by Dana Ransom
Perversely, she slipped the tape into the player he had on his window ledge and, after some trepidation, pushed the play button. Voices filled his office. His. Hers. The conversation was familiar. She frowned slightly, trying to remember when it had taken place. The restaurant, the one he’d taken her to for lunch the day after she was released from the hospital. When he’d been so nice, so solicitous. And she’d started to fall in love with him. He’d recorded it.
He’s been using you to get a story. That’s what he was after. It was never you.
And sitting in his chair, listening to the stolen conversation, Charley looked back through different eyes, disillusioned eyes, seeing a whole new slant on things. Jess at the hospital . . . no coincidence. He’d pulled her from the media pack, taken her under his wing, gained entrance into her home, into her trust, into her heart. She’d been so grateful for his buffer against the newshounds. She thought he was being wonderfully gallant. He was protecting his exclusivity to the story. She’d thought he was warm, sincere, interested in her views, her plans. He’d been pumping her for information. He’d taken her to the camp, for a respite from pressure, he’d said. But it had been to keep other reporters away and his identity a secret. Until he had his story.
Don’t believe a word I say . . .
All the laughter. All the loving. How much of it was a lie?
I shouldn’t have let it happen. He’d told her, hadn’t he. I should have stopped it that night at your brother’s before things got—out of control. Out of control? Was that what had happened? Her breath snagged in a sob.
Thanks for the memory and see you around.
A hand reached in front of her, punching down the off button on the tape player. For a long moment she couldn’t look, afraid that he wouldn’t seem any different to her now that she knew the truth. Terrified that he would. Slowly her eyes lifted.
If she’d had any doubts, his expression cleared them. It was shut down tight, detached from even the tiniest betraying flicker. For some reason that infuriated her. He didn’t show remorse. He didn’t show concern for her. He was wrapped up in his own defenses, guarding himself against hurt. And she wanted to strike out at him, to scream at him, to dent those staunch defenses. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t make herself hurt him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I tried.” No apology. Fact.
“You lied to me.”
“No, I didn’t. I told you I was a teacher. I teach. I told you I was a writer. I write.”
“You didn’t tell me you were writing about me! Was ‘lie’ the wrong word? You’re the English expert. You tell me. Perhaps ‘oversight’ would explain it better. Did you just forget to mention that you were following me to get a story? Like you forgot to mention it was you who pulled me from that car? Like you forgot to tell me Alan called? That you were recording our conversations? You seem to have a very selective memory. Is that a prerequisite for your job?” Her voice fractured, and for a second Charley feared she was doomed to a flood of tears. Jess hadn’t moved. He didn’t try to touch her. He didn’t try to speak. He was watching her through shuttered eyes, his posture so stiff and taut that a sharp blow would shatter him into a billion irreparable pieces. She hated it that he was so removed, so controlled, when she felt herself shredding at every seam.
But he’d been expecting this.
He’d been preparing for it since their first kiss.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she moaned softly, unable to get beyond that one fact. It hurt so much that nothing else registered. “How could you? How could you let me think—” She clamped down hard on that as dampness swelled in her eyes. She lifted one of the copies of Metro and pushed it at him. Her tone was raw. “I could understand it from him, from J.T. Masters, but not from you.”
Jess looked blankly down at the glossy magazine, his fingers brushing over the cover, over his byline. Then with a convulsive movement he crumpled it in his hand and flung it hard across the room. The pent-up violence released in the gesture startled her, but it wasn’t an answer.
“Charley,” he began in a low, strained-to-the-limit voice.
“Don’t tell me that you’re sorry,” she warned fiercely. “Don’t you dare say that. Sorry doesn’t cut it, Jess.”
In a flat, frighteningly emotionless way he said, “I told you it was impossible.”
“So this is all my fault? Because I was naïve?” She gave a laugh that was as sharp as broken glass. “I guess you’re right. It is. Because you told me and I wouldn’t listen. I wanted to see something good, and I made myself believe it was real. Well, thank you for the lesson, Mr. McMasters. You taught me something very important, something I won’t ever forget. There are no such things as fairy tales. And you—you—” She pushed herself out of the chair, groping blindly for a way to describe the hurt and humiliation she was feeling. She concluded with a spill of tears. “You aren’t a nice guy.”
She wrenched the diamonds from her earlobes and threw them at him. Jess rocked back as they struck him in the chest, reeling as if she’d smacked him with the desk chair. There, in his face, was a glimpse into his soul, a dulled anguish of inevitability, a twist of tragic resignation. And for an instant there was the faintest spark. He reached out, grazing her wet cheek with his fingertips. Very softly he asked, “What about your promise?”
Charley knocked his arm away. So embroiled in her own misery, she had no idea what he was talking about. “Some promises can’t be kept.”
He let her go. There was nothing he could say to take away her hurt at his betrayal. There was no way he could change what he had done. He was going to have to learn to live with the hole Charley Carter had left in his heart. In a way it would be harder to bear than the ulcer, because nothing was going to ease that pain. Don’t think. Don’t feel. Just get on with it.
What were you expecting? A miracle?
With a tense, controlled motion he reached for the papers on the edge of his desk. He had two hours of class time. Okay, he could get through those two hours. That was two hours down and the rest of his life to go. He’d call Matt and take him up on the beers. No way could he go home tonight. That would be suicidal. He was going to fall apart the minute he closed the front door and he knew it.
Class. Beers. Come on, Jess, hang on. You’ve gotten through worse things.
No. That was a lie. Nothing could compare to losing Charlene Carter. And he wasn’t at all sure he could survive it.
THE KNOCKING ON the door wouldn’t stop. Robert had picked a fine time to go out for bucket chicken.
Hauling herself off the couch, Charley dragged the sleeve of her robe across her eyes and shuffled to send away whoever was disrupting her gloomy stupor. She hadn’t slept, she hadn’t eaten, she hadn’t showered. She’d hardly stirred off the couch for the past fifteen hours, except to get more tissues. And now she could barely move through the film of exhaustion hanging over her. Maybe Robert had forgotten his key. Tears burned against the red of her eyes when she thought of her brother. He’d been so wonderful, never saying a word, letting her sob into his shirtfront until the crack of dawn. How could she have managed without him?
For a moment she stared blearily at the man in the hall. He seemed vaguely familiar, but there was too much effort involved in searching for a name to match the face. He helped her out most graciously.
“Miss Carter, I’m Matthew Bane. We met yesterday.”
She blinked owlishly. “Oh . . . yes, of course. Would you like to come in, Mr. Bane?”
His smile was twisted. She really looked like hell. He looked as though he took pleasure in that fact. “No, thanks. I left a friend of mine hanging over my toilet, so I can’t stay long.”
She took a tiny breath. Jess. She couldn’t say his name. “Is he all right?”
Matthew gave her a hard look. “Sure, he’s fine. We sp
ent most of the night in the rest rooms of every bar in the suburbs while he chucked his guts out and moaned about some promise someone made him. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
Charley shook her head numbly. A promise? “I’m sorry, I don’t.”
“Maybe I was wrong, then. See, I’ve known Jess a lot of years, and he’s kind of a funny guy. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff he’s written for me. The guy is short-fuse dynamite when he gets on a story. Nothing distracts him. He even got his arm broken and a fractured skull sniffing up dirt for one piece. Dragged himself around like the walking dead, but he got what he was after. He’s one tough customer. The perfect feature man, you’d think. No fear, no conscience, no regrets. I love that guy, Miss Carter. I think of him as one of my few good friends, and I value him as one of the best writers I’ve ever known. He can do things with words, make them grab right on to your vitals and twist hard. But this last piece he did, it went for the heart, and I didn’t understand what made that change in him until yesterday. Read this and maybe you’ll understand, too.” He passed her an envelope. “And the other thing in there, it’s not to the city, but maybe it’ll open a lot more.”
Charley sat for a long while staring at the magazine she found inside the mailer. It was the latest issue of Metro Magazine, the one that had just hit the stands. The one that profiled her life through J.T. Masters’s embittered eyes. She didn’t want to read his slashing conclusions. It was too personal, too painful. She was too afraid she’d discover exactly what Jess thought of her, and she wasn’t ready to have all her illusions shot down just yet. Part of her still wanted to believe, though in a dazed, detached way that had little to do with reality as she now understood it. But part of her had to know. If for no other reason, so that she could go on without him.
She glanced at the cover. The picture had been taken as she left the hospital. How vulnerable she looked. What an easy mark for a hardened journalist. She’d just started to frown when she saw his name. His name. Not J.T. Masters. Jess McMasters. And that made her curious enough to open the cover.
When Robert returned, he discovered Charley surrounded by mounds of tissues with the magazine on her lap. She looked up, and her tremulous smile stopped him in his tracks.
“Read this,” she said in an achy little voice.
He took the magazine and found himself staring at his sister’s face on the cover. Beneath it was the caption “Love’s Own Reward” and the name Jess McMasters. He flipped inside and started reading. After the first few paragraphs he glanced up, moved to a shiny-eyed speechlessness. He swallowed hard. “Damn. This is beautiful. This is us. Everything we’re trying to do.”
Jess had taken the essence of their hearts and souls and distilled it into a poignant story. A story that began with the rescue of one child and ended with the hope of saving thousands. There was nothing sensationalized, nothing exploitive. Just a sensitive portrayal of a woman’s courage and her brother’s dream. Of promises to keep.
Promises.
Then Charley understood what Jess had meant. A promise. Her promise that she would love him forever and never, ever hurt him.
“Oh God, Robert. What have I done?”
Her hands were shaking as she dialed. Her heart was pounding in her throat as she heard the inanimate voice on the other end.
“McMasters. I can’t take your call right now. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.” Beep.
“Jess . . .” Would she be just another pleading female voice on his machine? “Jess, call me. Please.” She hung up quickly before she started sobbing into the receiver.
How had she missed it? He’d been reaching out to her the only way he knew how—with the artistry of words, with the cautious extension of his trust. And she’d failed him. After all her grand promises. After all her smug confidence. She remembered so clearly the way he’d looked when he’d listened to her make that vow. She could see the fatigue in his unshaven face, his eyes hollow and empty of hope. And that awful, fragile smile, so sad, so sorrowful, as if he’d known all the pain in the world and hadn’t the strength to endure any more. She’d had to reach down into his battered spirit to drag up that first grain of trust. And she’d promised him, with her words, with her kisses, with the security of her embrace, that she would never give him cause to regret taking that risk. And she saw again that stark devastation when she’d pushed him away. As if he weren’t worth forgiving. As if he weren’t worth loving.
She’d ground out the spark that came alive in his spirit, the hope that shone in his near-poetic words. And she was terribly, terribly afraid she couldn’t bring it back.
Despondently she picked up the envelope from the floor. Something shifted inside. Curiously she tipped it into her hand. A key. Not to the city, Matthew had said. To Jess McMasters’s front door.
And very possibly to his heart.
IT TOOK HIM about five minutes to open his front door. He couldn’t see a thing. He was beginning to think he’d go through the rest of his life half-blind. Finally he found the lock and let himself into the emptiness of his house. He closed the door behind him and stood, confronted by the thing he’d feared most. Being alone. He didn’t know what to do with himself. There was absolutely nothing left to motivate him from the spot. Dragging the heel of his hand across his face, he made himself move, walking aimlessly into the kitchen. He reached past the tempting remains of a six-pack for a half-gallon of milk, drinking deeply, right out of the carton. It went down hard, being forced past what felt like a baseball lodged in his throat. He screwed the cap back on and smiled ruefully. See, Charley, I’m taking care of myself. I don’t need you to watchdog me. Then he grabbed a beer.
Out of habit he played his messages. The sound of Charley’s voice snatched him up, seeming to rip his heart right from his chest.
“Jess . . .”
He jabbed stop. The sound of his own breathing was loud and raw. Before he had time to think, he pushed erase, then his fingertips fluttered helplessly at the buttons as if he could call back the words, the sound. But he couldn’t. It was too late. He couldn’t call back any of it.
Morosely swallowing a mouthful of beer, he plodded through his darkening rooms in a restless sort of daze. His insides were a quivering mess, so torn up it felt as if he were stoking a furnace with every breath. The merciful thing would be for someone to put him out of his misery. Isn’t that what they did to poor dumb animals when they were in so much pain they walked in numb, endless circles unable to comprehend their own agony? Wasn’t there someone out there who would kindly do him in with the rap of a five-pound sledgehammer? He glanced blearily at the beer in his hand. Or was he doing a good enough job of it on his own?
Rest. He needed rest. A good, long, peaceful slumber for the heart and soul and body. His mind had shut down. Physically he couldn’t cope with any more. He was running on emotional empty. He tottered into his bedroom and crawled on top of the covers, leaving the open beer on the floor, still fully dressed right down to his jacket and shoes. Curling tight in a fetal position, Jess squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for unconsciousness.
He must have done something good once upon a time because that prayer was answered. It was daylight when he eased his achy eyes open. Somehow he’d found his way under the covers after taking off his coat and shoes. He didn’t remember doing it. Or picking up the beer. He half expected to find it spilled all over his carpet instead of sitting safely on his nightstand. If he’d hoped the sleep would make him feel better, he was wrong. It only reinforced the unpleasant news that he was indeed going to survive whether he liked it or not. Life was pretty damn cruel sometimes.
Music. Sam and Dave’s “Soothe Me.” God, he loved that song. For a minute he simply soaked up the sounds, then awareness sharpened. Either he was crazy or something was on fire.
In an ungainly wobble he made his way to the living room. His
leather jacket was there, folded over the arm of the recliner. The lights were on in his entertainment center. Confused into immobility, he stood and stared. Until he heard humming from the kitchen. He couldn’t trust himself to breathe let alone to consider the source of that sound. His heart soared.
“Jess? Where do you keep your onions?”
He moved around the corner like a sleepwalker. Either he’d lost it completely or Charley Carter was in his kitchen. He forced a noise past the thickness in his throat.
“What are you burning?”
“Your breakfast.” She turned to him then, and a disbelieving frenzy started in his chest. It was Charley. A tired, red-eyed, battle-weary Charley, but her smile held the promise of pure sunshine. And her eyes a plea for forgiveness. Unable to respond to either without turning into a total blithering idiot, he jammed his fists into his pockets and waited for her to explain. “I was afraid you wouldn’t take the time to make it for yourself.”
“I’ve been managing.”
“Yes,” she murmured dryly. “I found the four basic food groups on the floor by your bed.”
“Well, it was grain.” This was totally nuts, he told himself, this conversation, her being here. But it was a wonderful insanity. “How did you get in?”
Her grin was sassy and sexy as hell. “I’m a resourceful kind of woman.”
Something twitched along the parched corners of his mouth, and Jess was surprised to discover it was a weak imitation of a smile. It was then he caught the flash of fire at her earlobes. The diamonds. They’d been in his coat pocket. He hadn’t been able to walk away from them. Any more than he could walk away from her.
“I love you, Charley.”
For a second he thought she was going to come unglued. Brightness welled in her eyes. Her tender mouth trembled. But she managed to wrestle up a smile and an admirable amount of spunk. “Good, then you’ll take me out to breakfast because I don’t think you’re going to want to eat any of this.”