Blithe Images

by Nora Roberts

  She was well into her third glass, having a marvelous time, flirting with a tall, dark man who introduced himself as Paul, when a familiar voice spoke from behind her.

  “Hello, Hillary, fancy running into you here.”

  Turning, Hillary was only somewhat surprised to see Bret. She had only agreed to attend the party when June had assured her Bret had other plans. She smiled at him vaguely, wondering momentarily why he was slightly out of focus.

  “Hello, Bret, joining the peasants tonight?”

  His eyes roamed over her flushed cheeks and absent smile before traveling down the length of her slim form. He lifted his gaze back to her face, one brow lifting slightly as he answered. “I slum it now and then—it’s good for the image.”

  “Mmm.” She nodded, draining the remainder of her glass and tossing back an errant lock of hair. “We’re both good with images, aren’t we?” She turned to the other man at her side with a brilliant smile that left him slightly dazed. “Paul, be a darling and fetch me another of these. It’s the punch over there”—she gestured largely—“in that bowl.”

  “How many have you had, Hillary?” Bret inquired, tilting her chin with his finger as Paul melted into the crowd. “I thought two was your limit.”

  “No limit tonight.” She tossed her head, sending raven locks trembling about her neck and shoulders. “I am celebrating a rebirth. Besides, it’s just fruit punch.”

  “Remarkably strong fruit I’d say from the looks of you,” he returned, unable to prevent a grin. “Perhaps you should consider the benefits of coffee after all.”

  “Don’t be stuffy,” she ordered, running a finger down the buttons of his shirt. “Silk,” she proclaimed and flashed another smile up at him. “I’ve always had a weakness for silk. Larry’s here, you know, and,” she added with dramatic emphasis, “he doesn’t have his camera. I almost didn’t recognize him.”

  “It won’t be long before you have difficulty recognizing your own mother,” he commented.

  “No, my mother only takes Polaroid shots on odd occasions,” she informed him as Paul returned with her drink. Taking a long sip, she captured Paul’s arm. “Dance with me. I really love to dance. Here”—she handed her glass to Bret—“hang on to this for me.”

  She felt light and free as she moved to the music and marveled how she had ever let Bret Bardoff disturb her. The room spun in time to the music, drifting with her in a newfound sense of euphoria. Paul murmured something in her ear she could not quite understand, and she gave an indefinite sigh in response.

  When the music halted briefly, a hand touched her arm, and she turned to find Bret standing beside her.

  “Cutting in?” she asked, pushing back tumbled hair.

  “Cutting out is more what I had in mind,” he corrected, pulling her along with him. “And so are you.”

  “But I’m not ready to leave.” She tugged at his arm. “It’s early, and I’m having fun.”

  “I can see that.” He continued to drag her after him, not bothering to turn around. “But we’re going anyway.”

  “You don’t have to take me home. I can call a cab, or maybe Paul will take me.”

  “Like hell he will,” Bret muttered, pulling her purposefully through the crowd.

  “I want to dance some more.” She did a quick spin and collided full in his chest. “You want to dance with me?”

  “Not tonight, Hillary.” Sighing, he looked down at her. “I guess we do this the hard way.”

  In one swift movement, he had her slung over his shoulder and began weaving his way through the amused crowd. Instead of suffering from indignation, Hillary began to giggle.

  “Oh, what fun, my father used to carry me like this.”

  “Terrific.”

  “Here, boss.” June stood by the door holding Hillary’s bag and wrap. “Got everything under control?”

  “I will have.” He shifted his burden and strode down the hall.

  Hillary was carried from the building and dumped without ceremony into Bret’s waiting car. “Here.” He thrust her shawl into her hands. “Put this on.”

  “I’m not cold.” She tossed it carelessly into the back seat. “I feel marvelous.”

  “I’m sure you do.” Sliding in beside her, he gave her one despairing glance before the engine sprang to life. “You’ve enough alcohol in your system to heat a two-story building.”

  “Fruit punch,” Hillary corrected, and snuggled back against the cushion. “Oh, look at the moon.” She sprang up to lean on the dash, staring at the ghostly white circle. “I love a full moon. Let’s go for a walk.”

  He pulled up at a stoplight, turned to her, and spoke distinctly. “No.”

  Tilting her head, she narrowed her eyes as if to gain a new perspective. “I had no idea you were such a wet tire.”

  “Blanket,” he corrected, merging with the traffic.

  “I told you, I’m not cold.” Sinking back into the seat, she began to sing.

  Bret parked the car in the garage that serviced Hillary’s building, turning to her with reluctant amusement. “All right, Hillary, can you walk or do I carry you?”

  “Of course I can walk. I’ve been walking for years and years.” Fumbling with the door handle, she got out to prove her ability. Funny, she thought, I don’t remember this floor being tilted. “See?” she said aloud, weaving dangerously. “Perfect balance.”

  “Sure, Hillary, you’re a regular tightrope walker.” Gripping her arm to prevent a spill, he swept her up, cradled against his chest. She lay back contented as he carried her to the elevator, twining her arms around his neck.

  “I like this much better,” she announced as the elevator began its slow climb. “Do you know what I’ve always wanted to do?”

  “What?” His answer was absent, not bothering to turn his head. She nuzzled his ear with her lips. “Hillary,” he began, but she cut him off.

  “You have the most fascinating mouth.” The tip of her finger traced it with careful concentration.

  “Hillary, stop it.”

  She continued as if he had not spoken. “A nicely shaped face too.” Her finger began a slow trip around it. “And I’ve positively been swallowed up by those eyes.” Her mouth began to roam his neck, and he let out a long breath as the elevator doors opened. “Mmm, you smell good.”

  He struggled to locate her keys, hampered with the bundle in his arms and the soft mouth on his ear lobe.

  “Hillary, stop it,” he ordered. “You’re going to make me forget the game has rules.”

  At last completing the complicated process of opening the door, he leaned against it a moment, drawing in a deep breath.

  “I thought men liked to be seduced,” she murmured, brushing her cheek against his.

  “Listen, Hillary.” Turning his face, he found his mouth captured.

  “I just love kissing you.” She yawned and cradled her head against his neck.

  “Hillary … for heaven’s sake!”

  He staggered for the bedroom while Hillary continued to murmur soft, incoherent words in his ear.

  He tried to drop her down on the spread, but her arms remained around his neck, pulling him off balance and down on top of her. Tightening her hold, she once more pressed her lips to his.

  He swore breathlessly as he struggled to untangle himself. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” With a drowsy moan, she shut her eyes. “Have you got anything on under that dress?” he demanded as he removed her shoes.

  “Mmm, a shimmy.”

  “What’s that?”

  She gave him a misty smile and murmured. Taking a deep breath, he shifted her over, released the zipper at the back of her dress, pulled the material over smooth shoulders, and continued down the length of the slimly curved body.

  “You’re going to pay for this,” he warned. His cursing became more eloquent as he forced himself to ignore the honey skin against the brief piece of silk. He drew the spread over the inert form on the bed. Hillary sighed and snuggled i
nto the pillow.

  Moving to the door, he leaned wearily on the frame, allowing his eyes to roam over Hillary as she lay in blissful slumber. “I don’t believe this. I must be out of my mind.” His eyes narrowed as he listened to her deep breathing. “I’m going to hate myself in the morning.” Taking a long, deep breath, he went to search out Hillary’s hoard of Scotch.

  Chapter Nine

  Hillary awoke to bright, invading sunlight. She blinked in bewilderment attempting to focus on familiar objects. She sat up and groaned. Her head ached and her mouth felt full of grit. Placing her feet on the floor, she attempted to stand, only to sink back, moaning, as the room revolved around her like a carousel. She gripped her head with her hands to keep it stationary.

  What did I drink last night? she wondered, squeezing eyes tight to jar her memory. What kind of punch was that? She staggered unsteadily to her closet to secure a robe.

  Her dress was tossed on the foot of the bed, and she stared at it in confusion. I don’t remember undressing, she thought. Shaking her head in bemusement, she pressed a hand against her pounding temple. Aspirin, juice, and a cold shower, she decided. With slow, careful steps, she walked toward the kitchen. She stopped abruptly and leaned against the wall for support as a pair of men’s shoes and a jacket stared at her in accusation from her living room sofa.

  “Good heavens,” she whispered as a partial memory floated back. Bret had brought her home, and she had … She shuddered as she remembered her conduct on the elevator. But what happened? She could only recall bits and pieces, like a jigsaw puzzle dumped on the floor—and the thought of putting them together was thoroughly upsetting.

  “Morning, darling.”

  She turned slowly, her already pale face losing all color as Bret smiled at her, clad only in slacks, a shirt carelessly draped over his shoulder. The dampness of his hair attested to the fact that he had just stepped from the shower. My shower, Hillary’s brain pounded out as she stared at him.

  “I could use some coffee, darling.” He kissed her lightly on the cheek in a casual intimate manner that tightened her stomach. He strode past her into the kitchen, and she followed, terrified. After placing the kettle to boil, he turned and wrapped his arms around her waist. “You were terrific.” His lips brushed her brow, and she knew a moment’s terror that she would faint dead away. “Did you enjoy yourself as much as I did?”

  “Well, I-I guess, I don’t … I don’t remember … exactly.”

  “Don’t remember?” He stared in disbelief. “How could you forget? You were amazing.”

  “I was … Oh.” She covered her face with her hands. “My head.”

  “Hung over?” he asked, full of solicitude. “I’ll fix you up.” Moving away, he rummaged in the refrigerator.

  “Hung over?” she repeated, supporting herself in the doorway. “I only had some punch.”

  “And three kinds of rum.”

  “Rum?” she echoed, screwing up her eyes and trying to think. “I didn’t have anything but—”

  “Planter’s punch.” He was busily involved in his remedy, keeping his back toward her. “Which consists, for the most part, of rum—amber, white, and dark.”

  “I didn’t know what it was.” She leaned more heavily on the doorway. “I had too much to drink. I’m not used to it. You-you took advantage of me.”

  “I took advantage?” Glass in hand, he regarded her in astonishment. “Darling, I couldn’t hold you off.” He lifted his brow and grinned. “You’re a real tiger when you get going.”

  “What a dreadful thing to say,” she exploded, then moaned as her head hammered ruthlessly.

  “Here, drink.” He offered the concoction, and she regarded it with doubtful eyes.

  “What’s in it?”

  “Don’t ask,” he advised. “Just drink.”

  Hillary swallowed in one gulp, then shivered as the liquid poured down her throat. “Ugh.”

  “Price you pay, love,” he said piously, “for getting drunk.”

  “I wasn’t drunk exactly,” she protested. “I was just a little … a little muddled. And you”—she glared at him—“you took advantage of me.”

  “I would swear it was the other way around.”

  “I didn’t know what I was doing.”

  “You certainly seemed to know what you were doing—and very well too.” His smile prompted a groan from Hillary.

  “I can’t remember. I just can’t remember.”

  “Relax, Hillary,” he said as she began to sniffle. “There’s nothing to remember.”

  “What do you mean?” She sniffed again and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “I mean, I didn’t touch you. I left you pure and unsullied in your virginal bed and slept on that remarkably uncomfortable couch.”

  “You didn’t … we didn’t …”

  “No to both.” He turned in response to the shrilling kettle and poured boiling water into a mug.

  The first flood of relief changed into irritation. “Why not? What’s wrong with me?”

  He turned back to stare at her in amazement, then roared with laughter. “Oh, Hillary, what a contradiction you are! One minute you’re desperate because you think I’ve stolen your honor and the next you’re insulted because I didn’t.”

  “I don’t find it very funny,” she retorted. “You deliberately led me to believe that I, that we—”

  “Slept together,” Bret offered, casually sipping his coffee. “You deserved it. You drove me crazy all the way from the elevator to the bedroom.” His smile widened at her rapid change of color. “You remember that well enough. Now remember this. Most men wouldn’t have left a tempting morsel like you and slept on that miserable couch, so take care with your fruit punch from now on.”

  “I’m never going to take another drink as long as I live,” Hillary vowed, rubbing her hands over her eyes. “I’m never going to look at a piece of fruit again. I need some tea or some of that horrible coffee, something.” The sound of the doorbell shrilled through her head, and she swore with unaccustomed relish.

  “I’ll fix you some tea,” Bret offered, grinning at her fumbling search for obscenities. “Go answer the door.”

  She answered the summons wearily, opening the door to find Charlene standing at the threshold, taking in her disheveled appearance with glacial eyes.

  “Do come right in,” Hillary said, shutting the door behind Charlene with a force that only added to her throbbing discomfort.

  “I heard you made quite a spectacle of yourself last night.”

  “Good news travels fast, Charlene—I’m flattered you were so concerned.”

  “You don’t concern me in the least.” She brushed invisible lint from her vivid green jacket. “Bret does, however. You seem to make a habit of throwing yourself at him, and I have no intention of allowing it to continue.”

  This is too much for anyone to take in my condition, Hillary decided, feeling anger rising. Feigning a yawn, she assumed a bored expression. “Is that all?”

  “If you think I’m going to have a little nobody like you marring the reputation of the man I’m going to marry, you’re very much mistaken.”

  For an instant, anger’s heat was frozen in agony. The struggle to keep her face passive caused her head to pound with new intensity. “My congratulations to you, my condolences to Bret.”

  “I’ll ruin you,” Charlene began. “I’ll see to it that your face is never photographed again.”

  “Hello, Charlene,” Bret said casually as he entered the room, his shirt now more conventionally in place.

  The redhead whirled, staring first at him, then at his jacket thrown carelessly over the back of the sofa. “What … what … are you doing here?”

  “I should think that’s fairly obvious,” he answered, dropping to the sofa and slipping on his shoes. “If you didn’t want to know, you shouldn’t have taken it upon yourself to check up on me.”

  He’s using me again, Hillary thought, banking down on shiverin
g hurt and anger. Just using me to make her jealous.

  Charlene turned on her, her bosom heaving with emotion. “You won’t hold him! You’re only a cheap one-night stand! He’ll be bored with you within the week! He’ll soon come back to me,” she raved.

  “Terrific,” Hillary retorted, feeling her grip on her temper slipping. “You’re welcome to him, I’m sure. I’ve had enough of both