The Hostage Bride

by Janet Dailey

  Then the doctor was in the room, nodding silently to Bick in a signal to escort Tamara away from the bed. She resisted the touch of his hands for only a second, then walked with him to the foot of the bed. Standing behind her, he kept a hand on her waist. He could feel she was stiff, braced for these next moments to come. Gently, he eased her back until her shoulders were resting against his chest. His hand slid to the front of her stomach to hold her there. A tingling awe splintered through him at the life that was beneath his hand. There was a slight exploring of his fingers as if he expected to feel movement or a heartbeat—some confirmation of their baby.

  “Is it true? What you said about the baby?” Bick murmured near her ear.

  Her hand moved to cover his hand pressed gently to her flat stomach. “Yes,” she nodded. He felt her relax slightly in his arms.

  Unable to draw the waistband closed on the pair of slacks, Tamara took them off and looked for a pair with an elastic waistband. She found a blue pair and pulled them on. They were a little tight but at least they went around her, which was more than the majority of her clothes did.

  Turning sideways, she studied her silhouette in the mirror. There was a bulging roundness to her stomach that went with her thickening waist. Her breasts were becoming fuller. She was definitely beginning to show that she was with child.

  What with the funeral and sorting through her mother’s personal possessions and making decisions about the rest and a little natural grieving, Tamara hadn’t had much time this past month to adjust to this change within her. Nor was she altogether sure how Bick felt about it.

  Naturally she had discussed it with him to some degree—assured him that the doctor said she was perfectly healthy, the baby was due in February—things like that. But whether he wanted it as much as she did was something Tamara didn’t know. He seemed happy about it, concerned about her, sometimes treating her like a piece of delicate porcelain.

  If he wasn’t overly jubilant, Tamara preferred to think it was out of respect for her mourning. He had been her rock through it all. His arms had consoled her grief and his kisses had given her back the joy in living. When she didn’t cry, Bick hadn’t suggested she should. When she did cry, he didn’t tell her to stop.

  A smile touched her mouth as she remembered what a gentle but very passionate lover he could be. Turning from the mirror, Tamara stopped when she saw Bick had come in from the bathroom. There was every indication that he had been watching her for some time.

  “I’m putting on weight,” she said to explain why she was looking at herself in the mirror.

  “Yes, you are.” He moved forward and she reached to put on her blouse. One arm was in the sleeve when his hands circled her from behind to cross and hold a breast. “And in all the right places for a pregnant lady,” he murmured against her hair.

  “I should hope so,” she laughed, and pushed out of his arms to finish putting on her blouse.

  “Why did you get pregnant? I never have asked.”

  “What kind of a question is that?” She laughed again, sending him an amused glance as she buttoned her blouse. Despite the half-smile on his mouth, she could see he was serious. And she no longer felt amused. “Why am I the one who did it? What about you and your virility? You had a part in this, too.” She walked to her dresser and picked up the hairbrush.

  “I am aware of that,” he said dryly.

  “If you are aware of it, then why didn’t you do something to prevent it?” she challenged. “Why was it my responsibility?”

  “I never said it was yours,” Bick corrected, coming to stand behind her. “I was merely wondering what made you decide you wanted to have a baby.” He let a handful of her hair slide through his fingers and watched the rippling, silver-gold affect the light made on it. “Did you hope a child would tie you to me forever? Or were you making sure I would have reason to provide for you the rest of your life in the event of a divorce?”

  Stung by his questions, Tamara whirled around to challenge him with a defiant look. “Pick whichever one you want. Either reason will do! Naturally it would never occur to you that I might want the baby for the same reason that any other woman wants to have one. That would be much too simple!” She was fighting tears by the time she had finished and attempted to turn away.

  Bick caught her shoulders. “I shouldn’t have asked those questions. I don’t know why I did.” He gathered her close and she could almost feel the violent war raging within him.

  “No, you shouldn’t have,” she agreed, and relaxed slightly, because she knew that part of him meant it.

  “I’ll tell you what we will do. Today is Saturday. Why don’t we go shopping for some baby things, furnish the nursery? Would you like that?”

  Tamara agreed because she knew it was an attempt to make up for the hurt he’d caused. She forgave him, but she knew she would never be able to forget what he’d said. After all this time, he still didn’t believe in her. For a hopeless moment she wondered if he ever would.

  The chair was sitting sideways to the library desk. It was the only way Tamara could sit in it and write on the desktop. She crossed off another name on the Christmas card list and reached for the next envelope to address. She tossed a quick glance to the window, but it was dark outside, turning the windowpanes into mirrors.

  A shadow fell into the room from the hallway an instant before Bick said, “So this is where you are hiding.”

  “I was just about to decide you were going to be late.” She set the stack of cards aside for a later time.

  “I had a stop to make on the way home. Come on.” He held out his hand to her. “I have a surprise for you.”

  Taking her by the hand, he led her to the master bedroom, where a gift-wrapped package sat on the bed. “What is it?” she asked.

  “Open it and find out.”

  After untying the bow, she stripped away the foil paper to reveal a box. When she lifted the lid, she saw a cranberry-colored maternity dress resting in folds of tissue.

  “It’s beautiful,” Tamara declared as she lifted it out of the box.

  “With all the holiday entertaining we will be obligated to do, I thought you might need it,” Bick explained. “Try it on.”

  Tamara needed no second urging. Bick had to fasten the hook at the back of the neckline. Then she stepped in front of the mirror. A network of hand-sewn cranberry beads formed the empire waistline and scrolled a border for the jewel neckline. It was softly draping and elegantly simple.

  “How does it fit?” Bick asked.

  “Like it was made for me. How did you manage it?” she murmured.

  “I walked into a shop and told the saleslady I wanted a dress so wide”—he held his hands apart to indicate narrow shoulders—“and so big.” He stretched his arms much farther apart to indicate the size of her stomach.

  “Thanks a lot, but I’m not that big,” she insisted in self-defense. Lifting her hair aside, she offered her back to him. “Unfasten the hook. I’d better take it off before I mess it up.”

  “No. Leave it on. I’m taking you out to dinner tonight,” he stated, and lightly kissed the curve of her neck.

  “You are?” Tamara turned in surprise.

  “Yes. I thought we’d go to the Plaza, see the Christmas lights, and have dinner at a restaurant there. How does that sound?” Bick smiled lazily.

  “Wonderful,” she agreed. “Let me change shoes.”

  The Plaza was unique—the first shopping center in the United States, built in the early 1900s in the ornate Spanish style and heavily influenced by Moorish style. During the holiday season it became a fairyland, with its towers and domes and scalloped cornices outlined with bright lights. Strings of lights followed the streets and wound around the fountains. The store windows of the many shops glittered with lights and Christmas decorations. Tamara had a clear view of it all from a window seat in a restaurant atop one of the Plaza hotels. It was breathtaking.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Bick offered his opinion.r />
  “Very.” She turned from the view to look across the table at her husband of eight months, a man who still hadn’t told her those three simple words—“I love you.” “You never did explain what I owe all this to. This dress … dinner …”

  “I have to fly to Palm Springs on Monday,” he admitted.

  “For how long?” She twirled her water glass and took a sip, pretending she didn’t mind.

  “I should be back Thursday, maybe Wednesday. It’s a business meeting.” Bick sipped from a glass of wine.

  “Of course.” And she did believe him.

  “It was scheduled for January, but I had it changed,” he added. “That’s too close to when the baby’s due.”

  “The doctor said everything’s going perfectly.”

  She changed the subject to rid her mind of its vision of Bick strolling by a California pool with beautiful bikini-clad girls parading for him. It made her too self-conscious about her own swollen figure.

  The conversation between them was vaguely stilted, as if each were trying to guard what was said. They tried to keep to safe, noncontroversial topics.

  Halfway through the meal, Bick murmured very softly, “Well, well.” Tamara glanced up to see he was rising to greet someone. “Hello, Frank. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “I could say the same for you, Bick.” A polished, crisp young man shook hands with Bick. He seemed to have stepped out of an advertisement for the ideal, rising young executive with his gold-rimmed glasses and three-piece suit. “I must not have seen you when you came in or I would have asked you to join us. My wife and I are with another couple sitting at a table across the way.”

  “That would have been generous of you.” Bick smiled, but Tamara recognized that skeptical gleam in his eyes. “But we wouldn’t have wanted to intrude on your party. Besides, my wife and I are enjoying one of our rare evenings alone. For that reason alone, I probably would have refused your invitation. I don’t believe you have met my wife.”

  “No, I haven’t had the pleasure.” The man turned and smiled at her, but Tamara had the feeling she was being examined under a microscope.

  “Tamara, this is Frank Shavert. He is with the legal staff. You know his uncle, Gil Shavert, one of our directors.”

  “Of course,” she nodded. “How do you do, Mr. Shavert.”

  “May I present my wife, Tamara Rutledge,” Bick finished.

  “I have heard a great deal about you, Mrs. Rutledge, but no one has managed to convey how very beautiful you are.” He bowed slightly at the waist.

  “You are very kind.” For some reason she wasn’t flattered by the compliment.

  “I understand you are flying to Palm Springs, Bick.”

  “Yes, on Monday,” he admitted.

  “I imagine sunny California will be a welcome change from chilly Kansas City.”

  “No doubt it will.”

  “I won’t keep you from your meal. You’re welcome to join us for coffee when you’re finished,” the man invited politely.

  “I think not,” Bick said, refusing.

  Frank Shavert didn’t argue. “Have a safe flight.” With a nod to Tamara, he added, “Again, it was a pleasure meeting you at last.”

  Bick watched him walk away before sitting down in his chair to finish his meal. Tamara noticed the preoccupied and thoughtful look in his expression. As if feeling her gaze, he glanced at her.

  “You just met the man who is being groomed to take my place, if his uncle has his way,” he murmured dryly.

  “How could he do that?”

  “I have inherited my mother’s stock in the company, but by no means do I have control.” His gaze wandered in the direction of Frank Shavert’s table. “Some day I’m going to be in for a proxy fight.” At the flash of concern in her expression, a smile smoothed up the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry. It won’t be for a while. Frank isn’t ready yet. Besides, I don’t intend to lose the fight.”

  “I can’t imagine you losing,” Tamara admitted.

  His gaze ran warmly over her. “Neither can I.” This time his smile was a genuine one.

  “If Gil Shavert wants you out, why is he always having you over to his house? I thought he was your friend.”

  “No. But you have to be close to a person in order to stab them in the back—a case of ‘Et tu, Brute.’”

  “Bick—”

  “Don’t worry,” he repeated. “I’ll know about it before they make a move.”

  She suddenly understood that he had to be naturally suspicious. In his own way, Bick had been taught not to trust. If he wanted to survive at the top, he had to be doubly wary of everybody’s motives. What chance did she have?

  When they had finished their main course, the waiter came to clear away their plates and returned to offer them dessert. A wicked light danced in Bick’s green eyes.

  “Dessert, Tamara? Don’t you have a craving for pickles and strawberries?” he asked in teasing reference to her condition.

  “No,” she replied. “Nothing, thank you,” she told the waiter.

  “And you, sir? Dessert? Coffee?” the waiter inquired.

  “Nothing. You may bring the check,” Bick instructed.

  “Very good, sir.”

  When the waiter had left, Bick glanced at his watch. “I’m in favor of going home. What about you?”

  “Yes,” Tamara agreed. Tonight had brought some revelations that she wanted to think over.

  Tamara went to the powder room while Bick took care of the check. When she came out, he had collected her coat from the check room and was waiting for her near the exit to the elevators. He helped her into it and lifted the curtain of flaxen hair out of the inside of her furred collar.

  “It’s cold outside,” he said as he turned her to fasten the top button of her coat. “I don’t want you getting chilled.”

  With a complete disregard for the publicness of the restaurant, he bent to brush his mouth over hers. The feather-soft contact held a heady promise of something more satisfying to come. A breathless excitement fluttered her pulse.

  “I think you have every intention of keeping me warm,” Tamara murmured, fascinated by the man who still thrilled her with his touch.

  “Do you object?” His gaze probed deeply behind half-closed lashes.

  “On the contrary.” Unconsciously she swayed toward him and his hands were on her shoulders to steady her and silently remind her of where they were.

  Near them, a woman’s voice asked, “Did you see Mrs. Rutledge when we walked by their table, Donna? She is beautiful.”

  The spreading fronds of a potted plant hid Tamara and Bick from the view of the woman, but her voice carried plainly. The unsolicited compliment about his wife brought a smile to Bick’s face.

  “She is very beautiful,” came the second woman’s response.

  “They are right,” Bick whispered huskily as neither made any attempt to make their presence known. “You are very beautiful.” Tamara would have been content to bask in the reflection of the warm light shining from his eyes the rest of her life. Bick made her feel warm and beautiful and totally woman. But he was so totally male.

  A man’s voice inserted itself in the discussion of Tamara by the two women. “And very beautifully pregnant she is, too.” Tamara recognized that smooth, educated voice as belonging to Frank Shavert. “That woman knows every trick in the book,” he added on a contemptuous note, and Tamara stiffened.

  “What do you mean?” There was avid curiosity in the first woman’s question.

  “She was nothing but a bookkeeper in a two-bit firm we absorbed,” Frank continued, and Tamara watched Bick’s lazy look narrow with cold anger. “But she knew all about balance sheets and bank statements. It’s not surprising she saw dollar signs when she met Rutledge.”

  “What happened?”

  Tamara was rooted to the floor, her stomach turning with a sickening rush. Bick’s hands were biting into her shoulders, but she knew he wasn’t aware of the press
ure he was exerting. A cold, ruthless fury was building in his features, turning them to granite before her eyes.

  “First, she conned Bick into paying back an alleged loan this firm had made her. Then there was a quickie wedding, supposedly because of her sick mother,” Frank went on. “Obviously Rutledge got her pregnant and she forced him into marrying her. But she’s going to produce an heir, which means she’ll get her share of the Rutledge fortune, one way or another.”

  Tamara saw the fury rising up to explode as Bick started to push her aside to confront the man. “Bick, no,” she protested.

  His hard gaze slashed across her face. “He isn’t going to get away with insulting you like that—not in my presence.” His low voice vibrated with the implied threat of violence.

  The irony of the situation pulled the corners of her mouth into a bitter smile. “Don’t be a hypocrite. There wasn’t anything he said that you haven’t said or thought about me already,” Tamara mocked. “If the truth were known, you are only angry because he’s made you sound like a fool. Now your pride is demanding satisfaction.”

  “No!” Bick denied that immediately.

  An overwhelming weariness swept over her. Her hand fluttered across her face to rest on the top of her stomach. “Please take me home, Bick. I’m very tired.”

  It was the truth. She was utterly weary of fighting his doubts and suspicions, of struggling for every scrap of his respect and affection. She ached all over from her many scars received in these battles.

  The voices had already drifted out of their hearing. Bick wavered for a second more, then slid a hand to her elbow to escort her out of the restaurant. The silence between them lasted all the way to the house.

  Once inside, Tamara didn’t waste time with polite chitchat and simply announced, “I’m going to bed.” All the strength and determination had been drained from her voice, leaving it flat and lifeless.

  No objection came from Bick, but he didn’t follow her. For the first time that she could remember, Tamara hadn’t wanted him to. She undressed in a weary daze and crawled into bed.

  “Here’s your lunch, Mrs. Rutledge.” The housekeeper entered the living room carrying a tray.