by Sandra Field
Katrin said slowly, “So you do know what I’m talking about. What happened to you, Luke?”
With a shuddering breath, Luke hauled himself back to the present, away from an abyss that he’d fled years ago, a nightmare filled with noise and fire and unending fear. God knows what he looked like. He raked his fingers through his hair. “Nothing happened. Your imagination’s working overtime.”
“I don’t think so.” With sudden violence she cried, “What’s wrong with admitting you’re vulnerable? Just like the rest of the human race?”
Had he ever, wittingly or unwittingly, revealed as much of himself to anyone else as he had to Katrin in the last few seconds? And how he hated himself—and her—for that revelation. Not knowing what else to do, Luke went on the attack. “What if Guy goes to the media? What then?”
She hugged her arms around her chest, lines of strain bracketing her mouth. “He won’t. He’ll be so hungover in the morning, he’ll do well to get out of bed.”
It was painfully obvious she was trying to convince herself as much as Luke. Luke said savagely, “In effect, he’s blackmailing you.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic!”
“I’m telling it like I see it.”
“You’re overreacting,” she said coldly. “Luke, I’ve got to go home, I’m really tired.”
She looked more than tired. She looked at the end of her rope, with faint blue shadows under her eyes, her face haunted and unhappy. His only desire to comfort her, to somehow let her know that she wasn’t alone with her secrets, he awkwardly rested his hand on her wrist.
She looked down. In a strange voice she said, “You have such beautiful fingers. Long and lean…”
By mutual compulsion they fell into each other’s arms, Luke’s hands locking around her waist, her mouth straining upward to his. Her palms were flat to his chest, burning through the fabric of his shirt; the first touch of her lips enveloped him in a tumult of desire. He thrust with his tongue, pulling her hard against his body. As she melted into him, tinder to his flame, she fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. Then, like a streak of fire, Luke felt her touch his bare chest, almost shyly, with a tiny tug at the tangled hair on his torso.
He groaned with pleasure, aching to feel her naked breasts, warm and soft and yielding against his flesh. His kiss deepened. Then he reached for the clasp that held her hair, wanting to free its silken flow over his wrist. Nibbling at her lips, he said huskily, “You should never wear your hair like this. I want to see it loose on a pillow, Katrin, I want to bury my face in it. I want you naked in my bed…”
As precipitously as she’d reached for him, Katrin pulled back. Her hands pressed to her cheeks, she whispered, “What’s wrong with me? I’m doing it again, kissing you as though I’m in love with you, as though I can’t get enough of you—oh God, I can’t bear this.”
In the dim light, Luke was sure he could see the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “Don’t cry…”
“I’m not! Two years ago I swore I—” She stopped, aghast.
“What happened two years ago?” Luke said with dangerous quietness.
A shudder rippled through her body. Fear and pain flashed across her features so fast Luke might have imagined them. But he hadn’t. They were real. Her voice cracking, she said, “If you have the slightest feeling for me, Luke, leave me alone. Go back to the resort. Go to New York, go to San Francisco, go anywhere in the world. You’ll forget me by the time you arrive at the airport, I know you will—your normal life will catch up with you and take over. That’s all I ask—that you forget about me.”
She bit her lip, and for a moment he thought she was going to say something else. Then she struck his hands from her waist, whirled and ran away from him toward the staff parking lot, her black uniform blending into the night.
Luke took one quick step after her. Then he stopped dead. He could chase her and force his way into her car. Or he could let her go. It was his choice.
For a crazy moment that was outside of time, Luke felt as though his heart were being torn apart; as though every choice he’d ever made had been leading to this one. To a woman who’d been swallowed by the darkness. A woman with a secret.
He took a deep, harsh breath. He had no use for such fanciful guff. Woman of darkness, woman of secrets. He was losing his marbles. It was time he went back to civilization, to the sophisticated types he dated who knew the score. In fact, he was going to do precisely what Katrin had suggested: get on his plane tomorrow morning and forget all about her.
The quicker the better.
But first he had one piece of unfinished business.
Luke marched back to the lodge and took the stairs two at a time to the third floor. Then he halted outside Room 334. He tapped gently, rather as Katrin might have tapped, and waited.
Nothing happened. He knocked again, louder this time, again without result. Pressing his ear to the door, Luke could have sworn he heard a guttural snoring coming from Guy’s room. So Katrin had been right; she had nothing to fear from Guy. Not tonight, anyway.
He’d make double sure of that. Taking a piece of paper from his pocket notebook, Luke scrawled a very succinct message on it, knelt down and inserted it under the door, and then headed upstairs to his suite.
Guy wouldn’t be telling the management or the media anything tomorrow. Not if he valued his own skin.
If only he, Luke, could fix the turmoil in his gut as easily. Or did he mean his heart, not his gut?
Back in his own bedroom, he packed quickly, then went to stand by the window, gazing out over the black waters of the lake. If this were a story, and not real life, he’d be at the airport right now. That would be a tidy finish to an episode that had totally unsettled him. Unfortunately real life required him to get up in the morning, go to breakfast, say goodbye to his cohorts, including Guy; and face Katrin again.
Luke knew a good many swearwords, having grown up in a rough and tumble mining town in the bush. Not one of them seemed remotely adequate to his feelings. All he hoped was that he wouldn’t dream about her again. That would really be the final straw.
Luke did dream, tangled and distorted dreams in which Katrin, in a ridiculously ruffled wedding dress and her ugly glasses, was arm in arm with his father, who was equipped with snorkel gear and the financial section of the newspaper. Then Katrin and Guy were out on the tarmac accompanied by a trio of Icelandic ponies draped in peasant skirts. Katrin was jeering at Luke as he boarded his plane. He woke with that ugly laughter echoing in his ears.
He rubbed his eyes. At least she’d been wearing clothes; another night of erotic dreams would have finished him off. He had no idea what the dream was trying to tell him, or why Guy was in it. But he’d stake his bottom dollar that Guy was nothing to Katrin. She was genuine, every emotion she’d ever shown Luke coming straight from her heart.
Not that this made any difference.
Luke climbed out of bed, restlessly working the muscles in his bare shoulders. The best thing in this whole mess was her advice. Forget me, she’d said. And he had every intention of doing so, just as soon as he could.
If he pushed it, he could leave the resort in an hour and a half. Go for it, Luke, he thought, and headed for the shower. He checked out on his way to the dining room, leaving his bag at the front desk, and took his seat at the table. The young man called Stan was pouring Rupert’s coffee. With an uncomfortable mingling of relief and pure rage, Luke saw that Katrin was taking someone’s order over by the far wall.
She’d gotten her tables changed so that she wouldn’t have to talk to him.
We’ll see about that, thought Luke, and asked for black coffee. When he’d finished eating, he said a quick round of goodbyes and crossed the width of the room. Katrin was gathering the used dishes from one of her tables. He stopped beside it, aware that several people were within earshot, and said pleasantly, “I just wanted to say goodbye, Katrin, and thank you for everything you’ve done all week.” A statement that should leave ple
nty to her imagination.
She straightened, holding a heap of dirty plates; she looked as though she’d had as little sleep as he had. She said politely, “Goodbye, sir. Have a safe journey.”
Her eyes didn’t look polite. Far from it. He said, “I’ve already told you you’re wasted as a waitress—you’re far too intelligent. You should leave here, go to a city and get a job more suited to your IQ. Go to New York, for instance. Or to San Francisco.”
Her breath hissed between her teeth; her fingers tightened around the pile of plates. He added softly, “I dare you. To throw them at me, I mean.”
“That might jeopardize my tip, sir,” she said, giving him a brilliant, insincere smile. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“Goodbye, Katrin,” Luke said; and heard, to his inner fury, the edge in his voice. The hint of rawness that said, more clearly than words, that this was no ordinary goodbye.
He turned on his heel, nodded at a couple of Italians and left the dining room. It was an anticlimactic ending to an episode as inconclusive as it had been unnerving: his last contact with a woman who had aroused him sexually and emotionally in ways he could only deplore.
Temporary madness. That’s all it was. And the cure? To get as far away from here as he could and never come back.
To forget Katrin Sigurdson. Her beauty and laughter, her adventurous spirit and her independence. Her body. Her unspoken secrets.
To get his life back on track. Where it belonged.
Luke picked up his bag from the front desk and went outdoors to the parking lot. As he drove toward the road, his back to the resort and the glimmering lake, he told himself he was glad to be leaving. Of course he was.
He’d worked very hard to construct his life. He wasn’t going to allow a blue-eyed blonde, no matter how beautiful, to disrupt it.
And that was that.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FIVE days after he’d left the resort, Luke parked his sleek silver sportscar in the garage of his ultramodern house in Pacific Heights, and went inside. As always when he’d been away, he was struck by how impersonal and stark the rooms were, with their angled white walls, designer furniture, and the cold gleam of highly polished parquet. Not for the first time, he thought he should sell the house.
What had possessed him to buy it in the first place?
To show that he’d arrived, he thought dryly. That Luke MacRae from Teal Lake had a prestigious address in San Francisco, a city many considered America’s most beautiful. And, of course, to cut any last ties with Teal Lake. No one from there would have lived in a cement and glass box painted white and trimmed with metal.
He’d outgrown the house; which had nothing to do with its vast floorspace. What he should do is purchase some land outside the city and build a house out of cedar and stone, with a view of the beach and the rolling surf of the Pacific. Yeah, he thought. He might just do that. He’d check out the acreages that were available, and find an architect who dealt in anything other than postmodern.
Luke opened the mail, turned on his computer to scan his emails, and listened to the four messages on his telephone; three were from women he’d dated. Then he wandered over to the huge expanse of plate glass in the living room and gazed out. Another reason he’d bought the house was for the spectacular view of the city. Sailboats dotted the turquoise waters of the bay; the distant hills were a misty, cloud-shadowed blue. It was midafternoon. He should go to his office headquarters, housed in the elegant spire of the Transamerica Pyramid. Show his face and make sure everything was ticking over the way he liked.
There’d been no messages from Katrin.
How could there be? For one thing, she didn’t have his address; for another, she had no reason to get in touch with him and every reason not to.
So far, he hadn’t succeeded in forgetting her.
He’d gone out with two different women in New York, both ambitious and successful women, each of whom had let him know she’d be happy to warm his bed.
He hadn’t asked. Because neither had made him laugh like Katrin? Because each took the expensive dinner, and the waitress who served it, for granted? Because he couldn’t care less if he ever saw either of them again?
He could get a date for this evening, if he wanted one. Go dancing in one of the clubs south of Market, find a jazz bar, or see what was playing at the Geary Theater. If he tried, he could probably even find someone to play Frisbee with him on Ocean Beach.
And it was then that Luke remembered the three photos he’d taken of Katrin playing Frisbee by the lake with Lara and Tomas. He’d get them developed. That’s what he’d do.
As he was unlocking his suitcase, the telephone rang. He grabbed the receiver. “Hello?”
“Luke, Ramon here. I wasn’t sure if you were back today or tomorrow.”
Again Luke was aware of a crushing and utterly illogical disappointment that the person on the other end wasn’t Katrin. Get a life, Luke MacRae. “Hi, Ramon,” he said, “I just got in half an hour ago. It was a good conference, I made some useful contacts. How’ve you been?”
Ramon Torres was a high-ranking police officer whom Luke had met several years ago at the indoor tennis club he belonged to. On the court, they were more or less evenly matched, Ramon with a tendency to an erratic brilliance, Luke somewhat stronger and more consistent. From a series of hard-fought games, they’d moved gradually and naturally to an undemanding friendship. At least every two weeks they had lunch together, sparring over politics, learning from each other’s areas of expertise; occasionally Luke had dinner with Ramon, his wife Rosita and their three children. Somehow, over the years, it had become clear that both men had pulled themselves upward from backgrounds of poverty and deprivation: Luke from Teal Lake, Ramon from the slums of Mexico City. They never spoke directly about this. But it was there, an unspoken bond between two laconic men.
“I’ve got a court booked at noon tomorrow,” Ramon said. “Want a game? We could have lunch afterward, if you’ve got time.”
“Sure. Sounds like a good idea. As always at these shin-digs, I ate too much… I’ll meet you there.”
They rang off. Luke changed into casual clothes and drove downtown to the nearest camera shop. The prints would be ready the next morning; he could pick them up on his way to the tennis club.
So at eleven-forty the next morning, Luke walked out of the shop with an unopened envelope in his hand. He got in his car, drove to the club, and parked a little distance away from all the other cars. It was one of those summer days of thick fog, a heavy white blanket spread over the city, cooling the air.
Appropriate, thought Luke, realizing he was reluctant to open the envelope. He’d been in a fog ever since he’d left Manitoba. Oh, at his meetings in New York he’d functioned at top efficiency, and he was doing the same at the office here; there was nothing new about that. But the rest of the time he felt as though his feet weren’t quite on the ground. As though part of him was still back in Askja.
His normal life had taken over; but he hadn’t forgotten Katrin. Far from it.
She was even more real to him here, hundreds of miles away, than she’d been at the resort, Luke thought, tugging at the tape on the flap of the envelope. He had the eerie sense that if he turned around quickly enough, she’d be standing there, her brilliant blue eyes gazing straight at him.
Ridiculous. Get a grip. He didn’t need a woman turning his life upside down, he reminded himself. Not now or ever.
With sudden decision Luke pulled the flap open, took out the prints and leafed through them. His heart jumped in his chest. There she was, on the beach, her hair swirling around her head, her slim legs bare to the sun as she reached for the Frisbee. In the other two photos she was laughing, Tomas grinning back at her, their shadows striping the sand.
She looked young and carefree, and very beautiful.
He shoved the photos in his gym bag and hurried into the club. He was late. He was never late.
Ramon was to
ssing balls into the air and practising his serves when Luke joined him on the court. “Buenos días, amigo,” Ramon said. His gaze sharpened. “You okay?”
Luke should have remembered Ramon had a law officer’s ability to assess people with just a glance. “Sure,” he said, jogging on the spot to warm up. “Want to rally for a few minutes?”
What would Ramon have thought of Katrin in her shapeless uniform and ugly glasses? Would he have discerned the woman of passion—and secrets—behind her disguise? Or would he have been as obtuse as Luke had been?
Grimly Luke forced himself to concentrate. They rallied for five minutes, then settled into the game. But Luke’s focus was off. He lost the first set 6-4, won the second by sheer brute force, and lost the final set 6-2. He and Ramon headed for the locker room, showered, then walked to a little Greek restaurant they both liked. Once they’d ordered, Ramon said, “What’s up, Luke? Was business off-kilter for you up there in the wilds of Canada?”
“It went fine.”
“You’ve never played so badly before.”
“Thanks,” Luke said dryly. “How’s Rosita? And the family?”
Rosita, Ramon’s gorgeous and flamboyant wife, had had three children since their marriage, and to everyone’s surprise, including her own, settled into motherhood as though made for it. “She’s in decorating mode,” Ramon said, wiping the froth from his beer off his moustache. “Tearing the rooms apart, painting up a storm. The kids are fine. Usually covered in paint by the time I get home. So you don’t want to tell me what’s wrong.”
“I met this woman,” Luke blurted.
“About time.”
“Marriage isn’t for everyone, Ramon,” Luke said forcefully. “One of these years I’ll settle down. But until then, I like playing the field.”
“This woman…she wanted marriage?”