'It's a standard work-out,' she replied. 'Ten miles, five of them in sprints.'
'Is that how you've been training all spring?'
She shook her head. 'Joe's been increasing the distance every month.'
'Tell me about Joe.'
Petra looked up at him in surprise. 'Joe? Aren't you going to interview him yourself?'
'I'd like another perspective.'
She shrugged, bit into her toast and said, 'Well, he's dedicated and a great coach. I've known him for years.'
'How many?'
'About eight.'
'What made you decide to use him?'
'I didn't know anyone else coaching marathon swims.'
'And…'
'And…? Well, nothing. We got together and now he coaches me.' Petra sprinkled some salt and pepper on her scrambled eggs.
'He thinks you're wonderful.'
She didn't smile at that, but merely ate some eggs. 'He should think that,' she finally said.
Geoff gave her an amused look. 'Isn't that a bit egotistical?'
Her eyes, grey between their fringe of dark lashes, appraised him. 'No,' she said. 'He worked hard to get me to the point where he could believe that.'
'Do you have to believe that, too? So that you can get across the lake?'
That was precisely the sort of question that Petra didn't like. It was the thin end of the wedge, trying to push between the cracks in her protective layer. 'I trust Joe's opinion,' she said.
'Tell me, Petra, why do you do it?'
'Do what?' she asked, reaching for a jar of marmalade on the lazy susan in the middle of the table. But her hand was caught in mid-air and held between fingers that gripped like a vice.
'Swim,' Geoff said grimly.
Petra stared at their hands. His fingers were long, his palm was warm and hard, the back of his hand was dusted with golden hairs. He had a silver digital watch on his wrist and his forearm, also coated with gold hair, was muscular and tensed. He was a big man, close to six feet tall, and she could feel the power of him in his hand, trapping her fingers but holding them in such a way that he didn't crush the delicate bones.
'Is this an interviewing technique?' she asked coldly, and he let go of her hand.
'You didn't answer my question,' he said.
'I swim because I want to.'
His eyes narrowed. 'That's meaningless.'
Petra had pulled her hand down beneath the table and, unconsciously, she rubbed it. 'Not to me.'
'Well, it's not good enough.'
'It's the best I can do.'
Geoff leaned forward, impaled her on that blue glance. 'Why don't you want to co-operate with me?'
'I'm co-operating.'
'The hell you are,' he grated. 'You haven't given me one straight answer.'
'Look,' she said angrily, her promise to Joe completely forgotten, 'I'm a swimmer and that's all. I want to go up to that lake and swim. I plan to sleep, eat and breathe swimming. I don't want to spend my precious time talking about things that don't matter.'
'What are you afraid of?'
She sat back. 'Afraid? I'm not afraid of anything.'
'Secrets? Black sheep in the family? Skeletons in the cupboard?'
Petra took a deep breath. 'I don't like reporters.'
Geoff gave her a grin. Even Petra had to admit to herself that it was a very attractive grin. It turned up the corners of his mouth and wrinkled the skin around his eyes. It gave him a boyish air that was very appealing.
'Look,' he said, 'I took a shower this morning. I brushed my teeth. I keep my nails clean. A lot of people think I'm a perfectly nice fellow.'
'It's not you. It's what you are.'
'Ah, a generic journalist-hater. Have I got that right?'
'Yes,' she said defiantly. She wouldn't let him make fun of her.
Geoff sighed and poked at his cottage cheese. 'All right. Let's face the facts. I've been asked to do a feature on marathon swimming in general and you in particular. Joe McGinnis invited me up to his cottage and on the swim so I could do a decent job. He's thrilled to have me there, because he thinks my articles will push the cause of long-distance swimming. You, on the other hand, would like me to drop dead today and leave you alone. Right?'
'Right.'
'But I can't. So what's next?'
'That's your problem.'
'You're all heart, Miss Morgan, aren't you?'
She ignored him. 'Why don't you go back to your editor and ask for a change of assignment? You must do other things, don't you? Like cover politics or something?'
'Believe me,' Geoff said coldly, 'I'd rather be anywhere than sitting in this restaurant and trying to convince you that I'm a nice guy.'
'So why not leave?'
Geoff leaned forward and jabbed a finger in her direction. 'You know something? I can't help thinking that there's some little thing you're trying to hide.'
Petra gave a small shrug. There's nothing. I told you that.'
But Geoff wasn't the kind to give up when he was on the scent of something. 'A sad childhood, perhaps? An unhappy love affair?' He looked at her bent head. 'Yeah, that must be it. Got jilted, did you?'
Petra's head came up quickly, her eyes wide and startled.
Geoff, knowing that he had hit pay-dirt, went on. 'Everyone has something to hide, Miss Morgan. I've been a journalist long enough to recognise that fact. And it's often something like an affair gone sour. You'd be surprised how many people will try to…'
But Petra wasn't going to let him continue. He had come far too close to her already, and she needed to deflect him, to turn him in some other direction. She gave him a smile, knowing that there was no defence like a good attack. 'I can't figure out why they put you on this assignment,' she said. 'I'll bet you don't know the first thing about marathon swimming.'
Geoff stiffened slightly. 'I'll learn on the job. That's why I've been given a month to do it.'
'That's irresponsible, isn't it?'
'What?'
'Your editor giving you this assignment. He should have got someone with experience, a former swimmer perhaps, a…'
Geoff's lips tightened. 'It's none of your damned business as far as I can see.'
But Petra had sensed his vulnerability. 'And I think you hate the idea of following me around anyway. So why not go back to your boss and tell him you want out.' She nibbled on a piece of bacon. 'We'd both be happier that way.'
Geoff stood up, his cottage cheese and fruit uneaten. 'We might both be happier,' he said through clenched teeth, 'but I'm just like you, Miss Morgan. Stubborn as hell.' And with that, he was gone.
Petra watched him limp out of the restaurant and then sighed, her anger seeping out of her and leaving her feeling empty and unhappy with herself. She had done exactly the opposite of what she had intended to do, which was treat Geoffrey Hamilton with a distant courtesy and careless nonchalance. And she'd broken her promise to Joe which wasn't right because Joe was so faithful in keeping his promises to her. And she understood Joe's rationale, which was that having one reporter on the site was far better than being hassled by half a dozen when she was ready to make the swim. By promising Allied Press exclusive coverage, Joe was making sure that her attempt to cross the lake wouldn't turn into a media circus.
But something about Geoffrey Hamilton brought out the worst in Petra. It couldn't be the way he looked because he had an exceedingly pleasing appearance. Not even his limp could hide the fact that he was a well-made man, muscular and even graceful at times. And he had a classically handsome face, the kind that women fell for in droves, and Petra wasn't any more immune to good looks than anyone else. No, it was something else. She'd felt an anger in him, an antagonism that belied whatever charm he had intended to exert on her. Even at the beginning of their conversation, Petra had sensed that Geoffrey Hamilton didn't like her and that he had taken this assignment unwillingly and without enthusiasm. She didn't know why that was so; after all, they were strangers to one another. But she w
asn't the type to become a shrinking violet in the face of someone else's dislike. She had reacted quite naturally to him, even considering that, being a journalist, he had one strike against him already. And, Petra saw no reason to change the way she felt about him despite the fact that she really didn't know the first thing about Geoffrey Hamilton except that he was a good-looking man with a limp, a disarming smile and an uncanny way of finding her emotional scars. But that was more than sufficient. Petra didn't like Geoffrey Hamilton at all.
Despite Geoff's innate stubbornness and his words to Petra, he found himself later that afternoon, striding (well, limping angrily really) into the offices of Allied Press. It was a busy place with typewriters clacking away, phones ringing constantly and people running from one desk to another. Like any media centre, it ran on hype, adrenalin and nerves. Geoff had always liked visiting the office for short periods of time; usually he thrived on the atmosphere, the agitation and the feeling that he was close to the centre of things. But, on this afternoon, he couldn't have cared less. He pushed his way past the front desk, nodding abruptly to the secretary and receptionist and then wove his way past the other reporters until a hand was placed on his arm.
'Geoff,' a soft voice said.
He turned to find a pretty blonde smiling at him. She was his type; tall, blonde, curvaceous and endowed with a pair of legs that went on endlessly. Geoff gave an inward groan and an outward grin. 'Marnie,' he said.
'It's been a long time.'
'Two years?'
'Yes.'
Geoff took a deep breath and leaned against a desk.
'So—how are you doing?'
She chattered on a bit while Geoff wondered what was the proper protocol in dealing with an ex-lover. He had made the mistake two years ago of mixing business with pleasure and going out with Marnie when he'd been in Toronto on a month's vacation. He usually had a policy of not dating women who worked at Allied Press, but no one else had been available at the time and Geoff had an acknowledged weakness for pretty, long-legged blondes. Marnie had been willing, eager and non-possessive, at least that's what she'd said, but he could tell by the look in her blue eyes that, now he was back, she was counting on seeing him again.
'… and you? I hear you've been put on the sports beat.'
Geoff lifted his cane slightly. 'I got some war wounds.'
'Yes, we heard all about it.' She paused. 'Are you living in Toronto now?'
Geoff went into a long and detailed explanation of his flat-hunting while he pondered the possibility of dating Marnie again. He had nothing against her; she was pleasant, smiled a lot and was easy on the eyes, but that's as far as it went. She was neither intellectually stimulating nor, when he got right down to it, was she physically exciting. Despite the curves and long legs, she'd been ho-hum in the sack. And Geoff could imagine what would happen if he did make a pass again. This time Marnie would take it more seriously. She might misconstrue such an action as meaning more than it did. She might think, God forbid, that his interest in her had something to do with romance, with love, with commitment… or even worse, with marriage.
'… so right now I'm camping out in a hotel,' he said.
'Oh.'
Her smile had definitely acquired that come-hither quality. Geoff shifted uneasily. 'Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got to see Rick.'
'Stop by my desk on your way out and we can go for coffee.'
'Yeah… well, I'll have to see how it goes.'
'Sure,' she said. 'I'm easy.'
That was the trouble, Geoff decided, as he limped off to Rick's office. Marnie was too easy. He could tell, just from the wishful look in her blue eyes, just how very easy she was going to be. A niggling dissatisfaction that had been growing in him began to flower into a positive irritation. Without quite realising it, Geoff had got tired of easy women. He could charm them, seduce them, slip into their willing bodies with almost no effort at all. Like ten pins, they fell before him in numbers so large he'd lost count of them. When he looked back upon his amorous past, Geoff could only remember the names of two women he'd slept with; his first, a girl in high school, and his last, a French journalist in Beirut. That thought brought him up sharp. It suddenly occurred to him that he hadn't had sex since his accident, that he'd been celibate for… what was it? Three months? Ninety days. He calculated quickly—two thousand, one hundred and sixty hours. God, no wonder his frustration level was so low. And Rick, damn his hide, wanted to send him into nowhere's land to watch Petra Morgan swim.
'Geoff! Welcome to the inner sanctum.' Rick hurried around his desk and picked up the mass of papers that lay on his office's only other chair. 'I thought you'd be packing.'
Geoff carefully negotiated himself into a seated position, hanging his cane on the back of the chair. Even so, the pain shot up his leg and he grimaced, unable to hide his expression from Rick.
'The leg still bothers you that much?'
Geoff took a deep breath. 'Less than it did. More than I like.'
'A month's rest in the sun won't harm you a bit.'
Geoff shifted in his seat. 'That's what I came to talk about.'
'What?'
'The Morgan swim. I want off the assignment.'
Rick ran his fingers through his thinning dark hair and sighed. 'Why?'
'Have you met her? Petra Morgan?'
'Uh-uh.'
'Consider yourself lucky then.'
'You didn't get along with her?'
'That's putting it mildly. She's argumentative, prickly, irritating, uncooperative and…'
Rick was grinning. 'No kidding.'
Geoff leaned forward. 'I'm not joking, Rick. I can't stand her.'
Rick leaned back in his swivelling chair. 'I didn't think you would.'
Geoff sat up. 'You didn't?'
'Hell, no. You didn't want to cover the swim in the first place. But I thought your antagonism might give the story a nice edge.'
'She doesn't like me either.'
Rick gave him a look of mock-shock. 'Hey, where's the Hamilton charm? Since when can a woman resist you?'
Geoff's smile was sour. 'Take me off the story, Rick.'
'And do what? You want to work in here?'
'Here?'
'The office. Editing stories, that sort of thing. You're not ready to go out in the field yet, Geoff.' He paused. 'But frankly, I can't see you in here either. You hate being cooped up.'
Geoff thought of Marnie, sitting at her desk and waiting to pounce on him when he left Rick's office. He imagined all the uncomfortable and embarrassing situations that could arise if he worked near her. He envisaged weeks of trying to avoid her eager conversation, her suggestive smiles, her pleading eyes.
'You're right,' he said. 'I'd hate it.'
'The Morgan swim is perfect for you right now. You'll have nothing to do but talk, watch her train and get a good tan.'
'Give me a city hall beat. That's not strenuous.'
'I can't take it away from Fuller.'
'Opera,' Geoff said desperately. 'That doesn't require a lot of energy.'
'Know the difference between a contralto and a mezzo-soprano?'
'Heart operations, then.'
'Give up, Geoff. It's Morgan or the office.'
Geoff's expletive described the sexual act in one brief and concise word.
'Besides,' Rick said, putting his fingers together to form a tent and contemplating the ceiling, 'I get the distinct impression that there's more to you and Morgan than meets the eye.'
'What do you mean?'
'Maybe all that antagonism is hiding something.'
'Like what?'
'Like an attraction, maybe?'
Geoff shot up out of his seat, cursed at the pain in his leg and grabbed his cane. Leaning against the chair, he pointed it directly at Rick as if it were a gun and said, 'I never heard anything so crazy in my life.'
'Yeah?'
'Yeah. You must be going soft in the head.'
Rick lifted both hands in an attitude
of surrender. 'All right,' he said with a grin, 'but just don't shoot.'
Geoff lowered his cane and limped out of the office, but Rick could hear him muttering all the way down the hall. 'Attraction, my eye.'
Petra drove her Toyota over the rocks, the gravel and the ridges with the sort of competence that comes from experience. She was used to the road that led to Indian Lake. It was unmetalled, only one car wide and curved like a race track. If she went too slowly on it, the car would be enveloped in its own dust and she'd be jolted with every bump and crevice. If she drove too fast, she'd lose control over the car and end up in a ditch filled with brackish water, pussy willows and God knows what kind of animal life. The secret was to go at just the right speed so that the tyres of the car skimmed over the bumps and the acceleration allowed her to control a steering-wheel that tried to fight loose from her hands.
What she had to ignore, and did with only minor success, was that the jolting and banging was doing awful things to the Toyota itself. It creaked and groaned, squeaked and whined, and Petra winced at the sounds. The car was on its last legs, but she didn't have even the beginnings of a down-payment for a new one. As the trees flashed by and the sun glinted down between their leaves to make flickering patterns on her windscreen, she tried to mentally calculate what her financial position would be after the swim. There was the flat rent, she thought, food, insurance, clothes for autumn, Sheila's expenses if she were out of hospital (thank heavens for the Ontario Health Plan that covered her hospitalisation and drugs), the balance owed on her Visa credit card, her membership at a YWCA, her… Petra bounced as the car hit an unusually big bump and guessed with a sense of despair that she'd be in a negative financial situation if the Toyota died on her. Very negative.
She shook herself slightly and put thoughts of car and money out of her head. She was very adept at doing that sort of mental trick, and it stood her in good stead when she was swimming. She didn't let unpleasant thoughts plague her; she had learned to control her mind patterns, to concentrate on what was important, to even, if need be, let her brain go into neutral, an ability that was invaluable when she was swimming mile after repetitious mile and the pain would strike in her shoulders or her legs. Ignoring muscular distress was the only way she could continue to swim and, after a while, she would find that she had worked through the pain and that it had gone as quickly as it had come.
Love is a Distant Shore Page 3