Clay

by Jennifer Blake

  He was silent so long that she thought he wasn’t going to speak, then he said, “You think it’s your fault, her kidney disease? Janna, it can’t be. That’s impossible.”

  “She had a virus. I thought it would go away, that it wasn’t serious. I didn’t have time to take her to the doctor. I had a commission to fulfill, a living to make, and would have lost a whole day sitting in some doctor’s waiting room. She’d always been so healthy, and I thought—” She stopped, swallowing against the hard, constrictive knot in her throat.

  “All children have viruses. That Lainey’s turned into renal failure was a million-to-one chance, something you could never have guessed and even her pediatrician might have missed.”

  “I’m her mother. I should have seen it sooner, and might have if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in other problems. Now there’s a chance that I can fix it. Don’t you see?”

  “Yeah, I see.” He gave her a long, hard look and opened his mouth as if he meant to annihilate her. Then he closed his lips so tightly that they made a thin line. Reaching for the phone, he jammed it back into its dashboard holder then settled deeper into his seat. Controlling the SUV with one fist on the wheel, he sent it flying down the dark country road.

  Janna didn’t know where they were going. She had been neatly separated from her daughter, had been shot at and was now headed out of Turn-Coupe at high speed with a man she barely knew. Suspicion invaded her mind. It occurred to her that the firing might have been meant to frighten her, to make her easier to control in a neat reversal of her kidnapping scenario. Clay could be abducting her right now without her realizing it. At any moment, he could turn to her and tell her that it was payback time.

  Paranoid, the word should be her middle name. Clay wouldn’t do that. He couldn’t after everything they had been through in the past few days.

  Could he?

  She flicked a glance at him from the corners of her eyes. His face was set in stern lines and the dashlights reflected with a hard turquoise sheen in the blue of his eyes. He seemed remote, unapproachable, as if he might be turning over a problem in his mind with which he wanted no interference. It could be anything, she thought, from which of his cousin’s houses it might be best to dump her at, to where he could bury the body when he was done with her. Or it could be the recognition that he might make an excellent candidate for a relative kidney donation for Lainey, and had come very close to being tapped for it with or without his permission. If he got that far, he should also work out that her wariness of him stemmed in large part from worry over whether he suspected that she might have been in discussion with Dr. Gower over that possibility, and what he would do about it.

  From deep inside her rose the strong urge to abandon all her plans for Lainey and simply ask Clay to be tested as a legal kidney donor. It wasn’t the first time she’d wrestled with it; the impulse had been with her for hours, even days. What held her back was a multitude of reasons, beginning with the memory of his dismissal of it when her daughter had asked, and ending with the way he’d taken charge since they had left the camp. Behind them all was fear.

  Family was everything to the Benedicts. They looked after their own. Clay disapproved of everything she’d tried to do for Lainey. He had given orders for her medical treatment as if it was his right. He’d called in his family for support, introducing Lainey to them with all the quiet ceremony of an initiation into the clan. With iron will cloaked in charm and concern, he’d separated her from her daughter this evening. And just now his voice had held the same implacable contempt that had sounded in his father’s nine years ago.

  Suppose that, by some miracle, he agreed to be tested and was found to be a compatible donor? The sacrifice of a kidney would surely require a reward. What if he asked that Janna give up her daughter to him? It was what his father had intended if she had been able to prove she was carrying Matt’s child. Clay’s own mother had been forced to leave her sons behind when she divorced his father, or so Denise had told her. It seemed like a pattern.

  Lainey was all Janna had. Was it better for her to risk the clandestine surgery while remaining with her mother who knew exactly how to care for her, or to have the advantage of a legal transplant under Benedict protection? Janna didn’t know. She just didn’t know.

  They sped past dilapidated gas stations, trailer homes with shiny trucks parked out front, rows of long chicken houses perched under security lights and farms with old white houses nestled under ancient oaks. The blacktop curved and turned through long wooded stretches where giant trees on either side made a tunnel of their branches, and passed one or two big old plantation houses set well back, almost hidden from view. They crossed several small bridges over nameless creeks and bayous, whipped past briar and plum thickets and made ditches full of ghostly black-eyed Susans wave in the wind of their passage.

  Finally Clay turned the SUV onto a driveway of white gravel and oyster shell that crunched under the tires. They wound through grounds where huge live oaks and magnolias stood like dark, glassy-leafed sentinels on a spreading lawn, the lake beyond made a mirror for the rising moon, and the air smelled of unseen roses and a hint of basil. They rounded a curve and his home that she’d glimpsed earlier, though without really seeing it, appeared before them.

  It was a sprawling architectural mongrel that predated the Civil War by several decades. Its two-storied center section appeared oldest and hinted at late 1700s French West Indies influence. A wing in the neoclassical style of the 1850s flanked it on one side, and a long, barracklike addition of turn-of-the-century vintage stood at a right angle on the other. The gallery, or porch, on the bottom floor of the center section continued along the newer addition, and these two sections formed a protective corner for a combination garden and entrance court. Centered by a wrought-iron fountain that played a soft water tune as it fell into its basin, it was floored with tiles in the Moorish style and filled with a sprawl of roses, daylilies and verbena set off by the tropical foliage of canna and taro.

  “Welcome to Grand Point,” Clay said as he pulled up on the driveway that curved in front of the house.

  The casual tone of his voice was not quite enough to cover his pride and affection in the place. Janna didn’t blame him. His home, for all its amalgamation of styles and features, had an indefinable grace and an aura of sheltering comfort. Added to over many generations of growing families, it wasn’t small. Janna counted at least ten chimneys sprouting from its various sections, and guessed that there must be something like three dozen or more expansive rooms under the different rooflines.

  Though she’d heard much about Grand Point over the years, from Denise as well as Matt, she’d never expected to set foot in it. That she was here under the present circumstances left her as melancholy as she was awed. To cover her reaction, she asked, “Do all the Benedicts name their houses?”

  “Seems a bit pretentious, doesn’t it? People seldom do that anymore, but it was common at one time.” He opened the driver side door and stepped out, moving around to the passenger side. She’d already lifted the handle and pushed it open, but he gave her his hand to help her make the long step down to the ground.

  Keeping her voice as light as possible, she said, “I hope we aren’t disturbing anyone.”

  “No one here to disturb.”

  That was what she’d wanted to know, of course, but she wished he’d chosen another way to put it. “You live alone? I mean, it’s obviously an old family home, and you have brothers, I think.”

  “A couple of them. We all share a legal interest in the place under Louisiana’s inheritance laws, but that’s about it. Adam, the oldest of us, says he’s had enough experience living in an old house to last a lifetime and much prefers modern glass and steel with all the latest conveniences. Wade likes the place well enough, but he’s a petroleum engineer working overseas so he comes and goes, mostly goes. I’m the only one who wants to live at Grand Point. At least for now.”

  They moved across the courtyard as the
y talked, skirting the fountain and climbing the tiled steps to pass under the dark shadow cast by the high porch ceiling. A double front door loomed in front of them. Clay unlocked the heavy right side and pushed it open, then reached inside to flip on a light switch. As he stepped back, Janna moved ahead of him into the house.

  There was no foyer, no entrance hall as such, but only a large open room that spanned the width of the house. It had an ornate marble fireplace centered between French doors that were draped in crisp red and white toile de Jouy. This was the focal point for the mixture of antique rosewood furniture and modern overstuffed oxblood leather sofas gathered around the Turkey carpets that defined the sitting areas. The keynote once more was grace combined with comfort.

  As Janna paused to look around her, Clay shut the front door with a solid thud, closing them inside. Slowly she turned to face him. If he meant to take advantage of their isolation, or make his move toward retaliation, it would surely be now.

  “Would you like a snack?” he asked, moving past her toward double doors that opened to one side. “It’s been a while since we had dinner, and you didn’t eat much anyway.”

  “I don’t think so,” she answered. Food was the last thing on her mind.

  “Something simple? Toast and milk? Fruit? Ice cream?” He turned on a light in the connecting dining room, then moved on out of sight, presumably in the direction of the kitchen.

  Surely no man so intent on extending hospitality could have revenge on his mind or even aggressive seduction? She’d worried for nothing. With an involuntary shudder, Janna called after his retreating back. “No thanks. The thing that holds the most appeal right now, the one thing I’d really, really love, is a hot bath.”

  He stopped in a doorway on the far side of the dining room. Turning back toward her, he propped one hand on the facing and brushed his chin against his shoulder with a bearded rasp. His expression wry, he said, “A shower and a shave wouldn’t hurt me, either. We can eat afterward.”

  “Don’t let me stop you if you’re hungry now,” she protested. “Just point the way to a bathroom.”

  “Through here. This is the bedroom wing that I use, on the far side of the kitchen.” He tipped his head toward the dark hallway behind him.

  She moved to join him. His gaze tracked her, turning opaque as she drew nearer and paused where he stood so it was impossible to tell what he was thinking. Her heart tripped into a stronger beat while her lips parted of their own accord.

  His lashes flickered down to conceal his expression. He lowered his arm and stepped back, indicating with a brief gesture that she should move ahead of him into the connecting hall. Turning on lights as he went, he guided her past two closed doors then stopped at a third. He pushed inside, and walked quickly to a closet where he pulled out an oversize sleep shirt in white with hot-pink lettering, then handed it to her.

  As she took the shirt, it fell open to reveal a picture of a bored woman with her arms crossed over her chest and a dialogue bubble above her head that read, Trust Me…I’ve Had Sex, And It Isn’t Like That. As she held it up, she gave him a laconic look. “Yours?”

  “My mother’s,” he answered, his smile a little crooked. “She uses this room when she comes to visit. Feel free to take whatever you need from the closet. Or from the bathroom, either, for that matter.”

  She thanked him, and he nodded. He didn’t linger, didn’t even act as if he might, but simply walked out and closed the door behind him.

  He had been, for all intents and purposes, the perfect gentleman. Amazing.

  She was grateful, of course. She was tired to the bone, had been wearing what she had on for more than twenty-four hours, and was worried, still, about Lainey. She’d been shot at this evening and had more problems about that incident and everything surrounding it than she could comfortably handle. Fending off sexual overtures was the last thing she needed, even if she and Clay Benedict had been in bed together a small eon ago, before Lainey’s latest medical nightmare began. Yes, she was truly appreciative.

  Why, then, did she feel so deflated?

  The bath was hot and revitalizing. She shampooed her hair as well, removing the last of the hospital smell and replacing it with a clean hint of roses and herbs. Combing out the long strands, she towel-dried them then pushed them behind her back.

  It didn’t seem like a good idea to go to bed while her hair was still wet. Though she was tired beyond words, she was too keyed up for immediate sleep. Added to that was a feeling of unreality overlaid by restlessness. It had been so long since she’d been relieved from the minute-to-minute responsibility for Lainey that she didn’t feel right without it hovering over her. It seemed that she should be somewhere else, doing something else, that she had no right to be idle with only herself to look after.

  She also felt a little hungry, after all. And she couldn’t expect to go to sleep on an empty stomach.

  The sleep shirt was perfectly decent, covering her from neck to knees. There was nothing sexy about it since it skimmed over her breasts without emphasis and hardly touched her anywhere else. Even turning back and forth in front of the closet door mirror, she couldn’t see so much as an outline of her body through it. Not that she had any reason to worry too much about turning Clay on, she thought. He didn’t seem all that interested. Besides, he’d probably already eaten and gone to bed.

  Wrong.

  Clay was perched on a tall stool in the big, rambling kitchen with its white cabinets and tall, leaded glass windows that featured Art Deco stained-glass designs in their centers. He wore only a pair of gym shorts, and moisture from his shower slicked back his hair and clung to tops of his shoulders in droplets. Janna’s mouth went dry the instant she saw him.

  She must have made some small sound, for he half turned, his body rigid and gaze alert. As he caught sight of her, he relaxed again, giving her a smile.

  “Change your mind? There’s plenty here.”

  “If you don’t mind.”

  The feast spread out on the slate gray-cabinet top included wafer thin deli-sliced ham, a wedge of cheddar, buttery crackers, apple slices and brownies enriched with nuts and chunks of caramel. Clay was using a paper towel for a plate, and he reached to pull off another one for her from a heavy brass holder. Leaving his stool then, he stepped around to the cabinet to take down an extra glass. Carrying it to the refrigerator, he asked over his shoulder, “Milk, iced tea, juice or something fizzy?”

  “What, champagne?”

  “Cola was what I had in mind, but there’s Bordeaux, if you want something stronger.” He reached for a bottle that sat far back on the top shelf.

  “No, no, bad joke. Milk is fine,” she answered as she slid onto a stool. It was what he was drinking and sounded good with the brownies. With any luck, it might also help her to sleep.

  He filled the tall glass and brought it to her, then returned to his stool where he faced her with one long leg outstretched as a brace. When he nudged the ham and cheese in her direction, she picked up a slice of each and a cracker to go with them, then watched as he selected a brownie. They sat eating for several minutes while silence grew thick between them.

  Janna reached for her milk and took a long, cold swallow. It felt good going down, soothing to the nervousness in the pit of her stomach. As she set the glass back on the cabinet top, she brushed her fingers along the side where condensation had formed. Finally she looked up at Clay. “I should thank you for not calling Roan earlier,” she said slowly. “It means a lot to me.”

  The look he gave her was impenetrable, without warmth. He wasn’t happy with his decision, she thought. It was even possible he’d made no permanent decision at all.

  “I know you don’t approve of what I’m doing,” she went on. “You think it’s wrong and even dangerous. Maybe you’re right, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe?”

  “All right, probably,” she said in tight agreement. “But I can’t just forget it.”

  “Who are you trying to conv
ince, Janna? Me or yourself?”

  She looked away from his level gaze. “You don’t understand.”

  “I think I do,” he answered in quiet contradiction. “But what about me and what I think? I’m her uncle. Doesn’t that matter?”

  “You don’t know her.”

  “I’ve known her for days. I’ve held her, talked to her, watched her smile. She’s family, blood of my blood. That’s sacred for a Benedict. It means everything. But you can’t buy a life with a life, Janna. It’s a devil’s bargain that smears everything it touches and kills the soul. It will destroy you, and Lainey.”

  “I can’t help that,” she said, her voice aching in her throat.

  “What are you going to tell Lainey one day when she asks who the person was who gave her back her life? What are you going to tell yourself if you keep this bargain and she dies anyway? How are you going to live with it, any of it?”

  Agony took her appetite and her breath. He was so merciless in his hard anger and honorable stance, and so very right.

  She pushed her milk away from her, then slid from the stool. Turning blindly away from him, she said, “I don’t know how. I don’t know what’s best or worst, what’s noble and good or even what’s cruel and selfish. All I know is that doing nothing is also a choice, one that’s more than I can bear.”

  “Other people also have choices, Janna,” he said after a moment. “Sometimes you do what you must.”

  She didn’t answer, wasn’t sure whether he was talking about her or himself. Did he call out to her again or slide from his stool as if he meant to follow her? She thought he might have done both, but couldn’t be sure. She saw nothing, heard nothing. Head high and back straight, she walked away from him, and didn’t stop until the door of the room she’d been given closed behind her.

  The room was dark, but she didn’t turn on a light. Finding the bed in the dark, she sank to its cushioned surface and sat with her head forward and her hands braced on either side of her. She ached as if she’d been beaten. Her mind was empty, yet something dark and unendurable hovered at the edges.