Somebody's Lady

by Marilyn Pappano

  She waited patiently, her cool emerald gaze on him. He ran his fingers through his hair, then grinned again. "I'll be fine after a cup of coffee."

  "Where are you staying, Zachary?"

  "Someplace comfortable."

  "Where?"

  He sighed. "My house."

  His suspicion had been correct. She didn't show even the slightest surprise. "You're driving back and forth from Sweetwater every day."

  "Look, I already told you this won't happen again. I'll get caught up on my sleep this weekend. I'm just cutting back on expenses."

  She didn't say anything for a long time. She just kept giving him that long, steady look that made him want to squirm like a naughty little boy caught in the middle of his latest mischief.

  "It won't be a problem, Beth," he said, smiling his most charming smile, hoping to coax a returning smile from her. "I'm not going to run out on you. I just need to economize a bit. My income's not used to building a new house and out-of-town living expenses. But this won't change the time I can spend here or the work I can do."

  She stood up and returned to her desk, clearing it, placing this folder in her briefcase, that one in the bottom desk drawer. When she was finished, she put on her suit jacket, then took her coat from the closet and shrugged into that, too. She looped a long, black knitted scarf around her neck, tugged on a pair of black gloves, then faced him again. "I have four extra bedrooms." She sounded stiff, awkward, ungenerous. "You can use one of them until the trial is over."

  Now it was Zachary's turn to stare in silence.

  She shifted from side to side. "I realize it doesn't have all the comforts of your home, but it's not a hundred and fifty miles away, either. And it's free. I'm hardly ever there, so you'll have plenty of privacy. You'll have the kitchen, if you like to cook, and—"

  Slowly moving nearer, he interrupted her. "Have you thought this over?"

  "Of course." She sounded defensive. "I don't act impulsively."

  "You acted impulsively Saturday when you let me kiss you," he reminded her. "If you'd thought about it, you would have remembered that you don't get involved with men you work with, or with men who don't meet your very narrow requirements. You would have remembered that you don't get involved with men, period. But you didn't think it over. You acted on impulse. You let me kiss you, and you kissed me back. You—"

  "I'm offering you a place to sleep," she said sharply, her cheeks flushing pink. "Not a woman to sleep with."

  "And I'm warning you it won't stop there." Now he was standing directly in front of her, close enough to see the anger and annoyance—her defenses—in her eyes. He shook his head regretfully. "I appreciate the offer, Beth, but—"

  Again she interrupted him. "You have no choice but to accept it. You can't continue commuting. You've already had snow up in the mountains. What if it snows again and you can't get into the city?" She didn't wait for him to respond. "You fell asleep reading this afternoon. Driving can be just as monotonous as reading, but a hell of a lot more dangerous. This is the only reasonable alternative."

  He knew she was right. He was running a big risk of falling asleep at the wheel and driving right off the side of a mountain. But what kind of risks would he run if he accepted her offer? If he moved into her house? If he spent every night in a bed just down the hall from hers?

  She didn't want a relationship with him. She didn't want to spend the rest of her life with him—although Saturday, he dryly acknowledged, she'd seemed pretty interested in a few hours with his body. But he wanted it all—an affair, a romance, a future. How painful would it be to live with her and have nothing?

  But what if this was his chance to get something, anything that she could be persuaded to give him? At the very least it was a chance to spend more time with her. Even though she had said that she was hardly ever home, when she was, he would be there, too. When she went to sleep at night, when she awoke in the morning, he would be there.

  He dragged his fingers through his hair once more, then slowly, solemnly nodded. "Okay. Thanks, Beth."

  After he got his coat, they left the office, walking past empty offices, taking the elevator to the garage, which was empty except for their cars. Silently they separated there, Beth climbing into her import and Zachary walking to his Jeep. Once the engine was warmed up, he followed her in a wide loop to the ground level, then through nearly empty streets to her condo.

  The condominium was utterly silent, he marveled as he waited in the entry while she hung up their coats. The normal creaking, settling sounds of a house were absent. The clocks, including the tall antique grandfather clock in the entry, ticked silently. Even the kitchen appliances and the heating system seemed to make no noise. He'd never been aware of such stillness before, but Beth lived with it. No wonder she rarely spent any time here.

  She approached him, her heels tapping loudly on the marble floor. "I'll show you the guest rooms, then we'll see about dinner."

  With a nod he followed her up the stairs and down the hall past her own room. She pushed open the doors and flipped on the lights of each of the empty bedrooms, then waited silently for his choice.

  Zachary didn't care about the interiors of the rooms. He simply chose the one farthest from Beth's. It was decorated in a pale blue that reminded him of ice, and all the accessories were snowy white: white carpet, white pillows on the chaise, white glass shades on the bedside lamps. He would like to see a lemon-yellow vase on that pale wood table, or some fiery crimson flowers on the marble mantel, or a bright-colored crazy quilt on the bed. None of that was likely in Beth's house.

  But she did have those black sheets.

  He'd brought nothing from home, since he had intended to return, but Beth supplied him with all the necessities-toothbrush, shampoo, razor, shaving cream—from a linen closet bigger than his bedroom in Sweetwater. He left them in the adjoining bathroom, also ice blue and white, then went in search of the kitchen.

  It was gray—he remembered that from his previous visit. Everything except the gleaming steel of the sink, the cook top and the refrigerator was the same bland shade of gray. And there were no sharp corners, he noticed as he looked around. The island in the center of the room was oval-shaped. The corners of the cabinets were softly rounded, as were the edges of the counters and the small table and even the chairs in the breakfast nook.

  The freezer door was open, and Beth was standing in front of it, sorting through an assortment of frozen gourmet dinners. She offered one for his approval, chose another for herself, then closed the door, read the instructions and stuck them in the microwave.

  "You don't cook much," Zachary commented when she took a moment to figure out how to operate the microwave.

  "Not at all. I buy these dinners for the occasional times when I'm too tired to go to a restaurant or order out. But my refrigerator is bare, more or less."

  She opened it to reveal a six-pack of diet soda, a half-empty carton of bottled water and two bottles of imported beer. He knew she wasn't much of a drinker, and he certainly couldn't imagine her choosing beer when she did drink. Who, he wondered, had she bought those for? Which one of her diverting, unentangling gentlemen friends?

  Common sense told him to forget them, but he was too curious. Too nosy. Too jealous. "Who's the beer drinker?"

  She closed the refrigerator and leaned against it. "Someone I used to see."

  "Let me guess. He's … a lawyer? A banker? A broker?" Shrugging as if it didn't matter, he moved to lean against the wall near the table. "A business whiz." That covered them all. "He's older than you. He drives an imported car, drinks imported beer and lives in a place like this. His income is in the mid six-figure range, his family is old, his style is impeccable, and his blood is blue—but not so blue that he's unimpressed by Walter Gibson and Bill Townsend." He smiled cynically. "And he wanted nothing but the pleasure of being seen socially with you. And you wanted … what? A diversion? You traded a few hours in public for a few hours in bed? No ties, no responsibili
ties, no obligations?"

  Beth stared at him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she moved away from the refrigerator and began gathering napkins, place mats, silverware. Her movements were jerky, uncoordinated, and her voice when she spoke was brittle. "He was an executive with one of the record companies here. You're right about the rest—all of it. We were together for two months, and we got exactly what we wanted from each other. You want to be judgmental with your small-town morals and your old-fashioned values, go right ahead. Say what you're thinking—that that's cold. That it's little better than prostitution. Trading services for sex."

  She slapped the place mats on the table, tossed a napkin, knife, fork and spoon on each one, then stood in front of him. "Tell me that you've loved every woman you've been to bed with. Tell me that you've never taken a woman out, bought her a nice dinner and shown her a nice time, with the expectation of getting a little nice sex when it was over."

  He gazed down into her angry green eyes, feeling as if he could lose himself in them. "I've never been in love with any woman," he said softly. "But I've never made love to a woman who I didn't care about, who I didn't have something—some romance, some relationship—going with. And I've never traded anything for sex."

  Her laughter was soft, bitter, painful. "Of course not. I forgot. You're the romantic who believes in commitment and the healing power of love."

  She was mocking him, but this time, Zachary acknowledged, he deserved it. He'd had no right to question her. He'd certainly had no right to criticize her. If she wanted to make love—have sex, the little voice in his head amended—with every man she knew, that was her business, not his.

  He couldn't even tell her why he'd done it, couldn't explain the jealousy that had pushed him. He hated knowing that there were other men, men she hadn't cared deeply about. He hated knowing that she had so casually given this record company executive the very thing that he would cherish, that he ached for.

  Gently he touched her, just his fingers to her cheek. She flinched, but she didn't pull away. "I'm sorry, Beth," he said quietly.

  Finally she took a step back so that his hand fell away. Then she nodded curtly and turned toward the microwave as it dinged.

  Watching her go, Zachary sighed deeply. "Oh, lady," he murmured softly, "I am sorry."

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  Giving up any pretense at sleep, Beth opened her eyes and gazed into the cool darkness of her room. She didn't need to look at the clock to know it was late—the last time she'd checked, it had been one-fifteen—but her mind wouldn't let her body relax.

  She'd given up berating herself for inviting Zachary to stay here. She had made the offer, he had accepted, and now she was stuck. Besides, she'd told him the truth. She spent very little time here, and most of that was asleep—or it usually was, she thought with a scowl. Tonight was an exception. Most mornings she was gone by seven, and she rarely got home at night until after eight. She spent evenings in the office downstairs, Saturdays at the firm and Sundays… Well, Sundays she could go shopping, or visit what few friends she had or, God forbid, even her parents.

  It wouldn't be so bad having Zachary here, she told herself, and she even tried for a moment to believe it. Deep down inside, though, she knew it wasn't true. She didn't have to see him to know he was here. His mere presence seemed to change the aura of the house. He made it less empty. Less lonely. Less cold.

  So it wouldn't be easy. Dinner had proven that. After that little scene, they'd both been uncomfortable. They'd eaten without speaking, although she had occasionally felt his regretful gaze on her. She hadn't relented and looked at him, though. She hadn't wanted to see that he truly was sorry for what he'd said. She hadn't wanted to hear him call her lady again in that soft, sad voice. She hadn't wanted another apology for words that she had provoked with her lies.

  Her relationship with Gregory Hampton hadn't been as cold and emotionless as she'd made it sound. She had known from the start that nothing substantial would develop between them. She hadn't been looking for permanence, and neither had he. But it hadn't been a simple exchange of her company for his body. She had liked him—and, in fact, still did. She still occasionally went out with him, although they no longer went to bed afterward. He was one of the few men who she had become friends—of a sort—with.

  But she had deliberately made it sound worse and had made herself sound sordid. Maybe she had wanted to warn Zachary away. Maybe she had wanted to convince him that she wasn't the kind of woman he wanted an affair with … before he convinced her that she was. It was only fair. After all, he had given a warning of his own in her office this evening. When she had told him that she was simply offering him a place to sleep, he had replied that it wouldn't stop there. If they were living together, they would probably end up sleeping together. No, making love together—that was how he would phrase it.

  She smiled in the dark. It was a funny phrase, one that she seldom used and never with any real meaning. But when Zachary said it, it sounded different. Serious. Lasting. Erotic. He believed in it. He believed there was a difference between having sex and making love. He believed two people really could create something special and gentle and enduring.

  Wouldn't it be nice if that were true? If she didn't have to spend the rest of her life alone? If she could one day find the courage to love someone, to someday be a wife and maybe even a mother?

  That last thought made her scoff. It would take a miracle to transform the person she had become into mother material. She didn't even know how to relate to Tyler Lewis, and he was fourteen years old—hardly a child. Even Katie, her best friend's daughter, who greeted everyone with sweet smiles and kisses, generally met Beth with a solemn look, no more. And in spite of her parents' best efforts to get her to say Beth's name, the only thing Katie had ever called her was "Hey."

  But Zachary was wonderful with children.

  With a harsh groan, she rubbed her eyes. Enough was enough, and fantasies of motherhood were more than enough. She had other things to think about—Carrie's trial, all the other cases on her schedule, getting some sleep.

  With her luck, she thought as she settled deeper beneath the covers, sleep would come … and bring with it dreams of Zachary.

  Sweet dreams.

  * * *

  Although he hadn't liked Beth's condo from the first moment he'd seen it, Zachary found over the next few days that he didn't mind living there at all. The kitchen was stocked with every time-saving appliance conceivable, the bathtub in his private bathroom was just the right size for stretching out and relaxing, and the giant-screen television hidden inside an inlaid-wood cabinet in the corner of the living room certainly made Saturday afternoon sports more interesting to watch. Now that he had extra clothes and all the other essentials, courtesy of a quick trip to Sweetwater yesterday afternoon, he was as comfortable as he would be at home.

  Beth had asked him to stay in the city this weekend so they could work. They had done just that well into the afternoon today; then she had gone on home while he'd stopped off to do a little grocery shopping. He wasn't a great cook, but he knew a dozen recipes for chicken, his chili rated at least three alarms, his roast was almost as good as his mother's, and his spaghetti would please any Italian. Right now a big pot of beef stew, just the thing for a cold, drizzly evening like this, was simmering in the kitchen. In another hour or so, when this football game was over, he would put a pan of cornbread in the oven and see if he could lure Beth out of whatever room she was hiding in for dinner.

  The grandfather clock in the hall interrupted his thoughts, chiming seven times. As the last tone faded, he heard footsteps in the foyer and turned to watch as Beth entered the room. For a moment he simply stared; then the satisfaction he'd been feeling turned to a cold emptiness.

  She was dressed for an evening out. She wore a black dress with a beaded bodice and a slinky, silky skirt and impossibly high black heels. Her hair was twisted in some
complicated style that was at the same time sophisticated and softening. She was carrying a black handbag and, draped over her arm, a gorgeous black fur.

  She had a date.

  With one of those men she preferred.

  "Whatever you're cooking smells delicious," she said, laying the bag and coat on the sofa beside him, then securing the back of one of the diamond earrings she wore. After fiddling with it for a moment, she sat down on the giant leather hassock at the opposite end of the couch and slipped off her shoes.

  "Don't you think you're a little overdressed for an evening at home?" he asked, but his effort to inject a little teasing into his voice fell flat.

  "One of my clients invited me to his anniversary party. I accepted weeks ago."

  "How long has he been married?" An outfit like that deserved a really special occasion, something like the golden fiftieth, he thought morosely.

  "Five years." She smiled, the practiced kind of smile she gave the people in the office. "I handled his first two divorces for him and drew up the prenuptial agreement for this marriage. Since he can walk away with practically everything he owns, it probably won't last another five."

  Zachary knew he was scowling, knew his displeasure was too apparent, but he wasn't as phony as Beth. He couldn't smile on command. "I thought you big-city lawyers specialized. Why is a trial lawyer handling divorces?"

  "I did divorces when I first joined the firm. Some of my clients continue to request my services." She hesitated briefly over that word, and Zachary remembered the way she had used it only two nights ago—trading services for sex—and clenched his jaw. "I don't know how late I'll be. If there's someone you'd like to invite over while I'm out, feel free."

  She seemed relieved when the doorbell rang then. Quickly she scooped up her shoes and bent to put the first one on. She wasn't intending to invite her escort inside, Zachary realized. She wanted to meet him at the door and whisk him away before he got a look at him.