by Lydia Grace
“In case your visitor returns—and finds you home,” Jon told her grimly, swinging himself into the driver’s seat.
All the arguments Lauren had ready suddenly fell to dust on her tongue. If the creature that had destroyed her studio turned that kind of viciousness on her or on another human being…she shuddered, feeling sick.
As Jon started the engine though, she cried out for him to stop. “I need some things from the house, some clothes, and things. And I could take the picture in to Judy Harris, see if she can do anything with the damage.”
Mike Ohmer, who’d stopped by the truck, looked at Lauren. “You don’t want anything from in there,” he told her brusquely. “But if you need the painting, I’ll have one of the guys get it.”
They waited in silence until they saw Andrew Chalmers, one of Ohmer’s officers from the local Ontario Provincial Police detachment, heading towards the Jeep with the unwieldy canvas oblong dwarfed in his muscular arms. Jon got out opening the rear doors, and while he loaded the canvas, Chalmers came around to talk to Lauren.
“Ms. Stephens, I just wanted you to know myself and the other guys are all really sorry about this happening to you. I know this is a bit of a hick community,” Chalmers gave a big grin to disarm his words, “but you know, most people do realize how valuable the artists are to the area and would hate to see you all gone from here. One thing you can be sure of, old Chief Ohmer’s hopping mad and he’ll have a few choice words to say to the guy who did this when we catch up with him, and we will, no doubt about that!”
Lauren was touched at the kind words of support from a man she knew only to speak to in passing and tears sprang into her eyes. To cover them, she closed her eyes, leaned back against the soft leather upholstery and pretended to rest as Jon guided the big Jeep out of the Haverford Castle laneway and onto the township road.
She thought she was just resting her eyes until the tears had dissipated, but when she opened them again Lauren was shocked to see that they were stopped at traffic lights in a familiar-looking street. Glancing out of the driver’s side window, Lauren gasped as she recognized the lovely old Victoria Hall in the lakeshore town of Cobourg. Built as a replica of the Old Bailey in London, England, the hall was the venue for many concerts and plays that Lauren had attended with friends over the years. Cobourg, with its gentle harbor on Lake Ontario, was a pretty town popular as a home base for artists and writers, and Lauren had several successful friends who lived in the area.
Jon noticed she was awake as the lights changed and he drove forward. Reaching down to the tray between the seats, he offered her a large polystyrene cup.
“I had to stop for gas, and thought I’d pick up coffee before getting back on the 401. I guess you could probably use this, or something stronger.”
Lauren took the cup gratefully and wriggled into a more comfortable upright position. She’d slipped down in her seat as she slept, and had the uncomfortable feeling that she’d probably spend at least some of the time with her head resting trustingly on Jon’s shoulder.
“We’re in Cobourg? I must have been asleep for hours…”
“I think it was probably more of an emotional escape than a sleep, although you’re probably exhausted after the day you’ve had,” Jon replied, his long, slender fingers sliding deftly on the steering wheel as he negotiated a difficult turn from the main street onto the road that would lead them back to the highway.
Lauren realized suddenly that she could watch those hands for hours. In fact, she’d like the sketch their shape, charcoal, perhaps, or pen and ink, and then it hit her. Her studio, trashed, her possessions ruined. The last work she had almost finished probably damaged beyond repair…
“What will happen now, about your exhibition?” Jon asked her softly, as if he had sensed reality flood back into her mind and wanted to start her back on the road to practical solutions.
“Well, thank God, my agent’s a real stickler. In fact, some unkind people call him a damned old nag.” Lauren smiled fondly as she thought of Alex Waters. “But he insisted that all the finished work for the exhibition be shipped a couple of days ago, so now he can hassle the framers as well as myself, the gallery staff, and anyone else who walks into his path. The only outstanding work was the poor old bobcat in the back here, and I can maybe get that fixed up. If not, we’ll just have to go ahead one canvas short of a full exhibit, which won’t please the Harrison Gallery people much, but in the circumstances, I think they’ll understand.”
Jon whistled through his teeth. “The Harrison Gallery? That’s where you’re exhibiting? Well, congratulations, they pretty much only take the cream of the crop,” he said respectfully, reaching over the squeeze her fingers.
“Yeah, it’s quite a career breakthrough. But I can’t help thinking, what if that maniac had got into my studio a few days ago, when all my canvases for the exhibition were still stacked around the walls? I’ve worked so hard for this, I’m not sure I’d have the heart, the sheer psychic strength, to pick myself up and start all over again. “
“It means that much to you?”
“It’s really my life. I am rarely as happy with anything as when I’m painting, or planning to paint,” Lauren told him.
She could have added that there had been times, in the last few days, when she’d been as happy in his company as she had been at her easel. However, something nagged at her, and she fished around over her memory of the past few hours to find it.
“I’m so glad you’re coming home with me, Lauren, although I wish the circumstances were better. But I’d like you to see something of my life, to get to know me better…” his voice was a soft caress in the darkness of the vehicle.
Coming home with me, the words went straight to Lauren’s heart and sent that now familiar feeling of heat coursing through her veins. But still something nagged at her, and then she caught it.
“I thought you told me you weren’t married?” she demanded, straining against the seat belt to watch his face.
“I’m not,” he replied, nothing but puzzlement in his voice.
“So who’s this nurturing Mary and the kids you want me to meet?”
She could see his grin, even in the dim dashboard light, and could tell he was pretty pleased with himself. “Oh, Mary has lived with me quite a while now, and you’ll just adore the twins.”
Try as she might, Lauren couldn’t get another word out of him. But a deep gloom had settled over her heart. Jon Rush was obviously drawn to her as she was to him, but he’d been living with another woman for a long time, long enough to have twins. Lauren closed her eyes, imagination painting on her eyelids two tiny twin replicas of Jon. Were they boys, girls? One of each? He wouldn’t answer further, went so far as to switch on the radio to prevent further conversation, and as she began to drift back into sleep, Lauren felt a deep, aching need, a sadness in her chest, and a longing she had never believed she would know. A longing to hold a tiny blond child in her arms. A longing she could never fulfill, for another woman already held Jon Rush’s twins, and so he would be bound to this mysterious Mary forever by their tiny fingers.
Tears that had been balanced under her eyelids finally slipped down when Lauren opened her eyes, feeling the Jeep slowing down as they moved from the main road along a driveway lined with neat white fencing. Small lights winked along the driveway, and larger lights on wrought iron posts, like old-fashioned street lamps, illuminated a large white clapboard farmhouse that looked charming in its tree-sheltered setting, more like a Christmas card in its snowy glory than a real house.
Lauren stared at the building, loving every elegant line of its massive turn-of-the-century shape, and wondered what it would be like to share such a home with Jon Rush. The house was such a contradiction to the man she’d assumed him to be—an ambitious corporate executive should have a brand new condo or a $500,000 loft conversion in the middle of Toronto, not a secluded farmhouse with what looked like a working farm attached. Looking around as she stepped from the Jeep,
Lauren saw only dim, snow-covered fields and the dark huddled shapes of trees, not another house in sight. Then the door of the house opened, spilling warmth and light down the stone steps towards the Jeep, and a stately older woman was coming towards them, her face wreathed in smiles, accompanied by two bounding Labrador retriever pups. The dogs launched themselves straight at Lauren, and she bent to rub the amazing softness of their ears and run her hands along their sides, still soft with puppy fat.
Jon came alongside her then, and with a perfectly straight face, introduced the older woman.
“Lauren, I’d like you to meet Mary Wilson, she’s taken care of this old house and me, too, for the past nine years or so. And I see you’ve already met the twins. Down, boys!”
From her squatting position between the two pups, Lauren looked up and saw the big, knowing grin on his face. He’d planned this, the rat! He’d known she’d think Mary and the twins meant something completely different.
“Jon Rush,” she said quietly and plainly, “I think I am going to kill you.”
*
Snow was still falling as he parked in a side street near her apartment building. It had been an awful rush to get here and for a few tense moments, he’d thought he was too late. Then the bus pulled in and he saw her moving down the center aisle to the middle exit doors. It paid to take an interest in people, he thought grimly, as he watched the petite woman in the long black coat walk out from behind the Toronto Transit Commission cream and red bus. She was the only passenger to get off at this stop, and carried a bulging briefcase along with two heavy looking plastic shopping bags. He’d learned from coffee time chats that Pippa Williams always visited her elderly mother on Friday evenings and then picked up groceries on her way home.
“Too bad, Pippa—such a creature of habit. Such a good worker, too. Much too conscientious for your own good. Another betrayal. Why didn’t you come to me first? I could have explained everything.”
Then he gunned the engine and the big vehicle leapt forwards. The woman in the street had barely time to look in his direction and register the danger she was in, before thousands of pounds of metal bore down on her. The right wing caught her with a bone-shattering thump and her fragile body was thrown sideways, seeming to arc gracefully before hitting the snow-covered tarmac with a sickeningly wet thud. Her briefcase flew from her grasp, and vegetables, yogurt, hamburger meat, a newspaper, scattered from her shopping bags and fell into the street.
He stopped the vehicle, looked around him to spot prying eyes. No one had noticed. In the city, no one ever did. He got out of the vehicle, careful to slide his feet so as not to leave shoe impressions in the snow, and walked back to where Pippa Williams lay in the roadway. Looking down on her, he was moved to compassion at her pathetic plight. However, he was sure she was dead, and even if she wasn’t, either the plummeting temperatures would finish the job quickly, or another car was sure to hit her as the road became busy again with early morning traffic. It was all in the hands of God, really.
Stooping, he picked up her briefcase, pleased to note that the clasps had held instead of bursting open, scattering God-knew what kind of damning evidence in the street for anyone to see.
He stowed the briefcase in the back of his vehicle and drove away, whistling slightly to himself as he concentrated on his driving in the treacherous new fallen snow. Wouldn’t want to have an accident, after all.
Chapter 7
After seeing Lauren, Mary and the ‘twins’ safely inside the house, Jon excused himself, saying he would make some phone calls while Mary showed Lauren to a room and gave her an opportunity to freshen up. Then, he promised, they’d have a warm drink and talk a few things through. Lauren smiled to herself at the way the two Labrador pups—Jon’s “twins”—bounded after him, puppy ears alert for his every word and movement.
“Looks like at least the pups adore him,” she commented to the housekeeper as she and Mary climbed the wide, curved staircase.
“Ah, poor things, they just live for the times when he’s here, which recently haven’t been anywhere near often enough, what with all the things that have been going on,” Mary clicked her teeth in disapproval, but a worried frown creased her forehead.
“It’s been really busy at the company, then?”
“They’ve had several emergency situations, and I know he’s been worried. But Jon will get it all sorted out, I’m sure. He’s like his father in that respect—competent and smart,” Mary replied confidently. She paused before a white-painted door in a shadowed hallway just beyond the stairs. “Now, my room is just down there,” she told Lauren, and pointed down another leg of the upper corridor. “And Mr. Rush’s rooms are at the end of this landing.”
She opened the bedroom door and ushered Lauren into a large and cheerful room done in peach and cream with accents of deep forest green in the bed pillows, lampshades, and seat covers. Peach satin drapes were drawn over tall windows to shut out the night, and an electric fire licked realistic looking logs in a white-painted wrought-iron mantel surround as it warmed the room,
“It’s a beautiful room,” Lauren said, wondering if this was Jon’s taste, Mary’s, or that of an impersonal interior decorator.
“Yes, Jon inherited his mother’s gift for color. She’s an artist, you know, and I understand quite well known down in California.”
“Jon’s mother is American?”
“Yes, she lives in San Francisco, has done for years. Now, I shouldn’t stand here gossiping,” the older woman seemed embarrassed at having talked so much about her employer’s affairs.
With a swift movement she opened another door and showed Lauren the en suite bathroom, where toiletries were lined up for the visitor’s use on a shelf over the shell-shaped vanity sink, and a soft, fluffy deep green terry robe hung over a radiator.
“I hope you’ll be very comfortable, Ms. Stephens. If there’s anything you need, just ring that bell there by the bed. Now, if you want to freshen up, I’ll put the kettle on and make tea for you and Mr. Rush. Its past my own bedtime, I’m afraid. I seem to need my sleep these days, but I’ll leave a tray of tea things in the study—that’s the first door on your right at the bottom of the stairs, across the hall. I’m sure Jon won’t be too long on the telephone.”
Lauren was sorely tempted to lie down on the inviting softness of the queen-sized bed, just to take a nap and rest joints and muscles that ached from the long hours she’d spent cramped in moving vehicles. She recognized, too, a component of emotional exhaustion. Part of her mind was screaming for sleep to blot out the awful experiences of the day, while another part kept drifting towards awareness of the man downstairs and his broad-shouldered, protective warmth.
So you’ve finally decided that he didn’t trash your place, eh? Exulted the little voice in her mind, and Lauren was startled to realize that yes, she had come to the conclusion that whatever had gone on in her home, Jon Rush wasn’t the moving force behind it. She found she had already dismissed Chief Ohmer’s suggestion that Jon could have any number of his employees doing dirty work for him, and she suspected that the chief hadn’t really believed that, either.
Just ol’ Chief Ohmer on a fishing expedition, looking for opportunities, the little voice sneakily interjected, just like the opportunities being in this beautiful house all night with that very attractive man. Go on, admit it—you are very attracted to him…
Yes, yes, I’m very attracted to him, but his housekeeper’s just down the hall and, well, anyway—it wouldn’t be right, somehow. I’m not ready, not after today.
Who are you trying to kid? Sneered the little voice and Lauren couldn’t help the warm glow which started low down and spread slowly through her body, and briefly allowed herself a moment’s fantasy of being in Jon Rush’s arms, of seeing passion and desire flare in his eyes. Then she rapidly pushed those thoughts aside, alarmed and intrigued by the force of the growing desire which snaked through her like flames on a dry forest floor.
Quickly she busied he
rself with an attempt at freshening herself up, although it would have to be what her mother used to call ‘a lick and a promise’ because she had nothing with which to replace her somewhat crumpled clothing. She washed her face, anyway, and used the lipstick, compressed powder and mascara from her purse to try to cover up the pale face and dark circles around the wide eyes, which stared back at her in the mirror. Then, leaving her blazer hanging in the bathroom where steam from the shower she had promised herself for later would hopefully cause some of the creases to drop, Lauren hurried down the stairs to join Jon in his study.
As she crossed the hall, she heard his deep voice as he spoke on the telephone, and she entered the room just as he replaced the handset. He stared at her for a moment, his eyes dark in the glow of the log fire, which along with a small table lamp, provided the only light in the room. He stepped forward towards her from behind the antique desk, and briefly Lauren thought—hoped—he was going to embrace her. Then he dropped his arms, and motioned her towards two chintz-covered wing-backed chairs before the fireplace. Between the two chairs was a small, oval mahogany table bearing a tray, teapot, china cups, and saucers and a selection of small sandwiches.
“It’s tea, not coffee, I’m afraid. I know how addicted you are,” Jon broke the silence, a smile in his voice as he poured her a cup of the hot brown brew. “However, Mary is of the old school who believes that coffee drunk late at night will make you all hyperactive and unable to sleep.”
Lauren, who wasn’t all sure she’d be able to sleep anyway, knowing this man was just a few feet away from her bed, smiled and assured him that tea would certainly fit the bill right now. She found she was surprisingly hungry as well, having missed dinner, and tucked into the sandwiches happily.
“Mary is a lovely person. You’re lucky to have her,” Lauren commented, attempting to fill the electric silence between them with mundane chatter. “I wouldn’t know, but my more affluent friends tell me it’s almost impossible to get someone efficient to take care of the housekeeping.”
