by Nora Roberts
“The city shows best in the spring, when you can make use of the parks and beaches. There are some beautiful stretches of marsh and sand, views of Miracle Bay and the islands. But in dead winter, it can be a postcard. The pond freezes in Atlantic Park, and people come to ice-skate.”
“Do you?” He slipped an arm around her shoulder to block her from the edge of the wind. Their bodies bumped. “Skate.”
“Yes.” Her blood simmered; her throat went dry. “It’s excellent exercise.”
He laughed, and just beyond the circle of light tossed out by a streetlamp, turned her to him. Now his hands were on her shoulders, and the wind at his back streamed through his hair. “So it’s for the exercise, not for the fun.”
“I enjoy it. It’s too late in the year for skating now.”
He could feel her nerves, the shimmer of them under his hands. Intrigued by them, he drew her a little closer. “And how do you get your exercise this late in the year?”
“I walk a lot. Swim when I can.” Her pulse was beginning to jump, a sensation she knew she couldn’t trust. “It’s too cold to stand.”
“Then why don’t we consider this an exercise in sharing body heat.” He hadn’t intended to kiss her—eventually yes, of course—but not this soon. Still, he hadn’t lied when he told her he was a romantic. And the moment simply called for it.
He brushed his lips over hers, testing, his eyes open as hers were. The wariness in hers caused his lips to curve as he tasted her a second time. He was a man who believed in practicing until he was skilled in a matter he enjoyed. He was very skilled in the matter of women and patiently warmed her lips with his until hers softened, parted, until her lashes fluttered down and she sighed quietly into his mouth.
Maybe it was foolish, but what could it hurt? The little war of reason in her head faded to whispers as sensation layered over. His mouth was firm and persuasive, his body long and hard. He tasted faintly of the wine they’d shared and was just as arousingly foreign and rich.
She found herself leaning into him, her hands clutching at his coat at the waist. And her mind went blank with pleasure.
Suddenly his hands were cupping her face, the cold, smooth leather of his gloves a shock to her dreaming brain. Her eyes opened to find his narrowed on her face, with an intensity burning in them the easy kiss didn’t warrant.
“Let’s try that again.”
This time his mouth was rough and hot, plundering hers until her head roared with sounds like the sea below the cliffs of her home. There was demand here, and the arrogant certainty it would be answered. Even as her mind lurched back, bent on refusing, her mouth answered.
He knew what it was to want. He’d wanted a great deal in his life, and had made it his business to see his desires were met. Wanting her was acceptable, even expected. But wanting her now, this forcibly, was dangerous. Even a man who gambled by choice knew to avoid unwinnable risks.
Still, he lingered long enough to be certain he would spend a very uncomfortable night, alone. He couldn’t afford to seduce her, to take her back to his bed. There was work to be done, and the timing was already set. Most of all, he couldn’t afford to care for her. Growing attached to a pawn was a certain way to lose the game.
He never lost.
He held her away, skimming his gaze over her face. Her cheeks were flushed, from the cold and the heat. Her eyes were clouded still with a passion he imagined had surprised her as much as him. She shivered as he stroked his hands down to her shoulders again. And she said nothing.
“I should take you home.” However much he cursed himself, his smile was smooth and easy.
“Yes.” She wanted to sit, to steady herself. To think again. “It’s getting late.”
“Another minute,” he murmured, “it would have been too late.” Taking her hand, he led her to the waiting limo. “Do you get to New York often?”
“Now and again.” The heat seemed to be centered in a ball in her gut. The rest of her was cold, viciously cold.
“You’ll let me know when your plans take you there. And I’ll adjust mine.”
“All right,” she heard herself say, and didn’t feel foolish at all.
She sang in the shower. It was something she never did. She didn’t have to be told she had a dreadful voice, when she could hear it for herself. But this morning she belted out “Making Whoopee.” She had no idea why that tune was lodged in her head—had no idea she even knew the lyrics—but she gurgled them as water sluiced over her head.
She was still humming when she dried off.
Bending from the waist, she wrapped a towel around her mass of hair, swinging her hips as she did so. She was no better at dancing, though she knew all the proper steps. The members of the art council who had guided her through her rigid waltzes would have been shocked to see the cool Dr. Jones bumping and grinding around her efficient bathroom.
She giggled at the thought of it, a sound so unprecedented she had to stop and catch her breath. She realized with a kind of jolt that she was happy. Really happy. That too was a rare thing. Content she often was, involved, satisfied, or challenged. But she knew simple happiness often eluded her.
It was marvelous to feel it now.
And why shouldn’t she? She slipped into a practical terry robe and smoothed her arms and legs with quietly scented body cream. She was interested in a very appealing man, and he was interested in her. He enjoyed her company, appreciated her work, found her attractive on both a physical and an intellectual plane.
He wasn’t intimidated, as so many were, by her position or her personality. He was charming, successful—to say nothing of gorgeous—and he’d been civilized enough not to press an obvious advantage and attempt to lure her into bed.
Would she have gone? Miranda wondered as she briskly dried off the foggy mirror. Normally the answer would have been a firm no. She didn’t indulge in reckless affairs with men she barely knew. She didn’t indulge in affairs period for that matter. It had been over two years since she’d had a lover, and that had ended so miserably she’d resolved to avoid even casual relationships.
But last night . . . Yes, she thought she could have been persuaded. Against her better judgment she could have been swayed. But he had respected her enough not to ask.
She continued to hum as she dressed for the day, choosing a wool suit with a short skirt and long jacket in a flattering shade of steel blue. She took care with her makeup, then let her hair tumble as it chose. In a last act of female defiance against the elements, she slipped into impractical heels.
She left for work in the chilly dark, and was still singing.
• • •
Andrew awoke with the mother of all hangovers. Not being able to stand his own whimpering, he tried to smother himself with pillows. Survival was stronger than misery, and he burst up, gasping for air and grabbing his head to keep it from falling off his shoulders.
Then he let go, praying it would.
He inched out of bed. As a scientist he knew it wasn’t possible for his bones to actually shatter, but he was afraid they might defy the laws of physics and do just that.
It was Annie’s fault, he decided. She’d gotten just annoyed enough with him the night before to let him drink himself blind. He’d counted on her to cut him off, as she usually did. But no, she kept slapping those drinks in front of him, every time he called for one.
He dimly remembered her shoving him into a cab and saying something pithy about hoping he was sick as three dogs.
She’d gotten her wish, he thought as he stumbled downstairs. If he felt any worse, he’d be dead.
When he saw there was already coffee, brewed and waiting, he nearly wept with love and gratitude for his sister. With hands that fumbled and trembled, he shook out four extra-strength Excedrin and washed them down with coffee that scalded his mouth.
Never again, he promised himself, pressing his fingers to his throbbing, bloodshot eyes. He would never drink to excess again. Even as he vowed, the slick l
onging for just one glass shuddered through him. Just one glass to steady his hands, to settle his stomach.
He refused it, telling himself there was a difference between overindulging and alcoholism. If he took a drink at seven A.M., he’d be an alcoholic. At seven P.M. now, it was fine. He could wait. He would wait. Twelve hours.
The ringing of the doorbell split through his skull like a keen-edged blade. He very nearly screamed. Instead of answering, he sat at the long trestle table there in the kitchen, laid his head down, and prayed for oblivion.
He’d nearly dozed off when the back door opened, letting in a frigid blast of air and an angry woman.
“I thought you’d be curled up somewhere feeling sorry for yourself.” Annie set a grocery bag on the counter, slapped her hands on her hips, and scowled at him. “Look at you, Andrew. A pitiful mess. Half naked, unshaven, bloodshot, and smelly. Go take a shower.”
He lifted his head to blink at her. “I don’t wanna.”
“Go take a shower while I fix your breakfast.” When he tried to lower his head again, she simply took a handful of his hair and dragged it up again. “You’re getting just what you deserve.”
“Jesus, Annie, you’re going to yank my head off.”
“And you’d feel considerably better if I could. You get your skinny butt out of that chair and go clean up—and use some industrial-strength mouthwash. You need it.”
“Christ Almighty. What the hell are you doing here?” He hadn’t thought there was room for embarrassment in the rage of the hangover, but he’d been wrong. He could feel the flush—a curse of his coloring—work up his bare chest toward his face. “Go away.”
“I sold you the liquor.” She let his hair go, and his head fell back onto the table with a thunk that made him howl. “You made me mad, so I let you keep drinking. So I’m going to fix you a decent breakfast, see that you get yourself cleaned up and go to work. Now go take a shower, or I’ll take you up and toss you in the tub myself.”
“Okay, okay.” Anything was better than having her nag at him. With what dignity he could muster in his boxer shorts, he rose. “I don’t want anything to eat.”
“You’ll eat what I fix you.” She turned to the counter and began unloading the bag. “Now get out of here. You smell like the floor of a second-class bar.”
She waited until she heard him shuffle away, then closed her eyes and leaned on the counter.
Oh, he’d looked so pathetic. So sad and sick and silly. She’d wanted to cuddle him, to soothe, to stroke all those poisons out of him. Poisons, she thought guiltily, she’d sold him because she was angry.
It wasn’t the liquor, not really, she thought. It was his heart, and she just didn’t know how to reach it.
She wondered if she could if she only cared about him a little less.
She heard the pipes clunk as he ran the shower, and it made her smile. He was so much like this house, she thought. A little threadbare, a little damaged, but surprisingly sturdy under it all.
He just couldn’t see that Elise, for all her brains and beauty, hadn’t been right for him. They’d made a stunning couple, bright and brilliant, but that was all surface. She hadn’t understood his foundation, his need for sweetness, and the ache in his heart that came from not believing himself worthy of love.
He needed tending.
That she could do, Annie decided, pushing up her sleeves. If nothing else, she could bully him into finding his feet again.
Friends, she told herself, stood by friends.
The kitchen was full of homey scents when he came back. If it had been anyone but Annie, he might have locked himself in his room. The shower had helped, and the pills had shoved the worst of the hangover away. The edges of it were still churning in his stomach and rolling in his head, but he thought he could manage now.
He cleared his throat, worked up a smile. “Smells great.”
“Sit down,” she told him without turning.
“Okay. I’m sorry, Annie.”
“No need to apologize to me. You should apologize to yourself. That’s who’s being hurt here.”
“I’m sorry anyway.” He looked down at the bowl she put in front of him. “Oatmeal?”
“It’ll stick to you, coat your stomach.”
“Mrs. Patch used to make me eat oatmeal,” he said, thinking of the sharp stick of a woman who’d cooked for them when he was a boy. “Every day before school, fall, winter, and spring.”
“Mrs. Patch knew what was good for you.”
“She used to put a little maple syrup in it.”
Feeling her lips twitch, Annie reached into a cupboard. She knew his kitchen as well as her own. She set the bottle of syrup in front of him, and added a plate of hot toasted bread. “Eat.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He took the first bite cautiously, uncertain anything would stay down. “It’s good. Thanks.”
When she saw he was making headway, and his color was no longer sickly gray, she sat across from him. Friends stood by friends, she thought again. And they were honest with each other.
“Andrew, you’ve got to stop doing this to yourself.”
“I know. I shouldn’t have had so much to drink.”
She reached out, touched his hand. “If you take one drink, you’re going to take the next, and the next.”
Annoyed, he jerked his shoulders. “Nothing wrong with a drink now and then. Nothing wrong with getting drunk now and then.”
“There is when you’re an alcoholic.”
“I’m not.”
She sat back. “I run a bar and I was married to a drunk. I know the signs. There’s a difference between someone who has a couple too many and someone who can’t stop.”
“I can stop.” He picked up the coffee she’d poured him. “I’m not drinking now, am I? I don’t drink at work—and I don’t let it affect my work. I don’t get drunk every night.”
“But you drink every night.”
“So does half the goddamn world. What’s the difference between a couple glasses of wine with dinner and a shot or two in the evening?”
“You’ll have to figure that out for yourself. The way I did. We were both half drunk the night we . . .” It hurt to say it. She thought she’d been ready, but it hurt and she couldn’t say it after all.
“Christ, Annie.” Remembering had him raking a hand through his hair, wishing the ball of shame and guilt hadn’t just dropped into his gut. “We were just kids.”
“We were old enough to make a baby between us. Temporarily.” She pressed her lips together. No matter what it cost she would get at least part of it out. “We were stupid, and we were innocent, and we were irresponsible. I’ve accepted that.” Oh God, she tried to accept that. “But it taught me what you can lose, what it can do if you don’t stay in control. You’re not in control, Andrew.”
“One night fifteen years ago doesn’t have anything to do with now.” The minute the words were out, the minute he saw the way her body jerked back, he regretted it. “I didn’t mean it like that, Annie. Not that it didn’t matter. I just—”
“Don’t.” Her voice was cool now and distant. “Just don’t. We’re better off when we pretend it never happened. I only brought it up because you can’t seem to see the difference. You were only seventeen, but you already had a drinking problem. I didn’t. I don’t. You’ve managed to get through most of your life without letting it take over. Now you’ve crossed the line. It’s starting to rule you, Andrew, and you have to take back the controls. I’m telling you this as a friend.” She rose, cupped his face in her hands. “Don’t come in my place anymore. I won’t serve you.”
“Come on, Annie—”
“You can come for conversation, but don’t come for a drink because I won’t give it to you.”
She turned, picked up her coat, and hurried out.
seven
R yan wandered the south gallery, admiring the use of light, the flow of space. The Joneses knew their business, he mused. The displays were elegantl
y arranged, the educational plaques discreet and informative.
He listened with half an ear as a blue-haired woman with a sharp Down East accent led a small tour to one of Raphael’s magnificent Madonnas.
Another tour, a bit larger and quite a bit noisier, was composed of schoolchildren and led by a perky brunette. They were heading off to the Impressionists, much to Ryan’s relief.
Not that he didn’t like children. The fact was his nieces and nephews were a great source of delight and amusement for him. He took pleasure in spoiling them outrageously as often as possible. But children tended to be a distraction during work hours. Ryan was very much at work.