by Brenda Joyce
It was the most shocking sensation.
Claire stared at him, stunned.
He faced her with a smile. “That’s better. Beautiful women crying make me all nervous and jittery. I have a whole bunch of sisters, and every single one of them loves to cry.”
She had to smile. “How many sisters do you have?”
“Four. All younger than me.” He grinned. His dimples were charming—they made him look as if he smiled all the time.
“Growing up must have been chaotic.”
“It was hell. Pure and simple. Hell.” He smiled again and winked. Then, seriously, he said, “I’ve got big shoulders. Feel free to lean on them any time.”
She felt herself beginning to blush again. Worse, he seemed sincere. “I’m fine now, Mr. Marshall. Truly, I am. I don’t know what happened. I never get so emotional.” She could not look away from his eyes. They were green.
“Ian, please. And all women are emotional. Trust me. I know.”
She smiled. “I’m not emotional.” She was firm.
“I doubt that.” He wasn’t smiling now. “Any woman who dedicates her life to bettering the worlds of kids and dogs has a huge and bleeding heart.”
She stared. “How do you know what I do?”
“I’m a friend of David’s,” he said. “Remember?”
Something had changed, and Claire didn’t know how or when it had happened. The room was still. Everything felt silent and unreal. Claire was so aware of the man standing just a few feet away from her; his presence seemed to charge the air.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked. “Can I somehow make this a better evening?”
She was amazed. He really meant it. “No.” Her smile became wide and genuine. “Not unless you can make the clock strike midnight.”
He smiled in return. “Well, I could sneak around the house and change all the clocks.”
“But all the men are wearing wristwatches.”
“We could tell the bartender to pour triples.”
Her eyes widened. “Souse them all!” she cried.
“And no cake,” he added, dimples deepening.
“No cake. To hell with the birthday,” Claire agreed fervently.
“There’s always that yacht my friend has moored in the marina—we can probably see the Lady Anne from your terrace.” His gaze was penetrating.
Claire’s smile froze. Her heart lurched with an awareness she should not feel. An image of her and this stranger jumping into a car, driving down the hill, and sneaking aboard his friend’s yacht, hand in hand and barefoot, filled her mind.
“I’m sorry.” His gaze was searching. “I was only joking.”
Had it been a joke? She hesitated. “I hate to say it, but the idea is tempting.”
He waited.
Claire realized that if she said “Let’s go,” he would take her hand and they would go. It was so tempting. Claire was actually considering leaving her own party to enjoy herself, and that was unthinkable.
He looked past her, toward the door.
Claire didn’t have to look to know who was there, and reality hit like cold water splashing in her face. She turned.
David stood on the threshold of the room. “Claire!”
Claire’s shoulders stiffened as if someone had placed a heavy yoke on them. “Yes?” She was going to ask for a divorce. Soon—not that night, because it was his birthday, but tomorrow or the next day.
“Everyone’s asking for you,” David returned, glancing from her to Ian and back again. The look seemed hostile, if not suspicious.
Claire hesitated, surprised. She looked from David to Ian again. Her husband hadn’t spoken to Ian but was regarding him coolly, and Claire knew jealousy had nothing to do with his coldness. David had never been jealous of other men. He knew she would never betray him that way.
Ian smiled. “Hello, David,” he said. “Happy birthday. Thank you for inviting me. It’s a great party.”
David’s nod was curt, his words clipped and tight. “Marshall. Thank you. Let’s go, Claire.”
Claire was bewildered. Clearly David did not like Ian Marshall. Had a deal gone bad? It wasn’t like him to be so rude. She walked over to her husband but smiled at Ian Marshall. “Shall we join the others?” But what she really wanted to say was thank you.
“Of course,” Ian said with an answering smile. But his eyes were on David, and they were filled with wariness.
Claire didn’t like it at all. The tension between the two men was unmistakable, and the only question was why.
Guests were finally leaving, most of them smiling and pleasantly inebriated. Claire judged the party a huge success. After the buffet dinner, many of them even danced to seventies rock and roll on the terrace beneath the glowing full moon. Most important, no one except Elizabeth Duke and Ian Marshall seemed to notice her dismal mood or the fact that she and David hardly spoke to each other.
About thirty people remained. It had gotten cold outside, which was usually the case in the Bay Area, and everyone had clustered in the living room on the various couches, chairs, and ottomans, after-dinner drinks in hand. David was playing a jazz tune on the grand piano. He was a gifted pianist, but he had never pursued his talent. Even having had more than his fair share of wine and vodka, he was playing splendidly.
Claire wished he hadn’t gotten drunk. Recently—or not so recently?—he had started to slur when he was drinking, and to stagger just a bit. Claire studied him as he switched to an Elton John tune and began to sing. Two women were standing beside him, the blonde clearly mesmerized. They started to sing, too.
Claire turned and saw Jean-Léon watching her. He glanced at David and then back at her, shaking his head in disgust. Claire tensed but gave her father a reassuring smile and turned away. She left the party, and at the stairs, she slid off her gold sandals. Her feet were hurting her.
The night seemed to have become endless; she was exhausted yet eager for a new day. With the eagerness was anxiety and fear. She was really going to ask for a divorce. She was going to leave David and somehow be alone.
It was frightening; it was thrilling.
Slowly, she went upstairs, sandals dangling from one hand. At least she could stop smiling now.
On the upstairs landing Claire came face-to-face with Ian Marshall. “Good God!” she cried, her hand on her palpitating heart.
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly, clearly as stunned as she was. “I didn’t mean to scare you—you surprised me, too.”
Claire’s pulse slowed, returning to normal. He smiled at her. “Tough night, huh?” He glanced at the sandals with their precarious heels and tiny straps, then his gaze sharpened, moving quickly back to her face.
But Claire could only stare at him, recovering some of her surprise. What was he doing upstairs? She smiled a little. “It’s insanity, isn’t it? What a woman does for glamour.”
“Not really. That dress is a knockout.”
Claire’s heart leaped at his words.
“But I’d bet anything you look great in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt,” he went on. Then his smile faded. “What’s wrong, Claire?”
She did not move. “What are you doing up here, Ian?”
His gaze moved over her features slowly. His smile faded a bit as he understood. “I’m not snooping, Claire. Someone was in the powder room downstairs, and the staff directed me to the guest bathroom up here.”
Claire shook her head. “There’s another bathroom in the den.”
“It was also occupied.”
She met his gaze. “I see.” She was relieved—but of course, what had she been thinking? He was too nice to have been snooping around her home. “What do you do, Ian?” she asked curiously, leaning against the wall.
“I’m a consultant. Generally for firms who do business in Europe or the Middle East. In fact, I just got back from Tel Aviv a few days ago.”
Claire nodded; that hardly gave her a clue as to what his profession was.
He tou
ched her bare arm briefly. “You seem tired. Are you calling it a night?”
Claire shivered and looked up at him. The urge to ask him to drive down to his friend’s yacht suddenly overcame her. The evening had been a hard one. She hadn’t had a single chance to relax. It would be relaxing, even fun, to sit with this man and sip champagne in a place of peace and quiet. Of course, it was an impossible and forbidden notion. “I wish I could. There’s still a good two dozen guests downstairs.”
“They’re pretty happy down there. I don’t think anyone would know if you slipped off to bed.”
Claire knew he hadn’t been making an innuendo, but the word “bed” made her flush, and she thought—but wasn’t sure—he was thinking the same thing. Claire was aware of being a pretty woman. She knew Ian found her attractive. With her marriage in its death throes, she felt vulnerable and even afraid of herself.
But she would never cross any inappropriate lines until she was divorced.
She swallowed. “Did you have a good time tonight?”
“Yes, I did. And thank you for asking.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself,” she said fiercely, meaning it.
This time he didn’t speak. He just smiled at her, as if he did not want to end the moment.
Claire felt herself blush again. It was time to go, and there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it.
His gaze wandered over her, lingering on her dangling sandals. “David is a very lucky man.”
“Are you flirting with me?” She smiled because he was, and she needed it.
“Is it a crime? You’re blushing, Claire. It’s nice.”
“It’s nice to have a nice man flirting with me,” she said honestly.
His eyes widened. “It must happen all the time!” he exclaimed.
“Not really,” she said.
He shook his head. “Go figure.”
Claire laughed. It was her first real laugh of the evening.
He smiled. “You even have a nice laugh.” His smile vanished. “I had better go.” He gave her a long look.
Claire tensed, certain she knew what the look meant. He was being swept away by their flirtation, too. And he did not trust himself, just as she did not trust herself.
As they stood there, sounds drifted up from outside, coming around from the front of the house. Good-byes. Car doors slamming. Engines revving.
“Good night,” he said quickly, then he turned and was gone.
“Good night,” Claire murmured as he disappeared down the hall. She leaned against the wall, feeling as if she had been run over by a truck. Would their paths cross again? She hoped very much that they would.
It was a long moment before she moved. Instead, she replayed their two encounters over and over again in her mind, as if she were a teenage girl with a very severe crush. When she realized what she was doing, she laughed at herself, because she was thirty-two, not twelve. Claire went into her bedroom for another pair of shoes.
A moment later, she stood on the threshold of the living room. A dozen guests remained, but all were in the process of leaving.
She sighed. Jean-Léon was chatting with the Dukes in the foyer. The turquoise-clad blonde who had been hanging all over David for most of the night was slipping on a wrap. Claire suddenly realized that David was nowhere to be seen. Puzzled, she walked to the foyer and said good night to the blonde.
Her name was Sherry. “I had a wonderful time,” she gushed.
“I’m glad,” Claire said, wondering if she was sleeping with David. It would not surprise her.
Sherry thanked her, glancing past Claire as if looking for David. A moment later she left.
“It was a marvelous party,” Elizabeth said to her. “But it’s so late! We have to go. Claire, we will talk tomorrow.”
Claire nodded as William hugged her. “Dear, once again, you have outdone yourself. The food, the wines, everything was superb. More importantly, you are superb.” He smiled at her. “Have brunch with us on Sunday?”
“I’ll try.” Too late, Claire realized she had said “I” instead of “we.” The Dukes stepped out to their waiting car and driver.
Claire said another series of good-byes, then turned to her father. “Have you seen David?” One more couple was putting on their coats, and the bartender was finishing breaking down the bar.
“No, I haven’t. He’s drunk, Claire,” Jean-Léon said with disapproval.
Claire sighed. “I know. Maybe he went up the back stairs to bed.”
Her father kissed her cheek. “I hope David knows how fortunate he is to have you as his wife. The party went well, Claire. No thanks to him.”
Claire smiled, refusing to buy into the subject, and said good-bye. Finally, all of her guests were gone.
Promptly Claire kicked off her lower-heeled sandals as the remaining two waiters left the house, carrying the last of their equipment. The caterer came up to her. “Everything’s done,” she said. “The leftovers are put away, dishes and glasses ready for Party Rentals to pick up first thing tomorrow, and the kitchen as clean as a whistle.”
Claire thanked the slim, middle-aged woman, whom she used often for various events. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Lewis. Once again, everything was just perfect.”
Mrs. Lewis beamed. Then she said, “Do try to relax a bit, Mrs. Hayden. I could see you weren’t yourself these past few days.”
Claire stared after her. Could everyone tell that her marriage was over? Could she no longer hide her true feelings? Disturbed, Claire went to the front door and locked it.
She sighed. Everyone had enjoyed himself, even David; the night had been a success.
She thought about Ian Marshall and smiled a little.
Don’t go there, she told herself sternly. It was only a harmless flirtation.
But somehow, she knew it was more.
Claire turned off the downstairs lights except for one in the hall. The house was so quiet and still, when just moments ago it had been filled with conversation and music and so many people. She walked upstairs quietly, not wanting to wake David but certain he wouldn’t wake up even if she did make noise. The quiet engulfed her. It should have been peaceful. Instead, unease prickled at her.
She flicked on the light in the bedroom.
The king-size bed was empty.
It wasn’t even rumpled.
Claire stared at it for a moment, unable to comprehend that David wasn’t there, asleep. Where was he?
Her neck seemed to prickle again. Claire went back into the hallway, turning on the lights, relieved to chase the last of the upstairs shadows away. Now she was acutely aware of the house being too silent around her. The dogs were kenneled in the yard out back. She was alone in the house—but no, that wasn’t true. David was also in the house. Except—the house somehow felt empty.
But that was impossible. David had passed out somewhere, she decided with a flash of anger, and it was inappropriate. Gripping the railing, she hurried downstairs.
It was so dark.
There were shadows everywhere.
But that was only because everything had been so bright and festive a few minutes ago. “David?” Claire called, turning on lights one by one as she entered the living room. She did not expect him to be there, and he was not.
She turned on the last hall light, walking down to the den. She pushed open the door, which was slightly ajar, and hit the wall switch, flooding the room with light. “David?” She saw instantly that he wasn’t there, either.
On impulse, she checked that bathroom—it was empty. Her heart began to thud in her chest. Where could he be?
He’s only passed out somewhere, she told herself again, trying not to become frightened.
Claire hesitated before the home office they shared. What if he had fallen and hurt himself?
Then she pushed open the door, quickly fumbling for the light, praying that he would be asleep on the couch inside. It came on and she looked around, but the office was deserted.
She felt unb
earably alone.
Worse than ever before.
Claire hugged herself.
Somehow, she knew that she really was alone in the house. It was a sickening feeling. Panic assailed her, making her dizzy.
She needed to go get the dogs. But to get to the kennels, she had to cross the backyard, and she was suddenly afraid to step out of the house and into the looming night.
Claire thought she felt a movement behind her. She whirled. The threshold was vacant. It had been her imagination, nothing more.
Where was David? Where could he be?
Was she really alone in the house?
Claire now ran through the entire house, to the kitchen and dining room on the other side. As the caterer had said, her kitchen was as clean as a whistle—no one would ever know that she’d had a party that night. And it, too, was empty.
Panicked, Claire stepped into the dining room. This time she didn’t bother to turn on the light—the illumination from the kitchen showed that no one was there. What was happening?
She rushed to the phone and called her father, but there was no answer. He lived in Tiburon—he should be home at any minute. She decided not to worry him and did not leave a message. But she would kill David when she found him.
Claire hesitated, then unlocked the kitchen door, telling herself that there was nothing to be afraid of. She turned on the outside lights. The backyard brightened, and across it, she could see the wire kennels. The dogs had awakened and began to bark.
Claire left the kitchen door wide open and ran across the yard to the kennels. She let out the dogs, hugging them all. She was shaking. “Where’s David? Jill, help me find David,” she cried.
The dogs seemed very happy, oblivious to her worries, and raced ahead of her into the kitchen, all except for her beautiful purebred poodle.
Jilly paused, sniffing the air, and she began to growl.
Claire didn’t know what to think. Jilly was very intelligent and a great watchdog. “What is it?” she asked hoarsely.
Jilly growled again—and she took off. Not into the kitchen, but behind the house, disappearing where the terrace was.