Difficult Decision: Connecticut (The Americana Series Book 7)

by Janet Dailey

  But she cringed away from him. "No."

  His impatience was almost tangible. "Help me get my wife to the car, Miss Holland."

  It was a request she could hardly refuse since his wife was making it so obvious that she wouldn't let him near her. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, Deborah walked forward to speak to the woman calmly.

  "Why don't you come with me, Mrs. Wilding?" she suggested. "We'll take care of that hand."

  A glazed pair of eyes blinked at her with the innocence of a baby. "A drink," she asked in a small voice. "I need a drink, too. Can I have one?"

  "Later, after we've bandaged your hand." Maybe it wasn't fair to make a promise like that, but Deborah didn't care. At the moment it seemed no different from promising candy to a child, although she knew it was "Come along now."

  She curved an arm around the blonde's shoulders and Sylvia didn't resist, but meekly let herself be guided toward the door. The unsteadiness of her legs made the woman lean heavily against Deborah. Her breath reeked of whiskey. It was so potent it almost gagged Deborah. Zane walked ahead of them to open the doors.

  At the car, he unlocked a rear side door. Deborah had to almost physically lift his wife onto the rear passenger seat. Sylvia roused from her stupor long enough to look around her and take stock of the surroundings.

  "Where are you taking me? What's happening?" The forlorn thread of her voice sounded frightened and lost.

  "Ssh," Deborah soothed and slid into the seat beside her. She couldn't abandon Sylvia to Zane's questionable care. "It's all right. We're just going someplace to take care of your hand."

  Reassured, the blonde cuddled up to her like a baby seeking the comfort of her mother's arms. Deborah rocked her, aware of the clenched fists of the man standing beside the car, but she didn't acknowledge his presence with a look. The closing of the door was followed by the opening of the driver's door as Zane slid behind the wheel.

  Not a word was exchanged between Deborah and Zane during the short drive to his city condominium. Out of Sylvia's unintelligible ramblings, Deborah was able to understand only a word or two here and there . . . my baby, Ethan, and a drink. The woman had obviously never recovered from the grief of losing her only child. It was a grief she should have shared with her husband, but considering who her husband was, Deborah understood why Sylvia was shouldering it alone, and why she had broken under the strain. She glared her condemnation at the insensitive brute behind the wheel.

  When the car was parked, Deborah tried to rouse the woman in her arms, without success. The interior light flared as Zane opened the rear door. The blonde was a deadweight, her mouth open and her eyes closed.

  "Wake up, Mrs. Wilding. We're here." Deborah shook her gently.

  "Leave her be. She's out cold." Zane didn't make any attempt to keep the sharp impatience out of his tone. "Move out of the way and I'll carry her in."

  Disentangling herself from the woman's arms, Deborah slid out of the passenger seat, lying the woman down carefully as she did. She moved out of the way to stand on the sidewalk while Zane reached into the backseat to drag his wife's limp body out. He shifted her petite form into the cradle he'd made with his arms, and kicked the car door shut. Although Sylvia was a small woman, her lifeless state had to have added pounds to her weight. But Zane strode up the sidewalk as if she weighed no more than a child. Deborah followed him, since it seemed the logical thing to do.

  Zane paused beneath a lighted doorway and pushed a buzzer. Within seconds, the summons was answered by a gray-haired woman in a black dress that resembled a uniform. His housekeeper, Deborah guessed. The gray-haired woman took one look at the blonde in his arms and immediately swung the door wide to admit them.

  "Madelaine called. I'll phone her back and tell her Sylvia is here," the housekeeper stated.

  There was an acknowledging nod from Zane. While the housekeeper scurried off into one of the rooms and closed the door, Zane carried his wife across the short entryway and up a flight of stairs. Deborah hesitated at the base of the stairs, wondering if she should go up to help. At that moment, the housekeeper came bustling past her to climb the stairs. Obviously she wouldn't be needed, so Deborah waited below.

  After nearly twenty minutes, she was just about convinced they had forgotten she was down there waiting. Her stomach began growling hungrily again, which only increased her irritation. Someone could have at least offered her a cup of coffee. A footstep on the stairs spun her around. The housekeeper descended, her relatively unlined face an impassive mask that rivaled her employer's ability to conceal his thoughts.

  "I have phoned for a taxi. A cab is on its way to take you home," she informed Deborah.

  Deborah stared at her wordlessly until she realized that she wasn't going to receive any thank you or any expression of appreciation for her help in getting Mrs. Wilding home. She wasn't even going to be told how the woman was.

  "I'll wait for it outside!" she snapped and pivoted to cross the entryway to the door.

  She was boiling mad at the way she had been treated, and the coolness of the night air had no effect on her raging anger. Stalking like a caged tigress, she paced back and forth on a small square of sidewalk in front of the condominium. A few minutes later, a taxi pulled up in front. Deborah didn't wait for the driver to get out to open the passenger door, but climbed into the back unaided. She gave him the address of the office building and began rummaging through her purse for a cigarette. The pack was empty when she finally found it.

  "Excuse me." She leaned forward to tap the driver on the shoulder. "Do you have a cigarette? I'm out and I could use one right now."

  "Sure." He handed her back a pack of filtered cigarettes so she could help herself. He glanced in the rearview mirror and watched the jerky, agitated movements as she lighted the cigarette. "Did you have a fight with your fella?"

  "No." She exhaled an irritated stream of smoke. "My boss."

  "What's the matter? Doesn't he pay you overtime?"

  "Oh, he pays." Her voice was husky from her effort to contain the anger bubbling inside. "He just forgets to say thanks."

  "I know the feeling, lady," the cab driver commiserated, and made no further attempt to continue the conversation.

  When they stopped in front of the office building, Deborah leaned forward to pay him. "The fare has already been taken care of . . . and I'll add a generous tip for myself," he winked and climbed out to open her door. "Don't work too hard."

  "I won't." She gave him a tense, absent smile as she stepped out of the cab.

  Her car keys were still on her desk in the office. Pausing beneath a streetlight, Deborah searched her purse for the office keys to get into the locked building. She found them immediately and hurried up the sidewalk to the front entrance. Inside, her footsteps echoed hollowly through the empty corridor.

  When she reached the private office, Deborah stopped inside the door to turn the light switch on. She started to cross over to her desk, but her glance strayed to the play of light on the broken pieces of glass scattered on the carpet. Since she was there, she decided that she might as well clean it up rather than leave it until morning.

  Setting her purse aside, she walked over to Zane's desk and bent down to pick up the fragmentary remains of the crystal vase. Deborah started with the bigger chips, taking care not to cut her own hand on the sharp edges. The wastebasket stood in a corner. She emptied a handful of glass into it, then carried the basket over to where the rest of the broken glass lay. The crystal fragments made a faint ringing sound as she tossed them into the metal container.

  The sound of the door opening startled her. Deborah straightened to whirl around, not certain whether she expected to confront a security guard or an intruder. But she certainly hadn't expected to receive the rapier thrust of Zane's piercing look.

  "What the hell are you doing here, Miss Holland? How many times do I have to send you home before you get the message?" he snapped.

  Of all the ungrateful, arrogant—Deborah
closed her mind to all the adjectives she could have used to describe him. "I stopped to get my car keys and decided to clean up this mess." Her temper simmered to a quick boil. "And thank you very much, Miss Holland, for helping me with my wife. It was so thoughtful and considerate of you to ride with her," she mocked him with all the simple words of gratitude he should have said. "I hope it wasn't too much trouble. You must be tired after the long day at work, Miss Holland. Why don't you go home and get some rest?" Deborah paused to take a breath and change to a sweetly demure voice. "I will do that, Mr. Wilding. In fact, I'll be leaving in just a few minutes."

  He waited in grim silence as if expecting her tirade to continue.

  "Are you through?" he challenged when it didn't.

  "Is that all you can say?" she gazed at him in astonishment. Not a thing she had said had struck home. Recognizing that it was hopeless to ever expect him to admit he was wrong, Deborah turned away and answered his question before he could respond to hers. "Yes, I'm through . . . for the time being anyway." She needed the release of doing something to vent all the violent energy her anger had generated. "But working for you, I'm sure there will be other occasions when I will lose my temper," she finished, tossing the ever smaller crystal fragments into the garbage with a vengeance.

  "I may have been remiss in thanking you for your assistance with my wife this evening," Zane began in a hard, tight voice, but he ultimately lost control. "Will you leave that damned glass be, and get off that floor? I'll clean it up myself!"

  Deborah half turned but she didn't rise; her gray eyes were blazing. "Please," she prompted.

  "What?" A dark frown gathered on his forehead; he was completely at a loss as to her meaning.

  "Please, leave the glass, and please get off the floor." She stressed with forceful emphasis.

  "Oh, for God's sake." He turned his head to the side, muttering in exasperation. When he looked back at her, it was to issue a taut, "Please," with an insolence that was about as impolite as a person could get.

  For a fleeting second, Deborah wondered if she were trying to teach manners to a jungle panther. The glitter in those blue eyes was decidedly menacing. Straightening, she brushed nervously at her skirt before again meeting his look.

  "That's much better." Her smile was tense. "People generally react more favorably when there is a little polite consideration shown. Everyone needs a kind word now and then. Maybe if you had been a little kinder to your wife tonight instead of being so hard with her, she wouldn't have become so hysterical. She needs—''

  One second, half the width of the room separated them. In the next, Deborah found that her shoulders were caught in the steel jaws of a trap and she was being yanked against a solid rock wall. The impact ripped the breath from her lungs.

  "She needs!" The bronze mask had been removed from his features, revealing an anger that had been bottled up too long. "What about what I need? Ethan was my son, too!" A fiery anguish burned in his eyes as they scorched her face, which he had forced close to his. "Where was she when I needed her? Why did I have to be strong for both of us while she was protected and sedated from the harsh reality of his death?"

  "I didn't know," Deborah whispered. Never once had she considered the depth of his pain, but she saw it in the savage violence of his face, a wounded animal lashing out. His fingers were digging into her soft flesh, hurting her, but she didn't cry out or struggle against his maddened hold. "I'm sorry, Zane." And she meant it.

  "It's always her needs, but there are things that I want, little things that should be so easy to provide." His low voice took on a different intensity that vibrated through Deborah's system. "A pair of eyes to look into that are clear and bright, instead of glazed by an alcohol stupor."

  The blue force of his gaze seemed to weld itself to the gray of her eyes. Deborah was shaken by the impression that he could see deep inside her, all the way to her soul. The brilliance of his look seemed to blind her to all other sensations, including the hands that loosened their grip on her shoulders to glide down her backbone and mold her to his length.

  "I want a body against mine that isn't flaccid and limp from too much drink. I want it to be firm and alive." The husky murmurings of his voice seemed to awaken her flesh to the roaming caresses of his hands, exploring her waist, hips, and spine with sensual thoroughness.

  She spread her fingers across his chest in mute protest to the reactions that were taking place inside her. The taut, muscled lines of his thighs were pressing against hers, inflaming her skin with their hard masculinity. The heat coursing through her gave Deborah the feeling she was boneless, too weak to withstand this sensuous onslaught. Desires that had lain dormant for so long—in both of them—were being fanned to life.

  "And . . . " Zane paused. Her heartbeat quickened as his gaze lingered on her mouth. "I want to kiss a pair of lips that don't taste like whiskey."

  His fingers curled into the sleek bun at the back of her neck, destroying its tidy smoothness. He held her head still, as if he expected resistance, while his mouth descended to claim her lips. He devoured them hungrily, savoring and exploring, plundering their softness. Deborah felt her appetite rising to the fever pitch of his. Common sense screamed its alarm, warning her of the danger in his seduction.

  A war waged inside her between the needs of the flesh and the spirit. Zane's overwhelming dominance of her nearly pushed the scales to the physical side, promising a wild, delirious joy. Her mind fought through the heady sensations to argue—after the joy came bitterness. While Zane nibbled at her earlobe, his tongue made its own little forays. Deborah realized this might be her only chance to stop this scene from reaching its climax—if that's what she wanted to do. It wasn't what she wanted, but—

  "Am I supposed to fulfill your needs, Zane?" She strangled out the tremors that threatened to make her question weak. Her voice wasn't very strong, but its tone was level. "Is that one of my duties, like making coffee for you in the mornings?"

  She felt him grow rigid. It took all her control not to wind her arms around his neck and encourage the embrace. But she knew her decision was the right one, even if it left her empty and aching inside.

  Abruptly Zane released her and turned away. Her legs almost refused to function without the virile support of his, but she managed to remain standing. His back was to her, but Deborah could see the harsh rhythm of his breathing as he struggled for control. She wanted to reach out to him, touch him, but she didn't dare. Bending his dark head, he rubbed the back of his neck in a gesture that was weary and a little dispirited.

  "You'll have to forgive me for that." There was a trace of hoarseness in his voice that was otherwise level. "I forgot myself for a moment and remembered only that I was a man."

  "No, you are just human . . . like the rest of us," Deborah offered quietly, because she, too, had nearly yielded to the sweet temptation of his arms.

  "Good night, Miss Holland." It was an icy dismissal.

  But at least he hadn't told her to forget what had happened, Deborah thought as she picked up her purse and walked to the desk for her car keys. It would have been impossible to forget. Leaving the office for the darkness of the rest of the building, Deborah realized that she didn't regret what had happened. She knew now what Zane had been through and recognized the sheer loneliness of his existence without love . . . without passion. Zane was hard, yes, but he was also very human.

  Chapter Six

  "I DO LOVE a good polka, don't you?" Foster Darrow declared, his florid face even redder than usual after the fast-stepping dance.

  "Yes, I do." Deborah was out of breath and trying hard not to pant, after the unaccustomed demands of that dance. The heat in her face warned her that her cheeks were flushed, too. She could feel tendrils of hair curling damply around her neck, having escaped the coil of mahogany hair atop her head. She was badly in need of a few minutes to catch her breath and freshen up. "Would you excuse me, please?"

  "Of course," the financier grinned.

&nb
sp; And Deborah angled away from the path that would have taken her to the table where Tom and Zane waited. She didn't care what business discussion went on in her absence. She would have been too exhausted to pay attention anyway.

  Tonight's meeting was very important. Foster Darrow would be giving Zane his decision whether he would put the support of his financial institution behind the latest LaCosta project. Most people thought these big money decisions were made in large boardrooms or an attorney's office. That was only where the fine details were worked out. The committing of funds was more often done over, a lobster thermidor or a Manhattan. It was a lesson Deborah had learned very quickly.

  In the luxurious powder room, Deborah sank onto one of the velvet-covered stools in front of the long vanity mirror. Her ribs ached from the bear-hugging arm of the heavyset financier. She reached for a tissue in the decorative holder and pressed it against her skin to absorb the thin film of perspiration that had collected on her forehead, cheeks and neck.

  Her hair was a mess, little wisps sticking out all over the place. Sighing, Deborah began pulling out the pins and shaking the deep copper length of her hair free. One more polka and it would happen anyway, she reasoned, so why fight it? She took the small comb from her evening purse and arranged her hair into some semblance of a style.

  The few minutes of inactivity had slowed her heartbeat to a more normal rhythm. Deborah freshened her lipstick and leaned back to survey the repaired product. Her mind flashed back to that first dinner with Foster Darrow so many months ago. His wife and daughter had been along that time.

  After all these months of talks, dinners, cocktails, and endless negotiations, it was going to be settled tonight. She was nervous about the outcome. Not that it meant the project would fail without Darrow's financial backing. They would have to wine and dine someone else and more time would be lost.

  Zane was tense, too. Not that he showed it. But Deborah had gained valuable insight into her employer that night the bronze mask he wore had broken. She no longer accepted what she saw on the surface, but kept looking for the man. In critical situations, such as tonight, she had discovered that he had a tendency to smile with just one side of his mouth. It was an action that always appeared aloofly mocking—a don't-give-a-damn attitude. She suspected that he really didn't. Zane rolled high for the thrill of gambling. He liked the danger, the excitement and the risks of big business. He had poured his whole life into it, because there was nothing left for him outside of it.