by Nora Roberts
“On the contrary.” The coldness in his voice halted her. “It’s quite a lot.”
“Don’t! I can’t stand it when you’re like this.” Filled with frustration, Foxy paced around the room. “I can’t deal with you when you’re formal and polite.” She whirled to face him, then whirled back to roam the room again. “If you’re going to be angry, then at least be angry in a way I can understand. Shout, swear, break something,” she invited with an inclusive sweep of her hand. “But don’t stand there like a pillar of the community. I don’t understand pillars.”
“Foxy.” A reluctant grin teased Lance’s mouth as he watched her storm around the room. “If you knew how difficult you make things.”
“I’m not trying to make things difficult.” She lifted a pillow from the couch and hurled it across the room. “I’m trying to make thing simple. I’m simple, don’t you understand?”
“You are,” Lance corrected, “infinitely complex.”
“No, no, no!” Foxy stomped her foot, furious that they were talking in circles again. “You don’t understand anything!” Angrily she tossed her hair behind her back. “I’m going upstairs,” she announced and marched from the room.
Going directly to the bath, Foxy turned on the water and let it steam. Carelessly she tossed a mixture of powders and scents into the tub and stripped. He’s an idiot, she decided as she plopped into the oversized tub. Bubbles rose and frothed around her. And so am I. Seething with impotence, Foxy picked up a sponge and began to scrub.
I could probably stop loving him if I really put my mind to it. She scowled at the sponge then squeezed it mercilessly. I’m going to stop loving him and work on hating him. Once I start hating him, she concluded, I won’t be an idiot anymore. As the door opened she glanced up sharply.
“Mind if I shave?” Lance asked casually as he strolled into the room. He had slipped out of his jacket and now wore only his shirt and slacks. Ignoring her glare and not waiting for her assent, he opened the medicine chest.
“I’ve decided to hate you,” Foxy informed him after he had removed the shaving lotion and begun to lather his face.
“Oh?” She watched his eyes shift in the mirror until they met hers. It infuriated her that they were amused. “Again?”
“I was good at it once,” she reminded him. “I’m going to be even better at it this time.”
“No doubt.” The razor stroked clean over his cheek. “Most things improve with age.”
“I’m going to hate you perfectly.”
“Good for you,” Lance told her as he continued to shave. “One should always aim high.”
Beyond control, Foxy hurled the wet sponge and hit Lance between the shoulder blades. She felt a surge of satisfaction almost immediately followed by a surge of alarm. He won’t, she decided grimly, let me get away with that one. Still, her eyes challenged his. Slowly Lance set down the razor and bent to pick up the sponge. Foxy’s trepidation grew as he turned and walked to the tub. He wouldn’t drown me, she thought, fending off a few pricks of doubt. Even as she debated the matter, Lance sat on the edge of the tub. She realized with some disgust that she had backed herself neatly into a corner.
Lance made no comment, only dropped the sponge back into the water with a plop. Distracted, Foxy glanced down. Before she realized his intent, his hand was on her head and she was sliding under the hot, fragrant water. Sputtering, she surfaced. Her hair dripped and frothed over her shoulders and into her face as she wiped the bubbles from her eyes.
“I do hate you!” she choked, pushing at her sopping hair. “I’m going to thrive on hating you! I’m going to invent new ways to hate you!”
Lance gave her a calm nod. “Everybody should have a hobby.”
“Oh!” Incoherent with fury, Foxy tossed as much water into his face as she could manage. She braced herself for another dunking. To her utter amazement, Lance rolled into the tub in one smooth, unexpected motion. Bubbles spewed over the side. Her shock was transformed into hysterical giggles. “You’re crazy,” she concluded as she tried to keep herself from submerging under the rocking water. “How can I hate you properly if you’re crazy?” Their bodies tangled together effortlessly. Her skin was slick and fragrant from the oil, and his hands slid over it, bringing her closer. His wet clothes were little more than nothing between them. “You’re drowning me,” Foxy protested as he shifted her. She swallowed bubbles and giggled again. “I knew you were going to drown me.”
“I’m not going to drown you,” Lance corrected. “I’m going to make love with you.” He gripped her waist and nudged her up until her chin cleared the water. His fingers lingered, spreading over her stomach while his hand cupped her breast. There was a gentleness in his touch he rarely used. “Since you were sharing your sponge and water, I figured you wanted me to join you.” He grinned as Foxy pushed dripping hair from his eyes. “I didn’t want to be accused of being stuffy.”
“You’re not stuffy,” she said softly. Her eyes reflected regret as they met his. “Lance . . . ”
“No more apologies tonight.” He closed his mouth over hers to shut it off before it could be formed. He took his hands on a slow, easy journey of her body, pausing and lingering, seducing with a quiet touch.
“We should talk,” Foxy murmured, but the words were faint and without conviction. Her sigh was more eloquent.
“Tomorrow. Tomorrow we’ll be sensible and talk and sort things through.” As he spoke, his lips roamed over her face. His hands sought and touched and enticed. “I want you tonight. I want to make love with my wife.” He moved his lips to her neck, tasting, before he caught the lobe of her ear between his teeth. Foxy shuddered and drew him closer. “Then I want to take her out and get her a little drunk before I bring her home and make love with her all over again.”
His mouth returned to hers, demanding, then possessing, then demanding again. All sensible thoughts floated from Foxy’s mind.
Chapter 15
Foxy began her workday much later in the morning than was her habit. It was nearly eleven before she had finished sorting and cataloging the prints. As she slid them into a thick envelope for mailing she thought over the last few months. For a moment, as she brought it all back into her mind, she could almost smell the hot scent of fuel, hear the high squeal of tires and roaring engines. Shaking her head, she began to seal the envelope. I’m finished with all that now. It’s behind me.
Briskly she began to develop the film she had taken of children in the park and around Boston. In the back of her mind, the idea for a book was germinating, a collection of photographs of children. Instinct told her that some of the shots were exceptional. More time, she mused, more variety. I’ll have to haunt a few more playgrounds. Patiently she worked through the morning and early afternoon, letting her fingers act as her eyes when the room was dark. Still, her mind continued to drift to Lance.
Foxy knew the night spent in lovemaking had not solved any of their true problems. Again and again, her thoughts returned to the possibility of Lance going back to racing. Again and again, she closed off the idea. Coward, she accused herself as she stood in the dark. You have to think about it, you have to deal with it. I don’t know if I can. She pressed her fingers against her eyes and took a deep breath. I have to talk to him. Sensibly. Isn’t that what he said? Tonight we’ll talk sensibly. She reflected that they had done little of that since he had asked her to marry him in her motel room near Watkins Glen. It was time, she decided, to find out what each of them wanted from the other, and what each was willing to give.
Locked in the darkroom with a red bulb casting its pale light, Foxy discovered one of the answers for herself. As she moved prints from tray to tray and images formed on the paper, she began to understand fully what she had been looking for. The faces of children looked back at her, some smiling, some caught in temper tantrums or tears. There were sleeping infants, moon-faced toddlers, sharp-eyed preschoolers. Foxy hung the prints with a growing sense of serenity. She wanted children. She
wanted a family and all that went with it. The home, the normality, the commitment of a structured family was something she found she wanted and perhaps had been afraid to ask for. A permanent home with the man she loved . . . Lance’s children...family traditions. Her family’s traditions.
Would Lance feel the same way? Foxy pushed the hair from her face and tried to think of the answer. She discovered that as long as she had known him, as intimate as they had been, she did not know. We will have to talk about it, she told herself as she studied the drying prints. We will have to talk about a number of things.
A glance at her watch told her she still had a few afternoon hours left. It was time, she thought, to finish her commitment to Pam and the racing shots. After gathering up her gear, she went upstairs to put a call through to Lance’s office. The quick, efficient voice of his secretary answered.
“Hello, Linda, it’s Mrs. Matthews. Is Lance busy?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Matthews, he’s not in. Would you like to leave a message or is there something I could do for you?”
“Well, no, I . . . Yes, actually,” Foxy decided with another glance at her watch. She wanted to get this done today. “He’s working on a new car, a new Formula One for next season.”
“Yes, the one your brother will drive.”
“That’s right. I’d like to get some pictures if I can.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem, Mrs. Matthews, if you don’t mind a bit of a drive. Mr. Matthews and the crew have the car out at the track today for some testing.”
“That’s perfect.” Foxy picked up the pad and pencil by the phone. “You’ll have to give me directions. I haven’t been out there yet.”
Thirty minutes later, Foxy pulled up near the familiar sight of the oval track. As she stepped from the car the brisk breeze caught at her hair and blew open her unbuttoned jacket. The roaring sound of the engine reached her ears. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she watched the low red blur whiz around the track. The smell of hot rubber and fuel filled the air. It never changes, she thought and slipped the strap of her camera around her neck. She recognized Charlie with a group of men, wondered fleetingly where Lance might be, then set to work.
Foxy moved quickly. After choosing the best position for the shots, she selected a lens and set the camera. With quick turns of the controls and shifts of her own body, she snapped shot after shot. It was, she observed, a fast one. The car seemed like a ball of flame as it rounded a curve and sped down the straightaway. It will suit Kirk, she mused, easily able to picture him in the cockpit. And Kirk will suit it. Foxy straightened, pushing her hair behind her ears as she stood.
“Can’t keep you away from the track, huh, kid?”
Turning, Foxy grinned into Charlie’s scowling face. “I can’t keep away from you, Charlie,” she corrected. She plucked the smoldering cigar from his mouth and gave him a loud, smacking kiss. He shuffled his feet as she handed it back to him.
“Got no respect,” he grumbled. He cleared his throat, then squinted at her. “You getting along all right?”
“I’m getting along just fine,” she told him. Moving with an old habit, she rubbed her palm over his grizzled beard. “How about you?”
“Busy,” he growled, but colored under his fierce frown. “Between your brother and your husband I got no time.”
“Price you pay for being the best.”
Charlie sniffed, accepting the truth. “Kirk’ll be ready for the car when it’s ready for him,” he prophesied. “Shame we don’t have two,” he mused as he shifted his narrowed eyes back to the track. “Lance knows how to handle a machine.”
Foxy started to make some comment when the full meaning of Charlie’s statement sunk in. Her eyes flew to the track and locked on the speeding car. Lance. The iron taste of fear rose in her throat. She shook her head, trying to deny what her mind screamed was the truth. “Lance is driving?” she heard herself ask. Her voice sounded thin and hollow to her ears, as if it had traveled down a long tunnel.
“Yeah, regular test driver’s sick.” Charlie’s answer was casual before he shuffled off. Foxy was left alone as the roaring sound of the engine droned on.
As she watched, the car did a quick fishtail on a curve, then straightened without any slackening of speed. Foxy’s brow felt like ice. Queasiness knotted her stomach, and for a moment the bright sunlight dimmed. She chewed on her bottom lip and let the pain overwhelm the faintness. She stood helplessly while dozens of the crashes she remembered passed vividly in front of her mind’s eye. Not again, she thought in desperation. Oh God, not again. He drove as he had always driven, with complete control and determination, not a comet, but a ruthless, cunning tyrant. Foxy began to shiver uncontrollably in the quick autumn breeze. It’ll be hot in the cockpit, she thought as her fingers went numb on the strap of her camera. Desperately hot, and all he sees is the track, all he hears is the engine. And the speed’s like a drug that keeps pulling him back.
Fear kept her frozen even after she heard the whine of the slowing engine. She stood straight and still as Lance pulled up near the group of men. Unstrapped, he unfolded himself from the cockpit, pulling off his helmet as he stood. He peeled off the balaclava, then ran a hand through his hair. She had seen him make the same gestures after countless races on countless grids. Pain began to work its way through the cold fear. Her breath became irregular. Lance was grinning down at Charlie, and his laughter carried to her. His brow lifted at something Charlie said, and his eyes followed the careless gesture of the older man until they found Foxy.
For a moment, they only watched each other; husband and wife, man and woman, two people who had known each other for a decade. She saw his expression change, but took no time to decipher it. Tears were coming too quickly for her to prevent them. I’ve lost, she thought, and pressed her hands against the sides of her face. As Lance pushed his way through the group of men Foxy turned and ran toward her car. He called her name, but she wrenched open the door and tumbled inside. The only coherent thought in her mind as she turned the key was escape. Seconds later, she was racing away from the track.
It was nearly dark when Foxy turned down the street toward the brownstone. Streetlights flickered on. Lance’s car sat at the curb rather than in the garage, and she pulled her MG behind it. Foxy turned off the engine, and rested her forehead for a moment against the wheel. The two hours she had spent driving had calmed her but left her enervated. She took this time to gain back some strength. With slow, careful movements, she stepped from the car and moved up the walk. Even as she reached for the knob, the door opened. From either side of the threshold, they watched each other.
Lance studied her as if seeing her for the first time—thoroughly, carefully, with no smile to interfere with his concentration. His eyes were guarded but searching. The familiar stillness was on him. She was reminded of the first night, at Kirk’s party, when she had opened the door to find him outside. He had looked at her in precisely the same way. Will I ever get over him? she wondered almost dispassionately as she met him look for look. No, she answered her own question. Never.
“Fox.” Lance held out a hand to bring her inside, but she ignored it, moving around him. Carefully she set down her camera case but did not remove her jacket before she walked into the parlor. Without speaking, she moved to the bar and poured a snifter of brandy. Her decision had been made during her two-hour drive, but following through now was not going to be easy. Foxy swallowed brandy, shut her eyes as it burned her throat, then swallowed more. Lance stood in the doorway and watched her.
“I’ve been down to your darkroom looking for you.” He frowned at the absence of color in her cheeks and dipped his hands in his pockets. “I saw the pictures you had drying. They’re extraordinary, Foxy. You’re extraordinary. Every time I think I know who you are, I find another part of you.” When she turned to face him fully, he came into the room. “I owe you an explanation for this afternoon.”
“No.” Foxy shook her head as she set the snifter down
on a table. “You told me before your profession had nothing to do with me.” Her eyes lifted and held steady on his. “I don’t want an explanation.”
He took a step closer. The shadows in the room shifted with the movement. “Well then, Foxy, what do you want?”
“A divorce,” she said simply. Feeling the pressure of emotions rising in her throat, she spoke quickly. “We made a mistake, Lance, and the sooner we fix it, the easier it should be for both of us.”
“You think so?” he countered. His eyes were level with hers.
“It should be easy enough to arrange,” she returned, evading the question. “I’d like you to do it since you have lawyers and I don’t. I don’t want any settlement.”
“Another drink?” Lance asked, and turned to the bar.
His casual tone had her eyeing him warily. “Yes,” she answered, wanting to appear as composed as he. The room grew quiet save for the clink of glass against glass. With the decanter in hand, Lance crossed to Foxy and filled the snifter again. The sun slanted low in the window and fell at their feet. Foxy sipped, wondering with a flash of giddyness if they should toast their divorce plans.
“No,” Lance said, then drank.
“No?” Foxy repeated, wondering now if he had seen into her mind.
“No, Foxy, you can’t have a divorce. Can I interest you in something else?”
Her eyes widened, then narrowed at his arrogance. “I’ll have a divorce. I’ll get a lawyer of my own and sue you for one.” She slammed down her glass. “You can’t stop me.”
“I’ll fight you, Fox,” he countered with easy assurance as he placed his glass beside hers. “And I’ll win.” Reaching out, he grabbed a handful of her hair. “I’m not going to let you go. Not now, not ever. I told you before, I’m a selfish man.” Giving her hair a tug, he tumbled her into his arms. “I love you and have no intentions of doing without you.”
“How dare you?” Furious, Foxy pushed against him. “How dare you think so much of yourself that you give no thought to my feelings? You don’t know anything about love.” She kicked out in frustration as her struggles got her nowhere.
“Foxy, you’re going to hurt yourself.” Lance locked his arms around her and lifted her off her feet. For a moment, she fought against him, then subsided. She shut her eyes, infuriated that she had to surrender on any level.
“Let go of me.” Her voice came from between her teeth, but was quiet and even.
“Will you listen to me now?”
She jerked back her head, wanting to refuse. Her eyes were bright with anger and hurt. “I don’t have much choice, do I?”
“Please.”
