No “I’ll walk you to your door”, no gentility, no protectiveness, no romance. “Good night, Vic,” she whispered.
She climbed out of the car, entered the house without looking back, and went disconsolately to bed.
Mary slept long and hard, and then a large, shadowed figure slid into her bed.
He was a familiar figure, that man, very much loved and desired. She murmured wordlessly and held her arms out to him, and he pulled her against his warm, naked body.
His wise, sensual fingertips woke her to a piercing pleasure. He whispered things in her ear, love words, promises. She clung to him, believing in the passion, the promise. He knew everything about her and cherished the knowledge, and spent his life protecting what they shared.
Just one thing bothered her. She couldn’t remember what he looked like. She stroked the hair off his forehead, felt it slide silkenly between her fingers, and tried and tried to picture his face.
It was too dark to see his features. She reached to turn on the bedside lamp, but the light switch was broken. Then he kissed her hard and slid away.
She awoke, still aroused, her sweaty legs tangled in the bed sheets. Loneliness flooded her as she realized it had just been a dream.
A splinter of bright sunlight showed in the crack of her bedroom curtains. She rolled over to glance at her clock. It was almost three in the afternoon.
Mary curled into a miserable ball, a pillow tucked against her stomach. What was the matter with her? She’d never had such an erotic dream before, and certainly had never dreamed with such longing of a life partner.
Sure she wanted to get married. Sure she wanted children. But those had always been rather distant desires, something that she wanted to have someday, when she was older and ready for it, when she’d met the right man.
Then she would explore, with eagerness and faith, all the intimacies that a husband and wife shared, both the physical and emotional. Until then she would be content to wait, a chrysalis in a cocoon, for that first trembling emergence.
Tim had been five years old when their parents had died, and Mary had been just seventeen. The latter part of her teenage years—indeed, all through under-graduate school—had been devoted to being his surrogate mother.
She hadn’t needed to take on such a demanding role. Their family was rich, and they could have afforded all kinds of quality child care. But she loved her brother deeply. She had wanted to do it. At a time when other young women were dating and exploring adult relationships, and often making disastrous mistakes, Mary had been either studying or watching Tim grow up, sharing with her grandfather Tim’s childhood milestones.
She’d taught him how to ride a bike. She’d been there, cheering and waving a tearful goodbye on his first day of school. More than a brother, Tim was almost her son.
By the time things had settled enough for her to consider a little exploration of her own, Mary was in medical school and settled into the habit of a quiet life. She was able to judge for herself, calmly and rationally, the risks of casual sexual contact, and she had decided to wait for a serious, committed relationship. She had not achieved that level of commitment with anyone yet, not even with Victor.
And she had been content with that. Before, she had been content.
Now she said to herself starkly, I am a twenty-six-year-old spinster. Yes, a spinster. What an awful, sad, ridiculous word.
Maybe it was time to find out if Victor wanted to get engaged. Maybe they could get married next spring, have the wedding of the social season, spend their honeymoon in the Bahamas, come back home and—get back to work.
The prospect didn’t sound any better today than it did yesterday. Feeling terribly sorry for herself, Mary buried her face into her pillow and snuffled. Marrying—well, anybody else was even harder to picture than marrying Victor.
That’s it, she thought In thirty years I’m going to be a skinny, shriveled-up old woman, with Coke-bottle glasses and gray hair, and Tim’s children will call me Aunt Mary.
She gritted her teeth, rebelling against the fatalistic depression. Surely that’s not it. Why I’ll—I’ll maybe take out a personal ad in the paper. “Wanted: a NICE, faithful husband and father type, not obsessed with careers or social climbing, must like Tim.”
And picnics. And walks on the beach.
And having fun.
I’m not going to think of Chance. He’s out of my life—not that he was really in it for long. I’m sad about Cassie, but if I called her and we became friends, sooner or later I’d run into that man. And I couldn’t do that. No, a clean break would be best. That’s it, it’s over, shut the door on it and get on with things, kaput.
What if he calls today? He might, he just might. I can’t lie in bed any longer—I’ve got to tell everybody I’m not home.
Mary surged out of bed, hurried to shower, and dressed in a Greenpeace T-shirt that said “Otter Joy” and shorts. Then, with her hair hanging loose and damp down her back, she hurried downstairs.
She told Tim, who was listening to music on his headphones in the study. She told her grandfather, who was stumping around in the back gardens with their handyman, plotting what he was going to tear down next year. She ran off to tell Janice, their housekeeper, who was busy vacuuming the front reception rooms. Only then did she relax enough to eat a sandwich, some freshly baked cookies and a glass of milk. She left the kitchen afterward, intent on finishing a book upstairs.
The hall phone rang just as she passed it. She picked up the receiver and said, “Hello?”
Damn!
“Hi, Mary.” The voice was deep, growly and unmistakably Chance.
Shock bolted down her spine, and she panicked, slamming down the phone. She held the receiver down with both hands and stared at it as if it might jump off the hook and bite her. After a few seconds, it rang again. She jumped and looked around wildly. No, there was nobody else around.
“Janice?” she called weakly.
She could hear the rumble of the vacuum cleaner, and Janice singing loudly. The phone sounded again.
Don’t—don’t pick it up. Let the answering machine get it. She looked at the machine and whispered, “Tell him I’m not home.”
The phone stopped ringing, and the machine played its message. She hovered, heart pounding idiotically, and then there was an electronic beep and Chance’s voice sounded on the speaker.
“Mary? I know you’re there, Mary. Are you okay?” A pause. He sounded so real, so vital, close enough to touch. He sounded both nettled and amused. His voice lowered confidentially. “This is Chance—is Victor there? Is that why you won’t pick up the phone, Doc?”
Mary chewed her fingernails. The message time on the tape was thirty seconds, but it seemed to go on forever. Stop now. Stop. Then finally, thankfully, the machine clicked over, and she sagged. Her T-shirt clung to her clammy skin.
There, that was it. He had to have gotten the point. She didn’t want to talk to him. It was over. She sniffed and blinked hard. “It” hadn’t even started, and my, hadn’t she been lucky?
The phone rang again. She shot away from it until she was pressed against the opposite wall. This time he sounded worried.
“Mary, if you’re still there, please pick up. If you don’t, I’m coming over—”
She lunged, snatched up the receiver and said breathlessly, “No, don’t! Don’t come over! That’s all right—I’m fine! Everything’s fine here now, and— and I have to leave the house for the whole day, so—that’s it. Thanks for calling—”
“Wait a minute!” he interrupted sharply. “What’s gotten into you? I told you I was going to call today— you gave me your number. What’s going on, babe?”
Her hand shook badly. Her voice did, as well. “I’ve changed my mind, that’s all. Please don’t call again. I—I—I’m sorry, I just made a mistake yesterday. I was tired, I didn’t know what I was doing—”
“Victor,” he snarled. “What the hell did he say to you?” There was a faint, tight so
und, as if he’d sucked in his breath. “I want to talk to you,” he said more calmly. “I’m on my way.”
“No—please—” The connection went dead.
He was on his way over. He was coming over here, oh, yes, because he knew where she lived, didn’t he? Now what did she do? She would just have to tell him to his face—she would just have to look up into his face…Her hands fluttered frantically; her eyes darted around.
A cowardly part of her lifted up a finger. Or she could just run away.
Right! She’d told him she was leaving; he couldn’t say she hadn’t warned him. She raced up the stairs, grabbed her purse from her bedroom, fumbled for keys as she ran back down and out the door and toward her Cabriolet convertible that was parked in its usual…
No Cabriolet convertible. Not anywhere she looked. Oh, DAMN! It was still back in the DAMN hospital parking lot because he’d given her a ride home since she was too DAMN tired to drive herself!
She shook the fist that held her useless keys, spun around to stare at Janice’s Toyota parked to one side, and spun back toward the house. Janice’s keys. That’s what she needed.
She froze then, hearing a sound that couldn’t be happening. No, that’s not a car coming up the drive. Her back hunched, and her shoulders crept around her ears. No, that had to be someone else. Nobody could get here that fast, call one moment and arrive the next.
Unless he had a car phone, Mary. Do you remember if he has a car phone, Mary?
She peeked over her shoulder, took one look at the black Jeep Cherokee that was pulling smoothly to a stop twenty feet away, squeaked and ran.
Into the house she streaked, flying past Tim up the stairs and into her room. She locked the door, panting, and leaned against it.
Other people could deal with Chance. Tim could.
Tim would tell Chance she wasn’t home. Oh, God. She put her face in her hands.
Chance got out of the car, watching her disappear into the house like a frightened rabbit that’s smelled a hawk. His tension eased a bit as soon as he had seen that she was all right, at least physically.
He removed his sunglasses and stretched himself, squinting at the door. Something certainly must have happened between last night and this afternoon; unless he had severely misjudged her, Mary was not the sort of woman to play stupid games. She really was spooked. He glanced at the Toyota parked beside the driveway and wondered if it was Victor’s. No, he thought, smiling in spite of himself. Dr. Prentiss probably drove a Mercedes, or something equally impressive.
He debated for only a moment about whether to follow her or not, and then strode purposefully to the porch. Whatever Victor had told her, Chance was not about to concede without a battle.
He leaned on the doorbell until Tim answered. The boy was chewing pretzels from a bag in his hand. His grin, at least, was a welcoming sight. “Hi, Chance!”
“Hey, Tim,” he said warmly. “Good to see you again. Can I come in?” Gain entry, that’s the ticket, and then on to the next phase.
“Sure.” Tim stepped back from the door. “You here to see Mary?”
Inside, Chance glanced around the spacious entry hall, heard the nearby whine of a vacuum and a deep female voice belting out show tunes. The decor was deceptively simple: a beautifully kept hardwood floor, tan rugs, cream-painted walls with dark wood trim. The effect was airy and homey.
He made his body relax into an easy, nonthreatening posture. “Yes, but I’m not sure she wants to see me,” he confided, putting a hand on Tim’s bony shoulder. “Did you have a good time last night?”
“Oh, sure, it was great! How’s Cassie?” His eyes, large and clear sky blue like his sister’s, were very bright.
Chance kept his face bland. “Just fine. I talked to her this morning and she said to tell you hi. Is Mary around?”
Tim appeared to deliberate. Chance kept his eyes steadily on the boy’s gaze, waiting. Finally Tim shrugged. “She went up to her room. You want me to tell her you’re here?”
He hesitated, looking past the foyer to the stairway. “Well, I guess she knows that. Tim, do you have any idea what happened last night after the fireworks? You rode home with Victor and her, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Did they talk much?”
“Not on the ride home, but I went in as soon as we got here, and Mary came in later.”
“I see.” He angled his jaw out, realized, how that must look, and drew a breath. “She didn’t say anything to you today?”
“Only that I was supposed to say she wasn’t home if anyone called.”
Chance put his hands on his hips, thinking. What had happened in the car after Tim left? What did you get up to, you son of a…Did you tell some lies, Dr. Prentiss? Or some carefully twisted half-truths you may have plucked from the rumor mill? Or—
The sudden, jarring thought seized up his brain. Maybe Victor had seen his perfect, rosy future slipping away, and gotten off his duff and proposed to her.
Oh, that would be rich, he thought bitterly. Victor realizes what a fool he’s been, Mary realizes she really does care about him more than she thought, and they skip hand in hand to a swanky condo in the suburbs and throw gala parties for their prissy society friends. I’ll be damned.
He felt Tim’s eyes on him, and forced a smile. “Think she’d mind if I just went on up?”
“That’s all right. I’ll come down,” said a very dignified voice from overhead. Tim and Chance both looked up. Mary stood ramrod straight at the top of the stairs. Her pale face was tense but composed, her eyes bleak. Her tawny hair was half-dried and floating around her narrow, delicate face in wavy tendrils, and her bare legs were slender as a gazelle’s. Chance’s gaze fell to her hand as she clutched the banister; the knuckles were white. She looked so vulnerable, his breath caught.
Mary was determined to follow through with the resolution she’d made in her room. She’d gotten herself into this mess; she should see her way through to getting out of it. Whatever Chance may or may not be, she was partly responsible for what had happened yesterday, and she owed him that much.
It was far from easy, though. Clad in olive green fatigue pants and a black mesh top that hid none of the tanned, powerful bulges of his broad chest and shoulders, he held his tough, muscular body warily, as if ready to spring up the stairs at the slightest provocation. His face was hardened, mouth grim, and his unblinking eyes, by some trick of the angled afternoon sun, looked slanted and tigerish, lit from within.
She gulped audibly. She had to go down and face that, and tell it she never wanted to see it again. The gulp turned to a scowl. What was it doing wanting to see her anyway? Couldn’t it see that they were woefully mismatched? It needed to go pick on somebody its own size.
She marched down the stairs, nodded to her brother, who hovered curiously at the foot, and said, “We’ll be in the sun-room, Timmy.”
“Right,” the boy said, backing up. “See you later, Chance?”
“You bet, son.” Chance watched him go, ran his fingers through his hair, and pivoted back to Mary.
Wordlessly she led him to the back of the house. The sun-room was filled with plants, and finches twittered in large bamboo cages. A round white table and chairs were in the middle of the tiled floor, and screened windows were open to a fresh light breeze.
She felt, rather than heard him prowling along behind her. For such a large man, he moved silently.
She didn’t stop moving until she was on the far side of the table. Then, hands twisted tightly together, she turned, half-expecting him to be right behind her.
But he had stopped and rested his hands on the back of a chair. Leaning on it, he looked at her expectantly from across the table. As she watched, the muscles of his upper arms flexed fluidly.
“I apologize,” she said, laboring hard to breathe normally. The words tumbled out too fast. “I’ve behaved badly, and I should have talked to you on the phone, but I’ve had a lot on my mind and—and—it just didn’t happen. It was
nice meeting you yesterday, but I have to say goodbye now.” She paused. His eyes had narrowed. “G-goodbye.”
Another pause as he scrutinized her face. Then he straightened and demanded, “Why?”
He seemed so angry. Her eyes rounded and then she looked down at her tangled fingers. “Oooh…I’m…sooo…busy.” This was too hard. It was a fine, brave attempt, but she just couldn’t come out and say that she’d heard he was a womanizer and a cheat, and she didn’t want to be put in a pickle jar.
“You’re not that busy,” he said in a low, clipped voice. “Why are you running away from me? You were just fine when I left you last night.”
Another, more poised woman might have said, so I’ve changed my mind. You’re not my type. Get lost, soldier. Mary’s head ducked farther down and she muttered to her fingers, “I don’t want to be one of your conquests.”
“One of my—” The harsh words were bitten off, and he gentled his tone. “I haven’t had a ‘conquest’ since college. You’ve been hearing some rumors that just aren’t true, Mary, and I think you’ve been hearing them from someone who has a vested interest in scaring you away from me.” He waited until the words had sunk in sufficiently, then asked, “Am I right?”
Mary’s brows drew together. Victor had been jealous, she knew that, but he’d been so concerned. She could hardly believe that he was capable of that kind of manipulation. Or would it even have to be manipulation? He only told her things she could check out herself, and if she’d heard those kind of rumors firsthand, she would have been concerned, too. Whatever Victor’s motivation, whether they were true or not was an entirely different matter. “I don’t know. Maybe. D-do you go out with married women?”
“For God’s sake, is that what you heard?” He moved impatiently. “I sometimes go places with friends who happen to be married. Male and female. Have I had affairs with married women? No. Have some idiots spread the rumor that I have? Yes. That’s all the fun some people get, although it’s not my idea of fun. It causes too much hurt. Are you the kind of person that listens to that garbage?”
Perfect Chance Page 6