But Kate would be around, which would be nice. Very nice. How many nights had he spent alone in hotel rooms over the last dozen years? Too damned many.
Though Kate was keeping her distance physically and emotionally, he felt a sense of comfort, of rightness, in her presence that was downright scary. Reconciliation after so many years, so much water over the dam, was not an option. Yet he still felt as if he'd known her for a dozen lifetimes, though someone like him who'd been educated by Jesuits wasn't supposed to think about reincarnation.
One of many things that had fascinated him about the Corsis was the way different religions had coexisted side by side within the same family. Early in their relationship, Kate had explained that Sam had wanted Julia enough to agree to marry in her church. Afterward, her parents had adopted a centuries-old way of dealing with religious differences--sons were raised in the father's religion, and daughters in the mother's.
Luckily Sam and Julia had one of each, so Tom was a devout Catholic, Kate an Episcopalian who went to a Quaker school. In addition, Julia had encouraged her children in reading and discussing other religions. Very different from the unquestioningly Catholic neighborhood he'd grown up in.
He dressed and went into the living room. Kate was standing by the fax machine, staring at a sheaf of papers. Her hair was damp, and she'd put on a long blue robe that managed to cover her entirely, yet look enticingly feminine.
"Reading my office mail?"
She looked up, eyes like flint. "I saw a letterhead from the state fire marshal's office, so I took a look. I thought it might be the report on Sam's death, but apparently it's more of a status update from the lead investigator, a Chief Stanski."
"Phil Stanski and I have gone over the floor plans of the Jefferson Arms, the wiring diagrams, the explosives manifest--anything that might provide a clue. Is he ready to write a final report?"
"Not yet. Read this."
He sat down and skimmed the letter, reading the last page twice. "Jesus. So Stanski thinks that some damned implosion junky got into the building and tampered with a blasting cap, not realizing the possible consequences. Sam might have triggered the detonation of the cap by investigating. Because that job used a non-electric initiation system, the blast propagated through the whole structure rather than being limited to a single charge."
"What's an implosion junky?"
"PDI fascinates people." He set the faxed letter on the end table. "There's even a club. Fans travel all over to see implosions in person. That's harmless, but there are people out there who want to poke around job sites, not to mention the nut cases who want to steal some dynamite for their very own. That's why we post guards twenty-four hours a day once explosives are brought on site."
"Could someone like that have gotten into the Jefferson Arms?"
"The weather was bitter cold. It wouldn't be surprising if a guard holed up in a corner and didn't do his job. Total security is a myth even under the best of conditions."
"So my father might have died because some kid got in and tampered with something he didn't understand," she said, her voice bitter.
Donovan faced the likelihood that Sam's death had been a result of vandalism rather than a real accident. Shit. "I'm afraid so."
"Since he was doing the walk-through, I assume you were at the other end of a two-way radio. Did he mention seeing anything unusual just...just before the explosion?"
"Actually, he did. When he went to check, the blast went off, so Stanski's probably right."
"What happens now?"
"Because there was a fatality, the investigation will stay open until they reach a firm conclusion." He wondered how long that would take. A conclusion would make it possible to start coming to terms with the raw wound of Sam's death.
"At least you can stop feeling guilty. He didn't die because of a mistake you made."
"Maybe not. But if someone tampered with one of the charges and left a sign that Sam saw, I should have seen it first."
"You're overdoing the guilt, Donovan. You weren't the only one working on that job. No one else noticed anything wrong, either."
He considered telling her that he lived with guilt, that it was his middle name. But she probably already knew that.
Over room service seafood ravioli, Kate started to learn the art and science of designing an explosives plan. The food and drink were gone and the trays long since put outside when Donovan pushed back the pile of papers spread on the table between them. "You're picking this up faster than anyone I've ever taught."
"Maybe I'm drawing on buried memories of things I overheard in my years of hanging around the office." She rolled her neck to work out the kinks. "The information you're giving me about timing delays and kinds of explosives and controlling the blasts--is any of it codified anywhere? Is there a Big Book of Explosive Demolition I could study?"
He leaned back in his chair. The lamplight played over his face, emphasizing the angles. "Not really--a lot of our techniques were invented at PDI, and they're proprietary information. For the last couple of years, though, I've been putting together a database of variables and results on all kinds of PDI jobs. It'll never be a substitute for experience, but it gave me an excuse to pick the brains of the senior staff members about their most memorable projects."
"So some of Sam's expertise lives on." She was glad of that. "And of course you have all those fabulous videotapes of buildings being imploded."
"I turned one film clip of a falling bridge into a screen saver on my computer."
She laughed. Leave it to Donovan.
A warm stillness stretched between them. Then came tension. Sexual tension, as unmistakable as the ebony table between them.
After a moment of acute mutual awareness, Donovan said, "I'm beat. Guess it's time for bed."
Bed. A simple word, and a too-vivid euphemism for sex. With hallucinogenic clarity, she remembered the times when she came to bed late and he was already sleeping, his beautiful bare body sprawled under the covers. She would slide in next to him and wrap an arm around his waist. Even asleep, he'd respond, turning to draw her close.
Sometimes he'd wake and perhaps press his lips to her temple while his hand drifted to her breast. Or she might lazily explore to see what she might find.
In those days they'd regarded each other's bodies as joint property. Even when she was dead tired, it was surprising how swiftly desire could rise and dissolve fatigue. Middle of the night sex was soft and slow and tender, a bringer of pleasant dreams.
They'd lost so much, so damned much. Near panic, she jumped to her feet and headed to her bedroom. "Since we're going to be here for several days, I'll rent a car of my own. No reason for you to have to haul me around."
"You can run, Kate, but you can't hide," he said softly.
"Want to bet?" She bolted into her room, and slammed the door behind her. After turning the lock, she leaned against the door, shaking.
The hell of it was, he was right. As much as she wanted to deny the attraction between them, as much as she would like to control it by sheer will, she couldn't.
You can run, Kate, but you can't hide.
Chapter 15
∗ ∗ ∗
It was almost too cold for the dogs. They did their business quickly, not even pausing to check if other canines had left messages at the bushes along the quiet lane. Charles Hamilton walked briskly, as anxious to get out of the bitter night as Tort, the golden retriever, and Retort, the anybody's-guess mutt.
Rather than walking up his long curving driveway, he cut across the moon-flooded lawn, the frozen grass snapping under his heavy shoes. Cold though the winter had been, at least there hadn't yet been much snow.
As he headed toward the back door, he saw a car turn into his driveway and climb to the house rather faster than vehicles usually approached. Who would be visiting at this hour?
The moonlight was bright enough to identify Julia Corsi's silver Mercedes. She had turned off the engine and lights, but was still sitting
inside, a darker profile in the shadowed interior.
He tapped at the car window. "Julia?"
She climbed out, her face a pale oval and her ankle-length wool skirt sweeping gracefully over high black boots. The dogs twined around her. "I hadn't decided whether or not to come in. It's late."
He glanced at her jacket. It was far too light for the weather. "Not that late. Come on inside before you freeze to death." He took her arm and guided her toward the front door.
The warmth of the two-story high entryway struck like a blow, albeit a welcome one. The dramatic hall, with its sweeping staircase descending across a huge leaded glass window, was cherished by brides seeking memorable wedding pictures. His older daughter, Sandy, had looked wonderful there. He hoped that one day Rachel would pose there for a bridal portrait, but so far, no luck. Apparently doctors were too busy to date.
"How about some hot chocolate? It seems appropriate to the weather."
Slowly she removed her hat and jacket, revealing a beautiful sweater in shimmering peacock colors. "That sounds...nice."
After hanging their coats, he led the way into the kitchen and took milk from the refrigerator. Julia perched on the antique walnut bench, rubbing her arms for warmth. "You've taken up cooking."
"If I didn't have a housekeeper I'd starve, but I have picked up a few basics. I figure that a man with a law degree ought to be able to heat milk without burning it."
The powerful kitchen light showed lines in her face and silver threaded through her blond hair, but she was still a striking woman. Or would be, if she didn't look so drawn. He made mental calculations as he went to the cupboard for cocoa. "Good Lord, Julia, I just realized that we've known each other for over fifty years."
"I remember the day we met. You pulled my pigtails."
"I had to get your attention somehow." He leaned against the counter, keeping an eye on the saucepan of milk. "You were more interested in my sister's dolls than in me."
"The older I get, the more I realize how much life is an accumulation of details and textures. How much we depend on the comfort of the familiar. It never would have occurred to me on the day we met that you and I would end up knowing each other our whole lives."
"You probably wouldn't have liked the idea then. Isn't that why you broke our engagement all those years ago? I was too familiar."
"That was part of it." She fidgeted with the golden hoops of her engagement and wedding rings.
Had he ever seen her fidget before? Not that he could remember. "You look ready to jump out of your skin, Julia. Have you thought about getting away for a while?"
Tort nudged Julia's knee. She brushed his silky golden head. "Tom is urging me to visit him, but at the moment, it seems like too much effort."
He didn't like the sound of that, but the milk was ready to boil so he took it off the burner and mixed in the cocoa. After pouring the steaming beverage into large mugs, he stirred a measure of hazelnut liqueur into each mug and added a healthy dollop of whipped topping from the refrigerator, along with a dusting of nutmeg. "Here you are. Guaranteed to overcome the coldest winter night."
She sipped, then licked off a whipped cream mustache as delicately as a cat. "I'm impressed."
"I'm thinking about retiring from my law firm and becoming a bartender. It's time for a career change."
"You're joking, aren't you?"
"I am about becoming a bartender, but I am ready for some changes. Probably I'll be offered the next seat that opens up on the Circuit Court bench. I think it would be interesting. Less money, but maybe more useful."
"Congratulations. You'd make a wonderful judge."
"I hope so. The older I get, the more I understand how vital the law is to a healthy society." He led her into the large, casual family room next to the kitchen, turning the dimmer switch to bring the lights to a restful level. Then he picked up a remote and turned on the gas logs in the fireplace. "This fire doesn't crackle like wood, but it has the virtue of being easy."
Julia sank onto the wide sofa in front of the fire. In her subtly patterned skirt and hand-knit sweater, she looked like an illustration from an upscale country living magazine.
He sat beside her and stretched out his legs as a gust of bone-chilling February wind rattled the windows. It was a good night to be beside a fire. The dogs trotted in from the kitchen and flopped in front of the hearth. Like him, they weren't as young as they used to be, and enjoyed their comforts.
They drank in silence, until he said, "This spring I'm going to put the house on the market."
She gave him a startled glance. "Charles, no. This is such a wonderful place. So much you. I can't imagine you living anywhere else."
"So much me and Barbara, you mean. I took my time, like everyone advised, and didn't do anything rash after she died, but it's been two years now. This is far too much space for one person. By the time I get home, LaDonna has left for the day. I see her so seldom it's like having my housekeeping and cooking done by elves."
He finished his cocoa and set the mug on the end table. "It might be different if the girls were in and out of here, but Sandy and her family are in Chicago, and I seldom see Rachel even though she's only an hour away. I rattle around here with the dogs like a penny in a bass drum."
"I suppose you're right." She sighed. "So many changes, Charles. Inside I don't feel that differently from when I was twenty. But now my life is effectively over, even though I might live another thirty years."
"You're hurting now, but your life isn't over. You've always been an active woman with endless friends and interests."
"That doesn't help!" Suddenly she hurled her empty mug at the fireplace. It smashed on the fieldstone mantel and fell onto the hearth. "They'll all be couples, like Noah's Ark, while I'm alone. So alone."
Shocked by her unexpected action and aching for her grief, he put his arms around her. "It will get better, Julia, I swear it."
Her fingers dug into his arms as if she was drowning and he was a life preserver. "I can believe that in my head, but not my heart."
He stroked her hair, as if she was one of his daughters when they were small. She smelled like nutmeg. "Take it one day at a time, Julia, and don't ever be afraid to ask your friends for help. Believe me, we all want to do whatever we can."
When the policeman had come to the house to give him the news of Barbara's death, he had been so numb that the officer hadn't wanted to leave him alone and had asked for the phone number of a friend. Fifteen minutes later Julia was beside him, using one hand to anchor him to sanity and the other to call the girls and other family members to break the horrible news. And now, damnably, she was facing her own ultimate grief, and he was nowhere near as good at comforting as she had been.
Lightly he pressed his lips to her temple, not with passion but deep affection, a wordless promise that he would always be there for her. She turned her face upward, her anguished gaze meeting his.
He wasn't sure which of them moved, but their lips came together. Soft and warm and responsive, her mouth was not that of a friend. For a timeless moment, sensation blazed between them, the instinctive attraction of male and female. Then he jerked his head away. "Sorry. I...I don't know quite how that happened."
"It happened because...because I wanted it to happen." She touched his cheek with shaking fingers. "Make love to me, Charles. Please."
He wondered if he'd misheard. "I think that would come under the heading of doing something rash."
"I don't care! I feel numb to my bones." She gave a hiccup of laughter. "It isn't only missing Sam, though I do, terribly. Frankly, part of it is the fear that...that I'll never feel real intimacy again. That I'm too old and dry and unattractive. Used up and worthless. That probably shocks you. Do you know why I married Sam? Because with him I felt like the sexiest, most desirable woman on earth. When you and I were engaged, it was a passionless arrangement, something we decided on because we were fond of each other, not because we were crazy in love."
His co
mmon sense began to crack. "That was because you weren't attracted to me, Julia, not because I wasn't attracted to you. I fell in love with when I was seven years old. I kept hoping you'd feel the same way, but when we finally got engaged, you were the original ice princess, far too ladylike for passion."
"I didn't know anything about passion then." Hesitantly she laid her hand on his arm, barely denting his heavy sweater. "I've...learned a lot since then."
Doing as she asked would be a mistake, he knew it.
To hell with good sense. Sliding his fingers into her silver-touched blond hair, he bent his head for a kiss, not the chaste salute of long friendship, but an exploration and a question. She tasted of hazelnut and cocoa and tears. Her cool fingers slid around his neck, but her mouth was hot with yearning.
He had also learned a great deal since the last time they'd kissed. How to express passion, how to create it in his partner. Even so, he was stunned by the intensity of her response. She was frantic to lose herself, to drown in sensation if only for a handful of moments. This was Julia, who'd held the chubby hands of his daughters, just as he had taught her children to sail. She was the friend who'd offered good advice in the sometimes stormy early days of his marriage, who had always been there in the anguished months after Barbara's death.
And she was a woman he'd always desired. Barbara had been the light of his life, finding hidden areas in his soul that he hadn't known existed, yet he'd never stopped caring for Julia. Now the embers of desire burst into flame, as mind-hazing as if he were twenty instead of almost sixty. With his last shred of good sense, he said hoarsely, "This is a mistake."
"I don't care." Her hand moved down his body.
They came together with fierce urgency, heavy folds of her skirt crushing between them. Passion took command, burningly alive, wholly satisfying, as they obliterated themselves and the wounds of living in each other.
Afterward, as they panting in each other's arms, he felt more at peace than at any time since Barbara's death. He tugged an afghan over them. Julia turned away from him, her back pressed against his chest.
The Burning Point Page 12