“You were swearing revenge the other day.”
“Oh, I still want revenge,” he said grimly. He nodded at the computer. “Yesterday I instructed Geoff to cut off all our relationships with Sterling Bates—trading, banking, clearing. And I put in a call to my lawyer and explained things briefly; we’re going to conference him at one o’clock, you and I.”
I straightened. “What? I thought I told you not to do that!”
“He won’t initiate anything without your instructions. It’s only to review your options. Lay the case in front of him.” His voice softened. “Darling, you know you won’t be happy until it’s cleared up. And my sole object in life now, Kate, is your happiness.”
“Lawyers are expensive,” I said, trying to ignore the spreading glow those last words gave me.
“Kate, Kate. You have lovely principles, darling, and I admire them extremely. But this is absurd. How can there be any question of financial accounts between us, after last night?”
“Especially after last night! It’s like taking your money in exchange for… that. As though it gives me some kind of demand on you!”
“Demand on me?” He looked astonished. “My God, Kate, of course you have a demand on me. On all of me. You seem to have some”—he shook his head—“demented notion that love exists in some sort of higher plane, free of the muck and mire of human obligation.”
“It does,” I said. “It should.”
“Bollocks. That’s just words, and any man who thinks that, who tells you he loves you with that in mind, is nothing more than a vile seducer.” His voice pitched low and intense. “Darling, look at me. When I tell you I love you, it means this: That I am your servant. That these two hands”—he held them up before me, and then cupped my face—“labor for you alone. That you have a demand on me, an eternal one, which has everything to do with the incalculable favor, the immeasurable honor, you granted me last night, in taking me into your heart and your bed.”
I couldn’t say anything for a moment. His eyes, his wide green-blue eyes, illuminated into brilliancy by the shaft of sunlight tumbling through the window, held me dangling in midair, ready to splinter. “Well, technically,” I whispered at last, “it was your bed, you know.”
He shook his head. “Our bed. Understand that, Kate. Everything I have, everything I am, is yours. Ah, don’t cry, sweetheart.”
“I’ll try,” I said, but a tear rolled out of each eye anyway, and he brushed them away with his thumbs.
“Happy ones, I hope,” he said.
I nodded. “It frightens me, though. How you can be so certain.”
“Aren’t you?”
“Yes. Yes! I wish I knew how to tell you, how to express it.” I reached out and traced the round velvet curve of his bottom lip with my forefinger. “So very, perfectly certain.”
“Then why won’t you allow it of me?”
“Because… I don’t know… because I didn’t know men thought that way. Because I can’t imagine myself worthy of you, of that beautiful soul of yours.”
“Hmm,” he said meditatively. His thumbs brushed again along my cheekbones.
“What is it?”
“I am reminded,” he said, “that, in earlier years, my beloved may have met with a dodgy inconstant character or two. Some damned fools”—he almost hissed the word—“who didn’t know how to value her. Who perhaps broke that sweet heart I prize so dearly.”
“No.” I aimed my gaze at his chin. “No. Not really. They never… I mean, it was never a question of love or anything. I just… I didn’t read the rulebook before playing the game. My bad.”
“I see.” He tucked my hair behind one ear, laid the waves gently along the line of my back. “Kate. Please look at me, sweetheart. Don’t be shy of me. Let me see your eyes.”
I dragged them upward.
“Beautiful,” he said, smiling mildly. “Now, since it apparently falls to me to restore my Kate’s faith in male fidelity, tell me: How would I go about that? How would an old-fashioned chap like me convince a cynical modern girl that he can be trusted with her love?”
“Julian.” I sighed, linked my hands behind his neck. “I can’t even think straight when you look at me like that. Talk to me like that.”
“Damned filthy blackguards,” he muttered, “treating my Kate like…”
“Shh.” I put one finger on his lips. “Okay, I’m going to try to express myself here. Which does not come as easily to me as it does to you, so bear with me.”
He kissed my finger and captured it in his hand. “Take your time.”
I studied the top button of his shirt. “All right. First of all, last night was the most beautiful of my life.” I felt my face growing hot, but plunged on anyway, because he deserved whatever eloquence I could muster at the moment. “Also the most pleasurable, by which I mean complete freaking ecstasy, as you maybe noticed, so I think we can safely say any lingering bad memories from my past have been thoroughly erased. Truly a blank slate. And finally,” I said, lifting my eyes at last, because he deserved that too, “I have never felt this way about anybody, Julian, not ever. Not even remotely close. You stand so… so high above any man I’ve ever met, so honorable and brilliant and charming and… and intense—no, please listen—and funny and sexy, oh my God, the most amazing lover, that picnic, how did you learn all that… I’ve run out of words, and there’s so much more I adore about you. I can’t… I tried, last night… I hope I showed you how much. When… when…” I felt the tears well up again, damn it, at the sight of his earnest enraptured face. “I’m sorry. I’m terrible at this. But I have to say it anyway.” My voice reduced to a sandpaper whisper; I put my hands on his chest, just below his collarbone, securing myself, and pushed out the words in a rush. “When we… that moment, Julian, when we first came together, fitting each other so perfectly… well, that was…” Say it, trust him. “… that was sacred to me. I want you to know that. And I hope… that maybe… it meant the same to you.”
His glittering eyes studied me for some time, and then with excruciating slowness he brought my face to his and kissed me, each movement of his lips so deliberate it left a wholly separate place in my memory.
I struggled upward, on my knees in the wide deep chair, straddling him; I put my hands around the back of his head and deepened the kiss, frantic for him, for every possible point of physical contact between us. The sheet slipped downward, and suddenly his need was as passionate as mine; we tumbled to the floor, past reason.
“TELL ME,” HE SAID, some time later, trailing his fingers through my hair, “about this pill of yours.”
I cleared my throat. “Well, my dear sir, it is ingested orally, once daily, during the four weeks of a human female’s reproductive cycle…”
“Darling, I’m not a complete caveman. I have some idea of how it works. But would it be too indelicate to ask why you were already taking it? When…” He stopped.
“When I wasn’t having any sex?” I twisted in his arms and rested my chin in my hands on the broad plane of his naked chest. We were lying together on the library rug, a plush thick Oriental weave, no doubt priceless. The white sheet coiled around us in an elaborate knot. Julian was staring up at the ceiling, a scarlet blush coloring his cheeks: whether from our recent vigorous exercise or general male embarrassment, I wasn’t quite sure. “Well, without getting into the icky details, it sort of smooths out the rough edges of that part of my life. Especially since I travel a lot for work. Or did.”
“I see.” His eyes squinted shut. Menstruation evidently wasn’t high on his list of conversation topics, for some reason. “And it’s reliable? Effective?”
“Don’t worry. Over ninety-nine percent, when taken as directed.”
“Which means?”
“Every morning, same time, never miss a day. Oh, crap!” I cried, jumping up. “Just a minute.” My legs tangled in the sheet, tripping me up as I staggered out of the library and raced up the stairs to my travel kit in the bathroom.
&n
bsp; He was there in the bedroom when I came out. “It’s all right, isn’t it?” he asked anxiously.
“Fine. Only an hour off from yesterday.” I tilted my head. He’d put his chinos back on, but not his shirt; obviously he’d come up in a hurry. “Um, relax. It’s okay. Not pregnant.”
“You’re sure?”
“A little jumpy, aren’t we?” I folded my arms. “Not that I want a baby just now, either, but it’s not like the world coming to an end. You did just vow eternal love, right?”
“I’m sorry.” His lips aimed a smile at me; he sat down on the bed and reached out his arm to draw me in between his legs. “I haven’t any experience with these things. It’s just I understand you modern women aren’t at all eager for babies straightaway, and I should hate to cause you any distress.”
“I like babies.” I smiled. “Someday.”
“Mine, perhaps?” His eyebrow arched.
“Julian. Of course yours. You,” I said, my brain leaving that thought behind, “are about the most beautiful man ever created. Look at you.” I ran my fingers admiringly along the neat taut line of his shoulders.
He rolled his eyes. “Your experience is clearly limited, my love, for which I’m very thankful. And now I think I’d better head back downstairs, before these”—he kissed each breast worshipfully—“lure me in again.”
“Oh, all right.” I ruffled his hair, not quite able to tell him I was feeling a bit saddle-sore myself. “I should probably shower and dress, anyway. I’ll be downstairs to make some lunch in a bit. And make the bed, too, I guess,” I added, with a wistful glance at the tangle of linens.
“I could help with that,” he offered, looking guilty.
“Actually, Julian,” I said, over my shoulder, as I walked back into the bathroom, “that would probably be counterproductive.”
I BROUGHT MY SANDWICH into the library so I could check my e-mail on the desktop computer. Julian was outside at the moment, turkey and Swiss in hand, barking into his headset, and I thought I’d take my chance while I could get it.
The inbox was full today. My parents had weighed in, full of indignation and concern over the firing, with oddly nothing to say about my sojourn with Julian; Michelle and Samantha, exactly the opposite. I replied to each one, as noncommittal as possible. What could I really tell them, after all? I glanced out the library window, which looked over the garden, and smiled at the sight of Julian pacing along the grass, snatching bites of his sandwich, talking apparently into the air.
And suddenly, without warning, I saw it. Saw him pacing, instead, along the duckboard of a muddy trench, wearing a belted khaki uniform and puttees, his cap pulled down low on his forehead, German shells screaming overhead. So terribly, piercingly real; I thought I could taste his very death in my mouth. The breath fled my body, leaving a hollow vacuum inside me.
Then it all shifted back to normal, and Julian stood in the warm May sunshine, surrounded by green meadow grass and the first wildflowers of summer. Safe. Here. Now. Mine.
I turned back to the computer, shaking. A new message had appeared at the top of my inbox. It was from Charlie, his personal e-mail account.
Hey dude, where are you? Tried your apt about fifty times, just got your freaky roommate. What is with that poor bitch? Anyway things are jumping here, wild rumors flying. I checked the network files and saw nothing weird, but did some bitching with the traders over a few beers last night and found out Alicia is doing the dirty with some guy in Compliance. Sounds fishy to me, no way she’s found true love with the back office. NOT ONLY THAT. I found out who your alleged counterparty is supposed to be. Southfield. So go ask your new boyfriend what’s up. Will try to get more. This is some fucked-up shit.
I stared at the screen for a moment, reading the message over a few times. I looked out the window again. I couldn’t see Julian anymore, and an instant later I heard the French door in the kitchen open and close. “Kate?” he called.
“In the library,” I called back.
“We’ve got that call with my lawyer in about fifteen minutes. What is it?” he asked, seeing the look on my face.
“Um, nothing. I mean, something. I don’t know. It’s kind of weird.” He gave me a quizzical look. “Just got an e-mail from Charlie, as a matter of fact. He—I don’t know, it might not be true, traders are so full of it…”
“What is it, Kate?”
“Well, I guess they’re saying the counterparty, I mean the supposed counterparty in my so-called information exchange, was Southfield.”
“My firm? Oh, that’s rot,” he said. “None of my traders would think of doing that. I’d have their heads, even if it weren’t you on the other end.”
“It wasn’t me.”
“You know what I mean.”
The phone rang in the kitchen. “That’s odd,” Julian said, starting out the doorway. “I assumed he would call my cell number.”
I followed him into the hall and down to the kitchen. He picked it up. “Daniel?” he asked. “I thought you…” Silence. I folded my arms and leaned against the doorway, watching Julian’s face turn from vague irritation, to surprise, to concern.
“I see,” he said. “No warning at all?… Yes, odd, certainly… Yes, I’d be happy to. May I have your number? Just a moment, please.” He motioned to me; I leapt for the notepad and pen and handed them to him. “Yes… yes… Thanks very much… If I might ask, how did you find this number? Ah, I see… yes, very good. Good-bye, then.”
He stood for a moment, staring down at the numbers scribbled on the notepad, tapping the pen against them.
“Well?” I asked. “What was that all about?”
“Nothing, really,” he said, not looking up.
“I thought you were finished with keeping things from me.”
He looked up. “What’s that?”
“Look,” I said, “if it’s really nothing, fine. I trust you. But if it’s something, do you mind telling me? Because I’ve gotten pretty involved at this point. If there’s something wrong in your life, I’d like to know about it. Maybe even help. If that’s okay with you.”
“Forgive me, sweetheart. Of course I trust you. It’s just I’m frankly so used to secrecy…” He shook his head. “I don’t quite know where to start.”
“Does it have to do with the reason we’re here? The disgruntled investors? The meetings in Boston?”
“Ah. Yes. You’ve a good memory.”
“Julian, I can put a few things together.” I frowned at him, doing just that. “Your meetings were at Harvard, weren’t they? But not the endowment fund. The professor, right? The one who wrote your biography. Hollander. He knows all about you, doesn’t he? So this is all starting to make sense. You go to visit him, and come out in a panic…”
He glared at me. “I don’t panic, Kate. I never panic. I only act on information.”
“So I’m right?”
“You’re too bloody clever, is what you are.” He ran an exasperated hand through his hair and tossed the pen onto the counter. “All right, then. Here it is. I came across Hollander’s book in, oh, ninety-seven or ninety-eight, in a bookstore in Park Slope. I was at rather an all-time low at that point; quite in despair. I’d no one to talk to. I’d found a quiet job in the Goldman back office, kept my head down, saw nobody, was ready to leap off the Brooklyn Bridge.”
I made a little sound at the back of my throat. I wanted to go to him, to comfort him, but he’d spoken so matter-of-factly, without any emotion at all, and I couldn’t quite bridge the distance. He was in full stiff-upper-lip mode.
“So I thought I’d take a chance. I sent him an e-mail, telling him I’d read his book, was terribly interested in the subject, could we have a meeting. His reply arrived almost immediately. I took a day’s leave from work and flew up to see him.” Julian turned around and leaned back against the kitchen counter, staring at the floor. “He knew who I was at once, of course. He was astonished, delighted. I suppose any historian would feel that way, to see his subje
ct walk in through his office door one morning. He accepted the fact of my existence with astonishing sangfroid; my world had always seemed so real, it was only later that the significance of it struck him at all.”
“Yeah, I’ve had a few professors like that.” I tried to smile.
“So he helped me. We talked a great deal, became friends. I nearly moved up to Boston, just for the company, but I was also becoming more interested in my work at Goldman. The slippery slope that eventually led down to starting up Southfield. In any case, he’s kept my secret, and in return I’ve helped him with his work, offering the contents of my memory for his examination. In the past few years things have been perhaps a touch less warm. He wasn’t pleased about Southfield. Ruddy old Marxist,” he said, with an affectionate little smile.
“So what happened?” I asked. “You met with him at Christmas, and then cut me off. You met with him two days ago, and fled here. And now this phone call. So I’m guessing the problem is not with some disgruntled Southfield investor, right? A wee white lie?”
He flinched. “I hated telling you that.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to push any buttons. I know you gentlemanly types have your codes.” I took a few steps toward him and touched his elbow. “In fact, they’re beginning to grow on me.”
His arm reached around me. “I was only trying to protect you,” he said softly.
“I know. I’m not mad.” I slipped my arms about his waist, felt the yield of his flesh, accepting me. “So tell me what happened at Christmas.”
His hand began to stroke my hair. “Someone had approached him about me, about the historical Julian Ashford. He’d read the biography, was particularly curious about Ashford’s final days, could he have a look at the primary materials?”
“What primary materials?”
“Oh, letters. My service notebook, that sort of thing. Hollander had facsimiles of all of them, from the current Ashfords. Hollander refused the request, of course, not knowing the chap from Adam. That was the day you came to see me at the house.”
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