by Anne Stuart
Jessica kept to her perch on the wooden stool in the big old kitchen, the same kitchen that had witnessed her disturbing, unlikely confrontation with Hamilton MacDowell's son. "If I have any food I'll fall asleep at the wheel halfway out to Long Island. I didn't get much sleep." That was an understatement. She had spent the hours from three to somewhere after seven staring into the darkness, her ears attuned to sounds from above her, sounds that never came. After another hour or two of fitful sleep she had dragged herself downstairs to face Hamilton and Elyssa's sympathetic company. She yawned hugely, then managed a stiff smile that fooled no one. "I think the sooner I get off the better."
"You can't, Jessica," Elyssa protested from her station by the coffeepot. "Springer came in sometime last night and I don't want you to take off without finally getting a chance to meet him."
Jessica hesitated only a moment. "Some other time, Elyssa. I really have to get an early start—you know how I hate driving on the expressways, and the longer I put it off the worse it will be."
"I'm ready when you are."
Considering that she had only heard that voice once before, the familiar way it slid down her spine was surprising. She didn't bother to turn, to give him the benefit of her attention, but then, there was no need. With a glad cry Elyssa threw down the linen towel and rushed into her son's arms.
"You're up early, darling," she murmured. "I thought you'd sleep till at least noon."
"Normally I would have, but I had a previous engagement," he said, smiling down fondly at her. A gloomy foreboding filled Jessica, and she watched the cool nod he exchanged with his father with a feeling of extreme wariness.
"You're not going off right away, are you?" Elyssa cried. "You just got here, Springer, and I haven't seen you in months."
"Sorry, Ma," he said, slinging an arm around her slender shoulders and casting a speculative glance at Jessica's still form. "But I'm spending the weekend at Peter Kinsey's out on the island. He suggested I drive Jessica, since she apparently hates city driving."
Elyssa cast a confused glance between the two of them, taking in the wary stance of one, the mocking smile of the other. "You two somehow managed to meet?" she questioned carefully.
"Somehow," her son said. "We ran into each other looking for a midnight snack." He looked at his father then, the distant, cool look back in his eyes. "For a moment I thought you might have developed better taste in your old age."
"Springer," Elyssa reproved gently, but Hamilton took it in stride.
"Still your same winning ways, I see," Ham said softly. "Welcome to the East Coast, my boy. I'm glad you could make it." He held out one beefy hand, and Jessica found herself silently praying he would take it.
Springer waited just long enough for the tension to stretch to the breaking point, and then he reached out and took his father's hand. To Jessica's eyes it wasn't much of a concession, but to the others it was clearly a start, and nervous smiles broke some of the strain.
"I didn't know you and Peter still kept in touch," Ham said, handing him a cup of coffee. "I thought after Princeton you two drifted apart."
"We did." He took a long, appreciative sip, the shadows beneath his dark, fathomless eyes attesting to his exhaustion. "But when Jessie mentioned him last night I decided it was time to renew my acquaintance."
"Jessie?" Elyssa echoed, as Jessica choked on her coffee. "I've never heard you called a nickname before. I thought you didn't like them."
"I don't!" she snapped, setting her coffee cup down on the butcher-block table. She noticed with distant dismay that her hand trembled slightly, from both the caffeine and the presence of that infuriating man.
"Well, don't even bother trying to change Springer," Hamilton advised. "He'll call you any damn thing he wants, and there's nothing you can do about it."
"I can refuse to answer." She slipped off the stool. "And I'd better get going. Thanks again, Ham. I appreciate your shelter from the storm." She gave him a swift kiss on his raddled skin. Jessica wasn't the type to touch people, and when she did, it was for a very good reason. She wanted to show that cool, mocking creature that some people loved and cared about his father, didn't make arbitrary judgments and nasty cracks.
"I'm ready," Springer said blithely, draining his coffee.
Jessica plastered her Snow Queen smile to her tired facial muscles. "I'm not going with you."
His damnable grin widened, so that he looked like a huge Cheshire cat smiling down at her. One that just swallowed a canary. "Of course you are, Jessie," he said mildly enough. "You're a calm, sensible woman—you aren't going to be unreasonable about it. Peter was very pleased that I'd be able to drive you out there—apparently he worries about you in city traffic. Are you that bad a driver?"
"She's very good," Elyssa defended her, if not with perfect truthfulness. "She just doesn't like it."
"So if she doesn't like it, she can drive with me. Don't worry, Jessie, you'll come back with Peter. All you have to put up with is a couple of hours of my company. Surely you're tough enough to take it."
She shouldn't let him goad her, shouldn't let him challenge her like that. Her head snapped up; her eyes met his for a long, silent moment. "I'm tough enough," she said lightly.
He nodded—approvingly, she thought. "Where are your things?"
"Already at Peter's. I keep a change of clothes there." Was that defiance she heard in her own voice? What had happened to the Snow Queen?
"That's why you were prancing around in Johnson's hand-me-downs," he said, half to himself. "Then let's go"
"When do you think you'll be back?" Ham broke in. His voice sounded studiedly casual, but any fool could see the trace of desperation, the caring beneath the facade.
Any fool who cared to look. Springer didn't. "Late Sunday, probably. Don't change your plans for me." Jessica noticed he deliberately refrained from calling his father by name or title. "I'll be in and out during the next few weeks—I can look after myself."
Even he couldn't miss Elyssa's face falling in sudden dismay. Leaning down, he kissed her cheek lightly. "See you, Ma. Say hi to David for me."
His gaze turned to Jessica, and she told herself if he did anything disgustingly macho like take her arm to
usher her out of the room she would kick him, and this time she wouldn't miss. But he didn't touch her, just waited patiently, and she had no choice but to precede him out of the kitchen,
"You like David?" she questioned on her way out the front door.
"What I've seen of him, yes. Don't you?"
"No," she said. And wondered why, for the first time in weeks, she was hungry.
He drove fast, and well, most of his attention on the crowded highway around him, only a small portion of his mind tuned to the tense, thin figure of the woman sitting beside him, her hands clenched in her lap beneath the loose-fitting linen suit. He wondered what devil had made him call Peter Kinsey that morning and cadge an invitation. He could tell himself that he was grabbing at any excuse to escape his father's town house, but he knew better. And it wasn't Peter Kin-sey's undemanding charm that drew him, or the thought of a few days on the ocean. He lived on the ocean, in sight of the crashing Pacific, and the tame New York shoreline of the Atlantic held no great charm for him.
But he knew what had made him call Peter Kinsey; he just wasn't quite sure why. It was the cool, composed Ice Princess sitting beside him who had teased him, tickled him, edged him into an uncharacteristic whim. And he didn't even like her, or anything about her. He had had his share of cold, overly ambitious women, with no heart or soul, just a driven need for power. He didn't need another one. He told himself last winter that he was tired of athletic performances and no emotion. For thirty-five years he had avoided commitment like the plague. Whether he deserved it or not, he wasn't about to turn around and get involved with a woman just as incapable of it.
Besides, she'd already committed herself to Peter Kinsey. His mouth curved in a mocking smile. She certainly had her priorities strai
ght.
"What's so funny?" she demanded testily. His smile broadened. She'd been more aware of him than she'd been pretending, which suited him just fine. It might provide an entertaining diversion to see just how uptight Miss Jessica Hansen who didn't like nicknames was. Could he get beneath the frosty exterior, make her chilly eyes warm with wanting? Could he have her, writhing and twisting beneath him, above him, warm and pliant and loving? Somehow he doubted even Peter Kinsey saw her that way. He never could resist a challenge, and she definitely was one, with her icy demeanor and long, lean limbs. He did like a tall woman.
"Funny?" he echoed finally, contemplating what would get the fastest reaction from her. "I was just wondering how long it was going to take me to get you in bed." He waited for her reaction to his opening salvo.
It took him completely by surprise. Her eyes widened in momentary shock, then drooped seductively. She put one slender hand on his forearm, the manicured fingertips lightly kneading the skin with just the right amount of pressure. Not too light, not too hard— it was completely sensual and made him think suddenly of how that expert touch would feel on other, more sensitive parts of his body. He'd obviously underestimated her sexual capabilities. She leaned forward, her face very close to his, and he could smell the coffee on her breath, warm and sweet and almost unbearably enticing. Her lips were close to his, so that they almost grazed him, and her voice was soft, breathless and low. "It'll be a cold day in hell," she murmured.
Jessica pulled back into her seat, a satisfied smirk adorning her pale face. Obviously she thought she had put him in his place. He quickly disabused her of the notion. "That's quite good, you know," he remarked in a conversational tone. "Just the right amount of come-hither. Is that how you made it to vice-president in such a short time? By being the ultimate tease?"
If he didn't know better he would have thought that was an unbidden pain that clouded her clear blue eyes. "Of course," she said in a brittle voice. "Except that I usually deliver."
For some reason he didn't believe her. And then he cursed himself for being a romantic fool. Jessica Hansen fascinated him, as she doubtless meant to. It had to be part of her power, like a black widow spider's. She'd probably slept with everyone from the stockboy on up, and he had lost his taste for shopworn relationships, hadn't he? Casting a furutive glance at her self-contained profile, he was no longer so sure.
"Do you want to stop for something to eat?" he said suddenly, wanting to get away from the car, wanting to sit across from her at a table and talk like rational human beings, not unexpected enemies. He could see her hesitate for a moment, then shake her head resolutely. "Anorexia isn't in anymore," he added as a little jab.
It bounced off. "It was your decision to forgo breakfast," she said serenely. "You'll just have to wait till we get to the Kinseys. I'm sure there'll be mountains of food to keep you occupied."
"I can think of better ways to keep occupied," he drawled. "Do you think there'll be any unattached women around, or will I have to share you with Peter?"
Strangely enough, she took his question seriously. "There'll be other women. You'll be able to take your pick."
Springer couldn't help himself, and afterward he wondered why he said it. And meant it. "I pick you, then."
She shut her eyes in sudden pain. "Stop it, Springer," she said wearily, and he liked the sound of his name on her pale mouth. "Stop playing with me and stop watching me."
His eyes moved from her set face, dropping to the hands curved palm upward—loose, for a change—in her lap. And he saw the scars across her wrists, old and faded, but inexorably there. They must have been deep once, long ago. And then he raised his eyes to meet her stricken ones, and she slowly turned her hands palm downward on her lap.
He didn't even hesitate. All teasing had vanished, and he moved his hand from the steering wheel and placed it over one of her still ones. His hand was large, strong and warm, and it enveloped hers. He waited for her to pull away, but she made no move. Keeping her face averted, she leaned back against the worn leather seat and closed her weary eyes. Leaving her hand in his warm, oddly comforting grip.
When Jessica had come home that afternoon her sister Sunny was at track practice and wasn't due back till six. Her mother was working, volunteer work at the hospital. She worked there every Tuesday, as Uncle Bob knew. Jessica had stood there inside the door, staring at her father's comatose figure, the heavy snores that should have been comical wafting through the room, her eyes filled with panic as Uncle Bob had loomed over her.
They hadn't believed her, of course. Her father had slapped her face and called her a tramp. Her mother had looked her up and down with that cool, disapproving look she had perfected long ago and smiled a disbelieving smile. And Sunny had continued to run, shutting herself away from the family hysteria. And everyone apologized to Uncle Ben, who'd looked abashed and said that's all right, he understood. Jessica was prone to fantasy and exaggeration.
That was the first time she'd slashed her wrists.
Jessica kept her eyes on the expressway, away from Springer, letting her hand rest in his strong soothing hold. She was remembering far too much, far too often, and the man beside her only made those memories more painful. She ought to pull away from him, withdraw farther in the narrow confines of the small foreign car. But she knew she wasn't going to. And she knew she was making a mistake. Springer MacDowell was only going to add to the unbearable burdens weighing her down. With a sigh she leaned back, closing her eyes. And left her hand in his.
Chapter Five
Eight hours later Jessica surveyed her reflection in the mirror, looking for signs of strain beneath the iron control. Her lips were a luscious dusky red, her ice-blue eyes large and cool and luminous, her wheat-blond hair a neat cap to her delicate skull. It would have taken someone with uncommon perception to see past the coolly amused half smile, the impression of wealth and control the clinging black Halston sheath presented. She doubted that anyone milling around the Kinsey living room would be perceptive enough, or sober enough, to see more than what he or she wanted to see.
Except for Springer. And she refused to grant him that perception. He was a stud, on the make for whatever was available, and right now she was a challenge. So what if Elyssa thought he'd given up his absorption with quantity, not quality. Jessica could hardly count herself as suddenly irresistible. She knew as well as he did that she was definitely not his type. His animosity was clear, as was the kindling light of desire that brightened those dark, fathomless eyes of his. And that light made her very, very nervous.
She had been unconscionably stupid to let him take her hand like that. She should have pulled away with a light joke and a condescending laugh. But she hadn't. She had sat in his tiny, cramped car, staring out at the traffic, and let him hold her hand in that way. And in doing so, she had let him in closer than anyone had been in years. Never had she felt so open, so exposed, so vulnerable. It had been a much more intimate act than sex, and her guilt and dismay was far greater than if he had pulled off the expressway and taken her to a motel.
So much for common sense, she told herself, shrugging her shoulders. Perhaps the Halston wasn't the right choice, she thought belatedly. Not with her current weight. Her shoulders looked just a tiny bit too bony beneath the halter top, and interested onlookers could probably count her ribs above the backless dress. Maybe that would be enough to drive away Springer MacDowell and X. Rickford Lincoln, leaving her to the undemanding comfort of Peter Kinsey.
The noise of the cocktail party filtered through the open terrace windows of her bedroom. Just a small party, Jasper had assured her on their arrival. No more than fifty of their closest, most important friends. And she wouldn't even have to act as hostess. Jasper's current inamorata, an elegant but spectacularly talentless actress, would do the honors.
Jessica had smiled, keeping her eyes averted from a steadily amused Springer. She had understood the politics of it well enough. Rickford Lincoln needed to be reminded that th
e Kinseys had wealthy and powerful friends, that they could entertain with not the slightest concern that the all-important merger would go through. Image was everything, and the Kinseys were adept at preserving that image. Was it only her imagination that her own had begun to crack a bit around the edges?
She had put off making her reappearance for as long as she could. She'd given them time enough. By now Springer would probably be off on the long stretch of private beach with one of the neighbor's wives, and if fate was extraordinarily kind, so would Rickford Lincoln. Somewhere in the long quiet of the afternoon, when a nap eluded her, she had come to her decision. She would do what had to be done. She could only hope that luck would keep Lincoln far away, at least until she got a decent night's sleep and could cope with him.
Luck wasn't with her. Heading down the almost deserted hallway, Jessica recognized his burly figure coming toward her. She contemplated wheeling around and heading back in the opposite direction, then chided herself for her cowardice. She had told Springer MacDowell she was tough enough—now was her chance to prove it.
"There you are, Jessica," Lincoln boomed, moving in on her. "I wondered where you'd gotten to."
Forcing herself to look at him objectively, she had to admit that he wasn't a bad-looking man. The years sat well on him, with his crowning mane of silver hair, the bushy gray eyebrows, the big, husky body that couldn't be called fat. He exuded an aura of power that should have a powerful aphrodisiac to any right-thinking young executive on the rise. She gave him that distant smile that held faint, unmistakable promises, the smile she had perfected years ago and that had kept Rickford Lincoln malleable over the bargaining table.
He moved closer then, pressing against her slender body. He was a man who invaded other people's space, pressing against them, all the while smiling affably. He did it to intimidate people, and it usually worked quite well. Jessica's cool smile didn't waver, her feet didn't falter, and she stood her ground. "I wondered if you were trying to avoid me, Jessica," he continued plaintively.