by Amii Lorin
Now, not more than forty-five minutes from home, the atmosphere in the car was the exact opposite of that of a week ago. Tara sat back comfortably, her bemusement stemming from Alek’s homebound conversation. Some stray remark had touched at a memory, and he had been relating anecdotes from his boyhood. It was the first time he’d opened up to her and, at her hesitant query about his ancestors, he’d gone quiet and she was afraid he’d withdrawn again when he resumed his smooth, quiet tone.
“The Rykovskys go back a long way and were, at one time, entertained by the czars. My great-great-grandparents were uneasy under the rule of Alexander the Third and possibly read the handwriting on the wall. At any rate, they transferred as much of their property as possible into cash and left Russia around 1883, when my great grandfather was still quite small. They landed and stayed in Philadelphia for a while, and then a merchant my great-grandfather had met and made friends with invited them to come and visit him in his neck of the woods. That, of course, was the Allentown area. They came, liked what they saw, and settled. My great-grandfather was an intelligent, well-educated man who liked to tinker with machines and tools. After he was settled, he built a small shop and put his hobby to work. Although my grandfather and then my father added to it, the original shop is still there.”
“And now you’re building a new one,” Tara said softly.
“Yes, we’ve outgrown the old.”
Again he was quiet a few moments, then he slanted a glance at her and smiled. “You said once that I have an international family, and in a sense you’re right. While doing the grand tour, my grandfather met and eventually married the shy, youngest daughter of a wealthy French wine-producing family. I still have some relatives somewhere in the Loire district. My father met and married my mother when he was stationed in Great Britain during World War Two. So, to that extent, there is a European flavor to the family, but it stops with me. I’m a straight-down-the-line American. My cousins delight in referring to me as ‘the Yankee capitalist,’ and they’re right—I am. I’ve been all over Europe at one time or another and although I’ve always enjoyed it, the best part was coming home. I’m afraid what you see here is a true-blue patriot. I love my country.”
The devil danced in the eyes that slanted her another quick look, before he added teasingly, “I’m also hung up on American women. I’ve known, since the time I was old enough to notice girls, that I’d marry an American woman. I’ve met and, quite frankly, made love to some stunning women all over the world, and yet I wouldn’t exchange what I have sitting next to me for any one of them.”
At once pleased and flustered, Tara sought vainly for something to say. When she didn’t reply, he went on, “I’ve inadvertently broken a few Rykovsky family traditions, but there was one I was very happily looking forward to breaking—deliberately.”
“What was that?” she murmured, an uneasy premonition snaking up her spine.
“For six generations the Rykovsky brides have been blessed with only one child. A male.” Alek paused, and with growing unease Tara watched his jaw-line tighten, his knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel. “I wanted a son, of course,” he went on tersely. “maybe two. But I also wanted a daughter, possibly more.”
Tata found it impossible for a moment to speak around the lump in her throat. When she did finally get the words out they came jerkily. “I—If you’d agree to a divorce, you could get on with finding a proper mother for your children.” She could barely push the last word past the pain in her throat at the sudden vision of a dark-haired little boy with devilish blue eyes. Suddenly her arms ached with painful longing to hold that child close to her breast.
“A proper mother,” his low, bitter tone was like a slap across her face, and Tara averted her head to hide the tears that stung her eyes.
He cursed savagely under his breath, then ground out, “I told you the Rykovskys do not divorce. I have no intention of blazing a new trail in that direction.” The grim determination in his voice sent a shudder through her. He meant it. He had no intention of giving her her freedom. She felt caught in the trap she’d set herself. They were close to home, and the remaining miles were covered in the hostile silence; the companionable atmosphere of before had been shattered.
Tara lived through the week until Christmas with a growing feeling of unreality. In the short periods of time she and Alek were alone together, they maintained a sort of armed truce. When they were in the company of their respective families or friends, they played the blissfully happy newly-weds.
Tara filled her days by emptying her apartment, disposing of the furniture she didn’t want, arranging in Alek’s apartment the things she did. And moving her clothes and personal things into the spare bedroom. Alek went back to his office, snapping, “If I remember correctly, your stated wish was that you want nothing from me. I assume that includes my help, so go to it.”
Alek rarely came home for dinner and in fact was seldom home by the time she went to bed. It didn’t take much speculation on her part to come up with an answer to where he was spending his nights. She spent her own nights alternately hating him, and curled up in bed, arms clutching her midsection, trying to fight down the aching need to feel his arms closing around her, his mouth seeking hers. God! she thought, she loved him. And if she had thought she had cried a lot before, she knew now, those tears had been just for openers.
Saturday morning Tara was brushing her hair when she heard the door to the apartment open, a strange rustling sound, then the door close again. Intrigued, she left the bedroom, walked along the short hall to the living room and stopped, staring in wonder at the live tree Alek had dragged into the room.
Standing the tree straight, he asked blandly, “Do you like it?”
“Yes, of course. I love live Christmas trees, but why?”
“Because it’s Christmas,” he snapped. “And because, although we won’t be doing much entertaining, I’m sure the families will stop over sometime during the holidays. And I don’t feel up to lengthy explanations as to why there is none. So,” he gestured disinterestedly, “the tree.” He then proceeded to surprise her even more by removing a large carton of tree decorations from the storage closet.
Tara tried to show little enthusiasm as she helped him trim the tree. It wasn’t easy. She really did love live Christmas trees and had always enjoyed fussing with the decorations, thinking it one of the best rituals of the holiday. She was also glad she now had a place to set her gifts. Even if she was a little apprehensive about Alek’s reaction to his. As soon as the tree was finished, Alek showered, dressed, and left the apartment, telling her he didn’t know what time he’d be back.
On the morning of Christmas Eve Tara stood in the kitchen dully watching the coffee run into the carafe. It was late, almost eleven, and although she had just awakened, she did not feel rested. She had lain awake, tense and stiff, until after three in the morning.
The apartment was so still and quiet that Tara was sure she was alone and so turned with a start when Alek walked into the kitchen. He looked terrible, pale and weary with lines of strain around his eyes and mouth. Tara was torn between deep compassion and vindictive satisfaction at his obvious exhaustion.
Without a word he walked across the room to her and tossed a small, gaily wrapped gift onto the counter in front of her.
“Your Christmas present,” he said shortly. “I’m giving it to you now because I’d like you to wear it to my parents’ party tonight.”
Tara eyed the small package with trepidation, then removed the wrapping with shaking fingers. With growing alarm she lifted the lid of the tiny, black-velvet-covered box and gasped aloud at the ring nestled in its bed of white satin. The single sapphire was large and square-cut and reflected exactly the color of Alek’s eyes.
“Alek, I told you—” she began in a tremulous voice when he interrupted with a low snarl, “I know what you told me. But you will wear this, at least in the presence of my parents. They expect it. The Rykovsky men have alway
s adorned their brides with jewels. So you’ll do me the favor of wearing it. Not for me, for them. Other than that, I don’t care what you do with it. Toss it to the back of the drawer, where it won’t offend your eyes.”
Tara winced at his harshly bitter tone and, fighting back tears, whispered, “All right, I’ll wear it tonight. It—it is beautiful and—”
“Don’t strain yourself, Tara, and don’t look so frightened, I’m not going to demand payment in return.”
Tara had no doubt as to what payment he meant, and she turned sharply back to the counter to hide her pain-filled eyes. “Alek, that’s not fair.” Try as she would, she could not keep the hurt from her voice.
“Not fair?” he snapped. “Lord, I don’t believe you said that.” Then his tone changed to one of utter weariness. “Oh, the hell with it. I don’t want to argue, I have a headache that won’t quit and I’m dying of thirst. Isn’t that coffee finished yet?”
By the tune they left for his parents’ party, his bad humor seemed to have vanished along with his headache, and he was his usual controlled, urbane self. Tara wore his ring and tried not to see the cynicism in his eyes as she replied properly to the exclamations of admiration from the other guests.
Christmas morning, still wearing his ring, Tara slipped out of the kitchen as Alek read the paper while drinking his coffee. Gnawing nervously on her lip, she placed his gifts in a neat pile, returned to the kitchen, and set them on the table in front of him. The paper was lowered slowly. Face set, free of expression, he stared for long moments at the presents.
“You tell me you’ll accept no gifts from me. Then you turn around and buy some for me. Why?” Alek’s tone confused her, made her feel as if he were asking far more than the actual words stated. For a moment she was tempted to blurt out the tram. That because she loved so deeply she had not been able to resist the urge; she had in fact wanted to buy him the earth.
His eyes, so guarded, so unreadable, stopped her. Swallowing around the dryness in her throat, she managed a careless shrug and answered, “As you said yesterday, it is expected.”
The packages were opened silently, his eyes piercing hers each time another lid was lifted. When finally the last one was opened, he stood and came to her, kissed her mouth gently and murmured, “Thank you, Tara. I’m sure our families will be as pleased with your taste and choices as I am.”
For a moment he seemed far away, as if caught up in a memory, then he added quietly, “I don’t understand you at all, Tara. There are times when I’m sure I have you all figured out, then you say or do something that completely baffles me, and I wonder if I’ll ever understand you.”
Slowly, over the next few days, as they attended numerous holiday parties and gatherings, she noticed a subtle change in him. It started on Christmas Day, when they made a quick stop at David and Sallie’s to deliver their gifts. After unwrapping the exquisite doll they had bought her, the three-year-old Tina had run to Alek, her cubby arms outstretched, laughing, and he had scooped her up into his arms. Tina’s small head hid Alek’s face from all but Tara, and she felt a hard contraction around her heart at the expression that passed across his face fleetingly as he hugged the child to him. Deep, painful longing had been revealed in that instant, and Tara felt overwhelmed with guilt at her unwillingness to give him the child she now knew he wanted desperately.
From that moment on he seemed to withdraw from her. No longer did she receive his tender glances or softly spoken endearments when in the company of others, and he left her side often and for longer periods of time. By New Year’s Eve it became apparent that their friends also where aware of his cool attitude.
They were attending a rather large party at a private club some distance outside of town and, from the covert glances she was getting, Tara knew her friends were asking themselves if the honeymoon was over. Alek disappeared several times for very long periods, and the fact that Kitty was also conspicuously absent at the same time filled Tara with both jealous fear and embarrassed fury.
Fury conquered fear when midnight came, and then passed, and Tara stood alone in a room full of celebrants kissing and toasting in the New Year. Head held high, her step determined, Tara made her way out of the room, ignoring the speculative looks turned her way. She was almost to the cloakroom when she heard a familiar voice call to her to wait and with a sigh she turned and watched Craig Hartman walk up to her. Both his expression and voice held concern.
“Are you leaving?”
She nodded, and when he asked how she was going to get home, she answered briefly, “Taxi.
“No you’re not,” he stated firmly. “I’ll take you.”
“But—”
He didn’t wait to hear her protests but walked into the cloakroom, emerging seconds later shrugging into his coat and carrying hers.
He helped her into her coat then said softly, “Come along,” and Tara moved with him out the door, unaware of the alarmed expression that had replaced the usually placid one in David’s eyes as he watched them leave.
They drove in silence for about five minutes, then Craig stopped the car on the gravel-covered shoulder of the dark country road. Tara turned in her seat in surprise. “Craig, what—”
“It’s not working, is it, Tara?” he interrupted gently.
“Craig, really. I don’t want to talk—”
“No, I can understand that,” he interrupted again. Then his tone changed, became angry. “But how he could prefer that overblown, destructive bitch over you, I’ll never—
This time it was Tara who interrupted. “Craig, you don’t know—”
“No, you’re right,” he cut in. “But I know her, and she’s not worth one minute of your unhappiness.”
Before she could think of a reply, Craig added earnestly, “Tara, I told you once that if you ever needed a shoulder to cry on, mine was available. It may not be as broad as his but—”
That was as far as he got, for the door next to Tara was yanked open, a hand thrust inside to free her seat belt, then her arm was grasped in a grip of steel and she was jerked unceremoniously from her seat. Her outcry was drowned by the low, menacing growl of Alek’s voice.
“Get the hell out of here and go wait for me in my car.”
“No look here, Rykovsky—” Craig began, only to be cut off by Alek’s snarled, “No, you look, Hartman.” That was all Tara heard before she fled to the Lexus and slid onto the front seat.
Chapter Ten
The drive home was completed in ominous quiet, and as soon as she stepped into the apartment, Tara dashed for her bedroom, locking the door behind her. She dropped her coat onto her small rocker then spun around, breath catching in her throat, when she heard Alek call her name and saw the doorknob twist sharply. The next instant her eyes flew wide with disbelief as she heard Alek’s foot smash against the door, saw the wood splinter around the lock, and on the second blow from his foot the door slammed back against the wall. Alek’s advance on her was reminiscent of the stalk of a predator, and he had the same wild, savage look.
Badly frightened, Tara raised her hands in a defensive movement. With one careless swing of his arm Alek knocked them down then, grasping her upper arms, dragged her roughly against him.
“What is this man to you?” he demanded.
“A—a friend,” she stuttered.
“He looked very friendly,” he snarled. “Has he made love to you? The truth, Tara.” His fingers tightened and his eyes blazed furiously into hers.
“No! Alek, please,” Tara choked
As if he hadn’t heard her, past all reason in his anger, his fingers tightened still more, and Tara groaned softly in pain and fear.
“I’ll be damned,” he rasped, “if I’ll let another man have what’s legally mine yet denied me.”
“Alek, don’t,” Tara could barely whisper. “I give you my word, I—”
“Damn your doe-soft eyes,” he groaned, then his mouth was crushing hers roughly, savagely as his hands released her arms and slid urg
ently down her back, molding her body against his.
“Did you really think a locked door would keep me out?” he sneered, when finally his mouth left hers. “Have you been locking your door all this time?”
Shattered, unable to speak, Tara shook her head dumbly.
“Then why tonight?” he asked silkily. “Is there some reason you tried to hide away tonight?”
Tara strove for control, for a measure of calmness in her voice.
“You were so angry. You frightened me, Alek.”
“You have every reason to be frightened, my sweet.” His soft laugh was not a pretty sound, and his use of the present tense had not escaped her.
“Alek,” she breathed desperately, “can you really believe that I—”
“Can’t I?” he cut her off harshly. “Why not? You forget, I held you in my arms all night, felt your response, your need. Whether you admit it to yourself or not, you wanted me as badly as I wanted you. Those needs cannot be turned off like a faucet. I know because right now my body is screaming for possession of yours, and I no longer intend to deny myself that satisfaction.”
Tara struggled against him frantically, but it was a losing battle, for in truth she was fighting two opponents, Alek and her own rising desire for him.
Later, lying beside him, replete and spent, she closed her eyes in pain at her own deflections. His possession of her had been as wild and savage as his appearance had been and she had gloried in it, soaking in his lovemaking as thirstily as a drunk slaking his thirst after a long abstinence.
Seconds later a small shiver rippled through her as Alek’s lips moved slowly across her cheek then stopped at her own, teasing, tormenting around the outer edge of her mouth, until with a soft moan, she reached up and grasped his head and brought his mouth to her own. When finally he lifted his head, he whispered harshly, “Damn you, Tara, there’s no end to my wanting you.”
The words, his tone, cut into her like a knife and in self-defense she said fiercely, “I hate you, Aleksei Rykovsky.”
