Men of Intrgue A Trilogy

by Doreen Owens Malek

  He turned his head and met her gaze again. “So? What do you say?”

  “About the condition?”

  “Yeah.”

  Karen looked him over carefully and he had the good grace to flush. She understood the workings of his mind better than he thought. To him, sex was fine as long as it remained a sport to be shared with casual acquaintances, but he didn’t want to risk sleeping with someone who might actually care about him. Karen’s recent interest in his welfare had proved that she fell into the latter category, and making love to her now posed a risk of personal involvement he wouldn’t take.

  “I promise not to ravish you,” she finally said dryly.

  He stared back at her, his color deepening.

  “Of course it may be difficult, but I think I’ll be able to restrain myself,” she added consideringly.

  “Very funny,” he observed darkly, looking away.

  “I’ll tell Miss Mandeville we’ll take the cottage,” Karen said, turning to go.

  “Karen?” he called after her. Karen turned back.

  “Why are you doing this for me?” Colter asked. He seemed genuinely puzzled.

  She faced him squarely. “Because whether you’ll admit it or not, right now you need someone, and I seem to be the only candidate for the job.” She headed for the door, calling back to him, “I’ll be in to see you in the morning.”

  He followed her departure with his eyes, aware that he was getting involved with a woman unlike any he’d met before.

  * * * *

  Colter lay awake long after Karen had left him. Night quiet descended on the hospital corridor and the lights were dimmed, leaving only the old fashioned hall lanterns burning. He could hear the now familiar nocturnal sounds punctuating the stillness: the padding of rubber soled shoes on the tiled floor, the swish and click of a nursing sister’s beads, the rattle of ice in the metal water carafes as an aide refilled them. The coughing man across the hall was still coughing, and the moaner in the room adjacent to his was still moaning. It was a typical night on the third floor and he, typically, couldn’t sleep.

  But this time it wasn’t the pain from his wound that kept him awake. That had subsided to a dull, throbbing ache and had become so much a part of him that he hardly noticed it anymore. It was the subject of Karen that occupied his mind as he stared at the rain streaming down his windowpane, Karen’s presence in Belfast that he couldn’t forget.

  When he first awoke after his shooting and saw her standing at his beside, he’d thought he was dreaming. But when he looked again and she was still there, he realized that the hospital administration had summoned her. Then all he could think about was getting her to leave, an effort that had met with a spectacular lack of success. He soon discovered that she was as stubborn as he was and as tenacious as poverty. She wasn’t going home.

  Which left him with a significant problem: how to deal with a woman who wanted to give more than she was getting, whether that was a night of pleasure in his bed or the rescue of a comrade. Colter was accustomed to thinking of relationships in terms of barter, a trade of one commodity for another. Karen Walsh didn’t fit into this set picture and that fact made him very nervous.

  Colter stirred and settled his injured side more comfortably against the pillows at his back. His left arm was becoming more mobile as the torn muscles along his side knitted and healed. The bullet had carved its path of destruction very neatly, exiting out his back. He remembered clearly the moment of impact when it had ripped into him and he’d said to himself, I’m hit. He’d been shot before, and he always reacted calmly, but it took him only seconds to realize that this time the injury was far worse than his previous surface wounds. Blood poured from his chest and his legs refused to function; he’d felt as if he were walking, dreamlike, through a sea of molasses. For the first time in his life he’d felt faint as the red river of life flowed out of his veins, leaving him staggered and dizzy. He’d been dimly aware of the stretcher, the ambulance, the scared young intern who didn’t know quite what to do for him during the trip to the hospital. But it wasn’t until he reached the emergency room and saw the grave expressions on the attendants there that he had felt the flash of panic and knew he might die. And in that instant he’d remembered Karen’s face, a pale oval surrounded by a cloud of dark hair, and the touch of her lips on his. Who would care if he bought the farm right there? He’d known somehow that she would, and his momentary weakness then had led to his present predicament.

  The rain increased in volume, drumming on the ancient slate roof above him, and he closed his eyes, listening to it. It wasn’t that he didn’t want Karen; he wanted her too much. But she posed a threat to the distant, uninvolved existence he’d come to call his own, and he didn’t want to change it. He was too old to take that kind of a chance.

  His subconscious, however, refused to be instructed along those lines. Ever since the night when she’d melted into his arms on that Caracas beach, he’d been tormented by erotic dreams in which he’d imagined, alternatively, her helpless submission or her aggressive pursuit. In some scenarios she was ardent, clinging, shuddering under him with complete abandon; in others she was wild, tearing at his clothes, as eager and passionate as he was. But now, confronted by her reality and the possibility of fulfilling these imaginings, he felt like running for the nearest exit.

  His courage, he found, was the physical variety, confined to combat. He couldn’t accept the challenge of joining his life to another person’s. He saw the prospect of a close relationship as yet another opportunity to be abandoned and so it had never held much charm for him.

  But what really scared him more than anything else was that Karen seemed different. He found himself wanting to go for broke with her, and so his defensive reaction was to tell her to get lost. But she wasn’t listening and he had an uneasy feeling he’d finally met his match.

  A crack of thunder split the hush of the hospital night and Colter jumped, wishing he had a cigarette. He looked at the clock on the wall, urging time to pass faster.

  Karen would be back the next day and he couldn’t wait to see her.

  * * * *

  When Karen returned in the morning, she announced that she’d made the arrangements to rent the cottage.

  “You’ll have to go to the bank for me,” Colter said gruffly in response, obviously uncomfortable. He didn’t like asking her to run the errand for him. “It’s the Belfast Maritime on the corner of Merchant Street. I’ll fill out the withdrawal slip and call them so you can take it in for me.”

  “You have a bank account here?” Karen asked, surprised.

  “I’ve got them all over,” he said shortly. “It’s more convenient than having to wire Florida every time I need some spare change.”

  “You keep your money in different countries?” Karen said, intrigued with the idea.

  “Several.”

  “But how do you decide where?”

  He fixed her with a gimlet eye. “Are you taking a survey?”

  “I’m just interested,” she said, mildly offended.

  He sighed. “I opened accounts where I’ve spent the most time, where I’m more likely to...”

  “Get shot and be laid up?” Karen suggested.

  “Need money,” he finished calmly. “Now can we get back to the original topic? I want to pay for this place you’re renting and I also have to settle my bill here. I asked Mrs. Schanley to come and see me later.”

  Karen was silent.

  “Is there some problem with that?” he asked, reading her face.

  “I already paid it,” Karen said in a small voice, thinking that it would be better for him to receive this bulletin from her than from the hospital administrator.

  “What?” he said tersely, certain that he’d misunderstood.

  “You heard me.”

  Colter stared at her with the stony expression that she knew concealed a white hot anger he was unwilling to show.

  “You were unconscious,” Karen said defens
ively, “and Mrs. Schanley was making noises about your not being on the National Health...”

  “Fine,” he interjected sharply, cutting her off. “Then I’ll authorize two drafts, and you make one to the exact amount you paid. Do you understand me?”

  “Of course I understand,” she snapped. “Are you speaking Hindi?”

  Colter sat staring out the window, shaking his head in silence.

  “Anyone would think I had robbed you instead of done you a favor,” Karen said resentfully.

  “I don’t want any favors!” Colter responded savagely.

  “Good!” Karen flared back at him. “Then somebody else can go to the bank!”

  He turned his head and met her eyes, holding them steadily for a count of ten, and then his lips twitched.

  “All right,” he sighed. “I’m sorry. I’m just not used to having people do things for me.”

  “I’m not surprised, if this is a sample of the gracious reception they get.”

  “Haven’t we had this conversation before?” he inquired archly.

  “I must admit that it does have a familiar ring,” Karen responded dryly.

  He waited a moment and then said, “Truce?”

  “I didn’t start the war.”

  He grinned impishly and said, “As a goodwill gesture, will you buy me a pack of cigarettes while you’re out?”

  Karen glared at him in amazement. “I hope that was a joke.”

  He subsided, not replying.

  “What are you going to do for clothes when you get out of here?” Karen asked, deliberately changing the subject.

  He glanced at her sharply, then looked away. “Can you pick some up for me?” he said.

  Something in his attitude alerted her. “But where are your things?” she asked.

  “What things?”

  “Your personal effects—you know—shoes, shirts, belts, like that.”

  “Oh, forget that junk, it’s not worth retrieving,” he said offhandedly, still not looking at her.

  “You don’t want your stuff?”

  No answer.

  “Okay, Steven, where is it?”

  “I told you to forget it,” he said harshly.

  “You don’t want me to go there?” Karen asked gently. He looked at her then, his blue eyes appearing gray in the bright morning light, his blond hair mussed and too long, splashing onto his forehead.

  “It’s no place for you,” he said shortly.

  “Well, what is it?”

  “A bar. Sort of.”

  “I’ve been in bars before, Steven.”

  “Not like this, you haven’t.”

  “Is it in a bad area?”

  “The waterfront.”

  “I can find it. I came into Belfast on a boat.”

  “It’s not a question of finding it, Karen. More of what the place is like.”

  “ So? ” she said impatiently, tiring of his evasiveness.

  “It has upstairs rooms,” he said uncomfortably.

  “And?”

  “They’re used for business.”

  “What kind of business?” she said quickly, beginning to get his drift. Then without waiting for an answer, “Steven, are you sending me to a whorehouse?”

  “I’m not sending you anywhere,” he muttered. “I’ve been trying to tell you not to go.”

  “What’s the name of this place?”

  “Sailor’s Haven.”

  “And is it a...”

  “Yes,” he said abruptly.

  “And why were you staying at Sailor’s Haven?” she asked steadily.

  “I have a friend who works there.”

  “And is she a...”

  “Yes ”

  “Did you...”

  “No. Never.”

  “Then why were you staying with her?”

  “They’re people too, Karen. They have friends.”

  “How did you meet this friend?” Karen demanded. She could see that he resented the inquisition but wasn’t about to back down on it. She was only beginning to realize how little she knew about him.

  “She bailed me out of a tight spot once.”

  “I see. And you became acquainted with such a person when you weren’t patronizing her establishment?”

  “I patronized the bar,” he said shortly. “That’s all you have to know.”

  Karen gazed at his set expression and realized that he’d told her all he was going to. A tense silence lasted for about half a minute.

  “You can stop looking down your fine patrician nose at me,” Colter finally said wearily. “This is just more evidence of what I’ve been trying to tell you all along: we’re too different. You work in an office and live with your sister. I work in war zones and room with prostitutes. And that’s the least of it. Believe me, you’re just not up for the rest and you’d better get out while you can.”

  “You think I’m too ‘delicate’ to deal with the vicissitudes of your life?” Karen asked him.

  “If I knew what a ‘vicissitude’ was, I might be able to tell you.”

  “Changes, problems, ups and downs,” Karen translated.

  “Then why didn’t you say that?”

  “You’re dodging the issue, Steven.”

  “I forget what the issue was, Karen.”

  Karen put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. “The issue was my ability to deal with your, er, lifestyle.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you weren’t shocked?” he countered.

  “About Sailor’s Haven?”

  “No, Karen, about the drop in pork futures on the commodities market,” he said sarcastically.

  “It just took me a few moments to adjust,” Karen replied stiffly. “You have to admit it’s an unusual situation.”

  “Not for me,” he said simply.

  “You mean you always take up residence in whorehouses?” Karen asked incredulously, forgetting to be blase´. Now she was shocked.

  “I mean I don’t associate with the nice professional people you do. I don’t sit behind a desk with neatly arranged papers on it, and I don’t have lunch with my colleagues and plan Christmas parties.”

  “What a picture you have of my life,” Karen said. “You make me sound like one of those plastic people in a TV situation comedy, the ones who go to bed in display window negligees and wake up the next morning in full makeup.”

  “What do you go to bed in?” he asked lazily, momentarily distracted.

  “Old football jerseys,” Karen responded tartly. “Now are you going to tell me this woman’s name, or am I going to wander around Sailor’s Haven knocking on doors?”

  “Mary Lafferty,” he said with resignation. “You’ll find her on the second floor at the back. My bags are in her room.”

  “What’s the address?”

  “12-15 Water Street. You’ll see the sign out front.” He hesitated. “I really wish you wouldn’t insist on doing this.”

  “I’m going,” she said flatly. She needed to show him she wasn’t the hothouse flower he thought she was, and she also wanted a glimpse of his milieu. This mission afforded her an opportunity to accomplish both goals at once.

  “Then tell the cabbie to wait for you,” Colter said anxiously. “And go straight up; don’t stop to talk to anybody downstairs.”

  She realized that he was really worried about her.

  “Steven,” she said briskly, “if I survived being held hostage in Almeria I can survive one trip to a waterfront dive.”

  “I’m sorry I let you worm that out of me. I still don’t know how you did it,” he said darkly.

  “It’s my fatal charm,” Karen observed airily, grinning. “You can refuse me nothing.”

  “We’ll see,” he replied, with a slight smile.

  “Come on, don’t worry. I’ll be all right. Besides you need your bank book, don’t you?”

  “People have lost them before, Karen, and civilization survived.”

  “Well, you know what a terrible time they give you when y
ou try to make a withdrawal without one; you have to sign all those papers and things. One trip to Water Street and I’ll have it for you.”

  “You’re just dying to get down there and see how the other half lives, aren’t you?” he said dryly.

  “I want to see how you live,” she replied honestly.

  “Just be careful. You’re not as tough as you think you are.”

  “Neither are you,” she said pointedly.

  At this juncture a nurse entered the room to check Colter’s dressing. She retaped the gauze tightly and said, “I don’t know why you’re not dead, Mr. Colter, but apparently you’re going to survive to harass us a few days longer.”

  “When can I get up again?” he asked impatiently.

  “Hold on there, Mr. C., this is only your first day out of bed. I told you before, doctor says a walk twice a day. And that’s a walk, mind you, not jogging down the passage as I saw this morning.”

  “Twice is two times,” Colter said briskly. “I’ve only been up once.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed.

  “Once in the morning and once in the afternoon,” the nurse said.

  “Oh, come on,” Colter said, displaying his most engaging smile. “I’m going crazy planted on that mattress.”

  The nurse shook her head, sighed, then supported Colter’s shoulders as he stood.

  “This one could charm the devil into going to church,” she confided to Karen.

  “I think Miss Walsh would disagree with you,” Colter said in an aside to the nurse. “She’s finding me somewhat lacking in charm this morning.”

  “All right, Mr. C., there you go,” the nurse said as Colter got his bearings and she moved away from him. “Not too much exercise, now; I’ll be looking after you.”

  “You know I always do everything you ladies tell me to,” Colter responded innocently.

  “I’ll believe you,” the nurse observed skeptically, “thousands wouldn’t. Mind how you go, the floors are slick in those paper shoes.”

  Karen’s eyes were drawn to Colter’s bare torso as the nurse left and he turned toward her. He was wearing pajama bottoms with an elasticized waist and nothing else. He looked a little thinner from his ordeal, but the weight loss only emphasized the well defined musculature of his upper arms and abdomen. She’d never seen him without a shirt and the view was riveting.