by Nora Roberts
“No, I thought not. I have a place,” he continued when Raven remained silent. “It’s in Cornwall.”
“Cornwall?” Raven repeated. “Why Cornwall?”
“Because it’s quiet and isolated, and no one, especially the press, knows I have it. They’ll be all over us when they hear we’re working together, especially on this project. It’s too hot an item.”
“Couldn’t we just rent a small cave on the coast somewhere?”
He laughed and caught her hair in his hand. “You know how poor the acoustics are in a cave. Cornwall’s incredible in the spring, Raven. Come with me.”
She lifted a hand to his chest to push back, not certain if she was about to agree or decline. He could still draw too much from her too effortlessly. She needed to think, she decided; a few days to put it all in perspective.
“Raven.”
She turned to see Julie in the doorway. “Yes?”
“There’s a call for you.”
Vaguely annoyed, Raven frowned at her. “Can’t it wait, Julie? I . . .”
“It’s on your private line.”
Brand felt her stiffen and looked down curiously. Her eyes were completely blank.
“I see.” Her voice was calm, but he detected the faintest of tremors.
“Raven?” Without thinking, he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “What is it?”
“Nothing.” She drew out of his arms. There was something remote about her now, something distant that puzzled him. “Have some more tea,” she invited and smiled, but her eyes remained blank. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
She was gone for more than ten, and Brand had begun to pace restlessly through the room. Raven was definitely no longer the malleable young girl she had been five years before; he knew that. He wasn’t at all certain she would agree to work with him. He wanted her—for the project and yes, for himself. Holding her, tasting her again, had stirred up much more than memories. She fascinated him and always had. Even when she had been so young, there had been an air of secrecy about her. There still was. It was as if she kept certain parts of herself locked in a closet out of reach. She had held him off five years before in more than a physical sense. It had frustrated him then and continued to frustrate him.
But he was older, too. He’d made mistakes with her before and had no intention of repeating them. Brand knew what he wanted and was determined to get it. Sitting back at the piano, he began to play the song he had written with Raven. He remembered her voice, warm and sultry, in his ear. He was nearly at the end when he sensed her presence.
Glancing up, Brand saw her standing in the doorway. Her eyes were unusually dark and intense. Then he realized it was because she was pale, and the contrast accentuated the gray of her irises. Had the song disturbed her that much? He stopped immediately and rose to go to her.
“Raven . . .”
“I’ve decided to do it,” she interrupted. Her hands were folded neatly in front of her, her eyes direct.
“Good.” He took her hands and found it chilled. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course.” She removed her hands from his, but her gaze never faltered. “I suppose Henderson will fill me in on all the details.”
Something about her calm disturbed him. It was as if she’d set part of herself aside. “Let’s have dinner, Raven.” The urge to be with her, to pierce her armor, was almost overwhelming. “I’ll take you to the Bistro; you always liked it there.”
“Not tonight, Brandon, I . . . have some things to do.”
“Tomorrow,” he insisted, knowing he was pushing but unable to prevent himself. She looked suddenly weary.
“Yes, all right, tomorrow.” She gave him a tired smile. “I’m sorry, but I’ll have to ask you to leave now, Brandon. I didn’t realize how late it was.”
“All right.” Bending toward her, he gently kissed her. It was an instinctive gesture, one that demanded no response. He felt the need to warm her, protect her. “Seven tomorrow,” he told her. “I’m at the Bel-Air; you only have to call me.”
Raven waited until she heard the front door shut behind her. She pressed the heel of her hand to her brow and let the tide of emotions rush through her. There were no tears, but a blinding headache raged behind her eyes. She felt Julie’s hand on her shoulder.
“They found her?” Julie asked, concerned. Automatically she began kneading the tension from Raven’s shoulders.
“Yes, they found her.” She let out a long, deep breath. “She’s coming back.”
Chapter 4
The sanitarium was white and clean. The architect, a good one, had conceived a restful building without medical overtones. The uninformed might have mistaken it for an exclusive hotel snuggled in California’s scenic Ojai. It was a proud, elegantly fashioned building with several magnificent views of the countryside. Raven detested it.
Inside, the floors were thickly carpeted, and conversation was always low-key. Raven hated the controlled silence, the padded quiet. The staff members wore street clothes and only small, discreet badges to identify themselves, and they were among the best trained in the country, just as the Fieldmore Clinic was the best detoxification center on the west coast. Raven had made certain of its reputation before she had brought her mother there for the first time over five years before.
Raven waited in Justin Karter’s paneled, book-lined, tasteful office. It received its southern exposure through a wide, thick-paned window. The morning sunlight beamed in on a thriving collection of leafy green plants. Raven wondered idly why her own plants seemed always to put up only a halfhearted struggle for life, one they usually lost. Perhaps she should ask Dr. Karter what his secret was. She laughed a little and rubbed her fingers on the nagging headache between her brows.
How she hated these visits and the leathery, glossy smell of his office. She was cold and cupped her elbows, hugging her arms across her midriff. Raven was always cold in the Fieldmore Clinic, from the moment she walked through the stately white double doors until long after she walked out again. It was a penetrating cold that went straight to the bone. Turning away from the window, she paced nervously around the room. When she heard the door open, she stopped and turned around slowly.
Karter entered, a small, youthful man with a corn-colored beard and healthy pink cheeks. He had an earnest face, accentuated by tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses and a faint smattering of freckles. Under other circumstances, Raven would have liked his face, even warmed to it.
“Ms. Williams.” He held out a hand and took hers in a quick, professional grip. It was cold, he realized, and as fragile as he remembered. Her hair was pinned up at the nape of her neck, and she looked young and pale in the dark tailored suit. This woman was far different from the vibrant, laughing entertainer he had watched on television a few weeks before.
“Hello, Dr. Karter.”
It always amazed him that the rich, full-toned voice belonged to such a small, delicate-looking woman. He had thought the same years before when she had been hardly more than a child. He was an ardent fan but had never asked her to sign any of the albums in his collection. It would, he knew, embarrass them both.
“Please sit down, Ms. Williams. Could I get you some coffee?”
“No, please.” She swallowed. Her throat was always dry when she spoke to him. “I’d like to see my mother first.”
“There are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.”
He watched her moisten her lips, the only sign of agitation. “After I’ve seen her.”
“All right.” Karter took her by the arm and led her from the room. They walked across the quiet, carpeted hallway to the elevators. “Ms. Williams,” he began. He would have liked to have called her Raven. He thought of her as Raven, just as the rest of the world did. But he could never quite break through the film of reserve she slipped on in his presence. It was, Karter knew, because he knew her secrets. She trusted him to keep them but was never comfortable with him. She turned to him now, her grea
t, gray eyes direct and expressionless.
“Yes, Doctor?” Only once had Raven ever broken down in his presence, and she had promised herself she would never do so again. She would not be destroyed by her mother’s illness, and she would not make a public display of herself.
“I don’t want you to be shocked by your mother’s appearance.” They stepped into the elevator together, and he kept his hand on her arm. “She had made a great deal of progress during her last stay here, but she left prematurely, as you know. Over the past three months, her condition has . . . deteriorated.”
“Please,” Raven said wearily, “don’t be delicate. I know where she was found and how. You’ll dry her out again, and in a couple of months she’ll leave and it’ll start all over. It never changes.”
“Alcoholics fight a continuing battle.”
“Don’t tell me about alcoholics,” she shot back. The reserve cracked, and the emotion poured through. “Don’t preach to me about battles.” She stopped herself, then, shaking her head, pressed her fingers to the concentrated source of her headache. “I know all about alcoholics,” she said more calmly. “I haven’t your dedication or your optimism.”
“You keep bringing her back,” he reminded Raven softly.
“She’s my mother.” The elevator doors slid open, and Raven walked through them.
Her skin grew colder as they moved down the hallway. There were doors on either side, but she refused to think of the people beyond them. The hospital flavor was stronger here. Raven thought she could smell the antiseptic, the hovering medicinal odor that always made a hint of nausea roll in her stomach. When Karter stopped in front of a door and reached for a knob, Raven laid a hand on top of his.
“I’ll see her alone, please.”
He sensed her rigid control. Her eyes were calm, but he had seen the quick flash of panic in them. Her fingers didn’t tremble on his hand but were stiff and icy. “All right. But only a few minutes. There are complications we need to discuss.” He took his hand from the knob. “I’ll wait for you here.”
Raven nodded and twisted the knob herself. She took a moment, struggling to gather every ounce of strength, then walked inside.
The woman lay in a hospital bed on good linen sheets, dozing lightly. There was a tube feeding liquid into her through a needle in her arm. The drapes were drawn, and the room was in shadows. It was a comfortable room painted in soft blue with an ivory carpet and a few good paintings. With her fingers digging into the leather bag she carried, Raven approached the bed.
Raven’s first thought was that her mother had lost weight. There were hollows in her cheeks, and her skin had the familiar unhealthy yellow cast. Her dark hair was cropped short and streaked liberally with gray. It had been lovely hair, Raven remembered, glossy and full. Her face was gaunt, with deathly circles under the eyes and a mouth that seemed dry and pulled in. The helplessness stabbed at Raven, and for a minute she closed her eyes against it. She let them fall while she looked down on the sleeping woman. Without a sound, without moving, the woman in bed opened her eyes. They were dark and gray like her daughter’s.
“Mama.” Raven let the tears roll freely. “Why?”
***
By the time Raven got to her front door, she was exhausted. She wanted bed and oblivion. The headache was still with her, but the pain had turned into a dull, sickening throb. Closing the door behind her, she leaned back on it, trying to summon the strength to walk up the stairs.
“Raven?”
She opened her eyes and watched Julie come down the hall toward her. Seeing Raven so pale and beaten, Julie slipped an arm around her shoulders. Her concern took the form of a scolding. “You should have let me go with you. I should never have let you go alone.” She was already guiding Raven up the stairs.
“My mother, my problem,” Raven said tiredly.
“That’s the only selfish part of you,” Julie said in a low, furious voice as they entered Raven’s bedroom. “I’m supposed to be your friend. You’d never let me go through something like this alone.”
“Please, don’t be angry with me.” Raven swayed on her feet as Julie stripped off the dark suit jacket. “It’s something I feel is my responsibility, just mine. I’ve felt that way for too long to change now.”
“I am angry with you.” Julie’s voice was tight as she slipped the matching skirt down over Raven’s hips. “This is the only thing you do that makes me genuinely angry with you. I can’t stand it when you do this to yourself.” She looked back at the pale, tired face. “Have you eaten?” Raven shook her head as she stepped out of the skirt. “And you won’t,” she concluded, brushing Raven’s fumbling hands away from the buttons of the white lawn blouse. She undid them herself, then pushed the material from Raven’s shoulders. Raven stood, unresisting.
“I’m having dinner with Brandon,” Raven murmured, going willingly as Julie guided her toward the bed.
“I’ll call him and cancel. I can bring you up something later. You need to sleep.”
“No.” Raven slipped between the crisp, cool sheets. “I want to go. I need to go,” she corrected as she shut her eyes. “I need to get out; I don’t want to think for a while. I’ll rest now. He won’t be here until seven.”
Julie walked over to pull the shades. Even before the room was darkened, Raven was asleep.
***
It was some minutes past seven when Julie opened the door to Brandon. He wore a stone-colored suit with a navy shirt open at the throat. He looked casually elegant, Julie thought. The nosegay of violets was charming rather than silly in his hands. He lifted a brow at the clinging black sheath she wore.
“Hello, Julie. You look terrific.” He plucked one of the violets out of the nosegay and handed it to her. “Going out?”
Julie accepted the flower. “In a little while,” she answered. “Raven should be down in a minute. Brand . . .” Hesitating, Julie shook her head, then turned to lead him into the music room. “I’ll fix you a drink. Bourbon, isn’t it? Neat.”
Brand caught her arm. “That isn’t what you were going to say.
She took a deep breath. “No.” For a moment longer she hesitated, then began, fixing him with her dark brown eyes. “Raven’s very important to me. There aren’t many like her, especially in this town. She’s genuine, and though she thinks she has, she hasn’t really developed any hard edges yet. I wouldn’t like to see her hurt, especially right now. No, I won’t answer any questions,” she said, anticipating him. “It’s Raven’s story, not mine. But I’m going to tell you this: She needs a light touch and a great deal of patience. You’d better have them both.”
“How much do you know about what happened between us five years ago, Julie?” Brandon asked.
“I know what Raven told me.”
“One day you ought to ask me how I felt and why I left.”
“And would you tell me?”
“Yes,” he returned without hesitation. “I would.”
“I’m sorry!” Raven came dashing down the stairs in a filmy flutter of white. “I hate to be late.” Her hair settled in silky confusion over the shoulders of the thin voile dress as she stopped at the foot of the stairs. “I couldn’t seem to find my shoes.”
There was a becoming blush of color on her cheeks, and her eyes were bright and full of laughter. It passed through Brand’s mind quickly, and then was discarded, that she looked a little too bright, a little too vibrant.
“Beautiful as ever.” He handed her the flowers. “I’ve never minded waiting for you.”
“Ah, the golden Irish tongue,” she murmured as she buried her face in the violets. “I’ve missed it.” Raven held the flowers up to her nose while her eyes laughed at him over them. “And I believe I’ll let you spoil me tonight, Brandon. I’m in a mood to be pampered.”
He took her free hand in his. “Where do you want to go?”
“Anywhere. Everywhere.” She tossed her head. “But dinner first. I’m starving.”
“All right, I’l
l buy you a cheeseburger.”
“Some things do stay the same,” she commented before she turned to Julie. “You have fun, and don’t worry about me.” She paused a moment, then smiled and kissed her cheek. “I promise I won’t lose my key. And say hello to . . .” She hesitated as she walked toward the door with Brandon. “Who is it tonight?”
“Lorenzo,” Julie answered, watching them. “The shoe baron.”
“Oh, yes.” Raven laughed as they walked into the cool, early spring air. “Amazing.” She tucked her arm through Brandon’s. “Julie’s always having some millionaire fall in love with her. It’s a gift.”
“Shoe baron?” Brand questioned as he opened the car door for Raven.
“Mmm. Italian. He wears beautiful designer suits and looks as though he should be stamped on the head of a coin.”
Brand slid in beside her and in an old reflex gesture brushed the hair that lay on her shoulder behind her back. “Serious?”
Raven tried not to be moved by the touch of his fingers. “No more serious than the oil tycoon or the perfume magnate.” The
