by Helen Conrad
Still, she wondered why he kept having her back. She only seemed to make him angry most of the time.
And why do you put up with it? she asked herself as she watched him do a flip turn and race to the other side of the pool. Why do you keep coming back?
That was a question she really didn’t want answered.
The one thing woven like a silver thread through their days was the sound of swing music that seemed to follow him wherever he went. Finally one day she had a chance to ask him about it.
They’d completed their morning session half an hour before, and she’d been filling out charts at the desk in the gym. When she was finished she strolled into the house, looking for Grant. The sound of music drew her to the study where she found him leaning back with his feet up and his eyes closed.
“Artie Shaw,” she guessed. “ ‘In the Mood.’ “
Obviously he hadn’t heard her come in. His eyes flew open, and his feet hit the ground with a thump that made him wince.
She noticed but bit back the rebuke that rose in her throat. She knew he wouldn’t appreciate a comment on taking care at this point.
“You’re quite a big-band fan, aren’t you?” she said instead, looking around his study, noting the trophies, plaques, and ribbons carelessly flung among the books and models of exotic race cars.
He flashed her his usual shuttered look, sinking back down into his chair.
“Sure,” he said reluctantly. “It’s like me, a relic of the past.”
She opened her mouth to protest his description of himself, but he didn’t give her time to get the words out.
“How did you know that was Artie Shaw?” he asked.
She plunked herself down in the chair across the desk from him. Some instinct told her that this might turn into a real conversation if she gave it a chance.
“My father has a whole bookshelf full of recordings from the big-band era. He used to yank my Pearl Jam albums off the stereo and make me sit down and listen to swing.”
Something resembling a smile twitched at the corners of Grant’s mouth. “Smart man,” he muttered, his eyes searching hers restlessly.
“It was pure torture at the time,” she said cheerfully. “But now I must admit that I like it.” She looked at him curiously. “It’s not the kind of music I would have pegged you for, though. What attracts a man like you to swing?”
She could see him relax before her eyes.
“The simplicity. The innocence. The optimism.” He leaned back in his chair again, staring at the wall. “I don’t know. It just seems like the world we live in today is all flash and trash. Back then people had values, principles. They believed in something besides their own selfish appetites.”
She was touched that he’d answered so honestly —touched and surprised. He’d been so guarded for so long, she knew he didn’t open up casually.
“It seems strange that someone who feels that way would choose the career you chose,” she said softly.
A smile twisted his mouth. He picked up a silver letter opener and balanced it on its point, catching it every time it fell. “You go where your talent lies.”
“Oh, but I’m sure you have many other talents.”
He nodded slowly, eyes on the balancing letter opener. “I’m good at a lot of things,” he admitted, then looked her fully in the face. “But I’m great at driving.”
She smiled. “So that’s it. What’s really important is being king of the hill!”
He looked surprised that she could ever be so naive as to think otherwise. “Absolutely.”
And there it was. She was amazed at herself for not realizing it before. That was where the bitterness came from. He was no longer the race-car champion, and he’d looked to her to provide him with the magic wand or magic potion to make it possible for him to get on top again. She hadn’t been able to come up with anything, so he was just getting more and more cynical. It was a wonder he’d even let her come back after he’d found that she had no miracles up her sleeve.
She stayed up late for a few nights after that, searching for new methods, researching radical ideas that hadn’t been proven, in hopes of interesting him. One she found involved sitting very still for a long, long time, and she showed him the position, then smiled at him as he assumed it.
“I realize this is going to be boring.”
He grunted. “Not to mention useless.”
Her eyes flashed. “But then, I suppose you’re used to that,” she said evenly, “after all that time you spend driving around and around a track. I can’t think of anything that could be much more boring than that.”
He raised his head slowly, his eyes more amused than angry for once. “In Grand Prix we don’t ride around an oval racetrack,” he informed her kindly. “It’s road racing. But putting that aside, what on earth makes you think risking your life could ever be boring?”
She flushed, realizing that she was not being very diplomatic.
“Have you ever risked anything, Carrie?”
His words stung. She looked up and met his gaze. “You mean, besides the risk I took by coming out here?” she said sharply.
He laughed. The sound was rich and inviting, and she caught her breath.
“Besides that,” he agreed.
“I guess not. Not really,’’ she admitted, laying the book aside.
He went out of position, but she didn’t remind him. “You ought to try it sometime. Life seems a lot sweeter once you’ve faced the cost of losing it.”
She sat down just inches away from him on the padded bench. “You know, I don’t think I believe you. You’re not a happy man.”
She almost backed down as the light flared in his eyes, but she stuck it out.
“You’ve risked your life and experienced all these moments of truth and all—and you don’t look like a happy man to me.”
He nodded slowly. “That’s because the life I love has been taken away from me. I can’t race anymore. Not like this.”
Her chin rose. “Which is a godsend if you ask me.”
He looked at her as though she’d come up an oar short. “What?”
She narrowed her eyes and went on. “By all the signs you’re wealthy enough to do anything you want, and you have your whole life in front of you. Except for your leg, you’ve got your health. You’re young, and . . . and good-looking. You’re not locked into anything. You could start a whole new existence. And instead of being happy and excited about that, you’re bitter.”
His blue eyes clouded. “You don’t understand . . .” he began, but that was as far as he got.
Carrie had turned toward him on the bench, sitting with her papers on her lap, and now she slipped a bit. She caught herself right away but the movement sent the papers sailing off into the breeze, and she cried out, reaching for them. Grant reached for them, too, and they collided, holding on to each other so as not to fall, her face close to his, his hand brushing her breast.
“I’m sorry!” she cried, jumping away, then cursing herself silently. What was she sorry for? But her face was red and it was too late to take back her words. She kicked the papers on the floor out of the way and pretended to be ready to get down to business.
“We’re wasting time,” she said crisply, not looking him in the eye. “Now, take the position. I’ll help you.”
He moved slowly, but at least he moved. The position was similar to the lotus in yoga, but since he couldn’t bend his right leg as much as that posture required, she’d modified it.
She walked around the bench, studying him.
“That’s right,” she said firmly, forcing herself to remain calm. “Put your left foot under a little more to support . . . That’s it.” She touched his leg to show him what she meant, and the harsh, curly hairs seemed to sting her palm. Drawing her hand back a little too quickly, she went on, pacing around the bench, talking very fast.
“This will help you with the flexibility, but it will do a lot more for you as well. It will help you focus—
hands here, on the knees . . . relax them—focus your mind, and if you do the breathing along with it . . .”
He was watching her. As she passed before him she could feel his gaze burning into her. This was different. This was worse, much worse, than it had ever been before.
Something had been triggered, something that couldn’t be denied. She’d thought they’d gone beyond physical attraction, but it had been simmering just beneath the surface all the time. And she knew very well it was not only simmering in her; it was simmering in him as well.
“If you’ll close your eyes,” she said a bit desperately, “and breathe in through your nostrils—“
He was reaching out, and then, before she could move, his hand was flattened against her chest, covering the opening of her pink jumpsuit, as though reaching to feel the beat of her heart.
“Oh,” she said, and her hands were hanging useless at her sides. She was staring into his eyes and couldn’t look away.
“I . . . what are you doing?”
She was locked in his gaze. His hand remained where it was for what seemed like a very long time, and all the while she was floating, lost in his ice-cavern eyes. Then slowly, ever so slowly, his hand moved to the zipper that ran the length of her jumpsuit, lowering it, his hand brushing the sides of her breasts as they came free from the fabric.
“Oh,” she said again, but she was spellbound, unable to say another thing.
His hand didn’t stop until the zipper had reached as low as her navel, and then his gaze freed hers as he looked at her breasts, peeling back the jumpsuit to view them fully, their dusky peaks tight and dark. He touched one nipple, and she gasped, fighting hard to break the spell. But then his mouth was on hers, and she was lost again, trapped in a whirlpool, spinning and turning in a shower of stars.
His body was hard and tense against her. She could feel the pulse in him, the demanding desire. It beat against her, and she cried out, horrified at what she was letting happen.
“Oh, my God,” she said with a moan, pushing with her hands. “No, no, I can’t . . .”
It took all her strength to pull away. She ran from him, ran around the pool and through the house, ran until she got to her car, and then she reached under the dashboard to grab the extra key she kept there. There was no way she was going back into the gym for her purse. The engine started with a cough that stopped her heart. And then she was off, racing down the road, leaving a cloud of dust behind her, knowing for sure that she was never coming back.
CHAPTER FIVE:
Irresistibly Drawn
“Are you going to marry me or not?”
Jerry’s voice was high-pitched with exasperation. Carrie sighed into the telephone receiver.
“Let’s try ‘not’ and see what happens,” she suggested lightly.
Jerry was definitely in no mood for light banter. “I’m not a nobody in this town, little girl,” he said, his voice filled with raw anger. “What I do and what I don’t do are important to a lot of people. You can’t treat me like some little grocery clerk.”
The words were ugly, but she could see the real hurt behind them and she felt a surge of guilt.
“I’m sorry, Jerry,” she said quickly. “Really. I never meant to do this to you. It’s just that . . . well, when I first came back to town, everything seemed so wonderful. I was living a Cinderella dream and getting the handsome prince and everything. And now I’m beginning to realize that maybe that glass slipper doesn’t fit, after all. That the Cinderella life isn’t what I really want.”
“And how about me?” he asked angrily. “Do you throw me out with the slipper?”
“I ... I don’t know. You know, I never said I wanted to get married. You were the one—“
“I was the one.” His tone changed. “Of course I was the one. I saw what I wanted and I went after it. Like I always do.” He paused. “I love you, Carrie. I want you to be my wife.”
She bit her lip and stared at her own reflection in the hall mirror. She knew she didn’t love Jerry. She was sure of it now. How could she possibly love Jerry and have the sweeping, almost crippling feelings she had for Grant Carrington? And yet Jerry had been good to her. She didn’t want to hurt him.
“I don’t want to marry yet, Jerry,” she said gently. “I’m not really sure I ever will.”
There was a long silence. Perhaps he would finally give up. She waited, hoping.
“I can wait,” he said at last.
“Oh, Jerry—“
“No, no, now listen to me. You probably wish I’d get lost right now, so you wouldn’t feel so pressured. Here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll stay away from you for one week. No phone calls, even. And when the week is up, you have dinner with me and we’ll talk.”
“Jerry ...”
“Hush. That’s the plan. Now, I’m going to go. But just remember. I love you.”
The phone clicked off, and she was left staring at the receiver again. “Good job of letting him down easy, Carrie,” she muttered to herself. “You let him down so easy, he never hit bottom.” Slamming the receiver into its cradle, she threw herself facedown on her bed and moaned.
Things would be much easier for all concerned if Jerry would just get angry enough never to want to see her again. Lord knows I’ve given him enough cause, she thought fretfully. She’d done everything short of telling him that it was hopeless, but he was insisting on being so darn nice about it.
“A clean break,” she whispered, “is a happy break. Or something like that.”
No two ways about it; she was a flop at handling men. And tonight she was going to find out if she was any better at handling burglary.
Well, not burglary, exactly. What she planned to steal was actually her own property. But she would have to sneak onto Grant Carrington’s land and into his gym to get her purse and papers back. She wasn’t about to knock on the front door and ask for them.
“If he were any sort of gentleman, he’d have sent them to me today by messenger,” she grumbled, rolling over on her back and staring at the ceiling of her room.
She’d half expected him to do just that. But no. He was no sort of gentleman—had never pretended to be. So it wasn’t going to be that easy. She was going to have to take care of it herself.
She would wear a black turtleneck sweater and black tights, and she would wait until almost midnight, when he was sure to be asleep.
She closed her eyes and saw those images again— his hand flattened against her chest, his touch on her breast, his mouth hot and wild on hers—images she was determined to wipe out of her mind. Right now they loomed large and left a churning, almost sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. But she would erase them. She had to erase them if it was the last thing she did.
She hadn’t tried to analyze why it was so impossible to face him again. She knew without thinking about it that the complexity of her responses to the man would drive her mad if she tried to sort it all out.
It wasn’t that she was an innocent. It wasn’t even that he was a notorious womanizer and thrill-seeker. She could have dealt with that, perhaps even enjoyed it under the right circumstances. Something else made her wary, something that smoldered in him, something that reached deep into her and made her want to . . . she wasn’t sure just what.
But she knew it was wild and insane. What made her scared was….could she could handle the consequences?
Better to steal into his gym in the night and take away all traces of their work together. Then she would write him a cool letter terminating their working relationship and recommending two or three other physical therapists within driving distance he could turn to.
And hopefully, in the future, she’d only see him from a distance when driving through town.
It was almost midnight when she stopped her car on the road a half-mile from Grant’s big old house. No lights burned in the windows. The gym was behind the house and further hidden by three big oaks and not visible from the road. She would have to go right through the fro
nt yard, but there was easy access once she got there.
Carrie took a deep breath and then started marching toward her destination, whistling a tuneless noise between her teeth. Gravel crunched beneath her feet, but she knew she would walk on grass when she got nearer the house, so she walked on carelessly.
Her steps slowed as she came in through the gateway. Now she clung to the bushes, staying in the shadows and taking care with each step, trying to be noiseless. Her breath was coming a little fast, so she stopped to rest, staring at the house.
The crickets were so loud, she could hardly hear herself think. Oddly enough, the insect noise made her braver. She started around the house, her heart beating in her throat but her step sure and confident.
And then she came to a dead halt. There was a light on in the gym, in the weight room to the side. Strains of music trickled out through the night air. Someone was up and active. She was out of luck.
Frustrated anger bubbled up in her. All that planning for nothing! Didn’t the man ever sleep?
She stood for a long moment, undecided about her next move. If she went home now, she might never work up the nerve to come again. Shadows flickered across the light from the window. What on earth was he doing in there, anyway? Maybe if she just went close enough to see, without letting him see her ...
Irresistibly drawn, she walked slowly toward the light. As she neared the window she could hear a clarinet solo against the background of a big swing band. The recording sounded old and scratchy, but the joy of the music came through loud and clear.
“Benny Goodman,” she guessed.
The door was closed, but it opened silently when she turned the knob. Grant was inside, working out, just as she’d known he would be. The music was very loud, filling the cavernous building, as though to drown out anything else—even thought.