Only This Night (Silhouette Reissued)

by Suzanne Simms

  It was impossible to pinpoint just when she first became aware of the strange tingling sensation at the back of her neck. One moment it wasn’t there; the next it was. She wasn’t imagining things, Brenna assured herself. The hair at her nape was literally standing on end. It was the oddest thing—a pinprick of intense heat that somehow left her feeling chilled. It didn’t make sense. She knew that But there was simply no other way to describe it. It was like being hot and cold in the same instant.

  Slowly turning her head, Brenna half expected to find the French doors that led to the terrace standing wide open. But the doors were shut tight. And, besides, the evening was unseasonably warm even for the middle of June.

  Then she saw him. He was standing some distance away, his eyes black and liquid as they leisurely took in her appearance, starring with her half-parted lips and working down to her long, well-shaped legs, pausing along the way to survey in intimate detail the soft thrust of her breasts and the rounded curve of her hips.

  At first she was outraged. Just who in the hell did he think he was, anyway? Then Brenna drew in a long breath. She knew that face! It was older and wiser than she remembered, but by God, she knew that face! She knew that determined jut of a masculine chin, that shock of hair that was nearly as black as coal, that mouth with its sensual curl at the edges. He’d been dangerously, devastatingly handsome even as a youth. He was no less so now that he was a man. Then a name popped into her head.

  Garrett Forsyte …

  She was sixteen. She was at the library one evening researching a term paper on Swinburne for her honors English class. The time had gotten away from her, as it often did in those days; when she came out of the library it was already pitch-dark. It occurred to her that the wisest thing to do was go back inside and call her father, but one wasn’t always wise at sixteen. Instead, she decided to walk the mile or so from the library to her house.

  She was only halfway home when a gang of teenage boys drove by, leaving in their wake the echo of catcalls and derisive whistles, and some empty beer cans. Brenna kept her eyes glued to the sidewalk ahead, her back ramrod straight; but it seemed that her bravado didn’t fool them a minute. They were intent on harassing somebody, anybody, and she had innocently and unluckily become their target that night.

  They made another circle around the block, this time slowing down as they approached her. She didn’t recognize any of the boys in the car and could only assume they were from out of town. When their catcalls became abusive and then obscene, Brenna knew real fear for the first time in her life.

  There had been no place to run, no one to turn to. Brenna could still remember the awful taste of bile in her throat, the way her heart pounded in her chest—until she was quite sure the boys could smell her fear.

  And then it happened. Another car pulled over to the side of the road. The driver leaned over and jerked the door open on the passenger’s side and called out to her. It was Garrett Forsyte.

  “Get in, Brenna,” he growled at her in that gravelly baritone that had been his even at seventeen.

  She stood there a moment, undecided; then with one quick glance at the other car, she scrambled inside. She didn’t know Garrett well, but she knew of his reputation. He was supposed to be one of the wild ones at Mansfield High School. One of those boys who drank and smoked and did God-knew-what when it came to girls. Yes, she’d heard about Garrett Forsyte, but at the moment he seemed the lesser of the two evils she faced.

  Brenna got into the car with him that night and she would remember long afterward the way he softly swore under his breath as he demanded to know what the hell she was doing out alone after dark, anyway. Didn’t she have an ounce of common sense?

  “I was researching a paper at the library,” she answered, proudly choking back the tears. No one had dared speak to her in that manner before. “I guess I forgot the time,” she added lamely.

  Garrett took her home then, without another word. As she got out of his car in front of her parents’ house, Brenna had finally turned to him.

  “Thank you, Garrett I… I don’t know what I would’ve done if you hadn’t come along.”

  “Forget it, kid,” he’d drawled, nonchalantly lighting a cigarette before barreling off again. The incident had obviously been of little consequence to him one way or the other.

  It was some weeks later that Brenna realized he might have been embarrassed to find himself playing the unlikely role of a white knight But she never forgot his unexpected kindness to her. Never…

  She never told anyone about that night, either. Not even her best friend, Jane. It would have seemed presumptuous, somehow. Brenna knew all too well she wasn’t the type of girl someone like Garrett Forsyte would be interested in. Every pretty girl in Mansfield High School and the surrounding county was after him. Still, she never thought of him in quite the same way after his gallant rescue.

  There was only one other memory Brenna had of Garrett Forsyte. It was in the late spring of that year, just before graduation. In fact, it was Senior Day. Most of their class was gathered in the gymnasium to sign yearbooks. With courage in hand, she marched up to Garrett and asked him to write in hers. He took the yearbook she handed him and scribbled a few words. She uttered a polite thank-you, not expecting him to reciprocate, which he didn’t.

  Brenna made a point of not reading his note until she was alone. When she opened her yearbook later, she was surprised at what she found. For Garrett had written, “To Brenna, with the big brown eyes. Remember never to go walking alone at night Best of luck, G.” She knew then he’d not forgotten that night, either.

  And that was what Brenna remembered when she looked up and saw that same dark, compelling gaze holding hers now. But there was a distinct difference, and no one had to tell her what it was. She could see the masculine appreciation in the man’s eyes. She was an attractive woman, and apparently Garrett Forsyte had just found that out for himself.

  “Well, I’ll be!”

  Startled, Brenna quickly turned around and saw a tall, lanky, brown-haired man walking toward her with Susan at his side.

  “Hello, Robert.” She smiled, holding out her hand.

  She could tell at once that Robert Whitfield was at a loss for words. Oh, his eyes were lit up with recognition all right, but he didn’t even notice the hand she had extended to him. Good Lord, was it going to be like this the entire weekend? She was beginning to feel like the center act in a three-ring circus!

  “Susan told me you were here, of course,” Robert was saying as he shook his head in disbelief. “It sure has been a long time, Brenna.”

  “Yes, it has been a long time, hasn’t it?” she responded, voicing the first banality that came to mind.

  “I understand you’re from Chicago now,” the man went on. “Don’t think you’ll win a prize for coming the longest distance, though.”

  “Win a prize?” This was news to Brenna.

  “Yeah, Susan and I were kind of hoping to win for the couple married the longest, but I don’t know …” He was shaking his head again. “Some of these kids got married practically the same week we were graduated.”

  Susan finally took pity on her and explained. “The reunion committee hands out prizes for the graduate who travels the greatest distance to get here, to the couple married the longest, to the couple with the most children. You know, that kind of silly stuff.”

  “Oh!” It was all Brenna could think of to say. “In that case, I won’t expect to win in any of the categories, whatever they may be,” she said, biting her lip against the ridiculous smile that insisted on surfacing despite her best efforts.

  “Didn’t they give you a copy of the class-reunion book as you came in the door?” Robert inquired with far more concern than the situation warranted.

  “I guess they did hand me something when I registered,” Brenna confessed, reaching into her handbag. “I didn’t have a chance to look at it yet.”

  “Susan and I are listed under the class couples who got
married,” he announced with a measure of pride in his voice. “That ought to get us a centerpiece, anyway.”

  “I think we’d better go find ourselves a table first, Robert,” his wife interjected. “You know how fast they fill up once dinner is announced. You will join us, won’t you, Brenna?”

  It was an invitation she found impossible to refuse. “I’d be delighted to join you. But why don’t you two go on ahead? I want to make a stop before we sit down for the banquet.”

  “We’ll be sure to save you a place,” the Whitfields promised as they linked arms and headed for the dining room.

  The minute they were under way, Brenna went in search of the ladies’ room. She needed a few moments of solitude to fortify herself for the evening ahead. Her nose certainly didn’t require the extra pat of translucent powder she gave it. She ran a comb through hair that had already been brushed to a smooth, satiny sheen. It was the old monster Insecurity rearing its ugly head. Brenna knew herself too well to pretend otherwise. You could take the girl out of the small town, but could you take the small town out of the girl? She’d been halfway around the world, and yet here she was suddenly petrified by the thought of facing these people.

  Lance, Garrett, Marla, Susan … A dozen other names and faces flitted through her mind. Memories could wreak such havoc with one’s peace of mind. Surely after all these years she had laid her ghosts to rest. Surely there was nothing here that could hurt her now.

  After all, Mansfield, Indiana, was just one small speck in a very big world. Hadn’t she forgotten and forgiven everyone a long time ago—including herself? She was thirty-two years old, for God’s sake! She was an intelligent, attractive, successful woman. She had been married to a man who could have had any woman; and yet Daniel had adored her—only her.

  With her head held a little higher, Brenna Phillips Richards took a deep breath and opened the door of the ladies’ room. She was halfway down the hall when that strange tingling sensation struck again. Then a voice stopped Brenna dead in her tracks.

  “I don’t know which of us has been the greater shock to them,” came the rich timbre of the man’s baritone.

  It was a voice out of her past. A voice she now knew she’d never forgotten. Her fingers clenched the silk bag in her hand as she swung around to find the impeccably dressed figure standing directly behind her.

  “Hello, Brenna.” His drawl was as smooth and slippery as new winter ice—and just as precarious, in her estimation.

  Brenna raised a steady, cool gaze to meet his. “Well, hello, Garrett.”

  2

  Then it came again, neatly slicing the air between them, a totally masculine voice that was like tempered steel sheathed in velvet On the surface it was disarmingly soft and smooth; yet there was, unmistakably, a fine cutting edge beneath. It proved to be an infuriating distraction when combined with the man’s dark, fathomless eyes, ridiculously long, sooty lashes, and thick, jet black hair.

  “Brenna with the lovely, big, brown eyes.” Garrett examined her curiously. “Only they aren’t really brown, are they?” he mused in that deep baritone of his.

  Brenna inhaled deeply, struggling to keep her voice even. “According to my driver’s license, they are.”

  He appeared to consider this for a minute, then imperceptibly shook his head. “They’re green. Definitely green, with minute flecks of gold,” he insisted as if it were somehow his prerogative to do so.

  As she brushed a strand of hair back off her face, Brenna could only hope that her nonchalance was convincing. “Perhaps it’s my dress,” she insisted a little too loudly, one hand nervously fingering a fold of the jade-colored silk.

  Why was it suddenly so difficult to breathe? And her hands. They were actually damp with perspiration. There was only one logical answer, of course. The strain of attending the reunion was beginning to take its toll on her already, physically as well as emotionally. And this insane conversation with Garrett wasn’t helping matters any. After all, she hadn’t seen him in nearly fifteen years, and here they were discussing the color of her eyes as if it were a matter of national importance. She would have laughed right in his face if she’d been able to laugh at all.

  Then Garrett took a step toward her, his gaze dropping to the name tag prominently displayed above her right breast. There was just the slightest flicker of annoyance in his eyes to betray him, a scarcely discernible tightening of the skin around his mouth.

  “You’re married,” he said, looking at her in cool appraisal.

  “I… I was married,” she stammered, the words ringing hollow even to her own ears.

  Apparently, he was a man who didn’t believe in mincing words. “Are you divorced?” Garrett demanded in a voice that made no pretense at subtlety.

  Brenna found herself being equally blunt in return. “No, I’m not divorced. I’m a widow.”

  The man’s expression quickly settled into a frown, his dark brows drawing together. “I see. … I’m sorry, Brenna. I didn’t know.”

  Under his scrutiny, the color rose sharply to her cheeks. “I never thought for a moment you did.”

  But she was suddenly angry with him, and the reason for it escaped her. Then she saw it again, that predatory look in Garrett’s eyes. A look she’d seen in the eyes of too many men in the past several years not to recognize it now when it was staring her in the face. Oh, this man might be a little smoother around the edges, a little less blatant about it, but his intentions were perfectly clear to her all the same.

  She’d long ago lost count of just how many men had volunteered their services, offering to “comfort” her, to put her out of her “misery”—as if she were starving for any crumbs of affection they might care to toss her way. A widow was considered fair game by the male of the species, like some poor, defenseless animal at the outset of the hunting season. Well, Garrett Forsyte would simply have to learn as the others of his sex had. Brenna Richards was anything but defenseless!

  And two could play at this game of his! Her marital status was no one’s business but her own. Let the man think what he would. Turnabout was fair play in her book. Especially when it came to a man like Garrett who seemed to have the deck already stacked in his favor.

  “What about you, Garrett?” she finally asked, failing to mask her annoyance. “Are you married? Divorced?” Brenna deliberately instilled a hint of scorn in her tone. “Or perhaps you’re still single?”

  She read the momentary surprise in his expression. And little wonder. The Brenna he remembered had been such a mouse when it came to the opposite sex. She would never have dared to challenge him.

  Then, quite unexpectedly, Garrett’s tanned face dissolved into a broad smile. “Well, well,” he drawled. “It seems you’ve changed in more ways than one, my dear classmate.”

  “It’s just as obvious you haven’t changed at all,” Brenna heard herself sputter.

  Of course, it was a ridiculous thing to say. They’d all changed in the years since high school, and Garrett Forsyte was no exception. It was apparent from the expensive detailing of his navy blue blazer and the exotic scent of his cologne that he was no longer the kid from the wrong side of the tracks. This sophisticated-looking man was light-years away from the rebellious teenager who’d had such a chip on his shoulder.

  In those days Garrett had been out to prove to the world—and Mansfield, Indiana, in particular—that he didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him. He seemed to delight in flaunting his disregard for what the small midwestern town considered proper behavior. He was the kind of socially precocious boy who attracted girls like bees to honey. In fact, most of his time and energy had been spent in living up to the reputation he’d made for himself. He never got into any real trouble that Brenna knew of, but in her opinion it was a miracle he had finished school at all. And she hadn’t been alone in thinking that.

  “Are you sure you haven’t missed anything?” Garrett dropped the question with complete aplomb.

  Brenna blinked several times
in quick succession, realizing that she was staring at him unabashedly. Then a reckless, impulsive smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Taking a deliberate step backward, she allowed her gaze to slide suggestively down the length of his long, lean body. “On second thought,” she mused, “perhaps you have changed at that.”

  There was no denying his shoulders had filled out to an astounding, muscular breadth, although it appeared his waistline was as taut as it had been fifteen years before. Then, too, at one time there had been a kind of piratic swagger to his walk. Over the years that had mellowed to the confident stance befitting a successful and mature man. The eyes still held a challenge for anyone who dared to take him on, but there seemed to be less bitterness now in their blue-black depths. Garrett Forsyte was a man, all right. A man to be reckoned with on a far more subtle and dangerous level than the boy he’d once been.

  Once he was satisfied that she had concluded her perusal of him, Garrett covered the distance between them in a single step, all six feet and more of him awesomely towering over her. “You’ve turned into one hell of a gutsy lady, among other things, Brenna Richards.” Then his head went back and he laughed, a laugh that clearly said he was enjoying himself. “I like that I can remember a time when you wouldn’t have had the nerve to look me in the eye.” His smile slowly faded to a frown as he folded his arms across his chest. “You never quite approved of me, though, did you, Brenna?”

  “You know as well as I do that you never gave a damn whether anyone approved of you. You didn’t then, and I don’t believe you do now.” Her retort was sharp, but her eyes sparkled with humor. “You always were incorrigible, Garrett, and something tells me that hasn’t changed.” Then she laughed softly. “You realize, of course, that anyone overhearing this conversation would think we’re both slightly crazy. Aren’t you supposed to be asking me where I live now or what I do or something of an equally mundane nature? And shouldn’t I be inquiring what line of business you’re in?”

  Garrett paused for a moment, looking down at her, his eyes smoldering dark, like coals. “We always were different, you and I, each in his own way.” Then he gave a little crack of laughter. “I’ll tell you what I’d really like to know,” Garrett said, his look quickening with interest. “I’d like to know what made you decide to attend this reunion.”