Liar's Moon

by Heather Graham

  “Tracy—I’m sorry—”

  “Once, Leif, you didn’t seem able to forgive me. Well, I’m damned sorry, but I can’t forgive you this time.”

  “Tracy—”

  She felt him coming toward her and she swallowed, stiffening further and placing her hands to her cheeks, wiping away all remnants of her tears and swearing that she would be strong, she would not cry again. Nor would she touch him, in anger or in love.

  Before he could reach her, there was a light tapping on the door. Leif stepped on past her, opened it, and greeted the man from room service cordially, displaying an easy shift of personality that irritated Tracy thoroughly.

  He and the young Swiss kept up an idle conversation as the table was set, the wine uncorked and approved, and everything arranged.

  “Madame?”

  Tracy was not so glib. She did manage a tight smile as she was seated, and a forced, “Thank you.”

  Leif tipped the man. He locked the door in his wake, then hesitated only briefly before sitting down across from Tracy.

  He lifted his glass to her, watching her sardonically. “To life, Miss Kuger.”

  She didn’t lift her glass. She just sat there.

  “The food is delicious here,” he said, studying her impassive features as he idly continued to sip his wine. “The steak is excellent, and I’ve never had potatoes like this anywhere else in the world.”

  “That’s fascinating.”

  He emitted an impatient sound and leaned toward her. “God, Tracy, I gave you back a living child! What— did you prefer a dead one?”

  Tracy lifted a brow to him. “Oh? Are you planning on giving me back my son?”

  He smiled slowly, sardonically. “Ah, so that’s the gnawing question at the moment.”

  “Well.”

  “Drink your wine, Tracy. Eat.”

  “I asked you a question.”

  “Hmm. Do I mean that to infer that we’re going to have a rational conversation?”

  “I’m trying very hard.”

  He lifted her glass and handed it to her. Tracy’s fingers curled around it, and she knew he wasn’t going to have any kind of a conversation at all unless she ate.

  She sipped her wine and sat down and picked up her utensils. She ate a bite of the steak and it was truly delicious, but her stomach felt as if it were leaded and heavy with rocks.

  She felt his eyes on her; she didn’t know his feelings or what he was thinking. “What?” she demanded, setting her fork down and swallowing a sip of wine to alleviate the sudden parched feeling that came to her throat.

  He shook his head. “I really don’t know. You tell me, Tracy, what you would like to have happen. How do you think that this should be handled.”

  She wanted to meet his eyes. They were hard upon hers, blunt and unwavering. She couldn’t.

  “I—I realize that he has lived with you for over six years. That I mean nothing to him at all. That—that Blake is the one who matters here, and that he must be dealt with very gently. He’s not really old enough to understand. Perhaps we could arrange something where I have him for a few days at first, then a few weeks, working up to an even situation where—”

  “An even situation?” he inquired tightly, his eyes narrowing. “You mean like split custody.”

  “Well, yes—”

  “You’re insane, Tracy,” he said coldly. “Forget it.”

  She shouldn’t have lost her temper; she did.

  “He’s my son! I lost him through a cruel hoax—I never gave him up on purpose! Surely, I can get him back legally. His birth certificate must still exist somewhere, and since my grandfather began the hoax, he’ll certainly be willing to get me out of it now! You’re the one who always says it—Arthur Kingsley can buy anything!”

  Leif pushed back from the table, not answering her at first, but studying his wine as he swirled it in his glass.

  “Not my son, Tracy. You’re forgetting—my financial situation may not put me in the billions, but I’m affluent myself. And if his birth certificate can be discovered, I’m willing to bet that you did name the father on it.”

  “So—” she said, her voice low, and to her horror, quivering. “So we’d be back where we are now. Split custody.”

  He shook his head at her, displaying no anger except for a telltale tick in that long vein in his tightly corded neck.

  “No way, Tracy,” he said softly. And then he smiled. “Legal battles can also take forever and forever. You’ve lost six years. At this rate, you might make it for his high school graduation.”

  She exploded with some oath, throwing her napkin on the table and stalking away.

  The soft sound of his laughter followed her, with only a slightly hard edge to it. Her back was to him; it was all she could do to keep from throwing herself at him again in a futile expulsion of her fury. And pain. Her heart ached as if dagger after dagger had been slammed within it. Why had he done this?

  Given her back her son… only to keep him away.

  He’d wanted to prove how callous the Kingsley side of her family could be. That they were capable of taking a newborn infant, that they were capable of murder.

  She winced; she didn’t dare think about her father now. That was a quest that would have to wait. She knew she couldn't bear knowing that her child lived. That he was six and healthy and sweet and adorable…

  And she didn’t have him.

  “Blake is my son, Tracy. Biologically, I’m his father. In his eyes, I am his father. I have raised him. I held him through the night when he cried; I changed diapers, I caught measles from him. I’m not saying that to be cruel —only to point out the undeniable truth. I will never give him up. He will never leave my house.”

  Tracy spun back around. “You have to give him up! I —I’m his real mother!” She didn’t want to plead with him; after today, she had never, never wanted to ask anything of him again. But she had no choice. Because she was desperate to have a part of Blake. Of her own son.

  He shrugged, and stared straight at her. Evenly, implacably. He actually appeared relaxed and comfortable and totally at ease with his own position.

  “I will have a place in his life!” she flared with sudden passion, willing herself to remain still.

  “Then you will come to him,” Leif said softly. He stood too, coming nearer her, but not close enough to touch.

  A distance gaped between them then. A great, vast distance.

  “I can’t come back to your house! Ever!”

  “You said that once before.”

  “I didn’t hate you with all my heart before!”

  It was a lie; she knew it was a lie. And yet the burning pain and rage she felt toward him made it very nearly the truth.

  It seemed that his jaw tightened; he blinked, but still betrayed no emotion toward her. Not anger, not tenderness.

  “I suggest that you learn something about forgiveness, Tracy,” he warned her softly. “I told you that I was sorry; I tried to explain—”

  “Leif, you are merciless and ruthless!”

  “Tracy, if you want to be his mother, be his mother. Don’t disrupt a decent home, all the stability and love that the child has already. I swear to you—I’ll fight you into the ground if you try anything. If you want to learn how to become his mother, you are welcome to do so. In his home.”

  “I will not live in your house!”

  He arched a brow, as if mildly interested—and amused.

  “You’ve lived quite nicely in my house—in my room and in my bed—twice now. I’m sure you’ll manage to do so again.”

  “What? You think after what you’ve done that I’ll just come back as a permanent—mistress?” she demanded incredulously.

  “Not at all. I’m his father. You want to be his mother—”

  “I am his mother!”

  “I repeat, you want to be his mother. That’s a damn nice and normal situation. Good for a child. A father and a mother. It’s a very good way to grow up.”

/>   She couldn’t breathe suddenly. She felt very weak, both frightened and anticipatory, on fire—and shaking with chills.

  “What—what are you saying, Leif?”

  “I’m saying that if you want your son, Tracy, at this very late date, that you’ll play by my—‘house’—rules. You’ll marry me,” Leif stated simply, “and it will be that old anachronism—a family.”

  “I— I—”

  She was actually speechless, so stunned by his words that she couldn’t begin to combat him. Inwardly she struggled, and then her words rushed out.

  “You can’t be serious!” Tracy cried. “I told you—I despise you and I’ll never forgive you for today!”

  “Have it your way, Tracy,” he said with a shrug.

  He turned away, and there was an awful finality about the way he so determinedly walked from her. Could he do it? Could he keep her away from her son? A child she had barely seen. A child also biologically his—and legally adopted as well. She could fight him, but it might take years and years, and before the law, too, it might appear that she had willingly given up her own infant, having been a teenaged and unwed mother…

  “Leif, wait!” she cried, rushing to him, catching his arm to spin him back to her, then dropping it hurriedly. It burned to touch him.

  Again, she wanted to face him. She couldn’t at first. She fought to raise her chin and meet his eyes. They were gray; as hard as stone.

  “You—you can’t be serious.”

  “I am.”

  “Leif—a marriage like that would be a disaster! Legal, but meaning nothing. In name only and all that!”

  “In name only?” With mild interest he folded his arms over his chest and waited expectantly.

  “It couldn’t be anything else.”

  “It would have to be something else.”

  “I will not go to bed with you again!”

  “You never had any problems before.”

  She glared at him. “I’ve had problems every time I’ve ever seen you!”

  “Tracy, if you marry me, you sleep with me. I can’t imagine it being that terrible a hardship. But that’s your dilemma to solve. I can’t make you talk to me or jump up and down with joy over the situation. I’m just warning you—no lies, no surprises. If you’re my wife, you’ll be just that.” He added, with a hard glint in his eyes: “In the bedroom as well as outside of it.”

  Fire swept through her. She knew that she quivered from head to toe, and she certainly didn’t intend to capitulate to his crude proposal.

  “You’d be miserable,” she said coolly.

  “Why is that?”

  Color rose to her cheeks. “I could marry you, I could follow your rules. Sleep in your bed. And never protest your touch. But—” Her voice lowered, she could barely breathe. She sought for the right words. “I wouldn’t, I couldn’t—”

  “Do go on, Tracy. This is fascinating.”

  “I’d be a log!” she shouted. “You’d have an empty shell every time you touched me.”

  She was suddenly afraid that he’d be violently angry with the tension that coursed between them. She tensed, willing herself to keep her chin high, little help against his towering size.

  He wasn’t angry.

  He started to laugh and eye her with a silver ridicule that made her long for violence.

  “Tracy,” he said smoothly, “I’ve known you rather— well. You might hate me from now to eternity, but—well, let me put it this way. I’ve no qualms about enjoying a certain amount of marital bliss in the least.”

  “You—”

  He stilled her urge to slap him before her hand could come anywhere near his face. She was held tightly to him; he stroked her cheek, then stared down at her, still smiling with high amusement.

  “Egotist!” she snapped.

  “No,” he said softly. “I just know you very, very well. Every—delectable inch. And you are made of fire, my love, not ice.”

  He released her and reached for the connecting door. “We’ve an hour before the courthouses and license bureaus close. If your hatred for me is deeper than your belated love for your son, by all means go your own way. And if not, well, meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes. Prepared to marry me—and give me each night that sweet empty shell!”

  He smiled, opened and closed the door. Tracy slammed a fist against it, shouting her rejoinder. She doubted if he heard or cared.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Tracy had had her fantasies about marrying Leif. His house would have been the place—out in the back with the sun reflecting off the water, the roses in full bloom, the lawn alive with friends and family. She would have worn white, albeit it slightly tarnished in truth—traditional to the end. A gown with tiny seed pearls sewn in by hand, a veil that rippled and cascaded down her back. And she would walk, of course, with a brilliant smile, ready to take his hand.

  And Leif…

  His eyes would glimmer with smoke and silver; he’d wear white, too, for it would be an afternoon wedding. He would be resplendent, for the cut would be perfect and fit to the lean contours of his body with an unmatched elegance. His lips would curl into a wonderful crooked smile, and she would feel the wonderful warmth and radiance of love sweep over her.

  Once she had harbored such a fantasy. When she had dreamt those many years ago. Dreamt—so near here, right outside of Zurich!—that it had all been a nightmare. She hadn’t been taken away; Leif hadn’t married Celia. He had combed heaven and earth to find her and swept her away to be married in a field of roses. Her mother had been reconciled; Jesse had given the bride away, and clasped his best friend’s hands with tears in his eyes as he bid him care for his daughter…

  The real wedding wasn’t her fantasy—and yet, perhaps, in a way it was. For despite it all, at the crucial moments, she felt a blazing sizzle of happiness. Illusion, perhaps, but there. His awkward smile for her right before the ceremony began. The warmth of his hand on hers. The little squeeze of his fingers that seemed an unspoken promise. A touch that might have hinted at the things that could not be spoken, not when so much lay between them.

  Perhaps, even, fact was greater than fantasy. The light in his eyes when they touched hers as he placed the gold band around her finger, that slight trembling in his hands. Greater, perhaps, than fantasy, because she had never imagined the emotion, the warmth—the way she would feel when the words were spoken out loud that in fact, not fantasy, she was Leif’s wife.

  It should have taken days; Leif seemed to have some influential friends who managed to secure a license immediately. Two strangers served as witnesses; she barely understood a word of the ceremony.

  But she was his wife.

  She wasn’t in white; she wore a soft red scooped-neck sweater and a navy shirt. Leif was in a sweater and beige jacket—nice, but very casual. They were already married and it seemed his hair was still damp from the shower.

  It was fantasy, Tracy decided. It didn’t matter what was said, what was worn. It mattered that she had those moments to believe, with all her heart, that he loved her as deeply as she loved him. Precious, precious moments, because the past was doomed to come between them again.

  It was dark outside. Only the very slim sliver of a moon gleamed down upon them as they left the church, with Leif anxious to reach the corner—and Rob and the car.

  But he paused suddenly, looking up at the sky.

  Then, looking at Tracy with a crooked smile: “Liar’s moon, Tracy. So it would seem that not all truths have been told.”

  They’d procured the papers they had needed last night and this morning; he hadn’t come near her since until it was time to leave for the little church. He’d suggested that she sleep—she didn’t think that she’d actually slept more than an hour since they’d gotten here.

  And to make matters worse, they’d passed her grandfather’s house on the way. The house where she’d lived all those months. The house where Blake had been born.

  “Oh, but you’re convinced you know al
l about truth, aren’t you, Leif?” Tracy asked him wearily. “Either my mother or my grandfather had my father killed—you just have to decide which.”

  He was silent, not replying to her sarcasm.

  “Let’s get back to the hotel,” he said simply. He caught her hand and hurried to the car. The ever quiet and uneasy Rob greeted them both with a hello and drove them back to the hotel.

  Tracy was suddenly loathe to go up the stairs to their room. She hadn’t had a decent word for Leif in nearly two days, but she suddenly hung on his arm.

  “I’d like a drink.”

  He gazed down at her and slowly, slowly smiled. “Whatever you wish.”

  They didn’t sit down in the restaurant, but in the lobby near the fire, where a pretty blond waitress served cocktails in elegant attire. Again, the flow of easy conversation seemed to be all around them. Skiers and partiers vacationed here, lovers and friends, and they were all so comfortable, so at ease.

  Tracy ordered a double Tom Collins and she felt again Leif’s wicked amusement. She didn’t look at him, but stared into the fire. He sipped a Scotch without comment, too, and eventually the silence dragged out so long that she leapt to her feet and hurried up the stairs—without him.

  Then she wondered if that action wasn’t even more tearing upon her nerves—because he didn’t follow. She paced so long that her feet began to hurt. She cast off her boots and trod in her stockings to the door between the two rooms and entered her own, longing for a shower— without Leif around.

  She kept the water running for a long, long time. It was far better than speculation. Far better than stepping out.

  But at last she emerged, surprised that someone from the hotel hadn’t beaten on the door to demand that she leave the water be. She toweled herself hurriedly dry and donned the one night garment she had—thankfully a red flannel gown that had a wonderfully chaste neckline and fell all the way to her toes.

  But before she could leave the bath, she gripped the sink. Dizzy, expectant. She stared at herself and saw her eyes again—blue and wide and dilated. She slammed a fist against the counter with a choking little cry.