by Rebecca York
“I didn’t know what else to do.” She wanted to be alone with him. She wanted everybody else in the room to vanish.
“No,” Sophia screamed. “No.” Her anguished voice penetrating the cocoon Elizabeth had tried to wrap around herself and Zeke.
Zeke tensed, yet he didn’t raise his head toward Sophia.
“You don’t want me?” she spat at him. “But you came all this way to get your daughter.”
His gaze was stony as he stared at her. “Yes,” he answered. “I knew I had an obligation to our child. And when I found her, I knew there was more between us than a simple obligation.”
Sophia laughed mirthlessly. “Well, the joke is on you. She’s not yours. She’s Aristotle’s. You have nothing to do with her. Nothing.”
The blood drained from Zeke’s face. “You’re lying! Ariadne’s my daughter.”
She laughed. “That’s what I wanted you to believe, because I thought you would take the two of us away. But it’s not true. If you don’t want me, you have no claim on Ariadne.”
Zeke’s face was ashen.
“She’ll say anything,” Elizabeth whispered. “That doesn’t mean it’s true.” She was reaching for Zeke’s hand, when Aristotle spoke.
“Sophia, you’re finished toying with people’s lives.”
The focus of attention in the room shifted one more time. Aristotle sat on the floor, a gun in his hand, a gun pointed toward Sophia. While all eyes had been riveted elsewhere, he had quietly inched across the floor and picked up the weapon Zeke had knocked away during the fight.
The gray-haired husband sighed, as his gaze shifted away from Sophia for a second and then back again. “I thought I wanted to punish Zeke Chambers for poisoning our marriage. I see now that you fooled him the way you fooled me. I would have killed him—because of you.”
“Holy Mother,” Sophia whimpered, reaching out her hand toward her husband.
His expression was stony as he pulled the trigger—once, twice, three times. She screamed, staggered backward, and fell to the floor, the front of her dress red with blood.
Irena cried out in anguish, and rushed to the side of her injured sister. Dropping to her knees, she grabbed Sophia’s hand, squeezing and chafing it.
“Sophia! Please, Sophia,” she said over and over.
Zeke and Elizabeth were only a few steps behind. When they reached the side of the fallen woman, it was quickly obvious there was nothing they could do. Aristotle had dispatched his wife as efficiently as an executioner. His face was gray, and he blinked rapidly as if he’d suddenly realized what he’d done. Carefully, he set the gun on a table beside the sofa.
Cyril came down beside Irena on the floor, his arm around her shoulder, drawing her away from the body as she began to weep, her slender frame shaking. “I tried to do my best for you,” she whispered to her sister. “Now look what’s happened.”
“It’s not your fault,” Cyril murmured.
“Yes, it is. I didn’t do the right things when she was little.”
“Don’t blame yourself. Never that,” he said. “She was never made to be happy. Now she is at peace.”
Elizabeth drew closer to Zeke. “Thank God, Irena took Ariadne out of the room,” she murmured.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I’ve got to go to her. She must be frightened, wondering what’s happened. God, what if she comes running out here?”
She squeezed his hand. “We’ll go together.”
As they stood, Elizabeth realized she was hearing the wail of a siren in the darkness outside. She blinked as she saw a small black-and-white cruiser pull into the parking lot. It seemed impossible that the police could get there so fast after the shooting. Then she decided one of the servants must have become alarmed by the scene in the living room and called the police.
Uniformed officers ran toward the house, guns drawn, as they stared through the window at the grisly scene spread before them.
Cyril pushed himself up, squared his shoulders and strode toward the front door. As the officers burst into the room, Aristotle stepped forward.
“I’m the one you want,” he said in a firm voice. “I have killed my adulterous wife. She bore another man’s baby five years ago. When she realized I knew about the child’s father, she schemed to have me think she was killed in an automobile accident and made plans to run off with her old lover. Only she didn’t know he’d already married someone else and was coming back to Mythos with his wife to claim his offspring.”
Elizabeth felt Zeke’s body stiffen. Her own head was spinning. Aristotle’s explanation didn’t match the facts she’d already heard from Sophia. Had Sophia lied about Aristotle’s part in the accident? Had she arranged it herself as part of a plan to escape from her loveless marriage? And what about Ariadne—whose child was she?
“He and his wife are right there,” Aristotle continued, pointing toward Zeke and Elizabeth.
After a low, apologetic discussion with the officers, Aristotle’s hands were cuffed. To her amazement the authorities seemed sympathetic to his motives, and in a soft voice the senior policeman began asking questions. Sometimes Aristotle answered, sometimes Cyril.
Elizabeth tried to follow the conversation, but she was only partly successful. She gathered the explanations being given by both men were a continuation of the story Aristotle had begun. How ironic that they were working together, she thought.
Zeke kept shifting his stance and glancing down the hall. Finally, he broke into the interrogation to say he’d like to make sure his daughter was all right. He and Elizabeth were given permission to leave the room, but not the house.
He drew her into the bedroom wing, but stopped after a few steps and ushered her just inside an empty room. When he turned, they fell into each other’s arms.
She’d been barely holding herself together. Now that they were alone, she let her body sag into his. His arms came up to support her, but he braced himself against the wall, his whole body trembling.
“Thank the Lord, you’re safe,” she murmured.
“Me?” He gave a harsh laugh. “I’ve given up counting the times I almost got you killed.”
“Not you.”
He pulled back so his eyes could meet hers. “Don’t you understand? There was never any chance I could rescue Ariadne—not with all the forces allied against me,” he said in a hard voice.
“You didn’t know that!”
He ignored her and plowed on. “But I went ahead, taking terrible risks, unacceptable risks, because I felt guilty.”
“No,” she interrupted. “It wasn’t just guilt. You realized you loved Ariadne. You couldn’t admit it at first, but you’d figured out that bringing her to live with you would be the right thing for both of you.”
His eyes were bright. “I guess I did, didn’t I?” Then his expression sobered again and he raked a hand through his hair. “But I dragged you with me on Mission Impossible.”
“Zeke, you’re the one who still doesn’t get it. I wouldn’t let you leave me behind.”
His fingers dug into her shoulders. “You didn’t realize how much danger there was.”
“Stop!” she ordered. “Of course I did. As soon as Sebastian showed up. But now it’s over. We’re both safe and sound.”
“But—”
She pressed her fingers to his lips. “Let’s stick with the important stuff. You said you loved me. Was it true?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, Zeke.”
He let out a long sigh. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“You always do. That’s one of your inborn traits.” She reached up to tenderly brush back a lock of his hair. “It makes you a very moral man. It also gets you in trouble. But I’m here to save you again. I’m not going to let you push me away because you think it’s the right thing to do. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”
“How could I be moral when my father was a thief?”
“Your father chose that life. You chose something different. Y
ou made yourself what you are—the man I love.”
“God, I love you. You taught me what love means.” His hands tightened on her arms. “Every time you had to choose between what was best for me and what was best for you, you…you chose me.” He sounded as if he still couldn’t believe that was possible.
“And you did the same thing with Ariadne,” she pointed out.
He looked utterly startled. “I—I guess I did.”
“So why not stop beating yourself up? Why not relax and enjoy what you deserve?” She gave him the confident look she’d manufactured on their wedding night, then pulled his head down for a long, satisfying kiss.
When it was over, she grinned. “I guess that’s settled. We’re staying married. Now all we have to worry about is raising your daughter.”
His features twisted. “I don’t know what to think anymore. What if Sebastian was right? What if…what if she’s not mine?”
“When I crept up to the house, I saw you holding her on the sofa. I saw the look in your eyes and the way she was clinging to you.”
“I got to spend some time with her,” he said in a soft voice. “She’s a wonderful child.”
“And she’s your daughter, as much as I was the Egans’ daughter. Whether you made her or not, you’ve earned the right to be her father.”
He was silent for several seconds, his eyes misty. “I kept telling myself I hadn’t learned a damned thing over the past few years. I was wrong. I learned how to pick my women.”
“Right. So let’s go collect the little one. She’s probably frightened, and hoping you’ll be the one to come to tell her everything’s all right.”
Epilogue
A smile played around Elizabeth’s lips as she stood in the doorway of her cozy family room. Neither her husband nor her daughter knew she was watching them. They were too busy finger painting.
It had been easy for Elizabeth and Zeke to legally adopt Ariadne, since Aristotle had made no claim on her. He was still in prison, serving a short sentence for manslaughter, the only crime that an all-male jury was willing to find him guilty of. And he’d stuck to his story about Sophia. Maybe his version was true, but as Elizabeth looked over at Zeke and his daughter, she knew it didn’t really matter if they’d ever learn the truth.
Ariadne and Zeke sat in the middle of a large area of the carpet that had been covered with sheets of newspaper, each of them hunched over a work of art in progress.
Ariadne’s hands were smeared with red, yellow, green and blue paint. Zeke had confined himself to yellow and red. He was swirling red pigment to form the curled top of a series of Ionic columns. His daughter was making a garden full of many different flowers.
She glanced over at her father’s effort, her face serious. “You don’t have enough colors.”
“I’m just making a temple,” he replied. “Do you know what kind of columns it has?”
Ariadne peered at his work. “Ionic,” she tossed out.
“Right. When I finish, you can decorate it with flowers.”
“I like flowers.”
“And you’re much better than I am at painting them.”
“I know. Mommy says you’re too conventional.”
“Oh, does she?”
Ariadne giggled.
Elizabeth cleared her throat. “You two look like you’re having fun.”
They both glanced up and spotted her in the doorway. “Make a picture with us,” Ariadne said.
Elizabeth stared at their messy hands and the paint smeared around the edges of the pictures. “I can’t I’m fixing lunch. I only stopped by to say you need to be cleaned up in fifteen minutes.”
“Oh, Mommy,” Ariadne protested.
“If you paint, you have to clean up,” Elizabeth reminded her.
“Right,” Zeke agreed, sticking his fingers in the bowl of water he’d set out. When they were reasonably clean, he dried them on an old towel.
“Which picture do you like best?” Ariadne asked.
Elizabeth walked over to inspect several completed works of art. She pointed to one of Ariadne’s. “This one has a wonderful sense of color, and I like the designs.”
The little girl puffed out her chest.
“Wash your hands if you want chicken noodle soup.”
“Yum.” Ariadne began enthusiastically splashing in the bowl. Above her head, Zeke and Elizabeth smiled at each other.
“After I put on the flowers, can we send the picture of the temple to Aunt Irena and Uncle Cyril?”
“Yes,” Elizabeth answered. She and Zeke had kept up the connection with Irena—and her new husband. Although Cyril had started off wanting revenge on Zeke, his love for Irena had changed him more than he’d realized. At the crisis point he’d had the wisdom to choose life with her, rather than staying on the self-destructive path he’d set for himself. He’d even written for permission to bring his wife for a visit. Zeke and Elizabeth had asked them to let Ariadne settle in a little more firmly first. She was adjusting well to life with her new parents. Zeke and Elizabeth had decided until she was older, it was better not to let her know how her mother had died. So they’d continued Irena’s story that Sophia had gone away—and given Ariadne to a mommy and daddy who could take good care of her.
Zeke had never bothered to have any blood tests that would tell him for sure whether he and Ariadne were flesh and blood. He’d agreed with Elizabeth. It didn’t matter. Either way, she was their child.
Since his uncle had left him with a good income, he’d been able to take some time off work. Besides settling into family life, his major occupation had been supervising the remodeling of Elizabeth’s house. Until the job was finished two months ago, they’d rattled around in his stone-andtimber rancher.
“Go wash your hands with soap and water,” Zeke said. “I’ll clean up the newspaper.”
Ariadne scrambled up and headed for the bathroom. Elizabeth bent to help Zeke with the papers.
When he stole a kiss, she leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Are you going to suggest nap time after lunch?”
“How did you guess?”
“Didn’t you tell me it’s easier to get little girls to cooperate, when Mom and Dad take a nap, too?”
“Absolutely.” They exchanged a secret grin.
“Are you happy?” Zeke murmured.
“Do you have to ask? Of course I am.”
“I like to hear you tell me.”
“I’m happier than I’ve ever been in my life,” she said.
“I—” His voice choked up, and he stopped for several seconds. “I am, too. I didn’t know what having the two of you would mean to me.” He rubbed his knuckles against his wife’s cheek. “What do you think? Maybe we should start telling Ariadne how she’s going to like being a big sister.”
“I think we’ve got some time. I haven’t even been to the doctor yet.”
“But you’re pretty sure.”
“Yes.”
Zeke gave her a lingering kiss that ended when Ariadne came bouncing out of the bathroom holding up her clean hands. “I’m ready for chicken noodle soup.”
Then she saw the way her mom and dad were looking at each other. “Come on, you guys! Don’t get all mushy. We have to eat lunch.”
“Mushy is good,” Zeke told her as they headed toward the kitchen.
And there’s more 43 LIGHT STREET!
Turn the page for a bonus look at what’s in store for you in the next “43 Light Street” book by Rebecca York, coming to you in July 1998.
NOWHERE MAN
Only from Rebecca York and Harlequin Intrigue!
Prologue
Kathryn Kelley hesitated in the doorway to the darkened room, a small figure dwarfed by the silent, eerie space beyond. Where were the lights? she wondered, her gaze probing the watery darkness. Though she could see nothing she could feel a thick, chemical-tinged mist wafting toward her out of the blackness. It sent shivers over her skin as it collided with the cooler air of the hallway. Trying to d
ispel the sudden chill, she rubbed her hands along the thick sleeves of her robe.
It was Friday evening, and since the moment she’d opened her eyes on Monday, she’d sensed that something was wrong. She’d tried to ignore the oppressive sensation, but it was like a storm gathering around her. The feeling of apprehension made her turn quickly and glance over her shoulder to confirm that the corridor behind her was empty.
Of course it was empty! She made a wry face, annoyed at the tricks her mind was playing.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, her voice echoing in the darkness beyond the door. With a quick decisive movement, she switched on the lights and marched inside. Shrugging out of her robe, she secured her mane of red hair with a band at the back of her neck, kicked off her shoes, and executed a perfect dive into the turquoise rectangle of the swimming pool.
The cold was a momentary shock to her system as she shot downward into the pool, then came up to blink water out of her blue eyes. Straightening her limber body, she began a rapid crawl stroke. She’d been on the swim team in high school, and swimming had remained her exercise of choice. In fact, she’d selected her Baltimore apartment because the renovation of the Cecil Arms in the sixties had included a pool on the top floor.
By ten-thirty the pool was closed to tenants, but Kathryn had negotiated a lease that allowed her to use the facility after hours. Willing the tension out of her muscles, she cut rapidly through the water. Still, she couldn’t outdistance the demons of the day. She’d been an expert witness in a child custody trial. Although she’d kept her cool on the stand, her testimony against Patrick Collins’s father had made her stomach churn.
Just thinking about the boy caused her to lose her rhythm. With Patrick, she’d slipped over the line of professional detachment once again. It was getting harder and harder to maintain the distance that shut her off from another person’s pain. So she swam in the Cecil Arms private pool like the victim of a shipwreck flailing toward an unreachable shore. And she let her mind wander to fantasies of trading in her psychology practice for a flower shop like the guy in Bed of Roses. Maybe the management at 43 Light Street would rent her space in the lobby.