After an uncomfortable moment of silence, she admitted, "You're right. I like being in control." Then, unexpectedly, she asked, "What's your earliest memory?"
"What does that have to do—"
She silenced him with a gesture, then waited.
He thought about it. "Fishing with my grandfather." The hint of a sweet smile touched his mouth and his eyes and her heart.
"My first memory is my parents fighting. I don't know how old I was, but I know I was afraid. They were shouting and swearing, and my mother was throwing whatever was handy, and I thought … I must have thought the world was coming to and end. I was terrified." She smiled, too, but knew it had none of the innocence of Zachary's. "I used to run and hide in my closet whenever they fought, but I couldn't block out the noise. I couldn't hide from the anger. I couldn't get away from the malice."
She fell silent as the waiter served their coffee. Zachary sweetened his, but she took hers black.
"My parents never took me to church," she continued, "but my great-grandmother was a religious woman, and she taught me little prayers to say at bedtime. Every night for years I prayed that they would get a divorce. That he would move out. That we would have one night a week, or maybe even two, of peace. That their battles—their disagreements—would stop. That was what Mother called them. Disagreements. 'Walter and I had a slight disagreement last night,' she'd say as the maid swept up five hundred dollars' worth of shattered crystal."
She glanced at Zachary only obliquely, then turned her gaze on the other diners around them. "By the time I was twelve or so, I'd decided God wasn't listening, or He just didn't care. I gave up praying, but they never gave up fighting." She tested her coffee and found it too hot. "Yes, I like being in control. For eighteen years my parents controlled my life. Now I do. And no, I don't like emotional extremes. I find them unsettling."
"But don't you find it tiring to always be restraining yourself?" he asked softly. "Just once, wouldn't you like to lose your temper? To jump for joy? To scream with excitement? To enjoy a wild and wicked affair? To love someone? To hate someone?"
To enjoy a wild and wicked affair? Even her affair with Philip couldn't be described as wild and wicked. Making love with him had been satisfying, but not steamy. Enjoyable, but not breath-stealing. No, her pleasure in Philip had been in loving him, in believing for the first time since her great-grandmother had died that she was loved in return.
She could learn to lose her temper and even to jump for joy. But to scream for any reason? To be wild and wicked? Those things weren't in her character. Neither was loving. And if she didn't care enough about any man to love him, how could she care enough to hate?
"This is who I am," she said, hearing the note of apology in her voice but making no effort to disguise it. Then she smiled lamely. "The personality I have has stood me in good stead for thirty-six years."
"If you don't mind being lonely. If you don't mind the idea of being alone for the rest of your life."
Six months ago she would have denied ever feeling lonely. She would have insisted that a lifetime by herself was exactly what she wanted. Six weeks ago she might have acknowledged the loneliness, but she still would have denied any desire to share her future with anyone. Now, she admitted, it looked a little bleak.
Safe, but bleak.
"You're a fine one to talk," she replied, turning the focus on him. "I never intended to fall in love or get married, so I can be excused for remaining alone. But you've always intended to do those things. Here you've spent the better part of the last three weeks in a city filled with single, marriage-minded women, and how have you spent your free time? Watching television, reading and sleeping. At the rate you're going, Zachary, you'll be spending the rest of your life alone, too. And that's not what you want." That would be too unfair, she thought silently—to the woman he would one day love, to the children they would someday have, and to himself.
They finished their coffee in silence; then Zachary paid the check, and they went out into the cold night. He remained quiet on the drive back to her condo. Was he thinking about what she'd said? Beth wondered. Realizing, maybe, that this was a perfect opportunity for him to meet some women, to look for that special woman he'd waited all his life for? How would she feel, spending every evening working alone in her office or moping alone in her house and knowing that he was taking other women to dinner and possibly to bed?
Relieved, she tried to tell herself, because the sooner he got out of her life, the quicker she could get him out of her mind.
Jealous, she finally admitted. Even if she couldn't have him herself, she didn't want to know he was with someone else. She didn't want to know that some other woman was receiving what he wanted to give, and giving him what she couldn't.
He parked on the top level of the garage and walked to the elevator with her. When the doors slid open, she turned to tell him that he didn't need to escort her upstairs, that they could say good-night right here, but he was standing so close, looking so sweet and handsome and so damn solemn, that the words simply wouldn't come. She entered the elevator, pressed the button for her floor and silently avoided looking at him until they reached the foyer that separated her apartment from her neighbor's.
"We're doing this all backward, you know," she remarked as she unlocked the heavy door. "I asked you out, so I should have picked you up and paid the check and taken you home."
"Then you should kiss me good-night."
She wasn't sure she wanted to do that, she thought, then silently scoffed. Of course she wanted to. She just wasn't sure it was wise. Safe.
But he was leaning comfortably against the door jamb, and he showed no sign of moving until she had complied. Reluctantly she took a step toward him.
With just the faintest hint of a smile, he said softly, "That's okay. You come over, and I'll take care of the rest."
It took her four more steps to reach him. Slowly he straightened and raised his fingers to her jaw. His touch was warm and rough, and that—just his fingers grazing her skin—was enough to make her tremble inside, enough to make her want to turn and run and hide, the way she had when she was a child.
But she wasn't a child. She held her ground. She endured his touch. She savored it. And she waited for his kiss.
Cradling her face in his hands, he brought his mouth to hers. It could hardly be called a kiss, it was so light, so gentle. She'd been kissed dozens of times with more passion, more hunger, more demand, more strength, but never so tenderly. Never so soul-soothingly, so tenderly.
He released her and backed away, one slow step at a time. "Good night, Beth," he said softly.
Good night. Yes, she thought dazedly as she watched him step into the elevator, then disappear from sight. It had been a good night.
Maybe too good.
* * *
Zachary was a bit uneasy when he arrived at Beth's firm Friday morning. Tired after the long day, he'd gone straight back to the motel after dinner last night, but he'd been too restless to sleep. Packing in preparation for today's trip back to Sweetwater hadn't helped, and neither had reading more complicated case law. He'd needed physical activity—of the most intimate sort—but that, of course, had been impossible.
And so he had paced the small room. He'd stared at the television. He'd taken a long shower. He had tossed and turned in the bed, once comfortable, now too confining, too small.
Too empty.
It seemed that every time he had closed his eyes, he'd seen Beth's bedroom once again. The immaculate, impersonal place where she slept. The steel-gray carpet. The dove-gray walls. The black lacquered furniture. The stark white comforter.
The wicked black sheets.
All he'd been able to think about was the intriguing contrast of blazing red hair, soft ivory skin and smooth, sinful black sheets. All he'd been able to imagine was lying on those sheets with her, arms and legs entwined, mouths touching, bodies joined. All he'd been able to feel was desire, and all he had desired was her.
>
Thank God the weekend was here. He could go home, where he belonged, and shake off the city. He could forget about the case, about Carrie and all her problems, and he could, for two days, work Beth out of his system. He could wear himself out at the farm, hammering, sawing, chopping wood and doing whatever else needed to be done. He could have two nights of peace.
Then he shook his head grimly. He could tear his house down and start again from scratch and still not work her out of his system. He could cut down every one of the thousands of trees on his property and chop them into toothpicks and still have the energy to want her. To dream of her. To lust for her.
The stern Mrs. Taylor informed him that Beth was in a meeting with a client, but she'd left instructions for him to be shown to her office. Sometimes he forgot that she had other cases, he thought as he followed the secretary into the office. Where did she find the energy for Carrie's case and all the others? he wondered, then promptly answered that as Mrs. Taylor left again. From her personal life. She took the time and energy that she was supposed to devote to herself and gave them to her job. She gave everything to the job.
He shrugged out of his coat, returned the law books to their proper places on the shelves, then wandered over to the window behind Beth's desk. The air there smelled faintly of the fragrance she wore, as if she hadn't been gone long. He liked the scent, he decided. She had probably chosen it because it was suitable to a professional woman—light, pleasing and subtle. Not seductive. Not sexy.
But he found it sexy. It reminded him of cold nights and warm bodies. Of hunger and need and satisfaction. Of passion, sweet and hot, and pleasure, sharp and shattering.
He gave a sigh of resignation as his body responded all too quickly, all too pleasurably, to those thoughts. He was gradually becoming used to unsatisfied arousal. It was a condition he had never before endured for any length of time, but he could live with it. Until it was relieved or it died from sheer futility, he could endure it.
Leaning against the windowsill, he glanced around the office, his gaze finally settling on the portrait of Althea Townsend. He would have liked to have known the only member of her family whom Beth had loved unreservedly.
He would have liked to have her insight on how to deal with her great-granddaughter, how to earn her trust, how to break through her defenses.
The door swung open, interrupting his thoughts, and Beth came in, looking as lovely as ever. She was halfway across the room before she realized she wasn't alone, and she stopped suddenly, meeting his gaze for an instant before swiftly looking away. "Good morning."
Her greeting was stilted, formal, guarded. She was already regretting last night's date, Zachary thought, not surprised, but disappointed. She had already convinced herself that the dinner, the conversation and the kiss—especially the kiss—should never have taken place. She already had her defenses in place, fortified and unbreachable.
Beth stopped in front of her desk and simply stood there, the files she held forgotten. If she went around the desk to sit down, she would be too close to Zachary—simply being in the room with him was too close—and so she chose to remain where she was. Safe.
"What do you want me to do today?"
She considered the answers that came instantly to mind: I want you to go home and never come back. I want you to stop being so charming, so appealing, so damn tempting. I want you to stop disrupting my life, to stop invading my privacy.
I want you to make love to me.
She had to clear her throat before she could reply. "There's a list of people we still haven't talked to on the pad there." She nodded toward her desk and watched his gaze shift briefly from her to the legal pad, then back again. "Maybe you could start with them."
He looked tired, she thought, as if he hadn't slept much last night. Neither had she. She had sat up until well past midnight going through a small cardboard box she stored in the back of her closet. It was, she supposed, the equivalent of a scrapbook, an item she had only a passing familiarity with. It held photographs, souvenirs and little mementos from her time with Philip.
Her first impulse, when their relationship had ended, had been to throw it all away, but some perverse side of her nature had refused. Instead, everything had gone into the box, and the box had been tucked safely in the closet. It was there to remind her of how foolish she had been to trust Philip, of how easily he had deceived her, of how thoroughly he had broken her heart.
It was there to remind her not to make the same mistake again.
Before last night she had opened the box only once in ten years, and she still remembered the pain that had returned with those memories. Last night there had been pain, too, but of a different sort. The pain of disappointment, of loss. The pain of a future that stretched forty years or more ahead of her, a future as empty and cold as her house. As her life.
As her heart.
But the memories had served their purpose. They had strengthened her resolve. They had made her see once again that no relationship was worth the risk. No man was worth the pain. Not even Zachary.
He tore the page from the pad, skimmed over it, then folded it and slid it into his pocket. "I'll get to as many of them as I can this morning. I'm going home after lunch."
She didn't ask if he wanted to meet her for lunch. It wouldn't be wise, not yet. She might have strengthened her resolve, but she needed time for it to harden. Right now there were still weak spots that his smile or his charm or his blue eyes could penetrate.
"When will you be back next week?" she asked, trying to sound as if her only interest were professional. It was a short work week, due to the holiday, and they still had so much to do.
"I'll be in Tuesday and Wednesday."
"What about Friday?"
He shook his head. "Not the day after Thanksgiving. That's a holiday, too." He moved away from her desk, and she slowly edged into place behind it.
"All right," she agreed, summoning up a cool smile. "Then I'll see you next Tuesday."
He left without further farewell, leaving Beth with a sense of unfinished business. She wanted to call him back, to tell him…
What? What could she possibly say that would matter?
Slowly she sank into her chair and forced her mind back to business. She had plenty to keep her busy. After all, work was her life … wasn't it?
* * *
Chapter 7
« ^ »
Zachary was on the road to Nashville before the sun rose Tuesday morning. A light snow had dusted the mountains, and he'd spent a chilly fifteen minutes scraping the Cherokee's windows before setting out. The talk at Rosa's Diner at noon yesterday had centered on the weather and the old-timers' predictions for winter. It wasn't here yet, Leon Peters had insisted, but Henry Walters, always looking for an argument, had disagreed. There would be no more nice weather, he'd said emphatically.
Zachary had agreed with old Leon. He was looking for a few more pretty days—preferably on weekends, so work on the house could proceed—before the frigid temperatures brought their annual quota of snow and ice. But this morning, as the snow gave way to a misting rain at lower elevations, he had to admit that it looked as if Henry might have been right.
He'd had a reasonably good weekend. He was making progress on the house—by spring it should be livable—and he'd gotten some badly needed rest. But thoughts of Beth had overshadowed everything he'd done. He hadn't found a way to rid himself of her even for an hour.
This would be his fourth week in the city, but there was no suitcase in the back this time. Between work on the house, motels and a steady diet of restaurant meals, his savings account was quickly dwindling. For this week and next, until next month's rent had been paid by the bank and Dr. Haynes, he would have to keep his expenses to a minimum by commuting from Sweetwater to Nashville. He wasn't looking forward to it. A six-hour round-trip added to eight, nine or ten hours spent working made for very long days. But the only other options were not only to go broke but into debt, or to tell Bet
h that he couldn't afford to help out anymore.
Neither option, each for its own reason, appealed to him.
He arrived at her office shortly after eight-thirty and found her in conference with several of the firm's younger attorneys. She motioned to him to help himself to the coffee on her desk and have a seat with them. He refused with a shake of his head, hung up his coat and settled in on the sofa against the far wall.
They were discussing another of her cases, a new one, from the sound of it. Zachary listened with half a mind, paying little attention as Beth gave each of the two young men a detailed list of instructions. She talked to them the same way she talked to him, he thought, dismayed even though he shouldn't have been. Was he no different in her eyes than the dozen or so associates the firm employed?
No, she saw him differently. These two men, neither a day over twenty-seven, were up-and-coming legal eagles. They were hotshots, or soon would be. They were, like Beth herself, high-quality, high-caliber attorneys.
And he was a simple country lawyer. Small-time. Old-fashioned. Naive.
No wonder she wanted nothing more from him than this temporary working relationship, he thought morosely.
After she dismissed the associates, she brought two cups of coffee to the sofa and offered him the sweetened one.
"You're in early. Did you drive up from Sweetwater last night?"
"No." He didn't elaborate.
"I wasn't expecting you until noon, but I'm glad you made it early. I have an appointment in half an hour with Elinor Clarkson. She's the counselor at Tyler Lewis's school. Would you like to go along?"
He considered refusing. There were still quite a few names left on that list she'd given him last Friday. But it would be interesting to hear what Ms. Clarkson had to say.
And it would be a chance to spend a little time with Beth.
"Sure," he agreed, slipping into his coat as she got hers from the closet. "I talked to Carrie's parents this weekend. They're bringing the kids in tomorrow to see her."
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