One Secret Too Many

by Vanessa Grant

  ‘Yes,’ he said slowly, still looking, not ready to meet her eyes. ‘That would be very nice.’

  He had no idea what to say to her, and she was no better. They sipped tea together and finally he said, ‘Mary, is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes.’ She sipped on her tea and avoided his eyes.

  ‘Do—ah, do you need any money? I could—’

  ‘No!’ She steadied her cup before the tea spilled. ‘I’ll be all right. I—I’ve got some saved, and I’ve—there’s a good prospect of a job.’

  Her eyes went to the computer. She opened her lips to tell him, but the words would not come. He would think that Sam was keeping her. Everyone would think that. It would be better, far better to tell him about the books. She wasn’t sure why she didn’t. She almost called him back when he was going, to tell him. Her lips were open, but then he turned and said, ‘I’d like to see you in church,’ and she felt an unreasoning anger at him because he had not once asked about the baby, as if he could pretend that it did not exist.

  Duty, she thought. He had come because he felt he should. Did he really want her in his church? Embarrassing him? She felt confused and uncertain, warring with the urge to run after her father and try to explain everything to him.

  Would he ever understand about Sam? He did not understand his sister, her Aunt Lexie, because Lexie was impulsive and a bit wild. Yet sometimes she thought that he had understood the wild spirit in Toby. What did that mean? Wild. For Toby it had meant drinking and drugs, but what had Lexie actually ever done that was so terrible? This year she had answered a personals ad and had gone sailing with a man she hadn’t met before. That might be foolish, but Alex could not believe that it was evil or wrong. Mother had very recently announced that Mary was taking after her aunt.

  Opening her arms to a stranger on the beach.

  She walked slowly into the kitchen, staring at the steaks. She still hadn’t decided whether to put them into the freezer for another day when the noise shattered the quiet around her. It was the first time her telephone had ever rung since the day it was installed. She dashed to it, jerking the receiver up and gasping, ‘Yes?’

  ‘Alex? Are you all right?’

  She felt the breath hissing out of her, like an empty balloon. Sam, and she didn’t know what to say. ‘Yes, I’m OK. I—I just—I’m sorry I bothered you at work.’ She ran her free hand along her thigh, smoothing the denim jeans that were never meant to be smooth.

  ‘I’m not bothered.’ Amazingly, he laughed. ‘I needed a break. I’ve just been listening to the trials and tribulations of a sixty-year-old woman who has wanted to leave her husband for thirty years.’

  ‘Oh.’ She giggled. She had a crazy feeling that she probably knew who that woman was. ‘Do you tell everyone about your patients?’

  ‘Only you.’ He was smiling. She could close her eyes and see it, the scar a deep line among the other lines of laughter and sorrow. ‘It’s terribly unethical, but I know that you’re good at keeping secrets.’

  ‘I am,’ she agreed, and the sun came out from behind its cloud and turned her living room into a brilliant happiness. ‘I got a letter from my agent.’

  The doctor holding the receiver on the other end found himself on the verge of saying that he had a soft spot for the literary agent. If Alex hadn’t made that trip to Vancouver to meet with the agent, Sam would never have met her. He closed his fingers hard on the receiver, told himself not to be a fool, not to stick his neck out, not to talk without thinking first. ‘What did she say?’

  ‘That the advance came, and she was enclosing a cheque, and the book is being published in February.’

  ‘That’s great news.’ He could hear her joy and it brightened his office. ‘You’ve got to let me read that book one day. Are you coming out of the closet in February? Are you going to tell people?’

  She was silent and he wished he’d not spoken, but she had to face it some day. Finally she said, ‘I don’t know. I called—I wondered if you’d like to—could I make dinner for you and Neil tonight? Sort of a celebration?’

  ‘I’ll take you out instead.’ he decided impulsively. ‘It’s your victory. You shouldn’t have to cook for it.’ He and Neil usually went to McDonalds, but tonight they would go somewhere special.

  ‘I’d—I’d like to make dinner for you.’

  ‘All right.’ He closed his eyes and tried to remember what had been on the appointment book for him this afternoon. ‘Whatever you want. I can’t get home until about six. Is that all right?’

  ‘Yes. It’s fine. Sam? I’m sorry I called the office.’

  ‘Why? Call any time you like.’

  He heard the distress in her voice and didn’t understand it at first. ‘I—I said it was Alex, but Mrs Bramley recognised my voice, and they must know where I’m living, the people at the clinic. They know me, and they’ll think I’m living with you. They’ll be talking and— Sam, I’m sorry.’

  Impatiently, he said, ‘Alex, why should it be any big deal if they think we’re living together? It’s not—for heaven’s sake, Alex! Dr Halchuck is living with Dr Waddelsey’s wife—ex-wife, I mean—and has been for years.’

  ‘I know that, but we’re not. We’re—I’m—’

  He sighed. ‘Does it matter, Alex?’

  ‘People will think—’

  His nurse tapped lightly on his door and he said in exasperation, ‘Honey, in a few months they’ll damned well know!’

  ‘Maybe I shouldn’t be living here. I—’ Alex broke off and shivered uncontrollably. She didn’t want to leave. She wanted to be here, close to him. Her lips said, ‘Sam, if I’m living here they’ll think it’s your baby.’

  ‘It is my baby, and I should damned well hope that everyone will know who the father is! You can forget the idea of keeping any secrets about this, Alex, because everyone is damned well going to know exactly who the father of that child is! It’s my baby, too, and I’m not staying out of its life to keep another one of your damned secrets!’

  Her fingers were white on the receiver. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered and he snorted in exasperation. ‘I shouldn’t have called.’ He said nothing and she knew how angry he must be. She whispered, ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘No!’ The word echoed and she waited, not knowing what she should say. She hated arguing with him. Finally he said softly, ‘Does this mean I’m not invited to dinner?’

  ‘I—’ She laughed shakily. ‘Oh, Sam, of course not!’

  ‘I’m not invited?’ he teased.

  ‘You are!’

  He could still hear her voice in his ear when he replaced the receiver on its cradle. He stared at the chart in front of him, but it was Alex in front of his eyes.

  They would have supper together tonight. Sometimes in the last few weeks he had heard her moving around in the kitchen they shared, and he had made himself stay away, give her the room she had said she needed. Tonight he would not stay away. He would watch her as she prepared the meal. When she came to the table and sat down across from him, he would pretend that she belonged to him, that they were together, facing the world as one.

  She was his woman. She had belonged to him ever since he had found her, a pirate’s wench on the beaches of Vancouver.

  I love her. Those words kept coming back to him, but this time he acknowledged them, wishing her voice back in his ear. He felt a powerful surge of need overwhelming him. His hand trembled on the cover of the chart, crushing the light cardboard. He wanted desperately to feel her smooth skin under his fingers, to possess her; yet the need to see open love in her eyes was greater than his powerful drive for possession.

  He knew that there was fear mixed equally with his need, his love, but there would be no more running. He had a long way to go, he realised, his fingers smoothing the next patient’s crumpled notes. Jake and Quade would laugh. He had fallen in love with a woman who had more hang-ups than he had.

  It might be easier somewhere else, away from all the symbols of her childhood—her
parents, the gossip. On the beaches of Vancouver she had been free and loving, reaching out. He did not know if he could do the reaching, touching her when she was holding herself tightly closed. Yes, it would have been easier somewhere else, but he had to use what he had. That meant wooing Alex in the middle of all the people who would try to keep his woman as a child.

  He practised the words carefully in his mind, but he wasn’t sure what she would say in return. He was terribly afraid that she would turn away, and he knew it might be a long time before he could actually say it to her. I love you.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE soft sounds of a Strauss waltz drifted in from the next room. Sam leaned back in the dining room chair, lifting his glass to his lips. Alex watched his throat move as he swallowed the cool liquid. He looked very relaxed, content. He had shed his jacket and tie. She could see the base of his throat where a few dark hairs curled through the open neck of his shirt.

  A few moments ago, Neil had finished his dinner and gone out to the theatre with a new friend from his class at the college. Until then the conversation had flowed easily, but now Alex felt tense, casting about desperately for something to say. Sam had seemed undisturbed by the silence between them. A few moments ago he had gone into the next room to put on some music, then returned to relax with his beer.

  ‘I should do the dishes.’ Alex stood up and started stacking plates.

  ‘I’ll help,’ he offered, although he sounded disgruntled.

  ‘It’s all right. I don’t need any help.’ She balanced the salad bowl on top of the plates, added the cutlery along the side, and at the last minute picked up a bottle of salad dressing in her right hand. She turned to go into the kitchen, keeping her eyes on the pile and walking slowly.

  ‘Careful,’ cautioned a husky, low voice right behind her. Startled, she swung and found Sam only a few inches away, one hand outstretched as if to help balance the precarious pile of dishes and salad. ‘Watch out! You’ll—’

  It was too late. A fork fell and she jerked back, throwing the whole mess off balance. The salad bowl was leaning at an impossible angle. She reached desperately for it with her right hand, forgetting the dressing. She felt it—heard it go just a second too late. Then everything went, flying out of her hands. The glass bottle filled with dressing hit the doorway and seemed to explode. The salad bowl took off, spinning like a Frisbee, hitting the wall and sending wet lettuce and tomato everywhere. A spoon struck one pool of orange dressing and splashed oily liquid back on to them.

  ‘Oh, no!’ She had one plate in her hand. Everywhere else was wreckage, broken dishes and salad. She started to step forward and was stopped, a hard hand jerking her back.

  ‘Watch out!’ Sam was almost shouting, gripping her arm painfully. ‘Don’t walk into that! You’ll get cut.’

  ‘I’ve got shoes on,’ she said automatically. The mess was everywhere. ‘The carpet,’ she whispered, horrified. The orange salad dressing contrasted hideously with the warm rust and amber tones of the carpet in the dining room. She lifted her hand to push her hair back, and found the plate still hanging from her fingers. As she watched, a scrap of tomato that had been clinging to the plate dropped on to the floor by her feet. ‘Oh, damn!’

  She couldn’t even look at Sam. Why was she such a clumsy, terrible fool? She had meant this to be a wonderful evening, to try to show him what he was missing, that-well, at least that he might want to spend some time with the woman who lived under his roof. Oh, hell! She could feel the tears coming and that was just all she needed to top it off! Standing here crying like an idiot while he watched, silent and so damned masculine and attractive, seeing her make a fool of herself.

  Her arm was released. The flesh tingled where his fingers had gripped. She stared at the mess, afraid to see what was in his eyes. She wouldn’t blame him if he walked out. She would probably not see him again for weeks now, just glimpses of the back of his white car, the sound of the door at night as he went out.

  Firm fingers took the plate from her. With both hands free, she combed her hair back into a wild chaos, staring at part of a leaf of lettuce stuck to the elegant wallpaper beside the doorway. ‘I’ll clean it up,’ she mumbled, knowing that the orange spattered on the wall would never disappear entirely until the wall was repapered.

  ‘Hey, Alex—’

  She swallowed a lump and pulled away from the kindness in his voice. He must think she was an idiot, a child, with the tears spilling over. Big hands gripped her shoulders, pulling her back against a hard wall that was Sam. His fingers gentle, massaging. His head lowered, his lips against the hair near her ear. She closed her eyes and sagged against him, feeling his broad chest taking her weight easily.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she gulped. ‘It was so stupid. I should have carried less and—’

  ‘Stop apologising,’ he whispered. ‘It’s only a—’

  ‘A mess!’

  Her eyes wanted to close, to enjoy his touch, but she could see the broken dishes, the gory orange salad dressing, the symphony of raw vegetables stuck everywhere.

  ‘Hey,’ he whispered, his hands rubbing down along her arms. She was wearing a short-sleeved dress and his fingers quickly slipped on to her bare skin, making her tremble through the tears. ‘It’s not all bad. I was hoping for something like this.’

  ‘What?’ She spun around, staring at him, forgetting that the tears had run down her cheeks, that she was almost as much of a mess as the damned floor! ‘That’s crazy! What do you mean?’

  His hands guided her closer. His lips brushed a feather kiss against hers. ‘I was hoping for a chance to put my arms around you again.’ His eyes were deep, dark brown, and they were the whole world. As she stared up, mesmerised, his husky voice whispered, ‘And to kiss you again.’

  It would have been impossible for her to keep her lips closed against his. He kissed her gently, the warm flesh of his mouth holding hers, then drifting to caress the softness of her cheek, the fluttering dampness of her eyelids.

  ‘Sam—’ It was a whisper, hardly a protest, and he paid no heed, his lips returning to cover hers. He felt the lightest stirring of her body against his and he brought her closer, his arms moulding her softness to his hard maleness.

  The sun slipped behind the mountain on the other side of the harbour, bending light and sending red streaking across the harbour, bathing their entwined forms in a gentle rosy glow. Alex’s fingers explored the coolness of Sam’s throat, felt the tremble that spread through his muscular frame as her lips opened to his kiss and he plundered the sweetness of her mouth. Her fingers slipped into his crisp brown hair, clenching as she felt a wave of exquisite dizziness.

  His large hands seemed to span her waist, his thumbs caressing the trembling that was her midriff, his fingers pressing into her back. The tightness was spreading all though her chest, causing her breath to come in ragged inhalations. She could feel her swollen breasts touching, pressing against her bra, her abdomen quivering with a growing heat.

  When his thumbs moved to the bottom of her ribcage, she gasped, her mind leaping ahead to the caress of his fingers on her breasts. She sagged against him and he shifted to take her weight, his thigh pressing against hers, his tongue exploring the shuddering underside of her lower lip.

  She had hungered for this closeness so long, body and soul both starved for his touch, the soft gasp in the back of his throat as she pressed close, her soft curves crushed against the hardness that was his chest.

  ‘Alex,’ he groaned, his hands dropping to her hips, holding the firmness of her buttocks as he drew her close, hard against his need. ‘I’ve wanted this so long, such a damned’ long time.’ His head bent lower, his mouth seeking, his shadow sheltering her from the light of the sunset outside.

  She had felt it, too, all the nights, all the hours since she first gave herself to this man’s hard, gentle hands. Her eyes closed and the world was gone, his arms secure at her back and under her knees, lifting, carrying her. She pressed her face against th
e hollow of his shoulder, feeling the movement of his muscles under her cheek. Her right arm circled up around his neck and she felt the tension of his corded muscles as he carried her. With her eyes closed she caressed the fine hairs that escaped the open top of his shirt. Under her seeking fingers, his flesh jerked rigidly. She felt an answering pull deep within herself.

  Then she was sinking into a dense softness. She opened her eyes and saw the brocade quilt of her own bed. His face shut out everything else. She could see only the harsh lines of him. His mouth was straight, without the slightest trace of a smile. His eyes were molten black, staring down at her as if she was the fate that had imprisoned him. A dark flame burned in the darkness of his eyes, like anger or bitterness. She closed her eyes against it, against the sight of herself reflected in his face.

  He could see everything, through the fantasies and the dreams, right into the core of her, the trembling and the fear that was the real Alex, the real Mary. ‘Don’t,’ she whispered, and his fingers touched her lips, silencing. Her eyelids opened and found his face smooth, his eyes doused to a deep warmth.

  ‘Don’t touch?’ he asked, whispering, his fingers trailing across her throat, brushing towards the swelling of her breast.

  The pinkness of her tongue slipped out to wet lips that were suddenly dry. She shook her head, her throat too parched for sounds to escape. His lips came to hers and she felt all the inhibitions melting away, her arms reaching up to pull his head closer, her lips opening and her tongue meeting his, mouth opening eagerly to his invasion.

  He was lying beside her, slipping one arm under, his other hand sliding the zipper down along her back, sending a long, delicious shiver along her spine. She felt the thin fabric of the dress sliding from her shoulder, his lips dragging away from hers, moving to caress the warmth of her throat, the trembling swelling that disappeared under the lacy fabric of her bra.