"Harley, I'm all wrong for you."
"Bullshit."
He seemed to be holding on to the wall between them with his fingernails. "You need someone stable and secure, someone you can lean on and trust, not a man who goes through women like tissues and has never had a relationship that lasted beyond a long weekend."
"Look, you blockhead, haven't you figured it out yet? You partied your way through life in a desperate search for happiness. You don't need to do that anymore because you found me and I make you happy. Emma says so. I say so."
"It doesn't matter." His hands were shaking. He put them behind his back so she wouldn't see them. "Harley, you were absolutely right when you ran away from Boyd and that prison he and the Princess of Pop crammed you in. You were absolutely right to fire Boyd, to break with him for good. And you were absolutely right when you stepped onto that new path you're on and started to chart your life's course for yourself. You've had the merest sip of freedom and independence. Your heart and soul need more, you know that. I know that. You need to start fresh on the world, with no one to protect you or guide you or do anything that keeps you from making your own decisions. Annie Maguire was right. You need a lifetime of freedom and I don't want to get in your way. That's why you're packing up and leaving me today."
For the first time, Harley began to fear that she wasn't going to be able to talk him around, get him to see reason, to stop this insanity. She turned in a quick circle and then stopped and glared up at him. Damn the man! "You are, right at this very moment, keeping me from making my own decision about where I will live, how I will live, and with whom I will live. Will you, just for one damn moment, stop playing God long enough to hear that I love you, and to believe that I love you, and to accept that where I want to be while I embark on this new life of mine is at your side?"
He managed a crooked smile. "And how independent do you think you'd feel fending off my God complex day in and day out?"
She opened her mouth, and then closed it again.
"How can you fly free," he softly continued, "if you stay at my side?"
"Damn you," she said bitterly.
"That's already been done."
She stared up at him fully, deeply, and what she saw stole her breath away. That tiny locked compartment in his soul had cracked open. Fear was there and the lack of hope he had hidden from her for so long. He truly believed he couldn't have her in his life.
"You bastard!" she gasped. "You love me, don't you? Don't you?"
"Harley—"
"My God," she said in amazement, "all this time I thought that you couldn't love me, or you wouldn't love me, or I'd have to somehow find a way to trick you into staying with me one day at a time until we'd piled up a life together, and here you've loved me all along!"
"I never said—" he stiffly began.
"Oh yes you did," Harley said, glowing inside with the wonder of this discovery. "You've said it every time we made love and every time you touched me outside of this bedroom, and every time you looked at me. You've said it every time you gave me your support so I could take another risk. You're saying it now. Only a man who truly loved would send away the woman he loves for her own good."
"You deserve the chance to make your own life," he said helplessly. "You told me when we first met that the reason you took your holiday was to find out if you could make it in the real world all on your own. Well, it's time, Harley, for you to chart your new career, to date other men, to travel and perform and experience all of life, and prove to yourself that you can make it on your own."
Oh God, how many ways could she find to love the man? "I never imagined I could be filled with so much happiness and so much misery at the same time."
"Happiness?" he said, dumbfounded.
She smiled tenderly up at him, her fingers brushing his cheek. "Of course. Because you love me."
He was very still before her. "And misery?"
Her heart was pounding in her chest. She couldn't believe she was doing this. "Because you're right and I am going to pack up my bags and go out into the world to make my own life."
"Oh," he said.
Sadness welled up within her as she brushed a few black curls off his forehead. "You're not God, Duncan, but you are right. Well, mostly right. I guess I do need to prove some things to myself. I need to fully find my true voice and chart a new musical career. I need to make it living on my own in the world without Boyd's protection. And I need to prove to you that you really are the love of my life. How long is that going to take? How long do I have to stay away from you and live my life and love you before you believe that I love you?"
She saw it in his eyes. He didn't believe she'd come back once she'd flown away. "Six months," he said.
"Oh, give me a break. One month."
"Give me a break. You won't even have gotten your feet wet. Five months."
"Two."
"Four."
She considered that. She could get a lot accomplished in four months and just barely manage to survive without Duncan in her days. "Deal," she said, holding out her hand.
He gazed suspiciously at it a moment, and then slowly clasped it in his own. There it was again, that heady magnetic field that flowed between them whenever they touched. He tried to pull away, but she held him fast. "Now, the other half of this agreement," she said sternly, "is that when I walk up to you four long months from now, you are going to have to believe me when I tell you I love you, and you are going to have to do something about it."
"Whatever you say, Princess."
Harley sighed and released his hand. "You really are the most irritating, tenacious, bullheaded man I've ever met."
"That's undoubtedly one of the many reasons you love me."
"Uh-uh. Want me to tell you why I love you?"
"No!" he yelped, looking ludicrously frightened.
A low, silky laugh she had never heard before bubbled out of her throat. "Home truths are never easy, are they? That's okay, I'll keep quiet … for now. On one condition."
"And that is?" he demanded suspiciously.
"That right here and right now you tell me that you love me."
"Harley—"
"I need something to hold on to these next four months, Duncan."
She saw it in his eyes: if he said it out loud, it became real, and that would make the pain of goodbye that much worse. Because he didn't believe she was coming back.
"It's okay," she said softly, fingertips brushing against his hard mouth, "you don't have to say the words. I know you do. That's all that matters. I'll start packing."
"Harley—" His hand caught her arm as she turned toward the closet.
She looked back at him, puzzled by the wild light in his eyes. "Yes?"
"Harley, I do love you." He released her arm and began to walk stiff-backed toward the kitchen. "I'll make you some breakfast while you pack."
* * *
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
« ^
JANE MILLER ABDUCTED BY ALIENS!
PRINCESS OF POP IN TORRID AFFAIR WITH PRINCE OF WALES!
HARLEY JANE MILLER ADMITTED TO SANITORIUM—CASE HOPELESS, DOCTORS SAY.
HARLEY CARRYING GARTH BROOKS'S LOVE CHILD.
"I don't know why you hold on to these horrible gossip articles," Barbara Miller said as she sat with Harley on the living room floor of Harley's midtown apartment and helped her sort through her clipping file.
"Because they make me laugh," Harley said with a grin. "That last home pregnancy test did convince you I'm not carrying anybody's love child, didn't it?"
"Oh Harley," Barbara Miller said, blushing, "how could you even think I'd believe such a trashy story?"
"Mama, you called me at three A.M. last week in hysterics, sobbing that you were too young to become a grandmother."
"Well, I am."
"I know," Harley said with a grin as she leaned over and kissed her mother on the cheek. "And I'm just a wee bit too preoccupied right now to deal with diapers and midnight feeding
s."
"I do wish you'd slow down. You're always so busy. Concerts and benefits and recording sessions. And all those dozens of men you've been dating—"
"Not dozens, Mama," Harley murmured wickedly. "Only twenty-six … so far."
"But why, baby?" Barbara Miller demanded. "You were never this wild back home in Sweetcreek."
"Well," Harley said, trying to hide her grin, "I had a point to make."
"To whom? Nymphomaniacs Anonymous?"
Harley burst out laughing just as Annie Maguire—now her official Personal Assistant—walked into the room, wireless phone in hand.
"Carol Fielding's on the line," she announced. "She's got David Letterman's booking agent on hold. Travis Garnett had to cancel out of today's show—he's just been diagnosed with strep. Want to take his place?"
"Sure," Harley readily replied. "Dave's cool. He likes the new me."
"That means you'll have to be at the Ed Sullivan Theater in less than three hours," Annie warned.
"No problem. Mama and I can postpone the Circle Line cruise around Manhattan to another day, can't we, Mama?"
"Of course we can, baby," Barbara Miller replied.
"Thanks," Harley said with a fond smile. She looked back up at Annie. "Start scheduling."
"Right," said Annie as she walked back into her office, phone glued to her ear.
"Your secretary is such an efficient woman," Barbara Miller said uneasily.
"Assistant, Mama, not secretary, and yes she is."
"All these new people in your life," Mrs. Miller fretted. "Carol Fielding is your … agent?"
"Right. And Dale Hampton is my new manager, and Iris McCraig is my new publicist."
"I'll never get them all straight."
"It's okay, Mama," Harley said, hugging her. "I'm the only one who has to."
"Do you really know David Letterman?"
"Mama, I've been on his show three times in the last four months. Of course I know him. The man has adored me ever since I sat on his desk and sang 'Redneck Blues' on his show. Haven't you been watching?"
"Of course I've been watching," Barbara Miller retorted. "It's just that you seem so casual about it, that's all."
"He's just someone with a job, making a buck, like me."
"I'll bet he doesn't work half as hard as you, though. No one works as hard as you do. I'm worried, baby. I'll swear you haven't slept more than four hours a night in the week I've been here."
"Now, Mama—" Harley had tried gallons of hot cocoa, dozens of relaxation tapes, and working herself to exhaustion. Nothing helped. Her head hit the pillow and there was Duncan in her thoughts, in her heart, her body remembering the feel of every inch of him, her arms craving him, her mouth aching for his kiss as she lay alone and sleepless.
"And it was the same," Barbara Miller persisted, "the last time I visited too. You remember, when I came for that Chinese wedding in September."
"I remember, Mama, and I'm fine."
She had been a bridesmaid at Emma's huge September wedding. She had sung at her wedding. She had tried not to look for Duncan, tried not to feel his gaze occasionally flick across her skin, tried not to let her eyes meet his. Apparently, he'd been trying too. Their gazes never quite met. They never stood closer than fifteen feet from each other. They never spoke, not a word, not even hello.
She and her mother continued sorting through all of the newspaper and magazine stories about her life these last four months. Somehow, though, the substance of her days was missing. She had known such joy as she had finally, fully, spread her wings and soared into freedom and independence and personal responsibility. She had known so much pain as she went to bed night after night alone. She had never felt such exhilaration as when she began performing as herself, as Harley Jane Miller, singing the new music that was herself and having her audiences receive it, enjoy it, and sing it back to her with applause. She had never felt such sharp grief as when she looked out into her audience night after night and failed to find a pair of black eyes warmly smiling back at her.
And even though a week didn't go by that Harley's face wasn't plastered on some newspaper or magazine's front page, she had gone out into Manhattan by herself to window-shop down Madison Avenue or to stroll through Central Park or to wander through a record store. She had gone out without disguise, as herself, telltale strawberry blond hair and blue eyes and all, and she found that Boyd had been wrong about something else. She wasn't mobbed. Oh sure, people came up to her, some even asked for autographs. But most of them just wanted to tell her how much they enjoyed her music, and that was lovely. It angered her that Boyd had denied her such pleasure for so long.
It angered her that he had denied her a life for so long.
Well, she had her life now, with a vengeance. She had done everything she had dreamed about and everything she was supposed to do. But it wasn't enough.
And it was finally time to do something about that.
"Mama," she said slowly, "there's someone I want you to meet."
* * *
"Package just arrived for you, partner."
Duncan looked up from the report on the Kramer arson case as Emma placed a large box on his desk. "Where's Diane?"
"Your assistant is currently browbeating Interpol into giving up what it has on Hans Hubert for the Dietrich case."
"So what is this?" he demanded, jabbing a finger at the box wrapped in birthday paper.
"You want my personal opinion?"
Duncan warily regarded his partner. "Give me your best shot."
"Elementary, my dear Holmes. It's a time bomb," she announced and then sauntered out of his sunlit corner office, closing the door behind her.
Duncan opened the box, looked inside, and heartily agreed with her assessment. Gingerly, as if it might explode at any moment, he lifted a huge scrapbook out from its cocoon of red tissue paper. On the cover had been pasted a picture of a huge birthday cake, candles blazing. Terrific. A gag gift. Just what he needed on his thirtieth birthday. He turned to the first page of the scrapbook. JANE MILLER IN MIDNIGHT TRYST WITH ROCK STAR screamed the headline. Duncan groaned aloud. He knew the story by heart.
Slowly flipping through the pages, he found he knew every story by heart. He knew the name of every man Harley had dated these last four months. Twenty-six men by his last count, all of them rich, all of them successful in their chosen fields, all of them good looking. He hated all of them. He knew what clubs they had danced at, what premieres they had attended, what restaurants they had dined at. He knew the men's faces, and ages, and fortunes. He knew what they had told reporters about Harley: how funny she was, what a great kisser she was, how she liked taking them on midnight drives out into the country, her foot pressed against the accelerator as they raced beneath the stars.
She had taken to lovers like a hungry bear just coming out of hibernation takes to salmon. Duncan hated it when he was right.
He also knew all the stories tracking the 180-degree turn she'd made in her career. He had memorized the profiles of her new management team. He had already worn through his CDs of her two newest albums: No Guarantees, the live recording of a benefit concert for the Breast Cancer Foundation at Bryant Park she had used to finish out her Sony contract, and This Is Dedicated to the One I Love from her new record company—Lyon Records—with the Rockin' Robins providing backup on the title cut. Two albums in four months. He didn't care if both albums continued to sit at the top of the Billboard charts. The woman was insane.
His hand faltered when he came to the page with Emma's wedding program pasted on it. Knowing Harley was in the same temple and then the same ballroom with him had been agony. Hearing her sassy voice serenading the newly married couple had been excruciating. Knowing that he could gaze at her fully, and dared not; knowing that he could touch her, and would not; knowing that he could say something, anything, and she would answer and he would hear that sweet Oklahoma twang again, had all been more than his heart could bear.
He had driven to At
lantic City that very night and gotten roaring drunk and stayed roaring drunk the entire weekend he was there.
It hadn't helped.
Nothing had helped these last four months. He had buried himself in his new job, working nights and weekends at Colangco and loving it. But in the end, he always went home to his dark Chelsea flat and lay down in his empty bed and felt the stabbing absence of Harley in his life.
Knowing that she was living in Manhattan was maddening, because he found himself searching every face during his morning run through Chelsea and Greenwich Village, thinking he might catch a glimpse of her, perhaps in the Times Square crowd when he went to buy a theater ticket, or as he prowled through Central Park.
He was a fool, as Emma continually reminded him, and he was a fool to keep looking through this damn scrapbook. Whoever had made it and sent it to him was clearly into mental abuse. Maybe it was from one of the many women he had spurned in the last four months, or from one of the suspects he had recently helped put behind bars.
He turned to the last page. The shock of it stole his breath. "Happy Birthday!" blared the greeting in bright red ink, "How's the God complex coming along? I've loved you for nearly five months now. I've come a long way, baby. Ready to make good on our agreement?"
It was signed, in lavish, exuberant, handwriting, "The Princess Bride."
"Like it?"
Ashen, Duncan looked up to find Harley Jane Miller leaning against his closed office door. Her strawberry blond hair was a surprise, even after all the pictures he'd seen of her since she'd left him. Her turquoise blue eyes were wide and innocent. She was wearing That Red Dress.
Damn his heart for pounding wildly in his chest! He pointed an accusing finger. "You," he pronounced, "are a sadist."
"Nah, I'm just thorough," she said, pushing herself off the door and walking toward him. "I had a job to do and I wanted to do it well."
"And rub my nose in it."
"Duncan, Duncan, Duncan," she said with maddening calm as she insinuated herself on top of his desk, crossing one nearly naked leg over the other, "you're a brilliant detective. Your deductive reasoning is based on facts, a plethora of facts, in black and white, and in triplicate. You wanted proof of dating and traveling and performing and charting my new career and experiencing all of life all by myself, as we agreed upon four months ago, and here it is."
STOLEN MOMENTS Page 27
