by Ward, Susan
That he wanted to hear it all touched her deeply. “How can you still care?”
“Loving Krystal Stafford has become my addiction.”
He listened quietly as the details of her life fell in disjointed order. In the end, she told him everything, as she knew she would, about her years alone and her months with Devon.
“So what, love, are you going to do with this man of yours?”
“Do? What can I do? He lied to me, Morgan. About everything. And I ended it. Where is there to go from that?”
“Nowhere. If that’s what matters most to you. But the moral high ground is a lonely place, pet. The man did go to prison for you,” Morgan pointed out none too gently.
“For me? Or some polemic stand on first amendment principles. His principles are oh so convenient.”
“There’s nothing convenient about jail,” Morgan pointed out slowly. “It’s not exactly a country club. I spent six months there. It made me feel subhuman. I would have given you up the first day. He’s been there three weeks.”
Krystal turned to stare at him. “You were in jail? You never told me.”
“I got busted passing through customs when I was twenty. Six months for a handful of joints. Thank God it wasn’t smack. They would have thrown away the key. It wasn’t what I would call a character building experience and it certainly isn’t something I like to recall. It’s degrading, Kryssie. Ugly. For a straight guy, like Devon, I can’t imagine what it means to him.”
Krystal shivered.
“He was wrong, Kryssie. He knows it.”
Had Morgan seen Devon? How could he have made a visit to jail without it making print?
“You’ve spoken to Devon?” she questioned anxiously.
“We exchanged a few words.”
“What about?”
She was not as clever at disguising her emotions as Morgan was, and her anxiousness made him laugh.
“Did we talk about you, do you mean? Why not just ask? What else do we have between us?”
His strong hands slipped through her hair, working the aching flesh of her skull. If he chose to tell her more, he would do so at his own pace. There was no point in pushing Morgan. He was not the least bit malleable.
After a long time, which seemed like an eternity to Krystal, he finally said, “He wanted to know if I’d heard from you. If you and Katie were safe. He nearly went crazy when I told him I hadn’t. There he was in jail and his only concern was you. If that’s not love, Kryssie, I don’t know what is.”
“It’s too late. I’ve made too much of a mess of everything.”
“The man would have sold his soul to know that you were safe,” Morgan put in annoyed. “You’ve tied that man in knots. There’s only one thing that matters to Devon. You.”
Her face fell into her hands and Morgan could hear her crying. “It’s too late. Too much has happened. Love doesn’t always make everything all right. It didn’t with us. It never did.”
“It can. If you let it. What part of it all are you having trouble forgiving? That he hurt you? That he isn’t perfect? Or that he’s human, with human weaknesses and human flaws?”
Her red face snapped up and her blue eyes harshly met his. “That was unkind.”
“I’ve been on that perch you put your men on, Kryssie. You wait for them to fall so you can run. Nick left you jaded, bruised, and untrusting. If he hadn’t, would you have left me that first time? You’ve put together a set of standards that no man can meet. You expected me to be more than any man could be, because Nick had been none of what he should have been. It was like walking a tight rope.
“You walked out on me because Nick had left you unable to trust anyone. And I am regrettably human, something you sometimes find difficult to accept. Would any of this mess have unfolded otherwise? The transgression that built your distrust of me was so small.”
“Small,” she whispered, remembering her heartache during her first turbulent break with Morgan. “You disappeared for nine days without a word, as though it didn’t matter to me because it didn’t matter to you. I knew the rumors were untrue. They ripped me to shreds anyway. If you had only told me you were leaving, and where you went, there would have been no pain. I needed to understand, but instead you broke my heart. I hated you for it. I never wanted another man to have that kind of power over me. I hated the way Nick could manipulate me by using my heart and mind.”
“It was only insurmountable in your eyes. I was never unfaithful to you, and you know it, love. Do you think you were the only one who had been hurt? I loved you and lost you over something that shouldn’t have been a test at all. We found our way back together after that. What makes you think you can’t find your way with Devon? No man can pass every rigid test you’ve constructed in your mind. I spent three years trying to do just that. What Devon did, right or wrong, he did out of love. He’s a good man, Kryssie. You could do worse.”
Krystal knew she would never do better. Blurred pictures capered in her mind, remembered kisses, husky laughter, deep green eyes which always seemed to hold the hint of a smile. She had never known anything sweeter than Devon’s love for her, and without him, she felt empty.
Was what he had done worth losing that? Had walking out of his life made the pain any less? Made her love him any less? Want him any less?
The talk and her tears had left her too tired to explore it any further. And whatever needed exploring, it would not deliver answers while discussing it with Morgan.
Dear, sweet Morgan. How many men would have spent an evening trying to make reason of the tangle of her love life? Two years apart and he was still her best friend.
They had loved each other once, and still loved enough, it seemed, to care.
Krystal’s drowsy face turned toward Morgan’s chest and, half mumbling, she said, “I wonder if anyone would believe we spent tonight together just talking.”
Morgan laughed, kissing the top of her head before noting that she had drifted off to sleep. “Love, I’m having trouble believing it myself.”
Morgan’s Lear jet landed on six thousand feet of private airstrip located an hour from downtown Los Angeles that was owned by the oil companies. The destination had been selected in an effort to minimize the hoop-a-la, as Colin called it, which would surround Krystal’s return.
I can’t do this, Krystal thought, anxiously glancing at the pulled window shades, while she nervously fiddled with the buttons on her simple, white cotton blouse.
“I suppose it’s too much to hope no one is out there,” she asked with a nervous laugh.
Morgan smiled. “No one. Unless you count the entire LA press corps and a busload of federal agents.”
“All this for little me,” Krystal sighed unsteadily.
“A regular desperado,” Morgan teased. His hard gaze thoroughly searched Krystal’s features. “How are you holding up?”
“Remarkably well for a woman on her way to jail.” Her humor was strained, her effort to be light not lost on Morgan. “I suppose it’s too late to have the pilot take me back to Coos Bay?”
Morgan’s smile was reassuring. “Too late. Just a little more unpleasantness, Kryssie. And then the future. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it, love?”
The Future. Was there a future? She wondered dismally.
Two weeks had passed since she’d joined Morgan in San Francisco, while her lawyers had begun the tedious process of negotiating her return. Devon had not contacted her. Tears stung her eyes. She had done too good a job ending it.
Pulling her long, blond hair into a tie, she tossed it back over her shoulder before reaching for the backpack containing the meager possessions she’d taken with her from Coos Bay.
Silly, silly things. Why did she bother with them at all? They belonged with Christine Dillon; they would have no place in Krystal Stafford’s life.
“No more stalling. Another five minutes and I have a horrible feeling they’d like nothing better than to storm the plane!”
“Guns bar
ed.” Morgan’s eyes twinkled. “Think what Colin could do with that. An all-out Bruce Willis film extravaganza!”
“He’d give me a hug for so masterfully working the extra publicity into the deal.” She turned to her attorney. “I’m ready, John.”
The copilot opened the door, and the warm California sunshine streamed in, brushing up against the chill of Krystal’s cheeks. She was home.
John Hunt stepped out first, his footsteps echoing on the metal steps as he went to make first contact with the authorities. The media frantically began to commit this scene to print, and when she stepped out with Morgan, the cameras exploded all around them.
Five little steps. That is all it was from plane to asphalt. The longest journey of her life. She froze, unable to command her legs to move. Morgan squeezed her hand, the light touch of his lips on her cheek, the sweet intimacy of their deep bond of friendship being frantically captured on film. Her eyes searched the blur of faces, the uniformed officers, the darkly suited agents, and the media behind, straining up against them.
Morgan wanted to say he loved her but couldn’t. He said, “Go on, Kryssie. I’ll be waiting for you when this is through.”
As she neared the crowd of federal agents lined up before her, a man in his late fifties with a balding, gray head and kindly brown eyes stepped forward. There was something in his face that told Krystal that he was none too pleased with his business here.
“Are you Mrs. Krystal Stafford?”
The silence that instantly fell was deafening. Shaking, she replied, “Yes, I’m Krystal Stafford.”
“I have a federal warrant for your arrest on the charge of kidnapping.”
As he came toward her with the handcuffs, the cameras exploded again, flashing frantically all around them. She could hear Morgan’s and John Hunt’s furious voices swirl around her as the federal agent placed the metal bracelets around her slim wrists, the blurred swell of the reporters screaming her name, the sound of her own heart beating fiercely in her breast.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stafford,” the agent mumbled softly, and, as she lowered her bound arms, she watched the cuffs slip down her wrists. They were so loose that with one wrong move they would fall off. It was really very silly to have these degrading metal restraints on at all, yet she wanted to cry.
Morgan had been right. It did make one feel subhuman. That she knew her only crime had been to protect her daughter didn’t lessen the humiliation of it all.
She found the federal agent’s gaze upon her, a look of sympathy in his eyes, and she knew what he was fearing, that she would break down and create a scene before the media, adding to the indignation Devon’s articles had already stirred in the public.
She’d read somewhere that the governor was getting upwards of a thousand letters a day.
The agent quietly asked her to step forward. With a slight nod of her head, she calmly moved to the waiting car that would take her to federal prison.
Devon sat in his living room, surrounded by the people he had always been closest to, trying his best to concentrate on the Dodger game and carry on in a normal way. It had been a week since his release, and he still couldn’t manage to find a comfortable stride, even in settings as familiar as this.
Perhaps it was because that damn phone never ceased ringing. He had broken it this morning out of frustration, hating the fact that his own colleagues had reduced him to a news item. As he stared at the pieces on the floor, he thought of Krys.
Everything he did made him think of Krys. The way her sweet face had stared up at him with those fragile blue eyes, playful, smiling, loving. He would give anything to undo that last night, to have her here now, to fill the emptiness in his heart that nothing seemed to touch. That nothing ever would touch again, he suspected bleakly.
His family crowded around him too often, wondering at the strangeness in him, at the humor that didn’t burst with the same outrageous spontaneity, wondering if it were prison that had caused his odd mood. Prison had done nothing to him. It couldn’t match the coldness that had enveloped his emotions since he left Coos Bay. Prison had passed in a blur of worry over Krys; worry about where she and Katie were, if they were safe, if she would surface somewhere in the world so he could find her.
After his release, his worry had turned painfully to something else, as rumors buzzed that Krys was with Morgan, though no one knew exactly where, only that they were together. Together...his hands tightened on the bottle he held...she had gone from Coos Bay to Morgan and, like a fool, he had sent her.
A shower of popcorn hit his face and pulled him from his thoughts. His sister-in-law, Kara, was sitting beside him, smiling, even though there was worry in her eyes.
They were all here with him today, and usually the close-knit ranks of his brothers and their spouses was something that sparked and fed Devon’s good humor. His eyes drifted to each one, these people he loved so dearly, and he found himself unexpectedly wishing them away.
“If you keep scowling like that at the TV, Devon, I don’t think the Dodgers will come out of the dugout for the next inning,” Kara teased.
Devon’s laugh was a shadow of what she was used to. “That wouldn’t be such a bad thing. The way they’re playing, maybe they should stay in the dugout.”
“They’re ahead seven to four in the top of the eighth, Devon,” Kara pointed out with a grin.
His brothers launched a sudden flow of jeers and bombarded him with an odd assortment of food for making such disloyal statements about their favored home team.
“You’re a brat not to leave me alone, subjecting me to this,” Devon chuckled to Kara. He reached out to ruffle her dark, short curls. “Go sit by your husband and leave me in peace. I’m fine, Kara. Stop ruining your day worrying about me.”
“I’d gladly stop worrying if you’d start giving me reasons why I shouldn’t, Devon.”
A chorus of groans directed at the TV drowned Kara’s soft words. They both looked at the screen and went Blah at each other. The Dodgers had just given up a three run, bases-loaded hit.
“See, I told you they should have stayed in the dugout,” Devon teased, sidestepping Kara’s concerns and climbing from the couch beside her. He disappeared into the kitchen before she could stop him.
Kara spotted her husband watching the exchange. Her shoulders rolled forward in mute answer to the question she sensed from him.
Jordan set down his beer and followed his brother into the kitchen. He settled against the counter in the same loose-limbed way all the Howards had, and watched as his brother rummaged through the refrigerator; he was searching through the clutter of beer bottles for a brand he preferred.
He’d already had four today, his flushed face reflecting that. Devon was not a drinker. Another manifestation of the stranger, as Kara would put it. What the hell had happened during the four months Devon had disappeared? Or was it prison after-effect? His brother wouldn’t talk about any of it so they didn’t know for certain.
Devon twisted a bottle open, tossed the top into the trash, and turned to find Jordan watching him with alert concern.
“I don’t need mothering, Jordan, so if Kara sent you in here to do that, why don’t you save us both that humiliation and go back to your wife.”
Jordan didn’t move. “You can be an ass sometimes. Kara is concerned about you, Devon. We all are.”
Devon’s fingers tightened around the bottle. What the hell was the matter with him? He was acting like an angry kid, striking out at those who cared, because nothing was the way he wanted it to be.
Devon raked his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself today.”
“When you’re ready to talk, I’ll listen,” Jordan offered cautiously. He nodded toward the beer in Devon’s hand, “It might help a lot more than that will.”
A smile crinkled the corners of Devon’s lips. “It probably would, but right now I just want to drown what I’m feeling.”
Blue eyes stared directly back at him. “Why do I
get the feeling this has nothing to do with your recently vacated accommodations? That there’s a woman mixed up in all this?”
“Because your wife is a hopeless romantic and you listen to her?” Devon countered lightly.
Jordan’s smile was shrewd. “Kara could have something to do with my perspective on this, but I didn’t hear you say that I was wrong.”
Devon laughed, shaking his head, “I think you should have been the reporter in the family.”
They were still in the kitchen when the other three Howard men crowded in. The room became an echoing cave of loud, laughing voices, which overlapped and created what seemed like fragments of unrelated conversation to anyone who didn’t know how closely in concert these men’s minds worked.
“Did Kara send you all in here?” Devon teased. “The Dodgers aren’t going to pull this one out of the cellar unless you’re all in there screaming them on to victory.”
“News bulletin,” Marc announced in irritation.
“You’re the professional, Devon,” Danny said. “Maybe you can tell us why news never breaks when something isn’t going on.”
Devon found himself laughing and feeling more like himself, and was thankful that they were here and that they cared. When he saw Kara standing in the doorway watching, he winked at her and smiled.
Angela ran into the kitchen in a rush, sloshing wine from her glass all over the floor.
“Devon, the unicorn is in Los Angeles. Krystal Stafford just touched down in Southern California and is turning herself over to the federal authorities—”
She didn’t get a chance to finish. Devon was out of the kitchen before his brothers even realized he was gone. He was sitting on the coffee table in front of the TV, with Angela beside him, watching as Krystal slowly made her way down the steps from the plane.
Damn, why had he broken the phone in the kitchen this morning and then unplugged all the others? With that amount of media there, it must have surfaced early this morning that she would be returning to Los Angeles today.
