by Неизвестный
Leila had chosen to come with her because, dearly though she’d cared for her father, at the end she had been ashamed of him. And angry and disappointed. He had taken the coward’s way out, leaving those he’d pro-fessed to love to clean up the mess, and it had almost killed his widow.
Dante swung the car down the lane where Cleo’s little house, barely big enough for two, let alone three, sat atop a small rise overlooking Georgia Strait. Parking in the shade of the hawthorn hedge beside the front gate, he leaned across the console between the seats and, pull-ing Leila toward him, kissed her, exploring her mouth with as much wonder as if it were the first time. As always when he touched her, the sweet, sultry pulsing began, coiling through her blood, possessing her limbs and clouding her mind to everything but the won-der of having found such a man to love. The unhappy past slipped away, and all that mattered was the magic of the present and the promise of tomor-row. Angling closer, she tried to shut out the space that came between her and Dante. She wanted to feel all of him next to her, his muscle imprinting itself against her curves, his warmth filling her.
The pressure of his lips increased. His hand slid inside the collar of her coat, caressed the length of her throat and found her breast. She yearned toward him, the flare of desire so urgent that it bordered on pain. With a little whimper she covered his hand with hers and pressed his palm against her sensitized nipple in an attempt to dull the ache. It didn’t help; she simply wanted him more. She was not alone in her misery. "If I owned one of those vans with smoked windows," he groaned against her mouth, "I’d have you in the back with your clothes off by now."
But he drove a low-slung, two-seater import, a Jaguar whose only concession to seduction lay in its sleekly beautiful design. And they were not, after all, teenagers whose appetites so far outran their social conscience that they could forget they were parked on a public street. Reluctantly he drew back and smoothed her hair away from her neck. "Will you miss me?" he said. She had tried not to think about tomorrow when he would fly out of Vancouver at dawn for four weeks of business meetings, first in London, then with clients in the Middle East and India, and finally with his Belgian and Dutch suppliers. But suddenly there was no more avoiding it.
‘‘Terribly," she said, and thought how foolish she was to be near tears. What was four weeks when they had the rest of their lives to look forward to? And how could his leaving seem such a tragedy when, five weeks ago, she hadn’t even known him?
"My sisters will be in touch," he said, cupping her chin in his hand and stroking her mouth with his thumb.
"Spend time getting to know them better. Take Maeve and Cleo to meet my mother. Go shopping for a wedding dress. Think about where you’d like to live, what sort of house you want. Keep busy and the time will fly by and I’ll be back before you know it."
Of course. Even though they didn’t plan to be married until July, there was so much to do in addition to her work. Still, as she lingered until the last trace of the Jaguar’s rear lights had disappeared and the subdued roar of its engine had faded in the night, she felt as if she had said goodbye to him forever.
CHAPTER FOUR
IF THE next two weeks were a living purgatory, they were at least made bearable for Leila by Dante’s phone calls. Though nothing could make up for his actual pres-ence or the feel of his arms around her, hearing his voice every few days went a long way toward keeping her spirits high, which was no mean feat considering the sort of harassment Carl Newbury took delight in leveling her way every chance he got.
She’d have preferred to have no dealings with the man at all but since he was vice president in charge of over-seas buying, avoiding him wasn’t possible. Once she’d compiled the inventory on merchandise already being shipped from Hong Kong, attached relevant photographs and a list of samples available for distribution to the network of sales agents across North America, he was the one to whom she presented her file. Her attempts to be brief and businesslike, however, were a wasted effort.
"What, still slumming around here now that you’ve hit pay dirt?" he’d inquired mockingly, lacing his stubby fingers over his midriff and regarding her with transpar-ently insincere astonishment. Refusing to dignify the insult with a reply, she’d slapped her report down in front of him and turned to leave. But he was quicker, moving out of his chair and around his desk with unsuspected agility and catching up with her just as she reached out to grasp the door-knob.
"You might think you’ve got the boss wrapped around your little finger,’ he whispered, "but I wouldn’t count my chickens before they’re hatched, if I were you. Or, to coin yet another well—worn proverb, there’s many a slip between cup and lip. Dante will come to his senses sooner or later and when he does ... " His snicker crawled over the nape of her neck, clammy and revolting as insect feet. " .. .It’ll be sayonara, doll, I guarantee you that."
She longed to wipe the smirk off his face and tell him that she and Dante had already set a wedding date. But they’d agreed to wait until he came home before making the news public. So she’d swallowed her indignation and walked away.
Fortunately, her future in—laws were the perfect anti-dote to Newbury’s particular brand of unpleasantness.
"Four months is no time at all to organize a wed-ding," they decreed, and besieged her with questions.
"Who do you want on the guest list, Leila? Where will you shop for your trousseau? How many bridesmaids?
What color scheme? Which flowers? Which church?
Have you chosen a china pattern, signed with a bridal registry at any of the big stores? No? Good heavens, how will people know what to buy if you don’t draw up a list of the things you’d like? Do you really want to end up with five cappuccino makers, or six unmatched ster-ling silver place settings? And where would you like the reception to be held? The best places are booked at least a year in advance, you know."
"I didn’t know," she told her mother and Cleo, after one such marathon session. "I had no idea planning a wedding could be so exhausting. I thought it’d be just a small, simple affair—we hardly know anyone here, after all—but Dante has such a large circle of friends and business acquaintances, as well as his family, that I sup-pose we can’t avoid inviting a crowd."
"How will we afford it?" her mother worried. "I’d love to give you a splashy wedding, Leila, but I don’t know how we’d scrape up the cash."
‘‘That isn’t your problem, ’ Leila said. ‘‘I’m not some child bride with no realization of the sort of expense involved. These days, couples share the cost of getting married and, in a pinch, I can always sell some of my jewelery."
As had happened with increasing frequency since the lunch with Dante, a flash of her mother’s old spirit evinced itself. "Out of the question," she proclaimed.
"We’ve been through this before, my darling, and I sim-ply won’t allow you to part with the only legacy your father left you. We’ll find another way."
Tossing her long gray braid over her shoulder, Cleo had rubbed her crystal ball and peered intently into its depths. "All will be resolved," she decreed. "Trust me."
And so the first three weeks passed until finally only five more working days remained, and a weekend in which to polish her nails and tend to all those other feminine details that made a woman’s reunion with her lover unforgettable. Then, after that, a Monday morning transformed from the mundane to the memorable by the knowledge that, at two that afternoon, his plane would touch down in Vancouver and she’d come fully alive again.
"Because since we’ve been apart I feel as if I’m float-ing somewhere between here and wherever he is," she explained to her mother, the Tuesday before he was due to return. "I’m caught in a sort of jet lag. You’re serving breakfast here but I’m miles away in my thoughts, shar-ing the sunset with him." Her mother laughed. "So that’s what’s killed your morning appetite lately. I thought perhaps it was Cleo’s cooking."
"No, I’m the one at fault! Are all brides this self-involved, or is it just me, do you think
?"
"You have a lot on your mind, darling. It’s to be expected, given the changes that have occurred. Your life’s taken a completely different direction, what with your new job and now Dante. You’re not the same per-son anymore."
"No, I’m not," Leila said thoughtfully. "I feel as if I’m living in a fairy tale."
But that evening, shortly after she came home from work, she received a phone call from Gloria Fletcher, the mother of the man she’d dated before she’d met Dante, which served as a pointed reminder that not everyone shared the same happy fate.
"Leila, my dear," Mrs. Fletcher stammered, "we’ve just received word. There’s been a terrible accident—an explosion—in Croatia. And Anthony... " Her voice broke, a signal in itself that the news was bad. No part of Gloria Fletcher broke easily; she had a will of iron. Leila’s heart contracted with dread. An image of Anthony as she’d last seen him, tall, proud and sleekly handsome, filled her mind. It hadn’t been a particularly happy occasion. Telling him she did not love him and that she saw no future for them as a couple had not been easy. Still, she was fond of him and considered him a good friend—indeed, one of the few she had in Canada. The one or two letters she’d received from him since suggested he’d accepted her decision and harbored no ill feelings, and the thought of him lying half a world away, maimed, scarred, or worse, shocked her immeasurably.
"Oh, Mrs. Fletcher," she breathed. "You’re not say-ing...?"
"He suffered a serious head wound, a fractured skull we believe, but mercifully is now out of danger." A sharp inhalation from the other end of the line was in-dication enough that Anthony’s mother had recovered her usual fortitude. "We won’t, of course, know the full extent of his injuries until we see him. He’s been hos-pitalized in Germany for the last two weeks and only just managed to get word to us. Thank God he’s recov-ered enough to be flown to Vancouver the day after to-morrow."
"I’m so terribly sorry," Leila said. "What a shock for you and your husband."
"And for you, my dear. I gather you had no idea that anything was amiss?"
It struck Leila as an odd question, given the fact that there’d been so little communication between her and Anthony during what now amounted to the more than four months he’d been gone. Didn’t his family know they’d parted as friends, not lovers? "No idea at all," she said.
"Well, you have now and we know you’ll want to be there for him when he arrives home. His flight arrives at eleven on Thursday morning and although I realize you’re normally working at that hour, I’m sure your em-ployer will allow you to take the day off, considering the circumstances."
"That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Fletcher, but I’d feel like an interloper. Given Anthony’s condition, this is surely a private family time."
"We consider you practically part of the family, my dear."
There it was again, another unsettling suggestion that her romance with Anthony was still in full flower. Searching for a tactful way to set the record straight, Leila said, "Still, the flight from Europe is tiring even to someone in the best of health. Why don’t you call me once you see how he’s feeling? He might not be up to seeing anyone for the first few days."
"He’ll want to see you," Mrs. Fletcher declared with more than a trace of impatience. "We spoke to him briefly on the telephone just before I called you, and he was very clear about that. You won’t disappoint him, Leila, I know."
Less a question than an order clothed in Mrs. Fletcher’s cultured velvet tones, it was impossible to re-fuse without sounding churlish or insensitive. And perhaps, Leila thought, it was best this way. She could well spare a morning away from the office. She’d attended to most of the paperwork and numerous follow-up details required to ensure smooth delivery of the goods she’d purchased in the Par East. All that remained was to catalog her sources for future reference, some-thing she could easily do by working late one evening. It seemed more urgent that the misapprehension Anthony’s parents entertained regarding her relationship with their son be cleared up, especially in light of the fact that she was now unofficially engaged to another man. But it was hardly something to blurt out over the phone, especially not at a time like this.
"Leila? Are you still there?" The well—bred voice held a decided edge this time.
"Yes, Mrs. Fletcher?
"Then it’s arranged? We’ll see you on Thursday?"
"I’ll be there," she said.
"I knew we could count on you, my dear. Anthony needs you now more than ever."
The confidence with which the words were uttered did nothing to alleviate the sense of foreboding lodged un-comfortably in Leila’s stomach and which no amount of rationalizing could dispel.
It was just as well Dante would be home within the next week, she thought. The sooner their engagement became public knowledge, the better.
It helped, having friends in high places, Dante decided, racing along the concourse at Schiphol on Thursday eve-ning. Otherwise, he’d have been cooling his heels an-other night in Amsterdam. As it was, a phone call and a generous tip in the right hands had been enough to guarantee him the last available seat onithe flight to Toronto that night.
A clock on the wall showed thirteen minutes to eight. Less than ten minutes to clear security and reach the gate where the crew of the 747 jet would be preparing for final clearance prior to departure. They’d wait for him, of course; he’d made sure of that. But they wouldn’t be happy. Businessmen who used their executive clout to hold up international travel were never popular. Not that he made it a practice to keep a loaded aircraft waiting on his whim and he didn’t expect his fellow passengers to greet him with a round of applause. But they didn’t have a woman like Leila waiting on the other end. Perhaps if they had, they’d view him more sympatheti-cally. Patting the breast pocket of his jacket where he’d stashed the diamond ring he’d bought that morning, he hoisted his briefcase over the head of a young mother wheeling a baby stroller and dodged around a group of Japanese tourists huddled around the entrance to the duty—free shop. Five minutes later he was sprinting down the last stretch and into the already deserted departure lounge.
"Sorry," he panted, handing the waiting flight atten-dant his ticket and drumming up his most winning smile.
"l know I’m cutting it fine."
She pursed her lips and muttered something unflatter—
ing. He shrugged another apology and headed down the boarding ramp with her breathing tire at his back. So what if they fed him bread and water while the others in business class dined on caviar, lobster and cham-pagne? He could survive almost anything but being apart from Leila a minute longer than he had to be. It was what had motivated him to cram six days of business into two and made it possible for him to fly home four days earlier than originally planned, although he hadn’t known until that morning if he was going to pull it off. Sliding his briefcase into the overhead bin, he buckled himself into his seat seconds before the aircraft gave a slight jerk and eased away from its berth. Taking into account the time change and the one hour stopover in Toronto, he’d land in Vancouver at a quarter past mid-night. Even if the flight was on time, it’d be a bit too late to call Leila and let her know he was back, but surprising her when she walked into the office the next morning would more than make up for that.
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, savoring the sense of completion she brought to his life and won-dering how he’d find the patience to wait another four months before he married her.
It was over, the whole horrifying, upsetting day. Emotionally wrung out and sick to her stomach, Leila let herself into the house shortly after eight on Thursday night. How was she going to extricate herself gracefully from a situation whose complications no one could pos-sibly have anticipated?
Her mother appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘‘Leila‘?
We’ve saved dinner for you and it--good gracious!
Darling, you look dreadful. Are you ill?"
Actually, she hadn’t felt well for th
e past couple of days but it was nothing she could put her finger on. Just a nagging sort of malaise which left her feeling tired and generally out of sorts and which she’d put down to stress. And heaven knew today’s events had been
enough to tum the most stalwart individual a little green around the gills.
"Not exactly. Just very tired and shocked.’’ She hung up her coat in the hall closet and leaned against the door. Wiping her hands on her apron, her mother drew her into the dining room where a fire burned in the hearth.
"Is it Anthony, darling? Are his injuries much worse than you’d expected? You look... " Perplexed, Maeve lifted her shoulders and turned to her cousin. "Well, shell—shocked is the term that comes to mind, wouldn’t you say, Cleo‘?"
Leila sighed. "That just about sums it up for Anthony, Mother, I’m afraid."
"You need a good stiff drink, darling," her mother said, pressing her into a chair and reaching for the sherry bottle on the sideboard.
But it would take a lot more than Harveys Bristol Cream to erase the memory of seeing Anthony again, Leila thought. Nothing she’d been told had prepared her for the slumped figure in the wheelchair, the haggard face or the vacant expression in the eyes of the man who had been a Rhodes scholar and a star athlete during his university years.
Only when he’d caught sight of her standing beside his parents had his face lit up in a smile and chased away the frightening emptiness in his eyes. "I knew you’d be here, my love," he’d whispered, taking her hand and clinging to it. "I knew you would."
She’d felt the tears streaming down her face. Finding him so frail and helpless had been a heart-wrenching experience made more unbearable by the flashbulbs ex-ploding around them as the press and local news crews captured the moment for their audiences.