by Alice Orr
Suddenly, feeling and hearing him were not enough. Delia needed to see him, too. She rolled slowly toward her edge of the bed, being careful not to pull the covers from his body. She didn’t want him to wake up just yet. She sat up on the side of the bed and listened. His breathing remained steady, undisturbed. She slid from beneath the covers and stood. The cooler air of the room chilled her skin, but she didn’t search for her robe. Moving around to do that would be too likely to make noise. She tiptoed naked to the window instead and felt for the edge of the blackout curtain. She pushed the opaque drapery back from first one side of the window then the other, taking care to slide them silently along the track above.
She was shivering as she crept to the bed. She would have liked to dive under the covers to get to their warmth as fast as she could. She restrained herself from that and slipped slowly between the sheets. Her attentiveness was rewarded by the unbroken rhythm of Nick’s breathing. He was still asleep. She longed to burrow her icy toes beneath the toasty shelter of his body, but that would surely wake him and not gently, either. Delia pulled the sheet and blanket up to her chin and turned her face toward his on the pillow. His arm was flung across his eyes while the morning light fell lovingly on the rest of his face. She knew it might not sound manly as a description, but to her in that moment he was entirely beautiful. In that moment, also, she knew what she must do. She must tell Nick the whole truth, no matter what the consequences.
NICK FELT HER there even before he opened his eyes—not her exactly, but the soft brush of her hair against his chest. In any other circumstance he would have bolted straight up off the pillow the instant someone touched him in his sleep. He’d probably also make that move with a weapon in his hand, but he wasn’t about to do that now. First of all, for once, he’d gone to sleep without a firearm under his pillow. He’d had things other than guns on his mind last night. For once, he’d allowed himself to be a man ahead of being a professional. Of course, he’d noticed the safety lock was on the door when he came into Delia’s room. He wasn’t about to put her in danger, after all. Still, he’d come to bed without packing iron so he had no weapon to brandish now, even if he’d wanted to.
And he did not need one. His immediate immersion in Delia’s presence let him know that, all the way to the very center of himself. His first waking awareness was of her being with him. The scent of her enveloped him like the fragrant breath of soft wings fluttering. He could feel the coolness of her skin even without touching her. The impression of her face was on the inside of his eyelids long before they eased open to that same face, lovelier still than in his imaginings. At first he didn’t think to wonder why she wasn’t smiling, why her extraordinary eyes held such a serious expression. He needed a full waking moment before that question could form in his mind.
“Good morning,” she said.
The melody of her voice might have banished all notion of questioning anything about her if it hadn’t been for the melancholy edge to that melody. Something was wrong. He could hear it. He could see it. Still, he wanted it not to be true. In that moment he wished with his entire heart to be mistaken and for everything to remain perfect—as it had been last night and should be now.
“Nick,” she said. “I have something to tell you.”
Here it comes, he thought. His first impulse was to clamp his hands over his ears, or maybe over her sweet mouth, before the words that he sensed would shatter everything could be spoken.
“Do we have to talk now? Can’t it wait?” he asked.
Nick ordinarily prided himself in meeting every challenge straight-on, whatever it might be. Nevertheless, right now he didn’t fault himself for his squeamishness. Other qualities than boldness were important here. Delia only shook her head in answer, but with that small movement she sealed their fate. Nick was sure of it. He might even have an inkling of what she was about to say—a premonition, or maybe even a sure knowledge, hidden by a mist just above the surface of his thoughts. He had the feeling that all he would have to do was press a little harder at his memory and he would know her crucial news on his own. She spoke before he could apply that effort.
“My name isn’t really Delia Marie Barry,” she said. “At least, that’s not the name I was born with.”
Nick’s mouth opened, as if to finish what she was saying, though his conscious mind had no idea how he would do that.
“We’ve known each other before,” she continued. A tear had formed in the corner of each of her lovely eyes. “My real name is Becky Lester.”
Nick gasped, but it came out sounding more like a groan. One of her trembling tears fell onto his chest before she could duck her head and hide her face. He would have liked to lift her chin and wipe the tears from her eyes. He would have liked to tell her she didn’t need to cry because everything would be all right. He couldn’t do that because it wouldn’t be the truth.
“Rebecca,” he breathed.
It never occurred to Nick to doubt her words. The instant she spoke them, he’d felt things slide together like the pieces of a puzzle. Dangling elements—things she’d told him, things she hadn’t told him, hints of a connection he hadn’t quite grasped before—wove themselves into a discernable pattern at last.
“Why?” he asked. It was all he could do to think clearly enough to talk.
She continued to hang her head, shaking it every moment or so as if in a daze.
“I had to tell you the truth,” she said, her words muffled by the hair screening her face.
She’d answered another question that would have come later, but not the one he was asking now.
“Why did you lie to me?” he asked. “Why didn’t you tell me the whole story from the start?”
Nick had to fight to keep his voice from quavering, like her tears, which were dropping, sad seconds apart, from her averted eyes.
“I didn’t dare tell you the truth,” she said.
“Why not?” He did take her chin and lift her face now. He swallowed against the heartache he saw there. He mustn’t weaken before he had his answer. “Why couldn’t you tell me?”
She sighed so deeply he could feel the tremor of it across the space between their bodies.
“I wasn’t sure I could trust you,” she said.
“What did you think I’d do?” He was still holding her chin so she couldn’t look away.
“You might have called the police…” She trailed off into another sigh.
“You believe I could have done that?”
“I couldn’t be altogether sure. What happened five years ago taught me not to be sure of anybody.”
The way she said that—all defiance gone now, only a near-sob left—reminded him of back in the ballroom, when he’d recognized how lonely she was. Nothing could be lonelier than living without trust, afraid to let anyone close enough to become a threat. He could imagine the poignancy of that life because he’d lived some of it himself, though never as completely or with the degree of desolation that had been her fate. Nick’s anger melted away, maybe not forever but for now. He reached out and folded her—Delia, Becky, Rebecca, whoever she might be—into the comfort of his arms.
Chapter Twelve
Delia clung to Nick for what felt like a very long time but not nearly long enough. She would have wanted to make love again. Making love with Nick was being swept away on a wave of emotion deeper and wider than anything she’d ever known. She could let that wave take her. She could give up thinking about what was going to happen next and what she should do about it and simply be borne away, higher and farther than anyone’s touch had ever taken her before. She could use that kind of release right now. She longed for it. She even sensed that Nick might feel the same, but neither of them made a move. They’d been through so much in these past hours together, they needed to be still for a while. His arms cradled her body. Her arms circled his neck. They were safe here for the moment in the silence. Delia knew that couldn’t last. Unfortunately, there was more to be talked about. When the next que
stion came, she’d already told herself she had to be ready for it.
“What about Clyde Benno?” Nick asked. “Have you told me the whole story on him?”
Nick kept his arms around her. There was no anger or bitterness in his voice. Still, she could feel the chill wind of the inevitable in his words, and that made her sigh.
“There is no Clyde Benno. I made him up.”
She was amazed at how easy it was to let that cat finally out of the bag and at how relieved she was to watch it scamper away, beyond her control. In the meantime, Nick only nodded and continued to hold her.
“You don’t seem surprised,” she said.
“I spotted that guy last night for a professional. I didn’t think you’d have a thug for a boyfriend, not even one who knows how to pass as respectable. I didn’t think an angry ex-boyfriend would hire a guy like that, either. Usually, angry ex-boyfriends prefer to do the dirty work themselves. They get more satisfaction that way.”
It was Delia’s turn to nod. “That sounds right to me,” she said.
“The thing that almost threw me off was his eyes. That part of him looked like he could be the psycho boyfriend after all.”
Delia remembered those eyes much too clearly. She doubted she’d ever forget them. She shivered, and Nick folded her closer to the broad, hard safety of his chest. She nestled there gladly.
“Those eyes could be the key to tracking him down,” Nick said. “Either he really is crazy or he’s taking something that makes him look that way. My guess is one or the other’s got him noticed. Maybe if I ask the right people the right questions, I could find out who he is. That would put us closer to finding out who hired him.”
“I know who hired him.”
“You do?”
Nick thrust her away from him when he asked that, so he could look into her face. She nearly sighed again. She was being pushed out of the warm circle of his arms. It might be a long time before she nestled there again.
“I don’t know the specific identity of the person who did the hiring,” she said, resigning herself to getting back to business. “But I’m almost a hundred percent sure what they’re after.”
“What are they after?”
“The Lester money, and they have to make sure I’m out of the way for real and for good to get it, just like they got rid of poor Morty Lancer.”
Delia pulled her robe from the bottom of the bed and put it on. She was all the way out of his arms now. She felt a lonely pang of regret.
“Have you ruled out other possibilities, like somebody connected with PEI? The company could have angered a lot of people over the years, and you’re the most visible target.”
I’m the only target, she thought. I’m the company.
She wasn’t ready to tell him that part yet. One major revelation at a time was all she could manage right now.
“I know this hasn’t got anything to do with the company,” she said.
“How do you know that?”
By the angle of the hair standing up on the back of my neck, was what she almost answered. She decided to be less abrupt than that. She knotted the tie of her robe then turned fully toward him.
“I’ve been living with running away for a long time,” she said. She made sure her voice didn’t plead for sympathy. She just wanted to explain how it was for her. “I’ve developed a kind of added sense that most people don’t have. That sense lets me know who I should watch out for and why. Right now it’s letting me know my past has finally caught up with me.”
“I see.”
This time his saying that didn’t bother her. “I imagine you do. You must have your own radar for trouble to be as good as you are at what you do.”
“That’s how I knew that guy last night was somebody more than just Clyde Benno from Long Island.”
“I’m sorry about lying to you,” she said. “I’ve been living a lie for so long now. Sometimes I think it’s more natural for me to make up things than to tell the truth.”
“You’re good at it. I can vouch for that.”
Delia felt herself blush.
“I want to be nothing but honest with you from now on,” she said.
“Then tell me why you left Colorado the way you did.”
“The cards were stacked against me, that’s why. I’d have been charged with Morty’s murder for sure, and very possibly convicted of it, too.”
“I would have helped you.”
“Oh, Nick,” she sighed. “What could you have done? Other than maybe destroy some of the evidence against me. I knew you were too straightforward for that.” She touched his cheek gently. “I want to be just as straight with you from this moment on.”
Nick put his fingers gently against her lips. “There’ll be time for promises later,” he said.
Delia nodded. “Okay.”
She prayed he was right. With somebody out to kill her, and maybe Nick, too, there might not be a “later” for them, after all.
“WHAT DO YOU WANT me to call you?” Nick asked. “Delia or Becky?”
They’d decided to leave the Waldorf. The pro who was after them might not have their room numbers yet, but it was only a matter of time till he did. Nick had told Delia to throw her few belongings back in her bag, and they’d left the five-star life behind by the back entrance taxi port. Nick kept himself from thinking about how much he’d rather stay holed up in that hotel room making love to her forever. That was just one of the thoughts about her he couldn’t get into, at least not till she was out of danger.
“Call me Delia,” she said after a long moment when she must have been considering her answer carefully. “Becky was five years ago. Delia is now. They’re not the same woman.”
Nick looked across the cab seat at her, while memory overlapped what he saw. She was right. Delia and Becky were very different from one another. He wondered how deep those differences ran and what they meant to what had happened in Delia’s bed last night. That was something else he couldn’t let himself be sidetracked into thinking about right now. He forced himself to stop looking at her and turned toward the window. Her beautiful face and how much it was coming to mean to him was the biggest distraction of all. He had trouble keeping his head clear when he was looking at her. His head needed to be clear as glass if he was going to keep her safe. He resolved to make that kind of clarity his first and foremost priority. They rode the rest of the few blocks from the Waldorf to the Lincoln Building in silence.
EMPLOYING a private mail service was another one of Delia’s hedges against detection. Not even the company letterhead carried the actual address of her Rockefeller Center office. All mail went to her mail service in the Lincoln Building on 42nd Street. She left Nick in the cab, behind the Lincoln on 41st, while she went to the eleventh floor. He’d wanted to come with her, but she insisted she’d be only a moment and hopped out into the street. She’d disappeared around the corner before he could have time enough to pay the fare and follow. She trusted him for the most part. After last night, maybe she even trusted him altogether. Still, she went to the mail service office by herself. This same company handled her telephone messages as well as her mail, and she wanted to explain her present confused situation in person. They could forward calls to her Rock Center number or take messages. She’d call in regularly for those messages, but they wouldn’t be able to contact her directly except at her office. The pleasant woman in the back office wrote down Delia’s instructions but asked no questions. They were discreet, which was part of the reason Delia used their services.
She left the eleventh floor office with a plastic bagful of what looked like mostly bills and junk mail, except for one piece. It was square and sturdy, as if whatever might be inside was made of card stock rather than regular stationery-weight paper. Delia examined that envelope warily. This was the season for sending and receiving holiday cards. Most people would not have taken so much notice of such an envelope. Most people would have lots of friends and relatives sending them greetings of the s
easons. Delia, on the other hand, had no such circle of acquaintance. She hadn’t received a Christmas card, other than corporate greetings from business associates, in five years. This envelope was handwritten and didn’t look like a corporate mailing.
Delia thrust her trembling index finger under the envelope flap and tore it open, leaving a ragged edge. She’d been right. There was a card in the envelope, on green card stock with a snow-covered country scene on the front. She flipped the card open and let her eyes slide past the printed greeting to the signature. She didn’t gasp. She simply stopped breathing and stood, still and transfixed as that snow-covered scene, just around the corner from the elevator bank, in the middle of the beige marble hallway on the eleventh floor of the Lincoln Building. There were three words handwritten on the bottom of the inside flap of the otherwise ordinary Christmas acknowledgment she held in her shaking hand. Those three words made this card about as out of the ordinary as it could be.
Those three words were, “Merry Christmas, Topsy.”
Delia’s mouth had dropped open. Fortunately, the hallway was deserted. She would surely have attracted attention if there was anyone around to see her, standing so obviously aghast as she was. The last thing Delia wanted right now was attention. She would have liked to sit down, but the hallway was as empty of furniture as it was of people. Her legs were unsteady under her. If they became any more so, she might have to sit on the floor before she fell there. Still, she made no effort to compose herself. She had neither will nor presence of mind to make such an attempt right now. She was too riveted on those three scribbled words and beyond them to the associations they made for her. Only one person in her entire life had ever called her Topsy. It was a nickname that nobody else knew about. That person was her father.