by Anne Stuart
The harsh ring of the telephone shot through her nerves like lightning, and she jumped for the telephone before it could wake Ham from his fitful night's sleep. "Hello?" Her voice sounded breathless, startled, sleepy. There was a long hesitation on the other end of the line. "MacDowell residence," she prompted. There was a faint crackle of long distance on the line, just enough to give her a moment's warning.
"Jessica?" Springer's voice was deep, disbelieving, from across the continent, and the baby kicked, sharply. She had forgotten how deliciously deep and sexy that voice was, how seductive. Damn him.
"Hello, Springer," she said, her voice a miracle of calm self-control. "Merry Christmas."
"What are you doing there?" It was abrupt, definitely lacking any qualities of seasonal cheer, and Jessica responded in kind.
"Spending Christmas."
"Is my mother there?"
"She's out for the night with David. Do you want me to wake your father?"
"He's in bed already?" Springer's voice was disbelieving. "He must be slowing down in his old age. No, I don't want to talk with him. You can tell him I wished him a merry Christmas. So does Katherine."
It was like a sharp blow in the solar plexus, and if her voice was a trifle breathless from the pain he wouldn't be able to tell from so far away. "Katherine?" she couldn't help but echo.
"Katherine," he verified, giving away nothing. "We'll call next week sometime, when all the holiday bustle is over." There was a long, uncomfortable pause. "How have you been, Jessie?" His diffident voice sounded less than interested. "I expected you'd still be around when I came back to pick up my car, but my mother said you'd moved. Where've you been?"
"Oh, here and there," she said vaguely. "And I've been fine. Thriving, actually. And you?"
"I'm fine, the weather's fine, everything's fine," he shot back, clearly tiring of the polite conversation. "Why did you run away, Jessie?" His voice had dropped lower, and the seductive strings wrapped around her heart once more. Suddenly she could see him all too clearly—the dark, fathomless eyes, the silky black hair, the long, clean limbs of his beautiful body.
A thousand calm, polite excuses came to mind. Peter, Lincoln, any number of things that Springer would remember and believe. And they had a great deal to do with why she left. But they weren't the major reason; the major reason was now kicking up a storm, and Jessica had gotten out of the habit of lying in the past few months.
"I...it seemed..." The words trailed off, and her eyes filled with the tears that pregnancy seemed to make part and parcel of her daily life. "Merry Christmas, Springer," she said, and quietly placed the phone back on the hook.
He didn't call again. Cradling her arms around her shivering body, she huddled down farther into the covers, closed here tear-filled eyes and willed herself to sleep.
Marianne sat by her wood stove, eyes firmly fixed on the dull black iron, on the wood floor that needed re-finishing, on the figures of Eric and Shannon, sound asleep on the lumpy old sofa. She had lit the room with candles, a tradition she couldn't change, even though it softened the light, made the room damnably romantic. The glow from the Christmas tree didn't help, the smell of fir and wood smoke and mulled cider teased her nostrils, and she wished Cameron would leave.
She had no more polite conversation left, no more food to feed him; he'd had three cups of coffee and the rest of the bottle of very fine brandy that Tom had left behind. The sound of his voice, with its soft, teasing burr, was melting her resistance, sneaking its way past her rigid refusal to get involved ever again. He was such a damnable man. What in the world was she doing, sitting here staring at the wood stove, wishing he'd leave, wishing he'd kiss her?
Well, there was nothing so strange in that, she reasoned. It was a soft, romantic night, filled with memories of Christmases past, it was no wonder she was feeling vulnerable. And it had been so long since she'd been kissed.
"Don't you think it's getting late?" she said sourly.
Cameron was leaning back in the rocking chair she'd spent last winter recaning, puffing away on an evil-looking meerschaum pipe, the rich tobacco scent mingling with the smells of Christmas.
"Are you telling me I've overstayed my welcome?" he inquired serenely, not the slightest bit put out.
"I didn't mean that..." she said hastily, guilt and something else washing over her.
"Of course you did, Marianne. Don't disappoint me by becoming all sweetness and light. You'll only turn mean and nasty the moment Christmas is over, and my illusions will be shattered."
"If I'm so mean and nasty why did you bother to come?" she shot back, sliding more comfortably into her usual argumentative state. As long as they fought she wouldn't have this demoralizing need to have him kiss her.
He smiled, a smile of peculiar sweetness. "How could I resist, when I knew how much it galled you to ask me?"
"It did not!" she fired back.
"You mean you wanted my company on Christmas Eve?"
"No. That is..."
"Marianne, you asked me to have Christmas Eve with your family because beneath your cold exterior there beats a heart of oatmeal mush, and you couldn't stand the thought of some poor soul, even your nemesis, being alone on Christmas Eve." He had knocked the dottle out of the pipe and had risen, stretching his wiry body with an indolent yawn.
She was glad of the romantic candlelight—it hid the uncontrollably mournful look in her wide brown eyes. She watched him in silence as he pulled the lightweight sweater over his lean body, followed it with a much heavier one, and wound a scarf around his neck. "Fat lot you know," she murmured under her breath as he headed for the door.
He stopped dead in his tracks, turning slowly to look at her, huddled miserably by the fire. "What did you say?" There was a sudden look in his narrow, clever face, one she might almost have called hope. But what could he be hoping for?
"Nothing," she said, turning coward again.
"Woman," he said with a sigh, "you are the most frustrating female it has ever been my misfortune to meet."
"Sorry," she said, unrepentant. "And don't call me woman."
He stood there, staring at her. "Woman," he said again, his rich Scottish accent caressing the word, "you're not sorry at all."
She had to turn her face to hide her sudden smile, and she missed his swift movement. One moment he was standing in the middle of the room, eyeing her with his usual irritation, and the next moment he was beside her, one strong, beautiful hand sliding behind her neck, under the heavy mane of chestnut hair, tilting her head up to look at him.
She did so easily, too surprised to resist. "Woman," he whispered, "you'll drive me mad." And his mouth caught hers, in a brief, deep kiss that tasted of brandy and pipe tobacco and of an intense longing that left her shaken. She raised her hands to touch him, but he had already moved away, not even aware of her incipient response. "Happy Christmas, Marianne," he said, and was gone.
She stared after him, at the closed door that shut out the wind and snow and Andrew Cameron. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth, to wipe away the feel of him. But instead, her fingers gently caressed the lips that he'd kissed so briefly, and her sigh woke the sleeping children.
Springer leaned back against the kitchen wall and begun to curse, low, inventive swear words from all over the world, colorful, obscene, incredibly imaginative. Just the sound of her voice, that soft, slightly husky voice had managed to knock the supports from underneath him. He never would have imagined she'd be there tonight. If he'd thought, he might have changed his ironclad policy and taken Katherine East for Christmas. She would have been delighted to see Elyssa and Ham.
But what the hell good would it have done him? It had taken months to get her out of his mind, months to forget those vulnerable blue eyes, that tremulous mouth,
that shattering response that seemed to shock her. But it was useless—she'd locked herself away from any kind of Involvement, closed herself up, and he couldn't keep buttering away at the door. He had no desire t
o play sweet Sir Galahad, or amateur psychologist, or even family
friend. Jessica Hansen was danger, pure and simple, and he needed to keep as far from her as possible.
So why was he standing alone in the kitchen of his ex-wife's home on Christmas Eve, leaning against the wall and aching for a skinny, complicated New York lady who was nothing but trouble?
With a last effort he roused himself, pushing against the wall and plastering a bright holiday smile on his face as he moved back to join the others. Maybe he could look up one of his old girl friends—he certainly had enough of them. Maybe one of them could make him forget about Jessica Hansen for a while.
The town house was deadly silent as Elyssa let herself in. She'd extinguished the Christmas-tree lights when she'd left, turned off everything, knowing she wouldn't be back till daylight. Slipping off her shoes, she moved on stocking feet into the pitch-black living room.
Ham and Jessica would be sound asleep. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse, she told herself with the raw edge of hysteria. Slowly she moved across the inky-dark room, felt around under the fragrant blue spruce for the electric cord, and plugged it in. The tiny colored lights sprang to life, and Elyssa stared at them. Moving on leaden limbs, she sank down into the sofa, curling her feet up underneath her. The rage and misery began to build, started to bubble over, and she quickly caught up a pillow and held it to her mouth, to muffle the sounds of animal agony. Curling in upon herself, she wept into the pillow, howled and cried and screamed, until her tears had run dry, and she was a dry, lifeless hulk. Damn David, damn his shallow soul to hell. Still gripping the sodden pillow to her chest, she leaned back to stare out of aching, red-rimmed eyes at the shimmering lights of the Christmas tree. Maybe later she would sleep.
Chapter Eighteen
The Slaughterer, vol 62: Pearls of Doom
Matt Decker surveyed the carnage around him. It always surprised him, the way innocent lives intertwined. Their bodies littered the sidewalk, victims of the war with terrorism. He stepped over the old lady's body with no regret. He'd learned long ago in his righteous crusade against the powers of evil that innocent people sometimes got in the way. And if they did, he didn't hesitate to blow them away. It was more important to get his man, or men, than to worry about some bleeding-heart liberal whining about human rights.
He blew the smoke from his Beretta, tucking the hot steel back in his belt without a flinch. Glancing back at the lifeless old lady, he shrugged. One more victim of the terrorist conspiracy to rule the world, he told himself and moved onward on his lonely way down the Beirut sidewalk.
Jessica moved slowly in the shadowy living room. The sparkling lights of the Christmas tree, combined with the muffled glow of dawn, illuminated Elyssa's huddled figure on the sofa. Her silk dress was a bright splash of blue against the white cotton. Jessica hesitated, wondering if this feeling of unease wasn't merely pregnancy-induced heartburn.
"Merry Christmas, Jessica." Elyssa roused herself, and Jessica could hear the hoarseness in her voice, the ragged edge of tears still lingering. "What are you doing up so early?"
Jessica moved into the room with her peculiar pregnant grace, sinking down into the sofa beside her friend. "I've gotten psychic in my old age. Something's wrong, isn't it?"
"Everything's fine," Elyssa said mournfully, not making much of an effort.
"Sure it is. Then why are you home? Last time I saw you, you were off to spend Christmas Eve with David. Why did you come back? Wasn't David there?"
"He was there all right. He just wasn't alone," Elyssa said numbly.
"That bastard," Jessica said softly.
"Don't blame him. I wasn't there when he needed me—haven't been there for a long time. Ham's been too sick for me to leave him, and David needs—"
"David needs a kick in the ass. How could you swallow that crap he fed you? Don't you realize that anyone so mean-spirited and selfish as to deny a dying man some love and comfort can't be worth anything? He's just too insecure to last long without some adoring female by his side. The man's a worthless piece of crud, Elyssa. He always was."
"But I could have tried harder..." she said weakly.
"Your only mistake was getting involved with him in the first place," Jessica fought back. "And I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't always know that."
"I loved him," Elyssa defended herself.
Jessica smiled then. "Past tense already. He's a jerk, Elyssa. Let him go and wait for a better man to come around. They're not all worthless."
A weak, watery smile lit Elyssa's face. "Thanks, mom," she said wryly. "Since when have you become such a staunch defender of men? I never heard you have much good to say for the species, and I wouldn't have thought your opinion would improve, given Peter's abdication."
"But Peter—" Jessica swallowed her sudden protest. "I left Peter first, remember," she said finally.
"But your situation can hardly be comfortable. Especially now that he's married to the Kerr girl. Is he going to help you with financial support?"
"I don't want financial support from Peter," she said truthfully enough. "And don't change the subject. You need to stop throwing yourself away on worthless men."
"I haven't made a habit of it, Jessica," Elyssa protested. "David was my first mistake."
"He was a big-enough one to last you for a while." Jessica leaned back, clasping her hands loosely over her rounded tummy.
"I suppose you're right. You, of course, don't make mistakes." Elyssa's faintly aggrieved note was belied by her rueful expression.
Jessica laughed. "Of course I don't. Can't you tell?" She gestured to her stomach. "You should aim for faultlessness, Elyssa."
"God protect me," she said devoutly with a laugh. It was a weak laugh, slightly forced, but a laugh all the same, and Jessica was reassured.
For a moment, when she'd seen Elyssa curled in a fetal ball of misery, she had been afraid that the pain had gone too deep. She had underestimated Elyssa's resilience, as she tended to underestimate most people's. Few people, she had come to realize, were as easily destroyed as she feared.
Elyssa put her slender hand on Jessica's. "I'll be all right, Jessie," she said softly. "It hurts, but I'll survive. Don't worry about me, worry about yourself."
"I don't need to worry about myself. I'm doing better than I ever have in my life," she said, and was surprised to realize it was true.
"Are you? Even carrying Peter's baby and not being married to him? You forget, I know you pretty well. You've got too much of that conventional Midwestern morality to go around having babies by yourself without feeling guilty."
"Whenever I feel guilty I squash it down," she said firmly. "My daughter and I will be just fine up in Vermont. That is, if it's all right for us to stay there," she added, suddenly anxious. "Ham said he wanted to talk to me about something... it wasn't the house, was it?"
"No, it wasn't the house. We're very happy to have you there, even happier knowing that you're content to be there. It's about The Slaughterer."
" The Slaughterer?" she echoed. "What does Ham's male adventure series have to do with me?"
Elyssa hesitated. "Ham would kill me if he knew I talked to you before he did, but I'm just as glad to have the chance. It means so much to him, and I'm afraid he might not broach it the right way..."
"Broach what?" Jessica was mystified.
"He wants you to ghostwrite The Slaughterer for him."
"But what about Johnson? I thought he'd been Ham's ghostwriter for ages."
Elyssa laughed. "Heavens, don't say that to Ham. He thought no one knew that he didn't write them himself anymore. He has his image to protect, you know."
"But what happened to Johnson? Did they have a fight?"
"You might say so. Johnson has been more than scarce since Ham's been sick. He's been acting like it's AIDS or something, which has been hard for Ham, after all the years they've been together. And then he found out that Johnson hasn't even been writing them, either—he's
been farming them out to various young male friends of his."
"Oh."
"Oh, indeed. So my poor Ham has had to deal with betrayal on three levels from Johnson—as a friend, as a business associate and as a lover. It hasn't made things any easier."
"But why in the world would he want me to ghostwrite them? Surely he could find someone much more qualified."
"You don't have to be very qualified to do The Slaughterer. Just get the names of the guns right, have lots of killing and a tiny bit of sex, and you'll do fine. Your best qualification is that you're a natural parodist. Ham's always kept that thing you did for Christmas."
"But..."
"He wants you to do it, Jessica. He wants to ensure that The Slaughterer keeps on for a while, to show Johnson that he doesn't need him. And he wants to do something for you. The Slaughterer brings in quite a comfortable sum of money, you realize. It could give you a nice start on a nest egg for you and your daughter."
"Elyssa, it's a ridiculous idea."
"Perhaps. But it means a great deal to him. He's been thinking about it ever since you left, and he's got his heart set on it. Even if you won't do it, lie to him, Jessica. Tell him you will. It would set his mind at ease about both of you."