Only This Night (Silhouette Reissued)

by Suzanne Simms

  It was some time later before they moved, Brenna curling into Garrett’s side as he stretched out on the bed. His fingers gently combed the tangles from her hair as her head rested on his shoulder, her arm draped across his body.

  “Dear God, lady, how you do please me,” he finally murmured in a husky voice.

  “And you, sir, please me,” she assured him, dropping a feathery kiss on his shoulder.

  But there were so many words in her heart—words of gratitude, words of passion and pleasure, words of love. The discovery of love was such a fragile thing, a thing too easily shattered, too quickly trampled underfoot in the haste of confession. The words would remain in Brenna’s heart, unspoken, destined for the present to be hers and hers alone.

  “I must say, this is a lot more comfortable than that damned sofa of yours,” Garrett teased softly, stifling an insistent yawn as he reached down and pulled the covers over them. “Stay in my arms, sweet Brenna,” he instructed in a drowsy voice. “I need to know that you’re beside me.”

  “I’m here beside you, Garrett,” she whispered as his eyes closed. Hers followed suit all too soon, and they slept in the golden light of the morning, their arms around each other.

  It was several hours before Brenna awoke to find him lying there, watching her as she slept.

  “You are beautiful awake or asleep,” he pronounced as if it were one of the great truths of all time.

  “And you have to get out of the nasty habit of spying on me when I’m asleep,” she flung back, feeling the telltale heat of a blush wash over her face. “It embarrasses me.”

  “But, ma chérie, you embarrass so beautifully,” Garrett drawled, playfully nibbling on her ear.

  “Ma chérie?” she echoed, holding back her laughter. Hadn’t he mentioned something about a facility for languages? “Do you speak French?” she inquired skeptically.

  “Almost none at all,” he admitted with a sheepish grin.

  “What languages do you speak, then?” Brenna asked, genuinely interested in knowing.

  Tucking an arm behind his head, Garrett stared up at the ceiling as if deep in thought. “Well, I speak a smattering of Korean, some Vietnamese—although I’ve forgotten most of it—and, of course, Japanese.”

  “What do you mean ‘and, of course, Japanese’?” she retorted with an unladylike snort. “Do you really speak Japanese?” she added after an instant’s thought.

  “Yup,” came his cryptic reply.

  She met his eyes with a challenging lift of her chin. “Then say something to me in Japanese.”

  He looked at her for a moment, whistling tunelessly under his breath and then opened his mouth. “Toyota.”

  “Toyota?” she hooted with a laugh. “C’mon, be serious.”

  “Well, I never claimed to be fluent,” he sniffed indignantly. “Oh, all right, I’ll tell you the first thing I learned to say when I visited Tokyo. ‘Tyotto ukagaimasu ga, Amerika-taisikan wa doko desyoo ka.’”

  “I am impressed!” Brenna said, surprised to find she meant it.

  “Don’t be,” Garrett said with a self-deprecating smile. “Translated, it means ‘Excuse me, but where is the American Embassy?’ My only problem was I couldn’t understand the answer anyone gave me,” he admitted, grinning down at her. “So, the next thing I had to learn to say was ‘Tookyoo no tizu ga arimasu ka.’”

  “Which translated means?” she prompted.

  “Which means ‘Do you have a map of Tokyo?’”

  “A map of Tokyo?”

  “Yes, that way they could just point to the spot on the map,” he told her as innocently as he could.

  “Why, you …” she sputtered, giving him a swat with her pillow. “You are a tease, Garrett Forsyte!”

  In the next instant, she found herself flat on her back with a heavy male body pinning her to the bed. “I’d make you eat those words, my dear, but I seem to have worked up an appetite of another kind,” Garrett growled, letting her off with a swift, hard kiss. “Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll take you out someplace for breakfast.”

  “I think you mean lunch, don’t you?” Brenna corrected him. “It’s almost noon.” Then she glanced down at the shirt and trousers at the foot of her bed. “I don’t suppose you brought a change of clothes with you.” The expression on his face told her he hadn’t. “Well, I guess we could toss them in the dryer for a few minutes. That should get out most of the wrinkles.”

  “What would you like to do this afternoon?” Garrett asked as he bounced off the bed and immodestly stood there looking down at her. Apparently, there wasn’t a self-conscious bone in the man’s body.

  “I was planning to go downtown shopping this afternoon,” Brenna airily informed him, reaching for her nightgown. After all, she thought primly, not everyone enjoyed parading around in the nude!

  “Would you like to combine your shopping trip with a tour of C.G.S. Consultants?” he proposed. “It wouldn’t be out of your way.”

  “I’d like that very much,” she replied. “Actually, the shopping trip was just an excuse to get out of the house.” Abruptly, she clamped a hand over her mouth, realizing she’d said too much.

  Garrett darted an odd look at her. “You weren’t planning to be here when I called, were you?” he said, his voice quiet, dangerously quiet.

  She’d never been a good liar, and this was no time to start. “No, I wasn’t,” she confessed, looking a little uncomfortable.

  “Then it’s a damned good thing for you that I got back early and took it upon myself to show up here last night,” he said in a very hard, dry voice. “Because there would have been hell to pay, lady, if I’d called this afternoon and you hadn’t answered.”

  “I understand the telephone company tends to frown on that kind of thing,” Brenna replied smoothly, pleased with the way she’d tossed that off.

  “On second thought,” Garrett began, moving toward her with unmistakable intent, “lunch can damned well wait!”

  “I couldn’t agree with you more,” Brenna drawled breathlessly as he settled her onto the bed.

  7

  She couldn’t possibly be in love with Garrett. She just couldn’t be! Brenna thought as she swept past him. She stepped to the rear of the elevator and turned around, watching as he pressed the button for the thirtieth floor. Then they were being whisked up to the offices of C.G.S. Consultants.

  It must be infatuation, she thought in self-analysis, a delayed case of adolescent puppy love. She was intrigued by the man, perhaps even a little enamored of him, but she was definitely not in love with him!

  She couldn’t be. Friends became lovers. Love grew out of friendship. Love was gentle and kind and understanding. Whatever it was between Garrett and herself, it was none of those things. She had to admit it was compelling, impulsive, passionate, and perhaps even a little foolish. And those were all symptoms of a crazy, romantic infatuation.

  And why shouldn’t she be infatuated with him? After all, wasn’t every woman entitled to at least one wild, impetuous fling in her lifetime? Well, she decided, Garrett Forsyte would be hers.

  He certainly had all the qualifications, right down to “tall, dark and handsome.” He was attractive. And he was rich, which was always nice, if not an absolute necessity in these cases. He was single. He had a good sense of humor when he cared to use it. And she found him utterly irresistible. What more could a woman ask for?

  “This is our floor,” she heard Garrett drawl in that honeyed baritone of his as he took her by the elbow and guided her along the lushly carpeted corridor.

  “Very impressive,” she commented as he opened the door to the offices of C.G.S. Consultants. And obviously the work of a very expensive interior decorator, Brenna thought in wry amusement as they entered the reception area.

  Against a neutral backdrop of beige walls and beige carpet, a grouping of stark modern furniture provided a dramatic first impression. The artwork on the walls was a fair representation of early twentieth century cubism. A l
arge plant dominated one corner of the room—if something bright blue, plumed, and six feet tall could be called a plant. The overall effect was chic, businesslike, and decidedly masculine. In many ways, Brenna mused, it was a reflection of the firm’s owner and founder.

  Judging by what she saw and by the rather elite address on the building, she decided Garrett was far more successful than she’d realized at first. He must have driven himself very hard to have reached this rung on the ladder of success in a mere eight or nine years.

  “Would you like to see the rest of the offices?” Garrett inquired after giving her more than sufficient time to inspect the outer suite.

  “Yes, I would,” Brenna admitted with blatant curiosity. “How many employees do you have?” she asked in an incredulous tone as they walked past one office after another.

  “Well, let me see,” he replied, looking down at his hands with a thoughtful expression. “Counting the receptionist, the secretarial pool, my personal secretary, the accounting department, the legal division and the junior- and senior-level consultants, I’d say about thirty,” he concluded as they reached the end of the hallway. “And this is my office,” he said as he opened the last door.

  “Your view is magnificent!” she observed, going first to the wall of windows behind the oversize desk positioned on the far side of the room. There was Chicago below them—noisy, colorful and bustling—except the sounds of the “Windy City” were scarcely audible in the hushed, quiet surroundings thirty stories above.

  Brenna moved about the large office, noting the finely crafted furniture, the upholstered sofa and chairs arranged in one corner of the room, the original oil paintings on the walls, the genuine Persian area rug. It was all beautifully done, stylish and surprisingly opulent. For a simple country boy, Garrett had obviously learned how to live very well sometime in the past fifteen years.

  “Would you like something to drink?” he offered, pushing a button on the wall behind him. At his touch, the wood paneling quietly recessed into the wall, revealing a compact but well-stocked bar.

  “A club soda with a dash of lime juice, if you have it,” she replied, trying to appear unimpressed.

  “I seem to be out of lime juice,” he said, rummaging in a small refrigerator under the counter. “Would fresh lime be all right?”

  Fresh lime? For crying out loud, who kept fresh lime in an office? Of course, this was no ordinary office, Brenna admitted, drawing a breath. “Fresh lime will be fine.”

  “One club soda with a touch of lime,” Garrett announced as he smiled urbanely and handed her the glass. He turned and strolled back to the bar long enough to add several ice cubes to the glass of Scotch he’d poured for himself.

  He certainly did that well, she noted, taking a sip of her drink. No doubt he’d had plenty of practice. With every passing moment he was looking less and less like the young, uncultured boy she remembered from Mansfield, Indiana, and more like a suave, international playboy. Or, at the very least, a suave, international businessman. Time was a great equalizer, Brenna thought with sudden perception.

  “You’ve certainly done well for yourself, Garrett.” The observation was made as she settled herself, at his invitation, into one of the plush chairs.

  “You mean for a kid who barely made it through high school,” he remarked.

  “I mean for anyone,” she shot back coolly. “You know as well as I do that a formal education is no guarantee of success.”

  “You’ve been very successful yourself, haven’t you, Brenna?” he commented, leaning back in his chair and lighting a cigarette from the case on the table at his elbow.

  “Yes, I have been successful,” she acknowledged. “And very lucky,” she added as an afterthought.

  “I don’t believe that luck has anything to do with it. Most of the successful people I know have worked their butts off to get where they are,” Garrett declared forcefully.

  “I don’t deny that I’ve worked hard for my success,” she explained gently. “But I didn’t do it alone. I was lucky enough to have people who believed in me, in what I wanted to do. Without those people behind me, I wouldn’t be where I am today. No one succeeds entirely on his own.”

  Garrett scowled and leaned forward. “Everything I have now I got on my own,” he stated unequivocally, making a sweeping gesture with his hand that encompassed most of the room. “I started out in a ramshackle one-room office with a part-time secretary who couldn’t even type. And the only one who believed in me was me!”

  “You must have wanted to succeed very badly,” Brenna said in a low, earnest voice.

  “When a man’s hungry, he’ll do almost anything to eat,” he said harshly, grinding his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table. “In the beginning, I worked twenty-hour days seven days a week, scrambling for every penny I could get my hands on. Within a year I’d hired a full-time secretary and two consultants, and I was still scrambling. At the end of five years I had a dozen employees working for me full-time. Two years ago, C.G.S. Consultants moved into its present location. I still work harder and put in longer hours than anyone else in this firm.” Garrett paused and reached for another cigarette. “So, don’t expect me to believe that luck has anything to do with it,” he informed her in an uncompromising tone. “It’s hunger that drives a man to succeed.”

  “But surely it’s been years since hunger had anything to do with it,” she pointed out, looking around her.

  His voice was soft and cold when he spoke next. “Hunger can take many forms, honey. Sometimes a man has to prove to himself and to the whole damned world that people were wrong about him. And that’s a hunger not easily satisfied.”

  “Perhaps not, but if it’s a question of proving yourself, haven’t you done that beyond any doubt?” Brenna asked, shaking her head impatiently. “You told me last weekend that you’d come a long way from Mansfield. I’d say you’ve come a very, very long way from Mansfield and from the young man you once were.”

  Garrett’s face suddenly grew tired and drawn-looking as he sat there with the glass of Scotch clutched in his fist. “I’ve never forgotten who I was or what I came from, Brenna. I’ve never forgotten for a single moment how much I hated growing up in a town like Mansfield or the way its ‘fine citizens’ treated my family. And I’ve never forgotten why I named my company C.G.S. I promised myself I would never forget!” he repeated, bringing his fist down on the table with a resounding thud.

  Brenna felt an icy chill course down her spine. “Why did you name the company C.G.S?” she asked with reluctance. “They’re not your initials. What do they stand for?”

  It was some time before he answered. “I named the company for three guys I knew who never made it back from ’Nam,” he finally told her. “Charlie, Gerry and Steve were in the same platoon with me. We used to dream about what it would be like to have a real home-cooked meal again or to take a hot shower or go out on a date with a pretty girl. Sometimes we’d talk about the things the four of us would do together when we got back to the States. Then one by one we were picked off until I was the only one left.” Garrett looked at her with dark, questioning eyes. “I never understood why I was the only one who made it back alive. But I swore I’d live enough for the four of us.”

  She hadn’t realized there was still so much bitterness, so much anger and hatred in him. How many times had Garrett told her that the past couldn’t hurt her? Yet, he seemed incapable of seeing just how much he was allowing it to hurt him even now.

  “None of us ever forgets, but we can forgive,” she finally said, knowing her voice was shaking with emotion. “And when we forgive the people who knowingly or unknowingly have hurt us in the past, we can begin to forgive ourselves as well.”

  A muscle in his face started to twitch as Garrett sprang to his feet and stood staring out the window. “Tell me, Brenna,” he began in a dark whisper, “how do you forgive a father who walked out on his family without once looking back? How do you forgive the good people who allowed you
r mother to clean up after their dirt for a lousy ten bucks a day?” His voice dropped even lower. “How do you forgive the kind of insanity that killed three young men before they’d even started to live?” He turned and speared her with a long stare. “Tell me. How do you forgive that?”

  Brenna took in a trembling breath. “Dear God, Garrett…” She drew another deep breath and continued sadly. “You forgive because you must, for your own sake. No one should spend his whole life hating something he can’t change. And not even you can change the past.” She closed her eyes for a moment and tried to think. “You once told me that hate makes some people strong.”

  He gave a decisive nod of his head, his eyes never leaving hers. “Yes, I did. I said that hate wasn’t always destructive, that it sometimes gave people the strength and determination to do things they might not otherwise.”

  “Then don’t cling to your hate because you’re somehow afraid that hate is what’s made you strong all these years,” she heard herself saying carefully. “You can be strong without it, Garrett. There is a gentleness inside of you if only you’d let it out,” she pleaded in a soft voice.

  Brenna watched the subtle change in his eyes as he turned and slowly walked toward her. Without a word, Garrett reached down and took her by the hand, gently urging her to her feet. Then his arms went around her as he buried his face in her hair.

  “Teach me how to forgive, then, my sweet, forgiving Brenna,” he breathed, stirring the wisps of hair about her face. “Show me how to be gentle, my gentle lady.”

  “Dear God, I wish I could,” she murmured at last, wrapping her arms around him. “I wish I could.”

  She didn’t think she could bear to see this man in pain. She suddenly wanted nothing more than to take his pain and somehow make it her own. She wanted to see him happy, to hear him laugh, to feel her name on his lips as he kissed her. All she had to give him was the strength of her gentleness, of her softness.