Facets

by Barbara Delinsky

  “He won’t. He’s already put through orders to have the paperwork destroyed.”

  “He can’t do that!”

  “He’s doing it.”

  “You can’t let him!”

  “For God’s sake,” Arlan snapped, “I’ve done all I can. What do you want from me?”

  Hillary forced herself to calm down. It wasn’t Arlan’s fault. She believed him when he said he’d tried. And she did know that he loved her book. With a deliberate effort, she sat down.

  “Look,” he said in a more measured way, “we’ll both leave. We’ll take your story to another house. It’ll be snapped up in a minute.”

  “That’s not the point.” He voice trembled under the force of restraint. “It’s a matter of principle.”

  “So you’ll take the house to court? What will you accomplish? If you win, if the house is forced to publish your book, it won’t be published well. They’ll let it die on the shelves. Correct that—they’ll let it die in the warehouse. Is that what you want?”

  It certainly wasn’t. She wanted sales and PR behind her. She wanted every bookstore in the country pushing her book. She wanted it on every bestseller list. None of that would happen if the house wasn’t with her.

  Feeling frustrated beyond belief, she cried, “Dammit, it’s not fair! Templar can’t screw around with his writers that way! And John can’t screw around with me!”

  “Tell him that.”

  “I just might.” She pictured it, and the picture looked good. “I will.” Reaching for Arlan’s phone, she punched out John’s number.

  “Hey, that’s long distance.”

  “Tough.” She listened to several rings, then listened to Christian telling her that she’d reached the St. George residence. “Hi, Christian,” she said with utter nonchalance. “It’s Hillary Cox. I have a quick question for John. Is he around?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Cox, but he’s still at the office.”

  “What time do you expect him home?”

  “He said he’d be back by four. He’s going out again at six. Would you like me to leave a message that you called?”

  “Uh, you could. Then again, I’ll probably be out when he gets home. Why don’t I just try him another time?”

  “That sounds fine, Miss Cox.”

  “Thanks, Christian.”

  Wearing a tight smile, she hung up the phone, rose from her chair, and made for the door. “I’m on my way.”

  “Now?”

  She checked her watch. It was nearly two. “If I can make the two-thirty shuttle, I’ll be on John’s front step when he gets home.”

  “Wait, Hillie.” He stood. “Maybe you ought to think about this. Bearding the lion in his den may not be the wisest move. Maybe—”

  “Save it, Arlan.” She knew what she wanted to do. “I’m on my way.”

  The traffic to LaGuardia was heavy. She missed the two-thirty shuttle, but made the three o’clock. So instead of sitting on John’s front steps, she walked right up and rang the bell.

  Christian’s brows rose at the sight of her. “Weren’t you calling from New York?” he asked politely.

  “Uh-huh.” She slipped past him into the house. “Is he upstairs?”

  “Perhaps you ought to have a seat in the parlor while I—”

  “He is home, isn’t he? When John says four, he means four. He’s never late.”

  “If you would make yourself comfortable in the—”

  “And give him a chance to sneak out the back? No way.” She went to the foot of the stairs and gave a loud call. “John?” She was starting up when John’s level voice came from behind her.

  “Here, Hillary.” To Christian he said, “I’ll see her in the library.” He turned and walked off.

  At first sight of him, she was hit by the same visceral tingle as always. But the tingle fell prey to the hurt his rudeness caused, then to anger. Holding her head high, she went after him. In the short time that it took to walk through the living room to the library, her anger mushroomed. If his good looks registered in the back of her mind, she was unaware of it.

  “I just came from my editor’s office. He told me what you did.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were writing a book. That wasn’t very honest of you, Hillary.”

  “How dare you threaten Simon Templar.”

  “I didn’t threaten anyone. I simply explained what I’d have to do if his company went ahead with plans to publish your book.”

  “You call it an explanation, I call it a threat. You’re trying to manipulate me by manipulating Templar. Where do you get off doing that? Who do you think you are?”

  “I’m a man who doesn’t want the intimate details of his life printed for all the world to see,” he said calmly, which infuriated her all the more.

  “Why not? You’re a big deal—public property now.”

  “No. If I were a politician, I’d be fair game. But I’m not.”

  “You’re famous. Surely you can take a little jabbing. Don’t you think people are wondering anyway? Don’t you think there were people who saw that 20/20 piece and said to themselves, he must sweat just like the rest of us?”

  “I’m respected. I won’t have that respect tarnished.”

  He sounded so pompous that she wanted to scream. It was all she could do to keep her temper in check. “If you didn’t want it tarnished, you shouldn’t have been such a sleaze. Did you honestly think you could get away with it forever? Did you think that just because you donate ten grand to this or ten grand to that you guarantee yourself a good name?”

  His dark eyes flashed. “I have a good name. I won’t have it ruined.”

  “So you’d ruin my career instead? You can’t do that, John. It’s a free world. The Constitution protects my right of free speech, and my book is an exercise of that right.”

  “Well said, but worthless,” he sneered. “I don’t give a damn what the Constitution says. Given the choice between your right to free speech and my right to self-protection, I’ll opt for myself any day.”

  “The courts won’t agree. And I will go to court, if I don’t get my contract as it was agreed on two months ago. I’ll sue the publishing house, and I’ll sue you.”

  “You won’t have a chance of winning. I’ll smear you to kingdom come.”

  “Based on what? What can you smear me for? Have I ever had someone beaten? Have I ever illicitly changed someone else’s will? You don’t have a thing on me.”

  “I’ll find something.”

  She shook her head. “The only really stupid thing I’ve done in my life is to come when you call. But that’s over, John. Over.”

  His mouth twitched. Softly, he said, “Is it?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Now that would be a stupid thing.” He started toward her with the slow walk she found so attractive. “We’re good together, Hillary. We may have a few philosophical differences—”

  “A few? We have so many it’s a miracle we could ever stand being in the same room together! We’re miles apart on just about everything that matters.”

  “We’re not miles apart on this.” He reached out to touch her but she swatted his hand away.

  “No, John. I didn’t come here for that.”

  “No?”

  “No.”

  “Then it’s a pity. You do it like no one else does. I could use some of your fire.”

  Immune to the seduction in his voice, she glared at him. “Talk all you want. It won’t make any difference. You’ve pushed me too far this time.”

  “I haven’t pushed you anywhere. Give me the chance, and I will.” This time he caught her around the waist and hauled her against him before she could duck away.

  She pushed at his chest. “Let me go, John.”

  “I like the feel of you against me.”

  She pushed harder. “Let . . .?me . . .?go.”

  “Or what?” he tossed off.

  “I’ll cry rape.”

  “You’ll never prove
it.”

  “I’ll make enough noise to do the damage.”

  He grinned. “You’re a minx.” He shook his head and murmured, “Rape.” He chuckled. “Kiss me, Hillary. I’ve missed you.”

  When his mouth sought hers, she turned her head away. He turned it back with a firm hand and covered her lips before she could utter a protest. She did make sounds in her throat, though, and struggled to free herself. Finally, she gave him a swift kick in the shin.

  Abruptly he released her and bent to rub his leg. “What’s the matter with you?”

  With an arm at her mouth, she took a step back. “What’s the matter?” She couldn’t believe he was asking. “What’s the matter? I don’t want you to kiss me. That’s what’s the matter. Didn’t you hear me telling you that? Are you deaf?”

  “I heard you say it, but you didn’t mean it. You want me.”

  “Right now, I want you drawn and quartered. You’re beyond salvation.”

  “I never asked for salvation.”

  Her nod was slow and held equal parts acknowledgment and confession. “You’re right. You never did. Only I guess I thought that maybe, somehow, sometime, I could make a difference in your life. I was wrong.”

  She whirled around and started for the door, only to be caught by the arm and whirled back. “Where are you going?”

  “Out. Away. Back to New York. You’re a waste of my time.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.

  She glared up at him. “I walk in here absolutely furious because you’re sabotaging my career, and all you can say is ‘you want me.’ You think sex is the answer to every little worry?”

  “Between us it is.”

  “No more!” She threw up her hands. “I’ve had it.”

  “It always worked before,” he had the gall to say.

  She gave another exaggerated nod. “You’re right. It did work before, and that was my fault. My weakness. One look at you, and I started to tremble. You came near me, and I melted. It didn’t matter that I knew all the hideous things you were doing to the people around you. The sex was good, so I took it while I could get it. I was an easy lay.” Her head jerked. “But no more. I’m not melting, and if I’m trembling, it’s from anger—anger at you for being a bastard and at myself for having been taken in all these years. I’ve been defending you. Do you know that? At the slightest negative word, I’ve always come to your defense. So what do you do to repay me for that? You go to the chairman of the board of my publishing house and have my contract rescinded.”

  “Be grateful. That book would have been a piece of shit.”

  She pounded her chest with a fist. “That book was my work. I had a right to get it published whether it was a piece of shit or not.” She waved a hand. “But forget that. I can go to another publisher. There’s always someone who’ll publish shit. And you won’t be able to stop me. Unless you kill me. You’ve committed murder before, if you consider Pam’s abortion, and you nearly beat Cutter to death. So I suppose you could kill me. Only I’ve got my story locked up somewhere safe. If something happens to me, the finger will point straight at you. Won’t do much for the respect you want, will it?”

  He was looking disgusted. “I’m not a murderer, for God’s sake. You’re talking ragtime.”

  “I’m talking reality, and the reality is that you’re an evil man.”

  He rolled his eyes.

  “You’re frightening, John. You have a warped idea of what’s right and what isn’t. What’s right is what serves your purposes. Whoever gets in the way is out of luck. You barge ahead full steam, rolling over anyone in your path.”

  “Every successful businessman does that to some extent.”

  “I don’t know about every successful businessman. I only know about you.”

  “I’m successful.”

  “You’re pathetic and sad and lonely. You’ve hit middle age. You have money and a business to show for it, but nothing else. No family. No close friends.”

  “I have friends—”

  “Not close ones. You won’t let any come close. And I doubt they’d want to. You have a dark side that’s off-putting. So you’re alone.”

  “I choose to be alone.”

  “Because to this day you’re insecure. Despite everything you’ve done and been, deep down inside you’re still insecure.”

  “That’s crap.”

  She shook her head. “I’ll bet you have nightmares about being little again, up in Timiny Cove, trying to please your father and failing. You never got over that, did you? You never got over the fact that you didn’t measure up to the standards he set.” She gave a bitter laugh that helped ease the knot slowly forming in her throat. “God, it’s ironic. If he’d lived, if he’d seen half of what you’ve done, he’d have been in awe.”

  “If he’d lived,” John said in a stony way, “he wouldn’t have allowed me to do any of what I’ve done. I told him my ideas. He said it was all wrong.”

  “He was conservative. He was frightened about taking as big a step as you wanted. He wasn’t sophisticated like you are. He didn’t have the vision, and when you tried to give it to him, he couldn’t see it. That was his limitation, John, not yours. In so many ways, you’re so much more than Eugene ever was—” She caught herself, stared at him, shook her head. “Do you hear me?” she asked in astonishment. “I’m defending you still.” The knot tightened in her throat. “I guess I’ll always do that. Just like you’ll always feel second best. It’s so much a part of you that you can’t give it up. You’ve lived so long with jealousy and hatred that you’d feel empty without it.”

  She felt the first prick of tears in her eyes. She tried to will them away but she failed. “They’re the evil things, John, the jealousy and hatred. Not you. You’re not an inherently evil person, but you’ve let yourself be taken over. You’ve let yourself be emotionally stunted. And it’s made you miss out on so much.”

  John stood with his legs apart and his features tight. “I’m not missing out on a thing. I have everything I want in life.”

  “You do not. It’s sad.”

  His eyes flashed. “There’s nothing sad about me. I have more than most people ever hope for.”

  “You have nothing! You go to work. You come home, change your clothes, go out and come home again, and through it all you’re alone.”

  “Look who’s talking. Are you any better? You’re not involved with anyone. You never have been. You work, go out, come home, and you’re alone. So who are you to criticize me?”

  “But I don’t want to be alone! I never have, and I freely admit it!”

  “So why do you do it?”

  “Because I’ve been loving you all these years, waiting for you to love me back, only you can’t! You can’t love anyone! You’re too busy loving yourself, because you think that if you don’t, no one else will and you’ll have to go without. That’s the sad part.” Tears gathered on her lids, and her voice shrank. “But I can’t go on like this, John. I want more. I want someone to love me. I’m too old to have children. I blew that on you, too—not that you’d want children, because you’d see them as competition for your wife’s affections—and it may be that I’m too old to find someone to love me the way I want. But I can’t go on waiting for you this way, wondering when you’re going to come, holding my breath and praying.” In a splintered voice, she said, “It hurts too much. Loving you is too painful.”

  His face blurred. She tossed a limp hand in the air and whispered, “I’m done with it.” Feeling drained and defeated, she turned and left.

  John didn’t follow her. She wandered aimlessly through downtown Boston for a while before taking a cab to Logan and returning to New York. Rather than go straight to her apartment, she walked some, even stopped for dinner, since it was well past the hour. But she wasn’t hungry, and the loneliness of sharing a table with herself got to her. So she left without doing much more than picking at her food.

  There were four messages on her answ
ering machine. None of them was from John.

  She grappled with her dilemma for hours and hours over the next few days. She didn’t answer her phone. If Arlan called with good news—either that John had relented and Templar wanted to go ahead with her book, or that Arlan was moving to another house and was taking the book with him as part of the deal—he would leave a message. But he didn’t call.

  Nor did John.

  Her loneliness had been bad before, but it was even worse now. Things were over with John. Really over. The emptiness she felt was just like the one she predicted John would feel if he ever let go of his jealousy and hatred. If he’d done that, she would have gladly filled the void in his life. He wasn’t doing it, though, and now she had a void in her own.

  To fill it, she turned her attention back to her book. The only emotional energy she had seemed tied to it, and although she had neither a publisher nor a contract, she couldn’t just stop. She had to finish. She had to work John out of her life.

  For several weeks, she wrote without a break. It was summertime in New York. Most of her friends were away, and the heat was oppressive enough to keep her indoors. She edited and polished, made calls to check her facts. If she planned to take her book to a new publisher, it had to be supergood. Everything had to be backed up so that John wouldn’t be able to pull the stunt he’d pulled with Templar.

  Then the unexpected happened. She managed to track down Joe Grogan, the lawyer who had written Eugene’s will. She had assumed he had died, but in her effort to leave no stone unturned she followed a lead and found him retired and living in northern Arizona. On the phone, he was cordial and seemed perfectly lucid. He remembered Eugene well.

  The next morning, she flew to Arizona. Grogan, not being an executor of Eugene’s estate, had had no way of knowing that Cutter had never received his bequest. He did remember the codicil, though, and made a sworn statement to that effect, witnessed by his ranch foreman and a local law officer.

  Hillary returned to New York feeling both ebullient and terrified. She added Grogan’s statement to her book, but she was uneasy about it. It was disconcertingly real, evidence of a breach of the law. It was a potential firecracker.