She was warm, flushed, tremulous. Because she wanted to be with him. It had become as natural again as breathing, as feeling the sun against her face. She had to hate him for what he had done; for his manipulation.
But hadn’t her grandfather and mother manipulated her life with a greater cruelty. And she didn’t hate them.
She was hurt and wounded and horrified; she despised what they did. But not them.
She loved Leif. A part of her was secretly thrilled that she had become his wife—but to what cost?
Still shivering, she closed her eyes and sank to the floor, hugging her knees to her. It was frightening. She didn’t want to love with the type of obsession that had sent her mother back to her father time and time again. Yet, hadn’t they created their own hell? She and Ted might have gotten a divorce—sad, but better than the life they had led. Jesse might have given up something. Had they both been cowards—or had life simply played against them at every turn?
Tracy bit her lower lip and felt around the sink to find her watch. It was nearly midnight, and still Leif hadn’t come for her. She trembled all the more thoroughly. Where were his demands now—now that she admitted she was more than willing to fulfill them, even if she was still too wounded to offer the truth to him? She stood and rinsed her face with cool water. She straightened her shoulders and came out.
Leif wasn’t in her room. She crossed to the connecting door and silently opened it. He wasn’t there either. Where had he gone? To celebrate the bitterness of her surrender. And then she heard it—a soft, clacking sound. Like pebbles against a glass pane.
Frowning, she walked to the window seat and cast the curtains aside. A second clattering of pebbles fell against the window. More perplexed, she hefted up the glass and stuck her head outside.
Leif was far below her in the snow, still dressed in his wedding attire, but now adorned with an acoustic guitar about his neck. He smiled at her and waved.
And began to play a love song.
Oh, it was one that she knew. Not written for her, she knew, for it was nearly twenty years old. But it was one that she loved. Jesse’s work, Leif’s work. A tune that haunted the mind and the senses, where the music and the lyrics combined to create magic.
It had, she knew, topped the charts for weeks on end.
It was different now. There were no drums; no keyboard hummed in the background, no base sounded, there was no sax, and no flute. Just the simple sound of the guitar and his voice. A sound uniquely his—a tenor with a husky rasp that defined it, that should have been a flaw—that was instead an evocative asset, a signature of the man, known instantly by generations.
Known to the core, to the bone, by Leif Johnston’s new wife.
She closed her eyes; she felt it. She opened her eyes, and she couldn’t still the slow smile that came poignantly to her lips. She met his eyes and knew a harmony and a sadness, thinking of all the suspicions and lies and bitterness that lay between them and could not be erased overnight.
But she thought then that, yes, she loved him. And yes, she’d been given back the son that she thought she had lost.
And listening to the love song, she began to believe in magic. The song ended. The last chords of the guitar faded away. He looked up to her, and she could not see his expression, but she thought that there might be tenderness in his eyes.
The night was still—and then there was a sudden round of applause—and a burst of noise.
Tracy hadn’t thought that anyone would be on the street that late; Leif was suddenly surrounded by people —recognized now that he held the guitar. Now that the unique sound of his voice had been for her. To her surprise, Tracy thrilled with a sense of pride. Even in Switzerland the Limelights were remembered.
She watched as he signed autographs, and she heard him laugh as he thanked a young man for the use of the guitar, returning it to him. Then he gazed up at the window quizzically and extricated himself from the situation, telling them he had been serenading his new bride.
There was more applause.
Blushing, Tracy swiftly brought her head back through the window and hastily closed the glass and the curtains.
She was more nervous than ever. Keyed and tense. Trying for a facade of calm, she sat before the dressing table and picked up her brush, threading it through her hair mechanically.
He came at last. He paused in the doorway, watching her. She should have told him that his song had been beautiful, that the action had been whimsical and romantic, and a wonderful thing to have done—for her. But she couldn’t speak. Her throat was tight.
He came up behind her. She saw his reflection in the mirror. He came so close that she paused with her brush in midair, for the back of her head was flush with his stomach and his hands were on her hair while his eyes held hers in the mirror.
He didn’t speak to her, nor could she yet find the words to say to him. His fingers just played through her hair in a gentle massage, then moved over her throat to the button at the neck of her very chaste gown. He slipped it and lowered his head, placing the tightest kiss upon her collarbone, then upon the arch of her throat then upon her shoulder as the material gaped and opened.
He straightened again, behind her, wrenching his sweater over his head, moving closer again to rub the silky tendrils of her hair against his stomach in subtle motion.
And still he held her eyes, the soft stroke of his touch brushing her nape, her neck, her throat once again. Watching the blue pools of her eyes in that mirrored image all along. At last slipping his hands beneath the shoulders of her virginal flannel gown and causing it to fall from her shoulders. His gaze fell at last as the bronzed length of his hands cupped and curled over her breasts, thumbs rubbing over the nipples until a little sound escaped from her. Her lashes fluttered over her cheeks, hiding her eyes from erotic contact.
Tracy turned in a sudden motion, her own quivering, small white hands upon his hips, her face buried against the taut flesh of his stomach. She nuzzled against him, feeling the short coarse hairs tease her lips and cheeks and nose. She began to scatter kisses there, tenderly nipping at his flesh, taunting it with the soft flick of her tongue. Her finger delved beneath the belt line, stroking absently as she kissed him. He caught a mass of her hair with his palms, inhaling sharply as he brought them trailing through his fingers, against his flesh.
Tracy paused suddenly, hiding against him, caught in a turmoil of longing and truth. The night was cool; his touch was fever. Evocative fever rippled and danced all through her, and her greatest desire was to cast herself into his arms.
Not exactly an empty shell…
She was his wife, at long last. And if the fantasy of a white and traditional wedding had faded, the magic of his touch had not. She had fallen in love with him years ago and lost him. And now he was hers—only pride stood in her way.
“Tracy,” he whispered suddenly, raggedly, “Don’t stop now!”
He didn’t really give her much choice in the matter; his grip, tender, gentle—urgent—fell upon her naked shoulders, bringing her from the chair and into his arms. His fingers thread through the hair at her nape, tilting her head. And again his eyes met hers. No mirror image now —just naked in glistening silver and boldly intent with thirst. His eyes closed, a shudder raked through him, and he brought his lips to her.
She’d never known a kiss so totally consuming. The delving of his tongue, the movement, the erotic sensations of its very tip, coming to her, withdrawing.
And she, in hunger, catching him, drawing him back, seeking each elusive thrust. Pressing against him with greater urgency. Barely aware that her very chaste gown was no longer on her at all, but had fallen to her feet in total disregard. She was consumed with the need to touch. Feel the exalting sexual tension in the corded muscles of his shoulders and chest, warm, rippling, and moving to the softest caress of her fingertips. Feel his hips, hard and urgent against hers. Feel that kiss that promised everything else to come.
She found his belt ag
ain. She slid her hands around to his spine, forcing material away, exploring the fine lines of his back and the hard power of his buttocks.
He made a hoarse sound, kicked off his shoes, shed trousers, socks, and boots, and swept her in his arms. The breath escaped her in heady excitement, and when she lay beneath him, she could not lie still.
Empty shell…
She mocked herself, and it meant nothing. A fever was upon her, potent, demanding, and she could not deny it. She made love to him, allowing herself to refuse no temptation. She kissed him, she trailed her hair over him again—brought all of her body in contact with all of his. Heard his whispers, flowery compliments, graphic truths—all spoken as only a lover could speak them, and all beautiful in the arousal they brought forth in her blood, in her limbs, in the spiraling crest of her desire.
She felt deliciously powerful; more powerful still when his eyes and face first betrayed his intention, when his arms enwrapped her again, when the tide swept and ebbed, and brought him to be aggressor again. Did one take and then give, give and take, or was it all one? Lips meshing, fingers touching, bodies burning—all in one.
All in one.
Making love had never been like this. And yet she felt that each time he touched her again. He’d been her lover; he’d become her lover. And tonight, beneath another liar’s moon, she knew again that wonderful fascination, that spell. He coming into her, she being filled with him. Each stroke, each thrust a bonding, a beauty. Rising in earthbound passion, somehow more. Shimmering magic. This was unique. No one had ever loved like this before.
Minutes passed, bodies cooled. He continued to stroke her and she was ready to talk, ready to say the things that might make life right between them. But then, right then, was when he chose to open his mouth, chuckling softly.
“An empty shell, huh?”
Something rushed through her like brushfire; not passion now, but burning anger. She twitched with the near irresistible urge to move her hand just a bit and twist some wrenching damage upon that piece of his anatomy that just brought her such sweet pleasure.
He might have sensed her deadly intention; the next thing she knew his arms were about her, pulling her on top of him, laughter in his eyes.
“Tracy—”
“Let me go! I’m getting out of this bed—”
“No, you’re not,” he said serenely, still amused. “You promised to sleep with me.”
“Oh! I should keep my promises when you don’t?”
“What promises have I ever made and not kept?”
“You were supposed to find my father’s murderer, remember?”
The laughter faded from his eyes. He rolled, leaving her beside him. He reached to the nightstand, found his cigarettes, and lit one. His back was to her and despite it all, she wanted to take back her words. She wanted to stroke her fingers down the length of his spine.
She didn’t touch him. A moment passed, and then he spoke.
“Tracy, Rob is a detective. He discovered the grave, he slipped some money to a retired official to give him a garbled account regarding Blake’s birth and the pre-adoption circumstances. He’s also been working for me where your father’s death was concerned.”
Tracy tensed, wondering what the quiet Rob had discovered. The man she had hired had discovered the money situation, then reported to her that there was nothing else he could do.
“Go on,” she said.
Leif turned back to her. “The cop who shot your father’s killer rather conveniently fell off a roof and died very recently.”
Tracy swallowed. “Police work is dangerous—”
He made a ticking sound of annoyance.
“Tracy—face it. He was paid to kill Smith after Smith killed Jesse—just to make sure that Smith didn’t talk. And now the cop is dead, too. No connections.”
She grasped the covers, pulling them nervously to her breasts. “When—when did this man fall off the roof?”
“Right after my invitations to get together for the memorial service went out. When everyone that we might suspect could easily have been in the city.”
Tracy lowered her eyes. “What does that matter? You’re convinced that it was either my mother or my grandfather,” she said bitterly.
“Tracy.” His voice was surprisingly gentle. “I have reason to suspect that Jesse thought Blake might be ours—your child and mine. You never told him about Blake, did you?”
She couldn’t answer him.
“Tracy, did you?”
She shook her head at last. “No. When I—when I thought that the baby was dead, it didn’t seem to make any sense to tell Dad. I hadn’t seen him—not after Mother determined to take me to Europe, where I could be completely beneath her wing. And then, of course, when I discovered that I was pregnant, you were already married to Celia. It seemed to make the best sense to stay here and have my baby. I didn’t leave until—until after the funeral for the baby. I didn’t see Jesse until a month or two after that—and then it just seemed that it would cause needless pain to tell him.”
Leif took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then murmured. “I don’t think that it was an accident. I think that your grandfather made sure that Blake came to me, once he knew that we were hoping to adopt a child.”
“You’re granting him that concession?” Tracy asked bitterly.
Leif eyed her coolly. “Blake is his great-grandchild. Arthur probably did want him raised by one of his natural parents and cared for in a sound home, lacking nothing. Before our month together, Tracy, I’d gotten on rather well with your grandfather. But Arthur came to see Jesse about a week before he was killed. They fought. I think that Jesse told him that he was pretty damn sure that Blake was his grandson and that Arthur had been playing God again.”
Tracy moistened her lips. “That’s an assumption!”
“Yes, but your father called me the day before he was killed. He seemed upset. I think that Jesse knew, Tracy.”
“So,” she murmured distantly, smoothing the sheet down. “My grandfather had Jesse killed rather than let him tell you that he thought that you had adopted your own natural son.” She stared at him with hot eyes and a wretched effort at contempt. But for a moment, she just didn’t know anymore. “Tell me, if grandfather didn’t conspire to kill him—just what was my mother’s motive?”
“She couldn’t stay away from him,” Leif said softly. “Or perhaps she didn’t want Jesse coming out with the truth, either. You would have believed your father,” Leif added bitterly. “You would have told him the truth. He would never have had to drag you to a cemetery to find out what really happened.”
Tracy rolled away from him, grinding her teeth together as a cacophony of emotions seemed to scream within her.
Blake… It was still incredible that people who supposedly loved her could have stolen her child away.
Jesse… It was still incredible that he was dead. Gone from her forever.
Leif… Determined to nail the people she still loved despite it all.
Audrey… Never, never able to break her ties with Jesse.
Herself… She would do anything to be with Blake now. She did love Leif, and marriage had once been a dream. But tonight… tonight she had fallen to his seduction without feeling love, and she was faced again with a moral horror. I am his wife. But is it enough? It is an empty marriage—a demand, not a proposal.
“Tracy?”
He placed a hand on her shoulder; she shook it off. “I’m in your bed, Leif. Or rather, you’re in mine. Promise fulfilled. May I go to sleep, now, please?”
She felt him stiffen. “Certainly, Tracy. Go to sleep,” he muttered with disgust.
But she didn’t sleep. She lay there as far away from him as she could get. She didn’t know how much time passed, but he knew she wasn’t sleeping. He spoke again.
“By the way, Tracy. Rob was able to tell me that your mother, Ted, and Arthur Kingsley flew into New York on Friday, a day before the cop was killed. And by some odd, odd
coincidence, they all happened to be there the week before Jesse died. Jesse and Arthur fought at the office, Jesse had dinner and I’m not sure what else with your pother, and Jesse even met Ted for lunch.”
“And you live in Connecticut and the two of you saw each other constantly. So tell me—what does that prove?” Tracy asked.
“Not a thing,” Leif said. “Maybe the lovely Lauren did it after all. Or Carol. Or Sam or Tiger—or the damned butler. Go ahead. Go to sleep, Tracy. You’re living with blinders on.”
“Go to hell!” she snapped.
“Yeah, yeah. Sweet dreams to you, too, Mrs. Johnston,” he said with a very weary sigh.
They kept their distance then. It was near dawn when she slept, just in time for him to wake her and tell her in a very foul temper that it was time to start for home.
It was daylight when they left, daylight when they returned to Leif’s home in Connecticut.
Leif must have called Liz, and Liz must have told Blake that they were returning, because he was standing on the porch, waiting.
Tracy stared at Blake as Leif parked the car. She and Leif had barely spoken on the long flight home; they hadn’t exchanged two words in the car. Now he gazed her way before exiting the car, and she knew that it was with speculation. He hadn’t given her any guidelines in dealing with Blake and she knew that he was curious to see what role she would take.
He was too young; they both knew that. Way too young to deal with the intricacy of the situation.
And at this particular moment, Tracy just wanted to be his friend. Well, that wasn’t really true. She wanted to run to him and sweep him into her arms and break into tears and tell him that now that she had found him, no one would ever, ever take him away from her again. She wanted to hold him and marvel at him and absorb the fact that he was her son. Hers.
“Daddy!”
He didn’t give her a glance, but raced forward to fly into Leif’s arms. Tracy stood in the background, inhaling, exhaling, trying to still the sharpness of the pain.
Leif hugged him tightly, the massive length of his hands and fingers cupping the dark little head close to him. Tracy’s throat tightened; there was so much love there. Love earned in constant days and nights of caring. Days and nights that she had lost.
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