by Amii Lorin
“Are you kidding?” Betsy laughed. “I’d like to see someone stop me.”
He grinned, then moved on only to stop again at George.
“You’re in your last year of high school?” he asked abruptly.
George nodded, eyes guarded.
“You’re going to college?”
“If I can get a scholarship. Why?”
Alek studied him a second, then, as if reaching a swift decision, gave a brief nod and said, “If you want a job after school, come to see me. And if the scholarship doesn’t materialize, we’ll have a talk. Good night.” He turned his head to include Karl, then made for the hall and their coats, tugging Tara behind him.
He held her coat for her, then shrugged into his own, bid them all a collective good night and, his hand at her back, propelled her out of the house. By the time he had seated her in the car, the dazed, steamrollered feeling had passed and Tara was doing a slow burn.
“How dare you,” she seethed the instant he slid behind the wheel.
“How dare I what?”
Her hands clenched at his innocent tone. “Damn you, you know what,” she snapped. “I do not want a large wedding and I certainly do not want to move back home and I damn well will not have you arranging my life.”
“Don’t swear at me again, Tara.” His voice, while soft, had a warning edge of steel in it.
“All right,” she sighed, “I’m sorry. But I mean it, Alek. Don’t think for one minute that just because I agreed to marry you, I have any intention of playing the meek little hausfrau, blindly obeying your every dictate. I won’t.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart. Now please stop nagging at me as if we were already married and look at that lovely moon. Not quite full but beautiful anyway.”
The sound of his soft laughter seemed to wrap itself around her heart, and Tara had to remind herself sharply who he was and what he’d done.
“I don’t want to look at the moon,” she said irritably. “And I don’t really want to have dinner with your parents, although I suppose we owe them a courtesy visit. And don’t call me ‘sweetheart.’ Save your breath, and the endearments, for your next audience.”
She heard his sharply indrawn breath, saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel before he growled, “I will call you anything I wish, when I wish. I’m sorry if the prospect of meeting my parents is repellent to you, but you may be in for a surprise. I’d be willing to bet you’ll like them. They are very nice people.”
In this he was proved correct. They were very nice people, and she did like them. He had dropped her at the apartment with a terse, “I’ll be back in a half hour. Can you be ready by then?” At her nod he said, “Good,” sharply. The moment she was out of the car, he shot away from the curb, still obviously very angry.
The drive to his parents’ home was completed in tense silence, which Tara herself broke unconsciously when he drove along the driveway and parked in front of the sprawling redwood-and-glass ranch house.
“Oh, it’s beautiful!” she breathed softly. Tara had expected something large and formal and this lovely rambling house was a delightful surprise.
“Yes, it is,” Alek replied softly. “And so are the people who live in it.”
Tara had known she’d angered him with her waspish words about not wanting to meet his parents, but now something about the tone of his voice told her he had also been hurt. Impossible, she said to herself, pushing the thought away. Nothing she could say to this unfeeling man could hurt him.
On entering, Tara was delighted to find the inside as lovely as the outside. It was decorated beautifully in soft, muted tones, the overall effect one of warmth, welcome. The warmth and welcome were reflected on the face of the woman who came to meet them, hands outstretched.
“Darling, you’re right on time.” The low, musical voice of Alek’s mother’s was not a surprise, coming from such an exquisitely beautiful woman. Small, splendidly proportioned, she had the most perfect bone structure Tara had ever seen. So this is where he came by his devastating good looks, she thought.
Before Alek could murmur more than, “Good evening, Mother,” she was speaking again, taking Tara’s hands in her own. “And this is Tara. Such a lovely name, and what a lovely thing you are too. No wonder Alek is in such a rush to get you to the altar. But come in, please, we have just enough time for a drink before dinner. And here’s Peter, right on time to mix them.”
Tara was forced to change her opinion of a few moments ago. For coming toward her was the original mold from which Alek had been made. One glance and Tara knew exactly what Alek would look like in twenty-five years. After the introductions were made, Peter Rykovsky tilted one dark brow at his son and said quite seriously, “Well, son, I didn’t think it possible, but you have found yourself a woman whose beauty matches your mother’s. My deep and sincere congratulations.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Pink-cheeked, Tara glanced at Alek in astonishment for the tone of respect he’d conveyed in those three short words.
As they sipped their drinks, Alek filled his parents in on the wedding plans they had made earlier. Peter and Alene’s reaction to Tara’s idea of a small, ultimate wedding was the same as her own family’s had been.
“Oh, no, my dear,” Alene reproved gently. “I’m sure that would be a mistake. Every woman should be able to remember her wedding day as being as perfect as possible. By all means keep the wedding party small, if that’s what you prefer. A wedding doesn’t have to be large to be beautiful. But I do think Alek is right in his insistence on a church ceremony.” Her soft laughter gave proof of the happiness bubbling inside as she added, “I must admit to a degree of selfishness in my considerations. I have waited so long for this day. When Alek celebrated his thirty-fourth birthday last spring, I decided, perhaps I had better resign myself to the idea of his remaining a bachelor and never giving me the grandchild I so long to hold.”
Tara started, paling visibly, although her reaction went unnoticed. Alek and his father wore identical expressions of deep love and tenderness as they gazed on the misty-eyed, wistful, but adoring face of Alene. Tara felt terrible. Motivated by anger and frustration, she had acted without thought, now the ramifications of that act were piling up around her like so many stones, imprisoning her inside a cell of her own making. Panic gripped her throat, and she gulped the remains of her drink in an effort to dislodge it.
A grandchild! Not once had she considered that possibility. Why hadn’t she? It was the natural order of things. First the wedding, then ... A shiver rippled through her body. Her own parents had not said anything but they, too, would be looking forward to their first grandchild—after a decent interval. Oh, Lord! Tara’s mind clung to her last thought A decent interval! Everyone thought she and Alek were already lovers. Now suddenly they were being married within a few weeks. How many of her friends would be counting the months? Watching for signs? But I’ve done nothing, nothing, her mind cried silently, envisioning the different type of speculative glances she would probably now be receiving. A feeling of intense dislike—almost hatred—for Alek burned through her and she closed her eyes.
Locked in a pain-filled world of her own, Tara was startled by Peter’s voice, heavily laced with concern, alerting her to where she was.
“Tara, are you ill? You’ve gone positively white.”
She saw Alek’s gaze swivel from his mother’s face to her own an instant before he was moving to her side. His eyes, his face, puzzled her, for he looked almost frightened. Alek frightened? His softly murmured words chased all contemplation of his expression from her mind.
“What’s wrong, darling. Are you ill?”
The endearment set her teeth on edge and she had to fight to keep from screaming at him, You fraud, you are what is wrong. You and the scheming and plotting you’ve done. Using every ounce of willpower she possessed, she brought her emotions under control. “I’m afraid the drink has hit rock bottom,” she lied shakily. “I’ve eaten very litt
le all day, and my empty stomach doesn’t seem to want to tolerate the alcohol.”
Long, unbelievably gentle fingers brushed her cheek, felt the moisture that had gathered at her temple.
“Would you like to go home?”
Jerkily she leaned back, away from his caressing voice, his disturbingly light touch. Yes, she pleaded silently, I want to go home. I want to hide myself away until everything that has happened the last week is long forgotten.
“Would you like to lie down, my dear?” Peter asked anxiously.
Before Tara’s confused mind could formulate an answer to either man, Alene was helping her to her feet, stating practically, “What this child needs is some food. Come along, Tara,” she coaxed. “Something solid inside your stomach will banish this queasy feeling in no time.” Leading Tara into the dining room, she shook her head in mock dismay, chiding, “Men are so helpless in situations like this. For some reason the strongest of them, and these two must be close to the top of the list, fall apart when someone they love is unwell.”
A bubble of hysterical laughter became trapped in Tara’s chest. If Alek was close to the top of the list of the strongest, he had to be even higher on the list of best actors if he could convince his mother with his performance.
Alene’s diagnosis proved correct, for by the tune they were halfway through the meal, Tara, her color restored, was laughing at Peter’s obvious attempts to amuse her.
Tara was totally captivated by Alek’s parents and under any other circumstances would have loved having them as in-laws. Strange, she mused, Peter and Alek were so much alike, yet she failed to detect any sign of the tyrant in Peter. His treatment of his wife was the type great love stories were written about; after nearly forty years of marriage his eyes touched her with an expression that Tara could only describe as adoration. Tara quickly learned where Alek had acquired the art of using endearments with such ease of manner. Peter seldom spoke to Alene without some form of endearment. That his feelings were returned in full was evident: Alene made no attempt to hide the fact that her world revolved around her husband and son.
As Tara basked in the warmth Alene and Peter generated, the evening slipped away from her. The only thing that marred her enjoyment was the caressing, possessive tone Alek used whenever he spoke to her.
When he drove her home, he pulled up in front of her building and said, “It’s late, I won’t come up with you.” Tara breathed a sigh of relief then tensed as his hands cupped her face and drew her close. He kissed her slowly, lingeringly, and Tara felt the tenseness seep out of her, tiny little sparks igniting all over her.
When he lifted his head, he again whispered those same Russian words then said, “As your car is still on the office parking lot, I’ll drive you to work tomorrow. Is seven thirty all right?”
“Y-Yes, that will be fine,” Tara stammered. “I — I must go in. Good night.”
There was no conversation exchanged between them the next morning other than a polite “Good morning, Tara,” and an equally polite “Good morning, Alek,” until he drew up at the office. Placing a hand on her arm as she moved to get out of the car, he said, “I’ll come by at seven thirty to help you with your things.”
Impotent anger surged through Tara and, pulling her arm away from his hand, she snapped, “All right,” then thrust open the door and slammed it shut, his laughter following her as she hurried into the building.
“Tara, you really know how to keep a secret. Why didn’t you tell us?” Jeannie’s words hit her as she came through the door, but she was saved from confusion by the newspaper Jeannie shoved in front of her. In a lower corner of the front page was a picture of Alek with the caption local industrialist TO WED. Tara skimmed the small column that ran the length of the picture than pasted a smile on her face as she looked up at Jeannie. “If I’d told you, it wouldn’t have been a secret. Besides, we wanted to discuss it with our parents first.”
When did he do this? she thought furiously. Somehow she managed to maintain the smile as she glanced around the room murmuring thank-yous to the good wishes being called out. Her eyes brushed Terry then came back. The only words to describe the expression on his face were utter disbelief. His eyes seemed to ask, How did you do it when all the others failed?
With a forced note of happiness she asked Jeannie if she could borrow the paper then, still smiling, she went into her own office, dropped into her chair, and read the article more thoroughly.
Mr. Aleksei Rykovsky, son of Mr. and Mrs. Peter Rykovsky, owner-manager of the Fine Edge Machine Company, has announced his forthcoming marriage to Miss Tara Schmitt, daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Herman Schmitt. A December wedding is being planned. Miss Schmitt is the personal assistant of Mr. David Jennings, one of the city’s up-and-coming architects and the designer of the new plant Mr. Rykovsky is having built.
David came in the office, paper under his arm, as Tara was finishing the article. “I brought you the paper, but I see you already have one.”
“Yes,” she replied sweetly, lifting the sheet. “Plugs for everyone. Isn’t mat nice?”
David gave her an odd look then shrugged and headed for his office. “Oh, yes. I almost forgot. Sallie asked me to give you her very best wishes.”
Sallie! Oh, Lord, Tara groaned inwardly, I should have called her. But when? She reached for the phone and dialed David’s home number. Sallie answered on the third ring.
“Hi, Sallie. It’s Tara.”
“Tara! Oh, I’m so glad you called. Did David give you my message?”
“Yes, thank you.” Somehow she managed to instill the lilt of happiness into her voice. “Sallie, I know it’s short notice, and we’ll be rushed like mad, but please say you’ll be my matron of honor.”
Sallie’s light laughter betrayed her delight. “Of course I will, I’d have been crushed if you hadn’t asked me. When can we get together?”
“Could you get away for a few hours tomorrow night? Come over to my mother’s?”
“Yes, certainly. Your mother’s?”
Tara knew she’d have to make an explanation that was convincing. Sallie knew all too well how she felt about living at home.
“Yes, I’m going to move back home until the wedding. With so much to do in so little time, I’m hoping to save wear and tear on my nervous system.”
“Probably the best idea,” Sallie replied, musingly. Tara exhaled very slowly with relief as Sallie added, “I’ll come over right after dinner, okay?”
“Fine, I’ll see you then. Now I’d better get to work before the boss catches me goofing off. Bye, Sal.”
Tara hung up, Sallie’s happy laughter ringing in her ears. She felt a growing sense of panic, as if she were caught in a net and someone was drawing it tighter and tighter. What had she started?
Chapter Seven
That evening Tara stood in her bedroom, suitcases open on the bed, clothes scattered around them, when the doorbell rang at exactly seven thirty.
“Damn,” she muttered under her breath, then stormed out of the bedroom to the door. Turning the lock, she flipped the door open, spun on her heel, and stalked back into the bedroom without even glancing into the hall.
Staring in disgust at the cases and clothes a few minutes later, Alek’s voice, low, menacing, touched her like a cold breeze. “Don’t ever do that again, Tara.”
Surprised turned to shock when she swung her head to stare at him. He was standing just inside the bedroom doorway, and his stance, everything about the hard look of him, was more chilling, menacing than his voice had been.
“Do what?” Tara wet her dry lips, suddenly frightened. “What did I do?”
His tone was harsh, the words clipped. “Don’t ever unlock your door and turn away without looking to see who it is again. Are you looking to get robbed, or mugged, or worse?”
“But I knew it was you.” Tara made her voice hard in an effort to hide the fear curling in her chest.
“You thought it was me,” he rapped. “Not quite the same th
ing.”
Unable to face that brittle blue stare, she turned her head to gaze unseeingly at the bed. Shock was added to shock at his lightning change of mood. His tone now light and teasing, he sauntered across the room to her, eyes flicking over the cluttered bed.
“I thought you’d be almost finished packing by this time.”
Anger replaced the fear inside and, without pausing to think, Tara flashed, “I don’t know what to take and what to leave. I don’t want to go to my mother’s. I want to stay here in my own place. I’m used to my freedom. Do you realize that not only will I lose my privacy, I’ll have to share a bedroom with Betsy?”
“Get you used to the idea of sharing a room,” he teased laughingly.
In exasperation she turned glaring eyes to him. “Damn you, Alek, it’s not funny.”
Before the last word was out, she knew she’d gone too far. His face went hard, and his hands shot up to grip her upper arms, his long fingers digging in painfully. “I told you not to swear at me again,” he growled dangerously.
She opened her mouth to apologize but not quickly enough. He pulled her against his hard chest, and his mouth crushed hers punishingly, brutally. Her hands, flat against his chest, pushed futilely at him, and she tried vainly to pull away from him. His one hand released her and, with a low, swinging arc, his arm swept the cases from the bed. His hand regripped her arm and he turned her, pushing her back and down. Her back hit the bed, his full weight on top of her, and she felt her breath explode inside her chest. The fear she had experienced earlier was nothing compared to the blind panic that now clutched at her throat.
Like a wild thing she struggled against him, hands pushing, legs kicking. Twisting her head frantically, she finally succeeded in tearing her mouth away from his cruel, bruising lips. Gasping for air, she choked, “You’re nothing but a savage. You’re hurting me.”
He was still a moment, then his hand moved from her arm, sliding slowly to the beginning swell of her breast. Lips close to her ear, he groaned, “Tara, in a few weeks I’ll be your husband. Surely a few weeks can’t make all that much difference.” His hand slid caressingly over her breast and, his voice a harsh whisper, he urged, “Tara, let me. Let me.”