Heart of the Night

by Barbara Delinsky

  Susan looked down at the kid-leather gloves in her hand. “About the business, Will.” She looked up. “I know someone who could help.” When Will started to shake his head, she hurried on. “I understand the position you’re in. Believe me, I know how awful it is to be humiliated in front of people you know. But the man I know works out of New York. I met him through my work with one of the hospitals there, and, if nothing else, he’s discreet. Let me call him. He could come down and talk with you, look over the books, go through the mills. He could give you the kind of advice you need, and he won’t charge you an arm and a leg for it.”

  “An arm and a leg is relative.”

  “Trust me. You’ll be able to afford his services.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I know,” Susan said with confidence.

  Savannah felt that the question of the fee was better deferred. “You could talk with the man, Will. Once Meggie’s home and you’re both feeling better, you could talk with him and make your own decision.”

  “This is my family’s business. I don’t want outside people snooping around.”

  “If you go bankrupt,” Susan pointed out, “you may have no choice. You don’t want to go bankrupt, Will. What will come of the family business then?”

  Savannah softened the blow. “Just think about it. Okay, Will?”

  Though skeptical, he nodded. Savannah and Susan had to be content with that, particularly since the elevator had arrived. With encouraging smiles for Will, they joined the people inside for the trip to the street floor.

  Once there, Savannah caught Susan’s arm. “A quick phone call. I’ll be right back.” She hurried to a nearby phone booth, closed the door, and punched out her own number.

  The phone rang a full ten times before Jared picked it up.

  The sun rose inside Savannah, bringing a smile of relief and pleasure to her face. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be there.”

  “I wasn’t sure I should answer. When it rang so many times, I decided that it was either you, in which case I wanted to talk, or someone who wanted you badly, in which case I wanted to know who it was.”

  “If it hadn’t been me, who would you have said you were?” she asked, still smiling.

  “Your cleaning man.”

  “But he comes on Thursdays.”

  “Ah. Well, then, I guess he changed days this week. Where are you?”

  “Visiting Megan at the hospital. We’re leaving for Boston now.” She paused for the tiniest space of time before turning the question back to him. “Where are you?”

  “Where do you think?”

  She wasn’t sure if she dared think, but she couldn’t seem to help it. “Still in bed?”

  He stretched out a lazy “Ummm. I like your bed. Mind if I stay a little while longer?”

  “No. Oh, no. Stay as long as you want.”

  “What I want,” he said in a throaty voice, “is to stay until you get back. Any idea when that’ll be?”

  “No. We got a late start, and Susan doesn’t have any plans for tonight, so I can’t really leave her alone—”

  “I’ll take both of you out.”

  “You don’t need to—”

  “Of course I don’t need to, but I want to.”

  “But I really have no idea when we’ll be back.”

  “I’d wait here until whenever.”

  “Uh, maybe it’s not such a good idea.”

  “You’re afraid I’ll fall for your sister. That’s crazy, Savannah. Do you honestly think that I can look at another woman after what we did this morning? I’m as good as a eunuch.”

  Eyes downcast, she thought about that for a minute, then said in a very soft voice, “You don’t sound like a eunuch. Susan’s already in love with your voice. She’ll fall for the rest of you if she gets a look.”

  “I wouldn’t parade into a restaurant naked.”

  “You wouldn’t have to.”

  The compliment rendered him silent for a minute. Then he said, “She’s your sister. You can’t hide me from her forever.”

  “I know.” She let out a breath. “I feel guilty.”

  He was quickly contrite. “Don’t feel that, babe. It’ll wait. I can meet Susan another time. It’s just that I wanted to see you.”

  Savannah smiled again. “Thank you.” She took the telephone cord between her thumb and forefinger. “Jared?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “This morning was nice.”

  “It was, wasn’t it?”

  She nodded, then realized that he couldn’t see it. “You made my birthday special.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Do you think you’ll sleep most of the day?”

  “Nah. Maybe for a couple of hours more, but since you’re not coming back here, I’ll go over and work on my boat. Can I see you tomorrow?”

  “I have to work tomorrow.”

  “All day?”

  “Just about. I have a trial starting on Monday.”

  “An interesting one?”

  “Uh-huh. Insurance fraud via arson.” She looked up when Susan tapped on the glass door. “I’ve got to run.” Ducking her head, she brought her fingertips to the bridge of her nose. Short of turning her back, it was the only way she could buy a bit of privacy. “Thanks again for the flowers and the … the…”

  “Birthday bang?” he filled in so innocently that she had to laugh. “My pleasure. Literally.”

  She was floating on air. “I hope so.”

  “Believe it.” He paused for an instant. “Can I call you at the office tomorrow?”

  “The switchboard’s closed. There’s a private line.” She told him the number. “Got it?”

  “Got it. Have fun today, babe.”

  “I already have,” she said, smiling softly. “Bye-bye.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Susan awoke late Sunday morning with a hangover. As hangovers went, it could have been worse, but the headache and its accompanying muzziness were harsh reminders of the party she’d thrown for herself the night before.

  Determined to do nothing more strenuous than spend the day in the living room with the newspaper, she managed to shower, pull on a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and draw her hair into a wide clip behind one ear. Then she stretched out on the sofa.

  It was a good fifteen minutes before she realized she didn’t have the paper. With some effort, she got up and went to the door—only to open it and find Sam Craig standing on her doorstop.

  She was not ready for Sam. Shoving the door closed, she turned back toward the living room. Only after she lowered herself to the sofa and gingerly set down her head did she realize that he had followed her in.

  She threw an arm over her eyes. “Sorry, but I don’t grant audiences this early in the day.”

  Sam tossed the Sunday Journal onto the coffee table. It hit the glass with a clap that made Susan jump, then moan. He understood the problem at once. “Ahhh. We’ve got a hangover. Must have been quite some party.”

  “It was,” she droned. “Lots of fun and laughs.”

  “And booze.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “How’d you get home?”

  “I drove. How else would I get home?”

  “You could have had some guy drive you. Maybe he’s upstairs right now getting dressed. Was it that kind of night, Susan?”

  She rolled to her side, with her back to him, but he simply sat in the space she had unwittingly provided. With a hand on the sofa back and one on its arm, he had her caught. “Was it?”

  Susan felt a rush of misery. In its wake, the words spilled out. “No. There was no man. There was no party. I got back here at ten last night and drank all by myself.” She shot an angry look over her shoulder at him, then as quickly closed her eyes against the pain in her head. “Are you satisfied?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “I think I’d rather you’d been with people. At least, then you could say that they were the ones who kept your glass filled.”

  She
put her arm over her eyes. “I didn’t use a glass. I drank straight from the bottle.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I didn’t feel like using a glass.”

  “Why were you drinking?”

  “Because I wanted to.”

  “Didn’t you enjoy the day with Savannah?”

  “Sure.”

  “But you were unhappy when you got back here.”

  “Something’s wrong with the Jag.”

  “Come on, Susan.” He tugged at her arm, but she kept it firmly in place. “A person doesn’t get drunk over a car.”

  “It’s as good a reason as any.”

  “Only if you want to ignore the reasons that count.”

  Raising her arm only enough to peer up at him, she said, “Another time, Dr. Freud, I’d love to hear your theory.” She dropped the arm back to her eyes. “Right now I’d like silence.”

  Sam gave it to her for several minutes, during which time he studied the curve of her ear, the line of her jaw, the slope of her neck. Though she was of good height and ample curves, there was something fragile about her, physically and emotionally. It cried out to him. It made him feel compassionate and passionate. He had seen her at her worst, and she still turned him on.

  “Sam?” came the voice beneath the arm, sounding wary now. “You’re too quiet. What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking that I’d drink myself to oblivion, too, if I was confined in this mausoleum.”

  “Mausoleum? This house is worth one-point-three million on the open market.”

  “Let the open market have it. It’s a mausoleum.” He stood and reached down for her, hauling her to her feet.

  She tried to wrench her arms free. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Getting you out of here.” He ushered her into the hall. “This house wasn’t made for a single woman. It’s got shadows in every damned corner.” He took her fur from the closet.

  She pulled back. “It’s my house. It’s quiet.” Her eyes sharpened on him in accusation. “And it doesn’t manhandle me.”

  Draping the coat around her shoulders, Sam pulled the lapels tightly together and backed her to the wall. He pushed one of his thighs between hers, but it was the pressure of his hips that pinned her there. “I won’t manhandle you, Susan,” he said, looking at her mouth. “That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  “I’m not up for this,” she wailed softly.

  He met her gaze. “I know. You have a lousy headache. Everything from your neck up feels thick. That’s why you’re coming with me without a fuss.”

  Despite her confusion, Susan felt an inkling of interest. “Where to?”

  “My place. Once we get there, you can lie down to your heart’s content. I won’t bother you.”

  She wasn’t sure if she liked the sound of that. “You’re going to ignore me?”

  “No. I’m going to make you some breakfast, then let you sleep.” He plopped a kiss on her cheek, then stepped back. “We’ll decide what you want to do when you’re feeling better.”

  At that moment she missed the feel of his weight against her. A bit contrarily, she said, “I always read the paper on Sundays.”

  “Fine.” Retracing his steps, he took the paper from the coffee table, then paused. “The whole thing, or just the society section?”

  She glared at him, then took the fur from her shoulders, but before she could get it back into the closet he blocked the way. “What are you doing?”

  “I’m staying here. I have a headache and being with you won’t help.”

  “It’ll help.”

  “You get on my nerves.”

  “That’s good, isn’t it? If I bored you, we’d be in trouble.”

  He had a point. Still, there was a limit, especially to what he had in mind. “You do know that this is absurd, Sam, don’t you?”

  “What is?”

  “Us.”

  “What’s us? We met on a job, and now I’m giving you a hand when you don’t feel well.”

  “There’s more.”

  “You mean this?” Without a second’s warning, he ducked his head and caught her mouth. His lips were firm and intent, fluidly molding hers to his will.

  From the start, Susan had objected to his cocky confidence. He always had an answer for everything and a stubborn will of his own.

  Just then, she didn’t think his will was so bad.

  When he released her, she was slightly short of breath. “Yes. That.”

  “Want another?”

  She hadn’t quite recovered from the first. So she shook her head. And that hurt.

  “Oooops,” Sam said. He spread her coat around her shoulders, this time waiting until she slid her arms into the sleeves. Then, securing the Sunday paper under his arm, he guided her to the front door.

  He drove a sporty Mazda that looked to be no more than a year or two old. “You weren’t chasing after Will in this the other night.”

  “I don’t use this for work.”

  “You own two cars?”

  Pulling out of the driveway, he shot her a look. “Is that so surprising?”

  “Yes. You’re a cop. I didn’t think cops earned much money.”

  “With overtime, we do just fine. My lifestyle isn’t outrageous. I have money left over for things like cars.”

  “And condos on the waterfront?”

  He shot her another look. “Who told you about that?”

  “Savannah.”

  “What else did she tell you?”

  “Not much.”

  The Mazda’s hum was the extent of the noise for the next few minutes. As the familiar sights of Newport passed from view, Susan felt increasingly uneasy. She knew Newport. Sam Craig and his world were foreign. Yet it seemed important to her that she not make a fool of herself in front of him.

  Closing her eyes, she put her head back.

  “How do you feel?” he asked.

  “Okay.”

  “Head still hurt?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re not going to throw up all over my car, are you?”

  She let him wonder for a minute before she said, “The last time I heard that question, I was in a Testarossa being driven by a man who could as easily have redone the interior of the car as he could have bought a new necktie. He just didn’t want the mess.” She smiled dryly. “You men are all the same.”

  “That’s a sexist statement if I’ve ever heard one.”

  She shrugged.

  “I’d be glad to pull over if you feel sick.”

  “I don’t. And I don’t usually get sick. Friday was an aberration.”

  “You hold your liquor better on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday?”

  “Damn it,” she muttered and swung her head toward him to argue, only to wince at the sharp pain that shot across her forehead. Reversing direction, she turned as far from him as she could within the confines of the car, burrowed into her coat, and concentrated on willing the pain away.

  Nothing further was said during the drive to Providence. She put on a pair of sunglasses, and even then she kept her eyes closed against the day’s bright light. She realized that they had reached their destination when Sam stopped the car.

  She wasn’t sure what to expect. When Savannah had mentioned a condo on the waterfront, she pictured Drew Wyker’s place in Manhattan. It was an ultramodern high rise, made of steel and glass.

  Sam’s place was nothing like that. It was more of a garden apartment, rising only two flights, with glass, but no steel in sight. It was Cape Cod style, with cedar shingles stained gray and sparkling white trim. There looked to be a dozen or so units in the complex.

  “New?” Susan asked as Sam guided her to the front door.

  “Brand new. I’ve only been here a few months.”

  “It has charm.”

  Opening the door to a small foyer, he led her directly through to the living room. Seeing the bricked walls, the broad expanse of glass, and the cushiony sofa from which on
e could view the river, she realized there was charm inside the place, too—charm, if very little furniture.

  “Like I said,” Sam explained when he caught her looking around, “I’ve just moved in. I haven’t had much time to order things. And I’m not even sure what to order. I’m not a decorator.” Taking her coat, he gestured toward the sofa. “Please.”

  It wasn’t so much his use of that word as the look on his face that touched Susan. She could have sworn that he was uncertain of himself. Cocksure Sam Craig was unsure of himself.

  It helped.

  Slipping onto the sofa, she eased off her sneakers and curled her legs under her. After a minute of sitting straight, she lowered her head to the sofa’s arm. Behind her, Sam rummaged in the kitchen, but she didn’t have the inclination at that moment to see what he was doing. Nor did she have the inclination to ask for a tour. Her head was still throbbing. Her eyes hurt. Sleep was the easiest, most noble escape.

  She awoke some time later to the smell of fresh coffee and the sizzle of bacon. Before she could do more than drop her feet to the floor and sit up, Sam was lowering plates of food to the small area rug that lay between the sofa and the tall window of glass that overlooked the river.

  Without a word, he went back to the kitchen, returning this time with a pitcher of orange juice and a stack of dishes, silverware, and glasses. After he arranged everything to his satisfaction, he sat back on his heels.

  “Breakfast is served.”

  Susan was still feeling groggy. “What time is it?”

  He glanced at his slim black watch. It was different from the practical one he had worn when he was working, just as the plaid shirt he now wore was a step up from the old, faded sweatshirt. He still didn’t look conventional; his shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow and his shirttails hung out over jeans that, while clean, were torn at the knee. But he had obviously made an effort to dress, and, muzzy as she was, she noticed.

  “It’s nearly two-thirty,” he told her.

  She lifted her chin in acknowledgment, relieved to find that the pain in her head had eased. “This must be brunch, then.”

  “Isn’t it a little late for that, too?”

  “No,” she said and took the plate he offered. It was filled with an assortment of breakfast goodies. “It’s Sunday. Anything goes.”