by Nora Roberts
But he would run the show.
He’d indulge her for a week or two here. And then they’d move uptown. One of those big glitzy and expensive flats off Central Park. That would do for a beginning. He didn’t mind living part of the year in New York. In fact, he thought New York would suit him just fine. Especially with the contacts Emma had there.
Crossing to the stereo, he flipped through albums until he found one that suited him. Complete Devastation. It seemed only right, Drew mused, that he give a nod to the old man. After all, if it hadn’t been for the tour, he wouldn’t have been able to lure Emma backstage, pour on the charm. Imagine her being stupid enough to believe he hadn’t known who she was, or what she could do for him.
With a shake of his head, he put the record on, and let the music rock the room.
No, he wouldn’t find it difficult to indulge her. Even though she was lousy in bed—a severe disappointment—she was overeager to please. He’d played her as cleverly as he played his six-string, from the moment he’d set eyes on her. He intended for his ingenuity to pay off. In spades.
Before long, she would have mended fences with her father. The old man had taken their marriage well enough, and had been generous in his wedding gift of fifty thousand pounds. Made out in Emma’s name, but already deposited in a joint account.
There was still restraint between father and daughter. That would ease up soon enough. Drew was sure of it. Being Brian McAvoy’s favored son-in-law was bound to have its rewards. In the meantime, he had a very, very rich wife. A rich naïve wife.
With a laugh, he strolled over to the window. What better mate for an ambitious man? He only had to control his temper and impatience, keep her happy, and then everything he wanted would fall in his lap.
Chapter Thirty
They moved into an elegant two-story condo on the Upper West Side. Because it seemed so important to Drew, she tried to ignore the fact that they were living on the eleventh floor. She only really got dizzy when she stood at the window and looked straight down. The phobia was an annoyance to her. She had stood at the top of the Empire State Building and felt exhilarated. Yet if she stood at a fourth-floor window, her head spun and her stomach heaved.
Drew was right, she thought, when he told her she’d have to learn to live with it.
In any case, Emma liked the high, coffered ceilings in the master bedroom, the ornate Deco balustrade that ran along the curving stairs, the niches cut into the walls, and the maroon and white checkerboard tiles in the foyer.
Emma called on Bev to decorate it, hoping her touch, and a few weeks of her company, would make the move from the loft less painful. Emma had to admit the condo was lovely, with its aerielike view of Central Park and its wide, winding staircase. She satisfied her yen for antiques and oddities by furnishing it with a mix of prissy Queen Anne and funky pop art.
She liked its lofty windows, the little glassed-in balcony where she could pot herbs, and the fact that it was only a brisk walk to Johnno’s.
She saw him almost every day. He went along with her on her hunts through antique stores, something that bored Drew. It was habitual for Johnno to drop by once or twice a week for dinner, or to join them on an evening out. If she couldn’t have her father’s approval, it soothed to have Johnno’s, to hear him talking music with Drew. Emma was pleased when he and Drew began to write a song together.
She threw herself into domesticity, making a home for herself, for Drew, and for the children she couldn’t seem to conceive.
It had surprised and pleased Emma that Drew wanted to start a family right away. Whatever else they disagreed on, whatever differences she had discovered in their tastes and viewpoints, in this they shared the same dream.
She imagined what it would be like to carry a child, to feel Drew’s child growing inside of her. Often she daydreamed about how she and Drew would push a pram through the park. Would they wear those smug smiles she noticed on new parents?
As the months passed, she told herself to be patient, that the time would come. It was stress, it was trying too hard. Once she had learned to relax during lovemaking, it would happen.
As spring breezed in, she took dozens of pictures of pregnant women, of babies and toddlers in the park. She watched them enjoying the fine warming afternoons. And envied.
Plans to open her own studio and work on her book were postponed, but she continued to sell her pictures. She was content to pour herself into a new domestic life, to spend her free hours expanding her portfolio. She began to collect cookbooks, and to watch cooking shows on public television. It flattered her when Drew praised her attempts to re-create a meal. Since he became easily bored with her photography, she stopped showing him her prints or discussing her works in progress.
He seemed more content to see her as a housewife. In the first year of their marriage, she was more than happy to oblige him.
Deliberately, she kept busy, trying to mask her disappointment when her body informed her, with regularity, that she wasn’t pregnant. Trying not to feel the guilt when Drew sulked each time-she failed.
It was Runyun who shook her out of her complacent routine.
With a bottle of champagne in one hand and a clutch of tulips in the other, Emma burst into the apartment. “Drew? Drew, are you home?”
Setting the bottle down, she switched on the radio.
“Jesus, would you shut that thing off?” Drew appeared at the top of the stairs. He wore only a pair of sweats. Never at his best in the morning, his hair was tumbled, his eyes bleary, his face scruffy with a night’s growth of beard. “You know I worked late last night. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for a little quiet in the morning.”
“I’m sorry.” Quickly, she pushed the off switch and lowered her voice. A few months of marriage had taught her that Drew’s temper was a lit fuse before coffee. “I didn’t realize you were still in bed. I thought you were out.”
“Some people don’t have to get up at dawn to be productive.”
She gripped the flowers a little tighter. She didn’t want to spoil the moment with an argument. “Shall I fix you some coffee?”
“You might as well. There’ll be no getting any sleep here.”
Emma took the flowers and wine into the kitchen. It was a narrow room made spacious by the glassed-in breakfast nook. She had chosen blues and white—gleaming navy countertop, white appliances, pale blue and white tiles for the floor. There was an old kitchen hutch in the corner she’d painted white herself. It displayed a collection of cobalt glass.
Emma added fresh water to the trio of cacti she’d started in blue bowls, then began fixing breakfast. They had help three days a week, but she enjoyed cooking a few meals as much as she enjoyed developing a good print. She set Drew’s favorite sausage on to grill before she ground beans for coffee.
When he entered a few moments later, still bare-chested and unshaven, the scents were enough to mellow his mood. Besides, he liked seeing her at the stove, cooking for him. It reminded him that no matter who she was, no matter how fat her bank account, she belonged to him.
He strolled over to kiss the side of her throat. “Morning.” Her answering smile faded as he slid his hands up to rub her breasts.
“It’ll be ready in a minute.”
“Good. I’m starved.” He gave her nipples a quick, ungentle pinch.
She hated when he did that, but said nothing as she moved over to pour his coffee. When she’d told him she didn’t care to be pinched, he’d only begun to do it more often. Just teasing her, he claimed.
You’re too sensitive, Emma. You have no sense of humor.
“I have news.” She handed him the cup. “Oh Drew, it’s wonderful news.”
His eyes sharpened. Was she pregnant? He badly wanted to present Brian with a grandchild. “You’ve been to the doctor?”
“No—oh, no, I’m not pregnant, Drew. I’m sorry.” She felt the familiar sense of guilt and inadequacy. Disappointment marred his face before he went to sit at the
table.
“It’s just going to take a little more time,” she murmured and cracked two eggs into the pan. “I’m keeping my temperature chart carefully.”
“Sure.” He took out a cigarette, lit it, and studied her through the smoke. “You’re doing your best.”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. It wasn’t the time to remind him that it took two people to make a baby. The last time they had discussed it, he had smashed a lamp then had stormed out to leave her frazzled and guilty until morning.
“I went to see Runyun. You know, I told you I was going?”
“Hmmm? Oh, right. The snotty old boy of the shutterbugs.”
“He’s not snotty.” It didn’t do any good to get her back up over the term “shutterbug.” “Cranky,” she said with a smile. “Often obnoxious, but not snotty.” She carried his plate to the table. She’d forgotten her own coffee, but sat, almost ready to burst. “He’s arranging for me to have a showing. My own showing.”
“Showing?” Drew said over a bite of sausage. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“For my work, Drew. I told you I thought he was going to offer me a job again, but it wasn’t that at all.”
“You don’t need a job in any case. I told you how I feel about your working with some grabby old fart.”
“No, but—well, it doesn’t matter now. He thinks I’m good. It was hard for him to admit, but he really thinks I’m good. He’s going to sponsor a show.”
“You mean one of those precious little gatherings where people pie wander around staring at pictures and saying things like ‘What depth, what vision’?”
She stiffened. Slowly, she rose to unwrap the tulips until her temper cooled. He didn’t mean to hurt her, she assured herself. “It’s an important step in my career. I’ve wanted this since I was a child. I’d think you’d understand.”
Behind her back he rolled his eyes. He supposed he’d have to pet and soothe now. “Of course I do. Good for you, luv. When’s the big day?”
“In September. He wants to give me plenty of time to get my best work together.”
“I hope you’re going to include a few shots of me.”
She made herself smile as she set the tulips in a slant of sunlight on the table. “Of course. You’re my favorite subject.”
She was certain he wasn’t trying to make things difficult, but Drew’s demands on her time made it next to impossible for Emma to get any work done. It was time they took advantage of New York, he said, and insisted on haunting the clubs. He needed a break, so they flew off for a week in the Virgin Islands. It was natural for him to make friends among the young and rich of New York. The apartment was almost never empty now. If they weren’t entertaining, there was a party somewhere else. As one of the bright new couples, they were hounded by the paparazzi. The opening of a new Broadway play, an evening at a new night spot, a concert in Central Park. Everything they did was recorded. Their names and faces adorned papers at every supermarket checkout. They were on the cover of Rolling Stone, and People and Newsweek. Barbara Walters wanted an interview.
Each time she became frantic under the pressure, Emma reminded herself this was precisely the kind of life she’d dreamed of while trapped in Saint Catherine’s. But the reality of it was much more wearing, and much more boring, than she would have believed.
Everyone said the first year of marriage was the hardest, she continually reminded herself. It took effort, it took patience. If marriage, and life in general, was more difficult and less exciting than she’d imagined, it only meant that she wasn’t trying hard enough.
“Come on, luv, it’s a party.” Drew swung her around. Her mineral water sloshed over her glass as he caught her close to dance. “Loosen up, Emma.”
“I’m tired, Drew.”
“You’re always tired.”
His fingers dug into her back when she tried to draw away. She’d been up three nights running working in her darkroom. Her showing was only six weeks away, and she was nervous as a cat. And angry, she admitted. Angry because her husband showed no interest in her work. Angry because he’d announced two hours before that he’d invited a few friends over.
A hundred and fifty people crowded the rooms. The music blasted. Over the past month there had been more and more of these little get-togethers. Her liquor bill had soared to five hundred dollars a week. She didn’t resent the money. No, it wasn’t the money. It wasn’t even the time, not when it involved friends. But friends had swelled to hangers-on, groupies. Last week, the apartment had been a wreck after everyone had cleared out. The sofa had been stained with brandy. Someone had put out a cigarette on her Oriental rug. But worse than that, worse than the broken Baccarat vase or the missing Limoges candy dish, were the drugs.
She’d found a group, people she’d never met, cheerfully snorting coke in the guest room she hoped would soon be a nursery.
Drew had promised it would never happen again.
“You’re just pissed because Marianne didn’t come.”
Hadn’t been invited, Emma corrected silently. “It’s not that at all.”
“Since she got back in town you’ve been spending more time with her over at that loft than here, with me.”
“Drew, I haven’t even seen her for nearly two weeks. Between my work and our social life I haven’t had time.”
“You’ve always got time to bitch, though.”
She jerked back. Furious, she shoved his hand aside before he could grab her again. “I’m going up to bed.”
She pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring the calls and laughter. He caught her on the stairs. The bite of his fingers told her he was every bit as angry as she.
“Let go of me,” she said under her breath. “I don’t think you want a fight here, in front of your friends.”
“Then we’ll take it upstairs.” He squeezed until she yelped, then dragged her the rest of the way.
She was prepared for an argument. Indeed, she relished the thought of a good screaming match. When she walked into the bedroom, she snapped.
They were using her antique mirror to cut the coke. Four of them bent over her vanity table, giggling and snorting in the white powder. The old perfume bottles she’d collected had been pushed aside. One lay shattered on the floor.
“Get out.”
Four heads popped up, and she was eyed with owlish grins.
“I said out. Get the hell out of my room, get the hell out of my house.”
Before Drew could stop her, she had grabbed the closest person, a man about twice her weight, and had dragged him up.
“Hey, look, we’ll share.”
“Get out,” she repeated, shoving him toward the door.
They moved quickly enough then, filing out. One of the women stopped long enough to pat Drew’s cheek. Emma slammed the door behind them and rounded on her husband.
“I’ve had enough. I’ve had all I’m going to take, Drew. I want those people out of here, and I won’t have them coming back.”
“Won’t you?” he said quietly.
“Doesn’t it matter to you? Doesn’t it matter at all? This is our bedroom. Christ, Drew, look at my things. They’ve been in my closet.” Enraged, she picked up a heap of silk and linen. “God knows what they’ve stolen or broken this time, but that’s not the worst. I don’t even know those people and they’re in my bedroom doing drugs. I won’t have drugs in my house.”
She saw him swing back, but the movement didn’t register. The back of his hand connected hard enough with her face to send her sprawling. She tasted blood. Dazed, she lifted a hand to her split lip.
“Your house?” He dragged her to her feet. Her shirt tore as he heaved her away. She landed hard against the bedside table. Her beloved Tiffany lamp crashed to the floor. “Spoiled little bitch. It’s your house?”
Too stunned to fight back, she cringed when he advanced on her. The roar of the music drowned out her scream as he picked her up again and threw her on the bed.
“Our
house. You bloody well remember that. It’s as much mine as yours. It’s all as much mine as yours. Don’t you ever think you can tell me what to do. Do you think you can humiliate me that way and get away with it?”
“I wasn’t—” She broke off, drawing her shoulders up as he lifted his hand.
“That’s better. I’ll let you know when I want to hear you whine. Always get your way, don’t you, Emma? Well, we won’t let tonight be any exception. You want to sit up here all alone. That’s fine.” He picked up the phone and ripped it out of the wall. “You just sit up here.” He threw the phone up against the wall before he strode out, slamming and locking the door behind him.
She sat curled on the bed, breathing hard, too numb to ache from the cuts and bruises. It was a nightmare, she thought. She’d had other nightmares. Painfully, she remembered the slaps and shouts she’d lived with for the first three years of her life.
Spoiled little bitch.
Was that Jane’s voice, or Drew’s?
Shivering, she reached out. The little black dog from her childhood sat on the pillow. Curling her arm around him, she cried herself to sleep.
When he unlocked the door the next morning, she was asleep. Standing in the doorway, Drew studied her dispassionately. The side of her face was swollen. He’d have to make sure she didn’t go out in public for a couple of days.
Stupid to have lost his temper, he thought, rubbing his palms on his thighs. Satisfying, but stupid. But then, she was always pushing him. He was doing his best, wasn’t he? And it wasn’t easy. A man might as well take a dead fish to bed as sleep with her. And she was always talking about her goddamn show, sneaking off for hours in the darkroom instead of taking care of him.
It was his work, his needs, that came first. It was time she understood that.
A wife was supposed to take care of her husband. That’s why he’d married her. She was supposed to take care of him, to help him get where he wanted to go.
Maybe knocking her around had been a good thing. She’d sure as hell think twice before defying him again.
