‘Jolian.’ Fletch reached out, swept the sheltering curtain of her dark hair aside and draped it behind her ear. She turned her face away. Not yet. In a moment the tears would be gone, but not yet. ‘Are you going to hold me to that promise?’ he coaxed, tracing the whorls of her small ear with a fingertip.
‘Yes.’ She dropped the pearl into its hiding place, carefully folded the chest back into its smooth, dark enigmatic shape, a shape as hard and glossy as Fletch himself. ‘Yes, I am.’
He sighed and stood up. ‘Okay, puritan, be that way!’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I guess we’ll use that reservation after all.’
‘Reservation?’
‘We have a table at the Sky Terrace in an hour. Let’s get going.’
She frowned up at him, her hands clasped around the box in her lap. He’d chosen one of the swankiest restaurants in town, of course. It would be an expensive evening, just one more obligation. Which was no doubt how Fletch wanted her—in his debt. He free to walk; she obliged.
Watching her face, his brows came down slowly. He leaned over, caught her arms and lifted her to her feet, shook her gently. ‘What the hell happened to that peace we said we’d have tonight? Can’t we agree on anything?’ He rocked her again, slowly, as if he liked to watch her sway. ‘Please?’
He was tired. She could see it now in the tightness of his face, lurking behind the alertness in those dark eyes. Must be exhausting to always have to be in control, to be tough. And her teasing hadn’t helped. He didn’t need a night on the town, he ought to have an early night in bed, a back-rub, be made to sleep till noon for once in his life. If he were hers, she’d see to that. ‘What have you been arguing about all week?’ she asked, remembering his earlier remark.
Fletch half-smiled at her change of subject. ‘Get your coat and I’ll tell you.’
‘Okay.’ So simple to say yes. And it was shocking how much pleasure his satisfied smile gave her as he let her go. Terrifying to realise that she’d not change this evening with him for all the pearls in Boston, no matter what followed.
Outside, the windy afternoon had settled into a crisp, clear night—cool for early October. The leaves still clinging to the trees whispered stubbornly as he handed her into the car. In the headlights, fallen maple leaves skittered across the road like mice on night escapades. Fletch found her hand, his fingers warm and unyielding when she tried to pull back. ‘Don’t thwart me, woman.’ She laughed and gave up. ‘You’ve been thwarted all week?’
‘Mm-hmm.’ The car swung out on to the parkway, a river of headlights following the dark river down towards the sea and the glow of downtown. ‘I’ve been out in California most of the week, trying to put this deal back together.’
‘It’s coming apart?’
‘Looks like it. I’ve been negotiating to buy a string of import stores out there. You know the type—rice mats and baskets from China, crystal from Finland, tablecloths and pottery from Mexico—basically cheap, pretty household items from all over the world.’
‘To go with your cheap, ugly furniture?’ she teased. He took it without offence. ‘Exactly. It’s a perfect combination.’ His low voice was utterly confident, and devoid of all enthusiasm—the businessman, not the artist, speaking. He noted the fork in the road ahead and flicked a glance her way, eyebrow lifting.
‘Stay left,’ she advised, suddenly depressed. Fletch was right, it sounded like an excellent deal. He would make some more millions, show Liz once again what an investment she had rejected. He would have even less time for Jem, less time for himself, and lots more money he didn’t need. Unless the deal fell through, she remembered suddenly. ‘So what’s the problem?’
Fletch frowned, and changed lanes to let the car behind him roar past, it’s the young hot-shot who owns the stores. He’d gotten himself over-extended last year, starved for cash. That’s when he thought about selling. But now he’s come up with some new financing, through relatives out there, and he’s decided he wants to buy me out.’ He sounded almost indignant. ‘We’ve been waltzing round and round all week, getting nowhere.’
‘Oh, Fletch!’ Jolian slid around on the seat to face him. ‘Sell to him. That’s perfect!’
‘And do what with myself?’ He was annoyed, as well as surprised.
‘Design furniture,’ she said promptly. ‘Raise your son. Drop out of the rat race.’
‘Damn it, Jolian, I’m doing my best to raise my son, if he’d give me half a chance!’
‘Give him half your time and perhaps he would,’ she shot back.
‘He’s got to eat as well,’ Fletch growled. He flicked an impatient glance across the river basin as they crossed the Longfellow bridge. Ahead of them, the lights of Beacon Hill formed a glittering foothill for the man-made heights beyond. ‘Where do we go now?’ He followed her directions, scowling now as he tailed the traffic towards the water front.
She ought to back off. It was not her business after all, but ... ‘Whatever Jem’s worried about, Fletch, it’s not money.’
He gave a tight, quick shrug as if he could shrug her words away. ‘Somebody sure better worry about it ... Besides, what makes you think I don’t like racing rats?’ He glanced her way, his jaw squared, brows at an ominous angle.
How do you tell a man he looks unhappy? Jolian studied his tight profile, the hands clenched on the steering wheel. ‘I ... just thought ... You don’t really seem to enj—’
Fletch jammed on the brakes as the car ahead stopped short for a yellow traffic light. ‘Son of a—’ He bit it off and shot her a vicious look. ‘Well, you thought wrong! I’m having the time of my life!’ he snarled.
The contrast between words and tone was too much. She let out a yelp of delight and fell back against her door, giggling. As he shot her another seething look, she sucked in her breath, her eyes widening with the effort to hold it, then exploded again.
‘Which way?’ he asked her sullenly.
Unable to speak she pointed.
‘It’s just been a tough week,’ he growled finally.
Another giggle escaped her. Jolian pulled a shaking breath and watched his profile.
Slowly his face relaxed. His lips quirked, hardened, then lifted again in spite of his efforts. Fletch shook his head slowly. ‘Why do I put up with this?’ he marvelled. ‘You’re not my usual sort of all.’
That cured the giggles. ‘What’s your usual sort like?’ she asked casually.
His smile grew, as if with some memory. ‘Not half as argumentative. Twice as ... agreeable.’ He flung her a meaning look.
‘Perhaps you put up with me because I’m your only connection with Jem right now.’ She voiced the fear lightly. Fletch laughed. ‘Perhaps that’s it.’
He was in a better mood than she as they walked the bricked plaza and parks along the waterfront. He kept her by his side, one arm draped lightly around her shoulders. The promise not to touch was a relative protection at best, but she was past protecting, touched already. As they walked, she studied their paired feet with glum eyes. Fletch leaned down to inspect her face once, his eyebrow lifting in question, but she smiled for him and looked away. It was not his problem, after all. Snap out of it, Jolian, snap out.
The table Fletch had got for them at the Terrace—and she didn’t care to know how—did much to cheer her. ‘Glad I’m not scared of heights!’ she breathed as he held a chair for her. Just beyond the plate glass wall beside their table, Boston Harbour stretched away, a world of black velvet and jewels—diamonds and topaz for windows and street lights, rubies changing to emeralds as the traffic lights changed, sapphires to the west on the runways of Logan Airport. Humming a wordless note of delight as a jet touched down, she turned to see if he’d seen it, but his eyes were on her, not the view. Her lashes dropped before that look and she was suddenly glad they were in a public place. Fletch looked in a mood to break promises.
She started from her thoughts as his finger brushed her bottom lip. ‘Glad you like it,’ he said huskily. ‘We turned the ligh
ts on just for you.’
Smiling against his fingertip, Jolian turned back to the window as the waiter arrived and Fletch ordered the drinks. A tug was steaming out of the harbour, pushing a froth of white lace before it across the velvet. She watched it and tried not to think. Feeling was so nice, why spoil it with thoughts?
A warm, slow finger traced the back of her hand as it lay on the table, drawing her attention back to him again. ‘So tell me about Jem, now,’ Fletch said quietly.
And so. Back to business. Jolian sighed and gathered her thoughts. Feathering along the inside of her wrist now, his fingers did nothing to help their organisation—nor her breathing, for that matter. ‘Well ... I saw him on Wednesday The fingers stopped. ‘You saw him!’ he hissed, eyes widening.
‘Yes, I...’ she swallowed suddenly at the look on his face. ‘Why—’
‘You saw him and you didn’t hang on to him?’ Shock was falling rapidly before incredulous rage, and Jolian was suddenly thankful for the glass between them and the drop off. Fletch looked as if he could cheerfully toss her over the edge at the moment. Her wrist hurt, and she glanced down to find his fingers clamped around it.
‘You—’ He bit it off as the drinks arrived, but he made no move to release her. She glanced after the discreetly retreating waiter with wistful eyes and then back to Fletch. So much for peace.
‘Yes, I let him go, Fletch! What was I supposed to do, take my butterfly net along?’
‘You could have hung on to him! Yelled for a cop. It’s illegal to be a runaway.’
‘Look, maybe you take the gorilla approach.’ She looked down at her wrist pointedly. ‘I don’t. He’s nearly as big as I am, for starters.’
‘You could have—’ He stopped, startled. ‘But you’re—how tall—five foot seven?’
‘Five-five,’ she corrected.
‘He was five feet even in early July,’ he muttered, frowning.
‘He’s grown, Fletch,’ she told him gently. ‘I bet he’s five-two by now at least.’ And he’d not been there to see it. She watched the realisation, the loss grow in his face, as his fingers loosened on her wrist. ‘Oh, Fletch, I’m sorry!’ She reached for his fingers with her other hand, but he snatched them away.
The masking smile was back in place now, a bitter smile. It did nothing to hide the pain in his eyes. ‘So am I. Here my detective pounds his flat feet flatter all week and doesn’t see one sign of him, and you have him in your hand and let him go!’
‘Fletch, force isn’t going to help this. Jem has got to decide that he wants to come back. That he’s wanted.’
‘Quite the expert, aren’t you, lady? I thought you were a jewellery maker,’ he jeered.
‘Designer,’ she corrected edgily. ‘But I’ve worked at the Hotline for five years now, Fletch. I know what I’m talking about. Teenagers are the world’s contrariest creatures. You push one way, and he’ll jump the other, I guarantee. Force is not the answer.’ She looked up gratefully as the waiter arrived to take their order.
When he left again, Fletch leaned back in his chair, studying her over his glass, his eyes narrowed. He was making an effort to stay calm, obviously. She smiled for him, pleading for understanding. He scowled and took another drink his eyes never leaving her face. ‘Why do you work there, silky? Were you ever a runaway?’
She laughed, surprised, and shook her head. ‘My parents gave me all the independence I wanted and then some, Fletch! I had no need to be.’
‘Why, then?’
She shook her head again. ‘Not a nice story. Some other time, Fletch.’ She took a quick drink.
The green-gold eyes searched her face. ‘Let’s have it.’ It was an order, not a request.
Jolian sighed, turned to find the tug again. It was long gone. Long gone ... ‘In college, Fletch, my roommate had a kid sister.’ She smiled slowly, remembering. ‘If I could have had a younger sister, and could have chosen, I’d have picked Jane. She was about five years smarter than she was old ... funny ... just a doll.’ She stared down at her drink. Dark, wavering eyes stared back at her—reflections off the liquor’s black mirror. She swirled the glass quickly and they whirled away.
‘And?’ Fletch asked softly.
‘And her parents were nice people, but overly protective. They didn’t trust her as they could have ... There was some blow-up just before Christmas—Jane stayed out too late. They grounded her, and the next morning she was gone.’ She sighed.
‘And?’
‘And she was gone,’ she murmured, shrugging helplessly. ‘There was one possible sighting in a truck stop between here and Philadelphia. She was hitching up to see us—I’m sure of it. And then ... that was all.’
‘Ever?’ Fletcher’s voice was incredulous. As he searched her face, she could see the strain around his mouth. The nerve under his eye ticked for an instant, then stilled.
She should have found some way not to tell him this. Not tonight, as tired and worried as he was. But it was too late now. Jolian hurried to finish the story. ‘Ever,’ she agreed gently. ‘Sandy, my room-mate, heard about the Hotline and wanted to volunteer, just on the long shot that Jane might call some time. But they wouldn’t take her. The rules say no relatives of present runaways may work there—they’re too involved. Their hearts break each time they pick up the phone and it’s not for them.’
‘So you volunteered.’
She nodded. ‘Almost as a spy, at first. And then I got hooked, as I saw what good it did. So I stayed on, years after we gave up on...’ She stopped, shrugged, and tried to smile.
Fletch was staring right through her, eyes dark, his face frozen, long fingers wrapped around his drink. She saw the knuckles whiten and reached for them with both hands. He would break the glass that way. ‘Fletch, that’s not going to happen with Jem!’ She stroked his hands, watching his eyes slowly re-focus on her face. ‘That’s ... not ... going ... to ... happen,’ she soothed, her eyes holding his now. ‘Jem’s not going to vanish. He’s here in town, he’s healthy, he’s not sleeping on the street ...’ She felt his hands relax and let go of him.
He let his breath out slowly, a long controlled sigh, as he studied her face. His own was oddly vulnerable for the moment, strangely mobile, as if the mask had slipped and too many emotions were fighting to come through at once. Anger still tensed the eyebrows, pain and a kind of questioning shadowed his eyes, his half smile wavered—almost tender, then tough, almost tender again. His gaze dropped abruptly and he took a quick drink. When he looked up again, it was all gone. He looked years older, years tougher, in control.
‘What makes you think he’s not sleeping on the street, Jolian?’
So much for emotions. Back to fact-finding, she thought wryly. ‘He’s much too clean ... He’s not sleeping in doorways, I’m sure of it. Are you sure he doesn’t have a friend here in town, Fletch? Someone he could stay with? Maybe someone who moved from Chicago recently?’
He shook his head impatiently. I’ve checked all that. I even had his tent-mates from the computer camp tracked down. They were all Midwesterners.’
‘Computer camp?’ she laughed. ‘You mean that’s what you packed him off to this summer, Fletch? One of those computer-literacy camps for earnest young eggheads?’ She shook her head and laughed again. ‘I thought you meant a canoe and campfire kind of camp!’
His brows came down, but one corner of his mouth lifted for an instant. ‘It had campfires too,’ he defended himself. ‘But I guess Jem doesn’t like computers any more than you do. I just got his evaluation card in the mail.’
‘Not so good, hmm?’
He shook his head, smiling in spite of himself. ‘It’s not as if he’s stupid. You should see the marks he makes in English at school, Jolian. But computers...’ He shrugged and smiled again.
She laughed and finished her drink. ‘Computers and evaluations for summer camp. I’d have run away from you too, Fletch!’
‘Would you?’ he whispered, leaning forward, his eyes stroking her face as if he
were touching her. ‘Would you really run away from me, silky?’
She tried to smile and couldn’t, then shut her eyes against this attack, her hands clenching around each other in her lap. That he could enter and own her with just a look ... That she could think of giving heart and body and ... happiness to this man who could give nothing in return ... Was she so stupid? She should run so far, so fast—
She jumped, then sat still as Fletch’s finger touched the bridge of her nose, stroked slowly downward, tracing her profile. ‘Silky?’ His fingertip paused at her lips as if to stop their trembling. Then it moved slowly sideways, out to the corner of her mouth and back again, seeking her smile. She gave him a blind, crooked one and turned to the window, her lashes blinking desperately. All the jewels were comets now, with lovely, gleaming, smeary tails. From the corner of her eye, she saw a saucer hover into view, come in for a landing on the tablecloth—food and diversion at last. Preparing her own form of guarded smile, she turned back to Fletch, met those alert eyes below the tilted eyebrows with a rueful little shrug. Should she run? Oh, yes. Would she run? She didn’t know, herself.
Over the meal, he took her back over her meeting with Jem, extracting every fact, every impression that she could give him, anything at all that might prove a clue to his son’s whereabouts, activities, mood. It was a thorough inquisition, far more skilful than the one she had put him through that afternoon, and by the time he was done, Fletch had it all. Even the facts she had meant to keep back.
He paid the bill with a bank card, signing the receipt without flinching, and turned back to her, his face grim. ‘So he was mugged ... And you wonder why I’m worrying so, why I want him off the streets, Jolian? What happens the next time, if he doesn’t have money for them? Those types tend to get violent, if you can’t produce.’ His fingers drummed on the table nervously.
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