Between the Lines

by Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Ah, yes,” Gray said in satisfaction,. “One of my better pieces, if I do say so myself. ‘Gunslinger’s Lament.’ Who can forget such classic lines or such an unusual sense of poetic meter.” Before Amber could halt him, Gray began to quote:

  “He dreams of her at midnight

  When there’s no one else around.

  He sees her in the morning’s light

  When he wakes on the cold, hard ground.

  But he knows he’ll never touch her,

  He knows she’ll never care.

  She’s his sweet, illusive vision,

  The lady with the golden hair.”

  Amber rushed to interrupt him before Gray went into the next stanza. Once started on a Twitchell poem, Gray was hard to stop. “Well, it seems as though your article generated some feedback from a reader named Honoria Tyler Abercrombie.”

  Gray’s eyebrows rose. “Feedback? My articles never generate any feedback. No one else knows enough about S.U.T. to argue with me.”

  Amber waved the letter in her hand, her eyes glinting with amused satisfaction. “Looks like your claim to being the world’s only living expert on Sherborne Ulysses Twitchell is about to be challenged. Ms Abercrombie, here, says she has a copy of the Collected Works plus several handwritten pages that appear to have come from a diary kept by Twitchell.”

  Gray looked stunned. He snatched the letter out of Amber’s fingers. “Impossible. I’ve got the only three existing copies of the Collected Works. And as for a diary of Twitchell’s, that’s utter nonsense. Abercrombie must be a fraud.”

  “I don’t know, Gray. She seems to have a firm grasp of her subject.”

  “Probably gleaned from reading all my articles,” Gray snapped, scanning the letter with a glowering frown. “Listen to this, Amber, the woman has the nerve to claim she’s going to publish an article next month in Radiant Sunsets.”

  “What topic?”

  “‘The Use of Erotic Metaphors in the Poetry of S. U. Twitchell.’”

  Amber chuckled. “I know exactly what she means. Just think of all those references to hot iron and cold iron and heavy iron in his stuff. Definitely phallic. There’s that line in ‘Gunslinger’s Lament,’ for instance.” She paused and then quoted:

  “She was satin, lace and elegance;

  He was leather, sweat and iron.”

  Gray shot her a disgusted look. “Iron is a slang term for a gun.”

  “Everyone knows guns are phallic symbols for men.”

  “Hah! That’s a typically female thing to say.”

  Amber looked offended. “I happen to agree with Ms Abercrombie. It’s not as if I’m unfamiliar with the poem. Listen to this:

  The lady came from Boston,

  He heard them call her Sharon

  She was on her way to ‘Frisco

  To marry a cattle baron.

  The gunman saw her in the depot;

  She came within a foot of him that day.

  And he held his breath as she did pass and

  Her skirts did gently sway.

  She was satin, lace and elegance,

  He was leather, sweat and iron.

  But as she passed her glance did chance

  To fall upon his face.

  She looked into his night-dark gaze and

  Saw his destiny so clear

  That in her soft blue eyes there formed

  A single, crystal tear.”

  Gray leaned against Amber’s desk and finished the poem with the reverent appreciation of a true aficionado:

  “But the lady didn’t turn away;

  The lady didn’t run.

  Instead she left him with a smile

  That was like the morning sun.

  Yes, she smiled at him with kindness;

  She smiled at him with grace.

  The gunman knew he’d ne’er forget

  Her sweet, angelic face.

  He knew then he’d never hold her,

  Knew then she’d never care.

  But he also knew he’d ne’er forget

  His lady with the golden hair.”

  Amber grinned and reached out to tap the letter in his hand. “Looks like you’ve got some competition, Gray. There is now another Sherborne Ulysses Twitchell expert in the world, and she’s gunning for you.”

  “I’ll demolish her in print. I’ll show her up for the fake she is. I’ll see to it the woman is laughed right out of Poets of the Southwest, Western Poetry and Radiant Sunsets. Just wait. The phallic symbolism of iron, my foot. Abercrombie obviously doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

  “It’ll be interesting to read her article,” Amber said politely.

  “It’ll be a joke, mark my words.” Gray got to his feet and stalked over to his own desk. He threw himself into the swivel chair and regarded his assistant with a dangerously narrowed gaze. “This Abercrombie female has bitten off more than she can chew. I’ll make her eat every word she gets into print.”

  “Now, Gray, she’s probably a sweet little old lady. An ex-librarian, perhaps. Someone who is as devoted to S.U.T. as you are.”

  Gray gave her a scornful glance. “A sweet little old lady who’s writing an article on the phallic symbolism of guns and who knows what other erotic metaphors? Hah. Forget sweet little old ex-librarian. Whoever this woman is, she’s obviously got her mind on something besides the unique literary qualities of S.U.T.’s poetry.” He sat forward and reached for a file labeled Symington. “Let’s get busy. We’ve got work to do.”

  Amber stifled a laughing smile and obediently went back to the mail. So much for the emotional impact of accepting Gray’s proposal of marriage, she told herself. Her future with Gray might not be wildly passionate, but it would probably be somewhat amusing at times. And that kiss hadn’t been so bad. She was more than willing to appreciate warmth and comfort and strength in a man’s embrace after having experienced the destructive flames of a lethal passion.

  * * *

  The morning of Amber’s wedding dawned overcast and drizzly. She dressed for the event with a sense of uneasiness that she couldn’t quite shake. There had been nothing very abnormal about the past two weeks. Gray hadn’t changed his behavior in any way. There had been a few brief, affectionate kisses but nothing more intense, not even a repeat of the pleasantly comfortable embrace he had given her the day she’d accepted his proposal.

  He’d announced a few days before the wedding that they would be married on the same day they were scheduled to leave for Tucson.

  “It’ll mean we’ll be taking your sister and her husband out to brunch instead of dinner, but I don’t suppose that makes any difference to them,” Gray had remarked.

  Amber had shaken her head. “No, I don’t suppose it will,” she’d agreed politely.

  It was all so terribly casual, she thought as she slipped into the skirt of the apricot-colored suit she’d bought for the event. Of course, she reminded herself, casual was the way she wanted it. But still, it seemed to her that a wedding, any wedding, ought to warrant more than a short, businesslike ceremony followed by breakfast with the family. The flight to Tucson that afternoon was fundamentally a business trip.

  But she didn’t want the customary romantic trappings, Amber told herself fiercely as she combed her hair back from her face and inserted a silver comb behind each ear. She was not the usual bride who had her head filled with romantic nonsense and a body eager to taste the sensual delights of the marriage bed. She wasn’t in love with Cormick Grayson and probably never would be, at least not in the way most people thought of love. Roarke Kelley had cured her of those dangerous, risky passions.

  But she would be content with Gray, Amber knew. Her life would be serene and quietly satisfying on several levels. Gray was making a commitment this morning, and she knew him well enough to know he would a
bide by it. She, too, was capable of honoring a commitment, and she fully intended to honor the one she was making today.

  Amber knew she could do without the kind of painful, passionate yearning that left a woman so terribly vulnerable. She collected her small tan leather purse and headed for the door of her apartment. Cynthia and Sam Paxton were due to pick her up at any moment.

  * * *

  Gray stretched his long legs out in front of him and held out his hand for the cup of coffee the hostess was offering. The drone of the jet engines was a distant hum up here in first class. He almost always flew first-class on any trip scheduled to last over an hour. It was the only way he could get a seat with enough leg room. The extra space was the only real advantage of first class as far as he was concerned. Free liquor didn’t mean much, and the food really wasn’t any better than that served in the other cabin, even if it did arrive on prettier china. But he was willing to pay the premium for a measure of extra comfort.

  Besides, he reminded himself, this was his wedding day. He wanted his new bride to enjoy the trip in comfort. He smiled to himself. Amber was getting a kick out of flying first-class. So far she had sampled every freebie offered by the attentive air hostess, including the imported champagne.

  Gray studied his bride surreptitiously as she polished off the last of the chocolate cheesecake that had followed the steak. She hadn’t eaten very much at the bountiful hotel brunch after the short wedding ceremony. He was glad to see her normally healthy appetite returning. She seemed to have relaxed somewhat since her sister had bid her goodbye at the airport. Gray had a hunch Cynthia Paxton had made one or two last-ditch efforts to talk Amber out of the marriage.

  But now Amber appeared to be returning to her natural, even-keeled mood. He wondered how she’d behave this evening when she realized the sun was setting on her wedding night. Gray thought he knew Amber quite well, but there were still times when he couldn’t tell what she was thinking. Today was one of those times.

  His own thoughts were the ones he should be trying to unravel, Gray decided wryly as he took a swallow of coffee. He’d changed his mind at least half a dozen times already this morning on a very important subject. In another half hour he’d probably change it again. The vacillation disturbed him. It wasn’t like him to be so unsure of himself.

  The raw truth was that he didn’t know how to handle the wedding night that was rapidly approaching. He’d awakened this morning with an aroused body and the last vestiges of an erotic dream that involved Amber shimmering passionately in his arms. As he’d climbed out of bed and headed for the shower, Gray had been absolutely certain of what he’d be doing on his wedding night. The hell with waiting, he’d told himself. He’d been waiting for months.

  But during the small, private ceremony :in the minister’s office this morning he’d looked at Amber’s sweetly earnest expression and decided he could wait a little longer to have her in his bed. He didn’t want her coming to him out of a sense of wifely duty or obligation. He didn’t want to make her nervous or uncomfortable. He didn’t want to rush her. Gray wanted Amber to want him with the same abiding desire that flowed in his own veins for her.

  The noble sentiments had suffered a serious setback at brunch when Amber had looked at him across the table and smiled. Amber’s smile had a way of temporarily depriving him of his breath. There had been a mysterious gleam of emotion in her expressive eyes, and for an instant Gray had dared to hope that she had faced the prospect of the coming night and found it exciting. But the expression had disappeared beneath a mask of good-natured politeness that had lasted all the way to the airport. Gray had changed his mind at least three more times before the plane had left the ground.

  He took another sip of coffee and scowled. It was ridiculous. He was nearly forty years old, and as of today he was a married man. The woman sitting beside him was no ingénue who had been swept off her feet by a dashing, older man. He might be a few years older than Amber, Gray told himself with ruthless honesty, but he definitely wasn’t dashing.

  No, Amber had married him with her eyes wide open. She had done so after spending almost three months getting to know him, working with him, learning his moods and temperament. She knew what she was doing, or at least she thought she did. That last notion sent a prickle of guilt through Gray.

  He immediately squelched the niggling, uneasy sensation. After all, she certainly hadn’t married him under duress, Gray thought. And she was a woman of integrity and honor. She would fully expect to fulfill her wifely duty tonight. There was even the possibility that deep down inside she might be looking forward to fulfilling that duty. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, there was a sensual side to her nature.

  There was absolutely no reason he couldn’t take his wife to bed tonight, Gray decided. She would come to him willingly; she would be expecting to share a bed. She might even enjoy it. Damn it, he would make certain she enjoyed it.

  But, then again, he thought stoically, it would be so much better if she came to terms with her own buried passion first. It would be so much more satisfying if she acknowledged to herself that she truly wanted her husband and didn’t simply feel an obligation to let him exercise his conjugal rights. He reminded himself that he had never intended to try shaking Sleeping Beauty awake. He’d simply intended to be standing in front of her when she finally opened her eyes.

  Gray’s fingers tightened around the cup in his hand. He had thought things would get simpler once he’d convinced her to marry him. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “There’s a lot to be said for flying first-class,” Amber announced with unabashed enthusiasm as the plane set down on the runway in Tucson. “We even get to exit the plane first. No standing around in the aisles waiting for the crowd ahead of you to move. Do you always fly this way?”

  Gray smiled briefly. “Whenever I can write off the trip as a business expense, I do.”

  Some of the pleasure faded from Amber’s smile. She felt the expression on her face turn polite. It was a little disconcerting to know that your wedding trip was being written off as a business expense. Still, she couldn’t deny the practicality of the matter. And this was hardly meant to be a dazzlingly romantic honeymoon. The Symington deal was the most important element of this vacation.

  “My God, it’s bright out here.” Amber blinked in amazement a short time later as she and Gray walked out of the terminal and found the waiting limousine with the emblem of the resort on its doors. “And so warm.”

  “You’ve lived too long in the Northwest,” Gray said. “You’ve already forgotten what real sunlight is like.” He glanced toward the distant foothills of the mountains that encircled Tucson. The desert valley was domed with an endless lid of blue sky. “Sort of puts you in mind of one of S .U. T.’s memorable lines from ‘The Long Ride South,’ doesn’t it?”

  “I feel a quote coming on,” Amber observed.

  “Of course you do. This is Twitchell country. Being here is bound to bring out the urge to cite his work.” Gray paused dramatically and then recited in suitably somber tones:

  “He galloped south to the border

  Trapped in the heat of the desert sun.

  His brain was filled with a dangerous rage,

  He was an outlaw on the run.”

  Amber nodded thoughtfully, watching as a smiling, suntanned young man got out of the limousine to greet them. “There were some phallic overtones in ‘The Long Ride South,’ as I recall. Something about ‘The big iron on his thigh.’ It’ll be interesting to see if Honoria Tyler Abercrombie mentions it in her article next month.”

  “You and Ms Abercrombie seem to have phallic images on the brain,” Gray remarked.

  “Pure literary observation,” Amber assured him. She broke off to smile pleasantly at the sandy-haired man walking toward them. He wasn’t dressed in the normal chauffeur’s outfit, she noticed. His head was bare, and he wore a short-sleeved, bri
ghtly patterned shirt, jeans and a pair of running shoes. He had an engaging, open smile and seemed to know it.

  “Afternoon, folks. My name is Ozzie. You’re the Grayson party?” He looked at Gray with polite inquiry.

  “That’s right. I’m Cormick Grayson and this is my wife, Amber.”

  Amber was rather startled to hear the satisfaction that underlined the word wife. But there was no time to dwell on the significance. Sandy-haired, blue-eyed, smiling Ozzie was already shaking hands and collecting baggage. A moment later Amber found herself settled beside Gray in the back seat of the limo. Ozzie slid into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition of the big car.

  “I’ll have the air-conditioning going in a minute,” Ozzie promised cheerfully. “You folks been to Tucson before?”

  “Yes,” Gray said absently.

  “Well, I haven’t,” Amber announced. “If you’re about to give us a travelogue, feel free. I’ll listen to every word.”

  Ozzie laughed. “It’s either that or I’ll turn on the stereo. We’ve got a long trip ahead of us.”

  “Where are we headed?” Amber asked.

  “Into the foothills of those mountains you see in the distance.” Ozzie launched into an entertaining monologue that covered everything from pointing out the peaks in the Santa Catalina Mountains to a lecture on the distinctive, candelabra-shaped saguaro cactus.

  Amber listened attentively, aware that Gray seemed to be dwelling on private thoughts. Probably already tuning his mind to the business that lay ahead of him, she decided, surprised by the faint disappointment she felt. This was, after all, primarily a business trip for him. She mustn’t forget that.

  The resort Gray’s client was considering buying was an impressive, majestic structure perched in the foothills of the even more majestic mountains. It was a considerable distance from the sprawling suburbs of Tucson. The architecture was a modern interpretation of the Spanish style that was so evident in Southwestern buildings. The hotel wings extended on either side of a stunning, three-story glass-and-stone lobby. As Ozzie turned off the main road and up a wide drive, Amber saw the entrance to an extensive, wonderfully green golf course. On the other side of the drive several tennis courts were being utilized by players in perky little outfits. There was also a riding stable available, Amber knew, and a large pool.