Run So Far

by Peggy Nicholson

  ‘Peace,’ she agreed, lifting her glass towards him.

  ‘Peace.’ The crystal connected with a silvery, magic cry in the twilight of the room. Their eyes connected as well. Jolian retreated first, snapped on a lamp, then curled down on the rug near the sofa.

  ‘For you, lady.’ Fletch set the package beside her and settled back on the couch, his dark eyes expectant.

  Jolian studied the box thoughtfully. She shouldn’t take it, whatever it was. It would just be one more link in the chain he was forging for her, a chain that had a terrifying heft and length already. She shouldn’t open it at all. She flicked a wary glance up at him. ‘Is it Ralph?’ she teased.

  Fletch laughed. ‘Don’t think I didn’t consider it! No, I spent all Sunday night kicking him off my feet, and that was the last straw. Ralph is running up a bill I don’t want to think about in the poshest hotel in Chicago.’

  So he’d slept at home one night, anyway. But then who was to say who else had shared his bed besides Ralph? Catty thought. She turned back to the box, frowning.

  ‘It’s not the ... sort of thing I usually give, but somehow I thought ...’ Fletch’s voice trailed away again.

  Jolian kept her eyes on the box, pain padding across her heart on little cat feet. Usually gave. To women, of course. Yes, of course that was his style. If you won’t—can’t?—give your heart, give a gift instead. Lots of gifts. Big gifts. Fletch would be generous, no doubt about it. Suddenly, she had to see what price he had set upon her head. The ripping of the cardboard made a sound to match her mood exactly.

  Her fingers felt the smoothness of the shape before she could see beneath the packing chips. Eyes widening, she gripped it carefully and heaved it out of the box, then laughed softly and glanced up at him. His gaze was unblinking, carefully blank.

  She turned back to the sculpture. It was an upright, deceptively simple form—simple as an unknown shell is simple, one subtle curve flowing into the next. The wood it was shaped from was a mahogany so dark red as to look almost black in the lamplight. ‘Mmm...’ Following the silkiness of the hand-rubbed finish, her fingers encountered a crack. No ... a vertical seam. Startled, she looked up at Fletch again.

  One corner of his mouth lifted. ‘Go on.’

  Gently she pulled, and the shape pivoted on invisible hinges, opened into two halves to reveal an interior of pale golden wood. ‘Oh!’

  Fletch laughed softly at her delight. ‘Keep going.’

  In one half of the shape, thin seams followed the darker grain of the wood. There were polished hollows inviting a fingertip. She tugged gently and a slice of wood pivoted towards her. It was a drawer, or tray rather, lined in red cedar. And this was a jewellery box—a box like no other. ‘Fletch, I love it!’

  ‘Good,’ he said simply.

  But what did its giving mean to him? Was it just a gift, or more than that? It would be so foolish to hope ... She bent to sniff the aromatic cedar scent and to hide her face for a moment. ‘I love it.’

  ‘You’re not done yet,’ he told her.

  With his eyes on her face, she explored the rest of the box. There were three more trays below the first one, each big enough to hold a necklace. The opposite side split again to reveal a new dark wood inside the light. More parts unfolded, a bevelled mirror framed in ebony rose out of a slot to stand above the earring drawers. ‘You’ve thought of everything!’ she exulted, looking up at him.

  His grin vanished, and suddenly his eyes were wary. ‘How...’ He stopped and took a careful sip of wine and she watched his lips curve in that hiding smile of his.

  ‘Yes, you,’ she insisted softly. ‘You made this.’

  ‘Jem told you?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Mmm. He told me about his rocking horse. But he thought this was just a hobby. I know better. Where did you study?’

  ‘S.A.C.’ He collected her wine glass and retreated towards the kitchen.

  Go to Harvard for a degree in law, M.I.T. for engineering, the School for American Cratfsmen in Rochester for an education in furniture design. She took the refill he handed her with troubled eyes. ‘So what in heaven’s name are you doing, Fletch, selling unfinished furniture when you can do work like this?’

  ‘Could,’ he muttered, staring down at the box at his feet as if he might kick it. ‘This was the last piece I made, eight years ago ... I’m making a damn good living, my little puritan, that’s what I’m doing.’

  And hating every minute of it. ‘You couldn’t make a living doing this?’

  ‘Given ten years to build up a reputation and a clientele with a taste for the finer things in life—and bank accounts to match—yes, I could have. It’s not like turning a profit on a fifty-dollar pair of earrings, Jolian.’ He slouched down on the couch. ‘Woodwork is slower. Much slower ... The price I’d have to put on this piece to get my labour back puts it out of the reach of ninety-nine out of every hundred people that might want it.’

  ‘And you weren’t given the time to find that hundredth person with the purse to match a taste for real craftsmanship?’ she asked quietly, studying his masklike face. With one hand, she stroked the glossy side of his box as she might have touched Yaffa.

  ‘No.’ And no intruders wanted.

  But she wasn’t going to be shut out that easily. Not now. Not with this piece of his heart in her hands. ‘Liz,’ she stated softly. That had to be the reason.

  Fletch’s eyes switched back from the middle distance to focus on her face below him. A corner of his mouth twitched, then slowly lifted. ‘Do you know what curiosity did to the cat, silky?’

  ‘I’ve three or four lives left,’ she countered with a smile, ignoring the warning. ‘It was Liz, wasn’t it?’

  He slouched slowly back against the cushions and shut his eyes, frowning as if his head hurt. She waited. ‘Yes,’ he muttered finally. Eyes still closed, he finished his wine, but her silence seemed to annoy him. He flicked the glass with a restless finger, filling that silence with its crystalline voice. Still she kept silent, her eyes on his shuttered face. His lips twisted in a smile of defeat and he nodded. ‘Liz,’ he murmured wryly. ‘She’d been in the theatre since she was fifteen, Jolian, most of that in roadshows. She was sick of it when I met her. She wanted out, and she wanted out in style.’ His breath hissed, a sigh disguised as anger.

  ‘Style might be asking a lot of a young artist,’ Jolian observed softly.

  Still shut off from her, his smile flicked for an instant, then vanished—a recognition of her partisanship, and a rejection of it. ‘I’m afraid it was more than I could provide, anyway, fresh out of college. And most of what I earned in those first few years had to go right back into the workshop for tools, Jolian.’ Frowning, he lifted the empty glass to his lips, then lowered it again quickly.

  Jolian leaned forward to catch his hand, steadied it as she poured most of her wine into his glass. Looking up, she looked into his eyes—too close, too warm. Retreating before the heat of that blaze, she sat back on her heels. ‘And Jem must have come along pretty soon after your marriage,’ she guessed hastily.

  The flame flickered out of Fletch’s eyes, leaving them cold and distant. ‘Yes. Yes, indeed he did.’ His smile was almost savage. Slowly it softened at some memory, then it hardened again. ‘Young Jem presented himself, post haste.’ His eyes came back to her and the present and now his words were brisk, a curt summing up. ‘Given another four years, I could have provided some style, but the lady didn’t care to wait. She’d gone back to acting locally after the third year. She was missing the bright lights, all the—’ a nerve fluttered beneath his eye for a second, ‘all the attention by then. I wasn’t proving to be quite the investment she’d hoped, so ...’ He shrugged and finished the wine in one gulp, smacked the glass down on the side table with deliberate finality. The look he gave her clearly warned her to pry no further.

  ‘But...’ But she must. Jolian frowned, looked down at his box for courage and then up at him again. ‘But why didn’t you keep on after
she left, Fletch?’

  He stared at her almost bitterly. ‘Because the lady wanted money, love, as most of ’em do, sooner or later! She needed cash to storm Broadway. So we traded.’

  ‘Traded?’

  ‘Liz took the proceeds from sale of the house, the studio, the tools. She took the car. In return, I got uncontested, total custody of Jem, who she’d never wanted anyway. And then she took the last laugh.’ His brows came down in a thunderous line at the question in her eyes. He snatched the wine glass out of her hand and stalked towards the refrigerator.

  He was about three questions from lift-off, Jolian calculated swiftly. But she was still getting answers, and that was worth almost any explosion. ‘And then?’ she asked deliberately, taking her glass from him.

  As he towered above her, his look was near murderous. As she met and held it, chin up, it wavered, softened finally to incredulous, rueful amusement. He grinned slowly, crookedly, shaking his head, if I were you, I’d re-tally, those lives, silky cat. I bet you’ve got less than three left!’

  ‘And then?’ she coaxed, widening her eyes at him teasingly.

  Fletch shook his head in mocking defeat and sat down. ‘And then I went out and got a job, and then a better job as a buyer for a furniture store. I saw the gap in the market, borrowed money from my—’ he frowned, calculating, ‘my second stepfather, opened a store, did well, opened another store, made my first million four years ago, etc, etc, etc, and what else would you like to know, love—the middle name of my maternal grandfather, or my history marks in fifth grade?’ He eyed her with wary exasperation.

  Yes, some day she would like to know those things as well. She would give Yaffa, Quicksilver and a year off her life to know every last thing that made Fletch what he was, but right now ... ‘I have just two last questions,’ she stated with soft defiance.

  Fletch threw back his head and laughed. ‘I asked for that, God help me, I asked!’ he told the ceiling. He looked down mockingly ‘Ask away, but you will pay for this, sweet lady, you will pay.’ The look in his eyes told her how.

  Jolian couldn’t sustain that look. She looked down at his box, waiting for her cheeks to cool, listening to his soft laugh above her. Yes, she would pay, one way, if not the other. But not tonight. He had promised. She looked up again. ‘How many stepfathers have you had?’ she asked gently.

  Fletch’s amusement might never have been. He stared down at her, his face a frozen blank. He took a deep breath. ‘Four, last time I counted. But that’s just a running total—she’s between men right now.’ His breath hissed and he took another drink.

  It hurt her almost as much as it did him. She clenched her teeth against the inner vision of a quiet, dark boy watching the procession of lovers, the marriages failing and falling, and the final failure—his own marriage. Had Fletch ever seen a love go right? Even his love for Jem was failing them both somehow.

  ‘And your last question?’ he asked, his jaw tight.

  She should not have asked that last one first. She’d lost all his good will again. She opened her mouth, shut it nervously, but Fletch was waiting, his brows a jagged line above the wary eyes. ‘Well, now that you’ve made your millions, why ... don’t you go back to designing furniture?’

  Fletch let his breath out slowly, shaking his head in disbelief. He took a deliberate sip of wine, sat turning the glass and staring at it. Finally he spoke, placing the words between them with savage precision. ‘When you are thirty-seven, my kitten, you may find that the world isn’t all shiny and new when you wake up each morning. I’ve made two starts in life. I’m supposed to quit a successful career and start again?’

  ‘The third time’s the charm,’ she said softly.

  Laughing bitterly, Fletch shook his head, put his glass down and reached for her. His fingers combed into her hair and tightened as he tilted her head back with rough ease. ‘ You are the charm,’ he growled huskily, his face just above her. ‘And I didn’t come here tonight to tell you my life story, I came here to make love to you.’

  If only there were some way to take his love, not be harmed by it! Jolian shuddered in his hands, more with her own desire than his own. ‘This last half hour, I’d have said you were closer to making war on me than love,’ she joked, hoping for a smile.

  But the smile he gave her was hardly a kind one. ‘And you’d have said right, silky, but they’re not the opposites you think—love and war.’ His fingers twisted further into her hair and tightened again with a sensual, ruthless pleasure. ‘Right now I’d like to love you till you cry for mercy, and I don’t think I’d give it, even then,’ he whispered, slowly swaying her forward.

  Shutting her eyes against the oncoming fire of that green-gold gaze, she saw instead the shadowy battlefield, the clash of bodies, the moans, the overwhelming weight and strength, the final exultant surrender. ‘You promised!’ she cried as his breath warmed her face.

  ‘Goddammit, Jolian!’ The momentum of the embrace was past stopping, but Fletch twisted his head aside, pressing her face into his shoulder instead. ‘Do you torture all of your men like this, or is it just me?” His cheek rubbed across her hair in’ an angry, frustrated caress as his arms locked around her shoulders.

  What other men? There was not another man in the world, not for her! Not answering, she burrowed closer into his solid warmth, glad to be free of his eyes for the moment, dizzy with the scent of his skin, the thunder of his heart against her forehead. ‘You promised!’ she whispered defiantly, just beginning to realise that he would keep that promise. To be in his arms, and yet to be safe from him. She felt suddenly, wonderfully reckless—the wine going to her head, no doubt. She snuggled under his chin, smiling now.

  ‘You’re driving me crazy, woman!’ It was half a laugh, half a groan against her hair as he crushed her closer. ‘Do you want me to keep that promise or don’t you? What the hell do you want?’

  You, you, you stupid man! Jolian pushed against his chest and his arms loosened, let her lean back in his hold to laugh up at him. Surely he could read that answer in her eyes?

  But Fletch stared down at her, dark brows slanting in incredulous, bewildered amusement. ‘Do you really want me to keep that promise?’

  ‘Oh, yes!’ she grinned saucily.

  ‘Oh, really?’ His half-smile lifted. He let her go, leaned back, resting his arms along the top of the sofa, his eyes mocking her, but the deep, shaking breath he took belied the coolness of that level gaze.

  ‘Yes, really,’ she whispered, her hands reaching slowly up to his face. The feel of his skin—warm roughness over hard muscle, harder bone—almost made her shiver as her fingers spread delicately to frame his face.

  ‘Then what the hell’s all this?’ he breathed as she swayed towards him.

  ‘You promised not to touch me. I made no promises!’ she taunted, leaning to kiss the tip of his nose.

  But his head shifted in her hands and their lips met instead. Jolian felt Fletch smile with that victory as their lips touched, lifted a breath apart, then moved together again in a slow, circling dance that brought the tears to her eyes. As his breath quickened and she felt his arms start to reach for her, she leaned back. ‘Thank-you-for-the-box. I-love-it!’ she sang out, bouncing off the couch and spinning away before he could see her eyes.

  Yaffa crouched on the carpet, her eyes at their wildest. Jolian scooped her up and buried her nose in the creamy fur, ignoring the growling moan, hearing instead Fletch’s deep exasperated breathing behind her. She wandered aimlessly across the room, back carefully turned, giving them both time to cool down. And how could she have done that? She’d never be able to look him in the eye now! Fool, idiot, impulsive dimwit! Yaffa had more brains.

  ‘You’re not quite done yet,’ Fletch spoke behind her at last.

  What? He expected an encore? Her chin lifted dangerously.

  ‘With the box,’ he clarified, beginning to sound almost amused.

  ‘Oh?’ Yaffa flowed out of her hold, landed on the carpet on sil
ent feet, her tail tip jerking with irritation. Jolian took a deep breath. She shouldn’t go near him again.

  ‘No. You missed the secret drawer.’

  ‘You’re lying, Fletcher McKay,’ she told the far wall. It was a trap to lure her back. As if she needed it! Fletch was lure and trap enough.

  ‘I am not. Come and see.’

  Fletch was crouching beside the box, his eyes fixed on a smooth area of wood below the earring drawers. He didn’t look up as she came to hover behind him. ‘Pull this drawer out and reach in behind it, Jolian. You’ll feel the catch.’ He pressed with a gentle fingertip and the bottom section folded out smoothly, showed itself to be a covered box about two inches square. He smiled as she knelt beside him. ‘The cover slides to the right.’ He made no move to open it.

  So she would have to. She whipped a wary glance at him, met his expectant eyes. His smile widened; he was confident of this victory. Curiosity kills the cat in the end, nine times out of nine. She sighed and reached for the top, slid it aside.

  ‘Oh!’ Her fingers curled round the pearl and scooped it out. It glowed in her hand, much too large, too pink, too rich to replace the one he had stepped on. He had paid a fortune for this beauty. ‘Fletch, you didn’t have to do this!’

  ‘I pay my debts,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You’d paid already—bodyguarding me that night in the Combat Zone.’

  Fletch shook his head, smiling. ‘I bodyguard for free, silky. But debts I like to pay, and pay promptly.’ Catching the warning note in those words, she looked up to meet his eyes. ‘Why is that?’

  ‘That way I can walk, when I’m ready, and not look back,’ he said simply, holding her gaze.

  She jerked her head away to stare down at the pearl, tossed it up and caught it, tossed it again, watching the silver sphere float and fall through the sheen of her tears. Concentrate on that pearl. Mustn’t let it fall. Mustn’t spill a tear either. ‘Right,’ she murmured breathlessly, acknowledging his message. Yes, he would walk some day. When she ceased to amuse him, when Jem was found, Fletch, would walk and not look back. It was hardly surprising, given his history, that he’d turned his back on love, wouldn’t have it as a gift. So sad for them both, but hardly surprising. She sighed softly.