When Next We Love

by Heather Graham

  When Next We Love

  Heather Graham

  For E. D. Graham,

  who taught us dreams could be real.

  Contents

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  EPILOGUE

  A Biography of Heather Graham

  PROLOGUE

  SHE HAD KNOWN HIM for years, yet she didn’t know him at all. They had been the best of friends, the worst of enemies.

  But tonight it didn’t matter. There was no past, and of course, as only she knew, there would be no future.

  Just the night.

  And she hadn’t even planned it. Things were simply working out that way, and she was powerless to call a halt. She didn’t want to call a halt. In the back of her mind she knew she had wanted him for an eternity. But consciously, even with the surrounding magic and music—and the fair amount of liquor she had consumed!—she would never admit that it was really him she wanted, or that want had a deep root in her emotions involving him.

  And it wasn’t really her who wanted him. It was the exotic belly dancer of her disguise who was falling in love with the handsome and noble King Arthur of his whimsical attire.

  And he didn’t know who she really was.

  The opportunity was too good to miss. He would never know. The rinse had successfully colored her hair black; the blue-tinged contact lenses completely hid her own eye color. Heavily applied bronze-toned pancake makeup had taken her normally cream complexion to a much darker hue, while carefully drawn lines and heavy shadows of dark rich color had given her eyes a mysterious, Far East cast. The lower portion of her face was misted by a veil of fine silk gauze. Perpetually leaning to the slim side, the trauma she had endured over the past few months had taken its toll upon her weight, and her costume, floating and flaring over curves now highlighted by gaunt shadows, did the rest to assure her complete change of person so that not even her mother would have recognized her.

  It had started as a lark. She had intended to announce her identity later in the evening. Then it had all gone so well … of course, it was understandable. She hadn’t seen any of them in a very long time.

  He had singled her out immediately. Their eyes had met across the room, and his had swept over her with astute appreciation. And before she knew it, she was in his arms.

  And it felt so good, so right!

  Had he been King Arthur in truth, Lancelot would have never stood a chance. He was everything wonderful—tall, strong, arrogantly masculine, and yet unceasingly tender.

  When he suggested that they leave, she didn’t blink an eye. She didn’t bother to think about the deceit she was weaving; it didn’t occur to her. She was caught in her own fantasy, unmindful of the repercussions that could follow. To her, they were strangers who had known one another forever, timeless lovers, partners in a dance that had just begun.

  She vaguely noted that Pinocchio and a Dresden doll were discussing the London Company as they neared the pair, lamenting the death of the lead guitarist, Richard Tremayne.

  “They’re still on top, though,” Pinocchio said admiringly. “I always did say that Derek Mallory was the talent behind the group.”

  “Yes, but Tremayne was exceptional,” the Dresden doll commented.

  “Umm—a genius,” interrupted a Fruit of the Loom grape. “I hear his wife helped him, too. Has anyone seen her? They say she clammed up, wouldn’t see or talk to anyone.”

  “I invited Leigh,” Pinocchio said. “I guess she couldn’t make it”

  “Maybe she knew Derek would be here,” someone snickered. “And he knows—”

  “He knows what?”

  The demand came curtly from King Arthur. She was forced to stop and snap into reality for a moment as he challenged the group.

  “Nothing, nothing,” was the mumbled reply.

  “Leigh Tremayne is a sweet lady,” Pinocchio said sincerely.

  “She was my best friend’s wife,” King Arthur returned in a deadly voice that held definite warning. “I don’t like to hear gossip about either of them. Richard is dead. Let him rest in peace.”

  “We all loved Richard,” the Dresden doll said softly, easing the tension that had risen. Then she smiled at Arthur. “You’re not leaving, are you?”

  “Yes,” Arthur said. “But thanks for a super party.”

  Pinocchio glanced longingly at the belly dancer by King Arthur’s side. “You can’t leave! We still haven’t figured out the true identity of your lovely lady here.”

  “Neither have I!” Arthur chuckled, grinning at her. “But I intend to.”

  She almost panicked. They were scrutinizing her too intently. But she held on to her composure and smiled, then affected a superb Irish accent learned from a doting grandparent. “You’ll have to think on it then, friends, for we are indeed leaving. But I add my thanks for a terrific night.”

  They were watched as they left the party. He, because he would always draw attention by the authority of his regal size and unusual eyes, she because she was simply stunning, an enchantress tonight. The eyes that observed their departure mirrored many human emotions—admiration, wistfulness, curiosity, envy, and downright jealousy.

  They were barely conscious of the stares that followed them. He was too enamored; she was too busy fighting her nervousness and pushing all the little fears that confronted her to the back of her mind.

  He’ll never know! she repeated over and over to herself. And finally, she was convinced.

  And so began the fantasy, the most wonderful night of her life.

  It was slow and easy and wonderful. He took her to a house he was borrowing from a friend for the weekend nestled among the magnolia trees, and they listened to the gentle strains of classical music before the light radiating from the mellow fire. They talked for hours, as the embers cast their dying glow, and she was relieved as the shadows became deeper, and the darkness became the protector of her identity. Even after he had asked her to remove her veil, he learned nothing of her, nor did he press. He too seemed to know that the night was mystical, a fantasy spun with silken thread.

  Their talking tapered into comfortable silence. He rose slowly and offered her his hand. By mute agreement she trustingly accepted him, and when she, too, was standing, he swept her as effortlessly as Stardust into his arms and lay her tenderly on the bed, where he began to disrobe her with loving reverence.

  She was naked now, more susceptible than ever to discovery. But she was lost in an endless field of longing and desire, totally absorbed by the magnificent male form before her, framed in a silhouette by the pale light of the moon like a true king. His lips touched her flesh and created a wildfire, his hands worshipped her, his limbs, against hers, demanded and possessed. He teased and tormented, feathery light, soft as a breeze. Then his tongue traced the mound of a firm breast and he drew his teeth over a hardening nipple. She moaned low in her throat and her fingers sank into his hair. Gentleness was lost in a swirling, urgent vortex of passion as darkness surrounded them. He whispered husky words to her, words of hunger, of thirst, of sweetness, of awe. He would never have his fill of her.

  And she whispered back. Shyly at first, then boldly as she learned she held the same captivating power over him that he did over her. She did, in fact, learn much that night, for he had not lied. He could not drink his full of her soft enchantment. He possessed her as she had never been possessed before, loved her with a beauty she had never imagined. Through the night she marveled at the wonder of giving herself to
such a man, of being so completely his. He demanded, he took, and he gave her ecstasy, a ceaseless cloud of sensual adoration and pleasure.

  Too soon the dawn broke across the heavens. She awoke with a start to find herself entwined with him, her head resting on his golden-haired chest. Pain raged through her mind with the acuteness of a cruel stabbing. It was over. Carefully, very carefully so as not to waken her sleeping king, she disengaged herself and quickly redonned her costume. The contact lenses were cutting her eyes like a thousand slivers, but she didn’t dare remove them until she was far away. She scampered to the door, but stopped. She had to go back. Just for a moment. Just to kiss his sleep-eased brow one more time.

  Her lips touched his skin, then she backed away. His eyes were beginning to flicker. She made it to the door before he awoke and called for her to stop. Begged, demanded. But he knew that she was fleeing. “I’ll find you!” he assured her, stumbling for his pants.

  “No,” she said, and her voice was torn with sadness. “You don’t know where to look.”

  Then she was gone, racing away, plummeting back to undeniable reality. She knew he chased her, but the gods of fantasy were with her. Like the magic created, she disappeared into thin air.

  Well, actually, she disappeared into a city cab. But it made no difference. She was gone to him forever.

  Because she was a real woman, and he despised the real woman who she was.

  CHAPTER ONE

  LEIGH TREMAYNE SHRUGGED AWAY the chill that assailed her as an unattached voice demanded her name and business after her Audi pulled to a halt in front of the massive iron gate. It wasn’t really the voice that bothered her, she realized. She had been to Derek’s Star Island estate before and knew what to expect. What was disturbing her, she admitted, was that she was coming closer and closer to the inevitable—her meeting with Derek.

  “It’s Mrs. Tremayne,” she called irritably. “And you’ll have to ask your boss what my business is!”

  The gate rolled silently open. For a moment she merely stared at it, her fingers frozen on the wheel of her car. She was suddenly panicking, wishing she had never agreed to come. Then she pushed such ridiculous notions aside and turned the key in the ignition. There was no reason for her not to come; there was no reason for her to fear an encounter with Derek Mallory.

  She drove slowly up the gravel driveway and past the manicured lawns, unconsciously smoothing back a wispy tendril of light auburn hair. Acutely aware that there was a good possibility that she was being observed by an electronic eye, she made no attempt to check her appearance. Besides, Richard had once assured her—in the days before he had begun to find fault—that her beauty lay in her “classic nobility of presence.” And at twenty-seven she had come to an age when she was capable of assessing herself objectively. She might not be a great beauty, but she was an attractive woman. Almost elegant at times, thanks to the sophistication Richard had laboriously drilled into her. And today she had drawn on every natural asset and every grain of hauteur learned from her late husband. Her copper hair was knotted simply on her head beneath the rim of her low-angled beige hat; her large hazel eyes were subtly highlighted by blended green and brown shadows; her “classic” cheekbones were pronounced by a slight touch of blush.

  As she crawled lithely from the car, she casually straightened her beige skirt. She had chosen the outfit, and the three-inch heels despite her slender five-nine frame, for a businesslike and aloof effect. Derek certainly hadn’t called her to renew an old friendship. He had made his opinion of her quite clear at Richard’s funeral, and they hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

  Derek, although he didn’t say it in so many words, blamed her for the wasteful demise of his friend and partner, Richard Tremayne, undoubtedly one of the finest musicians of the twentieth century. The world mourned Richard sincerely while it seemed to Derek that his widow did not.

  But what Derek didn’t realize, she thought wryly, was that she had mourned the loss of her husband long before his death. And she had loved him. She had given him her heart, soul, and mind and catered to him completely until she began to lose her own existence in the shadow of his growing tantrums and demands. Then she awoke one day with the bitter and sad assimilation of the truth. Richard loved her in his way, but not enough to grant her the individual devotion of a normal marriage partner. Toward the end he cruelly pointed out that she should be grateful just for the privilege of being his wife. He kept her well; she could have anything in the world. He had literally given her fame and fortune. His laughter when she tried to explain that she didn’t want the world but a stable home and family had been the final straw. She had filed for divorce, but Richard’s untimely death had left her a widow instead of a “Ms.”

  The shrill cry of a mockingbird startled her into realizing that she had been staring blankly at the whitewashed facade of Derek’s deco mansion. Shaking herself sternly, she climbed the five tile steps of the curved outer doorway and briskly clanged the heavy brass knocker. She was happy now, meeting each day with cheerful anticipation. She had mourned, but the past, with all its good and bad, belonged in its proper perspective. And if Derek Mallory intended to tear down her present complacency with accusations and disapproval, she would be back out the door before she ever sat down.

  “Come in, please, Mrs. Tremayne.”

  Leigh was greeted by Derek’s staid and proper butler, an English import like his Waterford crystal. Although Derek and the group spent most of their time in the States, they still considered Great Britain their home and often liked elements of “home” around them. Leigh also knew that the popular conception that the group had risen from the slums of Liverpool was absurdly far from the truth. Each of the five original members of the band had been born to affluent families. Derek, in fact, would one day be Lord Mallory.

  “Thank you, James,” she told the austere butler. A slightly wicked smile curved her lips. It always amazed her that James, so amazingly dignified and correct, could consistently maintain his rigid discipline of manner amidst the frequent cacophony of his employer’s world. “How have you been?”

  “Fine, madam, thank you,” James replied without a twitch of his countenance. “Now if you’ll follow me, please, I’ll take you to Mr. Mallory. He’s been expecting you, you know.”

  “Yes, I know,” Leigh said smoothly, but James was moving down the cathedral-domed hallway before the words were out of her mouth. She hurried after him, listening to the sharp click of her heels on the Venetian tile of the floor. James was leading her to Derek’s large office, a room where he carried out his business affairs and also kept a perfectly tuned grand piano so that he could work whenever the impulse came to him.

  James swung open a set of varnished oak double doors, and Leigh stopped abruptly behind him, her eyes drawn to the man at the cherry-wood desk.

  Derek was casually seated. His long, jean-clad legs were stretched on top of the desk, crossed at the ankle. A pair of Adidas sneakers adorned his feet, a simple navy tank top exposed more of his broad, golden-haired chest than it covered. His sturdy tanned hands and incredibly long fingers were engaged in holding a ledger and scribbling upon it. His handsome features—high arched brows, deep golden-brown eyes, long aquiline nose, and beard-fringed, sensual mouth—were taut, tense, and engrossed, as if the ledger before him posed infinite problems. At the sound of their approach, he glanced up sharply, his gaze falling quickly from James to Leigh, a dark, fathomless gaze that seemed to strike her with the force of a physical blow, divest her of chic clothing down to the vulnerable flesh, even go beyond the flesh and bare the terrible beating of her heart to open view. How ridiculous! she admonished herself. Cowardly whimsy. Derek couldn’t possibly see a thing except a well-dressed young woman.

  “Mr. Mallory, Mrs. Tremayne,” James announced unnecessarily. He made a clipped goose step and disappeared down the hall.

  “Hello, Derek,” Leigh said coolly, striding into the room with what she hoped was assurance.

 
He rose slowly, almost insolently, from his relaxed pose, towering several inches over her despite her own regal height in heels. A shaft of light streamed in from the huge bay windows, highlighting his hair, his beard, and rippled chest to reddish gold as he reached out a hand to take hers, enveloping its fine-boned smoothness in a firm grip. Leigh struggled inwardly to prevent her facial muscles from forming a wince. She was experiencing a far worse reaction than she had expected. It felt as if the long fingers that held her so lightly were charged with electricity, sending shock waves of heat through her entire system. She withdrew her hand as quickly as she could after his slow return of, “Hello, Leigh,” dismayed to note the flash of amusement that flickered through his golden-brown eyes at her obvious haste.

  “Sit down, will you,” he suggested cordially, indicating a comfortable straight-backed but thickly padded chair opposite the desk. She silently acquiesced, taking the opportunity to study him covertly from beneath the shade of her downcast, fluffy lashes.

  Derek was undeniably possessed of an innate, animalistic charm. It was something he had a vague acceptance of, like his thick, shaggy hair or deep, compelling eyes. He was superbly built, sinewed but slender, his height belying his true strength and breadth. Powerful, taut shoulders tapered to a steel-flat waist and trim hips and long, well-muscled thighs. Yet his sensuality was not a physical thing, not in that sense. It was part of his languorous movements, his shrewd eyes, his deceptive conviviality. Derek was like a cobra. A woman could find herself hypnotized by those magnetic eyes, lulled by that sleek, fluid grace, then suddenly struck, the victim of a swift and venomous attack. A woman could, if she allowed herself to be vulnerable. And vulnerable, Leigh swore silently, she would never be. In the early days of her marriage she had adored him. Her husband’s best friend had become her own. Even then she had been acutely aware of his devastating sexuality. But in those days she had considered herself immune. Her equally charming and talented husband demanded her complete concentration. And then of course Derek would never have dreamed of touching her. Since Leigh was his best friend’s wife, Leigh knew that Derek would rather die than touch her.