by Неизвестный
He hadn’t been able to abide their sympathetic mur-murs, even less their hushed deference as they filed out. As a point of pride, he’d remained in front of the altar until every last pew had emptied, grateful that he’d at least had time to prevent his mother and sisters from witnessing this, the ultimate indignity of his life. Eventually, he’d driven over to face the family. They were all there in the house he’d grown up in, his nieces red-eyed with disappointment at not being flower girls after all and his mother still in tears. "How did this happen, Dante?" she’d sobbed. "What went wrong?" They’d all clustered mound him then, bolstering him with sympathy, offering support, assuring him that ev-erything would eventually turn out okay, that being preg-nant often made women do and say irrational things. All, that was, except Ellen. "You boneheaded idiot, what did you do?" she whispered, dragging him uncer-emoniously out to the back porch and punching him in the shoulder. ‘‘How did you manage to louse up the best thing that’s ever happened to you?"
"Shut up," he’d muttered, too taken aback that she, the most placid of his sisters, should be the one to turn on him with such spirit.
"I will not! You’ve been riding for a fall for a long time, Dante, so high on your success with Classic that you’ve started to believe the mythology of your own PR
department. When did the brother I used to know be-come such an unfeeling, arrogant ass?"
"Standing by the woman carrying my children hardly strikes me as arrogant or unfeeling."
"Is that what this so-called marriage was all about?" she’d spluttered, practically exploding with temper.
‘‘Your doing the right thing? Well, la-di-da! Where was all this high-minded morality when you...you knocked her up ?"
"Careful, Ellen," he’d said. "Your blue collar back-ground is showing." She’d slapped his face then, winding up with a right-hander that had rocked him back on his heels. His cheek still bore the faint red imprint of her fingers. "You unspeakable, ignorant snob! Leila has more class in her little finger than you’ll ever find in your whole oh—so-perfect body! She was right to dump you. With attitude like yours, she’s better off alone."
"And my children?" With an effort, he’d contained his shock at this, the final betrayal. He’d always been sure he could count on every member of his family to take his side, no matter what.
"Oh, they won’t be alone, Dante. They’ll have a solid—gold mother who cares, and at least one aunt who’ll be there for them, no matter how much their father man-ages to screw up."
"In case you haven’t yet realized," he said, "I’m not the one who canceled out at the last minute. I was pre·
pared to go through with the wedding and, for what it’s worth, the marriage?
"Well, it isn’t worth spit!" she snapped. "Because, in case you hadn’t noticed, that woman loved you, though heaven knows why. She would have walked
through fire for you, Dante."
"Apparently not, Ellen. When it came right down to what really counted, she was a no—show."
"And it’s not yet occurred to you to wonder why, has it? You’re so busy playing the injured victim that you’ve never once asked yourself what you did to provoke such action. Or do you think it’s all in a day’s work for a woman to call off her wedding at the last minute?"
"I don’t pretend to understand how the female mind works."
"Well, start taking lessons. Because you’ve obviously got a lot to learn." She glared at him, but the fire in her eyes was dimmed by the sparkle of tears. "You’re my brother and I love you," she wailed, collapsing against
"I hate to see you hurting but damn you, you de-serve it!"
"Don’t cry," he said, slinging his arm around her.
"Leila and I might still be able to work things out." Ellen wiped her eyes on the end of his tie. "Will you go to her, Dante?"
Not on your life, he’d thought. Leila had been the one to walk away and she’d have to be the one to come back.
"I’ll think about it," he’d said.
"Anthony knows how you can get in touch with me, should you decide you want to try again," she’d told him, before she’d left him, knowing that, in bringing up Anthony’s name, she ran the risk of alienating Dante forever.
But Anthony had shown himself to be a good friend, something Leila valued highly, and she’d refused to di-minish his kindness to her just to cater to Dante’s un—
founded jealousy.
When she had fallen in love with Dante, it had been more than just his body that had stolen her heart. His strength of character had played their part, his integrity and inborn sense of fair play.
All she could do now was hope that, given time, those qualities would conquer his pride enough to allow him to come to her. For the first few weeks she clung to that belief so fiercely that she’d awaken each morning con—
vinced that this would be the day. But as May slid closer to June and summer became a tangible presence rather than a promise, her hopes began to fade.
On the positive side, the clean, fresh air and peaceful surroundings worked their magic. Her health improved dramatically. The nausea disappeared and with it the en-ervating fatigue that had made her first trimester so hard. She spent hours walking along the shore, collecting shells, or reading from the vast collection of paperbacks in the guest house library. She began to enjoy meals again.
When he heard that she loved seafood, Dale kept her supplied with a variety of delicacies. Every few days, she’d find a pail of fresh clams on her doorstep, and she’d make a chowder that would see her through sev-eral dinners. Other nights she’d feast on oysters or salmon.
His wife, June, taught her to knit and she began mak-ing little things for her babies. Of an evening, she’d often wait until after sunset then spend an hour relaxing in the hot tub.
Gradually, her body recovered its former vitality. Her hair shone with health, her skin glowed. She slept long and well in the big sleigh bed with its soft, deep mat-tress. Too well, sometimes, when she’d dream of Dante so vividly that it broke her heart to wake up and find he was not there beside her.
She was at her weakest then, so vulnerable that the temptation to renege on her self-promise tore at her. Go to him. Be the one generous enough to make amends, her heart advised. She’d wander out onto the deck and watch the new day come alive but, while the world basked in sunshine, in her heart it was raining. At those times it seemed to her that it had been raining for weeks, a cold, gray relentless downpour that never abated. Once she got as far as dialing his number, then hung up before it rang at the other end because she knew that it would resolve nothing. He had to want her badly enough that, this time, he’d come to her.
In her sixteenth week, she felt life stirring within her womb, tiny fluttering movements that brought the reality of her pregnancy home to her in a way that nothing else had. But her sense of wonder was tarnished by not being able to share the moment with Dante.
Twice she traveled to the mainland for medical check·
ups at a clinic in Powell River, recommended by her doctor. She phoned her mother every Sunday. Cleo
wrote to say the cards predicted she’d deliver identical twin boys three weeks ahead of schedule. Once, after his return from Vienna, Anthony flew up to spend the day with her and introduced her to the next-door neighbors, Lew and Claire Drummond, a couple in their early six-ties who spent each summer at their island retreat. But tranquility and solitude could become too much of a good thing. She began to tire of her own company and when Claire took to inviting her over for morning coffee or afternoon tea and, occasionally, a beach bar—
becue, Leila found she was ready to interact with other people again.
One Friday evening near the middle of June, when she’d all but given up hope of finding her happy-even after ending with Dante, she was invited to a cocktail reception marking an annual Drummond tradition.
Friends from as far back as college days came from all over the lower mainland to celebrate the start of the sum-mer seaso
n with a weekend of partying. From early that morning, the boats had begun to ar·
rive. By late afternoon a fleet of motor cruisers was moored at the dock while out in the bay several sailboats rode at anchor. When she arrived on the Drummonds’
back lawn, shortly before seven, the party was in full swing.
"Come and meet people," Claire said, hurrying to greet her and drawing her into the crowd. "These are the Martins, Chad and Adrienne, who live at the other end of the island. And this is my nephew Max who’s going to be a darling and get you something to drink. She’s pregnant, Max, so make it nonalcoholic. Oh, and Leila, I want to be sure to introduce you to..." The names flowed past her, too many to remember. Max pressed a tall cool glass of sparkling grape juice into her hand. A woman asked her when her baby was due and backed away as if she was contagious when she said she was expecting two. Music spilled out of the house, old ragtime melodies played on a honky-tonk pi-ano, underscored by the sound of laughter and animated conversation in the garden.
She was talking to a couple celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary when the float plane appeared from the south and circled over the bay. As the roar of its engine gradually drowned out the voices, everyone turned to watch its descent.
It skimmed the surface of the water about a hundred yards out, throwing up twin rooster tails of spray, then settled on its pontoons and taxied toward to the end of the dock.
Shading-her eyes, Leila turned to watch like everyone else as a lone figure climbed out of the cockpit and leaped ashore. But while the buzz of curiosity indicated that he was a stranger to the others present, Leila was not deceived.
Although the sun rode low in the sky behind him, casting him in silhouette, she knew at once it was Dante. If there’d been a dozen men approaching, she’d have recognized the confident stride, the proud angle of the head, the lean—hipped elegance, that were his trademark. She was not aware of pulling away from the other guests. She did not even know she was gravitating to-ward him as though pulled by some invisible magnet. Only when she felt the smooth, weathered wood of the railing beneath her hand did she realize she’d left the party behind and reached the ramp leading to the dock. Vaguely she was aware of the slap of waves against the pilings, of the guests grown suddenly silent on the Drummonds’ lawn as they witnessed the scene unfolding in that long stretch of no-man’s land connecting sea to shore.
At last he saw her, stopped dead and, for a small eter-nity, simply stood and looked at her. The canvas bag he held slung over one shoulder dropped to the boards with a thud she felt rather than heard. He wiped his palms down the sides of his denim-clad thighs. She saw his head go up, his shoulders straighten.
Apprehension rushed over her then. She’d waited for-ever for this moment, sure it could bring nothing but undiluted joy. Yet poised as she was at the top of the ramp, she felt exposed and defenseless, and very uncer-tain. She wanted to run, to hide. The aftermath breeze of the departing float plane had plastered her maternity dress against her, detailing the changes pregnancy had wrought on her body. Nervously she plucked at the fab-ric, attempting to hold it away from her like a tent. Even though a distance of some fifty yards or more separated them, she knew he saw how different she was from the woman who’d walked out on him on their wed-ding day. How, she wondered, the panic stealing her breath away and hammering at her heart, could he find her attractive still?
At length he moved, scooping up the bag and loping toward her until, at last, he was so close he could have touched her. But he did not. He merely towered over her, unbearably attractive, incredibly sexy and com-pletely terrifying. His gaze scoured the length of her, taking in her face, her throat, her breasts and coming to rest at last on the swell of her pregnancy.
She snapped under that slow, intense scrutiny. "Why are you here, Dante‘?" she said, and was appalled at the way her question emerged, peremptory and cold, as if he’d embarrassed her by gate-crashing the Drummonds’
party when he knew full well he was the person she least wished to see.
She thought something flickered in his expression, something quick and pained, but he masked it so swiftly that she couldn’t be sure. "I’ve come to set you free," he said, his voice flowing over her as darkly velvet as a summer’s night. "Is there someplace private we can talk?"
CHAPTER ELEVEN
SHE didn’t ask him to explain himself; didn’t by so much as a flicker of expression betray whether or not she was glad to see him. All she did was nod calmly and turn back down the ramp, leaving him to follow at her heels like a whipped dog.
He hadn’t counted on things happening quite that way. First, he’d hoped to take her by surprise in the cottage Fletcher had described to him. He’d wanted to reac-quaint himself with the shape and texture of her——her skin, her hair, her unforgettable face.
He’d rehearsed exactly what he wanted to say, had visualized in his mind’s eye how he’d present his case. The last thing he’d expected was that she’d be involved in some fancy shindig with a crowd of people from next door who’d decided to horn in on his act.
"Leila!" one of them screamed, waving furiously.
"Bring your friend over and have him join the party."
"No goddamned way," he said, not giving her the chance to decide otherwise. "I didn’t come all this way to make small talk with strangers."
She tilted her shoulder in a gesture of acquiescence and walked over to speak to the screamer who, by then, had been joined by a horde of other dressed-to-kill yachting types. He couldn’t hear what excuse she offered for abandoning them but he hated watching her smile warmly at strangers when the best she could offer him was a guarded sort of reserve.
He knew he’d painted himself into a corner and de-served whatever punishment she chose to mete out. But reasonable or not, he wanted her smiling at him, telling him with her eyes that she couldn’t wait to be alone with him. He wanted to say his piece and then, if she’d let him, he wanted to start over.
He wanted her in his bed, naked and flushed with passion. He wanted her sleeping next to him, with her belly propped against his spine. He wanted to feel their unborn children moving beneath his hand. Oh, God, he wanted-—so badly he hadn’t been able to function for the pain it brought him.
Balancing his bag on the ramp rail, he let his gaze roam over her, taking in the changes that had occurred in the month she’d been gone. She was still slender as a reed, so sweetly slender that there wasn’t a part of her he couldn’t cup in his hand——except for the swell of her pregnancy, much more pronounced now than it had been a month ago.
How could so delicate a frame possibly survive giving birth? What if the babies were built like him, with shoul-ders like a running back?
He looked away, ashamed and frightened. Fright-ened .... The impact hit him like a fist smashed into his face. He hadn’t been frightened since he’d been a child——until he met her. And since then, he’d been noth-ing but frightened.
"We can go up to the house now." He hadn’t noticed her come back. She stood at the foot of the ramp waiting for him, her animation again replaced by cool reserve.
"I’d like that," he said.
The cottage was comfortably luxurious without being in the least ostentatious, though why that should surprise him he couldn’t fathom since he’d read everything else wrong where Anthony Fletcher was concerned. Solidly constructed, well appointed, and with nothing but great expanses of sea and sky beyond its windows, the place made an ideal retreat.
Leila’s own touches added to the charm. A jug hold-ing a bunch of wildflowers stood on the mantel. An open paperback lay facedown on the sofa, with some knitting beside it. At the end of the counter separating kitchen from living area was a bowl of shells.
"Did you collect these?" he asked, tracing his finger over the coils of an oyster drill.
"Yes. I love walking on the beach at low tide."
"And this place?" He jerked his head to encompass the house. "You’re happy here?"
He waited for her to elaborate, to give him the open-ing he needed to say what had to be said. But she chose not to. Instead, she pulled out one of the chairs at the table, sat with her hands folded composedly in her lap, and left it up to him to carry the conversational ball.
"Yeah...well ... "He cleared his throat, more than a little outraged to find himself pinned in a stranglehold of anxiety. "I guess you’re wondering how I knew where you were‘?"
"I assume you phoned Anthony."
"Not exactly. I went to see him." Her eyes widened. "You went to see him?"
"Yeah. It was no big deal."
"Really?"
Her skepticism shamed him into truth. "No," he ad-mitted. "It was just about the toughest thing I’ve ever done, to go, cap in hand, and ask the man I perceived to be my rival if he’d help me find you."
"Yes," she said, her quiet dignity still intact. "I can imagine that it must have been."
Privately, he’d thought he deserved a medal for what he’d done, but if he found her matter-of-fact response somewhat underwhelming, he wasn’t about to let her know. The time was long past when he could afford such petty self-indulgence, and Fletcher had been more than decent. "I expected he’d rub my nose in the fact that I was at the mercy of his generosity. I probably would have, if our positions had been reversed. But he just asked me, very civilly, why I wanted to find you."
"And what did you say, Dante‘?" Bracing himself, he met her steady gaze. "I told him that there were matters needing to be sorted out between you and me. He agreed."
She looked down at that, and smoothed the palm of her hand over her belly. He found the gesture profoundly moving and erotic. "Was that all you talked about?" she said.
"Not quite." He swallowed another unpalatable chunk of hubris. "Just as I was leaving, he said that falling for a woman and being her lover was easy, it was being her friend that took work."