“Hope for what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Life. Happiness.” She gestured helplessly. “Everything. It’s been so long since I dared to think about anything but the next minute, the next hour. But now I can actually make plans for next year. It seems like a miracle.”
An unbearable surge of tenderness tightened his throat. “Does it, Samantha?”
She nodded. “I have a future.” She suddenly stopped. “And you’re a part of it.” She took a step closer and slipped into his arms with supreme naturalness. “I want to know you, Fletch. You’re going to be very important in my life.”
His arms tightened around her. “I think we know each other better than most married couples. At least, I know you. There’s not much to know about me. What you see is what you get.”
“I don’t think that’s true. I think there’s a great deal more to you than what’s on the surface.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Every time I turn around, I learn something new about you. Talk to me. Where were you born? Where did you grow up? Were you close to your parents?”
“Hold it.” He chuckled indulgently. “Give me a chance. I was born in Seattle, Washington, and I grew up in a suburb there. My father owned a small electronics plant. My mother was an engineer and worked very closely with him. They made a great team.” His smile faded. “My mother died when I was in college, my father three years later.”
“You were close?”
“Not particularly. They were … busy.”
Her expression softened. “I’m sorry. That must have been very difficult for you. A child needs—”
“Don’t waste your sympathy on me,” he said, interrupting. “You don’t miss what you’ve never had. I wasn’t a victim, though I was undoubtedly an accident they were forced to tolerate. Maybe my parents were workaholics who never should have had children, but I can’t fault them when I run my life the same way.”
“But you want a child.”
He nodded. “And I’ll be a good father. I won’t cheat—” He stopped, surprised. “Hell, maybe I do see myself as some kind of a victim. I didn’t think I was self-pitying.”
“You’re not.” She felt a tenderness that was almost maternal. No wonder he had erected such a high wall around his emotions. How many rejections had he suffered before he had been forced to emulate his parents and substitute ambition for emotion? Yet there was nothing unemotional about the Fletcher Bronson she had come to know. He was full of anger and passion and caring. “But I think you’re wise to have decided to have a child to complete your life. You need it.” She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss as light as a summer breeze on his lips. “Just as I do. I’ll give you a child we can both love, Fletch.”
He gazed down at her, a multitude of emotions chasing across his face. “You don’t look much more than a child yourself,” he finally said gruffly. He reached out and tugged playfully at a strand of her chestnut hair. “And I feel like a dirty old man.” He took a step back and released her. “I have to make a few phone calls. We’d better get back to the house.”
“Now?” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.
His smile was bittersweet. “I’m not twenty-one and full of hope and visions of the future. I’m thirty-seven and weighed down with years and responsibilities.” He took her elbow and began to guide her gently in the direction of the villa. “It’s one of the crosses you’ll have to bear as my wife. I have a merger pending, and I’m going to be under constant pressure for the next few months.”
“I understand.” She didn’t look at him. “I didn’t mean to … I know we have an agreement. I’ll try not to interfere.”
“For heaven’s sake, Samantha, this is your wedding day. I should be the one apologizing.”
She tried to smile. “But this isn’t the usual wedding day, is it?” Her eyes slid away, and the words tumbled out feverishly. “I know how busy you are. It was very kind of you to spend this much time with me. It was silly of me to think it could be any different. Oh, look, my feet are all sandy.” They had reached the steps, and she pulled away from him and ran up the steps. “I’ll just go to my suite and wash them. I’ll see you later, Fletch. I hope those business calls go well.”
She quickly disappeared through the French doors into the house.
Fletch stood still on the terrace, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He had hurt her. He had robbed her of the radiance of happiness and hope; he had brought her back into the shadows. Damn, he hadn’t wanted to hurt her. If he hadn’t been so clumsy …
But he was clumsy, he thought grimly. He would blunder and hurt her, neglect and probably destroy her, if given the chance.
He moved slowly, heavily, toward the French doors. He had to talk to Skip and Sara, and then he badly needed a drink. He wished to hell there really were some earth-shaking phone calls he had to make. It would have kept him from remembering Samantha’s face that moment before she had run into the house. It would have kept him from thinking of the note he had to write to give Sara for Samantha.
Rats, she looked about as voluptuous as Little Orphan Annie, Samantha thought in supreme discontent as she twisted and turned before the full-length mirror. Champagne beige was a good color for her, but that was all the nightgown had going for it. She made a face at her image in the mirror. What had she expected, for goodness sake? Expensive lingerie couldn’t give someone like her the earthy appeal of a woman like Monette Santore. Unfortunately one had to have some curves to put into a nightgown to make it sexy.
She turned away from the mirror with a sigh of discouragement. She wished she hadn’t thought about Monette Santore. She was nervous enough tonight without worrying about Fletch’s former mistress.
Former? She stopped in mid-motion as she was reaching for her negligee, draped on the back of the rattan chair. How did she know the actress was relegated to Fletch’s past? There had been no clause in that contract she had signed that guaranteed his fidelity, and he had never given her any assurance he wouldn’t send for any woman who caught his eye whenever it pleased him. Why should he be satisfied with a wife who wasn’t as sexy or experienced or—She had to stop this, she told herself as she slipped on the negligee. There. She didn’t look nearly as bad with her bony shoulders covered. Maybe he wouldn’t notice in the dark how skinny she was. Still, it hadn’t been dark in the cave, and he hadn’t seemed to think she was too ugly. Perhaps it would be all right. Oh, Lord, she was nervous. Nervous and excited and—
There was a soft knock on the door. Fletch?
“Come in.” Her voice sounded quavery even to her.
Sara opened the door. “Hey, you look real pretty. Like one of those ads in Vogue. Do you want me to brush your hair?” She bustled into the room. “You’ve had a big day. Now why don’t you let me tuck you into bed?”
“Not yet. I’m waiting …”
Sara stopped in the center of the room, her eyes widening in surprise. “Mr. Bronson gave me a letter for you, but I thought you knew.” She hurriedly reached into her pocket and brought out a folded piece of stationery. She crossed the room and thrust the note into Samantha’s hand. “You call me if you need me.” She turned and hurried toward the door. “And don’t you stay awake worrying about any of this. You need your rest.”
“Sara?”
Sara turned reluctantly at the door.
“What did you think I would know?”
Sara’s gaze fastened on the note in Samantha’s hand, carefully avoiding her eyes. “That Mr. Bronson and Mr. Brennen took off in the helicopter for Miami forty-five minutes ago. It’s probably in that note he wrote you. I guess he was in a big hurry and didn’t have time to …” She trailed off and quickly opened the door. “You call me if you need me.” The door closed behind her.
Poor Sara, Samantha thought dully. She had been so embarrassed and distressed at having to be the bearer of bad news. It wasn’t every day a third person had to inform the bride that the groom had literally flown from the bridal nest.
She slowly unfolded the note. The note was terse, to the point, and typically Fletch: “Samantha, I’ll call you from Miami to explain. Take care of yourself. Fletch.”
Take care of yourself. How very tender and loving, she thought as a shiver of pain radiated through her. But she wasn’t entitled to either love or kindness from Fletch. That wasn’t in their agreement. Those business calls he’d had to make had evidently generated a fascination more urgent than his desire to sire a child. Certainly more urgent than his desire for her.
Oh, well, she didn’t care. It didn’t matter. She had no right to demand anything from Fletch.
Her hand slowly clenched around the paper, wadding it into a tight ball. If she had no right, then why was she hurting so much? And if she didn’t care, why did those brief words strike like acid-dipped needles?
She dropped the note on the floor and moved slowly toward the French doors that led to the terrace. He would be calling soon. Fletch always did what he said he would do. When he called, she must be controlled and calm. She mustn’t let him know.
Know what? She had been hiding, dodging the truth for so long that it was now obscure, veiled even from herself. But there always came a time to lift the veil. She had been a coward too long.
She opened the French doors and breathed in the warm salty air. The night was soft and sensuous; the sound of the waves rushing onto shore had an alluring rhythm. She must ignore both the sensuality and the allure. She moved toward the cushioned rattan chair and sat down, her slim hands clutching its smooth braided arms. She had to think. When Fletch called her, she must not be in this turmoil. She must know.
It was over an hour later when the phone rang.
Samantha rose and moved quickly from the terrace to the bedroom extension and lifted the receiver. “Hello?”
“Samantha?” Fletch’s voice was quick and vibrant. “Did I wake you?”
She almost laughed aloud. “No, I was waiting for your call.”
“Damn, that was a stupid question.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “I don’t have much time. My plane leaves in fifteen minutes. I’m sending Skip back to the island tomorrow morning.”
“That’s not necessary.” Her voice was steady, she noted with a sense of pride. “I don’t need him here. I’ll be fine until you get back.”
“You’re not going to stay at the villa. Skip is going to escort you to Paris and stay with you until you’re settled into the château.”
Her hand tightened on the receiver. “If that’s what you want. When will you join me there?”
There was another pause. “Not for some time.”
She tried to laugh. “Unless you’re thinking of a test-tube baby, I understand it’s a little difficult to conceive a child long-distance. Or do you intend to send for me when you have time? The way you send for Monette Santore?”
He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded faintly obscene. “No, I thought—” He stopped. “I decided it would be better to wait until you’re stronger. You have no business becoming pregnant until you’re entirely well.”
Relief poured through her, and with it a rising fountain of joy. He had been thinking of her. Surely that must mean he felt something for her. “But I feel wonderfully healthy,” she said eagerly. “I’m starting to put on weight, and I’m rested and—”
“No,” he said, interrupting. “It will be better for you and the child if we wait. So we wait.”
Dear heaven, this was difficult. “I could still come to you.”
“I’ll be busy in the next few months,” he said evasively. “It will be better if you stay at the château and start your lessons. There’s no hurry.”
“No, there’s no hurry,” she repeated dully. “You’re a very patient man. I suppose I should thank you.”
“You’re remarkably lacking in enthusiasm.” He paused. “Did I hurt you that much, Samantha?”
“No, why should—” She broke off. She wouldn’t lie to him. “Yes, you hurt me.” She cleared her throat to ease the painful tightness. “I didn’t realize I was so egotistical, but you have to admit it’s a little unflattering to have a man go to these lengths to avoid making love to you.”
“Don’t talk hogwash,” he said roughly. “You turn me on more than any woman I’ve ever met. Don’t you realize that? I nearly went crazy when I was loving you. I ache even thinking about how good it was moving in—” He heaved a sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was deliberately light. “You don’t have to worry about whether I want you, if that’s all that’s bothering you.” When she didn’t answer, he asked quietly, “Samantha?”
“That’s what was bothering me,” she whispered. He had enjoyed her body. He wanted her. That could be a lot to build on. “Thank you for telling me.”
“Samantha, for heaven’s sake …” He was silent a moment. “I have to go now. I’ll make arrangements for my lawyers in Paris to give you an allowance for personal expenses. The bills for the château are sent to them as a matter of course. If you need anything at all, just ask Skip.”
“All right.”
“One more thing. I’m going to make sure news of our marriage doesn’t leak to the press. It will make it safer for you to move around Paris freely if you’re not known as my wife. There are all kinds of kooks who slime out of the woodwork when they scent money.”
“Okay.”
“Samantha, you did the right thing in marrying me. Just leave everything to me and you won’t be sorry.”
“Good-bye, Fletch. You mustn’t miss your plane.”
“Good-bye, Samantha.”
The soft click of the receiver brought silence and loneliness to the room.
She slowly replaced the receiver and stood looking at the ivory-colored phone without seeing it. She had been plunged from nervousness to depression to hope so quickly in the last few hours that she felt dazed.
He wanted her. She had a chance. Marriages like the one they had entered into weren’t really all that unusual. In medieval times, and for centuries later, there had been marriages contracted purely for reasons of convenience. Love often had to come later. She could build on passion and desire as those ladies of the past had done. But she must be very careful. She must not be demanding or make Fletch feel guilty. That would be a terrible mistake.
And she must never let him know how she felt about him.
No, above all, she must not let Fletch know how much she loved him.
SEVEN
“IF YOU WON’T give up this life in a garret for yourself, think of me,” Skip complained as he stretched out his legs in front of him and gazed gloomily at the statue of Fletcher Bronson that Samantha was working on. “Fletch won’t let me go back to New York until you move to the château, and I can’t stand this blasted city. Parisians don’t like Americans.”
“I’ve never noticed that.” Samantha took a step back and tilted her head to one side. “What do you think, Skip? Are the cheekbones a little too broad?”
“No, they’re fine. That’s Fletch, all right.” He glanced away from the statue and back to Samantha to argue, “And the only reason you never noticed Americans are on the Gallic blacklist is that you have a sort of cosmopolitan air. Most of the time they don’t even know you’re an American. If they pretend they don’t understand English, you chatter at them in Spanish. Now when they look at me, they zero in for the kill.”
“Nonsense, Parisians are perfectly wonderful.” Her lips twitched as she gave him a sidewise glance. “But if you don’t want to be recognized as an American, you could get rid of that baseball cap. It’s a dead giveaway.”
“Give up my cap?” He gazed at her in outrage as he gave the bill of the cap a protective tug. “No way, that’s carrying things too far.”
Samantha’s eyes danced with amusement. “Just a thought.”
“A damn bad one,” Skip said in a voice like a growl. “Like living in this crummy studio, five flights up. I nearly have a heart attack by the time I reach
your front door. It’s idiotic to live here when you could be lolling in luxury at the château.”
“The light is wonderful here.” She motioned to the skylight above her. “And my studio is not crummy. It’s clean and neat and—”
“It looks like a nun’s cell,” Skip said, interrupting her. “And the radiators don’t work half the time, and it’s five flights up.”
She laughed. “I thought you liked heights, Skip. After all, you’re a pilot.”
“I like flying,” he said flatly. “That’s entirely different. Flying doesn’t require exercise that would kill a horse. You know damn well that Fletch wouldn’t like it if he knew you’d rented this place, Topaz. I don’t know why I ever let you talk me into letting him think you were living in a decent apartment.”
“That’s why you’re not going to tell him. Though this is a decent place. My neighbors are all artists and very friendly, and it’s close to the school. It’s certainly all I need right now. I don’t do much but work, anyway.”
“You don’t do anything but work.” Skip shook his head. “I thought you’d want to break loose and have some fun after what you went through on St. Pierre.”
“I am having fun.” She looked back at the statue. “I go to museums and coffee shops with the other students, and I work. That’s the most fun of all.”
“You’re hopeless.” Skip grimaced. “And a little crazy. You’re married to one of the richest men in the world, and you live like a pauper. You scarcely touch the allowance Fletch gives you. In the last four months you haven’t bought any clothes or shelled out the money for a respectable place to live. You wouldn’t even eat enough if I didn’t come in every day and remind you.”
“Do I look as if I’m suffering?”
“No,” Skip admitted reluctantly. “You look …” He paused, trying to see her objectively. It was a difficult thing to do. He’d grown too close to her in the past months. Topaz hadn’t put on much weight, but her skin no longer had that transparency he had noticed the first time he had seen her. The tension that had shadowed her every moment was gone too. She wasn’t blooming with exuberance and vitality, but there was a glow, a quiet serenity, and a strength that appeared to be growing, deepening, with every passing day. “You look good.”
One Touch of Topaz Page 9
