Shadows of the branches outside the window zigzagged across their bodies, breaking them into pieces of black and silver, all bits of the same shattered mirror in the moonshine. ‘Silky cat!’ Fletch whispered. His outspread fingers slid slowly up her throat, raked into her hair and combed it out to fall in a tousled, moonlit mane around her shoulders. ‘Puritan!’ he taunted as his hands came back to her dress, lifted it off her shoulders and dropped it. It slipped slowly down to her hips, clung to her hose for an instant and then slithered down her legs with a soft, electric crackle. ‘Beautiful, crazy, faithless little alley cat!’ His hands slid slowly round her hips, cupping them, pulling her up on her toes against him, his lips and then his teeth closing on the top of her shoulder.
Faithless! She shuddered and arched convulsively, pressing herself against him, frowning into his neck as his arms tightened around her. Alleycat! Yes, he wanted to think that—had to think it, didn’t he? Her fingers found his back and she gave him just a taste of her claws, dragging them lightly down across the hard muscles to his waist. She smiled at his groan of pleasure.
‘God, who are you, lady?’ His lips teased her mouth, lifted away again. ‘I don’t even know you, tonight.’
I’m the one who loves you! She could say it, but he might just have the strength to walk out of that door again. Her fingers found the top button of his shirt. She leaned backwards, trusting herself to the hard arm around her waist as she fumbled with it. ‘But you will,’ she promised, her lips curving in a catlike, laughing smile with her secret. ‘You will.’
After love’s fever come dreams—sweet, tender dreams with Fletch’s lips moving sleepily across her eyebrows and cheeks. She remembered his hands framing her face, their foreheads touching, and the question in his shadowy eyes. She smiled lazily, stretched purring beneath him, they fell asleep before she could answer it.
Through her lashes, the room was a patchwork of velvet greys when Fletch stirred at last and propped himself on his elbows. ‘Where are you going?’ she murmured, catching at his shoulders.
He stroked a curl off her forehead, ruffling her hair gently. ‘I’m cold, kitten. Aren’t you?’
Her smile was a drowsy, teasing yawn. ‘No.’
She felt his soft laughter, rather than heard it. ‘No reason you should be, I guess, with me for a blanket!’
‘A comforter,’ she corrected dreamily.
Laughing, Fletch rolled over and sat up. ‘So come to bed,’ he told her, his arms sliding beneath her. ‘I want to comfort you again.’
This time it was like making love under water. Through her bedroom curtains, the first light of dawn washed their bodies with the luminous aquamarines of the seas off the Cape. Each motion, each caress in this thick, clear light was slowed to a dreamy, deliberate half-speed ... a slow-motion ceremony of unspeakable, floating sweetness. A sweetness that brought the tears to her eyes. The soft ritual complete, she sank down beside him, hiding her face in the salty warmth of his shoulder, her body still rocking gently to the echoes of their waves.
She felt Fletch’s deep, slow sigh as his fingers traced up her damp spine from hip to shoulder, twined slowly into the ripples of her outflung hair. ‘Mmm.’ She snuggled closer.
His fingers stopped their slow caress. ‘Silky ...’
‘Mmm?’
‘Who was that guy?’
She smiled against his skin. ‘Al.’
His fingers tightened, pulling a little, and she squirmed restlessly. ‘Are you lovers?’
Still hiding her face, Jolian shook her head against him. ‘No ... nor ever have been. We’re friends ...’ She brought her hand slowly up from his waist, memorising the firmness of ribs and muscle, the tickling crispness of the hair across his chest.
Fletch rolled on to his side to face her suddenly, his fingers still buried in her hair. ‘And why should I believe that?’
‘Because...’ She touched his cheek, almost smiling at its early morning roughness. ‘Because I say it.’
His smile flickered for an instant, then it vanished into a wary blankness, but her hand on his face seemed to keep the worst of the hardness at bay. ‘I lived with a woman—a wife—for seven years,’ Fletch said carefully, ‘who claimed she loved me ... and all the while she was sleeping with anyone who asked.’ His head twisted away from her fingers. ‘So why the hell should I believe you!’
‘Because I’m me,’ she whispered, her fingers curling around the back of his neck. His muscles hardened, refusing to bend to her, so she stretched up to brush his tense mouth and then his jaw with her lips. ‘And I do love you.’
Fletch’s neck muscles jerked and went rigid beneath her hand. He tried to meet her reckless, tender smile with his own hard mask, couldn’t manage it, and shook his head in sudden frustration. ‘God, Jolian, don’t do this to me!’ Rolling away from her, he glared at the ceiling. ‘I hurt just looking at you,’ he growled, jaws clenching.
‘Good,’ she murmured. She wanted to hurt him. Hurt him all the way through. Any way to reach him was better than no way at all. She snuggled back against his shoulder, wondering if ice hurt when it melted. ‘Good,’ she whispered, and slept.
The gold-red of sunlight on her eyelids woke her, and her smile spread slowly as she remembered. Her hand crept across the rumpled sheets, seeking him ... Not finding him. Something moved between her and the sunshine and she opened her eyes.
It was Fletch, staring out of the window, tension defining each muscle in his shoulders and hips with sculptural precision. And in that rigid, beautiful back Jolian could read the answer to all her hopes. She had fooled only herself last night.
His head swung towards her bureau suddenly, and then he followed his gaze, padding across the floor in long, silent strides. His box, that was what he had seen. Through gathering tears Jolian watched him unfold it, search it slowly, intently, as if the answer were hidden there somewhere.
He did not find it. She heard the slow hiss of his breath as he shut the box at last, stood staring down at it.
His head turned. Green-gold eyes pinned her to the pillow, seemed to grow larger and more luminous as he approached the bed, unsmiling. And those eyes missed nothing. He caught a tear on his fingertip.
‘I’d never hurt you, Fletch.’ It was as close to begging as she could come. Too close. Her fingers slowly clenched on the sheet beneath her.
‘I know,’ he soothed. Warm and gentle, his hand covered her bare stomach, tensed slightly unconsciously cupping her flesh. ‘Not on purpose. I know that now.’
‘Not at all!’ she flared, watching the muscles in his face slowly harden.
‘Liz hurt my pride, silky cat—stamped it into the mud.’ His hand glided slowly-up her body, paused to fingertip her breast, and his eyes seemed to darken as her breathing changed. ‘If you hurt me, it would cut deeper than that. You scare the hell out of me...’
‘Fletch, I wouldn’t—’
He shook his head quickly. ‘Kitten, you’re twenty-five. I’m thirty-seven—almost old enough to be your father.’ He almost smiled as he used her words against her, put a quick hand across her parting lips. ‘I’d wake up some morning to find you’d fallen for someone your own age.’
‘You’re crazy!’ she cried against his fingers.
He shrugged tightly. ‘Or you’d go dancing across the street in your lighthearted way one day and be run down by a truck.’ Fletch shook his head ruefully. ‘I don’t want to risk it, Jolian. I have to travel light—no strings, no baggage, no looking back ... no regrets.’ He kissed her cheek and stood up. ‘You knew that.’
Shutting her eyes, she nodded wearily. Yes, she’d known that all along. The only lies told had been the ones she had told herself.
His fingers touched her lips, seeking her smile. She frowned. One fingertip pressed her bottom lip, rolling it out gently to steal a kiss. ‘Go to hell!’ she whispered against his touch.
Fletch laughed softly. ‘I’ll try the shower first.’
The only lies had been her o
wn. Jolian repeated it savagely again and again as she brushed out her hair. It didn’t help.
In the mirror, the shadows under her eyes looked like bruises. Her body felt bruised. It would remember Fletch’s weight and exultant strength for days after he had gone. After he had gone ... She slithered into the blue silk caftan and padded to the kitchen. Give him coffee and get him out of here before she broke down. God, what a fool she had been!
She flashed a stormy glance over her shoulder as Fletch stepped from the bathroom. He was wearing his pants now, the dark hair curling damply across his bare chest. She turned back to the coffee cups.
Damp, muscular arms closed around her, wrapping her in his soapy, warm smell. ‘God, what is it about you?’ he growled, nuzzling the nape of her neck, his hands closing around her breasts.
Oh, no. No way. Never, ever, never again. She shuddered angrily and caught his left wrist, held it out for brisk inspection. ‘Let’s see, it’s nine-thir—’ she gasped. Jem! Oh, God. Jem!
And Fletch had felt her start. ‘What’s—’
Both their heads turned at the light tap-tap sounding on her door.
Oh, God—he would think she’d planned this. Think she’d betrayed him. Paralysed, Jolian stared at the door. The knock came again.
Fletch caught her shoulders and swung her around. One eyebrow rose dangerously as he saw her face. ‘Who is it, kitten?’
She shook her head helplessly, her eyes enormous.
That old, hard smile was creeping back into place as Fletch stared down at her. ‘You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, little cat?’ he drawled finally. ‘Is it Al? Or another one? How many of us are there, really, I wonder?’ He let her go and turned towards the door.
‘Don’t, Fletch! Don’t answer it! Please!’
‘Just because you say so?’ His whisper taunted them both. Shrugging her hands away, Fletch walked to the door, opened it casually, his face a smiling, ironic mask.
From the kitchen she saw the mask stripped away, baring first shock as his eyes widened. ‘Jem,’ he marvelled softly—and then a fierce, growing gladness. ‘Jem!’
So there was one person he did love.
‘Son, wait!’ Fletch slammed the door wide and dived into the hallway.
Numbly, Jolian came to the door. The boy looked shockingly frail leaning back against Fletch’s big hands. Frail and sick—his face was green-white beneath the fever flush, his eyes blazing as he stared up at his father. His Red Sox cap lay crumpled beneath their feet. Jem swallowed, tried to speak, and then those shining eyes swept past Fletch to find her face. ‘You tricked me,’ he muttered hoarsely, his head beginning to shake in slow wonder. ‘It was a trap. Come to goddamn brunch. You—’
‘Jem! It wasn’t like that!’ Shaking her head desperately, Jolian took a step towards him and stopped. It was too late. ‘I ... time just got away from me,’ she murmured helplessly ... Too late.
Those glittering, pale blue eyes moved across her, missing nothing from her tousled hair to her bare feet beneath the silk robe. That feverish gaze lifted to his father, who had also turned to look at her, and then came back to her face. With a sick fascination she watched the comprehension dawning slowly in those wide eyes. ‘I just bet it did,’ he murmured absently. Contempt, and a kind of shame, were crowding close on its heels now. ‘I just bet it did! So he got to you. Even to you...’ His teeth were chattering suddenly. ‘Oh, hell. Oh, hell!’’ He twisted out of his father’s hold and grabbed for his hat, stumbled and would have fallen but for Fletch’s quickness.
Fletch caught his arm, gave him a gentle shake even as he steadied the boy. ‘Watch your mouth, Jem. There’s a lady—’
‘You—you go to hell, too!’ The hoarseness added years to Jem’s voice, reminding her of someone ... ‘You can’t tell me what to do!’ he rasped, his fists clenching over his cap.
His brows a thunderous line, Fletch wrapped an arm around Jem’s shoulders, started him towards the door and Jolian. ‘Jem, I’m your father, I damn sure will tell you what to do, and you can start by apol—’
‘You’re not my father.’ The strained words were deadly quiet.
‘I—’ Fletch stopped. Slowly he looked down at the boy. ‘Liz told you that?’ he asked ominously.
Jem twisted out of his hold, the tears starting at last. ‘My father’s a dead drunk named Jon Corey. You’re ... not ... even ... my—’
‘Jem ...’ Fletch touched his shoulder, a suddenly tentative gesture. ‘Jem, son...’
‘I’m not!’ Blinded with tears, Jem slammed his cap at their feet.
‘The hell you’re not!’ Fletch caught his shoulders and spun him around to face him, bent down to his level, his eyes wide and determined. ‘You are my son.’
‘You’re not even listening to me!’ Jem’s voice squeaked with frustration. ‘My father was a drunk actor named—’
‘I know that!’ Fletch shook him urgently. ‘So what, Jem? So what? You’re my son in every way that matters!’
‘You...’ The boy stared at him, his teeth chattering a tiny, staccato rhythm in the silence. ‘You ... know that?’ he whispered at last.
Fletch nodded earnestly, his eyes holding the boy’s. ‘She told me the day we got the divorce, Jem. So what? I’d raised you and loved you for six years. What was I supposed to do, turn it off that day? I needed a son as much as you needed a father.’ Fletch’s eyes flicked up to her face for a split second and then came back to the boy’s.
‘You needed me?’ Jem murmured. ‘But you never—’
Fletch gave him a gentle, rocking shake. ‘Who the hell do you think I’ve been working so hard for all these years, pal?’
Jem was shaking his head again, the tears returning in a choking floodtide. ‘But I didn’t care about that, I just wanted ... I just ... wanted—’
Fletch straightened and pulled the unresisting boy against his chest. The dark head bent above the light, soothing the soft, pale hair with an unshaven cheek, his eyes glittering as bright as the boy’s now. ‘Jem, Jem, I know that now. I’ve been a fool ... I said I was your father, I didn’t say I was smart.’
They needed no audience. Jolian stepped slowly back from the doorway, but no one noticed her going. Yaffa crouched under the table, her tail and eyes enormous as Jolian collected her. ‘And we’ll cry in the bedroom,’ she whispered into the soft fur.
She might even have slept. It seemed like hours before the door opened and shut, and the bed sagged under Fletch’s weight. Yaffa shot off the pillow with a soft hiss as he pulled Jolian into his arms and hugged her. ‘Thank you, kitten,’ he murmured against her throat.
‘Fletch, I didn’t do that on purpose! He’s got to understand that!’
He squeezed her soothingly, nodding against her skin. ‘I think he does, Jolian. He’s still upset right now, feels hurt and a little shy, but he does. I’ll talk to him about it more when he calms down.’
‘And he really is Corey’s son?’
Fletch nodded ruefully. ‘Can’t you see it? It’s getting stronger every day.’ He rolled over on to his back and pulled her with him. ‘That roadshow that came to Chicago was Corey’s last play before Hollywood found him—and apparently he made the most of it. I think he laid every woman in the cast, from the ticket taker to the dowager; Liz was just the moron who got caught. She was one month pregnant when we married.’ He shook his head restlessly, his beard prickling her skin.
‘Did she know it then?’ Jolian asked, her fingers sliding up to stroke the back of his head.
Fletch shrugged and burrowed closer into her shoulder. ‘Don’t know ... and don’t even care any more, silky cat.’ He sighed slowly, inhaling the scent of her skin. ‘I’ve got to go. Can’t keep him waiting, Jolian. I’ve done that too often ... We have to go get his gear, and I have to meet Kyle. Then it’s back to Chicago and a doctor—fast.’
‘The same Kyle I wrote you the note about?’
‘Mm-hmm.’ Fletch laughed softly into her hair. ‘Kyle Taylor, early
admissions student at M.I.T., mathematical genius and one-time junior counsellor at Jem’s camp this summer. Jem’s been sleeping on his floor and writing his English papers for him. And selling his literary services to half the freshmen in the dorm as well! My son, the entrepreneur!’
Fletch sat up suddenly and she watched his smile slowly fade as he met her eyes. He looked away, his green-gold gaze sweeping over the blue, clinging silk of her robe. He stroked her delicately with one fingertip, and his smile was almost sad as the fabric rustled.
‘Silky cat,’ he murmured. ‘I don’t know what to say ... I can’t think straight around you—I—’
‘Don’t say anything,’ she whispered, closing her eyes. ‘Just go...’
She heard his breath hiss and had to bite her lip to stop a sob. Warm and tickling, his lips brushed her eyelids. ‘Goodbye, my silky. Thank you.’ His hand curved round her breast, a feather light, heartbreaking touch, and then he was gone.
CHAPTER NINE
You can’t miss what you’ve never had ... but when you’ve had it? What then? There was no forgetting him. Fletch had branded himself upon her, mind and body. Long after his bruises were gone she would wake from dreams of his big, solid warmth to lie in the dark, the salt taste of his skin on her lips, her body echoing with the memories of his touch. The rustle of the sheets in her sleepless turnings brought back his laughing whispers, all the loving and hating names he had called her. She hung the blue silk robe in the back of the closet, hid his box away as well. Some day she would look at them again. Some day ...
The cold bronze of October faded to the colder steel of November—grey skies above slate roofs, the stark blacks of rain-drenched tree trunks. Winter was coming early this year. The morning frost on the leaves underfoot matched the ice in her heart. The only thing to do was to stay busy—work and wait for the springtime.
She brought designs to Al until he begged for mercy. She might have hung around the studio and helped with their production, but Al was too happy nowadays to be bearable. His assurances that this heartache would pass, that she would find a better love, were no comfort at all. She wanted Fletch, no other comforter.
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