by Lisa Bingham
Afraid.
And oh, so alone.
Just as quickly, she pasted a quick smile on her face. One that didn’t entirely dispel the shadows in her eyes.
“On second thought, Miss O’Halloran. I’d be happy to share a quick bite with you. But, I need to wash up first.”
This time, when she smiled at him, her expression contained the pure brightness of the sun. And her eyes…a man could get sucked into the deep pansy-blue depths.
“Thank you, Mr. Macklin. I would deeply appreciate your company.”
• • •
Since John had returned to his own house to wash, Glory Bee took the opportunity to change herself. Stripping from her heels and hose, her dress, and the much-hated girdle, she took a quick bath, combed her wet hair, then threw on a loose, flowing nightdress and an embroidered robe.
As she hurried down the staircase, she was suddenly struck with the fact that John might be appalled by her state of undress. But after months of worrying about what she wore, how she talked, and who saw her with whom, she decided she really didn’t care. She’d entertained men in her dressing room wearing far less than she had on now. And she would bet money that John had watched her strip at the show, so he’d probably seen her in less as well.
The marble floors felt cool against her feet as she padded into the kitchen. Yanking open the refrigerator, her jaw dropped at the bounty hidden inside. Lordy, she could have fed the army at Stotsenberg and not put a dent in the assortment. But after a hard day and the vagaries of her stomach, she longed for something simple and familiar.
Taking eggs, butter, cheese and vegetables, she began to make the fixings for omelets. If the truth were told, she was a horrible cook—a legacy from a mother who drank her meals from a bottle, no doubt. But she could crack and cook eggs and make a mean Bloody Mary.
She was scooping chopped peppers and onions into a bowl of frothy eggs when she heard the front door open and heavy footfalls on the marble floors.
“I’m in the kitchen!” she shouted, twisting to turn on the closest burner.
There was a moment’s hesitation, then John appeared in the doorway.
He stood with his hat in his hand, his hair still damp and combed away from a side part so meticulously, she could still see the little furrows left by the tines of his comb. He filled the doorway. The effect wasn’t caused so much by his height or the width of his shoulders. No, there was something about the man, something compelling and frightening at the same time. His manner was quiet and watchful, as if he weren’t entirely comfortable or trusting of his situation, as if he were constantly on his guard.
“You’re just in time.” She motioned to the copper pans hanging from a rack over the kitchen table. “Could you hand me one of those frying pans?” she asked. In her bare feet, it had been almost impossible to reach them herself.
John had no trouble whatsoever. He was a tall man, an inch or two above six feet. As he moved, the light glinted in the flecks of gray visible in his dark hair. His arms were so long, he could extend the pan to her without taking a step.
“How tall are you?” she asked. Then waved aside any answer he made. “Don’t answer that. I suppose that falls beneath the personal line of questioning, and I have a bad habit of asking too many personal questions. Michael is constantly telling me—”
She broke off suddenly, realizing that part of the bargain for her living arrangements here in the Philippines included ensuring that no one would ever connect her to Michael Griffin, Senator from The Great State of Texas.
She grimaced, dumping the egg mixture into the pan. “Never mind. I hope you like eggs. I’m not much of a cook, but I can make an omelet if I’m hungry enough.” She pointed to the refrigerator. “Why don’t you look in there and scare up a few things to go along with our meal?”
As John bent to gaze into the refrigerator, she searched through drawers, finally finding a small linen tablecloth and flatware. From the upper cupboards, she took out plates, glasses, cups and saucers. In the breadbox was a beautiful loaf, which she cut into thick slices that made her mouth water. If she had one weakness, it was bread slathered in butter, and since becoming pregnant, she’d craved it more than ever.
Within minutes she’d transferred the fat omelet to a serving plate. She cut it in two and carried it to the table as well where John had also placed a pitcher of orange juice, a bottle of milk, a crock of butter, a jar of jam, and a cheese keeper with a wedge of white cheese.
“We have a veritable feast!” Glory Bee exclaimed as she surveyed the results of their impromptu meal. “Sit, sit.”
But John remained standing, one square hand resting on the back of the chair until she’d taken her own seat, then he settled into place.
Through sheer habit, she folded her hands together, cast her eyes skyward and hurriedly offered, “Good God, thank you for the toast and jam, thank you for the eggs and SPAM. Amen.”
The prayer was a carry-over from her youth and had become more a mindless tradition than real grace. It wasn’t until she caught John’s hand moving in a quick genuflection that she realized her actions might be construed as blasphemous by a true churchgoer.
“I’m sorry. Would you like to offer some words yourself?”
“No. Thank you.” He seemed embarrassed that she’d caught him.
“You’re sure?”
He nodded.
She transferred his portion of the omelet onto his plate, then did the same with her own. “Have you worked here long, Mr. Macklin?”
“John, please.” He took a careful bite of his food, then seemed to like it well enough, because he began eating with the enthusiasm of a hungry man. “No. I’ve only been here a little more than a year.”
“What do they grow here on the plantation?”
“Sugar cane.”
“I see.”
She couldn’t think of anything else to ask without becoming personal again, so she followed John’s example, centering her attention on her food.
During her journey, she’d had a hard time keeping anything down, and she’d begun to fear that her illness was not due to the rocking of the ship, but her pregnancy. But now that she was finding her “land legs,” she was discovering that her appetite was returning with a vengeance. She finished her omelet without so much as a grumble of protest, then moved on to the bread, fruit, and cheese. Then, after a drink of juice and milk, she finished a second slice of bread.
She couldn’t remember a time when food had ever tasted so good. The eggs were soothing and savory, the fruit—she’d never known fruit to taste so bright and fresh. And the bread…
If John hadn’t settled back in his chair and begun to watch her with amusement, she probably would have polished off the entire loaf.
Catching his regard, she covered her mouth with her hand saying, “You must think I’m a horrible pig. But I spent the entire sea voyage with my head over the rail.”
To her amazement, John’s lips spread into a slow grin, his eyes losing their turbulent sheen as they sparkled in amusement.
“I’m glad something finally tasted good.”
For a moment, silence pooled between them, thick and warm and sticky with her curiosity. But while she’d been forthcoming about herself, he’d remained strictly private.
As if sensing the questions she wanted to ask, John stood and reached for his hat.
“Thank you for the meal. Don’t worry about cleaning up. Kako and Miyoki will see to it when they come in.”
Then, with a nod in her direction, he left.
But this time, the silence that swirled in his wake wasn’t nearly as unsettling as it had an hour before.
• • •
As soon as he’d stepped into the hall, John paused, turning to regard the swinging door to the kitchen as it slapped into place. For several long minutes, he stood still, listening to the muted noises coming from the kitchen—the clink of cutlery, the snap of the refrigerator door. Despite what he’d said, Glory Bee had fe
lt the need to clean up after herself, which he found more endearing than he would have believed possible. Wilmot’s guests didn’t normally trouble themselves with tidying up.
But then…Glory Bee O’Halloran was clearly not one of Wilmot’s normal guests. A friend of a friend, John had been told, and that phrase somehow took on new meaning.
Shrugging away the tendrils of curiosity, John jammed his hat over his head and strode toward the front door. Slowed. Paused.
Something needled its way into his consciousness, pushing aside the warm echoes of Glory Bee’s laughter. Turning, he frowned, searching the shadows for the reason for his disquiet. And then he saw it. The door to Wilmot’s study—one that was nearly always left locked—was ajar.
Moving as quietly as he could, John crept toward the door. Reaching inside with his hand, he flipped on the light then burst inside.
But the room was empty. The books and ledgers were undisturbed, the blotter cleared and ready for its owner to return.
Deciding he would have to mention to Kako that she needed to be more careful when she cleaned the room next time, John turned to leave. His hand was on the light switch, his body halfway out the door, when his eyes fell on the radio that Wilmot used to communicate with the other plantation owners in the area.
The hackles rose at his nape.
The radio had been smashed. Broken pieces of metal and vacuum tubes were scattered over the rich wool rug. In the midst of the rubble lay a shiny new ball-peen hammer.
• • •
Rosemary looked so peaceful that Gilhouley warred with his conscience before waking her. In the end, he dipped to kiss her bare shoulder, startling her out of her slumber.
As much as he would have loved to let her sleep—or spend the next hour or two with her in bed—he knew that it was important to her to fulfill her duty as she’d planned.
“It’s ten-thirty,” he whispered against her ear.
She sighed in regret, but didn’t complain.
Turning onto her back, she reached out to pull him close, kissing him with such sweetness that it was hard to remember that if he was going to make a go of things with Rosemary, he couldn’t make too many demands. Not yet. Not when things were so new. Instinctively, he sensed that if anything infringed on Rosemary’s work at this early stage, he wouldn’t be given another chance.
When she rolled away and frowned at the clock, he balled his hands into fists to keep from pulling her back again.
“I’ve drawn you a bath and set out a fresh uniform on a hanger behind the bathroom door. I don’t know if I got everything, but at least the basics are there.” Unable to stop himself, he brushed the tousled waves of her hair away from her brow, her cheek. He loved her hair, the baby-fine texture and the way the heat made it curl into ringlets at her nape when the weather grew muggy. And the color. The color was rich and golden like a field of ripening wheat.
“Are you a mirage?” she asked, stroking his cheek.
He turned and quickly pressed a kiss to her palm. “If so, I’m a piss-poor one at that.”
She shook her head. “I wish I could stay,” she whispered with patent regret.
Her words were enough to reassure him that she felt no regrets.
“Tonight then?” he whispered. “I’ve got to go to Clark Field in the morning for an article Brigadier General Bradmore wants me to write for Stars and Stripes. I’ve been asked to sit in on a pilot briefing, then a buddy invited me to spend a few hours in the tower so I can see how they handle the flyboys. But I should be back by six.”
She nodded. “I’ll be off by eight at the latest, then I’ve got the next three days free.”
He grinned. “Come home and take a nap as soon as you’re off. I’ll sneak in through the back and wake you. Then we can replay this scene and give it a better ending.”
“I’d like that,” she whispered.
Again, he was surprised. She had always been so careful with her privacy, that he hadn’t thought she would like the idea of his intrusion.
He bent toward her, kissing her lightly on the lips. Once. Twice. Then a deep and lingering caress that held echoes of the passion they’d shared.
“Until tonight.”
• • •
John was still unsettled when he let himself into his quarters and shut the door behind him. This time, he didn’t turn on the light. Rather, he moved through the familiar confines, taking a shotgun from a nearby closet and loading it with a couple of shells.
In the past, the gun had been used to ward off the pesky rodents who occasionally raided the chicken coops, or to keep drunken field workers in line after payday. But tonight…
He moved to the window, fingering the curtain out of the way. It was too late to call the local constable about the break-in at the house—and he wasn’t sure what he would report if he did. Granted, the radio had been ruined beyond repair, but he couldn’t see evidence of anything else having been taken. Wilmot’s prized collection of art and antiques had not been touched. His desk was still firmly locked and the glass case of guns proudly intact. Even the safe in the corner appeared solid and unscratched. The house had been unlocked—as it usually was if someone was in residence. With so many servants and workers swarming over the property, there had never really been any reason to fear a break-in before.
Most likely, the damage had been done by a disgruntled worker or teenagers from the village looking for a thrill. But it still didn’t sit well with John, especially with the house empty except for Wilmot’s guest.
Sighing, he decided he’d better keep an eye on things. At least until Kako and Miyoki came early in the morning.
Grasping a box of shells and a couple of bananas from a bowl on the table, he went outside where he set a chair on the stoop. Using an extension cord, he placed his radio on the top step and tuned into a station that would play music all night long. Then, he slouched in the chair with the shotgun draped over his lap.
After the day he’d had, he was tired. Probably tired enough that he could have slept if he’d been given the opportunity. But he didn’t entirely mind the guard duty. As always, the darkness and the sounds of the cicadas were soothing, and the radio provided another layer of peaceful enjoyment.
But then, when he least expected it, a light blinked on in one of the upper windows of the Big House.
Too late, John realized that he’d taken a spot in direct view of Glory Bee O’Halloran’s bedroom window. Embarrassed, he started to rise, fearing that she would think he was spying on her. But as she opened the window wide to catch the breeze, he realized that she probably couldn’t see him sitting in the darkness. If he tried to retreat, he would have to move in front of the glowing dial of the radio and she might sense he was there. If he remained still, silent…
For long moments, Glory stood illuminated in the yellow patch of light gleaming from the upper floor. Then he saw her take a step back, her hands on the tie of her robe. She moved, stepping out of his line of sight, then returned, wearing only a delicate nightdress.
He swallowed hard, his mouth growing dry. Although he’d watched this woman strip in front of thousands of men, he couldn’t account for the way that her thin, girlish nightgown caused his body to thrum in anticipation.
She moved out of his sight again, this time, returning to fuss with her bed and the mosquito netting. But she might as well have been naked for the way the light pierced through the fabric, leaving a perfect image of her shape, full breasts and hips, slim legs.
Then, just as quickly, the light went out.
Leaving John panting in the darkness.
Dear God. How long did Miss O’Halloran plan to stay at the plantation?
Yet, even as he thought the words to himself, he realized that the answer could be both a blessing and a curse.
The sun beat down on his head and shoulders, but he remained as still as possible, staring at a spot behind Tanaka’s ear.
He was stronger now, but that strength brought its own brand of atten
tion. Attention that he could ill-afford.
From the moment he’d entered the camp, he’d become a target for the Japanese soldier in charge of the camp. Partly, because the other men looked to him for their orders. Partly, because he was tall, and Tanaka, a small man, had a grudge against tall men.
Today, they were all in for the Sun Treatment. Tenko had been called at dawn. It was already past noon, and they had yet to be dismissed. Tanaka was in a surly mood, looking for a fight. There would be someone in the pit before the day was over, he’d bet.
But it wouldn’t be him.
He didn’t think he could endure another week in the pit.
So he fixed his gaze into nothingness, allowed his shoulders to slump in submission, and pinned his mind on the only thing that had the power to steel himself to standing upright one more minute. Enduring one more day.
Rosemary. Sweet, sweet Rosemary.
The flower in his pocket—one that he’d pinched from her birthday corsage that long ago night when they’d first made love—had long since lost its perfume. But if he closed his eyes, he was sure that he could smell the scent of violets and feel the soft silk of her hair between his fingers.
Could she sense his thoughts? The way he continually hung onto her memory like a drowning man clinging to a life raft? Or had she given him up for dead?
Even worse, had she been captured herself?
A wave of despair threatened to swamp him, but he pushed it back. He wouldn’t think like that. He couldn’t.
Because if he allowed himself to believe, even for an instant, that she wasn’t out there, safe…
He wouldn’t be able to survive another day.
“Hey, Petey,” he said under his breath as Tanaka began his daily diatribe on the evils of America and the cowardly nature of its soldiers.
“Yeah?”