by Nora Roberts
When she studied her reflection in the cheval mirror she knew she looked like a bride. Closing her eyes, she felt like a bride. Her wedding night. The most beautiful night of her life. Now she would know what it was like. Drew would come in. He would look at her, those tawny eyes going dark. He would be gentle, sweet, patient. She could almost feel his long, clever fingers skimming over her skin. He would tell her how much he loved her, how much he wanted her. Then he would carry her into the bedroom, and show her.
Patiently. Tenderly. Passionately.
By ten o’clock she was anxious. By eleven, uneasy. By midnight, she was frantic. Her calls to the studio only told her that he had left hours before.
She imagined a terrible accident. He would have been in a hurry to get back to her, as anxious as she to begin their life together in the big soft bed. He might have been careless, and his car … They wouldn’t know where to reach her—the doctors, the police. Even now Drew could be lying in some hospital bed, bleeding, calling for her.
She was working her way down the lists of hospitals when she heard the key in the lock. Before he could open the door, she was there, swinging it open and falling into his arms.
“Oh, Drew, I was terrified.”
“Easy, easy does it.” He gave her buttocks a quick squeeze. “Anxious, are we?”
Drunk. Part of her mind tried to deny it, but it was there in the slurred words, the sway of his body, the smell. She stepped back to stare at him. “You’ve been drinking.”
“Just a little celebration with the lads. Not every day a man gets married, is it?”
“But you … You said you’d be here by ten.”
“Christ, Emma, you’re not going to start nagging me already?”
“No, but—I was worried, Drew.”
“Well, I’m here now, aren’t I?” He struggled out of his jacket and let it fall to the floor. It wasn’t often he got drunk, but tonight it had been so easy to let one drink fellow another. Tonight, he’d climbed one more rung to the top. “And look at you. The perfect picture of the blushing bride. Beautiful, beautiful Emma, all in white.”
She did blush. There was desire in his eyes now. The kind she’d seen before, the kind she’d imagined seeing in them tonight. “I wanted to look beautiful for you.” She went easily into his arms, lifted her mouth to his in innocent trust.
He hurt her. His mouth was fierce and hot. He nipped hard at her bottom lip as he pushed himself against her. “Drew.” She tried to struggle back, alarmed by the memory flash of Blackpool in her darkroom. “Drew, please.”
“Don’t play that game with me tonight.” He caught her hair in his hand and dragged her head back. “You’ve made me wait long enough, Emma. No excuses tonight.”
“I’m not. I just—Drew, can’t we—”
“You’re my wife now. We do it my way.”
He pulled her to the floor, ignoring her pleas and struggles. His hands were rough, tearing the filmy lace as he bared her breasts to suckle and squeeze. The speed and urgency frightened her. It wasn’t right, she thought frantically. It wasn’t right lying on the floor, the lights glaring, her gown in tatters.
His fingers dug into her hips as his mouth clamped down on hers. Choking on the smell of whiskey, she tried to say his name. When she began to fight in earnest, he locked her hands in one of his, and took her virginity in one hard swift thrust.
She cried out both in shock and pain. Then he was plunging and pumping into her, panting, groaning. She was weeping when he collapsed, when he rolled aside and fell instantly to sleep.
He was full of contrition and shame and tenderness in the morning. With shadowed eyes and trembling voice he cursed himself and begged her forgiveness. He’d been drunk, a poor excuse, but his only reason for behaving like a monster. When he held her, gently stroking her hair and murmuring promises, she believed him. It was as though another man had come to her on her wedding night to show her how cruel and heartless sex could be. Her husband showed her only sweetness. When her first day as a new bride ended, she lay in his arms, content, dreaming only rosy dreams of the future.
Michael staggered into the kitchen. He’d meant to get to the dishes. In fact, his intentions had been so firm, he was shocked to find the sink full and the counter cluttered. He gave them a bleary, accusing stare. He’d been working double shifts all week and wondered why things like dishes couldn’t just take care of themselves.
In the spirit of self-sacrifice, he decided to deal with them before he settled in with breakfast and the morning paper. He began to stack plates, bowls, cups, forks. Dragging over a five-gallon Rubbermaid kitchen can, he shoved the whole business inside. They were all paper and plastic, a system that appalled his mother, but which suited Michael just fine. Although his modest kitchen boasted a Whirlpool dishwasher, he’d never owned a plate that required its services.
Satisfied, he poked through the cupboards, knocking over a bottle of El Paso salsa and a jar of Skippy peanut butter. Shoving them aside, he grabbed the box of shredded wheat. He shook some into a Chinet bowl, then lifted the coffeepot and poured the steaming brew over the cereal.
He’d discovered this delicacy purely by accident on another groggy morning. He’d nearly eaten his way through his breakfast when he’d realized the coffee was on the cereal and the milk in the Styrofoam cup. Since then, Michael had dispensed with the milk altogether. Before he could sit and enjoy, he was interrupted by a banging on the back screen door.
At first glance it appeared to be a five-foot gray mat. But mats didn’t have wagging tails or lolling pink tongues. Michael pushed open the screen and was greeted exuberantly by the scruffy, oversized dog.
“Don’t try to make up.” Michael shoved the huge paws off his bare chest. The paws hit the floor, but most of the mud on them remained on Michael.
Conroy, pedigree unknown, sat on the linoleum and grinned. He smelled almost as bad as a dog could possibly smell, but was apparently unoffended by his own aroma. His hair was matted and full of burrs. Michael found it hard to believe that he’d picked Conroy out of a litter of cute, gamboling pups less than two years before. As an adult, Conroy had turned out ugly—not homely but down-to-the-ground ugly. This little trick of nature didn’t bother the dog, either.
Conroy continued to grin as he lifted a paw in what both he and Michael knew had nothing to do with subservience.
“I’m not going to shake that paw. I don’t know where it’s been. You went back to that slut again, didn’t you?”
Conroy slid his eyes to the left. If he could have whistled between his teeth, he would have.
“Don’t try to deny it. You’ve spent all weekend rolling in the dirt and slobbering over that half-breed beagle tramp. Never a thought to the consequences or my feelings.” Turning away, Michael rooted in the refrigerator. “If you knock her up again, you’re on your own. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Safe sex. It’s the eighties, bucko.”
He tossed over a slice of bologna, which Conroy caught nimbly and swallowed in one gulp. Softening, Michael tossed him two more before he settled down with his coffee-soaked shredded wheat.
He liked his life. Moving to the burbs had been the right decision for him. It had exactly what he wanted: A nice patch of lawn he could grumble about mowing, a few leafy trees, and what remained of the previous owner’s flower bed.
He’d given gardening a shot, but when he’d proven inept, had abandoned it. That suited Conroy as well. No one got antsy when he dug up the snapdragons.
He’d bought the small brick rancher on impulse, right after the end of his brief and ill-advised affair with Angie Parks. He’d learned something from her, other than kinky sex. And that was that Michael Kesselring was and always would be middle class.
It had been strange to watch her on the screen after he’d been replaced with a twenty-year-old hockey player. It had given him an eerie, almost creepy feeling to see her depiction of Jane Palmer, and to realize that she’d played that part with him
all during the three frenzied months they’d been lovers.
He’d gone alone to the theater. A kind of test to make certain he’d gotten rid of any residual, and unhealthy, attraction for her. When she’d bared those beautiful breasts, he’d felt nothing but discomfort. Though it had been by proxy, he knew he had been to bed with Emma’s mother.
And he had wondered, sitting under the dark cloak of the theater, if Emma would see the movie.
But he didn’t like to think of Emma.
There had been other women. No one serious, but other women. He had his work. It no longer amazed him that he had both a talent and an affection for law enforcement. Perhaps he didn’t have his father’s patience and skill with paperwork, but he thought well on his feet, accepted the long, often monotonous hours of legwork and stakeouts, and had a healthy enough respect for his life not to be trigger-happy.
“I got shot at yesterday,” he said conversationally to Conroy. The dog began, disinterestedly, to scratch for fleas. “If that pervert had gotten lucky, you’d be out in the cold, pal. Don’t delude yourself into thinking that slut would take you in.”
Conroy glanced over, burped, and went back to his fleas.
“One trip to the vet,” Michael muttered as he spooned up cereal. “Just one trip and a couple of snips, and your letching days are over.” Pleased that he’d had the last word, Michael opened the paper.
There was the usual business about the Middle East, the latest in terrorism. Some routine bitching about the economy. Beneath the fold in section B was an article about the capture and arrest of one Nick Axelrod, a small-time second-story man who had hopped himself up on PCP and axed his lover.
“Here’s the guy,” Michael said, holding out the paper for Conroy’s perusal. “Found him in an apartment downtown, shooting up the walls and screaming for Jesus. See, here’s my name. Detective Michael Kettlerung. Yeah, I know, I know, but it’s supposed to be my name. If you’re not interested in current events, why don’t you do something useful, like getting my cigarettes. Go on, fetch.”
Moaning, Conroy started off. He tried a limp, but Michael had gone back to the paper and wasn’t paying attention. Scratching his bare chest, Michael turned to the Entertainment section.
His fingers curled in, fisted, and held against his heart as he stared at the picture.
It was Emma. She looked—God, he thought, she looked outrageous. That shy little smile, those huge, quiet eyes. She was wearing some skimpy strapless dress, and her hair was down, raining over her shoulders in thick, wild waves.
There was an arm over her shoulders as well, and the arm was attached to a man. Michael tore his eyes from Emma’s face long enough to stare at the man.
Drew Larimer. His brain connected face and name. He was smiling, too. Positively fucking beaming, Michael thought. He shifted back to Emma, studying every inch, every angle of her face for a long time. Conroy came in and dumped a slobbery pack of Winstons on his lap. But he didn’t move.
Very slowly, as if it were a foreign language, he read the headline.
ROCK PRINCESS EMMA MCAVOY
MARRIES HER PRINCE
In a secret ceremony two days ago, Emma McAvoy, daughter of Devastation’s Brian McAvoy and author Jane Palmer, married Drew Larimer, twenty-six, lead singer and guitarist for the rising rock group, Birdcage Walk. The newlyweds met on Devastation’s recent European tour.
Michael didn’t read any more. Couldn’t. “Jesus, Emma.” He closed his eyes and let the paper fall back to the table. “Oh, Jesus.”
Emma was thrilled to be back in New York. She could hardly wait to show off the city to Drew, and to spend their first Christmas together in the loft.
It hadn’t mattered to her that their plane had been late, or that a fine icy sleet had been falling. They would have four weeks for the honeymoon that had been delayed by the completion of Drew’s new album. She wanted to spend that time in New York, in her home, as she made the transition from bride to wife.
She had the limo driver take them through midtown so she could show Drew the lights, the people, the majestic tree in Rockefeller Center, the carnival of Times Square.
It delighted her to arrive at the loft knowing she was alone. Finally alone, with no Sweeney in residence downstairs.
“It feels like years since I’ve been here.” She knew Marianne’s father had complained bitterly over their refusal to sublet, but she was glad, so glad to know that no one had lived there in her absence.
“Well?” She combed her fingers through her damp hair. “What do you think?”
“It’s quite a space.” He skimmed over the plaster walls, the bare floors, the kitschy china owl Emma had discovered in a neighborhood thrift shop. “A bit … spartan.”
“Wait until I start decorating for Christmas. Marianne and I collected some truly awful decorations.” She fumbled in her bag for a tip when the driver deposited their luggage with a discreet cough. “Thank you.”
He pocketed the twenty. “Thank you, ma’am. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.” She tossed off her coat and raced to the windows. “Drew, come look at the view. It’s better from Marianne’s studio, but I get dizzy.”
“Very nice.” He saw a dirty street and a maddening crush of traffic. “Emma, I wonder why you never moved into something more upscale.”
“I never wanted to.”
“Well, this is certainly charming, and I’m sure it was fine for two college girls. But we’ll have to do some rethinking.” When she turned, he reached out to brush a hand over her hair. “After all, we don’t want to share our living quarters with Marianne, however delightful she is.”
“I hadn’t thought … She won’t be back for a couple of months yet.”
“You’d better start thinking.” He took the sting out of the words by kissing her brow. Pretty face and slow wits, he thought, and patted her cheek. “From what I’ve heard it takes a great deal of time, money, and energy to find a place in New York. Since you want to divide our time between here and London, we’ll need the right kind of accommodations. Jesus Christ, it’s cold in here.”
“I had the agent keep the heat back while we were gone.” She hurried over to turn it up.
“Always practical, aren’t you, love?” There was a sneer in his voice, but he was smiling when he turned back to her. “I’m sure we’ll enjoy ourselves here for a couple of weeks. After all, a honeymoon, even a delayed one, doesn’t require much more than a bed.” He laughed when she blushed, then walked over to sweep her up in a long, lusty kiss. “We do have a bed, don’t we, Emma?”
“Yes.” She held him close. “Right through there. It needs fresh linens.”
“We’ll worry about the linens later.” He pulled her through the doorway, tugging at her sweater.
She knew it would be quick, not fierce and painful as it had been on her wedding night, but speedy and soon over. She didn’t know how to ask for more. Though she felt, somewhere in her heart, that there should be more than the rapid groping in the dark. The mattress was cold on her back. But his body, as it entered hers long before she was ready, was hot. She wrapped her arms around him, clinging to the warmth and waiting for the starburst she had only read about.
She shivered when he was done. From the cold, she told herself. Moments later, Drew echoed her thoughts.
“Christ Almighty, it’s like an ice box in here.”
“It won’t take much longer to heat up. I’ve got some blankets in the chest.”
She reached for her sweater, but he closed a hand over hers. “I like looking at your body, Emma. Such a sweet little body, just this side of ripe. There’s no need to be shy in front of me anymore, is there?”
“No.” Awkward, she rose to lift the top of the chest. He fumbled in the pocket of the jacket that was tangled on the floor and found his cigarettes.
“I don’t suppose there’s any food in this place, or a bottle of something to ward off pneumonia.”
“There’s some cognac in t
he kitchen.” She remembered the bottle she’d opened for Luke. Luke, who was back in Miami, fighting to hang on to life. She laid the pile of sheets and blankets on the foot of the bed. Already she’d shared nearly all her secrets with Drew—except about Johnno, and Luke.
“I didn’t even think about food.” She saw him frown as he brought the cigarette to his lips. “Why don’t I run around the corner to the market? Pick up some things. You can have some cognac and a hot bath. I’ll fix us some dinner.”
“Fine.” It didn’t occur to him to offer to go with her. “Pick me up some cigs too, will you?”
“Sure.” He didn’t stop her when she reached for her sweater again. “It won’t take me long.”
He got up when she left, tugging on his jeans more for comfort than modesty. He poured the cognac first, and though he was annoyed there wasn’t a proper glass for it, he approved the brand.
It amazed him that she’d expected him to applaud the silly barn of a room. A downtown loft, he thought and drank more cognac. He had no intention of living downtown. He’d been waiting to move up all of his life. It was laughable to think that now that he was on his way he would settle for anything less than the best.
He’d grown up in worse, certainly. Sipping, he studied the mural of Emma on the plaster wall and thought of where he’d come from, and where he was going. He couldn’t claim a life in the slums, digging in poverty. But he’d been only shades above it.
A rented house, a muddy yard, mended jeans. He detested coming from the working class, and the father who had kept them there because he’d never had an ounce of ambition. Stoop-shouldered old man, he thought. No spine or balls. Why else would his wife have walked out on him and her three children?
So she’d wanted something better than just eking out a living, Drew mused. How could he blame her? He detested her.
He was going his own way, and that way was straight to the top. Lifting the glass, he toasted Emma’s portrait. If his eager and naïve little wife could give him a couple of boosts, they’d all live happy.
