by Anne Stuart
"Breathe, damn it," Marianne swore as Jessica whit-ened in pain again. "Come on, Jessie. We have to get this little girl bom." She cast a defiant glance at Andrew.
"Boy," he said silkily, unmoved.
AT 11:45 p.m. on Friday, April fifteenth, Jessica Katrina Hansen gave birth to a healthy, seven-pound baby boy. He had very dark brown eyes for such a little thing, and silky black hair like an Indian's. Jessica, Marianne and Andrew viewed their tiny accomplishment with complete fatuousness as he let out an ear-piercing yell.
'We're going to need a father's name for the birth certificate, Jessie," Marianne warned, touching the tiny little hand with a wonder that never ceased no matter how many times she experienced it.
"Matt Decker," Jessica murmured, smiling dreamily at her son.
"Come on, Jessie, be serious."
"I am. His father's Matt Decker. I don't know what type his blood is, but I know there's always a lot of it." With a weak chuckle she leaned back.
Marianne shook her head in disgust. "Do you want me to put him down for you?"
"Not right now. You'd think that after nine months I would have gotten tired of holding him, wouldn't you? Just give me a few minutes."
"All right. You're warm enough?" They'd turned the downstairs bedroom into a makeshift delivery room, with Andrew building up the fire in the stove to epic proportions to ensure proper warmth.
"Just fine." Jessica sighed happily.
"Do you want to go to the hospital when the plows come through? Just to check everything out."
"I don't think so. The baby's fine, I'm fine. I think we should stay here, all snug and cozy." She smiled up at her friend. "Go and rest, Marianne. I think you've worked harder than I have."
"I'll be glad to keep you company..."
"Go, Marianne. You'll have to face him sooner or later," Jessica said gently.
There was no sign of Andrew in the candlelit living room. Slowly, like a zombie, Marianne moved to the dining-room table, sinking into a straight-back chair and dropping her head into her arms. She heard his footsteps a moment later, and reluctantly she lifted her head.
"You look like hell," he said roughly, and she managed a weak grin.
"Ever the flatterer," she murmured.
"You look like you've been kicked by a horse," he continued ruthlessly, watching her out of those Celtic green eyes of his. "You look like you could sleep for days."
"I could," she admitted.
"You're also the prettiest woman I've ever seen," he said, and his voice was strained.
Marianne just continued to stare at him, too tired and too wary to respond.
"You're not going to make this easy, are you, Marianne?" he said suddenly.
"Make what easy?" Her voice was as hoarse as his was.
"You and me."
"There isn't any you and me, Cameron. And there never will be."
"Why?"
"For one, because you're five years too young and live inches too short."
"Women tend to outlive the men in this country," he responded. "This way I can keep up with you."
"You intend to be around that long?" She couldn't keep herself from asking.
"That long," he verified. "As for being too short, you'll find, woman, that you'll have nothing to complain about when it comes to my size." There was a devilish light in his eyes, and Marianne couldn't help herself; she laughed.
"Don't bother me now, Cameron, I'm too tired to fight off your advances," she murmured. "Catch me later when my defenses are up. You wouldn't want to take unfair advantage of a poor woman, would you?"
"I would. I've been waiting a long time for you, Marianne Trainor, and I'm not in the mood to wait a hell of a lot longer. You'd better get accustomed to the fact, woman. I'm going to win in the end."
"Don't call me woman," she murmured sleepily, putting her head down on her arms again. "I'm too tired to argue with you." She closed her eyes, just for a moment, just to rest them, and a moment later she was sound asleep.
He just stood there, watching her for a long time. She couldn't sleep like that; she'd end up even more stiff and sore than the night had already made her. On the other hand, she'd jump like a frightend rabbit if he put a hand on her. He knew he had a little more time to wait—he'd almost wrecked the whole thing by moving too fast at Christmas. No, he'd have to leave her there and hope she'd wake up shortly and move to the couch. In the meantime he had to get back to his house and stoke the fire. He didn't dare spend the night here, much as he wanted to. He didn't dare touch her. But the time would come, and soon. For now he'd have to bide his time.
"Good night, woman," he whispered, his rich Scottish voice caressing the word. "Sleep well, you nasty-tongued viper."
Marianne smiled in her sleep.
It had been a hell of a day. Springer had started out the day snapping at Katherine, had gotten a speeding ticket driving to work, the muffler had fallen off the Lotus and who knew where he was going to get another muffler for a 1963 Lotus. Work had been a nightmare, the rain was a constant downpour, and by the time he arrived home he was in such a tearing, uncontrollable rage that he put his fist through the flimsy plywood door of his closet.
Which hadn't helped matters. It had come and gone during the past few months, that nagging sense of something being wrong, something happening beyond his knowledge and control, but it had never been as strong as it was that day.
Maybe it was just a built-in reaction to April fifteenth. He never liked to pay taxes on the comfortable trust fund Elyssa's father had left him, but it didn't usually precipitate his current foul mood. And it certainly wouldn't be responsible for the gnawing sense of anxiety that had no basis.
An exhausting session of handball hadn't helped.
Driving too fast in his mufflerless car hadn't helped. He could only be grateful that tonight was Katherine's night to spend at Maureen's. At least he wouldn't have to subject her to his moods.
The weather report only deepened his gloom. The entire country was in a mid-April mess, from spring blizzards in Vermont to downpours and flooding in the Northwest. And no letup in sight.
Well, there was nothing he could do about his current mood, when he didn't even know what was wrong. He could always go out, find some friendly little yuppie bar awash with ferns and drown his sorrows. But he'd spent too much time in this town—he doubted there was a bar around where he wouldn't run into someone he knew. And he wasn't in the mood to see anyone at all.
He turned off the television as the rest of the local news started, and the knob broke off in his hand. With a short obscene word he threw it across the room.
Tonight was a fitting night to drown his sorrows, whatever the hell they were. Maybe good old Jack Daniel's would begin to blur the edges enough to let him get a good night's sleep. And if it didn't, at least he wouldn't mind being awake as much.
Damn, he thought, tossing his long body down on the couch without managing to spill a drop of the dark amber drink. Jessica Hansen picked the oddest times to invade his memories. He took a deep gulp, savoring the smooth, burning taste of it, and closed his eyes, remembering.
Chapter Twenty
The Slaughterer, vol 39: The Wrath of Decker
Matt Decker surveyed the carnage around him. There was nothing bloodier than a back street in Paris when the Slaughterer had been called to his noble task. Shoving the snub-nosed Walther in his jacket pocket, he picked his way through the bodies. The young woman had escaped, taking her baby with her. He couldn't worry about it—she was only a minor cog in the wheel of international terrorism. He'd mete out his justice eventually. And the kid was another one of them—probably fathered by some member of the Baader-Meinhof gang, a terrorist in the cradle. His time would come, too.
In the meantime, Decker had to see the old man. He didn't have too much time left—cancer was accomplishing what Decker had so far failed to do. It was killing Maurice Rocco, kingpin of the Paris underground and friend to terrorists everywhere. Decker planned to go see him, to laugh
in his face and then maybe speed him on his way to hell. Decker smiled his chilly smile as he crossed the narrow back street and headed south.
"You sure you'll be all right?" Marianne queried anxiously. It was late June, and Matthew Decker Hansen was two and a half months old. He was lying in his honorary Aunt Marianne's arms, blissfully asleep, unaware that his mother was about to leave him for the first time in his short life.
"I don't know," Jessica admitted, shoving a nervous hand through her shoulder-length curtain of wheat-blond hair. "But I don't have any choice in the matter. Ham wants me, Elyssa needs me. It's going to be harder for him to die than for me to watch it, and they need me there. It's the least I can do after all they've done for me."
"This boy is going to miss you, you realize?" She nodded toward the sleeping child.
"He probably won't even know I'm gone," Jessica said fondly. "I guess there are advantages in not being able to breast-feed. I'd hate to have to take him with me. It's going to be tough enough as it is, without worrying about Matthew. I know you'll take perfect care of him." She touched his soft cheek with a gentle finger. "I'll miss him."
"How long do you think you'll be gone?"
"I can't say for sure. Elyssa said Ham's in and out of consciousness, but he wanted to see me before he died. I don't imagine it will be more than a couple of days. I'll try to bring Elyssa back with me—getting away from everything should do her good."
"So will the sight of her godson. Listen, don't worry about us, just take care of yourself. If it makes you feel better, you can call us every night just to make sure we're fine."
Jessica laughed ruefully. "Don't worry. I expect I'll be calling twice a day. Take care of my darling, please." Leaning closer, she brushed her lips against his sweet-smelling baby skin. He stirred in Marianne's arms for a moment, opening those dark, fathomless eyes that never failed to amaze her for a brief moment before drifting back to sleep.
"I will, I will," Marianne promised. "Now hurry up before you miss your plane. Give Elyssa my love."
"You look marvelous, darling," Elyssa greeted her warmly, enveloping her in her warm, scented embrace. "No one would ever know you just had a baby."
"I'm fifteen pounds heavier than when I lived in New York, Elyssa," Jessica said wryly.
"You were fifteen pounds underweight back then. Come along in and see Ham. He's awake right now. He's having a good day—he's a lot more alert than he has been." She led the way, her reed slimness having moved on to nervous gauntness.
"I'm glad to hear that."
"Yes, I think having you and Springer here will be just the thing," Elyssa continued with deliberate artlessness.
Jessica was already halfway into the downstairs dining room that had been transformed into a sickroom before the words penetrated. It had never occurred to her that Elyssa wouldn't be alone with Hamilton. That they would have had to finally, eventually tell Springer that his father was dying, and that Springer, despite his eternal anger, would be there.
She stopped dead still, but it was too late. Ham was lying propped up in a hospital bed, his eyes the only sign of life in his sunken face. But what eyes they were, twinkling with merriment and just the faintest trace of devilry as they met hers. She kept her attention firmly fixed on him, a warm smile on her face, as she ignored the tall figure that unwound itself from the chair beside the bed.
"Hello, darling," Ham breathed on the mere trace of sound.
"Hi, Ham," she said gently, moving across the room because she had to, moving closer to that watching figure by Hamilton's side. "You still look like hell."
His laugh was a painful wheeze. "I can't say the same for you, little one. You're still a damn pretty woman. Almost as pretty as Elyssa."
"No one's as pretty as Elyssa, I've come to accept it as a whim of cruel fate," she said lightly as she reached the side of his bed and took one wasted hand in hers. The bones stood out against the thin covering of skin, and it was cold and lifeless to the touch. Slowly, deliberately she turned her head to the side, to look directly into a pair of unreadable dark brown eyes. The twin to her son's eyes.
"Hello, Springer," she said evenly, wiping that unacceptable thought from her brain with ruthless speed. "How have you been?"
Such idiotic words, she chided herself. But there wasn't much else she could say to the man who stood so close to her, with such a closed expression on his face. She could stare at him covertly, drink in all the deliberately forgotten beauty of his face with those high, arrogant cheekbones, the hawklike nose, the deep, knowing eyes and that mouth that had changed her life. He was wearing a chambray shirt, his shoulders broad and slightly bony through the pale blue material, and the faded jeans hugged the narrow curve of his hips, traced the length of his long legs, ended at a pair of disreputable old sneakers. He looked lean and fit and dangerous, the light in his eyes holding not one trace of warmth as they swept over her. She knew what he would see.
The added fifteen pounds suited her, filling out the concave lines of her face but not obliterating her distinctive Nordic cheekbones. Jessica had dressed in a Liz Claiborne suit from her New York days that still managed to fit, and if one didn't look too closely one would think she was the same woman. If one didn't look into her blue eyes and see the faint trace of warmth that had melted the ice. If one didn't notice her mouth, which was far too used to smiling down at her son. If one didn't see the air of pleasure and confidence with which she faced the undemanding Vermont world.
Of course, it wouldn't have mattered if Springer did look closely. His very presence had wiped out her sense of well-being, chilled her heart, made her a stranger to smiling. She was suddenly very frightened, and there was nothing she could do about it, with Ham's thin, skeletal hand in hers, clinging to her. She couldn't run away, back to her baby. She had to see this through.
Springer took his time. Those dark, judging eyes swept over her, once, twice, in a leisurely, measuring fashion that gave no clue to his final judgment. "Jessie" was all he said, acknowledging her presence and her greeting.
Of course, he'd had the advantage of knowing she was coming, of being prepared. She, like a perfect fool, had not even considered the possibility. If she had, nothing, not her emotional and spiritual debts to Elyssa and Ham, not her own conscience, would have gotten her to leave Vermont and Matthew.
She looked down at Ham, a teasing question on her lips, one that died away at the sight of him. He'd drifted into sleep, his chest rising and falling with rapid, difficult breathing. Slowly she disengaged her hand, letting his fall back on the mattress.
"He does that a lot nowadays. Really, Jessica, he's perked up since Springer arrived."
"I'm not surprised," Jessica said politely. Springer sent her a slashing, cynical look before he walked out of the room, without another word spoken in that drawling, caressing voice of his. The two women watched him go.
"He's not doing well," Elyssa said in a whisper.
"You said it was near the end, Elyssa," Jessica reminded her.
"I mean Springer. We only told him this week. He got here yesterday and he's barely said a word to either of us the whole time. He's sat by Ham's bed hour after hour being scrupulously polite, but I'm afraid of what's going to happen."
"Why should anything happen? He's been estranged from Ham for decades—he probably just doesn't care all that much." Jessica said.
A small sad smile lit Elyssa's pale face. "You don't think that any more than I do."
"I don't know what I think. I don't really know Springer all that well."
"No, I suppose you don't," Elyssa said with a sigh. "So tell me, how's that marvelous baby of yours? It must have broken your heart to leave him, even for just a few days."
"It was," she said with a wry smile.
"What does he look like? He must have blond hair and blue eyes like you and Peter. Does he smile yet?"
"Of course. He's been smiling since he was two weeks old. Didn't Ham show you the picture I sent him?" She carefully avoi
ded any confirmation of her son's appearance.
"You sent him a picture of Matthew? How sweet of you, darling. He must have forgotten about it—he wanders a great deal, I'm afraid." She sighed. "We haven't said anything about Matthew to Springer. Ham's probably forgotten, and I decided that should be up to you."
"I appreciate that. I... I don't see any reason to mention it. It's not really any of his business, is it?"
And Elyssa, whom Jessica had always thought she'd fooled, looked her clearly in the eye and said, "Is it?"
Ham, bless his heart, moved then, and Jessica looked away, not answering the question. "Hi, there, you old reprobate. Did you like my Matt Decker?"
He managed a travesty of his old grin. "Which one? Volume ninety-six, ninety-seven, or the baby? I like all three, but I prefer the baby most of all."
"You didn't tell me Jessie sent you a picture of him, Ham," Elyssa chided softly. "I would have liked to have seen my godchild."
"Didn't I? Must have slipped my mind. Are you going to tell my son about him, Jessie?"
"No. What business is it of his?" The question came out more sharply than she would have wished, but Ham looked pleased.
"You tell me, little one." Before she could retort he moved his sunken eyes to his ex-wife's worried face. "Where is Springer now, Lyss?"
"Gone somewhere. I heard the front door slam just after you fell asleep."
"Did I fall asleep? I seem to do that far too often." He sighed, and Jessica could hear the faint, imperceptible struggle for breath. "Come back later, Jessie. I promise I won't tease you about Matthew. Sometime when I'm feeling better and Springer isn't in the house." He winked, as if sharing some great, naughty secret, just the two of them. "Go along, you two. You must have some gossip to catch up on. And I have some sleep..." His voice faded away, and without another word Elyssa caught her sleeve and motioned her out of the room.