Destiny Bay Boxed Set vol. 2 (Books 4 - 6) (Destiny Bay Romances)

by Helen Conrad

  She didn't know whether to take him seriously. It was obvious he wasn't in the mood to take anything seriously himself. But it was also obvious he had no intention of being at the beck and call of Mrs. Ives.

  She followed him out through the rhododendrons. Colored lights brightened the driveway and parking area, but cars were lined up all along the street as well. It seemed they were very nearly the first to leave the party.

  “Where are we going?” she asked him. She'd promised him an hour, hadn't she? But the promise had been made under duress, and she really wouldn't feel too guilty breaking it.

  “Home. Where's your car?”

  She glared at him. “Where's yours?”

  His smile was angelic. “I came by cab.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, ‘oh’. Now, where's your car?”

  He began to wander around the parking area, weaving in and out of cars. She watched him for a moment, telling herself she should let him ramble; she should get quietly into her car, which was only a few steps away, and drive off by herself.

  You don't owe him anything, she scolded herself silently. He'd come by cab. He could leave by cab. What did he need her for?

  “Do you drive a Jaguar?” he called, stopping to look at an amber XKE.

  “No,” she answered.

  “Darn,” he muttered, going on, frowning as he passed a BMW, then a cute little Mercedes.

  “Is it this one?” he called, stopping before a long black number. But he shook his head before she'd answered. “Not a chance. Not your style.”

  He stared at the car for a moment, then went into silly voices. “Cadillac, Cadillac, where have you been?” High and quavering, he answered himself. “I've been to the country club and leaked oil on the green.” Frowning, he kicked the tire. “Bad Cadillac,” he muttered, moving on.

  Kathy watched him half amused, half dismayed. He was completely looped. What was she going to do with him?

  Take him home, of course. There wasn't really much choice, was there?

  Sighing, she went to join him, taking him quietly by the hand. “It's the white Mustang,” she said gently, nodding toward the car she’d rented in town.

  “The white Mustang.” He looked around but didn't see it until she'd led him right to the passenger's door. “Ah yes, the white Mustang. Noble steed.” He patted its shiny roof.

  She got him inside with little difficulty, and in moments they were cruising down the highway, out of the exclusive development, toward the mountains.

  “Just take Highway Eighty-two,” he told her, squinting into the darkness.

  She did as he directed, turning into the hills, finding herself further and further from civilization.

  “Here we are,” he said suddenly.

  She pulled the car to a stop and gazed out. There was nothing to be seen for miles around but pine trees.

  “This isn't where you live,” she said accusingly.

  He hiccupped and smiled as though very pleased with himself. “You're right.”

  She stared at him, exasperated. “What are we doing here?”

  “Well, I thought we'd watch the sun come up. Sunrises are really great from here.”

  “Jace!”

  He turned toward her, his face childlike and innocent. “In the meantime we could discuss things. Like swimming.”

  “Swimming?” He was really getting on her nerves.

  “Yeah. Swimming.” He pulled something out of his hip pocket. “I'm doing a bit of research on swimming.” He held up the flat-sided bottle to show her. “In fact, I plan to do the backstroke through this bottle of bourbon tonight. Care to join me?”

  “Jace!”

  “I'm going to get very drunk,” he said serenely, taking a swig. “I’ve been working at it for hours now. I think I’m just about there.”

  She hardly knew what to say or do. He made her so angry she could spit, and yet at the same time, there was something so endearingly vulnerable about him.

  “He's a drunk,” she told herself harshly. But his smile was so angelic. And he was Jace Harper, her childhood idol. It made her sad to see him like this—a broken tragedy of a man. A door had swung shut on part of her early years. It was a little like finding out there really was no Santa Claus.

  “Do you always do this, drink this much?” she asked, watching him take a long swallow.

  He savored the burn of the liquid before answering, gazing out at the secret darkness of the woods. Their eyes were more accustomed to the dark now, and the trees stood out, silhouetted against the inky purple sky, touched with silver by the moonlight. He turned to look at her.

  “Only on special occasions,” he said at last.

  She grimaced, wishing he weren't so close and so completely appealing in the shadows. “What's special about tonight?” Her voice was tense.

  He grimaced, his blue eyes luminous in the night, and his voice was low and bitter. “Take my word for it. It's a very special night.”

  There could be a thousand excuses for needing a drink. Her ex-husband had gone through at least half of them in his time.

  “Why?” she asked skeptically, wanting to pin him down. Maybe if he floundered, if he displayed uncertainty or guilt, she could despise him.

  He turned to look at her, his eyes dark and luminous. “Have you ever lost something really important to you? Something you didn’t think you could live without?”

  She hesitated. There was a quaver in his voice that told her he meant what he’d said. He made so much into a joke, it was hard to tell sometimes what he meant and what he didn’t. But this time, she thought she knew.

  He’d lost something. The hurt was deep and he still felt it. She wanted to take him in her arms and make it all better, and she didn’t even know what it was.

  “What did you lose, Jace?” she asked softly.

  He looked out at the skyline again. A silver moon was rising.

  “My heart,” he said, so quietly she could hardly hear. “My life.”

  She waited, but he didn’t say anymore. His eyes were closed. She tried again. “How…how has that changed you?” she asked, searching for the words she needed.

  He opened his eyes and considered, frowning with the effort. She thought she could feel his pain.

  And then he turned and gave her a crooked smile and said, “Well, I found myself a new wife. That ought to stand for something.”

  She suddenly realized that they'd never cleared up his marital status. He'd been calling her his wife, but did that mean he really had one somewhere? Someone he'd expected to show up at the party, maybe? Someone who was late? Or was he divorced, and was this his way of dealing with loneliness?

  “I'm not really your new wife, and you know it. But tell me something. Do you have an old wife?” she asked tensely.

  “As a matter of fact, I did once. Hah! She wouldn't like being called an old wife.” He smiled bitterly. “So let's call her that as much as possible.”

  Okay, this wasn’t helpful. Was he married? Divorced? Or what?

  “Where is she?”

  His shrug was elaborate. “I don't know. She's not my wife any longer. Actually I haven't seen her for years.”

  She looked at him sideways, and the question popped into her mind without her asking for it— just what kind of a husband had he been, anyway?

  She turned away quickly and looked out into the blue-black shadows, but the question wouldn't evaporate. It hung around, bumping away every thought she tried to replace it with. Just what kind of a husband had he been?

  She glanced at him again and found him frowning, squinting at her.

  “But listen,” he said, sounding sleepy. “We don't want to talk about my old wife. Let's talk about the new one.” He leaned closer, and she would have moved away, but in the confines of the car there was nowhere to go.

  “Tell me all the secrets, Kathy.” He waved the bottle. “Tell me why the humpback whale sings. Tell me why I always pick the wrong line at the supermarket. Tell me why K
athy Carrington chases rainbows.”

  It was probably only the booze talking, but she was still stung by his allusion to what she was doing with her life.

  “Never mind that,” she said coolly, sitting up straight in her seat. “Let's get going. I want to take you home.”

  “And tuck me in,” he murmured dreamily.

  “Hardly,” she muttered back, starting the engine. “Where do you really live?”

  He raised both eyebrows. “In Los Angeles. But I don't think we can get there from here.” He winced at her look of fury. “The Garden View Resort Motel,” he said quickly. “It’s right by the convention center. Room One-twelve.”

  “Thank you.” Her tone was icy. She turned the car back onto the highway, and they drove along for miles without speaking. The only sound, besides the sizzle of the tires on the pavement, was the slosh of the bourbon as he drank it down.

  The question intruded again. What kind of husband? He was a fairly charming drunk. All the evidence suggested that he was an attentive date, an interesting friend, and a tough businessman.

  But a husband? She couldn't quite picture it.

  Her own ex-husband's querulous face flashed into her consciousness again. That was the third time in one night. She was going to have to do something about that.

  Good thoughts. That was what Jim was always urging. Think good thoughts, block out negative vibes, think positive. Memories of her short and disastrous marriage to Greg were not positive, so she tried hard to ignore them. Think success, Jim always said, and success will be yours.

  Jim. For heaven's sake, she'd forgotten all about him. He would probably be trying to call her from Salt Lake about now, wanting to know how the party had gone, and there wasn’t likely to be good cell coverage out here in the mountains. Jim--her coach, her mentor, her very best friend--- he’d played a big part in her life lately. She owed him everything.

  Braking for a curve, she glanced at Jace again, wondering what Jim would make of him. Not much, she thought. Jim didn't go for self-indulgence. He hated drinking. He hated sloth.

  And he loved early-morning training, she reminded herself with a quick peek at her watch. She was going to die tomorrow trying to get in the workout schedule he'd left her.

  The bright lights of Ryan City flickered in the distance, then seemed to wrap around them as they came down out of the wilderness. In no time at all she'd found the motel.

  “Here we are.” She pulled up into an empty space right in front of his room. Turning off the engine, she glanced over at him. His eyes were wide. He was staring straight ahead. The bottle looked pretty much empty.

  She sighed. “Where's your room key?” she asked him, none too gently.

  His head turned slowly, and he gazed at her, his huge eyes sad. “' 'Tis now the very witching time of night,” he quoted in a stage actor’s voice. “When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out contagion to this world.'”

  She blinked, startled. “What?”

  He nodded solemnly. “’I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams.'”

  “Bad dreams?” She was totally confused.

  He stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head sadly at her lack of education and said impatiently, “Hamlet, of course. Don't you know your Shakespeare?”

  Staring at him, she had to laugh. Shakespeare. Who else would be quoting Shakespeare in the middle of a drunken stupor? She held out her hand. “Room key, please.”

  He fumbled in his jacket and she waited, almost holding her breath. If he didn’t have it…. But he finally produced it, much to her relief.

  He looked up brightly as he put it in her hand. “ 'When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions,'” he quoted mournfully.

  “Is that right?” She opened the car door and got out, coming quickly around to his side and opening his door. “Come on. I'll help you.”

  He staggered to his feet, leaning all his weight on her shoulder. She almost gave way under the load.

  “ 'Frailty, thy name is woman,'” he muttered.

  “Hah,” she countered, holding him steady and leading him to the door. “Frailty of the spirit, thy name is Jace Harper.” He swayed against her as she reached out with the key.

  “ 'The lady doth protest too much, methinks.' ”

  She'd just about had it with the quotations. “The gentleman doth talk too much, methinks,” she snapped back.

  The key clicked into place; the door swung open. She felt inside for the light switch, turned it on, and helped him in, closing the door behind them.

  The room was large and nicely furnished. A king-sized bed stood against one wall; a table and chairs occupied a corner. One small couch and low table sat in front of the television. An open suitcase lay on the luggage rack, clothes spilling out in all directions.

  “Not the neatest man in the world, are you?” she murmured, steering him toward the bed.

  He swung around and put his hands on her shoulders, gazing down solemnly into her eyes. “ 'Be plain in dress, and sober in your diet, in short, my deary, kiss me and be quiet.'”

  She ducked away from his clumsy attempt to follow through on the advice. “That's not Hamlet,” she accused.

  “You're right.” He was good-natured about her avoiding the kiss. Or perhaps he'd already forgotten he'd tried it, she couldn't tell which. “The only other thing I can think of offhand from Hamlet is 'Get thee to a nunnery,' and I don't want to say that.”

  She gave him a push. “Get thee to bed,” she ordered.

  He blinked, looked down at the bed, then back at her. “Oh, good idea,” he said with delight and attempted to pull her along.

  “You, not me.” She maneuvered him to the edge of the bed, managing to keep from tumbling onto it.

  He turned and gazed down at her again.

  “Let's discuss this crazy business of you trying to get back into swimming,” he said, trying to focus his eyes as he swayed before her. “I think we should fully air the pros and cons and put you on the right path.”

  Resentment flared again. “Not now,” she said firmly. “It is impossible to hold a rational discussion with you in this state.”

  He laughed unsteadily. “Rational, smashional. Who needs rational? Let's put a little insanity into the night.” He reached for her again. She dodged him.

  “I think you're crazy.” She pulled back his covers, carefully staying out of his reach. “What you're courting now is oblivion, the way you've been belting down that liquor.”

  “Oblivion. I like that.” He caught her as she tried to turn away, holding her face between his two hands, gazing down at her mouth. “Help me find oblivion, Kathy,” he murmured, and there was such yearning in his voice, such desolation, that she stopped struggling and stared up into his eyes.

  A wild pounding filled the room, and suddenly she realized it was her own heartbeat. As his face lowered toward hers, she was like a rabbit caught in the headlights. She couldn't move. She couldn't think. But his lips barely touched hers before he was rocking back on his heels, off balance, and she quickly reached out to guide him down onto the fresh white sheets.

  “ 'To sleep, perchance to dream, ah, there's the rub.'” His eyes were already closed, but his lips still formed the words. And then he was out like a light. She looked down at him, feeling rage, pity, despair—all at once.

  “Jace Harper,” she whispered. “How the mighty have fallen.”

  A part of her hated to leave him this way. She could at least take off his shoes, she thought. Maybe his shirt. Pull over the covers.

  “No,” she whispered. “He made this mess for himself. Let him deal with it.” And after one last gaze down at his tousled hair, she turned sharply toward the door, flung the key down on the night-stand, and walked swiftly away.

  Something fluttered to the floor from the top of the dresser as she passed. Hesitating, she turned back and picked it up. It was a long white paper with
a legal firm's letterhead. The heavy bonded linen paper was wrinkled, as though Jace had been angry when he read it, and had crumpled it in his hand.

  Kathy didn't usually read other people's mail. But something caught her eye as she lifted the paper from the floor, and before she realized what she was doing, she was well into the letter.

  “Dear Jason,

  Well, she's finally done it. She's got her court order to legally keep you from ever seeing Bobby, from ever trying to contact him in any way. She's using the affairs against you—lies, I know, but somehow she had them documented, printed up for the jurors to pore over in their spare time—photographs included. Where she got them, I don't know.

  Yes, I realize she's using Daddy Bingham's money to buy off every buyable judge in town, but what are we going to do about it? You refused to confront her in court. We had no weapons left. I'm sorry, Jace. We did what we could.

  What can I say? I know how upset you'll be. All I can advise at this point is to forget Bobby. Forget he ever existed. Find yourself a new wife. Start a new family. And this time, do it right.

  Yours as always,

  Jeffrey Martin, Attorney-at-law”

  Kathy stared at the paper, trying to fully comprehend what was going on here. She read it over again. Then a third time. Jace was divorced. That much was clear. And it sounded as though he had a son, a son he might never see again.

  Bobby. How old was he? He sounded young. Maybe five, six years old. She pictured a younger version of Jace, his bright face framed by blond hair, his eyes wide and earnest, his little hand stretched up to take his father's.

  Something twisted inside her. She'd never had a child herself. But she'd wanted one. She'd married young, much too young—a reaction to a father she was trying to get away from. And the marriage had gone bad right away. In her innocence, she'd thought a baby might heal things. She could still remember Greg's anger when she'd hesitantly brought up the idea. He didn't want to be tied down. Not even by her, it turned out eventually. But especially not by children.

  A baby. How she'd longed for one—a little piece of humanity, a little mirror image of oneself and the one you loved, a symbol of a sacred trust. To have had one, and lost him—the very thought took her breath away.