Somebody's Lady

by Marilyn Pappano

  But he was quicker on his feet—not having to worry about shoes helped—and he was closer to the door. "Take your time," he graciously told her as he entered the foyer. "I'll get the door."

  The man waiting there was about what Zachary had expected. Smelling of cologne and looking entirely too perfect, he could have stepped right off the cover of some ritzy men's magazine. If he was surprised to find another man answering Beth's door, he hid it well behind a familiar smile—the male counterpart of Beth's—and said, "Good evening. I'm here to pick up Beth."

  Good evening? "Hey," Zachary greeted. "Come on in. She'll be ready in a minute. You must be—"

  "Martin Hamilton."

  Where had he heard that name? he wondered. On the evening news? In the Sunday paper?

  Before Zachary could say anything else, Beth joined them. He caught only a glimpse of her frown before she replaced it with a welcoming smile. "Hello, Martin." She raised her cheek for his kiss, then said, "This is Zachary Adams. He's in Nashville temporarily. We're working on a case together."

  She barely gave them a chance to acknowledge the introduction, Zachary thought with a scowl, before she was continuing. "We'd better be on our way. I'll see you later, Zachary. Have a pleasant evening."

  Hamilton reached for the fur she still held, but Zachary smoothly intercepted it. It felt… His grin was faint and whimsical. It felt the way fur was supposed to feel. Smooth. Silky. Luxurious. The way Beth's skin felt when his fingers came in contact with her bare neck. He lingered a moment in spite of the warning in her green eyes.

  Then, suddenly, he stepped back. "Nice to meet you, Hamilton," he lied. "Have a good time, Beth."

  The next five hours passed interminably slowly. He watched television. Ate dinner. Cleaned the kitchen. Wandered around the apartment. Finally he went to bed, but he couldn't sleep, not until he heard the front door open, then close, followed by footsteps on the stairs—a single set of footsteps.

  He was annoyed with her for not mentioning her date earlier.

  He was jealous of Hamilton for being the kind of man who appealed to her. He hoped she'd had a rotten time. And he was glad she was home. Safely. And alone.

  * * *

  "Do you want to go out to lunch?" Beth asked the question reluctantly. It was raining once again, and she had no desire to leave the dry warmth of the condo just for food, but she'd needed some way to break the silence that had existed between her and Zachary ever since she'd gotten up this morning. She knew he was angry about last night—well, maybe that was a little strong. He was irritated, and it made her feel unreasonably guilty. After all, just because she'd let him move in here temporarily didn't mean he had any say over her life. She could go out with whomever she wanted whenever she wanted, and she didn't need to clear it through him first.

  But maybe she should at least have mentioned it to him. Apparently he had thought they were in for the evening. She suspected he might even have fixed that big pot of savory stew with the intention of sharing it with her. But if that was the case, he should have asked first. She was letting him live in her house, giving him free access to everything in it; did she have to provide him with company, too?

  He was lying on his stomach on the floor, sections of the Sunday paper scattered around him. He seemed to find the newspaper that she usually only scanned extraordinarily interesting … but then, he lived in a town where the only paper was a weekly that did a less-efficient job of providing news than the rumor mill.

  Or maybe the paper provided an easy excuse to pretend that she wasn't here.

  Finally he rolled onto his side, resting on his elbow, and looked at her. "Lunch?" he repeated, considering it for a moment. Then he shook his head. "Go ahead. I'd rather stay here and have a bowl of stew."

  If it tasted half as good as it had smelled last night, so would she, Beth thought. Pushing aside the knitted throw that covered her feet, she stood up from the sofa. "I'll put it in the microwave—"

  "You don't have to stay here because of me."

  She hesitated. "Would you prefer that I go out?" It was going to hurt if he said yes, she realized, even though it shouldn't. Hadn't she already planned to spend today away from the condo, away from him?

  He sat up and began neatly stacking and folding the newspaper. "It's your house, Beth."

  "That doesn't answer my question."

  He rose to his feet in one fluid movement and stopped in front of her. For a moment he simply looked at her, letting her read his eyes. He was more than annoyed about her date last night, she saw. He was jealous—jealous that she'd willingly gone out with Martin while it seemed that nothing she did with him was done willingly. Impulsively, maybe, but not willingly.

  "No," he said finally. "I don't want you to feel as if you have to leave."

  That wasn't what she wanted. Stubbornly she waited, and, after a deep exhalation, he said what she needed to hear.

  "No. I don't want you to go out today."

  It wasn't fair to want him to feel that way when she was giving him nothing in return, but it pleased her, anyway. It made her feel warm and tingly deep inside. She tried a smile, a tentative one, a genuine one, and found it shaky. "I'll put the stew in the microwave now," she said softly and turned away.

  Part of her hoped that he would follow her, but he didn't, so she busied herself with lunch. She wrapped squares of cornbread in foil and placed them in the oven to heat, then spooned several big helpings of stew into a bowl for the microwave. While everything cooked, she set the table and poured two glasses of tea, then called Zachary's name.

  He appeared in the doorway. "Do you have a tray?"

  She gestured to the niche in the island that held a variety of serving trays, and he pulled one out and began placing the butter, dishes and napkins on it.

  "I've built a fire. Let's eat there."

  She didn't need to ask which room. There were a number of fireplaces in the house, but only one was ever used: the one in her office. Agreeing, she added the food to the tray, then followed him down the hall.

  The fire was bright and hot, and it filled the room with a warm, woodsy fragrance. Zachary sat down in front of the hearth and began ladling the thick stew into their bowls. At first Beth sat in the closest chair, but when he offered her a napkin, with silverware rolled inside, she slid to the floor across from him before accepting it.

  "I take it you only eat at the table."

  She shrugged.

  "And you don't go on picnics. You don't have lunch on the floor. You don't stretch out on the sofa to watch TV with a big bowl of popcorn."

  Feeling a little wistful, she shook her head. "I don't get casual."

  "Is that a conscious choice or a result of the way you were brought up?"

  She complimented his cooking before considering his question. "The way I was brought up, I suppose," she replied slowly. "About the only thing my parents ever agreed on was how they thought a proper little girl should behave. I always wore dresses. I never spoke to an adult—except my great-grandmother—unless they spoke first. My manners were impeccable. I never had outbursts, I was never rude, and I never talked back."

  "What else did you never do?" Zachary asked. "Did you never have fun? Did you never get to be a little girl? Did you never get loved?"

  She bit into a piece of cornbread, savoring the warm, buttery flavor. The crumbs that broke off fell into her bowl, soaking up the rich, dark juices. "My great-grandmother loved me," she said with a smile of remembrance. "Althea spoiled me. I was her favorite of all the children. I missed her so much when she died."

  For a moment she fell silent, listening as the rain outside picked up in intensity, the fat drops splashing against the windowpanes. Inside it was countered by the crackle and hiss of the fire. "When I was little, I used to make these elaborate plans to run away with Althea. I knew we couldn't stay at her house or my parents would find us, so I thought maybe we could go to New York or California, someplace far away."

  "Why did you want to r
un away?" Zachary asked so softly that she barely heard him.

  She looked at him and smiled, this time a little shyly. "The point wasn't simply running away. It was doing it with Althea." Then her smile faded. "I wanted to get away from all the fighting and the screaming. I wanted to escape being put in the middle, used by my mother to anger my father and vice versa. I wanted to go off and live someplace quiet with the only person I was absolutely sure loved me."

  Zachary set his dishes aside, then settled down comfortably, his head pillowed on his arm, and watched Beth. He was half afraid that if he spoke too loudly or moved too suddenly, she would realize that she was telling him things she had probably never shared with anyone, and the mood would be broken.

  He ached for the little girl whose parents had neglected her emotional needs as surely as they had provided for the physical ones. He wished he could protect her from ever being hurt, ever being unloved, again. He had the love to give, the gentleness she needed, the tenderness she'd never known except for those few short years from that one old lady. It was simply a matter of acceptance. Could she accept love, gentleness and tenderness from a man who was so obviously not her type? And could he accept that whatever she took from him would only be temporary, ending when he returned to Sweetwater?

  Wasn't it better than nothing?

  Wasn't loving somebody once, even only temporarily, better than going through life wondering how it would feel?

  "Why do you see your parents now?"

  She busied herself for a moment gathering everything onto the tray once again. She was searching for an answer, he suspected, and couldn't find one she felt was satisfactory. "They're my family," she said finally, with a helpless shrug.

  "It's your duty as their daughter," he replied, and got a confirming nod from her. "Daniel's mother left him on his own when he was a kid so that she could concentrate on her own needs. In all the time Katie—her only grandchild—has lived with him, Patsy has made no effort to meet her. She's shown no interest in Sarah. But now that she and her husband just happen to be passing through Tennessee on their way someplace else, she wants to stop by for a few hours. And because she's his mother, because he's been a good son even if she hasn't been a good mother, Daniel feels obligated to let her put in an appearance in their lives, even though he knows she'll disappear again until they're convenient for her."

  "Do you think he's foolish for that?"

  "No. I think the importance of family takes deeper root in some people than others. I think it means more to Daniel than it does to his mother. I think it means more to you than it does to your parents."

  "But that's foolishness," Beth persisted. "Logically, Daniel should want nothing to do with his mother."

  He noticed that she didn't include herself in that supposition. But inside, he suspected, she did. She knew that her parents had long ago abused whatever special treatment being family accorded them. They no longer deserved forgiveness or tolerance. They no longer deserved their daughter. "Logic has nothing to do with it, Beth. We're talking about families. That's emotion, and emotion is very rarely logical." He was living proof of that.

  "Don't you find this subject the slightest bit depressing?" she asked, forcing a smile that lacked pleasure.

  As a matter of fact, he did, but he didn't say so. He simply offered the change of subject that she wanted. "What do you normally do on Sundays?" Then, before she could answer, he gave her his most charming grin. "And please don't say work."

  Beth responded with a grimace. "Only when I have to. I go shopping or run errands or read."

  "And what do you read? Law books? The U.S. Code?"

  He wasn't far off the mark, she thought. She didn't often read fiction. Grim stories with unhappy endings filled her workdays; she didn't find pleasure in reading them on her weekends. She didn't have the imagination for science fiction, didn't enjoy mysteries, didn't believe in the happily-ever-after of romances. "Biographies," she replied. "History."

  "What else do you do for pleasure?"

  She gave it a long moment's thought. She had devoted herself so completely to her career that she'd never found time to develop other interests. She'd never found a need. There really wasn't anything else in her life that qualified as pleasure … except Zachary.

  Trying to blame the heat that flooded her face on the fire, she rose to her knees, picked up the tray and started to stand up. But he stopped her, gently pulling the tray away and setting it on the hearth. He spoke her name softly, hoarsely, and took her hands in his, drawing her closer, slowly closer, until all she could see was him. All she could feel… All she could want…

  Snatching her hands away, she jumped to her feet and picked up the tray. A glass fell, sloshing tea over the butter dish, spilling ice cubes into an empty bowl. "I—I have things to do," she said abruptly. "Make yourself at home, and I—I'll see you later."

  * * *

  "What do you think?"

  Zachary hadn't been in Beth's office more than sixty seconds when the question came. He silently groaned. His head was hurting, he was tired, and he would have given anything for a few quiet moments alone before he answered any questions.

  The last five days had been difficult ones. The closer the trial had moved, the harder they'd worked, and the more stressful life had become. He wasn't cut out to handle this kind of case, he'd acknowledged. Talent, money, prestige—all those things that usually figured into career decisions aside, he didn't have the make-up for such pressure. Everyone was short-tempered. He and Beth hardly spoke to each other anymore outside the office, and even Carrie had blown up, then burst into tears, during this afternoon's interview.

  Of course, his personal feelings for Beth weren't helping an already-tense situation any. He was tired of her stubbornness, tired of getting nowhere with her, tired of the walls she kept throwing up between them.

  He was tired of wanting her and never getting what he wanted.

  With a sigh, he finished removing his jacket and gloves, then turned his attention to her. She waited near her desk, holding a green dress with black trim in front of her. "It's not your style," he said after a moment. "Or your size. But the color's nice."

  She gestured impatiently, unamused by his response. "It's for Carrie. For the first day of her trial. I don't want the jurors to see her in a jail uniform."

  He studied the dress more closely. The style was simple—long sleeves, a rounded neck, a full cut to allow for Carrie's pregnancy. The fabric was cotton, the color brighter, probably, than anything she'd ever chosen for herself. "It'll be fine." As she folded it back into the box on one chair, he sprawled comfortably in the other. "I took Dr. Vega back to her hotel after she finished interviewing Carrie. She said she'll meet us here tomorrow morning at ten."

  Beth nodded as she sat down. She removed a pair of black shoes—also for Carrie, he assumed—from her desk, then folded her hands together and looked at him. "You don't like her, do you?"

  "I thought I'd done a pretty good job of hiding that," he remarked flippantly, then sighed. Psychologist Marian Vega was one of the foremost experts on battered woman syndrome in the country. She was intelligent, shrewd and sympathetic. She was also sharp-edged, blunt almost to the point of offensiveness, and a die-for-the-cause feminist. The woman had taken an immediate liking to Beth, an independent career woman dedicated to helping a sister in need. Her dislike for Zachary had come just as quickly and, as far as he could tell, for reasons just as superficial: he was a man. Marian Vega saw men as the enemy. It was a male-dominated society that had allowed Carrie's situation to exist and a male-dominated justice system that had failed to intervene until it was too late. He was judged guilty by association.

  "She is a little too much, isn't she? But she's testified in a lot of similar trials, and she's usually very effective."

  "She's sincere," Zachary admitted. "She believes what she says one hundred percent, and the jury can see that. As long as that's all they hear—and not her speeches on the evil of men—she'll b
e effective." He gestured toward the legal pad in front of Beth. "What else do we have to do today?"

  She consulted the list. "The witnesses have all been subpoenaed. Dr. Newman will meet us in court Monday morning for the jury selection. Mr. Morris will bring Tyler in as soon as we notify him."

  "So you're going to make the kid testify." He had hoped she would change her mind, had hoped they could build a strong-enough case without Tyler. The way things were going, he might as well give up hoping—about anything.

  "What do you want me to do? Put on the rest of our defense, wait until the jury finds her guilty, then say, 'Oh, wait, I have one other witness who just might change your mind'?" she demanded sarcastically. "I don't want to put that boy on the witness stand. I don't want to make him get up there in front of a roomful of strangers and tell them what an awful man his father was. But even more, I don't want to miss even the slightest chance of keeping his mother from spending the rest of her life in prison."

  Zachary didn't argue with her. How could he, when he knew about her own unhappy childhood? When he knew that she would do anything—except sacrifice her client—to protect a child from being hurt?

  "If it makes you feel any better," she continued stiffly, "you'll be the one questioning him. He relates to you better than to me."

  "Fine," he said just as stiffly. "It's been a long day, and we have to meet Dr. Vega tomorrow. Let's go home."

  Her gaze locked defiantly with his as she said, "I have a date tonight."

  Again. He wasn't even surprised. Just annoyed—and so jealous that his teeth ached with it. "Then I'm going home."

  Grabbing his jacket he walked out, closing the door quietly when all he wanted was to slam it.

  When he reached his Jeep, he tossed his coat in the back seat, climbed in and simply sat there. He didn't want to go home. If Beth had come, even if they had spent another awkward, silent evening together, he could have managed it. But going there now, knowing she would soon follow, but only to get ready for her date, having to see the man she'd chosen instead of him—that was more than he could bear.