She started to nod, but something in the way he was looking at her bade her speak instead. "Y-yes. I remember Dr. Martin very well."
"Is Dr. Martin correct?" the detective asked.
She never took her eyes from Christopher's. She needed him, needed to draw strength from him.
"Of course not," Christopher interjected. "She's been a guest in my home. A very pleasant one, I might add."
"Let the girl answer," Detective Johnstone insisted.
"No," she managed in a surprisingly even voice. "It is as Mr. Standeven says. I'm here out of his hospitality."
Christopher smiled and took her hand. "You see, Detective. I'm afraid Dr. Martin has wasted your time. He's quite mistaken. Miss Michaela is obviously in full control of all her faculties, able to make her own decisions without pressure."
He lifted her hand and kissed the back of it. Under any other circumstances she might have swooned at the contact—his lips were so soft and warm—but given the seriousness of her dilemma, she managed to keep it in perspective. Only a slight flush might have given her away. But she was only aware of him now, so she didn't know if anyone else noticed her reaction.
"She has been our much-desired guest for some time now," Christopher continued. "Indeed, we all hope that she will continue to be for as long as she wishes."
Michaela was grateful for his steady, controlled manner, grateful that he was taking charge of this situation as readily as he took charge of everything else. Were it not for his support, she would have surely crumbled and capitulated to the police.
"You do still want to be our guest, don't you?" Christopher murmured, her hand still captured in his.
"Oh, yes," she breathed. "Very much so. I'm having a wonderful time. I've never been so happy in all my life."
Christopher's eyes narrowed just slightly. She felt compelled to drop her gaze. He was far too perceptive, far more so than his son. He had caught the sincerity in her voice, perhaps realized the import of it.
The detective didn't seem at all interested in how happy she was to be there. He only seemed interested in cold, hard facts. "Can you tell me your last name, Miss Michaela. Just for the record."
Michaela's heart lurched, and her mouth went dry. It was her worst nightmare. To answer would be a detriment to her in many ways. Not only would she be giving herself away as a betraying scoundrel to the Standevens—a thought she could scarcely bear—she would also be giving Detective Johnstone all the information he needed to take her into custody, to force her back where her mother believed she belonged.
Apparently sensing her distress, Gerald stepped forward in her behalf. "You see, Detective. There is nothing at all to be alarmed about. I'm sure the doctor only meant well, but...." He glanced at his father for input.
Christopher Standeven was quick to help him. "I'm sure the police department will be just as embarrassed as are we all."
The detective cleared his throat and nervously adjusted his tie. Under Mr. Standeven's relentless stare and weighty statement, he didn't seem anxious to repeat his question.
"There are rumors of a young woman who has been missing for some time now. The doctor was only being cautious," Detective Johnstone defended.
"I assure you that Miss Michaela's family knows precisely where she is," Christopher impressed upon him. The statement was a play on words. He felt like they were her family, and he didn't give a fig who else might claim the title. "Not that it matters. After all, she is well over the age of accountability. But if you have any doubts, I can ring them for you. I'm afraid it would be a bit of an inconvenience, but—"
"No, that won't be necessary. I'm sure everything is in order," the detective was hasty to say. He was obviously not immune to the power Christopher Standeven had. One phone call to his superior and he would be back on the night beat. Christopher made no attempts to hide the fact that he was unhappy about this visit, and the detective seemed eager to end it now.
"Detective, I do hope this matter will not come up again." Christopher's voice fairly crackled with warning. "I'm afraid Dr. Martin has unnecessarily offended my good standing. It isn't something I take lightly."
"Consider the file closed, Mr. Standeven. Please forgive the interruption," Johnstone said, already reaching for his hat.
Christopher gave him a curt nod. "My man will show you out."
Michaela stood silently within the circle of Mrs. Avery's arms, the hand Christopher Standeven had been holding now cold and empty. He had withdrawn his own some time ago, leaving her with that all-too-familiar sense that he was withdrawing his protection and generosity, as well.
Christopher watched the detective and his men leave, then turned his eyes on Michaela. Throughout the exchange, he'd had the distinct impression she'd been deliberately hiding something. It wasn't the first time he'd wondered about her.
She still looked nervous, as though someone had swept the rug out from under her feet. But no matter how intent his curiosity, he wouldn't press her. There must be a reason for her unwillingness to talk, perhaps a very good one. At any rate, he would never give her up to the police, not when she'd been so obviously frightened of the prospect. She was here under his protection, and she would remain so until she chose not to be.
Michaela didn't see the nod he gave to Mrs. Avery. She was far too busy fretting about her plight, trying to justify everything she'd been through. She didn't want anyone to look at her, to notice her, to see that she was in turmoil, to guess what that turmoil was about. She just stood there with her hands clasped together so tightly that her fingers ached and her knuckles were white, her head bowed to avoid the curious stares, the questioning eyes. She glanced up when Mrs. Avery moved away from her, felt her pulse surge when she realized the housekeeper had silently left the room. She wanted to follow, wanted to race after her and cling to her, tell her everything, beg her forgiveness. But she knew Mr. Standeven was waiting, silently, ominously, and she knew she must answer to him in some way.
"Well, that was certainly...interesting," he said, his voice as carefully controlled as ever.
She lifted her eyes, her chin trembling a little with the effort it took to meet his intent gaze.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that, Michaela," he continued. "I feel certain it won't happen again. Detective Johnstone does not strike me as a stupid man. I believe he knows he made a mistake, don't you?"
She couldn't answer, could only stare at him, her heart in her eyes. Why couldn't she trust herself to confide in him, to tell him everything? Surely, he would understand. After all, he hadn't given her over to the police. That must mean something.
She shook her head just slightly, a tear clinging to her lashes. "You could have...."
Something about his expression changed, shifted. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, and his mouth tightened a fraction. It was the only indication that what she'd just said had any impact on him whatsoever, the only indication that he understood what the unfinished phrase meant.
"I wouldn't hear of it," he answered. He took a step away, then paused and looked back. "Michaela, I feel certain that you will remember everything, when you are ready. In the meantime, you are a welcome addition to my home."
His eyes swept her face once more, perhaps too critically this time, and then he was gone, leaving her wondering if there was any import to his final words, perhaps an underlying urge to hasten her memory before he lost patience with her. For now, at least for a time, she had been given a reprieve.
She glanced nervously at Gerald. He stepped forward, smiling as he took her hand and turned her toward the door.
"Come on. I asked Cook to save lunch for you."
"Please. I...really wish you wouldn't have troubled yourself with it. I don't need...."
"Now, don't try and tell me you don't need to eat. We all need nourishment. Besides, it's no bother."
Resigned to his pampering, she allowed him to lead her out of the room. After the incident with the police, she was even more uncomfortable
with the generosity of the Standeven household. He knew. Christopher Standeven was far too intelligent not to. And he was waiting. She was certain of it. Waiting for her to come to him and tell him everything.
Christopher went to the window of his study and stared out, frowning as he contemplated the events. When the police had mentioned the woman who'd been reported missing, he'd felt a brief moment of doubt. He'd learned of such a woman from the private investigator he'd hired in New Orleans, and he suspected Michaela was the missing person. However, he wasn't about to force the issue on her, start asking all sorts of questions. Eager to protect Michaela in any way he could, he'd been speaking to a psychologist from the university, and the man had patently insisted that making demands on her was the wrong approach. Patience was the key. No one could force the memories on her.
Perhaps it was time to bring the psychologist in to meet her. Up until now, Christopher hadn't been up to the task. He was too worried that it would prove traumatic for her. Besides which, he'd been hopeful that the mere safety of the setting he had provided for her would bring her memory back. Now he was beginning to wonder if he should reconsider. When the detective had inquired after her surname, she hadn't been able to hide her anxiety. Christopher was beginning to believe that she knew her past and her name but was afraid to tell it.
He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. Such a heavy responsibility. Such a delicate decision to make. It was growing ever more difficult by the day. Only one thing was markedly clear to him. Whatever would cause a woman to leave her home, penniless, alone, with nowhere to go, whatever would cause her to brave the streets of New Orleans alone, was enough to give him pause to consider. He wasn't willing to give her up just yet, to send her packing back to her family, if indeed she even was the missing woman the investigator had informed him about. He instinctively knew that would be the wrong thing to do. For her. Perhaps even for himself.
CHAPTER TEN
Upon arriving in Virginia, Michaela had settled into the Standeven household with more ease than she had imagined possible. She'd even grown accustomed to eating at the dinner table alone with Gerald and his imposing father, albeit still a bit shyly. But the incident with the police had thrown all that to the wind, and she was once again avoiding Christopher Standeven. No one had made mention of the visit from the law, but she was afraid that Mr. Standeven's patience would inevitably wear thin and he would start pressing her for answers. It had become a worry that kept her away from him as much as possible.
As awkward as the circumstances were, Michaela had become a rather distinctive part of the household. Careful not to disturb Mr. Standeven, she went about the house as quietly as she could manage, gliding along the polished floors as silently as a winged creature. When she wasn't with Gerald, she spent a great deal of her time with Mrs. Avery, helping her as often as she was allowed. She'd met all of the staff and had even grown a bit used to having her own personal maid...Sadie, a beautiful waif of a French girl who was just shy of twenty.
Michaela was edgy today. She had no real duties. The phone had barely rang all morning, and Mrs. Avery had already shooed her out of the kitchen twice, insisting that there was nothing for her to do. Gerald had gone off for the day, something about seeing to a class at college, and without his presence, Michaela felt lost, empty. She didn't know what to do with herself. She was reluctant to leave her room for fear that she would run into Mr. Standeven, and yet she was too restless to stay cooped up with only her horrid memories. She needed to get out, do something to stop the churning of her mind. But without Gerald she didn't even feel comfortable going for a horseback ride. She didn't want to be presumptuous or do anything to offend Mr. Standeven.
Left to her own device, her thoughts had turned to things from her past. Memories. Dreams that she had left behind when she'd fled her father's house. Aspirations she couldn't quite dispel, despite all of her father's attempts. They were all coming back to her now, now that she was safe. The desire was stronger than ever, and she was just restless enough to give in to it.
The house was quiet as she made her way downstairs, almost hollow without the sound of Gerald's boisterous voice. Always in good spirits, her dear Gerald. He hadn't even been gone for a full day, yet she already missed him.
At the bottom of the stairs, she paused, hesitant to go through with the liberty she was about to take. No one was in the hall, though she could see through the huge archway across the foyer that Sadie was meticulously dusting the library. She could hear the tiny clinking sounds of porcelain against wood as Sadie gently picked up each respective object, carefully dusted it, then placed it back in its original position. It was an oddly comforting sound. Everything was as it should be. It was a feeling she'd never had when she'd been under her father's roof, a feeling she had come to need.
She took a deep breath and gathered her strength. She hadn't seen Mr. Standeven all morning, and she was hoping he wouldn't be in his office today. Perhaps he too had gone off to take care of business somewhere. If that was the case, her mission would be all the easier.
With trembling fingers, she smoothed the skirt of her simple but elegant dress, an expensive gift that was yet another testament to Christopher Standeven's generosity. She took another deep breath to try and calm her taut nerves, and started down the hall, her ears attuned to any sounds that might alert her to Mr. Standeven's presence in his office. All was quiet. Certain that she was alone, she stepped inside his huge kingdom of gleaming mahogany and masculinity. A quick glance at his desk showed no sign of Mr. Standeven's typical workday. With a bit more confidence, she went to the tall metal storage cabinet opposite the desk. The paper she wanted was on the very top shelf, stacked in two neat, stark-white piles. She only required a few pieces. She was sure no one would mind.
She silently opened the doors and then stood on tiptoe, trying to reach the top of the stack, but her fingers barely brushed the bottom. Though she was tall for a woman, she couldn't quite stretch far enough. Were she to try and pull the entire stack down, she would only succeed in spilling the paper all over the floor. That wouldn't do. It might get wrinkled and dirty, and then everyone would know what she was up to.
She stared at the paper, contemplating it for some time. She wanted it badly, but it wasn't worth upsetting anyone over. She even thought about using a chair to reach it, but she was afraid to disrespect Mr. Standeven's pristine furniture. She didn't want to scuff it or damage it in any way. She couldn't ask one of the servants to get the paper for her. They might ask questions. Had Gerald been there, he would be more than happy to oblige without asking questions. But Gerald wasn't there. She was on her own.
She had just about decided to abandon the notion altogether when a hand reached around her and up over her head, successfully retrieving a stack of paper at least an inch thick.
She sucked in a breath of surprise, but didn't dare turn around. She already knew who it was. His hands were very distinctive. No one else in the world had hands like that. Beautiful, strong hands. Hands that would make any woman swoon.
"Is that what you were after?" Christopher's rich voice murmured so close to her ear that it rustled her hair.
Her eyes fluttered closed of their own accord, and for a split second she thought she might faint. She had to force herself to remember to breathe she was so affected by his sudden presence, his pulse-altering nearness.
She could hear her breathing, ragged in her own ears. She hadn't even known he was there, hadn't heard him come up behind her. She didn't know what to say, what to do, how to explain. She couldn't even make herself turn around to face him, let alone respond.
"Michaela? It was the paper you wanted, wasn't it?"
She opened her eyes and stared at the items in the cabinet before her, stared without seeing. There was no malice in his voice, no anger, nothing to make her feel that he resented the intrusion. Yet, she felt the need to apologize nonetheless. If she'd only known he was there, working, she would have never set out to disturb him.
"I-I'm sorry. I had no idea you were here." She paused to swallow the lump in her throat. Her hands were trembling, her throat was dry, and her thoughts were so scattered she could scarcely collect them. "I didn't see you."
"I was standing by the window."
He made no move to put any distance between them, and remained so close that she could feel the heat of him, could smell the fresh, clean scent of him, could feel his breath warm on her neck. His arm was half wrapped around her, the paper still in his hand. He was still offering it to her. She stared at it, not knowing whether to take it or not. She couldn't think with him so close. Even to speak seemed impossible to her. She knew her voice would give away her emotion.
"It's no inconvenience, I assure you. I must admit I was rather preoccupied, anyway."
Christopher didn't want to tell her that she was the object of his preoccupation, didn't want to admit that he was disturbed by the fact that she'd been avoiding him. He knew it was because of the incident with the police. She was still frightened, still concerned about going back to whatever horror had caused her to flee her home in the first place. She didn't trust him. The fragile silken bond he had so carefully woven had been broken, snapped in a single moment when the police had arrived. She thought he knew something, something she didn't want him to know. And perhaps he did. But he wanted her to come to him and tell him herself, to confide in him of her own free will, to trust him implicitly. It made his nights restless and his days sadly lacking in accomplishment. The truth was, he wouldn't rest until he knew, until she did trust him.
Michaela's chest heaved once, then twice, and she ran her tongue out to moisten her dry lips. She must get hold of herself. It wouldn't do to behave like a doe-eyed girl. He was so far beyond that. She would only make a fool of herself if she couldn't get her wits about her. But she couldn't seem to. His arm was almost brushing her waist, so close to her breasts, her heart. His presence was delightfully heady. She wanted to sink into the feeling, revel in it, but she didn't dare. She had to answer him, had to say something, anything.
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