On the Tycoon's Terms

by Sandra Field

  Two hours later, during which neither he nor Katrin had said a single word to each other, they arrived at the airport. Katrin said with icy precision, “You can stop at the arrivals area. I’m staying here.”

  In his heart Luke had known that would be her decision. But not for the richest gold mine in the world would he tell her how it stabbed him to the core, cutting through anger as though it were water. “Fine,” he said.

  He skirted the brick buildings, pulling up outside the international entrance. Flicking the button for the trunk, so he could get out his bag, he left the engine running. “Goodbye, Katrin,” he said.

  What else could he add? That said it all.

  She blurted, “If you change your mind, will you get in touch with me?”

  His jaw tightened. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “In the long run, you’re the loser here.”

  “That’s only your opinion,” he said and got out of the wagon. He took his duffel bag from the trunk, slammed it shut and walked through the glass doors without a second look. Only when he got to the counter did he glance back. The wagon was gone.

  Katrin was gone. Katrin, who was in love with him.

  When Luke got home the next day, he went through his house from top to bottom, getting rid of every trace of Katrin’s presence. Her clothes, including the feathered dress, he packed in a box to send to her, along with her cosmetics, and a couple of books she’d bought. His face set, he took the black satin sheets off the bed, tossing them in the box, too. He hung fresh towels in the bathroom, putting the ones she’d used into the washer. Finally he cleaned out the food she’d left in the refrigerator, and threw the drooping red roses and the candle stubs into the garbage as well.

  If only he could exorcise her from his head as easily.

  He kept expecting her to come running down the stairs, smiling at him with that warmth that he now knew sprang from loving him. If only she hadn’t been so stupid as to fall in love. If only they could have gone on as they were…

  Swearing under his breath, Luke taped up the box and addressed it to her in Askja. He hadn’t put a note inside. What was there to say?

  They’d both said too much. Words that couldn’t be taken back.

  It was a relief to leave the box at the post office the next morning on his way to work; and even more of a relief to go back to the office, where immediately he was submerged in the innumerable details of his various projects. If any of his staff wondered why he’d come back from vacation early, one look at his face would have discouraged them from asking.

  He looked awful.

  It was a case of too much emotion and a sleepless night. He’d get over it.

  But a week later Luke looked worse, with his eyes dark-shadowed and new lines around his mouth. Nor had his sleep patterns improved. No matter how much he told himself it was only sexual deprivation, he was still haunted by dreams: erotic dreams and dreams of loss that figured a woman with blond hair smooth as a river. Equally bad were nightmares about his father, suffused with the same leaden and unredeemable regret.

  In the bright sun or beneath the white clouds of a San Francisco September day, Luke could persuade himself these were only dreams; but at night he couldn’t as easily shake them off.

  He hadn’t gotten in touch with Ramon, still bothered by a sense of betrayal. When Ramon phoned him at work exactly eight days after his return, and suggested lunch, Luke agreed with an inner reluctance he did his best to conceal. They met in their favorite Thai restaurant, ordering curried mat saman and beer. Ramon raised his glass. “I’ve been meaning to call you for several days, Luke. But a new case took over and there’s been no time.” He took a long gulp. “I need to say this to you face-to-face—I told Katrin nothing but the name Teal Lake and the fact that you and I had had boyhoods that were far from ideal.”

  “You sure get right to the point.”

  “You’re my friend.” Ramon shrugged. “And life is short. Too short for misunderstandings. A couple of weeks ago she phoned me at work and asked if we could meet for lunch. It was then that she asked me if I knew anything about your childhood. I could have told her nothing. I weighed that against the way your tennis has gone downhill, and decided to tell her the absolute minimum. But by the look of you, I shouldn’t have.”

  “We went to Teal Lake,” Luke said. “She and I. It was a disaster. I haven’t seen her since, nor will I.”

  Ramon raised his brow. “I repeat…life is short, too short for misunderstandings.”

  “She says she’s in love with me. I can’t handle that. So I backed off. That’s not what I’d call a misunderstanding.”

  The waiter put spring rolls and peanut sauce in front of them. Thoughtfully Ramon began to eat. “The price of gold and precious metals is down. Is that why you look like a whipped cur?”

  “What other reason?”

  “Rosita wants you to come to the house tonight,” Ramon added casually. “She’s making tamales.”

  Three or four times Luke had eaten Rosita’s fiery and delicious Mexican food. “You know I can’t turn that invitation down.”

  “Good. Six o’clock? You know the way.” Ramon then began to discuss an interesting new development in lie detection. To Luke’s relief, Teal Lake wasn’t mentioned again.

  Promptly at six, Luke presented himself at Ramon and Rosita’s Victorian house on the western edge of the Mission District, a vibrantly Hispanic area of the city. He’d always enjoyed his visits here, entering the alien world of a close-knit family, then returning to his house afterward with secret pleasure that it was so quiet and peaceful. Rosita opened the door with a welcoming smile. “Come in, Luke.”

  She was tall, her jet-black hair a tumble of curls around a face as beautiful and full of character in its own way as Katrin’s was. As he passed her a bottle of red wine from his cellars, she said, “Gracias… we’re eating right away, the children have to go to bed early as it’s a school night.”

  She led him into the kitchen, with its terra-cotta tiles. Copper pans and bunched herbs hung from the beamed ceiling. The oak table in the alcove was set with Mexican woven mats; the shutters were closed, giving an artificial dimness. Felipe, who was seven, was lighting tall white tapers with an air of intense concentration; Constancia, a year younger, was arranging some rather tattered daisies as a centerpiece. Maria, aged three, ran over to Luke, grabbed him around the knees, and crowed, “Lift me, lift me.”

  They’d played this game before, although the last time was probably three months ago. Touched that she’d remembered, Luke swung her chubby little body high over his head, almost to the oak beams. Then he swooped her down again. She shrieked with delight. “More, more!”

  Her weight, her gleeful chortle and unselfconscious delight filled Luke with a sudden, devastating poignancy. He’d always closed himself off from the possibility of having children of his own; it wasn’t in the cards. But tonight, Katrin’s absence was like an open wound and he was achingly aware of another lack: that no child of his would ever run to him, trustingly, like Maria.

  His child and Katrin’s?

  “Do it again!” Maria shrieked.

  With a start, Luke came back to the present. Was he seriously contemplating fatherhood? Which, in his books, would require marriage as the prerequisite. He gave his head a stunned shake, quite unaware that Ramon was watching him from the corner of the room, looking rather pleased with himself.

  After one last swoop through the air, Luke put Maria down on the tiled floor. Shy Constancia favored Luke with her grave smile. Felipe, whose present ambition was to be a racing driver, asked about his sports car. Ramon, in a T-shirt and jeans, poured the wine, and Rosita brought the food to the table.

  The untidy, laughter-filled kitchen was like a haven, thought Luke. Katrin would like the Torres family. He pushed this insight away as Felipe said grace in Spanish and they all began to eat, the candles illuminating the circle of faces. Luke ate too much, the wine slipping down easily; afterward, he
and Ramon cleaned up the dishes while Rosita got the children ready for bed. As he always did, Luke read all three children a story, then said good night to them.

  As he softly closed Felipe’s door, Luke was visited again by that disturbing sense of poignancy. He’d always assumed that because of his upbringing, he’d make a lousy father. After all, what kind of a model had he had? But maybe he’d underestimated himself. Maybe he’d be okay.

  A daughter or a son of his own. Would they be dark-haired like himself? Or blond and blue-eyed like Katrin?

  I never want children. That’s what he’d told her. Children or marriage or commitment. And so he’d driven her away.

  He needed three hard sets of tennis. That’s what he needed. Kids and marriage and love…what did he know about all that?

  Rosita left for a class she was taking at the art school; Ramon poured glasses of tequila and the two men watched part of a basketball game on TV. Luke could see Ramon was tired; about nine, he stood up. “I’m off. Thanks so much, Ramon.”

  Ramon stood up, too. “A word, Luke,” he said with an odd formality, “before you go. Over the years, we have never talked about the things that happened to us as little boys. Young like Felipe. But this evening I need to speak about it.”

  “Not on my account, you don’t.”

  “Yes,” Ramon said, “on your account. Our friendship is too important for me to stay silent.”

  Luke tugged at the neck of his sweater. “I don’t need any lectures, Ramon, no matter how well-meant. I’m doing fine.”

  Ramon said curtly, “Shut up, amigo, and listen.”

  Ramon had never used that tone of voice to Luke before; not for the first time, Luke understood how the other man had risen from a rookie on the beat to his present position. He, Luke, could have responded in kind—he was no slouch in that department himself—but he realized he was curious to hear what Ramon had to say. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll shut up.”

  “At Felipe’s age,” Ramon began, “I was just one more street kid in Mexico City. Scavenging for food, staying one step ahead of the law.” For a moment he was silent, his dark eyes lost in the past. Then he picked up the thread again. “I had machismo. I knew how to steal and shoplift, how to wire cars and pick locks…and I never got caught. Just as well, or I wouldn’t have made it into the police force. I am a good policeman. I know the other side, you see.” Ramon grinned. “When I was eighteen, I met Rosita. I wanted her, Dios, how I wanted her. But she told me I had to go straight, get a job…and then, maybe, she would let me into her bed.”

  Forgetting his ill-temper, Luke said intuitively, “I bet you ran away as if the devil was at your heels.”

  Ramon chuckled. “For ten months, I stayed away. But she was my fate, Luke, my destiny. So I got a job at the fish market, I went to night school, and the rest is history.”

  “Are you trying to tell me Katrin’s my fate?” Luke said quizzically.

  “I’m telling you she’s a remarkable woman. I saw her under the worst of circumstances, so I know. And you are a good man. Don’t run away from her as I did from Rosita. Marry her, have children, fill that empty house on the hill with love…if I can do it, so can you. And now I’m going to end this so solemn sermon, and I will never mention my childhood again.”

  He clapped Luke on the shoulder, and said good night. Luke drove home. On his way upstairs he went into the kitchen to put a couple of tamales Rosita had given him into the refrigerator. The kitchen was clean, sterile, and silent as the grave. Is that what he wanted for the rest of his life? To be half alive?

  He walked upstairs, in no hurry to get to his empty bedroom. He and Ramon had been friends for many years; for the first time ever, Luke found himself envying Ramon the laughter, intimacy and tangible love that had filled every corner of the old Victorian house. Ramon would never make a fortune, as Luke had. But maybe Ramon had something far more precious, that money couldn’t buy. A wife who adored him. Children who loved him.

  And Ramon in turn adored Rosita, loved his children, would protect them with his last breath.

  Just as Luke had wanted to protect Katrin.

  He sank down on the bed, gazing at the patch of carpet where Katrin’s feathered dress had fallen in a crumpled heap. He couldn’t live with her. He couldn’t live without her.

  Classic.

  What was he going to do?

  He could pick up the phone. Speak to her. Tell her he missed her. That he was no longer self-sufficient. That his whole life was out of whack and only she could fix it.

  This was nothing to do with love. But maybe it was a start.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  BEFORE he could change his mind, Luke reached for the telephone, absently noticing that the red message signal was flashing. It wouldn’t be Katrin; she was too proud to get in touch with him after he’d made it so abundantly clear he didn’t want anything to do with her unless it was on his terms. He dialed her number quickly, waiting for her to answer, his heart racing.

  It rang four times. Then her voice, calm and impersonal, told him he could leave a message at the sound of the beep and she’d get back to him as soon as possible.

  She wasn’t home.

  He had no idea where she was. But surely she hadn’t left Askja permanently; the phone would be disconnected if she had.

  He put the receiver down without leaving a message. Aware of a crushing disappointment, he rested his head in his hands. What had he expected? That the moment he phoned her, she’d be there waiting for him?

  How arrogant was that?

  Desperate for something to do, Luke entered the password to his voice mail. A woman’s voice started speaking. “This is Anna Bendickt, from Askja…we met briefly at Margret’s tearoom, I’m Lara and Tomas’s mother… I have some bad news. Katrin is very ill…she doesn’t know I’m phoning you. She’s in hospital in Winnipeg with pneumonia, she had an accident in her daysailer. If you want more information, you can phone me.” She then gave the name of the hospital, and her own phone number. Her voice, Luke noticed, wasn’t overly friendly. But why would it be?

  After the second attempt, he managed to put the receiver back in its cradle. His hands were shaking as if he had a tremor. Katrin was ill. So ill that Anna, who must thoroughly dislike him for the way he’d treated Katrin, had been impelled to call him.

  He had to see Katrin. Luke gripped his knees hard, trying to still his trembling fingers. If he’d needed proof that she meant something to him, something of deep significance, he now had it. But was the terror he was feeling a measure of love?

  He didn’t know what love was.

  What if he lost Katrin before he had the chance to tell her how important she was to him? To apologize for being such a stubborn fool?

  What if he was too late?

  Think, Luke. Think.

  His company jet, which had been in east Africa when he and Katrin had flown to Manitoba, was now here, at the airport. Swiftly he phoned the pilot and made the necessary arrangements. Then he phoned the hospital, and after a series of delays, spoke to the floor supervisor for respiratory diseases. “My name’s Luke MacRae,” he said, “I’m calling from San Francisco. I’m a good friend of Katrin Sigurdson’s, I only just found out she’s ill.”

  “Her condition is quite serious, Mr. MacRae…to put it bluntly, she’s not putting up much of a fight.” The supervisor gave a few details, then added, “If you can do anything to improve matters, I’d suggest you come very soon.”

  “I will,” Luke said hoarsely. “I’ll get there as quickly as I can. Thank you.”

  Nothing his father had ever done had induced in him such dread as he was feeling now. He threw a few clothes into an overnight bag, left a message at the office, and ran downstairs to the garage. His whole body was focussed on one thing and one thing only: to see Katrin. To instill in her the will to fight.

  She loved him. He’d turned her away. Was that why she lacked the will to live?

  Was love that powerful?


  It was still dark when Luke got to the hospital. The taxi dropped him at the front door. He hurried inside, was given directions to the floor he needed and took the elevator. It moved with agonizing slowness.

  Once the jet had taken off from the Winnipeg airport, Luke had spoken to Anna. Katrin, so Anna had said, had overturned the daysailer, fallen into the cold waters of the lake, and within a few days had succumbed to a bronchial infection that turned into full-blown pneumonia. Anna herself had been at the hospital, but had had to return home because her elderly mother had come down with the flu. At the end of the conversation, Luke had said awkwardly, “Thank you for letting me know, Anna.”

  “I’m glad you’ll be with her,” Anna said stiffly. “If—when she regains consciousness, give her my love.”

  “When. Not if,” Luke said forcibly. “And, yes, I will.”

  He’d also phoned the hospital, to be told Katrin was no better and no worse.

  The elevator doors slid open with a metallic sigh. Luke marched to the desk, and was directed to Katrin’s room. A nurse was sitting quietly by the bed. But Luke’s eyes went straight to the woman in the bed.

  Beneath a crisp white coverlet, Katrin was lying very still, except for the labored exhalations of her breathing. Intravenous tubes were delivering saline and antibiotics through her left arm. Her cheeks were flushed, and when he reached out his hand and rested it on her forehead, it was burningly hot. Her hair was damp with sweat.

  Luke pulled up a chair and sat down. He clasped her hand in his, gently stroking her palm; it had been a private signal of theirs, an acknowledgment of the physical closeness they’d so often shared.

  Pain clenched his heart. Forgetting the nurse’s presence almost immediately, he focused his whole being on Katrin, bringing all his willpower to bear on her. Very softly he said, “Katrin, it’s Luke. I’m here, with you. I should never have left you, I’m more sorry than I can say for doing that to you. But I’m here, right now, and I’m not going away until your fever’s gone and you’re over the worst. You’re going to get better, Katrin, of course you are…your whole life is ahead of you.”