by Lisa Jackson
Think, damn it, Marla. Concentrate. Remember!
She sat in one of the swings and pushed herself with her toe. There were grooves in the gravel beneath the swing, deep impressions made by tiny feet where puddles had begun to collect. She closed her eyes and heard the sounds of the city, the hum of traffic, clatter of a cable car, a dog barking his head off not too far away. Beyond the brick wall there were neighbors. Down the hill was the city, but here, in this fenced estate, she felt cut off from the world.
But San Francisco was just outside the electronic gates.
All she had to do was walk through.
And go where?
“Anywhere,” she murmured, her hands chilling against the cold links of the chain supporting the swing. Nick’s hotel is only a few blocks down the street. No way would she go there, she told herself, but maybe, once outside this elegant fortress, she would find some peace, force her damned memory to return. She had to uncover what she could about Pam Delacroix—who the woman was, how Marla knew her and why they were driving to visit Pam’s daughter.
Her head pounded with a zillion questions, and guilt, ever lingering just beneath the surface of her consciousness, was with her when she thought of the two people who had died in the crash. Two people. With families. She felt that she should pray, but knew instinctively that prayer wasn’t something she did very often. Today, however, she figured she might make an exception. A little spirituality couldn’t hurt. But she couldn’t call up a single word as she balanced on the child’s swing and the rainwater that had collected on the seat seeped through her jeans.
She heard the crunch of shoes on gravel and stiffened. Her fingers tightened on the wet chains supporting the swing.
“Marla?”
Her heartbeat accelerated at the sound of Nick’s voice.
He poked his head through the arbor and did a quick scan of the play area. “I wondered where you were.” Wearing a battered leather jacket and a pair of disreputable jeans, he appeared to stand beneath the canopy of a twisted leafless clematis. “What’re you doing out here?”
“Thinking. Or trying to.”
“Figure anything out?”
“I wish,” she admitted with half a smile. “What about you? What’re you doing here?”
“Looking for you.” His face was all angles and planes with a hard jaw, blade-thin lips and a nose that wasn’t quite straight. Standing dead center in the arbor, feet planted as wide as his shoulders, as if he didn’t dare step any closer, he said, “I wanted to catch you alone.”
The muscles in the back of her neck tightened. She met the intensity of his gaze through the morning mist. Forbidden images of kissing him crept stealthily through her mind. For a second she wondered what it would be like to make love to him, to touch his skin, feel his muscles beneath the surface, run her fingers along that square, beard-darkened jaw. Her stomach did a slow roll of anticipation and she mentally berated herself for the lust that raced through her blood. He was her brother-in-law. She was a married woman. Married. She couldn’t have these taboo fantasies. Wouldn’t.
“I knew no one was supposed to be home this morning. Cissy’s at school, Mother is with the board of Cahill House, Alex has a meeting downtown, so I figured that I’d pretty much find you by yourself.”
She cleared her throat and imagined she recognized dangerously erotic thoughts running through his eyes. The same illicit visions that she was battling. “Why?” she asked over the steady drip of the rain and her voice sounded strangled. She told herself it was just because her teeth were wired together, but knew differently. “Why were you looking for me?”
“I had a visitor the other night,” he said. “Cherise. She wants to see you.”
“Why doesn’t she just drop by?” Marla asked, and tried to ignore the fact that his jeans hung low on his hips, and that his shoulders stretched the width of his jacket, or that he was incredibly sexy—treacherously so.
“Alex nixed it.”
“He doesn’t much like her or her brother,” Marla observed, dragging her eyes away from him as she recalled conversations between Alex and his mother about the cousins—bloodsuckers, money-hungry leeches, isn’t that what he’d called them?
“Because they have a bone to pick with him. A sizable bone. Anyway, she asked me to pass the request along.” Nick folded his arms over his chest and his leather jacket creaked as it stretched over his shoulders. Raindrops slid down his bare head and along his throat to disappear beneath his collar. Her eyes followed the motion.
Marla’s mouth was suddenly as dry as the Sahara.
“I figured you had the right to know,” he added.
“I—did. Do.” She took control of her tongue. “Of course she can visit. Any time.”
“She wants to read you Bible passages.”
“Oh. Well.” She cleared her throat then cast him a wry grin. “Maybe God’s trying to tell me something. You know, that I should get some religion or something.”
He snorted. “Cherise and her husband would be only too glad to accommodate you.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He dug into his jacket pocket, withdrew a card and walked forward, his boots crunching in the gravel. Handing her the card, he added, “You can call Cherise yourself. No need for me to be a go-between.” Again his eyes touched hers and she knew that if the moment was right, if things were different, she would have reached out, touched him, silently invited him to kiss her.
A few seconds stretched out and she heard the hum of traffic, the steady drip of moisture from the tree branches and the erratic beating of her heart.
“Thanks.” He turned, but she couldn’t let him go. Not yet. Climbing out of the swing she stepped around the puddles that had collected near the play set and hurried to catch up with him. “Nick, wait. There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you.”
She saw the cords stand out in the back of his neck before he turned to face her again.
“Yeah?”
“You remember how it was before . . . how I was.”
“Before what?”
“Before I was married,” she said and the skin over his face muscles stretched taut.
“I try not to.”
“But . . . did I play tennis?” Her hood slipped off her head.
“You tore up the court.”
“Ride horses?”
“I don’t think so.” He shifted and she stepped closer, tilting her head up to look deep into his eyes.
Every muscle in her body tensed, but she forced herself to ask the question that had been plaguing her since her conversation with Joanna. “What kind of woman was I?”
“That’s a loaded question.”
“Tell me.”
His lips folded in on themselves. “You were a spoiled brat,” he said. “Your parents gave you anything you wanted.”
“And what was that?” she asked and thought she heard the scrape of a shoe on the brick path, but ignored it.
Nick’s eyes darkened seductively. “Everything.”
“Everything?”
“You had it all, Marla. Money, brains, beauty and it wasn’t enough. You wanted it all . . . the whole damned world.” One side of his mouth lifted in self-mockery. “And you damned near got it.”
“Did I . . .” She began, stumbled, then pushed on. “Did I want you?”
He snorted. “No.” His eyes narrowed and raw emotion played upon his strong features. His hands shot forward suddenly. He grabbed her by the shoulders, his fingers like steel through the jacket. He drew her so close that she could feel his heat, smell the hint of aftershave upon his skin, saw the slight, disgusted flare of his nostrils. “But I wanted you,” he said through lips that barely moved. Contempt edged his words. “More than a man with any brains should want a woman, more than I’d wanted anything in my whole damned life. Is that what you wanted to hear? Are you satisfied?”
“N—no,” she admitted, more confused than ever.
“Then things are just
as they should be, because, Marla, you never were.”
Footsteps crunched on the other side of the arbor. Nick dropped her arms as if she was suddenly too hot to handle.
Lars rounded the corner. Dressed in old jeans and a sweatshirt, he carried a shovel in one hand and a rake in the other. His face was hard, his eyes darting from Nick to Marla and she wondered how much he’d heard of the conversation, how long he’d been in the garden. Had he been watching them through the rising mist, hiding behind the walls of rhododendron and fir?
“They’re looking for you inside,” he said, motioning toward Marla with the handle of the rake.
“Who is?” she asked.
“Mr. Cahill,” Lars said as he approached. His expression was hard. Condemning. “Your husband.”
She couldn’t stop the flush that crawled up her neck.
“He brought the nurse he hired with him.” Lars’s voice was flat but there was disdain in the curve of his lip, silent accusations in his steely eyes. He nodded to them both, then walked past the swing set to a gardening shed.
“I guess I’d better meet my new keeper.”
“Is that what you think he is?”
“Don’t you?” She didn’t bother to hide her agitation. “Come on, Nick, does it look like I need a nurse?” She walked through the arbor and tossed her head. “You may as well come inside and watch the fireworks.”
“You think someone’s going to explode.”
“You bet I do and it might be me,” she said, hiking up the steps to the back door. “If Alex thinks I’m going to let him tell me what to do, he’d better think again.” She wiped her feet on a mat and walked inside. “I’m not letting anyone put a leash on me. Especially not my husband,” she said hotly, working herself up to an argument.
Together they hurried up the stairs to the sitting room where Alex and a tall, thin man with a short clipped beard were talking.
“There you are!” Alex said as he sat on the edge of a wingback chair, his hands clasped between his knees, his attention on the other guy. “Christ, Marla, where were you? I checked your room and called for you and I was just about to have the place searched.”
“I was in the backyard.”
“In this weather?”
She didn’t answer. The wet shoulders of her jacket and raindrops on her face and the flush from the cold air should have been testament enough to her whereabouts.
“I thought you were in a meeting,” Nick said to Alex as he positioned himself near the fireplace. Flames crackled in the grate and the smell of burning wood wafted through the room.
“It was canceled so I thought I’d show Tom around. Marla, Nick, this is Tom Zayer. He’s Marla’s nurse.”
“Do I know you?” Nick asked, his eyes trained on the nurse. “Have we met?”
“Could be,” Tom said. “I see a lot of people. I worked Emergency at Bayside and I had a job with Cahill House.”
Nick’s eyebrows became one. “You look familiar.”
Tom snorted and lifted a shoulder. “It’s a small world.”
“It was at the hospital. I’m sure I saw you there.”
“Could have been.”
Marla managed a smile she didn’t feel. Though her fists strained to clench she stretched her fingers and tried to keep a tight rein on her temper. “It’s good to meet you,” she said to the nurse. She offered her hand and shook his. “Unfortunately my husband’s made a big mistake. Despite my appearance, I really don’t need someone to look after me. I’m sure that Alex will be more than glad to pay you for your trouble, but I really won’t be needing your services.”
“Of course you will,” Alex cut in, and Tom, dropping Marla’s hand, stepped back, held up his hands as if surrendering, and looked from Marla to Alex.
“Hey, I’m not stepping into this.”
“It’s not a problem.” Alex shot Marla a look that was meant to drop the argument in its tracks. It didn’t.
“I’m fine. I don’t need a nurse. It would be a waste of Tom’s time, my patience and your money.”
“This was Phil’s idea,” Alex said, his jaw clenched, a vein beginning to throb over his eye. Marla guessed it wasn’t often anyone stood up to him . . . especially not his wife. “He’s the doctor.”
“Then I’ll talk to Phil,” she said, the reins of her temper slipping through her fingers.
“Hey, if this is a problem,” Tom interjected, “maybe you two should work it out.”
Alex pointed a finger at Tom. “It’s not a problem. I obviously just should have discussed it with my wife in more detail.”
“A lot more detail,” Marla said, just as Eugenia’s footsteps and Coco’s nails could be heard in the hall. Great, just what she needed.
The older woman was stripping off her gloves as she rounded the corner and Coco shot into the room, barking like mad, making a pest of herself. “Hush!” Eugenia snapped as the dog yapped at Tom. “Now! Or you’ll go to your kennel. Sit!” For once the animal obeyed. “Alex, Nick . . . Marla,” she greeted. “I see you’ve met Tom.”
“You know him?” Marla asked.
“Oh, yes, at Cahill House when he volunteered for us. How are you?” she asked the nurse.
“Fine, fine,” he said nervously as Coco started barking again. “Maybe I should just go.”
“Marla doesn’t want a nurse,” Alex explained.
“But why not?” Eugenia was crestfallen. “You do want to get better, don’t you, dear? As fast as you can.”
“Of course.”
“Then it’s decided.”
“No way,” Marla shot back.
“Hey, I don’t need this.” Tom was reaching for his briefcase. “You folks should sort this out.”
Alex stood his ground. “There’s nothing to sort out. You’re hired and that’s that. We’ll take your things up to the servants’ quarters and if you give me a minute, my wife and I will discuss it.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
Eugenia picked up the bad vibes. “Why don’t you come with me and I’ll give you a tour of the house,” she offered. “Nick . . . would you like to come along?”
“I’ve seen it,” he said stiffly, but caught the hint and walked out of the room as Eugenia ushered Tom upstairs.
Coco barked wildly.
“Shut up!” Marla growled at the dog and stamped her foot hard enough to jar her bones. “No more! Do you hear me?”
Dark eyes sparked. The little pedigreed thing seemed about to yap again, but with a disgruntled woof turned and, tail tucked between her short white legs, scuttled after Eugenia and the nurse.
“Miserable beast,” Marla muttered as she turned her attention to Alex. “I don’t need a nurse or a babysitter or whatever it is you think you hired,” she whispered, once she thought she was alone with her husband. “And don’t give me that garbage about me not knowing what’s best for me or that the doctor insists, okay, because I’m not buying it. Not one word.”
“Maybe this isn’t just about you,” Alex said, a vein becoming pronounced over his left eye. “Maybe it’s about Mother and Cissy and my peace of mind. How do you think I feel leaving you here with just my elderly mother or teenage daughter to look after you?”
“I don’t need looking after.”
“Of course you do,” he snapped, anger flaring in his eyes.
“I’m a grown woman and this house is crawling with servants. There’s Carmen and Fiona and Lars and God-knows-who-else!”
“None of whom have any medical training to speak of !” His expression was beyond exasperation and he, like Nick only moments before, clapped his hands on her shoulders. His eyes snapped fire. Marla had the feeling he wanted to shake some sense into her. “For God’s sake, Marla, for once in your life, think of others, will you?” he demanded. “This is a rough time for all of us. And things aren’t getting any better. I’ve still got the demands of the business, you know.”
“You don’t have to worry about me,” she said, but some of her anger was dissip
ating, her self-righteous martyrdom flagging at the desperation etched across his features. Was it for her? Or himself? A thousand emotions tore through her, and in an instant she remembered another time, on this very floor, the feel of his hands over her upper arms. She flashed to the rage in his flushed face, the vein, the very same vein throbbing in his forehead. Bitch, he’d snarled, or had it been someone else? The fingers digging into her forearms had been there before, hard, steely, causing a white-hot pain. How many times had they replayed this same ugly scene?
She must’ve paled, her horror shining in her eyes because it was as if he suddenly realized what he was doing and dropped his hands to his sides.
“Hell, Marla, would you just, for once, not fight it?” he asked and ran shaky fingers through his hair. The fire crackled and hissed in the grate and some classical strains of music wafted on the air, at odds with the tension in the room and the rain spitting against the windowpanes. Alex reached into his pocket for a pack of Marlboros and shook one out. “Let me take care of you.”
Sagging into a chair, Marla dropped her head to her hands. “I . . . I remember . . . that we fought,” she said as she heard the click of his lighter. She looked up to find him inhaling hard on the cigarette, then walking to the mantel. “And now . . . now you lock your doors.” She glanced up at him, her head beginning to throb. “I wanted to get into the office, to use the computer, but I couldn’t.”
“Sometimes I have sensitive files in my office. Files from the office or the hospital or Cahill House. I don’t want the staff to find them.”
She flashed on the file cabinets she’d seen in his office. Couldn’t they be locked? He didn’t have to shut off the entire suite of his rooms, did he?
“I would like to think the staff is honest,” she said.
“They are. I’m just cautious. Because of my position.”
Or because you have something to hide—something else?
“It makes me feel more like an outsider.”
“It shouldn’t.” With the hand holding his cigarette he rubbed his temple, as if fighting a nagging headache.
