Aching for Always

by Gwyn Cready

  She strode back into the party room.

  Happily, Hugh thought, the celebrants appeared to be both large enough in number and lubricated enough with alcohol to be oblivious to the fact there was a stranger in their midst. He tucked himself into a corner and waited. He’d spotted Rogan sitting at the bar almost as soon as Hugh had entered the room. Hugh would probably have recognized him from the portrait he had seen, but there is a certain charged look that passes between lovers that is unmistakable, even across the length of a party floor, and Reynolds’s gaze had found Joss at once. The look had lasted only an instant, but the instant couldn’t have been more overtly possessive if he’d pressed her against the wall and made love to her in full view of the room. Hugh winced.

  It stung Hugh deeply, and he was already in no mood to grant Reynolds quarter. Which is why he ordered a whisky and took a seat next to the man of the hour.

  Reynolds, who was sipping what looked to be a whisky himself, held out a hand. “Rogan Reynolds.” His communicator, one just like Joss’s, was sitting on the bar.

  Hugh shook it. “Hugh Ashdown.”

  “You a friend of the bride’s?”

  The barkeep put Hugh’s whisky down, and he downed it in a gulp. “Aye. I know her through her mother.”

  “Ah.” Reynolds inclined his head toward the loudest section of merrymakers. “It’s a madhouse, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed.”

  An older man tapped Reynolds on the back.

  “Pardon me for a moment,” Reynolds said to Hugh, and turned.

  While Reynolds exchanged pleasantries with the man, Hugh slipped the communicator into his shirt pocket. Then he signaled the barkeep for another round. Joss was in the corner with her friend, Diane. So long as he kept his head bowed, she was unlikely to spot him. He admired the line of her long, graceful neck as she spoke.

  “Sweet old guy,” Reynolds said, turning back. “Can you believe he’s almost eighty?”

  “In truth? ’Tis amazing what good living can do for a man.”

  Now a younger couple awaited their turn. Reynolds shrugged his shoulders sheepishly. “Groom’s work. It never ends,” he said, and turned his attention once again.

  Hugh slipped off the stool. With a quick look to ensure Joss wasn’t watching, he walked toward the quieter hallway. When he was out of sight, he removed the communicator from his pocket. He retraced in his mind the steps Joss had taken when she employed this tool. It took him a few tries, but he managed to get the thing to light up, revealing a set of controls that bore pictures—a sun, a clock, a musical note, a set of gears. What could it all mean? Then he spotted the word “Photos” under a painting of a sunflower.

  “Photos,” he repeated aloud. He knew it came from the Greek word meaning “light.” The sunflower looked so real, set against a blue sky, and he remembered Joss mentioning she was to carry a bouquet of sunflowers at her wedding. He reached to touch the picture and the screen changed again. CAMERA ROLL, it said. Another word from the Greek, he thought, remembering the lessons he had endured. “English lawmakers sit in a bicameral assembly,” Bart had instructed, “from the Latin camera, which means ‘chamber.’”

  He touched the words again, and this time the device truly surprised him. A portrait of Joss unclothed appeared, and his heart clenched so forcefully, it almost brought tears to his eyes. She was beautiful, of course, and the round, firm breasts held his attention for a considerable length of time; but in the end, his desire was overcome by a burning anger not only that Reynolds would possess such a thing but that he would be foolish enough to leave it unguarded on this box.

  Hugh fiddled with the device, repeating what Joss had done, until he found what she had called the “contact list.” Then he pressed “Joss O’Malley.”

  He watched her from the hallway as she held up a finger to Di and stepped away to open her tiny bag. She looked at her communicator for an instant and then he heard her voice coming right out of the thing in the palm of his hand.

  “Rogan, where are you?”

  He brought the device closer to his mouth. “Rogan is at the bar. Come outside for a moment. I want to talk to you.”

  She craned her head left and right, and Hugh stepped out of sight.

  “No.”

  “I would advise you to reconsider.”

  “How did you get his phone?”

  A phone, was it? Hugh didn’t answer. He tucked the phone back into his shirt pocket, feeling the tiny squawk of her voice against his chest. Then he ducked through the crowd and returned to his seat next to Rogan, who welcomed him back with a smile.

  “You’ll never guess what happened to me,” Hugh said.

  “I know what happened to you,” Joss said, feeling her irritation rise. “I was there, remember?”

  But Hugh didn’t answer—or, rather, he didn’t answer her. He seemed to be answering someone, though.

  “I run a tailor shop,” came Hugh’s faraway voice. “Interesting line of work, of course, if you don’t mind a never-ending parade of women in their undergarments.”

  She heard the rumble of male laughter.

  “What the hell are you doing?” she said. “Who are you talking to?”

  “And this woman comes in. Extraordinarily handsome. Fair skin, a high, well-placed bosom, hips to rival those of Botticelli’s Venus.”

  “The real deal, huh?” said another voice, and Joss nearly jumped out of her skin. The other voice was Rogan’s! She looked wildly around the room.

  “The real deal. Aye. Well put. Naturally, I didn’t hesitate when she insisted I do the fitting right there.”

  “Naturally.”

  What the hell was he doing? Surely he wasn’t about to tell Rogan about her?

  “And the woman has on the most alluring bits of underclothes,” Hugh continued, “the sort of things that would have shamed Cleopatra.”

  She spied him at last. He was at the bar, spinning his yarn to a rapt Rogan. She started running toward them.

  “I know the look,” Rogan said. “Devastating.”

  “Indeed. And the woman wants to try on the dress unfettered, if you follow.”

  Holy hell! She dodged Great-Aunt Cathy and nearly tripped over a stray flower girl.

  “And?” Rogan said.

  “And I’m hardly going to argue with her, am I? Off come the underclothes, as easy as kiss-my-hand, and suddenly there’s nothing between us but an unconcerned smile and heels as high as church spires.”

  “A religious pose, then?” Rogan laughed.

  Run, Joss, run!

  “I’m a silk man, you see. And, oh, those wisps. Transparent ruffles, like the wings of a dragonfly, and the most amazing black—”

  She clapped a hand on Hugh’s shoulder, hard enough to make him choke, or at least that’s what she hoped. “Have a minute? Mary’s outside.”

  “Mary?”

  “You know, from that place? She wants to catch up.”

  “Well, I—”

  “I promise we won’t be long.”

  Hugh smiled. “For you, anything.” He stood, downed his whisky and nodded to Rogan. “Another time?”

  “I’m sure of it.”

  Hugh followed Joss obediently into a long, windowed hallway that led back to the main part of the museum. “That was harder than it needed to be,” he said.

  She whipped the phone out of his pocket. “You asshole!”

  “Back to that, are we? I told you I needed to talk to you.”

  “Talk, buddy. You’ve got two minutes.”

  “Did you invite Rogan to the fitting tonight?”

  “That’s what you wanted to talk to me about? No, I didn’t invite him to the fitting. It wasn’t exactly something I wanted him to be there for, and in any case, the dress is supposed to be secret from the groom until the ceremony.”

  Something changed behind those gray eyes. When he spoke again, the playfulness in his voice was gone.

  “Did you tell him about the map room?”

 
; “No. Jesus. This isn’t exactly the place for deep confessions. I’ve barely had time to say hello since I arrived.”

  “Tell me the truth, Joss.”

  “I’m telling you the truth.”

  “Listen to me. I’m sorry for the things I did, but I need you to promise that you won’t mention anything about the maps to him—anything.”

  “Why?”

  “Promise me,” he said with urgency.

  “Hugh . . .”

  “Please.”

  “Yes. Fine. I promise.”

  “Thank you. Now I’m going to tell you something you shan’t care to hear.”

  “I’m astonished.”

  “It’s important. Come.” He took her by the hand and led her down the hallway, near a door that led to an outside balcony.

  “What?” she demanded when he stopped.

  “I lied when I said I wanted to do the fitting. I’m here on a mission. I must right a great wrong that was done to many people.”

  “Gosh,” she said. “You make breaking and entering sound so noble.”

  He ignored this. “This mission must be my focus. But I did not lie when I said I wanted an hour with you.”

  She felt her cheeks warm and wanted to kick herself.

  He pressed his advantage. “When I saw you in that dress—”

  Joss signaled Hugh to stop. A former colleague of Rogan’s had entered the hallway, chatting with his wife. After they passed, another guest stumbled out of the party. This was nowhere to talk. She inclined her head toward the balcony.

  * * *

  Di slipped out of the bathroom and made an irritated growl. Three stalls and three women who apparently needed more time to pull up their panty hose and zip their skirts than Di had needed to complete grad school. Christ, if it took that long to pee when she was going twenty-seven times a day, she’d have to strip naked and take up residence in the bathtub.

  She started for the table, expecting Joss to have returned from her call, but she wasn’t there. So Di slipped onto a barstool beside Rogan. “I hope you don’t mind me stealing Joss for a while. We’re doing a girl thing.”

  He lifted a brow. “I sort of like girl things. Maybe I could watch.”

  “Forget about it, Prince Charming. We’re talking dresses, shoes, cramps—you know.”

  “Speaking of that, what ever happened with that tailor? Did Joss go for the fitting?”

  “Did you ask her?”

  “No, I didn’t. Not yet.”

  “Then I can’t reveal anything,” Di said. “Dresses are supposed to be secret, you know.”

  “She didn’t tell you anything?”

  “I believe she said the tailor’s a fan of maps, if that makes any difference.”

  “Maps?” Rogan spilled his drink. “How’s that?”

  “Who knows? A lot of people like ’em. Thank God, right? I mean, I know Joss is hoping the company is coming out of its slump.”

  “Right. Will you excuse me? I see someone I should probably catch up with.”

  “No problem. If you see Joss, tell her I’m waiting.”

  * * *

  The night breeze turned Joss’s skin to gooseflesh, and Hugh immediately took off his coat and held it out to her.

  She shook her head and led him away from the windows. The balcony was narrow, and when they turned the corner, Pittsburgh’s North Shore lay like a starry bulging blanket across the hills beyond the river.

  Hugh inhaled. “Look at the bridges.”

  He was right. They were beautiful: the sleek, wide bridge that carried the never-ending traffic from downtown to the North Hills and the stately old Sixteenth Street Bridge, with its gleaming yellow arches and fantastical orbs and seahorses bursting from the spotlight-lit pylons at each end. It belonged, she thought, on one of her mother’s cartouches.

  And there were more bridges, almost as far upriver as the eye could see.

  She said, “The City of Bridges, you know.”

  “How do they build such things?” His face had the enchanted look of a child.

  “See the yellow one,” she said. “That’s my favorite. Those are armillary spheres on the top—I know because I did a book report on it in fifth grade. It’s like something out of a story, really.”

  He gazed into the night. “We call them astrolabes, but, aye, I see what you mean.”

  “We call them astrolabes”? “Who are you?”

  He chuckled. “’Tis a question I’ve asked myself more than once. Will you please take my coat?”

  She was shivering now, but before she could demur, he slipped it over her shoulders.

  The wool was warm and carried his subtle scent. She nodded her thanks reluctantly.

  “I built a bridge once,” he said. “A small one. Across a river we needed to ford outside Copenhagen. And it was only temporary, but it was a fancy piece of engineering, no matter the size.”

  “So, you’re a tailor who fishes, sails, pursues missions and builds bridges.”

  A curve rose at the corner of his mouth. “Seems unlikely, does it not?”

  “In the extreme.”

  “Would it surprise you to discover I am not a tailor?”

  “It would surprise me to discover you were a tailor—though I did like that dress,” she added with a touch of longing.

  “The dress. Aye. When I saw you in that dress . . .” His finger worked the button on his cuff in a surprising show of diffidence. “When I saw you in that dress, it made me wish I was a tailor. No, that’s not the whole truth. It made me wish I had met you before you needed to choose a wedding gown.”

  Joss’s blood began to buzz. His eyes had turned the softest green-gray, like a sea just before dawn, and she had to remind herself her fiancé was only a few yards away.

  “I want you to know,” he said, “none of what happened there between us was a lie.”

  What had happened there? She thought about that bubbling effervescence and how nice it had felt. She wondered why certain things happened the way they did.

  The wind shifted, and he moved to block her from it with his body. When he caught her arm to bring her closer to his sheltering bulk, she tilted her chin instinctively and he found her mouth. For a long, slow moment, they kissed, and Joss felt the crackling heat that comes from venturing too close to the edge of an inferno.

  “I-I can’t do this.” She pulled away in a fit of jangling nerves.

  “And I shouldn’t have tested you. Especially now.”

  “‘Especially now?’”

  He turned to face her. His eyes hardened to the color of battleships. “Your father did a thing that you must help remedy.”

  If was as if he had doused her with cold water. “So you said.” She wiped her mouth.

  “’Tis a matter of necessity. You have no choice.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means,” he said with an unwavering gaze, “you must come with me now. If you give me your word, I will allow you to make your excuses to your fiancé.”

  “You’ll allow me?” Was he insane?

  “You will be gone a day, no more.”

  “No one ‘allows’ me to do anything.”

  “In this case, I’m afraid you have no choice.” He made a casual movement, and Joss realized that when he’d blocked the wind, he also blocked the door.

  “I’m getting married Tuesday. And I’m supposed to be leaving for a trade show.”

  “I will have you back by this time tomorrow.”

  “No.”

  “Joss, there is no refusal. You will accompany me. One way or another.”

  There was something about his unemotional certainty that sent a chill through her.

  She saw one chance. With a sigh, she nodded reluctantly and made her way past him toward the door. “Wait,” she said, and pointed to the railing. “My purse.” He took a step to collect it, and Joss bolted. She flung the door open but her foot caught on the step. He grabbed her and spun her around, tucking her arm up behind h
er back.

  “You gave me your word. You’re about as trustworthy as your father.”

  “I didn’t give you my word,” she said fiercely. “I never said anything.”

  “You’re a Brand. Would it have made any difference?”

  “Yes. I am not my father. My word means as much to me as yours does to you.”

  He stopped and pulled her into the light of the moon. “Then give it to me now.”

  He dared her with his eyes, those damning gray eyes.

  “I give you my word.”

  “Your word on what?”

  “I give you my word I won’t try to escape.”

  “And you will abide by my direction for the next twenty-four hours? In return, I will warrant your safe return as promised.”

  Had she any choice? “Yes.”

  He evaluated her face carefully, then, with a grunt, released her arm. “There.” He pointed to another doorway, one marked FIRE EXIT ONLY. It was propped open with a brick. She stepped into the stairwell, and he followed her down the steps. Despite the kiss, she was far from certain she was safe with him. There was an undercurrent of danger that seemed to ooze from every pore of his. She also wondered what possible excuse she could use to keep Rogan and everyone else from having a complete meltdown when they found out she was missing.

  When they reached the outside, he said, “There are some maps you must examine.”

  “Oh, joy. And how will that take twenty-four hours?”

  “They are not close.”

  “How close is not close?” she asked.

  “Far.”

  Her cell phone buzzed. She pulled it out of her pocket. It was a text from Di: WHERE R U?

  He took the phone from her hand. “R? U? Is this a code?”

  “Yes. I know it’s a tough one to crack.”

  “‘Diane Daltrey,’” he read. “Your friend?”

  “Yes.” She snatched the phone back.

  “What will you tell her?”

  “The only thing I can.”

  He watched her work the communicator again. Her fingers flew over the top, almost as if she were playing a tiny organ. But he watched her closely. The words she had written were CALL ME WHEN YOU’RE ALONE.

  In a moment, the communicator played a song. “It’s her.” Joss ran her finger over it, then put it to her ear. “It’s a long story,” she said, “but I need your help.”