by Sandra Field
He hauled it over his head and threw off his jacket; Eleonore always kept the room too warm for his taste. “I just flew in from the Caribbean.”
“Would you like tea? A drink?”
“No. This isn’t a social call.” He paused for a moment, wishing, as he’d always wished, that he could see even a sliver of warmth in her cold blue eyes.
“Then why don’t you come to the point?” she said.
“Eight years ago, in Paris, I had a brief affair with a woman whose name I never knew,” Seth said bluntly. “She wrote to me two months later, to tell me she was pregnant. She sent one letter to my office, the other to this address. I never got either one. Did you by any chance intercept them?”
“Of course I did.”
“Of course?” he repeated tersely.
“Some little nobody who plays the fiddle and gets herself pregnant with your child? You think I’d let her anywhere near the Talbot fortune?”
So his suspicions had been well-founded; Eleonore had cold-bloodedly destroyed two letters and thereby deprived him of any knowledge that he was about to become a father. He said at random, because he could scarcely take in her perfidy, “Lia’s far from a nobody—she has an international reputation as a violinist.”
“Then why didn’t you know her name?” Eleonore flashed.
“She wanted to be anonymous—her fame was new to her then. I did my best to trace her, without success…if one thing’s clear in all this mess, it’s that Lia wasn’t then, and isn’t now, after my money.”
“You’re far too naïve! I opened the letter that came here, and went straight to your office to destroy the second one; fortunately, she’d mentioned she’d sent two.”
“The child she was carrying—that was my child,” Seth said harshly.
“I’m quite sure she had an abortion once she knew she wasn’t getting a penny out of us.”
“She didn’t. My daughter—your granddaughter—is now seven years old. Her name is Marise.”
“So when are you getting married, Seth, and making the child legitimate?”
Eleonore had always had the ability to get under his skin. “I’m not,” Seth said, his voice rising. “You and father put me off marriage permanently. But I’ve been cheated out of seven years of my daughter’s life because you destroyed those letters. How could you have done that?”
“Easily,” Eleonore shrugged, “and I’d do it again.”
“You would, wouldn’t you? Luckily Lia didn’t choose to emulate you and have an abortion.”
Eleonore’s voice was like a whiplash. “Just what do you mean by that?”
“That fight you and Father had when I was eight—I overheard it. I heard you tell him how you’d aborted his second child. A girl, you said. She would have been my sister.”
“You were in bed asleep.”
“I was hiding in the library, where I’d gone looking for a book. You destroyed a life because it would have inconvenienced you.”
“I’d already produced an heir to the Talbot name—it was my duty to do so. But there was no need for a second child.”
“Why do you think I’ve never married? Never wanted a child of my own? Could it possibly have anything to do with overhearing my own mother discuss how she’d cold-bloodedly rid herself of a child she considered nothing but a nuisance?”
“Don’t blame me for your shortcomings!”
“Who else is there to blame?”
“Eavesdroppers get what they deserve.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” Seth retorted, and took a deep breath. A shouting match hadn’t been in his plans. He said evenly, “I want a signed confession from you, saying that you destroyed those two letters.”
“Why should I do that?”
“Because if you don’t, I’ll make sure the information goes public.”
Eleonore’s breath hissed between her teeth. “You wouldn’t.”
“Try me.”
“What will you do with it should I sign such a ridiculous document?”
“Show it to Lia. So she knows why I left her totally alone to deal with her pregnancy and our daughter.”
“She’s blackmailing you!”
“That’s the last thing she’d ever do—Lia has ethics. Unlike you. Sign it, Mother, or I’ll make sure every one of your high-class acquaintances finds out exactly what you did eight years ago. Tampering with the mail is a federal offence, by the way.”
“Go to the desk and bring me my leather folder.”
Seth did so, then sat like a stone as Eleonore wrote a single brief sentence on her elegant letterhead. She signed the crisp vellum, and passed it to him. “I hope that satisfies you,” she said bitterly.
He read it, folded it and tucked it in his jacket pocket. “You’re not even remotely sorry for what you did, are you?”
“I’ve already told you I’m not. Now that you’ve gotten what you came for, I’d suggest you leave.”
“Did you ever love me?” Seth said very quietly.
Her eyes a glacial blue, she snapped, “I did my duty by you, Seth. What more do you want?”
What, indeed? Seth got to his feet, picking up his jacket and tie. “I’ll let myself out,” he said.
He strode out of the sitting room, closing the door with exaggerated gentleness behind him. But as he crossed the hallway, his father came out of the adjoining room. Allan Talbot was the last person Seth wanted to see right now. “Father,” he said, dredging up his good manners with conventional politeness, “how are you?”
Allan had Seth’s green eyes, coupled with auburn hair thickly threaded with gray; although he was nearly Seth’s height, his shoulders had a perpetual stoop and his face was prematurely wrinkled. If Eleonore had seized control in their marriage, Allan had abdicated it in a way Seth had found difficult to respect; and all too often in Seth’s youth, Allan had found solace in the most expensive of wines. Now Allan said with unusual forcefulness, “I need to talk to you.”
“I’m in a—”
“Please, Seth.”
Stifling a sigh, Seth followed Allan further down the wide hallway to the library where Allan spent most of his time. Allan closed the door behind him, shutting them in with the long-remembered odors of leather upholstery, old books and beeswax polish. “I overheard what you just told your mother,” he said unevenly. “I’d seen your car outside, so I was looking for you. I never realized you knew what happened all those years ago—about the abortion, I mean. That was a terrible burden for a small boy to carry.”
“It’s a long time ago, Father.”
“If I’d only known you’d heard every word your mother and I said…right here in this room.” An old pain scored Allan’s face. “That was the worst night of my life—and to find out that you witnessed it is almost more than I can bear.”
“I survived,” Seth said dryly. “As you see.”
“I’d always wanted another child, Eleonore knew that. Once she’d told me what she’d done, I couldn’t bring myself to get close to her again. To reach out to her in any way.” He dashed a hand to his eyes, adding with scathing self-criticism, “I reached for the bottle instead.”
“You’re scarcely to be blamed.”
“I wish I could agree. I couldn’t bring myself to divorce her, either—what kind of man does that make me?”
“How about loyal?” Seth ventured, feeling his heart ache with unaccustomed sympathy. Had he ever really allowed himself to see his father’s pain before?
“Gutless is a better word.”
“You’re being too harsh. The past is done with, over. Beating up on yourself doesn’t accomplish anything.”
“I’m not sure the past is ever over.”
He, Seth, had certainly been living his life as though the past rode him like a millstone. He said awkwardly, “Why don’t we change gears here, Father? You have a granddaughter now. A little girl called Marise who’s seven years old and who inherited the Talbot green eyes.”
Allan’s eyes filmed
with tears. “Have you seen her?”
“Not yet. Lia’s being very protective of her, understandably so. For eight years she thought I’d abandoned any responsibility for that night in Paris and its outcome…until we met again by sheer chance a few days ago at White Cay, and it all came out in the open. But sooner or later I’m going to see Marise. I have to.”
“I’d love to meet her,” Allan said wistfully.
Seth took one more step into new territory. “Perhaps that can be arranged. Given time.”
Clumsily Allan put an arm around his son’s shoulders. “Marise,” he whispered. “Such a pretty name.”
“Her mother is the most beautiful woman in the world,” Seth said hoarsely.
“You’re in love with her.”
“No, I’m not—I don’t seem to have that ability. But I admire and respect her. And,” Seth’s smile was wry, “lust after her. That hasn’t changed over the last eight years.”
“Respect and passion aren’t a bad basis for marriage.”
“Lia doesn’t want to get married.”
“Then you’ll have to change her mind, won’t you? That shouldn’t be any problem for the man who runs Talbot Holdings. Iron fist in the velvet glove, and all that.”
“Lia’s fists aren’t what you’d call velvet and she doesn’t bother with gloves,” Seth said with a grin.
“She must be quite a woman.”
“That’s one way of describing her.”
“I look forward to meeting her,” Allan said. “Will you send me a photo of Marise, Seth? Of Lia, too, if you have one.”
He didn’t. “I’ll send them to your private postbox,” Seth said tautly. “Otherwise Mother’ll tear them to shreds.”
“What she did was unconscionable—you have every right to be angry.”
“So do you.”
Allan sighed. “The hard truth is, I still love her. Don’t ask me why. But I do. Who knows, perhaps little Marise will cause some sort of miracle.”
“I won’t bring Marise into this house!”
Allan rubbed his forehead. “I’m so sorry, for so much,” he said. “But you mustn’t let my failings and Eleonore’s keep you from your own happiness, Seth. That only compounds the tragedy.”
Seth felt his throat tighten. He said roughly, “You know what? This is the nearest we’ve ever come to a real conversation.”
Allan suddenly smiled, a smile that made him look years younger. “Good,” he said. “Keep in touch, son. I’ll travel anywhere at any time to meet my granddaughter.”
The two men exchanged another unaccustomed hug, then Seth ran downstairs and let himself out. It was already growing dark and he had a long drive ahead of him. But plenty to think about on that drive, he realized, checking that he had the single piece of paper his mother had signed.
He was going to make sure Lia saw that piece of paper. Nor was he going to wait ten days for it to happen.
Quickly Seth punched in the numbers. The connection was made and the phone began to ring. The receiver was picked up and a woman’s voice said crisply, “Lia d’Angeli.”
His mouth dry, Seth said easily, “I’ll meet you in half an hour at the Klimt Coffee House. It’s right across from your hotel.”
There was an instant of dead silence. “Seth, is this your idea of a joke?”
“We won’t jump each other at the Klimt. I promise.”
Lia scowled at the opposite wall of her hotel room and said the obvious. “You’re in Vienna.”
“Yep. Did you really think I’d wait until you came back?”
“Actually I did. Silly me. I can’t meet you, I’ve got a rehearsal this afternoon and a concert tonight.”
He kept his voice light with a huge effort. “So are you shacked up with Rosnikov?”
She made a very rude noise down the receiver. “Are you traveling with a malleable woman who never raises her voice?”
“I’ve discovered they bore me,” he said meekly.
“And I don’t?”
“Not so far.”
“You have such a winning way with words.”
“Spend half an hour with me and I’ll see if I can improve,” he said. “You can leave in lots of time for your rehearsal.”
“I—dammit,” she exploded, and slammed down the phone. The portrait on the opposite wall was of a plumply naked Renaissance woman with artless blue eyes and loopy blond curls; Lia glared at her and yanked open the doors of the immense baroque wardrobe in which her few clothes hung like orphans. Seth was here. In Vienna.
She didn’t have to meet him.
If she didn’t turn up, she wouldn’t put it past him to storm the hotel.
She couldn’t allow him to come to her room. It had a bed in it.
She snagged her jersey pants and tunic from the hanger; they were a rich shade of aubergine. Quickly she dressed, making up her face with care and leaving her hair loose. Then she flung a glittering silver-embroidered scarf over her shoulders and jammed silver hoops into her earlobes. The supple leather boots she’d bought in Paris were the final touch.
She looked very classy. No way was she going to let Seth Talbot know she was a mass of pre-concert nerves.
He’d be a useful distraction, she thought. Anything to make the hours pass until tonight.
Pulling a rude face at the portrait, Lia left the room. Her hotel was in the Belvedere district, near the monumental Musikverein, where she would be performing tonight. Trying to breathe slowly and deeply, as her coach had taught her, Lia walked to Karlsplatz, mentally saluting the two carved angels at the entrance to the magnificent Karlskirche. Then she stopped to smooth the curves of the Henry Moore sculptures by the pond.
The spring sunshine was warm on her face; the ducks were in an amatory mood. Why had she thought about Seth entirely too much in the past few days?
Maybe when she saw him again, she’d find some answers.
The Klimt Coffee House was one of her favorites, not the least for its fine quality reproductions of the artist’s fiercely beautiful portraits of women. She could add to that the high ceilings and elegantly arched windows, the civilized murmur of conversation and the delicious odor of Turkish coffee. Her eyes flicked around the room.
Seth was seated beneath a huge reproduction of The Kiss, that unabashedly erotic blend of golds and reds depicting a man and a woman so entwined as to be almost indistinguishable. Her heels clicking on the marble floor, she walked toward Seth. He got up to meet her, kissing her on both cheeks.
“What’s up?” he said abruptly. “You’ll do fine tonight.”
Scowling at him, she replied, “Is it so pitifully obvious that I’m a mass of nerves?”
“To me it is—although I’ve never been known for empathy.”
She raised her brows. “Well,” she remarked, “I should’ve realized we wouldn’t waste time with small talk…I’ll have a Turkish coffee and a big slice of Sachertorte.”
“Chocolate cake layered with apricot jam?” Seth said, amused. “You’re in a bad way.”
She was rhythmically tapping the tabletop with her fingernails; he’d never found her to be a jittery woman. “It’s always this way before a concert,” she said. “I’ll be fine once I start to play.”
“So there’s a cost to being the best.”
“Right now I’m not convinced it’s worth it.”
Seth dropped his hand over hers, stilling her restless movements. “I wish I could help.”
Very briefly her fingers curled into his palm. A wicked glint in her eye, she said, “You’re distracting me. That helps.”
He raised her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers one by one. “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
Her cheeks, which had been too pale, were now patched with hectic color. Flustered, she said, “You gotta order my cake, that’s what you gotta do.”
“Lia, you disappoint me—you’d choose Sachertorte over seduction?” Seth said, grinning as he signaled the waiter. After he’d given their orde
r, he drew a plain white envelope from his jacket pocket, his smile fading. “This is for you.”
She took the envelope from him as warily as if it were a poisonous snake. Then, with sudden decisiveness, she tore it open and read the words on the single sheet of embossed notepaper. “Your mother destroyed both of my letters,” she said blankly.
“Yes. I wish to God she hadn’t.”
Lia’s own mother, for all her enormous professionalism and high standards, had always loved her only child and wished the best for her. “How could your mother have done that? Intervened so cruelly—altered the course of three lives, one of them her own son’s?”
“I don’t know, Lia—I don’t have the answer.”
“It was a vicious thing to do,” Lia said faintly. “All those weeks I waited for you to get in touch with me, and tried so hard not to hate you…then feeling utterly alone when Marise was born…”
Her eyes were shining with tears. “I’d have been there for you, had I known,” Seth said hoarsely. “I swear it, Lia.”
“But you didn’t know, because your mother destroyed my letters. Why, Seth? Why?”
He’d realized this question would arise; realized, too, that to attempt an answer would be to reveal things about himself he’d always kept private. Stumbling a little at first, Seth began to describe the stone mansion, Eleonore’s coldness, Allan’s subservience and his own escape as a boy to the woods and the shore. The waiter brought their order, and still he talked, encouraged by Lia’s complete and unforced attention. Then he looked up, knowing he was making a momentous decision. “Do you remember I asked you, when I found out about Marise, if you’d considered having an abortion?”
“Yes. You looked…overwhelmed when I told you I hadn’t.”
He forced himself to keep going. “When I was eight my mother had one…I think it broke my father’s heart when he found out. I overheard them the night she told him.”
This time Lia covered his hand with hers. “Seth, I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“I can’t ever thank you enough for having Marise,” he said in a raw voice, “just as I’ll always regret I wasn’t there for you.”
A tear dropped from her dark lashes to the back of his hand. He gazed at it, seeing how the light from the chandelier had refracted into a tiny rainbow in its midst. Why had he told her something he’d kept secret for years? And why did a single tear feel like the most precious of gifts? “This is the last thing we should be talking about when you’ve got a concert tonight,” he muttered.