by Laura Moore
What the hell kind of game was she playing now?
And what was she doing in Boston, Massachusetts, when she was supposed to be pursuing her passion with Jiri in Prague?
“Dr. Williams, I’ll have my secretary get back to you with that information as soon as possible,” he interrupted smoothly.
He gave a hearty sigh of relief. “Thank you. I really appreciate—”
“Not at all, good-bye, Dr. Williams.” Alex disconnected the line and then immediately dialed Sam’s number.
He answered on the first ring. “Brody.”
“Sam, it’s me. Listen, how quickly can you get me the addresses of all Monaghans living in the Boston area?”
“Fifteen minutes, tops,” Sam replied.
“Good. Can you call me with them on my cell? I’m headed for the airport now.”
“What’s up?”
“She’s in Boston—or was, as of yesterday,” Alex said, already rising from his chair and grabbing the jacket of his suit.
Sam didn’t need to ask who “she” was. “Hell of a long way from Prague,” he observed.
“Ain’t it, though,” Alex said. “What’s more, I just found out from the director of the hospital that she basically emptied her bank account and gave it to the rehabilitation center. To the tune of ten thousand bucks.”
There was silence as Sam digested that bit of information. “That’s a pretty expensive conscience she’s got. So I take it you think she’s in Boston? What are you going to do when you find her, Alex?”
Alex paused, one arm halfway through the jacket’s sleeve. That was a damned good question. “I honestly don’t know, Sam,” he admitted grimly. “Maybe I’m just a masochistic son of a bitch. Or maybe seeing her one last time is the only way I can really forget her. But something doesn’t add up in all of this and I want to know why.”
“Good luck,” Sam said. “I’ll call you with the addresses.”
Alex soon learned what it was like to be a telephone solicitor. Sitting in the first-class lounge he systematically made his way through the list of Gen’s family members, dialing the numbers Sam had provided. When he wasn’t grinding his teeth in frustration at getting yet another answering machine, Gen’s brothers and sisters were hanging up the second Alex said his name. Although her brother Kyle, the one who’d tried to decapitate him with a fastball, was a little bit more forthcoming: “I should have followed my instincts and taken you out that day at the picnic, Miller. Stay the hell away from Gen,” he growled and then slammed the phone down in Alex’s ear.
By the time Alex boarded the plane for Boston, he was steaming mad. What was going on here? They were all acting as if Alex were some kind of pariah who’d hurt Gen. Clearly whatever she’d told her family had been a pack of lies. Well, that was one more topic he’d bring up with Ms. Genevieve Monaghan once he got his hands on her—that is, if he didn’t wring her neck first, he thought angrily, in his preoccupation not even realizing that for the first time in weeks, he was actually feeling something.
The taxicab pulled to a stop in front of Bridget’s Cafe, a cheerful-looking restaurant with a red-and-white-striped awning, wrought-iron outdoor tables, and geraniums in the window boxes. A few couples were sitting at the outdoor tables, drinking coffee in white porcelain cups and enjoying the late-afternoon sunshine. After striking out at the senior Monaghans’ home, leaning on the doorbell until at last he was forced to accept the fact that neither Gen’s mother nor father was there, he’d gone through the list of brothers and sisters. Remembering Bridget’s infectious exuberance and how close she and Gen seemed, Alex had decided that he’d try her next.
Leaning forward he handed the taxi driver a hundred-dollar bill, roughly three times the fare it had cost to bring him from the Logan Airport to downtown Somerville. “Wait for me,” he said.
The driver eyed the bill. “Sure, mister.”
Alex walked into the restaurant and guessed at once who’d done the art decorating the walls. He saw too the gaily painted ceramic canisters Gen had made for Bridget’s birthday. They were proudly displayed on a shelf overhanging the maître d’s station. As he approached, a man in a khaki suit left his stool at the bar. “Good afternoon. I’m sorry but the kitchen’s closed right now. We start—”
“That’s all right. I’m looking for Bridget.”
“She’s back in the kitchen. I’ll—”
“Don’t bother. I’m a friend,” Alex said, already striding toward the back of the small restaurant.
As he pushed his way through the swinging doors, Bridget Monaghan looked up from the mound of eggplants she was dicing. Seeing Alex, she scowled and her lips tightened in a grim line.
“Where is she?” Alex said without preamble.
“I wouldn’t tell you if I were drowning and you had a rope. Jesus, you have some nerve, coming here. I should take this knife and cut off your balls for what you did,” she hissed, holding the knife up.
“Get in line,” he snarled. “You’ve got about half a dozen other Monaghans before you who want a piece of me. I don’t know what kind of story Gen’s fed you all, but I didn’t do a goddamn thing to her. Why don’t you tell me what heinous crime I’m supposedly guilty of,” he demanded, pissed at being portrayed as the bad guy when it was Gen who’d ripped his heart to shreds.
He felt a bitter sense of satisfaction when Bridget Monaghan opened her mouth to reply and then snapped it shut. Her gaze dropped to the cutting board. “I don’t know what you did,” she muttered reluctantly. “Gen won’t talk about it. Absolutely refuses— and we’ve all had a go at her these past weeks. But whatever you did, boyo, I can tell you it’s made her bloody miserable. She’s worrying us sick.” She resumed dicing the eggplants with a vengeance.
Alex’s brows snapped together. “What the hell do you mean by ‘weeks’?” he asked sharply. He put a hand on Bridget’s arm, stilling the knife. “How long has Gen been here in Somerville?”
Shrugging off his arm, she glowered at him. “I’d say it’s been about a month and a half that she’s been wandering around, looking like death warmed over.” She went back to her chopping.
Alex stared at Bridget’s bowed auburn head, his heart pounding as if he’d just run a five-minute mile. “So she never went to Prague with Novak?”
She put down the knife. Reaching for the salt, she began liberally sprinkling the eggplants. “Why should she go to Prague?” she asked, frowning at him in patent confusion. Then her brow cleared. “Oh, you mean for the museum show? That’s not until next year.”
“No, that’s not—Listen,” he said urgently. “I have to see her, damn it all. You’ve got to tell me where she is.”
Bridget raised her head. They stared at each other in tense silence. With a loud sigh Bridget shook her head. “All right. I’ll give it to you—just remember, though, you didn’t get this from me. And the only reason I’m giving you her address is that you look as freakin’ wretched as she does. But I warn you, if you hurt her any more, I’ll come after you—with about ten other Monaghans in tow.”
“I don’t know what’s going on here or why Gen left, but I do know I’d take that knife of yours and slice my veins before I ever willingly hurt her,” Alex said quietly.
The knife in question was promptly covered by Bridget’s white apron as she leaned across the counter and planted a smacker on Alex’s lips. “That day at the picnic?” She grinned. “I knew you were the one for her. Now for heaven’s sake, get a move on. Go put the light back in my little sister’s eyes.”
Alex gazed grimly out the taxi window, taking in the dilapidated building. “You sure this is 1457 Chestnut?” he asked the driver.
“Yeah—the number’s right above the door, see?” the driver said, pointing. “You want me to wait?” he asked eagerly, doubtless anticipating another hundred-dollar bill to add to his collection.
“No, that won’t be necessary.” Alex didn’t know how long this would take. Hell, he wasn’t even sure what this visit to Gen’s w
ould even accomplish. During the cab ride to what Alex had quickly surmised was one of Somerville’s seedier neighborhoods, his initial euphoria at learning that Gen hadn’t gone with Jiri Novak to Prague had subsided. The knowledge couldn’t soften the cold, hard truth: she’d still walked away from him and from what they’d found together, as if their love meant nothing to her. But that somehow only made it more imperative that he get answers from her, answers to questions that kept piling up. And if Gen had lied to him about Jiri, he damned well wanted to know the reason why. Perhaps, just perhaps this time she’d give him an explanation he could live with.
Gen was sleeping, dreaming as she so often did of Alex. In the dream he was shouting, calling her name. It was awful, the terrible longing that consumed her at hearing his voice. He sounded so near and yet the dream wouldn’t let her see his face. Desperate for even a glimpse of him, she unconsciously burrowed into the hollow of her tear-soaked pillow, as if she might delve deeper into her dream and find him. Only to sob aloud in frustration at the feel of Murphy’s cold, wet nose poking her ear and then his tongue sweeping her cheek, bathing her urgently.
“No, no, go away. It’s not time yet,” she mumbled, flinging out her arm to bat him away. Turning her face into the pillow she tried to recapture her dream, the only place where she could be near Alex. His voice came again, but now it was accompanied by a heavy, insistent pounding. What was making that noise? she wondered, squirming in irritation as Murphy continued licking her.
But the dog was obnoxiously persistent. At last, groggy and annoyed, Gen sat up and rubbed her gritty eyes, wondering how long she’d napped. That her fists were damp from her tears came as no surprise—she woke up crying a lot these days. But her hands stilled as Gen finally registered the din coming from outside her apartment.
Somehow she must have conflated her dream of Alex with that cursed banging, she thought, sighing wearily as she swung her legs off the bed and stood. With an inelegant sniff from the summer cold that was sapping what little energy she had, she got up and crossed the small bedroom into the empty adjoining room, her progress hampered by a twirling, barking Murphy.
The pounding was coming from the front door. “All right, already,” she yelled irritably as she bumped into Murphy once again. “Hold your horses, I’m coming.”
Knowing her brother Kyle would strangle her if she didn’t take the necessary precaution, she pressed her eye to the peephole, knowing too that she wouldn’t be able to see a darned thing. The dim lighting of the hallway left it permanently shrouded. Double-checking that the security chain Kyle had installed was firmly in place, she unlocked the door and pulled it open a fraction, peeking her head around.
“Hello, Gen.”
She stared speechless at the shadowed slice of him. Was it the lighting or were the planes of his face harsher than she remembered? She couldn’t tell, her vision blurring as sudden tears welled, as her heart slammed painfully inside her breast. “Alex,” she whispered.
“Open the door, Gen,” he ordered flatly. “One of your neighbors has already threatened me with the cops and I don’t feel like being hauled down to the Somerville jail. But I’m going to keep banging on this door until you let me in.”
Gen hesitated. Could she bear having him in the apartment—not that she’d ever had a moment’s peace since she’d spewed those awful lies to him. What was he doing here? she wondered. After what she’d done, she should be the last person in the world Alex would seek out.
She got no further in her confused thoughts. Alex, his voice colder by several degrees, said, “Open the damn door, Gen. You owe me that much at least.”
Guilt piercing her, Gen went to remove the chain. But her hands trembled so she was unable to slide the chain’s keep through the narrow slot. Agonizing seconds passed as she fumbled with it. Finally she freed it. Pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling, she stepped back, pulling the door with her. She was nearly knocked over by Murphy, who rushed into the gap to claim center stage.
Ecstatic, he greeted Alex. Standing to the side Gen watched them, listened to the obvious affection in Alex’s voice as he stroked and patted Murphy, well aware she’d just sunk to a new low: she was envious of her dog.
Abruptly Alex’s attention shifted and the impact of his blue gaze was like a blow. Afraid he would read the naked longing in her face, she dropped her gaze and stared at the scarred linoleum.
God, she wouldn’t even look at him, Alex thought. She hadn’t even said hello to him yet, only whispered “Alex” as she stared, her eyes enormous with shock— obviously unpleasant shock. And you’d been thinking that she’d come flying into your open arms, you arrogantass, a voice mocked him. No, he’d only hoped. But here she was staring at that hideous floor like it was a Jackson Pollock. And he couldn’t tear his eyes away from her. She was so thin, he thought, his heart constricting painfully. Slender before, now Gen seemed impossibly frail. Worry sharpened his voice. “What’s the matter with you? You look terrible.” He could have bit his tongue for that brilliant remark. Real suave, Miller, just what every woman wants to hear, he chastised himself, hating when he saw the flush of embarrassment steal up from the collar of her baggy sweatshirt.
“I have a cold,” she mumbled to the floor and sniffed. “The medicine makes me woozy, that’s all.” She shrugged her thin shoulders.
Damn it, why wouldn’t she look at him? What had happened to the proud woman who’d told him off in his office months ago? Gen looked like a ghost of her former self. If only she would look at him, meet his eyes. Frustrated, he said, “So, it seems you abandoned your idea of going to Prague. What happened? It didn’t work out between you and Jiri?”
Listening to him, Gen tried not to flinch. His voice sounded so hard, she thought miserably. Well, of course it did, he hated her. “No, I guess it didn’t. I—we thought better of it. How—when did you find out I was here?”
“Today.”
Stunned, Gen’s eyes flew to his face then ricocheted away when they collided with Alex’s piercing gaze. “Today?” she echoed in disbelief.
“That’s right. I got a call in New York from Dr. Williams at the hospital. He sends his many thanks for your very generous gift.” He paused and out of the corner of her eye, Gen watched him turn, making a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree inspection of her dingy little apartment. “So you prefer to live here,” he said with a sweep of his arm. “Than use my money. Even that repels you,” he finished quietly.
“No, I just couldn’t take your money, that’s all,” she whispered, tears clogging her throat. After the wrong she’d done, she’d had to make amends somehow. Giving the ten thousand dollars she’d made from Day One to the hospital wing had been the obvious choice.
Oh, God, she couldn’t bear it, that Alex believed he repelled her. She wished she could tell him the truth, what really mattered. She loved him and without him it didn’t matter where she lived or what she looked like—that ever since she’d driven away from Long Island she’d felt like death walking through the waste-land of her life. She hugged herself, vainly trying to quell the tremors wracking her body and to prevent herself from doing the one thing she most wanted in the world: to throw herself in his arms and beg his forgiveness.
She was trembling like a leaf, Alex thought. He ached with the need to touch her, to pull her into his arms, to hold her and make everything right between them. And yet here they stood, as awkward as strangers, reduced to stilted, meaningless conversation. Was this how it would end? he wondered in despair. God, what had happened to them, to her? Why had she left him to live in this sunless, oppressive pit of an apartment? he thought, casting yet another disdainful glance about the room.
Then abruptly Alex realized what really bothered him: she’d done nothing to the apartment. There were no tables covered with her extraordinary collection of findings. No canvases . . . nothing. “You’re not even painting, are you?’’
The unexpectedness of his question must have caught her off guard. She l
ooked at him, pain etched in stark lines on her face. “I—” she began. “No, I haven’t felt like painting lately.” She turned her head, but not before he saw a tear slide down her pale cheek.
Instinctively Alex reached for her, but froze as Gen recoiled, stumbling backward to avoid his touch. The tension radiating from her had his shoulders slumping in defeat. What was he doing here? It was over. He’d been a fool to come. He hadn’t learned anything, except that she didn’t love him. And that was yesterday’s news. “I’ll give Williams your address,” he said stiffly, “so the hospital can thank you formally for your gift.” He turned toward the door.
Gen bit her lip, fighting the pain that slashed through her. Alex was leaving. He was leaving and she’d never see him again. In a voice that was tight with unshed tears, she whispered, “I hope the dedication ceremony goes well for you.”
He didn’t even turn around. “Thank you,” he said distantly.
She’d told herself she wouldn’t do it—not for anything. But as Alex’s hand reached for the doorknob, she was unable to stop herself. “Please say hi to Sydney,” she blurted. Her willpower in tatters, she continued. “Did she come with you today?” God forgive her, but she had to know—had to hear the words from his lips that he and Sydney were together again.
Alex clenched his jaw grimly. Damn it, why was she being so perverse, choosing now to carry on some stiff and banal exchange? He put his hand on the door. “No,” he replied, pulling it open, “Sydney and Harry Byrne are in Italy, on their honeymoon. Good-bye—” He spun around at Gen’s sudden, anguished cry.
She stared at him, her incredible eyes swallowing her face, which had gone a stark, chalky white. “What?” she gasped. “What did you say?”
Puzzled by her odd reaction, his brows drew together. “Sydney and her partner, Harry, are honeymooning in Siena. They left directly after they eloped—”