Amy finished shadowing her right eye and started on her left. "Actually I was thinking in terms of attending art school. I've got real talent, you know, and in this day and age, a woman needs to know how to support herself."
Harry, the cool, the calm, the collected man of the nineties, looked as if he were going to pop an artery. His voice, when he spoke, was low and lethal. "Even if you didn't have me to look after you, Amy, you would never need a job. Between what Tyler left you and the proceeds from selling the house—"
"There are other reasons to work besides money," Amy said, reaching for a green kohl pencil and starting to line her eyes. "Like knowing you mean something, knowing you're strong and you're interesting and you're worth something all on your own. The subject isn't open to debate, Harry—I'm going to art school, whether you like it or not."
Out of the corner of her eye, Amy could see that her husband's jaw was clamped down tight, as though he'd just bitten through a piece of steel. "Fine," he said. And when the door of the hotel room slammed, Amy wondered if her wonderful plan had backfired.
11
* * *
Harry paused in the doorway of his office, his hand still on the light switch, thinking he'd finally lost his mind, once and for all.
He blinked, looked again and, sure as hell, Tyler was there, sitting in Harry's leather chair, feet propped on the tidy surface of his antique desk.
"You're really seeing me," his friend assured him with a sigh. Ty's hands were cupped at the back of his head, and he looked pretty relaxed for someone who'd been dead in the neighborhood of three years.
Harry rubbed his eyes with one hand. It was the problems with Amy that had pushed him over the brink, he was certain of that. "This is ridiculous," he said.
Tyler sighed again and hoisted his feet down from Harry's desk. He was wearing clothes Harry vaguely remembered: jeans and a University of Washington sweatshirt. "Look, old buddy, I don't have all night here, so listen up. I had to get special permission from the head office to make this appearance, and this is positively the last time they'll let me come back. You're blowing it, man."
Harry went to his private bar and poured himself a brandy. A good, stiff drink might jump-start his brain circuits and blast him back to reality.
When he turned around, however, Tyler was as substantially there as ever. He was leaning against the edge of the desk now, his arms folded, his eyes full of pitying fury.
"Do you realize what you have?" the apparition demanded. "Amy is wonderful and sweet and bright, and damn it, she loves you! There must be a million guys out there—" Tyler gestured toward the bank of windows behind the desk "—just wishing to God they could meet somebody like her! She adores you, you lucky bastard!"
Harry shoved one hand through his hair, thinking what a remarkable mechanism the human mind is. He would have sworn his dead friend was really standing there, every bit as real as Amy or the janitor downstairs dust mopping the lobby, or the doorman out on the street.
"Wrong," he said forcefully. "Amy's planning to leave me and become some kind of barefoot Bohemian, painting pictures and carrying my daughter around on her back like a papoose."
Tyler laughed, and the effect was remarkably authentic. It gave Harry a pang, remembering the old days, when he and Ty had thought the whole world was funny. "Oh, the art school thing," Tyler said. "As you Aussies say, 'No worries, mate.'"
The game was becoming alarmingly easy to play, and Harry put his brandy aside, unfinished. "You mean, she's going to change her mind about art school?"
"Hell, no," Tyler answered with a cocky grin. "You really started something when you gave her those art supplies—even Amy didn't know she had a talent for painting. In three years she'll be having her own shows in some of the best galleries in the country."
Harry sagged into a chair. Damn, but this was elaborate. He hadn't known he was harboring so many possibilities in his subconscious mind. "And that's supposed to keep me from worrying?" he muttered. He'd already had a sample of the new Amy, the woman who was bent on living her life to the fullest, with or without him, and he wasn't sure he liked her. One thing he had to admit, though, she was exciting.
"Relax," Tyler said. He crossed the room to touch one of the crystal liquor decanters on Harry's bar. Harry figured a genie would probably come out of the thing, thus laying to rest all doubt that Harry had lost his sanity. "Amy's becoming the person she's supposed to be, and you'll be a world-class fool if you try to stand in her way."
"How," Harry began raggedly, closing his eyes, "am I supposed to live without her? Tell me that."
"You won't have to live without Amy if you'll just quit trying to drive her away," Tyler replied without missing a beat.
Harry's eyes flew open. "I haven't been trying to drive her away!" he hollered.
Tyler grinned indulgently. "Sure you have, Harry. You're afraid to let go of your emotions and really care about Amy and the kids because of what happened before, in your first marriage."
A sense of bleakness swept over Harry, practically crushing him. He'd had such high hopes back then, for himself and Madeline and little Eireen, before he'd learned just how cruelly unpredictable life can be.
"I see you're not trying to deny that," Tyler observed, pacing back and forth a few feet in front of Harry, his hands clasped behind his back. Except for the clothes, this was probably the way his friend had looked in the courtroom, authoritative and confident.
But not dead, of course.
"You're not here."
"Amy kept saying that, too. Did you like the white lilacs I sent for the wedding?"
Harry's mouth dropped open, but he didn't speak because he couldn't.
"Look," Tyler said, beginning to summarize, "I don't really give a damn whether you believe I'm here or not, because what you think about me doesn't matter. But you and Amy have to make it work—there's a lot riding on it."
For the first time since his friend's death, Harry thought he might actually break down and weep. He loved Amy, thoroughly, totally, as he'd never loved another human being, but Tyler had been right earlier. He was terrified of letting his guard down completely where Amy was concerned, because losing her would kill him.
"You' 11 find her in front of the Fifth Avenue Theater," Tyler said. He was standing at the windows now, looking through the shutter slats at the city lights. "She's carrying an extra ticket in her purse and hoping against hope that you'll have the good sense to show up. Don't drop the ball, Harry. Don't lose her."
"Next," Harry sighed, "you're going to offer to show me how the world would be if I'd never been born, right?"
Tyler chuckled. "Sorry, that's a Christmas bit. Goodbye, Harry, and good luck."
Before Harry's very eyes, Tyler vanished. He was there, then he wasn't. It was weird.
Harry got his coat and wandered out of the office, through the swanky reception area and over to the elevators. He rubbed his chin as he waited, then looked at his watch.
It was seven-ten, and curtain time at the theater was usually eight o'clock. His hotel was connected with the theater by a walkway—
She had said she was going to the theater.
That was how he knew, Harry was sure of it. He'd only imagined Tyler because he was so stressed out, so lonesome for his wife. It was a spiritual longing, as well as a physical one, intense enough to explain his hallucinations.
He went back to the Hilton, glanced at the telephone—the message light wasn't blinking—and then took a hot shower. He shaved and put on fresh clothes, and when he passed through the underground shopping center and climbed the stairs to the Fifth Avenue Theater, Amy was standing there on the sidewalk.
She was so beautiful, in her clingy black dress, sexy jacket and high heels, that Harry was momentarily immobilized by the sight of her. He just stood gaping at her, his hand gripping the stair railing.
Amy must have felt his gaze, because she turned and smiled, and Harry tightened his grasp on the railing, as much off balance as if
he'd been punched in the stomach.
"Hello, Harry," she said gently.
"You really mean it, about this art school thing?"
Worry flickered in her hopeful eyes. "I really mean it," she confirmed softly.
He finally broke his inertia and joined her in the line of theatergoers waiting to be admitted.
"You look fantastic," he said, not quite meeting her eyes.
He could feel her smile, warm as sunlight. "Thanks, Harry. You look pretty good yourself."
He turned, unable to resist the pull anymore, and went tumbling, head over heels into her eyes.
She linked her arm with his. "I love you, Harry," she said.
Harry felt something steely and cold melt within him. "And I love you," he whispered raggedly.
They went into the theater with the crowd, and sat there in their seats, holding hands. Harry was never able to remember, without a reminder from Amy, what play they saw that night, because his mind was everywhere but on the stage.
After the final curtain, they had a late dinner at an expensive, low-key restaurant.
Harry felt as nervous as a kid on his first date.
He wondered what she would say if he told her she wasn't the only one who'd ever had a delusion, that he'd seen Tyler, too.
"I think I'm going round the bend," he finally confessed, because he wanted to be honest with Amy. Completely honest.
She arched one delicate brow and took a sip of her wine. "Oh? Why is that?"
"Because when I went back to the office after our conversation in your room, fully intending to lick my wounds and whimper a little, Tyler was there."
Amy set the wineglass down, very slowly. Her cheeks were pale, and although her throat worked visibly, no sound passed her lips.
"Not that I believe I saw a ghost or anything like that," Harry was quick to clarify.
Amy reached for her wineglass again, her hand shaking as she extended it. She closed her eyes and took three or four gulps before looking at Harry squarely again and agreeing, "Of course not."
Harry sighed. "The human mind is a fascinating thing," he ruminated, hedging.
"What did Tyler want?" Amy asked in a small voice.
"He delivered a lecture, essentially," Harry said, frowning, "and I must confess that he was pretty much on target. Obviously my subconscious mind had worked the whole thing out beforehand."
"Obviously," Amy said in a whisper. Her beautiful eyes were very wide, and Harry could see the pulse at the base of her throat.
It made him want to kiss her there, as well as a few other places.
"I've been a fool, Amy," he went on, after clearing his throat and shifting uncomfortably in his chair. "I thought I could keep myself from loving you, and thereby keep my heart from being broken to bits, but it didn't work. Practically every stroke of good fortune in my life can be traced back to you—not only did you give me yourself, but Ashley and Oliver and Sara, too. God in heaven, Amy, I love you more than I ever believed could be possible, and it hurts—and I'm scared."
Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she reached across the table to grip Harry's hand. "Me, too. Everything just sort of fell into place with Tyler—we met, we got married, we had kids. I was happy, and I think he was, as well. Then I met you and suddenly everything was complicated."
Harry lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles lightly. A bittersweet sense of homecoming filled him. It was not like returning after an hour's absence, or even a week's. No, it was as though an eternity had passed, during which he'd been deprived of this woman he needed more than air, more than light, more than water.
"Give me a second chance," he said. "I'm a chauvinist, but I can reform."
Amy laughed softly. "Don't reform too much. There are things I like about the caveman approach."
Harry raised his eyebrows. "Such as?"
"Such as being your love prisoner," Amy said, leaning closer and uttering the words in a breathless tone that made Harry's loins pulse and his heart start to hammer.
"Is it warm in here?" he inquired, tugging at his collar.
Amy's smile was slow and hot and saucy. He felt her toe make a slow foray up his pant leg. "Steaming," she answered.
Harry practically tore his wallet from his inside pocket, fished out a credit card, and threw it at the first waiter to pass by. They were out of the hotel and onto the bustling night streets within minutes.
"My place or yours?" Amy teased.
"Which is closer?"
"Mine."
"Yours it is."
They entered Amy's room a few minutes later, and she snatched up a shopping bag and immediately disappeared into the bathroom again.
Harry paced, listening as the water ran and the toilet flushed and various things clinked and rattled. Finally he paused outside the door. "Amy?"
"Be patient, Harry."
He tried, he honestly tried. He went to the telephone and ordered champagne, then called the hotel florist for a dozen of whatever flower they happened to have on hand.
Both the carnations and the champagne arrived before Amy came out of the bathroom, but the wait was worth it. She was wearing a gossamer floral nightgown, of the very thinnest silk, and it clung to her womanly curves in a way that made Harry's heart surge into his throat.
"My God," he rasped.
Amy walked past him, her hips swaying, her soft skin exuding the scent of lavender. The bellhop had opened the champagne before leaving the room, and Amy poured a glass for herself and one for Harry.
"Let's offer a toast," she said, holding out his glass.
He accepted it with a slightly unsteady hand.
"To us," she said. "To you and me and Ashley and Oliver and little Sara—and whoever else might happen to come along in the next couple of years."
Harry swallowed. "You mean, you're willing to have another child? But you've been so tired, and there's art school—"
"Other women have done it. I'll manage, Harry, with a lot of help from you and Mrs. Hobbs."
Now it was Harry who had tears in his eyes. He set his champagne aside and laid his hands on Amy's waist, pulling her close to him. "God, Amy, how I love you," he breathed.
She put down her glass, slid her arms around his neck, and drove him crazy by wriggling against him.
"Prove it," she said.
"Oh, I will," he answered.
Harry was as good as his word. He buried his fingers in Amy's hair and gently but firmly pulled her head back for his kiss. When his mouth crushed hers and his tongue gained immediate entry, Amy nearly fainted. It had been so long.
She peeled off Harry's jacket while their tongues battled, then wrenched at his tie and ripped open his shirt, sending little buttons flying in every direction.
Amy didn't care about shirt buttons. She pushed the fabric savagely aside, sought a masculine nipple with her tongue and nibbled until Harry was moaning under his breath.
"This time," she said, "you're my prisoner. You have to do everything I tell you, and give me everything I want."
Harry moaned as she unfastened his belt buckle. "Amy—"
"I want to hear you crying out, for once," Amy said, kissing her way down his belly, baring his navel. "I want to hear you beg, the way I always do."
"Ooooh," he rasped, as she knelt and pushed down his slacks, her hands moving strong and light on his buttocks, molding and shaping him, pushing him into the pleasure she so willingly offered.
Amy enjoyed her husband, and the beautiful, angry, hungry sounds he was making, and she was greedy about it. His firm flanks began to flex under her palms and, with a gasp, he leaned forward to brace himself against the dresser.
Amy granted him no quarter.
"Amy..." he pleaded, a man in delirium. "Oh, God, Amy, I'm going to—"
She stopped, just long enough to finish the sentence for him, and then she was insatiable again.
Harry stiffened, with a low, primitive cry, and she made him experience every nuance, every degree of sensatio
n, every shade of ecstasy. When she finally released him, it was clear that he could barely stand.
Their clothes were mysteriously gone. Amy didn't remember shedding her own garments or stripping away Harry's, but when they fell onto the big bed in the center of the room, they were both naked.
"I'll have to have vengeance for that," Harry said, after a long time, rolling onto his side to begin kissing Amy's stomach.
"For what?" Amy teased, but a little gasp of anticipation betrayed her as Harry's mouth drew dangerously near the center of her femininity.
"For turning me inside out," Harry answered in a rumbling voice, burrowing through the moist delta that protected Amy's womanhood to take her boldly into his mouth.
She cried out, but it was only the beginning. Harry teased her unmercifully, for what seemed like hours.
Amy was wild, untamed, primitive in her responses. She cried, she pleaded, she moaned and groaned and cursed, and finally, in a long, shattering spasm, she lost all control.
Although he had what he wanted, Harry was not a benevolent captor.
He folded her close, and held her, and stroked her, until she was ready again. When he entered her, it was a sudden, fierce invasion, and her eyes rolled back in her head.
"Look at me, Amy," he ordered.
She opened her eyes and stared up at her husband dreamily.
"I want to see you responding to me," Harry said. "I want to see you belonging to me..."
Amy dug her heels into the bed and rose and fell under Harry with graceful desperation. She needed him, wanted him, so much, that giving herself was heaven. "Put a baby inside me, Harry," she choked out. "Please—give me your baby."
At her words, he seemed to lose control. He groaned and threw his head back, as fierce as a stallion having his mare. "I love you, Amy," he struggled to say.
She ran her hands up and down the straining muscles of his back, soothing, tormenting, urging him on. "I love you, " she answered breathlessly, meeting him thrust for thrust, heartbeat for heartbeat, dream for dream.
Finally, in one blinding, spectacular collision, the joyous miracle happened and their two souls mated, just as their bodies did.
Wild About Harry Page 15