid. She was rapidly beginning to regret coming to see him. She heard the ice clink in Brock's glass as he took a drink, but she knew her hands would start shaking if she lifted her glass.
"You said you wanted to see me," he reminded her.
"Yes." Stephanie lifted her gaze. "Last night I was offended by some of the things you suggested," she began and searched his expression, hoping for perhaps a hint of remorse.
But his face was an impassive mask. She realized he had no intention of making this easier for her. The speech she had so carefully rehearsed was suddenly and completely forgotten.
Everything was thrown out as she made one last attempt to reach him. "If you want me to, I'll stay with you tonight. I love you, Brock."
Her confession didn't seem to make any impression on him. There wasn't even a flicker of an eyelash. "You'll get over it," was his cool response.
Stephanie couldn't believe that he could shrug it aside with that much disinterest. She stared at him, too stunned to hear the connecting door to the bedroom open. It was only when a voluptuous blonde in a see-through peignoir waltzed into her vision that she realized she and Brock weren't alone. It was Helen, the same girl Brock had been with the first time he had come.
"Darling—" she linked her arms around Brock's and pouted very prettily "—you promised we'd be alone for the rest of the evening."
"Stephanie, you remember Helen, don't you?" Brock drawled. Her gaze was transfixed by his mockingly cold smile. No color remained in her face. She was as white as one of his white leather chairs. "Fortunately Helen was able to join me for the weekend, otherwise I might have had to endure a night of amateur entertainment."
His taunting words rolled out to strike her. The glass slipped out of her numbed fingers, but she didn't hear it crash to the floor. She reeled from the stinging blow, turning to rush blindly from the room. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks in an avalanche of pain.
Shame and humiliation consumed her with a burning heat. Conscious only of the desperate need to escape, she wasn't aware of the stares or turning heads as she ran through the lobby and out through the front door.
Not even the zero temperature cooled the scalding heat of her pain. Sobbing, she realized she had no place to run, except home. The station wagon was parked to one side in front of the entrance. Hurrying to it, she glanced inside and had to wipe the tears away before she could see the keys dangling out of the ignition.
Climbing behind the wheel, she started the engine and reversed out of the parking space. The tears refused to stop falling, now that the deluge had begun. As she turned onto the main road, she nearly sideswiped an incoming car, swinging the wheel to avoid it just in time.
Shrugging free of Helen's hold, Brock walked over and shut the door Stephanie had left open. His shoes crunched on the broken glass around the liquor stain on the floor. He gulped a swig of his own drink, trying to wash down the bad taste in his mouth. His gaze flicked uninterestedly to the near-naked girl.
"The show is over. Put a robe on, Helen," he ordered in a flat voice.
Her gaze swept him with a disapproving look. With a swirl of gauzy nylon, she disappeared inside the bedroom. He finished the rest of his drink and waited for its deadening effect to begin. It didn't work with its usual swiftness and he walked to the bar to refill his glass.
He walked away, carrying the decanter of whiskey as well as his glass. Stretching his long frame in a chair, his legs spread in front of him, he stared broodingly out the window at the snow-covered mountains.
He barely glanced up when Helen returned, covered from neck to ankle in an ermine-trimmed robe of black. It was a perfect foil to her perfectly bleached platinum hair. Without waiting for him to suggest it, she walked to the bar and poured herself a gin and tonic.
"Do you want me to call a maid to clean up this mess?" she asked, gesturing toward the broken glass and the spreading pool of liquid.
"No." Brock shut his eyes. His lungs felt as if they were about to burst.
"Did you have to be so rough on her?" Helen complained. "Couldn't you have let her down with a little more class?"
"It was the best way I knew to be sure she got the message." He heard the weariness in his voice, the utter fatigue.
"There are times when I'm not sure that you have a heart, Brock Canfield," She retorted.
"There's such a thing as being cruel to be kind." He lifted his glass and studied its contents in the waning light of the winter afternoon. "I'm not the four-bedroom type."
A WALL OF tears blocked Stephanie's vision. She couldn't see where she was going or even if she was driving on the road. It had ceased to matter. When the station wagon began to skid on the slippery road, she stopped trying to control it and let it go wherever it wanted. It spun and bumped, coming to an abrupt halt. The suddenness of it catapulted her forward against the steering wheel.
It didn't occur to her that she had had an accident. She simply took advantage of the steering wheel's support, folding her arms to rest her forehead against them and cry. There was an ocean of pain dammed up behind her eyes. Tears seemed the only way to relieve the unbearable pressure.
"ARE YOU PLANNING to get drunk, Brock?" Helen questioned from her reclining position on the sofa. "Or is that whiskey decanter you're holding just a security blanket?"
Brock glanced at the crystal decanter with its glass stopper in place and his empty glass that hadn't been refilled. "I'm considering it."
But it didn't seem worth the effort. The stupor would eventually wear off and he'd be back to square one. A knock at the door tipped his head back as he lifted a hand to cover his eyes.
"Answer that," he told Helen. "Send whoever it is away. I don't want to see anyone."
With a soft rustle of material, the girl swung her legs off the sofa to rise and walk to the
door in her satin mules. She opened the door with a secretive little flourish. "I'm sorry, but Mr. Canfield can't see anyone just now," she murmured coyly.
"He'll see me." Perry Hall pushed his way into the suite.
"Oh, dear, Brock, it's the brother," Helen declared in mock dismay.
Brock let his hand drop to the armrest. He could do without a confrontation with Stephanie's brother, but he had been expecting it. "What do you want, Perry?" he sighed.
"I want to know where Stephanie's gone." He stopped in front of Brock's chair, square jawed and stern.
"How should I know?" His gaze narrowed faintly. "She isn't here."
"But she was here. And I'm betting that she—" Perry gestured toward Helen "—is the reason Stephanie ran out of here crying."
"That's a question you'll have to put to Stephanie." Brock unstoppered the decanter and filled his glass.
"When I find her," Perry replied. "She drove off in my station wagon."
"Then she probably went home," Brock shrugged.
"She didn't. I've called and called, but there wasn't any answer. Finally I got hold of our neighbors. They went over to the house, but she wasn't there."
The announcement rolled Brock to his feet. "Are you saying that she's missing?" The demand came out as a smooth question.
"Yes. I don't know what happened here or what was said, but I do know the kind of state Stephanie was in when she ran out of the lobby." Perry retorted. "And she wasn't in any condition to be driving. Since you were responsible, you owe me the loan of your car so I can go and look for her."
"I'll get the keys." Brock walked into the bedroom and came out wearing his parka. "I'm coming with you."
"I don't need you along," her brother rejected his offer.
"I'm not asking your permission." Brock moved toward the door. "Since, as you say, I'm responsible for your sister's overwrought condition, I'm going along to make certain she's all right."
"You should have thought about that before," Perry accused.
"I'm aware of my past mistakes," Brock countered. "What happened today will ultimately turn out for Stephanie's own good. You and I both know that, Perry."
"I warned her that you would hurt her, but she wouldn't listen," Perry sighed.
"I didn't hurt her as much as I could have."
STEPHANIE FELT DRAINED and empty, without the strength to even lift her head. Her throat was dry and aching, scraped raw by the last sobs. Her eyes burned with aridness. There wasn't even any relief when she closed them. She hurt; she hadn't realized it was possible to hurt so badly that being alive was agony.
There was a noise, then an influx of fresh, cold air, but she didn't welcome its reviving attempt. Something gripped her shoulders. A voice called her name. It sounded so much like Brock's that Stephanie was convinced she was dreaming. She moaned in protest when she was gently pulled away from the support of the steering wheel and forced to rest against the back of the seat.
"Are you hurt, Stephanie?" It still sounded like Brock. "Can you hear me?"
"Yes," she rasped thinly, but didn't bother to open her eyes. None of this was real, anyway.
The familiar and caressing gentleness of Brock's hands was exploring her face, smoothing the hair away from her forehead. The sensation was sweet torment.
"I can't find any sign of a cut or a bruise." It was Brook's voice again, low and concerned.
"Stephanie, do you remember what happened?"
The second voice made her frown. It belonged to her brother. "Perry?" Mustering her strength, she opened her eyes.
Again there was a sensation of being in a dream. Brock was half-sitting on the driver's seat and facing her. A deep furrow ran across his forehead, pulling his eyebrows together. She felt weepy again, but there weren't any tears left. Something made her glance sideways. There was Perry, bending low and trying to crowd into the car.
"I'm here, Stephanie," her brother assured her. "Do you remember what happened? How long have you been here?"
"I don't…know." The last question she could answer, but the first meant pain. Stephanie looked back at Brock. None of it was a dream. She knew exactly where she was and why. She pushed his hand away from her face. "Why are you here? You should be back at the suite being entertained by your sexy friend," she accused in a breaking voice. "Go away and leave me alone!"
But he ignored her. "Did you hit your head when the car spun into this snowdrift?" His hand went back to her head, feeling for bumps on her scalp.
"No, no, I wasn't hurt at all," she insisted huskily, and pushed his hand away again. "I lost control of the car—on a patch of ice, I guess. Is that what stopped me—a snowbank?"
"You're lucky it wasn't a telephone pole," Brock muttered and reached for her arm. "Come on, let's get you out of the car."
"No!" Stephanie eluded his hand and turned to her brother. "I want to go home; Perry," she said tightly, edging along the seat to the passenger side.
She had a glimpse of her reflection in the rear view mirror. Her face was pale and colorless, her eyes swollen and red from the tears, and her cheeks stained with their flow. She looked like a washed-out mop. It wasn't fair that Brock had seen her this way.
She hadn't wanted to give him the satisfaction of knowing how his callousness had crushed her. That was why she had run. She stared at her hands, twisting white in her lap as Brock stepped away from the driver's side to let her brother slide behind the wheel.
After he had started the motor, he shifted the car into reverse. The tires spun, then found some traction and they were bouncing backward out of the hard-packed snow. Brock stood by the roadside, his hands in his pockets, watching them. For a moment he was outlined there, alone, his gaze lingering on her. Then the station wagon was moving forward.
"Why did you have to bring him along with you?" Stephanie choked painfully on the question, her eyes misting with tears again.
"It was his car. He insisted." His gaze left the road, swinging to her. "Are you okay?"
"No, I don't think so." She stared sightlessly out of the window at the bleak landscape of snow and barren trees. "All those lines always sounded so melodramatic before—but, Perry, I wish I could die."
When they reached the house, Stephanie went directly to her room. Without changing clothes or turning on a light, she lay down on her bed, huddling in a tight ball atop the covers. It was nearly nine when Perry knocked on her door and entered the room carrying a tray with a bowl of hot soup and crackers.
"Go away, please," she requested in a flat voice.
Setting the tray on the bedside table, he switched on the lamp. "You have to eat, Stephanie."
"No." She rolled away into the shadows on the opposite side of the bed.
"Just a little, Stephanie," he insisted in that patient voice of his. She rolled back and he smiled gently. "Sit up." He fixed the pillows to prop her up and set the tray on her lap. For his sake, she ate a few spoonfuls, but it had no taste for her. When she handed it back to him, Perry didn't attempt to coax her into eating more.
It was nearly midnight before she roused herself sufficiently out of her stupor to change into her nightdress and crawl beneath the covers. She didn't sleep, at least not the kind of sleep she normally knew.
With dull eyes, she watched the dawn creep into her bedroom through the east window. She heard the church bells ring their call to early service, but didn't leave her bed to respond to them. Perry came in with orange juice, coffee and toast. She sampled a little of each of them…for him.
All morning she stayed in her room. When Perry came to tell her he was going to the inn for an hour or so, Stephanie merely nodded. She heard him come home in the middle of the afternoon, but she didn't leave her bedroom.
At the supper hour, Perry came in. "The food's on the table."
"I'm not hungry." She sat in the center of her bed, hugging her pillow.
"Stephanie, you can't stay in this room forever," he pointed out. "It was rough. It hurt like hell, I know. But it
's over. You've got to pick up the pieces and start again." She stared at him, hearing this truth that was so difficult to put into practice. "Come on." He offered his hand. "The longer you stay here, the harder it will be to leave."
Hesitantly, she placed her hand in his and let him help her off the bed. Together they went downstairs to the kitchen. She sat down at the table with its platter of Yankee pot roast, potatoes, onions and carrots. The irony of it stabbed her as she remembered Brock had said she was pot roast while he was Chateaubriand.
"Has…has Brock left?" she faltered on the question.
The carving knife was poised above the meat as Perry shot a quick glance at her. "Yes."
A violent shudder quaked through her, but she made no sound.
THE NEXT MORNING she was up before Perry. She discovered that routine was something solid to cling to in her shattered world. She made coffee, got their breakfast, dressed and drove to the inn with Perry. There was one difference. She closed her office door when she went to work, she was no longer interested in the comings and goings of the inn's guests.
There were questions, kindly meant, from her fellow workers, but she turned them aside. She knew they were making their own guesses about what might have transpired, but she didn't offer them any information that would fuel more gossip.
All around her were the festive decorations of Christmas, cheerful voices calling holiday greetings, and the merry songs of the season drifting through the halls. This time, no spirit of glad tidings lightened her heart.
Chris Berglund came over several times while he was home for the holidays. Stephanie suspected the frequency of his visits was at her brother's instigation. But mostly he talked to Perry while she made certain there was plenty of cocoa, coffee or beer for the two of them to drink. She appreciated that Perry was trying to keep the time from stretching so emptily. In a way his methods worked.
The coming of the new year brought changes. Stephanie's appetite was almost nonexistent. She ate meals because they were necessary, but she lost weight. She rarely slept the whole night through. In consequence, there was a haunting look to her blue eyes, mysterious and sad. She rarely smiled and laughed even less frequently. Her chestnut hair was worn pulled away from her face, secured in a neat coil. The style was very flattering and sophisticated, adding to her touch-me-not air.
Heart of Stone Page 11