For All of Her Life

by Heather Graham

  She’d been grinning. She would have picked up the receiver in a minute anyway, but this last intrigued her. She plucked it up instantly.

  “If what is true?”

  “I shouldn’t tell you,” Jeremy said. “You let me sit here chatting away to myself as minute after minute ticked by.”

  “That wasn’t even a full sixty seconds!”

  “A very long time when you’re aimlessly talking to an answering machine.”

  “If what’s true?”

  “Why aren’t you here?”

  She sighed. She hadn’t realized she’d been asking for a third parent when she’d signed up with Jeremy. She loved going to the gym. She really did. Though it had seemed a dreaded necessity at the time, she’d been amazed to discover that she really had more energy for the rest of the day after a good workout, but she’d never imagined what a friendship she might form with Jeremy when she’d decided to go with a “personal trainer.” He could be a cruel taskmaster. She almost felt as if she needed a note for the teacher when she missed a session with him, even though he was paid whether she showed up or not. Which was good. He did care about her.

  “I’m sorry. Really sorry. I forgot. I was on deadline with a project. So busy—”

  “Listen to those excuses!” he moaned theatrically. “A busy life is all the more reason to look after yourself,” he scolded.

  “Ummm. You’re right, of course. But—”

  “You couldn’t care less about your health or my lectures at the moment, right? You just want to know about what they’re saying in the newspapers, right?”

  “Jeremy, what are they saying?”

  “That you’re getting back together.”

  Her heart didn’t just skip a beat; it stopped. She was certain of it.

  “What?”

  “That you’re getting back together. You heard me correctly. Your hearing isn’t going yet.”

  “Jeremy, I’m forty-six. A person’s hearing doesn’t necessarily go bad in his or her forties.”

  “It’s just the eyesight, right?”

  “Jeremy,” she said sweetly. “You are crawling higher and higher in the thirties, aren’t you?”

  “Well, not that high...”

  “The eyesight will go any day,” she promised.

  “Ouch. Better be nice to me. Want me to tell you what you haven’t read or not?”

  “Yes, I want you to tell me. Who’s getting back together?”

  “Your group.”

  “Group?” she echoed with a whisper. “I never had a group.”

  He sighed with a great deal of exasperation. “Kathy honey, I know you stayed in the background, that you tried to avoid the press, that you’ve become a very respected editor of fine literature—well, some of it is fine, anyway—and that you’ve been living the life of a dignified schoolmarm, but you were part of one of the most legendary bands of this century. And you were married to Jordan Treveryan—you’re the only one with who he’s ever had children—”

  “Whom,” she corrected automatically.

  “Whom!” Jeremy agreed impatiently. “You are the mother of his—”

  “Great. I feel like the dowager queen.”

  He ignored that. “And since they’re doing the movie—”

  “The movie?”

  “Yes, Kathy, get your nose out of your books and read something, will you, please?”

  “Wait, wait—”

  “Oh, Kathy! Jordan Treveryan announced that he’s having a get-together at his Star Island estate because of all this. He wants to give the band members a chance to meet the scriptwriters and vice versa. He’d been approached by MoonGlow productions—they can do this with or without anyone’s approval, you know, if they choose. But anyway, according to what I read, it seems Jordan decided he liked the group determined to make this movie and felt he might have more control over what went into the film if he cooperated. The papers are saying the real group will get together again for a benefit performance, the proceeds to go to local hospitals and drug-awareness groups. You mean you didn’t know any of this?”

  She sat suddenly on the chair behind her desk.

  “No.”

  “Well, at least you weren’t holding out on me.”

  “No, I wasn’t. When does he plan to do all this?”

  “At the end of the month.”

  “The end of the month!”

  “Yeah. You are going, aren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “I hadn’t heard a word about this until you called. I’m not sure I’m even invited. And if I am—”

  “You have to go! And you know you’ll be invited.”

  “I don’t have to be there,” she said stubbornly. She couldn’t believe this. It was shocking, numbing. All this in print, and she hadn’t heard a damned thing. Although she hadn’t talked to Jordan Treveryan directly in almost ten years, she was the mother of his children. Surely, if this was true, the girls would have said something to her.

  “Oh!” She could hear the absolute frustration in Jeremy’s voice. “You’ve got to go. It will be the best party of the year!”

  “I’ve never been much of a party person.”

  “Your daughter is quoted as saying she’ll be there, and she’s looking forward to her parents speaking again.”

  “Which daughter?” Kathy demanded indignantly.

  The girls did know something about this?

  She stared blankly at the sheet-glass windows that encircled part of her condo and gave her a beautiful view of the Brooklyn Bridge from her dining room, bedroom, and office. It was a wonderful place to live. So very different from what she had known before. New York. Moving at a thousand-mile-an-hour pace. And her job at the publishing house had provided her with endless hours of work, into which she had plunged happily, grateful for many years not to have the time to think back.

  “Alex!” Jeremy informed her. “Her twenty-first birthday falls during the same week. She says, I quote—I am reading directly from the paper right now—‘Spending the day with both of them—together—will be the best present in the world!’ Unquote. How could you deny such a sweet child this wonderful present?”

  “Ummm. Such a manipulative child, Jeremy. And just what rag are you reading, because—”

  “The New York Times,” he interrupted with a chuckle.

  The Times. Damn Alex! She let her head crash lightly down upon the desk, and would have groaned if she hadn’t been afraid Jeremy might read something into the sound. Alex, the older of her two daughters, the supposedly levelheaded one who loved photography, knew what she wanted out of life, and exactly where she was going. The mature one who had understood the divorce. Now Bren might have said such a thing. She was an incurable romantic, always slipping Kathy some information about her father whether Kathy wanted it or not.

  Amazing. Bren had somehow managed not to slip information this time!

  She groaned inwardly, her emotions already in a turmoil. It should have been such a nice night. She had worked late at the office with members of the art department on some of her authors’ newest book jackets, trying to tailor budgets with individual author’s desires and needs and with what she thought was right for each book herself. Long, tiring, but satisfying. Then she had come home and actually gotten in the few solid hours of editing on an important project. With that done, she’d relaxed, had a hot, bubbling stint in the Jacuzzi. Then she’d slipped into a recent purchase from the Victoria’s Secret catalogue—not something silky or lacy or sexy, but a cotton tailored shirtlike nightgown that was incredibly comfortable. She’d prepared herself hot chocolate and enjoyed it before a real fire. There she had taken her last glance over the edited manuscript that would now make it into production right on time. She’d been so damned pleased. Content, weary, comfortable, and proud of herself for time well spent and work well done. But then the picture album had fallen. Now this. And Alex had betrayed her, on top of everything else! What more could go wrong
in a single night?

  She took a deep breath.

  “Jeremy, as I said, I haven’t even been invited to this thing. I can hardly go—”

  “It seems it’s all been decided really quickly. Maybe so quickly that the newspapers were able to pick up on it before all the invitations went out. Obviously you’re invited if your daughter is talking about how excited she is that you and your ex will both be with her.”

  “Jeremy—” She was going to hang up because she was in a state of shock and didn’t trust herself to talk until she really understood just what was going on. Coincidences! First the album and now this.

  “Kathy, don’t you dare try to think up an excuse to get rid of me. I’m telling you—”

  “Don’t tell me! I—”

  She suddenly didn’t need an excuse. She was interrupted by a tapping on her hallway door.

  It had to be Alex or Bren. Her conscientious doorman wouldn’t have allowed anyone other than her daughters to come up in the elevator without calling her first on the intercom.

  “Jeremy, there’s someone at my door.”

  “I’ll wait,” he offered cheerfully.

  “It has to be one of the girls—”

  “Yes, but you’d best make sure, right? Life can be dangerous, my sweet!”

  She started to set the receiver down, then paused, bemused despite all that had just assailed her. “Jeremy, if it is a killer-rapist-thief at the door, just how will you be able to help me over the phone?”

  “I’ll hear you screaming and get the police over there right away,” he assured her. “Even if we lose you, we’ll have a chance of catching him, right?”

  “Jeremy—never mind!” She set the receiver down and hurried out of her office through the apartment’s spacious living room to the “front” door. The other door—the kitchen door, opened just around the hallway, but in apartment living, that became the “back” door.

  She didn’t pause, but threw the door open, ready to lecture whichever errant daughter had forgotten to take her key.

  She paused, her mouth open in mid yell, but there was no one there. She stepped out into the hall and walked down it a bit.

  “Alex? Bren?”

  There was no reply. She turned the corner to the elevators, saw nothing amiss, and gave a shake of her head. As she headed back down the hall, she saw that the front door remained open, but when she stepped through it, she thought she heard a rustling sound that moved through the kitchen to the dining room and out onto the terrace that looked out over the city. She held her breath, thinking maybe it was best that she had left Jeremy on the phone; someone just might be in her apartment. She started to silently slip through the living room, anxious to reach her office and pick up the receiver. Then she realized she was being an idiot, rushing into the apartment where she could be trapped. She started to turn back, hesitated as the rustling sound came from the kitchen. The place had seemed so innocuous just moments ago. Now it was dark and shadowy. And dear God, this was New York—not that all cities couldn’t be dangerous, but by sheer force of numbers, there seemed to be more dangerous people here. She’d never been afraid before, though she’d been aware of dangers and how to avoid them. She didn’t go into dark alleys, ride the subway through bad sections of town—or at midnight—or park in questionable areas on those few occasions when she did care to drive. And she had taught the girls to be careful. She had hammered into them that forewarned is forearmed. The apartment was in a nicely upscale area of the city with a true neighborhood feel about it, but...

  Oh, God, there was someone in the kitchen.

  Ice-cold fear swept around her. Paralyzed her for fleeting milliseconds. She tried to think. She’d read every article in the world on what to do under such circumstances. Don’t fight an intruder. Do fight an intruder. Feign sleep. Don’t see his face. Make sure he knows you don’t see his face. Run. Scream like hell. Blow an alarm whistle. Spray him with pepper mist or mace or even bug spray. Shoot the sucker, and shoot to kill.

  She didn’t keep a gun; she didn’t know how to shoot. She’d bought mace once, kept it in her purse for a while, taken it out and put it...where?

  And the bug spray was in the kitchen.

  With the intruder.

  So much for forewarned and forearmed. So much for being careful.

  So much for her upscale neighborhood.

  And her conscientious doorman!

  Everything she had ever heard swirled in her mind. Minutes seemed to have gone by; only seconds had passed. For all her thinking she’d realized only two things—she didn’t want to die, and she wasn’t going down without a fight.

  The first thing she saw that she could curl her fingers round was a Lladro statuette. It was a stunning Deco piece of an elegantly slim woman in a swirling fur, an equally elegant wolfhound at her heels. It was one of Kathy’s favorites, but she didn’t even think about that, she picked it up, ready to wield it as a club.

  Then...what to do?

  Wait. Wait and see what came from the kitchen.

  No, no, no, that wouldn’t work. If he had a gun, he’d come from the kitchen. He’d see her there in the light spilling out from her office. He’d shoot her before she had a chance to wield her Lladro as a club.

  Inch to the doorway from the living room to the kitchen. If possible, make a bolt for the hallway door. If not, slide against the wall, at least have the element of surprise against him and make the first attack.

  Oh, God, she was trembling from head to toe. Her heart was pounding so loudly it threatened to burst her ribs and leap from her chest. She was inhaling desperately for air. She warned herself to breathe normally. He would hear her panting, hear that frantic thunder of her heart...

  She scampered across the room, flattened herself against the wall. An immense shadow started from the kitchen and she raised the statuette, bringing it down hard even as she heard her name called out in a puzzled fashion.

  “Kathy?”

  Crash.

  The statuette shattered. The dark shadow swore and spun on her. She backed away, stunned. Shaking harder than ever. She’d hit him; hit her target.

  She hadn’t begun to stop him. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t in any danger.

  Not in any danger of death, at the least.

  Because there, with little chips of painted porcelain dusting his shoulders, stood Jordan.

  Oh, God. Speak of the devil. The devil had appeared.

  Two

  DIFFERENT.

  He was a little different, subtly changed with time. But it was him. He was there. After all this time, all the years of silence. He was standing just feet from her.

  With her Lladro smashed over his head and shoulders.

  “Jordan!” She’d gasped his name, too stunned at first to realize that she wanted to kill him for scaring her so damned badly.

  He rubbed the top of his head with both hands, staring at her with narrowed eyes, his jaw taut, surprise and annoyance in his hard gaze. “Kathy, damn, I didn’t think you’d exactly be pleased to see me, but this really wasn’t necessary.”

  “Believe it or not Jordan, I am pleased to see you—I thought you were a thief! I didn’t hit you on purpose!”

  “Whoa, you must have quite a wallop when you do strike with intent!”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “Damn you, Jordan, I thought you were some kind of dangerous—”

  “Little has changed,” he murmured.

  “All right, I admit there were numerous times in my life when I did want to crack you over the head with something, but this wasn’t one of them. I thought you were a robber—a murderer, rapist, or worse.”

  “No, my life hasn’t gone that far downhill yet. Your door was wide open after I knocked, I thought you were hurt, or something was wrong. I was calling out to you. Both your doors were open, and you wouldn’t answer me!” He winced, touching a sore spot on his head. “Dammit!” he murmured again, gritting his teeth and turning away from her, pacing to get a
grip on his temper.

  His footsteps took him back out into the hall, and he spun again, jaw set hard, eyes glittering. “Fine, we start over! Kathy, damned nice to see you. May I come in?”

  May he come in! She was still shaking, just beginning to accept the fact that she was going to live. He’d been out of her life for years, and she wasn’t ready to have him slip back into it tonight, scaring her half to death in the bargain.

  “No!” she snapped, and slammed the door in his face, still completely unnerved. She hadn’t meant to slam it. It was just that...

  Imagine! She had thought nothing more could go wrong in a single night.

  Jordan Treveryan was here, in New York, at her home. She had left him nearly ten years ago, had closed the door to the past. She had been civil. She’d left with dignity, but she had nearly died, it seemed, to create a new life. She’d been right to do so. She loved her new life. But when she had struggled so hard to forget him, it hadn’t seemed to help that she had been so damned right.

  And it didn’t help now. Because he was back. With the door closed, she could still see him clearly in her mind’s eye. As tall and straight as ever. A few more lines in his face—“character”—but darned handsome. His silvering hair was longish, curling around his neck, he’d grown a mustache and a beard. His lime green eyes were as sharp and bright as ever, and he seemed, if anything, a little slimmer than he had been when she had seen him last. He wore dark jeans, a blue silk shirt, and a soft leather, tan jacket with a casual ease. He was wearing an aftershave that was mild and subtle, yet irritatingly alluring.

  It was a nightmare, an absolute nightmare. She had to be dreaming.

  No. Jordan was here, and she had clouted him on the head before slamming the door in his face.

  Wrong! she told herself. So wrong. They had fought too many times like children. She had accused him of doing it. Now she was not being terribly mature herself.