by Amii Lorin
“Herman—” his wife pleaded.
“Don’t ‘Herman’ me. I’ve listened to you since she was a teenager. ‘Tara’s intelligent,’ you said. ‘She has good sense,’ you said. ‘She’ll make us proud.’ Ha! What she’s doing is intelligent? Makes good sense? It’s degrading, disgusting. I should have beat the rebellion out of her years ago.”
The defiance in Tara’s eyes had slowly changed to bewilderment. Never had she seen her father quite so angry. This was serious. Really serious. And she didn’t have a clue as to what he was talking about.
“Dad, please. If you’ll just explain—
It seemed she was not to be allowed to speak, for he interrupted with a shouted, “Me, explain? You think we’re dumb Dutchmen, don’t you? You think we’re so stupid, we don’t understand. You think your mother doesn’t understand the gossip of her friends? You think your sister and brothers don’t understand the behind-the-hand snickers of their friends? You think I don’t understand the dirty remarks made by the men I work with?”
Tara wet her suddenly dry lips. Her father’s dark, mottled color frightened her, but his words frightened her more. This was more than serious; this was ugly. When she didn’t reply at once, her father shouted, “Do you think we haven’t heard of this man’s reputation with women?”
Tara head snapped up. What man? The silent question was answered loudly.
“Do you think we haven’t heard how this rich Russian uses them and then kicks them aside? Oh, sure,” he added, his voice dripping sarcasm. “He gives them anything they want. Anything, that is, except his name.”
“You’re wrong,” Tara whispered, horrified.
“Of course.” His sarcasm grew yet stronger. “That can’t happen to you. You’re too good for that.” His eyes bored into her with hatred. “You’ve always thought yourself too good. Too good for us or this house. Too good for the nice, hardworking young men who were interested in you. But not too good, apparently, to crawl into bed with that swine Rykovsky.”
“Herman, don’t.” Tara heard her mother scream, but she couldn’t help her. She could hardly breathe. Her father’s words had hit her like a punch in the ribs, and she stood, white and trembling, staring at his face. Then she spun on her heel and ran, her mother’s sobs beating on her ears.
Hours later, as she closed her apartment door behind her, she had no recollection of getting to her car. Or, for that matter, of driving up into the mountains. She had been brought to her senses by the long, blaring sound of the horn of the car she nearly ran headlong into. Shaken, sick to her stomach, face wet with tears she didn’t even remember shedding, she slowed down the car then pulled in and stopped at the first observation parking area she came to. She hadn’t left the car, as there were many tourists walking around admiring the splendor of the panoramic view of the mountains, which overlapped each other as if trying to push themselves forward in a proud display of their brilliant fall finery.
Tara sat still, hands gripping the steering wheel. Suddenly everything made sense. At least, almost everything. Now she understood her sister’s strange phone call two weeks ago. Now she understood David and Sallie’s reserved attitude. And now she understood the sly looks of everyone in the office, the odd silence of her friends. They all thought she and Aleksei Rykovsky were—her mind shied from the word momentarily—lovers. The word pushed its way forward. They all thought he was her lover. Vivid pictures followed the word into her mind and she gasped aloud. Seemingly of its own volition, her arm lifted her hand to her face and drew the back of it across her mouth, then quickly turned to press cold fingers to slightly parted lips. She could actually feel his mouth against hers. Could feel again that confusing mixture of excitement and fear his lips had aroused. Her fingertips tingled and, lifting her hand, she stared at her fingers as if hypnotized. “Oh, God, no,” she whispered.
Now she pushed herself away from the apartment door against which she’d slumped and stumbled across her living room and into the bedroom. Dropping her handbag and jacket onto the floor, she fell across the bed fully clothed, exhausted, her mind numbed into blankness. She had no idea how long she lay staring into space when the shrill ringing of the phone roused her. Reaching over to the nightstand, she picked up the receiver and said, dully, “Hello.”
A pause, then Craig Hartman’s voice, hesitant and uncertain. “Tara?”
“Yes Craig?”
“I thought I had the wrong number,” he laughed softly. “It didn’t sound like you. Did you just get in?”
“Yes,” she answered blankly. “But how did you know?”
“I rang your phone a couple of times this afternoon.”
“Why?”
“To ask you to have dinner with me, silly. It’s not too late. Will you come out with me?”
“Oh, Craig,” she answered wearily. “Not tonight. I’m not feeling well.”
He was instant concern. “I’m sorry. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing serious. I have a blinding headache and I’m going to take some aspirin and go to bed.”
“Sounds best. Hope you feel better tomorrow. May I call you one night next week?”
“Yes, any night. Thank you for inviting me.”
“You bet! Take care of yourself. I’ll call. Good night.”
“Good night, Craig.”
Tara punched off the receiver then sat staring at the phone, her brow knit in concentration. The numbness that had gripped her mind at the memory of Aleksei Rykovsky’s kiss had been swept away, and her brain was asking questions.
What was his reputation with women? Tara had no idea.
She seldom listened to that sort of gossip, simply because she could not care less how other people conducted their private lives. What had her father said? Something about how he used women then tossed them aside. Very probably true, Tara thought, her lips curling slightly. The word womanizer seemed to fit in perfectly with tyrant—arrogant and bossy.
Aleksei Rykovsky’s emerging character was an unsavory one. Yet not completely so, Tara admitted to herself grudgingly. His reputation concerning his work was excellent; this Tara knew. Not only from things David had said but also from what she’d observed herself.
According to David, whom Tara wouldn’t dream of doubting, Alek was the most ethical businessman he’d ever met. The signing of a contract with Rykovsky, David had told her, was a mere formality. For, once given, his word was as binding as his signature. He managed his plant with a combination of rigid discipline and humane understanding. The finished product, before it left his plant, had to be of the highest quality. And his patience, when dealing either with other businessmen or his employees, was legendary.
This last Tara had found a little hard to believe. She remembered vividly one afternoon in late August at the new plant site. She had gone with David to take notes as he conferred with Alek and the construction boss. It had been hot, the humidity hanging in the seventies. Tara had felt sticky and slightly headachy; the condition was not helped by the fact that Alek had been late, and they’d stood in the hot sun waiting for him. When he had finally arrived with a brief word of apology, Tara had felt her headache grow stronger at the sheer impact of his appearance.
Tara’s eyes had run over him swiftly as he approached them. He had left his jacket in the car and Tara wet dry lips, watching the lithe movement of his body as he strode forward. Dark brown chinos hugged his slim hips and muscular thighs and his shirt clung damply to an alarmingly broad expanse of chest and shoulders. His deep tan contrasted strikingly with the creamy color of his shirt and the slim gold watch on his wrist. He still wore his tie but, in concession to the heat, he had pulled the knot loose and opened the two top buttons of his shirt. Frowning, Tara had shifted her eyes away with a flash of irritation at the blatantly sensual look of him. Not once, either then or since, had Tara considered the incongruity of her irritation: She had been on the site some twenty-five minutes and had not been annoyed by, or really even noticed, the fact that most of the workers
were either bare-chested or had their shirts opened to the waist
Other than a nod in her direction on arrival, Alek had seemed unaware of her existence while she stood beside David, pencil flying over her notepad. When the context of the discussion changed to that of not requiring note taking, Tara moved back and away a few feet to give the men privacy.
Flipping the pages as she checked over her notes, Tara had been only surfacely aware of the large, burly workman walking in her direction. As he moved to pass by, not much more than a foot in front of her, he stumbled and Tara glanced up with a startled “Oh!” Arms flailing the air as if to regain his balance, his one hand arced past her face and the next instant she went rigid as his large, grimy fingers clutched her right breast.
The subsequent action had the element of a film viewed from a speeded-up projector; and yet every movement remained clear in Tara’s memory. Stepping back and away from those clutching fingers, Tara glanced in dismay at the soil mark on her otherwise pristine white sleeveless scooped-neck top. At the same time, from the moment the man had stumbled, Tara had peripherally seen Alek’s head jerk up, then had seen him moving, crossing the few feet of sunbaked yellow-brown earth in two long-legged strides. He reached the man at the same instant Tara stepped back, and her surprise changed to alarm as she saw his arm flash up then down, the edge of his hand striking a blow to the man’s shoulder that drove him to his knees. Long hard fingers strategically placed at the back of the man’s neck kept him there.
“Are you trying to find out what it would be like to be paralyzed for the rest of your life?”
The tone of Alek’s voice had sent a shuddering chill through Tara’s body. Icy, deadly, his words hung like a pall on the suddenly still, hot air. Tara became aware of the work stoppage of the men in their vicinity, the intent look of attraction on the men’s faces, including David and the construction boss.
The burly workman at Alek’s feet gave a strangled sound in the negative, and Alek’s hand moved from the back of his neck.
“If you, or any other member of this work crew, ever make an advance on Mr. Jennings’s assistant again, you’ll find out pretty damned quickly, so pass the word. Now get the hell away from here and get back to work.”
For such a large man, the worker was on his feet and moving away at what Tara was sure was a record pace.
She had very little time to observe the man’s retreat, for Alek’s eyes, blazing with blue fury, were turned on her. Swiftly they raked the upper part of her body then returned to bore into hers. His voice a harsh whisper, he snapped, “As for you, Miss Schmitt, may I suggest that in the future you dress with a little more decorum when you’re on the site. Unless, of course, you enjoy this kind of attention.”
With that he turned and walked back to David. Shocked, Tara stood open-mouthed, staring at his back. Shock was at once replaced by humiliation and anger at what she considered his unwarranted attack on both herself and the hapless workman. That his last whispered words had obviously reached no other ears but her own was little consolation.
Turning, cheeks red with embarrassment, Tara spun around and stalked to David’s car, slamming the door after sliding onto the front seat. That arrogant, obnoxious brute, she raged silently. Where did he get off speaking to her like that? Dress with more decorum indeed! Her clothes were perfectly decent. Moreover, they were in perfectly good taste.
Honest in his business dealings, he may be, Tara thought. Fanatical in his demand for quality work, perhaps. But patient? Hardly.
Now, still sitting next to the phone, Tara wondered about his supposed reputation with women. With a manner as abrasive as his, how in the world had he acquired it? No woman playing with all fifty-two of her cards would care to get within shouting distance, let alone close enough to be used then tossed aside.. ..
Her stomach gave a protestingly empty growl, startling her out of her thoughts. She had overslept this morning and had gulped a half glass of orange juice for breakfast. Tara had barely picked at her lunch and now at—she glanced at her watch—eight fifteen her body was sending out a cry for nourishment.
Like an automaton she stood up and walked into the kitchen; she started a pot of coffee, put an egg in the poacher, and dropped two pieces of bread in the toaster. A few minutes later, as she munched her egg and toast thoughtfully, her mind went back to the question: Who had perpetrated a rumor of this kind? Why would someone want to? And equally baffling, how? She had seen the man only five times in three weeks. Three times in the office, and then only briefly, once at his plant, and that one time here at her own apartment. Surely not even the most imaginative person could make anything of a twenty-minute visit. And no one had witnessed those incidents in the office except David. David? Tara shook her head firmly. David would have told no one but Sallie, and Sallie, Tara was positive, would not repeat it. But then who? and why? and dammit, how?
Tara got up, walked to the counter, and refilled her coffee cup. As she turned back to the table, she became still with an altogether new thought. Her name and reputation were not the only ones involved here. Had word of this reached Aleksei Rykovsky’s ears? She somehow felt certain that it had. He was not the man to miss anything. Whatever must he be thinking?
The phone’s ringing broke her thoughts, and she went to answer it, carrying her coffee with her.
“Hello.”
“Tara, it’s me, Betsy.” As if I wouldn’t know, Tara thought wryly. “Look, Sis, I just wanted you to know I don’t feel the same as Dad does.”
“About what?” Tara asked tiredly.
“Oh, you know,” her sister snorted impatiently. “About you and him. I think you would have been dumb not to grab him, he’s so handsome and rich.”
Tara was quiet so long digesting the greedy sound and intent of her sister’s words that Betsy said sharply, “Tara?”
“Good-bye, Betsy.” Tara punched the disconnect button. She certainly didn’t need any more calls or opinions like that tonight.
Sipping at her still hot coffee, she turned to go back to the kitchen when the door chime rang. Oh, now what? she thought balefully. Staring at the door, she considered not answering, but it chimed again.
Sighing deeply, she walked across the pale beige carpet, unlocked the door, pulled it open, and froze. Cool and relaxed, Alek Rykovsky stood in the hall, his hands jammed in the pockets of his black raincoat. Is it raining? Tara wondered irrelevantly. Must be, she decided, noting the damp spots on his wide shoulders. His coat hung open and he looked trim and muscular in the close-fitting, black denim jeans and a white turtleneck bulky knit sweater. He’s one unnerving sight, Tara admitted ruefully to herself. If someone had to smear her name in connection with a man, at least whoever it was had chosen a handsome devil.
“May I come in?” he asked pointedly. “Or are you going to just stand there looking daggers at me?”
She jerked her eyes away, feeling her face go hot. Embarrassment put a sharp edge to her tongue.
“Come in if you must,” she said cuttingly, pulling the door wider. Perfectly shaped lips twitching, he strolled past her, and in agitation she slammed the door shut. Lifting her cup to her lips, she took a long, calming sip.
“I’d like some of that.” He nodded at her cup.
Turning abruptly, she marched into the kitchen with Alek right on her heels. She went to the counter, snatched a mug from its peg on the mug tree, filled it to the brim, then turned and gave an exclaimed “Oh,” not having realized he was still close behind her. Some of the hot liquid splashed over the side of the cup and onto her hand, and he snatched the cup away from her with a growled, “What the hell are you trying to do? Scald yourself?”
“I—I—didn’t know you were so close,” she stammered.
The fires that had momentarily lit his eyes were banked into a bright glitter. “Do I frighten you, Tara?” he chided.
“No, of course not,” she snapped. “You startled me, that’s all.” She turned to refill her own cup, trying in vain to cont
rol her shaking hands.
“Hmmm,” he murmured judiciously, shrugging out of his raincoat. He draped the coat over the back of a kitchen chair, picked up his cup and drank from it, then, one dark brow arched questioningly, said, “You seem upset about something. Anything wrong?”
Something about his too casual tone annoyed her and, her voice oversweet, she purred, “Have you heard the latest gossip?”
“About us?” he replied, his tone equally sweet.
Anger flared fiercely, and her usually soft brown eyes flashed. “No, the Prince of Wales,” she spat. “Of course about us.”
He nodded, watching her mounting anger solemnly.
“Who would do something like this?” she burst out angrily.
“Don’t you know?”
She jerked her head up to stare at him, suspecting some sort of condemnation. His face was expressionless, his eyes coolly calculating. “No, I don’t know! I can’t believe for a minute that any of my friends would spread such a vicious story.”
“The idea of you and me together is vicious?”
Tara eyed him stormily, hating the theatrically affronted tone of his voice. “You may be amused, Mr. Rykovsky. This kind of thing enhances a man’s aura. But my reputation is ruined.”
“Is that so very important today?” he asked dryly.
“Of course it is,” she cried.
“Well, you may have a point,” he murmured. “Come to think of it, you’re right.”
“What do you mean?”
He drained his cup, walked to the sink, rinsed it, and placed it in the draining rack. Then he turned, took her cup from her hand, and did the same to it before asking, “Wouldn’t we be more comfortable in the living room?” Not waiting for an answer, he scooped up his coat and strode out of the kitchen.
Gritting her teeth, Tara followed him, entering the living room in time to see him drop into a chair and stretch his long legs out comfortably.
“If you’re sure you’re comfortable, Mr. Rykovsky, perhaps you’d explain what you said before.”