Spencer gave her a deadpan gaze. “You tell me.”
She thought a minute. “Well, I guess I either come back here and pay you to mend my broken heart, or...”
“Or?”
“Or I grab her by that bleached blond hair and tell her to get away from my man.”
Spencer’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I vote for the brawl.”
“Me, too, Dr. Wilkes.” She stood and tugged on her coat, smiling. “Me, too.”
* * *
SHE COULDN'T HELP slowing down as she passed Winterwalk. The For Sale sign was already up in the yard, although the realtor had told her there wasn’t much interest so far. Not legitimate interest from buying customers, that is. Morbid gawkers had been tramping through by the dozens. The discovery of Damian’s body had made all the papers, and everyone wanted to see the infamous conservatory.
Laura didn’t get out, but she brought her car to a stop, letting it idle at the front gates. The weather hadn’t improved any—March in Albany was still winter—and Winterwalk looked a little like a frosted wedding cake. Scallops of ice hung from the roofline like icing, and the tower was covered in powdered-sugar snow. The gargoyles, all white now, too, were like parodies of the bride and groom.
Her heart felt tight, looking at this house that had known so much sorrow and realizing for the first time that it had been meant for happier things. The terrible tragedies that had happened here weren’t Winterwalk’s fault, were they?
And suddenly she found herself hoping that someone would buy it, someone with a lot of children, perhaps, whose laughter would banish forever the haunting echoes of a little girl’s weeping. Surely someone would want it. Someone with a merry heart and a strong sense of—what had Drew called it?—whimsy.
But she wouldn’t be the one. Her new life was beginning today, and it was going to have to begin in a new place. Perhaps, she thought, slipping the car into gear, perhaps she could begin it at Drew’s side.
Stephanie’s children were playing in the front yard when Laura pulled up to Springfields. They were building a snowman, she deduced from the lumpy ball they were shaping, although the boys seemed to be pitching more snow at each other than they ever managed to contribute to the construction.
“Hi, Laura,” four voices called, a cacophony of bass and treble. “Want to help?”
“Maybe later,” she said, giving Nina, who had run up to embrace her legs, a warm hug. Later. She only hoped there would be a later, that Drew would not send her away, that this desperate dream would really come true.
“Is your uncle Drew here?” She tried to sound casual, not sure what any of them had been told. But none of them, except Nina, who wanted another hug, seemed overly interested in her. The boys had gone back to their snowball fight.
“Yeah,” Brett said, huffing and puffing as he dodged a snowball and then launched one of his own. “He’s up in his office, I think.”
Stephanie answered her knock quickly, as if she’d been standing by the door. Laura was amazed to see how huge she was, and how happy she looked in spite of the awkward bulk of her pregnancy. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see Laura standing on the front porch, though Laura had not told her she was coming.
“Hi, kiddo,” she said, holding her stomach with one hand, the small of her back with the other. “It’s about time you showed up.” She cocked her head slightly to the right. “He’s upstairs. See yourself up. I don’t do stairs anymore.”
“You look as if you're going to deliver any minute now,” Laura said, giving Stephanie a quick hug. “Are you okay?”
Stephanie growled. “I will be if I can just lose this excess baggage.” She edged out of the doorway sideways, letting Laura through. “I swear to God, Laura, if this darn baby is twins I'm going to sue my obstetrician.”
Laura shrugged out of her coat, laughing. “If that baby is twins, Stephie, you're going to be ecstatic.”
Stephanie harrumphed, holding her hand out like a coatrack. “I bet you won’t be saying that when you've got rug rats of your own crawling all over you. Speaking of which, I told you he’s upstairs.”
With an exasperated sigh, Laura gave up trying to make small talk. Subtlety had never been Stephanie’s strong suit. She draped her coat across her friend’s arm and turned toward the stairs. They suddenly seemed immense, stretching up into infinity. She hoped the knocking of her heart couldn’t be heard over the squeals of children outside.
“Third floor,” Stephanie called as Laura mounted the first step. “Third door on the left.”
The climb seemed endless. She watched her feet on the pale green carpet taking the curving steps one after another. Her legs felt strange, oddly trembling, as if something had weakened her thigh muscles and messed up the locking mechanism for her knees. But somehow, holding on to the honey wood handrail, she made it to the third floor.
The beautiful, wide hallway stretched out before her, all pristine symmetry, white door after white door interspersed with tables laden with flowers. Behind one of those doors, she thought, Drew waited. She stood at the end of the hall, counting down. One, two, three. There—that was his door, just like all the others on the surface, but to her, entirely different.
She knocked almost diffidently, and he didn’t hear her right away. She tried again, with firmer raps.
“Yes?” he called, and his voice was abstracted, as if he’d been absorbed in something. She had picked a bad time, she thought with a sudden cowardly urge to flee down the stairs. He was busy. She should have telephoned first. “Come in.”
She opened the door slowly, poking only her head in. He didn’t look up, concentrating on the thick pile of papers in front of him on the desk, but he crooked his finger in the direction of the door, welcoming her absently. “Sorry. I know I said I’d come help,” he said. “Just give me two seconds to finish this.”
His utter calm surprised her, but then she understood he obviously thought it had been one of the children knocking. From the safety of that anonymity, she watched him for a minute, absorbing the joy of seeing him again after so long. God, he was gorgeous, wasn’t he?
He wore a thick, winter white turtleneck sweater, whose sleeves he had shoved up to his elbows, the house being well heated. The afternoon sun slanted across the desk, shining on his fair head and shimmering through the fine, light brown hairs on his arms. As he turned the pages, muscles shifted under the golden skin of his forearms, rippling with easy power. An answering shift deep inside her made her catch her breath.
Drew. A wave of helpless longing washed over her, and she clung to the doorknob, suddenly afraid, so horribly afraid that it might be too late. Why had she waited so long? Why hadn’t she come sooner? It might have been better to come before she was sure than to wait until it was too late.
He seemed to be finishing up. “Okay,” he said, stacking the papers together and adding them to the pile. “One snowman expert, at your service.” He looked up, smiling.
And then he saw her. His eyes widened slowly, caught in the spotlight of the sun, which made them the clear green of a pure spring. The smile faded from his lips.
“Laura?” He sounded almost numb, and she couldn’t be sure from his tone whether her appearance was just an intense surprise or an unwelcome shock. He scraped back his chair and stood, placing his fingertips carefully on the desk top. “I thought you were one of the kids.”
She felt like a child, shier and more uncertain even than little Nina, who was at least able to run up and demand the hugs she desired. She forced herself to come all the way into the room, shutting the door behind her.
“I hope you don’t mind my showing up unannounced,” she said awkwardly. “I had gone by to look at Winterwalk, to see how the realtor’s been keeping things up, and, well...”
She drifted to a stop. Why the devil was she making up this nonsense? If only he’d give her a sign that she was welcome. If only he would move away from the desk, come over to her, take her in his arms...
H
e nodded stiffly. “I see. You were in the neighborhood, and you thought you’d stop by?”
“Yes.” She felt ridiculously tongue-tied. “I mean, no. No, I didn’t come by because I was in the neighborhood. I came by to see you.” He didn’t say anything, so she blundered on. “It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Two months... How have you been, Drew?”
“Fine,” he said. “I've been fine. And Stephanie tells me you're doing well.” His gaze dropped, then rose again, taking in her new dress, her gleaming, just trimmed hair, her carefully applied makeup. “You look well,” he said.
“I am,” she said, her heart in her throat. “I really think I am, Drew.”
“I knew you would be.” He smiled politely. “Spencer’s a good guy, isn’t he?”
She nodded, but her stomach was knotted with frustration. Was he deliberately misunderstanding her? Why couldn’t they get past all these meaningless pleasantries? If he was angry with her for staying away so long, why didn’t he just say so? Even if he was determined to put an end to their relationship, she’d rather hear that than this cordial noncommunication. Why did he just let her stand here, frozen with uncertainty and fear?
He must know that they had to settle it one way or another, once and for all. When her memory had returned on that day two months ago, she had been too shattered to think of anything except trying to find proof, and Drew had seemed to understand her compulsion perfectly. As if the wretched scene in the guest bedroom had never happened, as if he was still her loyal fiancé, Drew had stood by her through the entire ordeal.
He had helped her to call the police, to answer their questions, to set the whole investigation in motion. He had been waiting with her in the drawing room, just holding her hands without saying a word, when the policeman came in to tell her they had found Damian’s body. They’d found a few scraps of her dress, too, and with an awful irony, the set of small mother-of-pearl buttons had survived the years completely intact.
The policeman had put one of them into her hand, asking her if she could identify it. Anguish had rendered her mute, so it was Drew who had stepped forward, taking the tiny button out of her hand and giving it back to the police.
“Yes, it’s hers,” Drew had said, his voice strained but surprisingly definite. “I remember that dress well.”
And then he had held her, pressing her face hard to his chest, while they removed the body and loaded it into the ambulance. He had continued to hold her while she cried, for what seemed like years. And then he had driven her home to Springfields, where Stephanie, the consummate mother hen, had taken over.
Laura had stayed there several days, fussed over like an invalid, soaking up the therapeutic laughing, bickering, day-to-day rhythms of a normal household. During those days the three of them—Laura, Drew and Stephanie—had talked for endless comforting hours. They had talked about Damian, about their childhood, about skating and fishing and swimming and tennis and a thousand reassuringly healthy memories that helped Laura to put her life into perspective. It hadn’t been all blood and madness. Much of it had been simple and good.
But never once had Laura and Drew been alone again. And never had they spoken a single word about the future.
At the time, she hadn’t noticed the omission. The future didn’t even seem real. She couldn’t think about anything except the past. And, of course, she had no idea how well—or even if—she would recover from this lacerating discovery. She remembered thinking, just days before, that the truth would set her free. But once she knew how ugly the truth really was, she couldn’t be so sure.
Now, though, she wondered whether his silence might have meant something more ominous. Could it have meant that he had no interest in pursuing a future with Laura? He had been quietly supportive, the way he would have supported any old and dear friend, but, looking back, she couldn’t honestly say he had ever hinted at anything more.
But she couldn’t go away without finding out for sure. If the past two months with Spencer—and, of course, the past fifteen years of darkness—had taught her one thing, it was that she didn’t want to run away from anything anymore.
“Drew, I'm trying to tell you that I came because I wanted to see you.” She walked across the room and stood right in front of him so that only the desk was between them. “I've missed you very much.”
His features tightened, and he shut his eyes hard. When he opened them they seemed darker, as if the sunlight couldn’t quite reach all the way into them. “I've missed you, too,” he said. “But I didn’t call because I wanted to give you time. And space. To get better without any—” He looked down, fingering the papers he’d just finished reading. “Without any pressure from me.”
She touched his hand across the wide desk, the only part of him she could reach. “Pressure? When did you ever pressure me?”
She could feel the muscles jumping as his fingers tensed under hers. “Anything I said would have sounded like pressure, Laura. You needed to concentrate on coping with your father’s death and with everything you’d learned about your mother. You didn’t need to be worrying about...about secondary problems. About us.”
“Secondary? Us?” She was openly bewildered.
He looked up, and his mouth was twisted in a sardonic smile that was somehow painful to see. “That’s right. Secondary. You didn’t need me hanging around, waiting to hear whether you were cured, calling in daily to check on how my own interests were faring. No matter what else I said, no matter what else I meant, the underlying question would have been there, and it would have been a constant pressure. Hi, Laura. Feeling better, Laura? Any chance your fear of sex is gone yet, Laura?”
He shook his head rigidly. “I couldn’t do it. I had to wait. I just had to trust that, if you ever were ready, you would come to me.”
She squeezed his hand, tucking her fingers under his palm, seeking a response. “I have come to you,” she said, her voice dropping low. “Don’t you understand that?”
He stared at their hands, but he didn’t return her clasp. “Because you're ready?”
“Because I think I'm ready.” He looked up quickly, a frown between his eyes, and her heart lurched in her chest. “Because I think I'm ready, and I want you to help me find out for sure. Is that too much to ask, Drew?”
He stared at her a long moment, as if he was trying to see more than her face could show him. Slowly, as though he hardly knew what he was doing, he let his fingers wrap around hers, and they were hot and hard against her skin.
“Don’t ask me to hurt you, Laura,” he said, his voice as hoarse as a whisper. “I can’t do it.”
“No,” she answered, her voice breaking. “Just love me, Drew.”
For an agonized span of a dozen painful heartbeats, she was afraid he wouldn’t do it. And then, with a soft groan, he came around the desk, never letting go of her hand. He took her other hand, too, and still without speaking he led her into the adjoining room, the bedroom that had been his for most of his life. He pulled her in and locked the door behind him with one deft twist of his fingers.
“Laura.” He turned her gently, bringing her up against him, so close she could feel the slow, deep vibration of his heart against hers. He took her face between his hands, running his thumbs along the sensitive outer whorl of her ears.
“Love me, Drew,” she said again, suddenly confused and uncertain. She wanted to show him that everything was all right this time, but she didn’t know where to begin. She knew so pitifully little about these things.
His fingers were like a torture, touching only her ears but drawing a hot, slicing response from her core. “Oh, please,” she breathed. “Love me.”
He smiled, bending his head to hers. “I do,” he said, trailing his lips along her cheek. “I always have.”
He kissed the edge of her mouth. “I love your gentle courage.”
She moaned, and pulling her even closer, he kissed the pulse that quivered just behind her jaw. “And I love your beautiful face. I love your sad eyes—
” he touched them softly— “and your amazing smile.”
He stroked his fingers deep into her hair, massaging the back of her head with a shockingly sensual rhythm. Her eyes drifted shut, and her legs seemed to disappear from under her as he dropped his voice to a whisper. “And whenever you are ready, sweetheart, I will love your body, too.”
Oh, yes, she cried from her aching core, pressing against him, trying to tell him so. Yes, she was wonderfully, desperately ready. She had been waiting for years.... But her throat was too tight for speaking, so she answered him with a kiss. Love me, her urgent, parted mouth said wordlessly. She touched her tongue to the hard ridge of his upper lip, and shivered at the delicious hunger of it. Love me now.
She felt an answering shudder roil through him, but somehow he held himself in check. He drew away, urging her toward the waiting bed, and once there he pulled her down beside him, until they were lying side by side in a shaft of sunlight. The honey glow dappled their skin and gilded their hands, which roamed hungrily, touching and learning, wanting everything at once.
Somehow he managed to keep the pace slow, giving her time to adjust to every new stage. When her small sounds of pleasure and wonder had shifted to whimpers of frustration, he tugged off his sweater, tossed away his jeans and slipped free of everything that stood between them.
The sight of him, so strong and male and ready, nearly took her breath away, and with his gentle guidance she touched him, self-consciousness finally cast aside in the silent thrill of exotic discoveries. His powerful shoulders, roped with golden muscles. The tapering V of crisp chestnut curls that dusted his perfectly sculpted chest. The flat thrust of his narrow hipbones, the long, thick bands of muscle that bunched and tightened as he shifted his thighs under her fingers. Her touches grew bolder, more demanding. She kissed him, shaped him, loved him, as if she could fully understand the beautiful power of him only through her senses.
But soon even that wasn’t enough. She moved against him, shameless in her wanting. Slowly, as if the effort cost him in some way she could only imagine, he pulled back, his fevered eyes asking the question his lips clearly didn’t dare form. For answer she touched him again, and his eyes shut as his breath came faster, rougher.
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