by Anne Stuart
He slid an arm around her, drawing her closer against him, smiling as she nestled closer, still feigning sleep. This room didn't look at all like her. The rest of the apartment was all pure white walls with a splash or two of color from carefully selected, exquisitely tasteful modern paintings. Everything had seemed ruthlessly up-to-date, though he had to admit his attention wasn't on her interior decor last night.
But this room was lined with bookshelves, filled with books. Old leather-bound sets, sleazy paperbacks and everything in between jostled for room on the overflowing shelves. The quilt spread over them was old and beautiful, the one painting was a Watteau. Romantic, innocent, very unlike the lady lying in his arms. Or was it?
One hand reached up to cup her small breast, and he noticed with approval its immediate response. Damn, he wanted her again, wanted her more than he had wanted anyone for a long time. He couldn't seem to get enough of that too-skinny body, that nasty tongue of hers, that lost, hungry look in her ice-blue eyes when he filled her. He could feel himself hardening against her at the thought, and he wondered if she'd ignore it, still pretending to be asleep. How far would she let him go, her eyes tightly shut, her muscles not quite relaxed enough for it to be believable. He had just begun to turn her over in the narrow confines of the single bed when the phone rang.
Jessica's eyes flew open, wide with shock and dismay. There was no room for pretending any longer, but he tried to put off the inevitable. "Don't answer," he whispered, kissing her lightly on her soft, parted lips.
He would have given anything for her to respond, and for a moment it seemed as if she might, her lips clinging, her tongue reaching out to lightly, shyly skirt his lower lip. And then her eyes darkened, and she pulled away, out of his arms, out of the bed, stumbling away from him.
Springer watched her as she tried vainly to pull her skimpy little slip on. Reaching down he plucked his shirt from the floor and tossed it to her. It reached halfway down to her knees, and her mumbled thanks were interrupted by the regular shrilling of the phone above their heads.
She dived for it at the same time he was reaching out. Of course he was the victor, pulling her back down on the bed at the same moment he uncradled the phone. She opened her mouth to yell at him, but he only smiled silently and handed her the phone, his other hand holding her down beside him on the bed.
She had no choice but to answer. "Hello?" Her voice was strained, slightly hoarse. "Yes, Peter, it's me." She glared at Springer, willing him to go away, struggling against his inexorable hold. He merely smiled, trapping her legs with his. "No, Peter, that's quite all right. I usually get up around six anyway. No, I don't think so. No, I can't. Peter..."
Springer could hear the rumble of Peter Kinsey's voice on the other end of the line, could see the frustration in Jessica's pale face as she struggled vainly against his light but implacable hold. Finally she lay back in his arms, panting slightly. "No, I'm all right, Peter," she said breathlessly. "I was just trying to get dressed while you called."
Springer put his head down beside hers, hoping to decipher Peter's agitated rumble, but she jerked away from him, frowning fiercely. "What was that, Peter? I didn't quite hear you."
Suddenly her body went very still, and a fleeting, stricken look danced across her face. Springer could feel her withdrawal, feel her moving away from him, and he knew that no matter how hard he held on, she was gone.
He dropped his arms, and slowly, like a sleepwalker, she rose from the bed. "Yes, Peter," she said dully, that stricken look gone now, replaced with an unreadable expression. "Certainly, I can manage that. If you think it necessary." She moved back across the room, the telephone in her hand, her mind elsewhere. "I don't know if my passport's up to date. I probably need some shots. Maybe you could do something about that.... All right. Yes, later." Slowly she replaced the phone on the cradle, leaning over Springer's watchful figure to do it.
"What's up?" he said softly, not wanting to startle her.
She roused herself from her abstraction. "What? Oh, I gather I'm going to the Mediterranean in a few weeks." Without another glance in his direction she headed for the door.
"Part of your honeymoon?" he inquired coolly, unable to help himself.
She paused by the door, bestowing a singularly sweet smile on him. "No, Springer. Part of my business deal. I'll be going with Lincoln." And she closed the door silently behind her.
Her hands were shaking by the time she made it to her bathroom, and the tears pouring down her face mingled with the hot water of the shower. Peter and Lincoln had made the arrangements—a month-long cruise of the Mediterranean, to help them wind down from the intensive negotiations of the past few months. The joining of two massive corporations like Kinsey Enterprises and Lincoln Incorporated had to be handled like the mating of porcupines—very carefully. Any wrong move could result in disaster, and they had all been very circumspect. Peter would accompany them, as would Jasper and whoever was enjoying his attentions at the moment. But they would go back after the first week. Only Jessica was deemed worn down enough to merit the entire month-long cruise. With only her host to keep her company.
She could still hear the barely controlled panic in Peter's voice over the telephone. Things must be desperate indeed for him to have to come so close to asking her to whore for him. She had said all the right things; as far as Peter was concerned the merger and the vacation were assured.
And what was Springer thinking right now? What had gotten into her last night, to have gone to bed with him like that? And why was she standing in her shower, crying, and wishing she were still back there with him, weeping against his broad shoulder and having him tell her everything would be all right?
Because everything wouldn't be all right, she told herself feverishly. Not unless she made it so. And she still wasn't quite sure how she could manage it. But relying on a man like Springer MacDowell would only get her deeper into trouble.
The slam of the front door echoed through the apartment reverberating through her body, and she flinched beneath the hot, steady stream of the shower. Well, at least there wouldn't be the need for stilted morning-after conversation. And she leaned her forehead against the marble tile and wept some more.
Springer used to love the empty early-morning streets of Manhattan and the Upper East Side. But not this morning. His impossibly long legs ate up the distance between Jessica's austere apartment at Park and Seventy-second and Hamilton's town house in the sixties, all the time his brain was in ferment.
Damn her, damn her, damn her, he cursed. And damn him. What the hell was he doing, being jealous of a woman he scarcely knew? He hadn't even been jealous of his wife during the short miserable time they'd been married. Why should he suddenly discover that unpleasant emotion for a woman he had no right to feel jealous over, no reason to even like?
But there was no denying it, he thought ruefully, ducking into a small hole-in-the-wall cafe for a cup of wretched coffee. He was overwhelmingly, insanely jealous, and there was nothing he wanted to do more than hit something or someone. Preferably X. Rickford Lincoln.
Hamilton's house was dark and silent when Springer let himself in just after seven. Tossing his jacket onto a nearby chair, he lowered himself onto the rough cotton sofa with a weary sigh. He was too tired to do anything, too wired to go back to sleep. Stretching his long legs out in front of him, he leaned back, wishing he had another cup of coffee to nurse, while he figured out what he was going to do about Jessica Hansen.
In the end that decision was taken from him. He heard the phone ring, once, twice, and had every intention of ignoring it. He knew Hamilton turned off the phone in his bedroom until eleven, and whoever it was could damn well wait. He had already had his day spoiled by one damned phone call.
But the ringing was insistent, nerve-racking, and suddenly ominous. And Elyssa's panic-blurred voice on the other end was even more frightening.
"Thank God I've found you, Springer. I've been calling everywhere—I even tried Jessica
a few minutes ago, but there was no answer. Where have you been?"
Springer was immediately, completely alert. "It doesn't matter-I'm here now. What is it, Mother?"
Elyssa took a deep, shuddering breath. "It's {Catherine."
Chapter Twelve
The Slaughterer, vol. 54: Decker's Drop
Matt Decker surveyed the carnage around him. Things were too quiet, he didn't trust it when things were so quiet. The calm before the storm, and only the Slaughterer knew how bad the storm could be. A hail of bullets, a wind of firepower and devastation would rain on this little side street in the Himalayas.
Decker shoved the gun in the ankle pocket of his combat jump suit before heading out into the snow. Ilse would like it here, he thought suddenly. Maybe he'd find her holed up somewhere. Maybe finally they'd have their showdown.
In the meantime, he couldn't let himself be distracted. Terrorists had been masquerading as abominable snowmen, and he had to melt their cover with a blaze of bullets. A lean, determined smile cracked his face as he moved out. The calm before the storm never lasted long.
Things were going very well indeed. If she had any sense at all, Jessica could lean back and view her life with a justifiable amount of satisfaction. But then, when had she ever had enough sense, she wondered.
Count your blessings, she instructed herself, leaning back in the cushioned desk chair and staring blankly out at the heat-hazed Manhattan skyline. First, she seemed to be regaining her health. During the past two weeks she'd not only been able to keep food down but had actually developed an appetite. If she kept eating the way she had been, it wouldn't be too long before she had to go on a diet. Her hollow cheeks had begun to fill, her stomach was no longer concave, and that concentration-camp look was fading rapidly. It wouldn't be long before her semi-irregular periods would become regular again, and the peaceful lethargy would soon translate itself into her usual high energy.
Then there was the problem of Peter. He, thank God, had kept his distance, accurately gauging her reluctance with no more than a questioning look. Despite the fact that she was unofficially engaged to Peter, she had no intention of sleeping with him until things became a little clearer in her own mind. He was probably too caught up in the intricacies of the merger and Rickford Lincoln's polite blackmail to worry about his fiancee's sexual skittishness. She doubted that he was highly sexually motivated in the first place. If he was, he would hardly have been satisfied with her manufactured, tepid responses, and she would have been unable to hold him off for so long.
Lincoln, secure in the belief that she was going to be his property for fun and games on board the yacht, had also backed off, contenting himself with a pinch here and there, a fumbled grope when he thought no one was looking.
And best of all, Springer was gone.
Two weeks ago, immediately after the night he'd spent in her apartment, he'd taken off, without a word. Not that she deserved a word, she realized fairly. And she couldn't bring herself to question Elyssa. Too often she saw the curiosity in her friend's liquid dark eyes that were too much like her son's, but Elyssa didn't bring up the subject, and Jessica refused to. No, she was grateful, immeasurably so, that Springer had disappeared. He was simply one more complication in an already convoluted life, a complication she could gladly do without.
Especially when things were coming down to the wire. Jasper had phoned her a few moments ago—the papers had been drawn up, the time of signing arranged with all the flourish the Kinseys relished. They would meet tomorrow afternoon to sign the agreements, continue on to the Tavern on the Green to seal the bargain with a proper celebration, and then depart on Friday for the Mediterranean. It was unfortunate that something had come up, and neither Jasper nor Peter could accompany them for that first week, but then, that was business. And Jessica wasn't to even consider not going herself—she had earned her vacation, and Lincoln's yacht, away from everything, would be just the place.
A cynical smile twisted Jessica's pale mouth. Part of the agreement would be a very fat bonus for her efforts on the Kinseys' behalf. More than enough to get her far away, if that's what she chose to do. As the time was getting closer, she was still undecided, and this time she couldn't even turn to Elyssa and Hamilton for help and advice. Not with the memory of Springer hovering in the background. No, it was more than time for her to make up her own mind.
The telephone buzzed discreetly by her left shoulder, and she eyed it with marked hostility. There was no way she was going to come to a decision with all these interruptions. She reached out, hesitated, then grabbed the receiver with a sense of weary acceptance.
"Jessica? I know you said not to bother you but it's Dr. Brochu, and I figured it might be important." Her secretary's voice was filled with the concern that was far too prevalent nowadays. It seemed as if Jessica could pull the wool over everyone's eyes but Jilly's.
"Thanks, Jilly. Put her through." Leaning back in her chair, she picked up one of the number two pencils she preferred and began to tap it idly against the teak desk. No doubt Morgan Brochu would be prescribing multivitamins and B-12 shots and all sorts of other nasty things. Jessica had seen her reluctantly, only the necessity of updating her shots and Peter's constant carping overcoming her resistance. She had known what to expect, and Morgan Brochu's shocked exclamations rolled off her back.
"Hello, Morgan," she said wearily. "No more lectures, please. I had more than enough from you yesterday. I promise to take whatever nasty vitamins you prescribe for me, but you have to promise not to be so disapproving. I assure you, I'm much better than I was three weeks ago."
"I'm sure you are," Morgan Brochu said dryly. "I had them rush your blood tests because I was concerned, Jessica."
"And?" she prompted, tapping the pencil. "Am I anemic? I wouldn't be surprised—I've been absolutely exhausted lately."
"Yes, you're anemic. Edging toward anorexic but not there yet. You're also in the early stages of pregnancy."
The pencil broke. Jessica stared unseeing out at the heat-glazed cityscape as a thousand thoughts and voices crashed inside her head.
"Did you hear what I said, Jessica? Are you there?" Morgan's brittle voice couldn't hide the concern that filtered over the telephone line.
"Yes, I'm here. And I heard you. I don't suppose there's any chance—
"I'm certain. The blood test is very accurate, and it only confirmed the physical evidence I found yesterday when I examined you. You're definitely pregnant, though not very far along. I'd guess maybe three to six weeks."
"Three to six weeks," Jessica echoed. Her brain couldn't even begin to take it in, to make the obvious calculations.
"Now would be the time to do something about it," Morgan continued briskly, very businesslike. "It's a simple enough matter so early on—an outpatient procedure. I can refer you to a colleague of mine if you wish."
"No, thank you, Morgan."
"You shouldn't wait too long to do something about it, Jessica," Morgan cautioned. "You know as well as I do the dangers in a late abortion."
A suddei, dreamy smile lit Jessica's face, with only the picture window to view it. Morgan was leaning over backward to be diffident, but Jessica knew her too well to be fooled. An ardent feminist, Morgan had campaigned for a woman's right to legalized abortion. She also hated abortions with a passion, and refused to perform them, referring her patients with nonjudgmental concern. She would never believe what she was about to hear.
"What sort of prenatal vitamins should I take?" Jessica murmured, leaning back in her chair.
The screech on the opposite end of the phone made her smile broaden. "Do you mean you intend to keep the pregnancy?"
"There wouldn't be much reason to take prenatal vitamins otherwise, would there? I am healthy enough to carry a pregnancy, aren't I?" There was latent concern in her voice.
"Oh, you're healthy enough, despite having gotten too damned close to starvation. It surprises me that you managed to conceive, but I guess it's that good Scandinav
ian stock. If you take your vitamins and eat properly you shouldn't have any trouble."
"That's good," she said dreamily.
"Jessica, if you're going through with the pregnancy I'll need you back in here. We need a complete workup, records of the father as well as you. I assume Peter will be cooperative?"
"I'm sure he would be. The problem is, I don't think he's the father." Best not to be too certain, she thought.
The sudden hissing of breath from the opposite line was all the comment Morgan would make. "Would it be impolite of me to ask who it is, then?"
"Not impolite but useless. I don't know the father." It wasn't really a lie. She knew very very little about Springer MacDowell, so little, in fact, that it wouldn't take much to simply ignore the fact that he happened, by sheer accident, to help her conceive a baby in her underfed body. She was very adept at ignoring things she wished to blank out in her past.
"Are you certain, Jessica? Couldn't you make a guess? There are things that need checking on—RH factor, inherited diseases and the like."
"I'm afraid not," Jessica replied cheerfully. "Why don't we assume it was an immaculate conception?"
Morgan's sharp bark of laughter was her only response. "Do you want me to recommend an obstetrician?"
"If you can. But I won't be in New York." That easily made the decision that had eluded her for months.
"Where will you be?"
"I'm not sure yet. Someplace away from the city, away from business and people like the Kinseys. People like Jessica Hansen," she said lightly.