Liar's Moon

by Heather Graham

  Capable of touching her… and God help her, she still wanted this all to be only a nightmare. She wanted to be able to fly across the distance between them and curl into his arms. She wanted to smooth the lines of severity away from his lean cheeks, run her fingers over the grim line of his mouth and watch it ease into a lazy, crooked half-smile, full of sensuality and laughter.

  The distance grew between them. She couldn’t touch him. She could never go near him again. Not after this.

  He was frowning at her, slowly arching a brow. “What can I do?” It seemed that it was a whispered query, full of outrage and incredulity. He stood, and she braced herself, because she wasn’t going to back away, but neither was she going to let him come near her.

  He didn’t. He walked around the bar, restless, filled with tension and a chilling energy barely held in check.

  Then he laughed dryly and she couldn’t tell which of them he mocked.

  “What can I do? Maybe nothing—since apparently you didn’t care to begin with. And the last few days didn’t make any difference.”

  What was he talking about? she wondered. She shook her head, easing somewhat, but lacing her fingers together tightly as she looked down at them.

  “How could I care when you behave like this?”

  “What the hell does my behavior have to do with it?” he exploded suddenly.

  And then she tensed all over, because he moved again, a swift stride that brought him instantly to her, on one knee, wrenching her hands into his, bringing her startled eyes to meet his glare, silver now with a burning intensity.

  “Why did you come back?” he demanded fiercely.

  She tried to wrench her hands away. She could not. With a little cry she fought him wildly, wrenching and pulling, succeeding only in finding herself on her back— with his legs straddled over her and he showing no apology at all for his crude behavior.

  “I did not come back!” she spat out, furious. “I came to find my brother! Because of my father! You had nothing to do with it! You should have never had anything to do with it!”

  “Is that the truth?” he whispered so softly that she barely heard him, but the skepticism in his voice was like a shout. “You didn’t come back to take something from me?”

  “No!” she screamed. “There is nothing that you’ve got that I want, Leif Johnston! Nothing! Get off of me!”

  To her surprise, he inhaled deeply—then abruptly released her. “Well,” he murmured, pouring himself another drink at the bar and lifting his glass to her, “that is a relief. Or it should be. Actually, I’m even more disappointed.”

  Tracy leapt to her feet, not about to be cornered again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I think you’re mad!”

  He studied her over the rim of his glass, then lowered it back to the bar. “Oh, yeah, Tracy. Sure.”

  He left the bar and she moved out of his way. He paused, watching that movement of hers with high amusement. “Don’t worry, Tracy. I promise—no more violence. My apologies for that last disgraceful episode. I just keep thinking that I can get the truth out of you one way or another.”

  She closed her eyes, exhaling raggedly, clenching her fingers into tight fists at her sides.

  “What truth! What do you want me to say? What are you getting at? Yes, I had a child! It lived for eight hours! That’s where we’re going, isn’t it?” she inquired coldly. “Zurich. A cemetery. Who are we proving this to—you or me?”

  He stared at her, a shocked look on his face. They stood so rigid; both of them, she realized. Rigid and apart, burning with heat and fever. Longing to tear into one another, longing to…

  Let the fire burn, and see what remained in the ashes.

  No. There would be nothing but those ashes. Loss and bitterness and all the things that had come between them. All the things that they had been; a child, learning that love was a greater thing than vengeance, learning it too late.

  And a man—betrayed. In so many ways.

  She felt the horrible urge to cry again. Tears that loomed in anguish and bitterness, pressing like a flow of lava against her eyes. For her mother and her father, for herself and Leif. For the infant who lay beneath a little stone in a cold cemetery where perhaps even the little headstone would be under a layer of snow.

  For the young girl she had been; seeing that child buried after holding it only once—then turning her back on all that her life had been in the hopes of finding a life of her own.

  She should have never returned. Nothing could bring her father back. Jesse was as cold and dead as that long-dead child, and there would probably never be any way to prove that his murder had been conspiracy. Judgment would have to lie in some greater court than any on earth.

  She lowered her head, moistening her lips slightly. “I can’t believe you’re doing this to me, Leif. I really thought that if what you felt wasn’t eternal love and devotion, you at least—you at least cared.”

  He was very, very still for a moment. He moved toward her then, and though she stiffened, she didn’t resist. He raised her chin, and when she looked at him then her heart leapt, for oddly, in the silver-and-gray depths of his eyes, she could have sworn that he was as torn as she, that he felt an anguish greater than her own.

  “I couldn’t believe what you did to me, Tracy,” he said quietly. “I—”

  He broke off and shook his head. Then he released her abruptly and his long strides took him away, toward the cockpit once again. He paused there with his back to her.

  “Tracy, we’re going through with this. I can’t tell you exactly why right now, but I’ll do whatever it takes to see that it happens.”

  “I don’t know what—”

  “We have to refuel in London, then we’ll be in Zurich. You are coming with me. One way or the other.”

  “Bast—”

  “One way or the other,” he repeated. Then he returned to the cockpit.

  Tracy fell back to the couch, shivering, exhausted, horribly spent. She closed her eyes tightly, wondering what she would do. If she screamed and fought, they’d have to help her in London. And she should charge him with kidnapping and assault.

  She found the brandy and poured herself a large snifter. It burned its way through her and she shuddered again. Her stomach felt like an empty pit. The brandy didn’t help—it made her feel more wretched.

  She slowly walked back to the couch and sat, and then even more slowly stretched out again, resting her head against the throw pillow, delighting in the coolness against her hot cheeks.

  Suddenly she closed her eyes again because the pain that streaked through was like the tearing blow of a red-hot poker. How cruel in the scheme of things that memory could be so clear and vivid! But it was abruptly there, with her, as it hadn’t been in years. A picture painted across her mind in bright and crystal colors. The little house in the mountains, her room, all in white and softest mauves. The snow beyond the windowsills; the flowers her mother had flown in every day from Italy…

  The doctor who came. The hours in which she struggled, and he assured her in his guttural German that she was doing fine. And then being in that beautiful white room with the cool snow outside, but drenched in sweat and laughing, and excitedly holding the tiny, tiny newborn life that had been her son, her very own son. It hadn’t mattered that Leif was married to Celia; it hadn’t mattered at all. She had been in love with the baby, and so triumphant and pleased and cocooned in the wonder of that love.

  But not even that was to be hers. She’d fallen asleep in blissful dreams and awakened to a nightmare. Her grandfather, sitting beside her, holding her hand. Telling her in the kindest fashion that it was just one of those things, and that maybe it was for the best—she could start her life over.

  She could remember standing on the hill as the cold swept around her. And the cold hadn’t mattered, because nothing could have touched the ice within her. She’d been eighteen, and she had felt as if she had lived forever.

  And when she’d walked
away from that hill with the light drift of snowflakes falling on the little coffin, she’d walked away from it all.

  Memories…

  He meant to take her back. By threats, by force, by coercion. She should fight him every step of the way. Maybe not. Maybe she could find that cold again, the cold that had brought her the past. Let that ice settle over her heart.

  Go with him. And end it, once and for all.

  Leif stayed away from her the remainder of the flight. She knew that he watched her carefully the entire time they sat on the ground at Heathrow—but he didn’t speak, and neither did she, except to the pilot and copilot, who took a stroll back. To them she was charming. Both of them had been in private hire for over ten years, she discovered, and they spoke kindly of her father and she was grateful to them. But when she asked them if it didn’t get quite boring these days with so little to do, they both talked about the many uses for the plane, such as jaunts with underprivileged children to special events and transportation for the elderly for medical care in tenuous situations.

  Leif had bought out the other group members’ interest in the plane, she knew, and she wasn’t particularly pleased to hear that he kept it for his own occasional use —and such charitable endeavors. Tax write-offs! she decided. But she didn’t want to hate him any more than she wanted to love him; both were passionate emotions, and she wanted to feel cold.

  In Zurich they were met by a driver in a handsome little beige Mercedes. Tracy went through customs without blinking an eye; when Leif went to take her arm to escort her to the car, she stared at him without tensing and asked him with admirable aplomb not to touch her; she would endure his awful charade without protest—as long as he wouldn’t touch her.

  He shrugged, and let her be.

  They were taken to a lovely little European hotel outside of the city. It was a chalet that had sat on a small precipice for centuries, the hunting cottage of some long-ago knight now modernized with beautiful, fresh new paint and tiled baths in quaint rooms with marble mantels, working grates, and huge curtained windows that looked over the forest beyond, just lightly dusted in spring snow.

  Tracy knew that Leif was amazed when she didn’t protest the fact that he procured connecting rooms. She accepted it all without a word, without the flick of an eyelash. She didn’t do anything but walk to the window when she came into her own room, although she realized that Leif had had someone pack her a small bag. When she realized that he had opened the connecting door and stood watching her, she didn’t move. Still staring out at the beautiful countryside, she asked him, “Well, what now, Mr. Johnston?”

  “Freshen up, take a nap, do whatever you like. We’ll meet down in the lobby in an hour. You should be hungry. Order something to eat.”

  She turned around at last, smiling with no emotion, leaning easily against the window seat.

  “I imagine it’s about ten a.m. by now in Connecticut. Won’t we be missed? You have a houseful of guests—or did you forget? We were all assembled to catch a murderer. And instead we’re sitting in Switzerland for you to prove some—some point that has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

  “We won’t be missed. I asked Liz to take care of things.”

  She nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. “You’re quite lucky you have her. Blind loyalty and obedience.”

  He shrugged. “You’ve got Jamie.”

  She shook her head. “No, not really. Jamie really belongs to you, too, doesn’t he?”

  Leif tilted his head, staring toward her with mild interest. But his eyes wore a silver gleam of tension once again.

  “If I have Jamie, Tracy, it’s simply because I was there. I cared for him. I loved him. He spent more time with me than he did with his mother or father. You could have been there—you’ve been of age for a long time. You could have done a lot of things, Tracy.”

  She turned back to the window.

  “What, Leif? What could I have done? Walked into the center of your marital bliss? I think not.”

  “You could have told me.”

  “It’s over Leif. Why can’t you just let it lie.”

  He was silent; suddenly he was explosive. “It’s not over! And it won’t ever be over—not in our lifetimes!”

  Tracy spun back around, but he was gone. She went to the door and slammed it shut, locking it.

  In the end, she did take a shower. The water was wonderfully hot, the jet spray stringent and good against her. She thought that she was exhausted—she really wasn’t sure. She seemed to be living on tension.

  She wondered when she unpacked the little bag if Leif hadn’t been through her things himself—there were only two outfits in the bag and two sets of underclothing. Obviously, they weren’t staying long. But both sweaters and skirts that he had chosen were right for the weather; fashionable, but comfortable. She dressed, feeling more tension steam through her. She began to doubt her wisdom about going along with him—she should have screamed her head off at Heathrow.

  But just as that thought faded, she gave herself a helpless little shake. She had to go through with this. Just as it seemed that it was a compulsion with Leif, she felt that she had to go through with it herself.

  Just like that day when she had walked away—when she had buried her son and walked away. Maybe she would feel the same now. Her mother had screamed when she’d learned Tracy’s intentions; her grandfather had yelled. Only Ted had remained silent, maybe respecting her decision.

  And she hadn’t felt anything. Just cold. She hadn’t hated them; she had loved them, but nothing they had said or done had touched her. Her only salvation had been in getting away. In creating her own life, far, far from the influences that had been.

  She found boots in the overnight bag—and stockings. Thinking that Leif could certainly be deliberate and thorough, she slipped them on and called the lobby to adjust her watch to the proper time.

  Then she lifted her chin and met her own eyes in the mirror. She was dismayed to see that they were very wide and very blue. Frightened.

  “No,” she whispered aloud, and she turned then, quickly, ready to go down and meet Leif.

  He was there, in the lobby, somehow absurdly appealing in a trenchcoat, his hair damp with a tendril over his forehead—his eyes as cold and hard as she had wanted her own to be. He glanced at her, sweeping his eyes over her with no emotion.

  “What are we doing?” she asked him curtly.

  He glanced at his watch. “Waiting. Let’s get some hot chocolate or something.”

  He set his hand on her elbow to lead her from the lobby to the dining room beyond it. She spun on him.

  “I’m here, Leif, and that’s it. I don’t ever, ever want you touching me again. You are a cold and brutal man, and I don’t ever want anything to do with you again.”

  “Tracy—move.”

  She did so, irate that he was so tall and hard, that his voice could be so low and controlled. That she walked as he had told her—with his elbow still on her arm. And all around her there were people. Most of them in ski clothing, all of them chatting and laughing warmly and carrying on conversations in German and French. They talked about the slopes, about the shopping, about the beautiful way the weather was holding out. They seemed so happy.

  Leif led her to a small table with a single rose in a vase upon it. The rose reminded her of her mother’s penchant for flowers. No matter where Audrey went, she had to have flowers.

  Sitting, Tracy was at last freed from his touch. But not his presence.

  “What are we waiting for?” she demanded with what she hoped was bored impatience.

  “A man,” he said simply.

  A pretty waitress with beautifully colored cheeks came by. Tracy ordered hot chocolate and a croissant. Leif ordered coffee.

  They didn’t speak again until they were served. Tracy picked at her pastry. Leif lit a cigarette and stared at her. She tried to ignore him and not care that everyone else was laughing and chatting. Not to care that they were all hap
py and enjoying vacations while she and Leif…

  He leaned toward her suddenly. She pretended not to notice.

  “Tracy, look at me.”

  She did, hostility stark in her features.

  “I know what you look like, Leif. Inside and out.”

  “You think I should just forget it.”

  “What can we prove?” She almost shouted the words. She swallowed, determined to lower her voice.

  He shook his head at her, disgusted. “Well, for one, Tracy, we’re going to prove that your family is capable of anything.”

  She stared at him, startled and confused by his words. Maybe she should have told him that she was pregnant. No! She hadn’t owed him anything. He had been a married man by then. And if anything, she thought that her family’s love and loyalty had been proven by their tender support of her.

  “There he is,” Leif said, rising suddenly.

  Tracy looked up. A pleasant-looking young man was coming toward them. As soon as he greeted Leif with a handshake and a few quiet words, she knew that he was American, too.

  Leif introduced them briefly. “Are we all set?”

  “Yes, the coroner should be there by now, with the cemetery people,” Rob said.

  The room seemed to swim. “What?” Tracy gasped out.

  Leif grasped for her elbow, propelling her out of her chair. She’d barely touched her chocolate or her croissant.

  In the lobby she desperately tried to free herself from his grasp. Too soon, she was out the steps and approaching a car.

  “Leif—”

  “Get in.”

  She had no choice; he pushed her into the back. Rob got into the driver’s seat. They were all like little peas in a pod in the small vehicle, and she knew that anything she said was going to be overheard.

  “You’re going to open that grave?” she demanded, near hysteria.