by Kay Hooper
Restless, Erin rose from the chair by her phone and went out into her sitting room, absently tightening the belt of her robe. She opened the French doors leading onto her balcony, and stepped out into the coolness of the predawn quiet that was broken only by the pounding of the waves. The balcony overlooked Miami’s famous expanse of white beach. First light was seeping in the east, beginning to separate the horizon into sky and ocean.
It was peaceful. She could see that, but couldn’t feel it herself. What she felt was frustration, guilt, and a grinding uncertainty about the direction her future should take. But above all, she felt isolated.
The realization had barely crossed her mind when Erin heard a soft sound, the creak of a chaise as weight was shifted slightly. She looked quickly to the right, the first stab of unease fading as she remembered what the desk clerk had told her. Her suite connected to the one next to it; big double doors between the rooms could be opened if a guest wanted a much larger suite. Now the balcony was shared, so a stout lattice-work screen fashioned of steel strips was bolted firmly in place in the center to provide privacy to both occupants of the suites. For good measure, there were additional folding screens on either side of the divider to be used if even more privacy was needed.
The latticework of the steel screen was closely woven, so that Erin could see nothing at first. Then a faint red glow became briefly visible, and an elusive aroma of tobacco told her that her neighbor was smoking. Erin hesitated, wary of speaking to a stranger, but both her background and her overwhelming sense of isolation drove her to acknowledge the presence of someone else.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she said, resting her hands on the waist-high masonry wall and turning her attention back toward the shimmering grayness of the sea and sky.
After a moment, a man responded, “Very beautiful. Very peaceful.” His voice was deep and low, with a slight hint of restraint or tension.
Erin unconsciously tilted her head a bit as she listened to the voice rather than the words. In her father’s world, where gamesmanship was subtle and careful, she had learned to pay more attention to tone and nuance, to all the things never spelled out in words. It was second nature to her to do so.
And what she heard in this man’s voice intrigued her. The tension, she thought, seemed more physical than emotional, as if he were too tired or too edgy to relax. There was strength in his voice as well, power, a kind of certainty that told her he was very sure of his place in the world around him. Erin wanted to hear more, wanted to define the other things she heard, the shades and shadows and undercurrents. She forgot about merely being polite and courteous.
“I’ve always been an early riser,” she said, keeping her own voice carefully neutral. “You too?”
As before, a moment passed before he answered. “I work nights. This is the end of a day for me.”
Which explained the tension, Erin decided. He hadn’t yet wound down enough to rest. She wanted to ask what his job was, thinking with mild curiosity that it must be temporary work of some kind since he was staying in a hotel, but she didn’t want to seem too nosy. “I’m on vacation,” she offered, still gazing out at the dark ocean. “And even now I can’t make myself sleep late.”
“Habits are difficult to break.” His voice was a shade more relaxed now, but still slow and measured, reminding her of the tone her father used when he was talking to someone he hadn’t quite made up his mind about.
She nodded, even though she knew he couldn’t see her as anything more than a shadow. “Habits. Schedules. Sometimes I think the worst thing mankind ever did was invent a way of measuring time. We’ve become slaves to clocks.” Listening to herself, Erin had to laugh. “Sorry. Dawn brings out the worst in me.”
“It’s a time of transition,” the man said quietly. “It doesn’t exist in itself except as a few minutes between night and day, a time when we ask ourselves the tough questions.”
She thought he had probably asked himself a lot of tough questions. It was in his voice, something subtle she had heard only in the voices of highly intelligent, very powerful men. It was the sound of an intense inner drive that wasn’t ambition for its own sake but rather a profound desire to accomplish something of importance.
“But when do the answers come?” she murmured.
“Another dawn. If we’re lucky.”
Still listening more to his voice than the words, Erin deliberately lightened the subject. “I’m not so sure I believe in luck. I always lose at card games. Now, is that bad luck or just an inability to play cards?”
“Is your memory good?” he asked.
“Very good.”
A thread of amusement entered his voice. “Then you’re simply not paying attention to the cards. Skill at card games is almost entirely a matter of concentration.”
“I do tend to let my mind wander,” she admitted, smiling as she watched the sky lighten. “Winning a card game never seemed very important.”
“Not unless you bet the kingdom,” he said.
She laughed softly. “I never bet more than I can afford to lose.”
“Wise of you.”
Dawn was, as he’d observed, minutes only; light was gaining strength. Erin felt a sudden and peculiarly vivid regret at losing the anonymity of darkness. As brief as this time had been, she felt more at peace now. And, perhaps oddly, she had no inclination to see the face of her neighbor, or ask his name. It was pleasant, the lack of any demand in the faceless, nameless conversation, and she felt no need to change their relationship.
In her experience, knowledge brought demands between people, and that was the last thing she wanted right now.
Trying to keep the regret out of her voice, she said, “I should let you rest. Besides, another habit of mine is running every morning.”
“You should be careful,” he said. “This isn’t the safest part of the world.”
She could have told him that she had taken her daily run in places where soldiers patrolled. Where, in fact, wars had raged outside carefully marked and guarded neutral ground. But what she said was, “Thanks, I will. It’s been nice talking to you.”
“Likewise.”
Erin retreated from the balcony, closing the French doors and automatically locking them. She went to change into her sweat suit, glancing, this time, at the double doors leading into the other suite; the doors were securely locked, of course.
Her father would have told her she’d been foolish in talking to a strange man, in telling him she ran every morning on the beach. She wondered why she’d done it. Not that it mattered. She had a feeling her neighbor was as disinclined to meet her as she was to meet him, so he was unlikely to pursue a friendship.
Changing into her sweat suit and running shoes, Erin amused herself by imagining the most likely—or unlikely—face and personality for her quiet neighbor. He was probably on the shady side of fifty, she decided, and his “work” was some high-stakes poker game played in a dark and smoke-filled room somewhere.
The talk of card games must have put that into her head, she realized.
He’d left a wife and kiddies back in Topeka while he followed some obscure poker circuit, winning and losing fortunes over the years…
Erin frowned slightly, pulled from the fantasy by the instincts that were telling her she was way off base. There had been too much strength in his voice to allow for the transient, risky life of a gambler, too much depth to permit him to be anything so trivial.
She glanced at the big double doors again as she passed through the sitting room on her way out, and ruthlessly ignored her growing curiosity. Absurd. Her own isolation was putting ridiculous ideas into her head, making her speculate without any good reason. Her neighbor was just a man, that was all, a man who had talked to her for a few quiet moments on a dark balcony.
She took her key and left the suite, determinedly ignoring the door just down the hall as she headed for the elevator. But she noticed the Do Not Disturb sign he’d hung out. Symbolic, she decided.
He didn’t want to be disturbed—and neither did she.
—
As the slender young woman took the walkway to the beach and broke into an easy jog, a very old man stepped from the shadows near a cabana and watched her. The first rays of the morning sun touched him, illuminating his white suit and his thick, snowy hair and beard in a way that seemed just a bit unreal. He propped elegant hands on a gold-headed cane, the pose suggesting thoughtfulness rather than infirmity.
After a few moments, he turned his head and looked upward, his dark, benign gaze searching until it located a particular balcony a dozen floors up. There was a figure up there that might have been a man, his attention fixed on the beach and the young woman taking her morning run.
The old man watched the younger for some time, his stillness complete, dark eyes very intent. It was as if he were listening to some soft, far-off voice that demanded his utmost attention. Then, imperceptibly, he relaxed, and a singularly sweet smile curved his lips.
“Now, then,” he said in a rich, gentle baritone, nodding slightly to himself. “Now, then, we’ll see.”
—
Keith Donovan leaned his forearms on the balcony wall and watched the lone figure running along the beach. He was too far away to have a clear look at her. All he could be certain about was how slender she was and how long her red hair was.
And an incredible voice. A slight accent, very faint—more cosmopolitan, he thought, than anything else. But that voice…musical and oddly haunting, unusually expressive, it had pulled at him in a way he’d never felt before.
He told himself he was just tired. The past months had left him feeling so disconnected that a sweet voice on a dark balcony had seemed a lifeline. That was it. That was why her voice had affected him this way.
It wasn’t a reassuring thought. He couldn’t afford any distractions, couldn’t spare the emotional energy for—for what? Keith frowned, his gaze still on the tiny figure now almost out of sight. What was he worried about? She certainly hadn’t indicated that he was anything more than a neighbor she had spoken to out of politeness. The conversation had been brief, and she had neither offered her name nor asked to know his.
So why did he feel so affected by her? The question was troubling, and Keith brushed it away almost violently. He forced himself to turn away, to retreat inside his room and firmly close the balcony doors. With a long, tense night behind him, he needed sleep, but he had discovered it was difficult for him to wind down, to drop his guard and rest. That was why he’d developed the habit of sitting out on his balcony and watching the dawn each morning, needing the interlude of peace.
The conversation with the woman had helped him to relax, he knew, but he didn’t like it. Still, having learned to take what came, he blanked his mind and went to bed.
It was afternoon when he rose, and he quite deliberately avoided going out onto his balcony even though his curiosity about the woman had increased. He ordered room service, remaining in his suite because that, too, was habit, cautious habit. Careful, wary habit. The fewer people who saw him, the less chance there was of the wrong person seeing him in the wrong place and out of character.
But today, for the first time, he was edgy, restless. He left the suite only once, going to the hotel’s gym to work out as he sometimes did, needing the exercise but, even more, needing an outlet for tension and excess energy. Today, it didn’t seem to help much. The hours between waking and leaving to go to the boat seemed to stretch forever, and it was a relief when he finally left his suite just after eight that evening. As usual, he took the stairs and left the hotel unobtrusively by a side exit.
He changed between hotel and boat: He changed his clothes and hair, his posture, his voice. He pushed from his mind a quiet hotel suite, a darkened balcony, a soft voice, and peace. When he stepped onto the boat, he was someone else. Someone whose laugh held a reckless, ruthless, dangerous edge.
—
It was after four the next morning when he returned to his silent hotel suite. He showered, washing away the clinging scents of cheap perfume, smoke, and liquor, then wrapped a towel around his waist and went out onto the dark balcony. He was as weary as usual, yet this morning was different and he was conscious of the difference only after he’d settled into the chaise.
He was listening, he realized. He was waiting for the soft click of French doors opening on the other side of the security screen, for the whisper of silk as she moved. He had heard both the morning before, despite the muted roar of the waves far below, and he was listening for the sounds now.
Keith shook his head slightly. This was absurd, he told himself. And dangerous. He’d chosen, eyes wide open, to stand alone in this, and he had no right forming even a transient relationship with anyone who wasn’t involved in what he was doing.
He stared out at the dark ocean, telling himself to go back inside, to simply cut the tenuous connection before it could become something too important to lose. But even as the wary voice inside him murmured that warning, he couldn’t help but question it. What was he risking, after all? A few minutes of dawn peace shared with a stranger. And besides, she probably wouldn’t even come out again.
The thought had barely registered when he heard the soft click of her balcony doors, the whisper of silk as she moved. He felt her presence on the other side of the screen with an intensity that took him by surprise, and he couldn’t stop himself from greeting her.
“Good morning.”
“Good morning.”
She was disturbed, he realized instantly; it was in her voice, a tremor that could have been pain or anger—or both. He found himself turning slightly toward the screen, staring at it as if he could penetrate it and the darkness. But he couldn’t, of course, not with his eyes.
“Bad night?” he asked quietly.
A kind of laugh reached his ears, a sound that held very little humor. “No, the night was all right.”
He was silent for a moment, then spoke in the same quiet, undemanding tone. “Sometimes, it’s easier to talk to a stranger when we’re upset. And easier to be honest in the darkness.”
“Dawn questions?”
“Only if you want me to ask them,” he told her. “I’ll listen, if you do. Maybe the answers will come.”
If she hesitated, it was momentary, and when she spoke again her voice was taut. “How do you tell someone you love that you can’t be what he wants you to be?”
Keith felt a strange pang that he refused to acknowledge. “What does he want you to be?”
“There.” She laughed, again with no humor. “Just there, on the edge of his life. Playing the role he wants me to play. Shaping my life to fit his.”
“And you can’t do that?”
“I have. For a long time. And it’s…smothering me. The demands and expectations. It wouldn’t be so bad if I felt useful, that I mattered. But all his attention is devoted to his work, and sometimes I think I’m invisible to him. I have to break away. At least, I think I do. But I don’t know how to tell him without hurting him. And I don’t know what I’ll do after.”
“What do you want to do?” Keith asked.
She sighed. “I don’t know. That’s one reason I’m here, to try and figure it out. And now…This morning, when I called, he told me to come home. Back to London. He can’t find anything, he said, and his secretary is hopeless. He needs me to keep his life running smoothly.”
“That doesn’t make you feel that you matter to him?”
“No. Someone else could do what I do. It isn’t me he values, it’s what I do for him.”
Keith hesitated, then repeated, “What do you want to do?”
“I don’t want to go back. Not yet. It’s such a strong habit, to be what he expects, that I’m afraid I’ll just take the path of least resistance if I go back now.”
He couldn’t help but wonder, with another strange and unacknowledged pang, if they were discussing her husband or lover. It sounded that way, he thought. He didn’t want to ask outright, wa
ry of being something other than the disinterested and impersonal voice he had promised to be. So he kept his voice soft, his questions dispassionate.
“Did you tell him?”
“No. I told him I was enjoying my vacation, told him I need the break.”
“Why can’t you tell him the truth?”
“I don’t want to hurt him.”
“You’re hurting yourself by remaining silent. Wouldn’t that hurt him if he knew?”
“I don’t know.”
She sounded a little lost now, and he responded instinctively to that pain. “You aren’t sure he loves you?”
“No, I’m sure he does. It’s just…well, his career is the most important thing in his life. I think he expects it to be the most important thing in my life too. You see, I’m something of an asset to his career. He’s told me that more than once. Others have told me as well.”
Keith was too curious to let that pass. “How are you an asset?” he asked. For a long moment, it seemed as though she wouldn’t answer, but then she did, her voice holding a hint of constraint.
“It’s difficult to explain. There were people he was having trouble making connections with until I began to act as his hostess at dinners and parties. People would tell me things they wouldn’t tell him, things he needed to know. He says I have the knack of listening.”
Frowning in the darkness, Keith said, “He’s using you.” There was a slight sound on the other side of the screen, as if she moved almost instinctively in protest.
“It didn’t seem so at first. Meeting people, talking to them. I never got information damaging to anyone, just little things, bits and pieces that might have given him an edge. I was willing to do it. It’s important, what he does, and I agree with his goals. Usually.”
“But not always.” It wasn’t a question.
“No. No, not always.” Her voice turned rueful. “But he says that I don’t understand the large picture, the long-term view of things. That my duty is to tell him whatever I learn and let him decide what’s to be done with the knowledge.”