When Next We Love

by Heather Graham

  A red mark was rapidly spreading across his cheek where she had struck him, but she didn’t care. They couldn’t be friends; they might as well be out-and-out enemies. “That’s right, Mr. Mallory,” she hissed furiously. “Wanton little me. I can’t resist the touch of anyone male, including you, even though I do hate you with all my heart! But my friend in the Keys … well, he’s terribly jealous and demanding and I do love him so I try to control myself. …”

  Flippant anger was the wrong path to have taken. She stopped speaking because the wrath in his eyes and rigid stance was so murderous that she became frightened. “I told you, Leigh, never to slap me.” His voice was as low and ominous as thunder. His fingers abruptly curled into the back of her hair so tightly that tears sprang unbidden to her eyes and she was sure that her scalp would shortly depart from her head. He swung her around in his punishing grip and shoved her toward the house. “This is your last warning—don’t do it again.”

  There was no course for her but to head back inside with her chin lifted. Any further words between them could be. deadly as well as futile.

  He followed her back to the house, both dripping seawater. They met Roger on the patio, who said, “Bad time to be swimming,” merriment playing in his eyes. “I came to warn you dinner was about, ready, but …”

  “We’ll be right back down,” Derek chuckled, throwing an arm around Leigh’s shoulder. “We got a little carried away.”

  Leigh winced at his touch, ready again to do battle and set all records straight now that Roger was present to buffer her from Derek. But he was, again, prepared for the response he knew she would make. Her words were nothing but a gasp as he easily hoisted her into his arms and carried her to the staircase, his throaty, amorous-sounding laughter drowning out her gulping attempts to protest.

  He took her to his own room instead of hers and dumped her on the bed, and when she indignantly tried to stand, he roughly threw her back.

  “Just what do you think you’re doing, Derek Mallory? You can’t keep me away from the others forever! And when I do talk, you will be in trouble!”

  “And you will look ridiculous!”

  “Oh, and how is that?”

  Derek took her chin lightly but with great menace. “Because, my dear, Roger and John are now thoroughly convinced we are having an affair. Flighty and pen-happy Miss Lavinia White will be thrilled to fill her magazine with the news of it; after all, she did see you in a state of undress! And—”

  “Affairs end!” Leigh whispered defiantly. “And this one is ending right now.”

  “No, it’s not!”

  “Derek, you can’t make me do anything! I don’t care what anyone thinks or what anyone writes! All I want is to get away—”

  “And that’s the only thing I’ll deny you!”

  “Why?” Her single word was a cry of despair.

  “Why do you think?” he demanded bitterly.

  Tears sprang to her eyes and she choked them back. “You’re trying to punish me for Richard, but Lord, Derek! I’ve paid for Richard. You never gave me a chance! You don’t know the half of it!”

  “I know enough!”

  “Richard has been dead a long time! Why now? Why?”

  “Because you wouldn’t have come before.”

  Derek uttered his statement dispassionately and finally left her on the bed to walk to his closet, choose a dry outfit, and begin to strip, apparently comfortable doing so in her presence. She glanced longingly at the door to estimate her chances of making a quick escape when he grated, “Don’t try it. You’ll be sorry.”

  She replied with a derisive, brittle laugh. “And what will you do?”

  “Try it.”

  “I will, Derek, and if you touch me again, I’ll scream bloody murder!” Leigh warned, tossing her head in her most contemptuous manner. She stood with disdainful grace, slowly, as if she thought no more of him than of a harmless fly.

  She made it as far as the door. Then he was upon her in two easy strides, naked to the waist. The crisp mat of hair on his chest tingled through the soaked blouse that clung to her skin as he caught her and threw her back even more viciously than before. Caught in his viselike grip, she could only stare with disbelief as he quietly told her, “Why, Leigh? Why all this? Because of Richard, because of me, because of you. There was no judge and jury to take care of you on Richard’s behalf. So it falls to me. Stupid, idiotic me. The one who praised you to no end, the one who envied Richard his beautiful and charming wife, the one who would hear no wrong until forced to see it all. You mocked Richard, Leigh, and you made an absolute fool out of me. None of which I ever wanted to believe!”

  Leigh hung limp against him. The puzzle pieces were all fitting in, everything was in the open. Any mask of chivalry Derek had worn had been to connive her to stay where he wanted her.

  “So what now?” she asked bleakly. “Why don’t you just beat me up, macho man, and leave it at that?”

  “Too easy!” he muttered.

  “Then what?” she demanded flatly, no longer rebellious but tired. “You can’t keep me forever to torture …”

  “No, your sentence isn’t life.”

  He left her again to finish dressing, sure she would not take off again. Leigh lay with her eyes closed, incredulous that he could think he could hold her against her will.

  He came back to the bed and jerked her up by the wrist. “Let’s go. You have to change before you get pneumonia.”

  “Wouldn’t you like that?” she queried sweetly.

  He ignored her and ushered her into the room next door, carefully locking the door after they had come through it. “Your suit is in the closet. Emma cleaned and pressed it.” He leaned against the door with crossed arms.

  Leigh took her clothing into the bathroom and changed quickly. She brushed out her hair and repaired her makeup. When she emerged, Derek was still against the door, exactly as she had left him.

  “Now, Mrs. Tremayne,” he said coolly, “the choice is yours. If you walk down those stairs like the nice little lady you always purported to be, the night may go well.”

  “And if I don’t?” It was all too absurd!

  “Then you take your chances!” Something in his expression caused her to pale perceptibly. “Let’s go.”

  She wondered as she preceded him downstairs how she could have managed to become part of the nightmare she was living. There had been moments at first, she was sure, when Derek had truly gentled toward her. He knew Richard had lied about a few things! The scene in the office had assured her of that. But now, now it seemed he hated her more than ever. The violent rumblings of hostility he had barely concealed at Richard’s funeral were erupting like the lava of a volcano.

  Dinner, which she dreaded, went amazingly well. Derek slipped back into his mask of conviviality, and became the perfect host. It was an easy meal, comfortable, made so by the bantering between the three men who worked together and who, in that capacity, had shared in one another’s lives to a deeper extent than family. Roger was the main entertainment for the meal, telling funny tales of early experiences. Leigh began to wonder how the conversation would have gone had Richard been present instead of she, if the four men would not have fallen into ribald jokes and laughed the night away, eternal friends and conspirators of the night.

  They wandered into the game room after dinner, where Roger came upon Derek’s picture albums. He ensconced himself into a well-padded couch with Leigh and went through them as Derek and John shot pool. The albums were dated, and Roger started from the first year that the group, then shy and awkward boys, had first started playing together. They appeared in black velvet suits with ruffled white shirts, their hair—daringly long for those days!—curling over their collars.

  “James put these all together for Derek, you know,” Roger mused, as he and Leigh chuckled over the old pictures. “Staid old James! Pretends he can’t stand the music but he bristles with pride over Derek anyway. I wish I had had a James!”

  Th
ey moved on through the years, looking at remembrances of both the professional and private lives of the London Company. The boys in London, Glasgow, New York, Paris, and so on. Roger with an Orange Bowl Queen, Shane with the Italian girl who would become his wife, and then, Richard and Derek and herself, playing in the surf behind her father’s house. Richard … tall, slender, handsome, his eyes as blue and light as the surf, his face as endearing and sincere.

  Pictures followed of their wedding, Richard, the groom, Derek, the best man, Roger, Shane, and Bobby as ushers. Leigh, a very different Leigh, a bright, beautiful, and radiant bride. Derek, a Derek tender, admiring, respectful, kissing the bride. …

  Pictures could be painful. Leigh stretched and snapped shut an album. “Those were fun to go through, Roger,” she said, standing to uncramp her legs. “They made me feel drowsy, though. I think I’ll go on up to bed.”

  “Don’t go yet,” Derek called. He paused and surveyed his shot, chalked his stick, and deposited the eight ball in the corner pocket. “Emma was making us some Irish coffees and scones.”

  He smiled at her caressingly and she smiled back with twisted lips. She wasn’t up to arguing with him tonight, or putting any of his threats to a test. “Irish coffee sounds nice.”

  And it was very nice. They sipped it out on the patio, the breeze having lulled pleasantly. Except for the visible damage to the palms and other plant life, the storm might never have existed.

  Derek sat beside Leigh, his arm around her shoulder or his hand resting on hers. She didn’t fight him; she was too tired. Tonight the game was his. She could almost ignore the light touch of his long, strong fingers.

  “Irish whiskey,” Roger mused, thoughtfully scooping his whipped cream with a swizzle stick. His gaze suddenly focused on Leigh. “Weren’t your folks Irish?”

  “My father was,” Leigh replied, idly chewing on the plastic of her swizzle stick. “My mother was Welsh.” She started as she felt a spasm surge through the hand Derek was holding.

  “McTigh!” He sounded as if he were choking.

  Leigh was puzzled. “Yes, my name was McTigh. But my dad was very Americanized. You two know yourselves how easy it is to gain and lose mannerisms and customs! Don’t you agree, John?” She laughed. “Why there were times I would have sworn Richard came from southern Georgia rather than London!” She couldn’t begin to understand Derek’s reaction to the conversation. He had met her father!

  “Yes, I’m sure we could all pass as Americans by now,” Derek said absently.

  “I didn’t say that!” Leigh chuckled. “You’ve picked up a lot of American expressions, but it’s obvious you’re British every time you open your mouth.”

  “Just like everyone knows I’m an American!” John supplied. “Even though I’m with the London Company now.”

  “You know,” Roger reflected, leaning his chin in his hands, “we need a name for John. Remember, Derek, when we started the band how we all had the little names printed on our cards? You know what I’m talking about, Leigh. I’m the Duke of Rose, Richard was the Wizard of Oz, Bobby, Sir Robert, Shane, the King of Hearts, and Derek, of course, Lord Mallory. What could we have John be?”

  “Something high-sounding too!” John chuckled.

  “But American!” Leigh interjected. The liquor was numbing the pain she had been feeling and she was beginning to enjoy herself.

  “American …” Roger said thoughtfully. “Chief John?”

  “Too plain!” John protested.

  “The Governor? The President?” Leigh was thinking American.

  “How about the Pied Piper?” Derek suggested, apparently involved with the conversation although his eyes still seemed slightly distant and oddly speculative as he watched Leigh. “Pied Piper. For his flute.”

  “That’s it! I love it!” John Haley decided jubilantly.

  “And now …” Derek sipped at his warm glass and brushed at the mustache that no longer existed. “We need one for Leigh.”

  “But I’m not with the group!” she cried.

  “You will be,” he corrected. “For the next album.”

  “True! True!” Roger delightedly tapped on the aluminum table. “Maybe the Wizardess of Oz?”

  “No!” John protested quickly, and Leigh saw by the glance he exchanged with Roger that he was reminding him Leigh now belonged with Derek. “No, Leigh should have her own special name.”

  “Wonder Woman?” Roger tried.

  “Ugh!” from Leigh.

  “There’s always the Black Widow,” Derek proposed innocently. “But actually, I have a better one, The Lady of the Lake. Medieval and quite fitting too, considering Leigh is only truly happy in or around water.”

  Leigh shrugged and downed the tail end of her drink. The peculiar look Derek continued to give her was making her terribly uneasy. If she were an animal, she would be sniffing the air for danger.

  “Sounds good,” she said, suppressing a faked yawn. “I think I will go up now, if you all don’t mind.” Without meaning to, she glanced at Derek for his approval, wincing inwardly at the amusement and spark of triumph that sped briefly through his eyes.

  “I’ll walk you up,” he offered.

  “You don’t really need to,” Leigh demurred. If she could only move quickly enough … She planted a light kiss on top of his head and waved jauntily to Roger and John. “You all stay and talk!” She scampered into the house, confident that Derek would not follow now.

  But he did. He was knocking at her door even as she closed it.

  “What, Derek,” she moaned, throwing it back open to admit him.

  “I just wanted to tell you good night and”—he leaned against the door with sardonic amusement—“good show.”

  “Isn’t that what you want?” she jeered.

  “Umm …”

  “Well good night and thank you.” Her sarcasm ruffled him not at all. He continued to watch her, curiously, as if he had seen something new. Then he chuckled. “Good night … me lass!”

  He left, closing the door with a snap behind him.

  “What ails that man?” Leigh wondered aloud irritably as she bolted the door uneasily. She shook her head with disgust and changed into a shirt with little thought. She was so tired! She had been at Derek’s for less than forty-eight hours and he had totally exhausted her.

  Yet sleep, when she had tucked herself into the four-poster, was hard to come by. Her eyes kept flying open as her mind raced on.

  Derek was blatantly oat for revenge. And in a way she understood his feelings. She could well remember the way Richard could tell a story, the way he could make you almost believe it was night when it was day. And she, like a fool, had fostered Derek’s belief in her coldhearted infidelity by her impulsive angry words.

  At moments, she thought wistfully, Derek honestly wanted her. She instinctively knew when his touch was sincere. But, and she hardened her heart, Derek honestly wanted a number of attractive females. He was a womanizer, like Richard.

  Games. All they did was play games together. Hers had been one of unrequited love and desire; his was based entirely on bittersweet revenge. He was making all the plays; as yet, she had hardly had a turn.

  But the chance for her move would come. And when it did she asked herself wryly, which way would she turn?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “YOU’RE A LUCKY GIRL, Leigh. Like those model types in the soap operas who manage to waken in perfect form.”

  Leigh rapidly blinked the sleep from her eyes to stare wrathfully at the figure casually seated, hands around knees, at the foot of her bed.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “Key, of course. I own the house, remember,” Derek replied.

  “Good,” she told him curtly. “Go find somewhere else in your house to sit!” She turned her back on him and added, “I thought it would take you a day and a half to find the key.”

  “So it would, except Emma found it for me.”

  Traitor! Leigh thought silently. “Could you go
away, please? I’d like to go back to sleep.” She pointedly closed her eyes.

  “What? More sleep? You’ve already slept half the day away!” Derek proclaimed, ripping her covers rudely from her. “Come on downstairs, my love, we’re having a party and you’re the hostess for the day.”

  The drapes went flying open and Leigh blinked again, painfully, as she forced her lids up and acknowledged from the angle of the sun streaming through the window that it was late in the day. She groaned and buried her face in her pillow. “Go have your party without me.”

  “No way, love. It’s a work party.” His voice had taken on a crisp and authoritative edge. “Get your sweet body up and moving. My office.”

  Leigh jumped up seething as her door slammed after his exit. She had had just about enough of Derek Mallory. She glanced out the window with narrowed eyes. The sun was brilliantly shining; only a slight breeze whispered through the foliage.

  She was getting off Star Island, this morning, alone.

  Determined, she showered and flung open the closet door to find the beige suit that she had worn the night before. It was gone. In its place hung a new assortment of clothing—blouses, pants, and three dresses. It infuriated her further to realize that someone had been very busy in her room while she had thought she was sleeping in privacy.

  But if she wanted to leave the room, she had to dress. She chose jeans and a short-sleeved gold-threaded blouse, a comfortable outfit for a drive. Then she moved purposefully down the stairs. She didn’t expect to find her own car waiting outside, but if Derek had arranged a “party,” then the phones had to be in order and the bridge passable. She would call a cab, and fly back home. The Audi could be picked up later, when Derek had tired of his game.