To Have and to Hold

by Diana Palmer

  "Yes, sir?" she asked quietly, unflinching.

  "I'd like to dictate one last letter before you leave for lunch," he said.

  She turned a smile on Horace and Brenda. "You two go ahead. I'll meet you at Tom's as soon as I can."

  "Suits me," Horace said, with a wink at Brenda.

  "Hello Mr. McCallum," he added in a voice like ice as he met the older man's eyes.

  McCallum only nodded, his gaze whipping back to Madeline.

  "We won't elope until you get there," Brenda called over her shoulder as they walked out and closed the door behind them, leaving Madeline alone with the big, quiet man.

  "He's your cousin," he said, making a statement out of what sounded like a question.

  "My first cousin," she replied dully.

  His eyes searched her face like a detective looking for an elusive clue. "Why in God's name didn't you tell me that?" he asked softly. "Why did you let me think...."

  "I owe you nothing!" she choked in a softly furious tone, her eyes warring with his. "Nothing, Mr. McCallum! If you like to think that I'm like that blonde you had with you last night, go ahead. I don't care what you think, what you do, where you go, or what happens to you. I don't care, do you hear me?! After next Friday, I don't ever want to see you again!"

  His eyes narrowed, this time as if in pain. "I hurt you very badly, didn't I, little girl?" he asked gently.

  Th at soft note in his voice made her want to cry. "You flatter yourself," she replied tightly.

  He searched her eyes deeply, his own eyes solemn, intense. "I know what it is to hurt," he told her. "I haven't stopped since the day they buried my son."

  Her eyes fell. "I'm sorry. But taking it out on me won't bring him back."

  "Is that what you think I was doing?" He laughed shortly. "It's just as well. Caring carries a high price, Burgundy, I don't intend ever paying it again. Go eat your lunch."

  She glanced toward his broad back as he stared out the window. "The letter...."

  "There wasn't one." He drew in a deep, bitter breath. "I wanted to apologize for making you cry this morning. I don't know how." He brushed his hair back from his brow. "I'm through crucifying you," he added, self-contempt lacing his words. "From now on, you're my secretary. I won't treat you any other way."

  She opened the door quietly and went out.

  ❧

  Things were subtly different after that. He treated her much as Mr. Richards had, as a valuable ally, a functioning piece of office equipment. There were no more harsh insults, no more barbed offhand remarks. He was polite, and courteous, and not much more.

  "You look like death walking," Brenda remarked one morning just before the weekend. "Are you going to make it the rest of the day?"

  "I'm tough," she reminded Brenda. "And unflappable. Remember?"

  The other girl studied her, the dark shadows under her eyes, the dangerously slender figure, the sadness in her eyes. "You're so very thin," she smiled wanly. "Maddy, can't I help?"

  "What do you have in mind, fattening me up on cream cakes?" she teased as she went to answer the insistent phone.

  The call was from a very irate caller who wanted to know, first, why the hell McCallum Corporation called itself a construction company. He went out to ask a lot more irate questions that questioned everything from the materials the company used to McCallum's parentage, and hung up before she could get out a reply.

  From that moment on, everything seemed to go backwards. There was a venomous fight between two of the girls in the typing pool that she had to break up. The flight she'd scheduled McCallum for on his New York trip was cancelled, and she had to reschedule it, which seemed to take forever. And then the accounting department manager called and wanted to know, in no uncertain terms, why their budget had been cut. As she tried to explain, the manager blew up and slammed the receiver in her face.

  That was when McCallum chose to call her in for dictation—and a lecture.

  She leaned back against the door, knowing by the look on his face that she'd done something wrong.

  "Jackson tells me he's booked at the Manitou Arms, and I'm staying at some godforsaken camp called Ark's Rest at that Canadian hunting preserve," he told her with a glare. "What the hell have you done?"

  Her lips started trembling, and she pressed them together to stop it. But the tears wouldn't be stopped, they rolled down her cheeks in giant droplets, all the more pathetic for their very silence.

  His eyes narrowed. "Burgundy," he whispered softly. He stepped away from the desk and held out his ams. "Come here, honey."

  Suddenly, he wasn't Mr. McCallum any more. He was Cal, and the weeks rolled back, and he spelled all she knew of security. Without thinking, she ran right into those hard, uncompromising arms and felt them swallow her up.

  He rocked her gently, holding her, smoothing her long hair, whispering words she didn't half hear against her temple.

  A handkerchief was pressed into one of the small hands clenched against his broad chest, and she wiped her eyes and blew her nose.

  "I'm sorry, it was just one more thing, and I've been cussed out three times already, and..." she whimpered.

  His lips brushed her forehead. "Hush, now," he murmured. "Hush, sweet."

  She took a deep, shaky breath, and looked up at him. His eyes were warm and dark gray, and there was something in them that she couldn't look away from.

  His big hand came up to rest against her cheek. It was warm and rough and vaguely caressing. "If you keep looking at me like that," he said in a deep, sensuous whisper, "something very unbusinesslike is going to happen between us."

  She flushed and quickly drew away from him, keeping her eyes lowered. "Excuse me," she said huskily. "A—about those reservations, Ark's Rest is just across the street from the other hotel, and it was the best I could do, sir."

  He muttered something that sounded like a suppressed curse and turned away. "All right, never mind. Take a letter."

  ❧

  The house was empty without Horace. He'd gone home two days ago, singing Brenda's praises to the skies. He promised to come back soon with such enthusiasm that Madeline began to wonder just how big an impression Brenda had made. That young lady wouldn't even talk about her two dates with the up and coming young lawyer, which meant, Madeline thought, that something was definitely going on.

  The solitude was endless, irritating. She wouldn't go into the front yard because that blonde octopus was still next door, lazing away in her very public swimming pool in a bikini that left everything hanging out. Husbands up and down the block were mowing their lawns that Saturday morning with a fervor that was simply unnatural. And they weren't looking where they were going, either, Madeline thought wickedly.

  She fed Cabbage and left her inside, strolling aimlessly down to the stream behind the house. She sat there for a long time, watching the water ripple, feeling the first peace she'd known in days. She lay back and closed her eyes, drinking in the shade and the scattered sounds of wind whispering against green leaves. And before long, they began to fade in and out and, finally disappear.

  Something woke her. A sound. A voice. She opened her eyes dazedly and saw an illusion sitting quietly just above her on the bank, his eyes dark at the distance watching her.

  "Cal!" she whispered sleepily.

  A glimmer of amusement danced in his eyes for an instant. "It's been a long time since you called me that," he remarked.

  Self-consciously, she dragged herself into a sitting position with a yawn. "How long have you been here?"

  "Just a few minutes. You looked like you could use the rest, so I let you sleep," he told her.

  "Oh." She glanced at him, toying with a twig to keep her hands busy. "Is something wrong at the office?"

  He shook his head, his eyes going to the stream. "Bess had to change. I wanted to see if the scenery had changed," he said with brutal frankness.

  "Won't she miss you?" she asked as cooly as she could.

  He turned those slate
gray eyes on her relentlessly. "She'd miss my money like hell." She averted her face. "Definitely your kind of woman," she replied.

  "Definitely," he agreed. "No responsibilities, no ties. Just what I want, when I want it, however the hell I want it."

  She fought a blush and lost. "How nice."

  He sighed harshly. "Just occasionally, a man saturated with champagne likes the taste of beer."

  "If you're tired of prostitutes, why not do penance by taking out a nun?" she asked.

  "I did. Remember?" he asked with a taunting smile.

  "I'd rather forget." She stood up. "I've got some laundry to do," she said, turning away.

  His big hands caught her waist, drawing her gently back until she could feel the hardness of his massive chest against her shoulder blades.

  His cheek nuzzled her temple. "Would you really rather forget?" he whispered deeply, moving his hands gently up her side. "I can still make you tremble, little girl; I can feel your pulse jump every time I touch you/'

  She caught his hands and stilled them. "Don't make fun of me," she pleaded shakily.

  His fingers tightened painfully. "I'm not making fun of you. Burgundy, I...."

  "Oh, there you are, Cal," came a husky, irritated female voice from behind them. The blonde glared at Madeline. "Robbing the cradles again?" she asked McCallum.

  He turned, and what the blonde saw in his eyes made her flinch. "Get back to the house and wait for me," he told her.

  "But, Cal..." she pouted.

  "Now." The single word had a contempt that brought a flush to the blonde's cheeks, but she went, quickly.

  Madeline folded her arms across her chest. "Don't let me keep you," she murmured.

  "I want to talk to you."

  She shrugged. "What is there to say that hasn't already been said?"

  He drew a deep breath. "I want things the way they were between us. I won't make any demands on you, in any way. But I want this wall to come down. I don't want to find myself a world away from you again."

  "You're Mr. McCallum," she said quietly, meeting his eyes.

  "I'm a man."

  She swallowed. "I...I don't know...."

  "We can try, damn it. Is that too much to ask?" he growled.

  She looked down at her sandals. "Is it wise to try to go back?"

  "I don't care," he said flatly."I hate like hell to watch television alone, and I haven't flown since that day I told you the truth."

  "It couldn't be for lack of offers to keep you company," she reminded him.

  "I can't spend my life in bed," he said with brutal frankness, ignoring her flaming blush.

  "There are other things."

  She broke the twig in her hands in half. "Just friends?" she emphasized.

  Something came and went in his eyes, but he nodded. "Just that."

  "All right."

  "Pax?" he asked with a smile.

  She answered it. "Pax."

  ❧

  The next morning she was awakened by a flurry of activity next door. A moving van was in the driveway; the blonde was cursing as she got into her red Jaguar, and minutes later everything was quiet. Madeline shook her head in confusion. A moving van on Sunday? She poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down dazedly at the breakfast bar, her blue caftan hanging limply around her slender body.

  There was a loud knock at the door a few minutes later, and she went to answer it with a puzzled frown.

  "You might offer me a cup of coffee," Cal said quietly, leaning against the carport wall in the casual clothes she'd first seen him in— dark trousers and a white knit shirt with a frayed collar.

  "What are you doing here?" she burst out, trying to hide a smile as he brushed past her and went to the cabinet to search for a cup.

  "Drinking coffee, if I could find a cup," he muttered, finally dragging out a cracked mug. He held it up. "My God, poverty row."

  "I don't use my good china for breakfast," she replied, aghast. "What are you doing here?" she repeated.

  He poured himself a cup of the thick black liquid and dragged out a stool to seat himself comfortably at the bar beside her. "I'm paying my first neighborly visit," he said causally. "No toast?"

  "Honestly!" She got up and took out two slices of bread, popping them into the toaster. "Neighborly?" she repeated, as if the words just began to make sense.

  "I traded with Bess. I hate apartments," he added.

  "And Suleiman...?" she asked.

  He smiled. "Sprawled on the floor in front of the couch, watching television. It's one of his peculiarities."

  She stared into her cup, trying not to let her happiness show. "How does Bess like the apartment?"

  He reached out a hand and tilted her head up to his. "I don't know, and I don't care. She's on her own now." His thumb brushed her lips slowly, gently. "It was over between us long ago, Burgundy. She was window dressing. Something decorative to keep my ghosts quiet."

  "Do they haunt you, Cal?" she asked softly.

  His eyes were unguarded for once, and she read the deep, quiet pain in them. "They haunt me. I was flying the plane."

  "Oh, Cal," she whispered, her face contorted with the pain she felt for him. "Oh, Cal, I'm so sorry!"

  He drew a heavy breath an d wrapped both hands around his mug.

  "You knew about Jen, I told you. But you don't know about Teddy. I haven't been able to talk about him, not since it happened." His eyes closed for a moment. "He was five years old, and if I lived for anything, I lived for that little boy. What I didn't feel for Jen, I felt for him. If he'd asked for the sun, I'd have gotten it for him, somehow. He wanted to go to the beach. There were storm warnings out, but I'd logged a lot of flying time, and he begged." He gripped the cup harder. "Jen grumbled about it. She didn't want to go, she had...other plans. But he wouldn't go without her, so I loaded them into the plane and we took off. We hadn't been in the air fifteen minutes when one of the engines was hit by lightning and went out. I did my damndest to land that plane, but we were over a forest and I couldn't keep her aloft. It took a whole day for the search party to get to the plane, and then they had to do it with pack mules, it was such an isolated spot. Jen was finished when we come down. But my boy...it took three hours, and my leg was broken. I couldn't move," he ended on a whisper. "I had to watch it...."

  Without a word she got up and put her arms around him, holding him, rocking him back against her, her head resting against his.

  "Life goes on," she whispered gently. "It has to."

  He caught her arms where they were locked around his chest and pulled her even closer, moving his head against hers. "Didn't I tell you that once?" he asked huskily.

  "Yes," she smiled. "I went on living, too. Although," she added, "you didn't make it very easy for me."

  "Of course I didn't," he growled. "I thought you'd given that balding adolescent what you wouldn't give me, and I wanted to kill both of you."

  "I—I thought we were just friends," she murmured.

  He drew her around to sit on the stool beside him, holding her by the arms gently while he searched her face from an unnerving proximity.

  "Do you remember that last night we spent at the Colmans'?" he asked softly. "Do you remember the way we kissed in the hallway that night—both of us so damned hungry, we could hardly bear to let go of each other? Was that friendship, Burgundy?" he asked quietly, holding her eyes.

  Her lips trembled as she met that heady gaze. "It...it was just...just physical attraction," she whispered.

  His big hands cupped her face, his eyes searched hers with a maddening intensity.

  "Is this...physical alone?" he whispered, and bending forward, fitted his mouth to hers with a practiced leisure that made her pulse do summersaults in her chest. She moaned softly, trying to pull away, and he let her.

  His eyes bored into hers. "That made you tremble all the way to your soul," he said gently. "I felt it."

  "It...it didn't mean..." she faltered, still feeling the warm pressure of his l
ips.

  "It's enough for a start." He finished his coffee and stood up. "Have dinner with me tomorrow night."

  "At...at home?" she asked helplessly.

  He studied her trembling mouth. "I don't think that's safe, honey, do you?" he asked with a wicked smile.

  She blushed. "Don't think I'm afraid...."

  He leaned down, brushing her mouth with his, hovering just above it as her head went back, her lips parting softly, unconsciously inviting.

  "Do you still think it's safe?" he murmured against her lips.

  "Cal..." she whispered mindlessly.

  "Stand up," he whispered back, bringing her gently up against his hard body, wrapping her against him with a slow, relentless pressure. "Now kiss me," he whispered at her lips. "Hard and slow, kiss me, Madeline."

  The sound of her name on his lips took the rest of her unvoiced protests right out of her mind. Unthinking, uncaring, she went on tiptoe and pressed her lips hard against his, using what skill he'd taught her, lifting her arms around his neck to draw him even closer.

  He drew back even as she felt the faint tremor run the length of his body. His eyes burned as they looked down into hers, dark with emotion, but strangely tender.

  "Now you tell me," he whispered. "Is it safe to spend an evening alone with me, like this?"

  Robbed even of speech, she shook her head, dazed, her eyes locked on the hard curve of his mouth as if it hypnotized her.

  "Do you want it again?" he taunted softly, his arms contracting around her slender body.

  Embarrassed, she pressed against his chest, and he laughed softly.

  His mouth pressed lightly at her forehead, and he let her go. "I'll pick you up at seven. And wear a dress," he added, winking as he went out the door.

  She went to bed early, puzzled, confused.

  But she didn't sleep.

  The next day at the office the difference in Madeline brought curious stares from Brenda and the other girls. She was happy for the first time in weeks, and she seemed to bloom like a rose.