Warm Hearts

by Barbara Delinsky

  Returning to Diane, Oliver gave her a sedative and helped her upstairs to a bedroom at the opposite end of the house from the one she’d torn apart. All the while he talked quietly with her, demanding little, letting her speak as she wished. The housekeeper brought the glass of warm milk he’d requested; he supported Diane while she drank. Then, denying the gremlins that thudded impatiently inside him, he sat by her bedside until the sedative took effect, leaving only when he was sure she was asleep.

  * * *

  Leslie wished she were out of it. Her mind was in a turmoil from which neither the sobering drive home nor her arrival at her own warm, familiar house nor a glass of her best and most mellow wine could rescue her. She picked up the mail, looked through it, put it down. She turned on the television, ran the gamut of channels, switched it off. She went to the refrigerator, stared at its contents, shut the door without touching a thing.

  Wiping a single tear from her eye, she climbed the stairs to her bedroom and lay down in the dark. She felt hurt and tired, stretched taut by the emotions that gathered into a tight knot deep inside.

  When the phone rang, she simply glared at it. Then it rang a second, a third and a fourth time and she realized that it might well be Brenda calling in concern about Diane.

  “Hello?” she began cautiously, prepared to hang up if it was Oliver.

  It was Tony. “Thank goodness,” he breathed. “You got home all right.”

  “Of course I did,” she answered in quiet relief, then growing irritation. “What could have happened?”

  “The way you were driving, I wasn’t sure.”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Are you?”

  “Relatively speaking.”

  “He wasn’t pleased that you’d left.”

  “Tough. How’s Diane?”

  “He took her to bed.”

  “Oh, great.”

  “He brought her upstairs. He gave her a sedative and said he’d talk with her until she drifted off.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then he’ll probably go after you.”

  Leslie scowled in frustration. “Then what does he have planned for Diane? One sedative and a good-night talk is hardly going to solve her problem.”

  “He’ll see her in his office tomorrow.”

  “That’s good of him.”

  “It is, given the fact that he’s booked solid, and that he’s got serious reservations about treating her, what with his relationship with you. Come on, Leslie. Ease up.”

  “Relationship with me,” she muttered to herself. “What relationship? A relationship based on lies is nothing!”

  Tony started to argue, then caught himself, fearing he’d only make things worse. “Listen,” he said in his most placating tone, “Oliver will explain everything. I’ve got to run. I’ll catch you later.”

  “Sure,” Leslie murmured, hanging up the phone and lying back in the dark again. She didn’t know how much time passed, only knew that she couldn’t motivate herself to do anything but lie there and wonder how she’d managed to get hurt again. It hurt. It did hurt. As the numbness slowly wore off, the sting had begun.

  When the front doorbell rang, she wasn’t surprised. She’d known he would come. The male mind was very predictable when it came to bruised egos, and she’d bruised his with her refusal to hang around at Diane’s house. No, it hadn’t taken psychiatric wizardry to anticipate his move.

  She lay in the dark listening. The bell rang again and again. When he began to pound on the thick wood, she simply turned onto her side and huddled in a tighter ball. When the back bell rang, again followed by knocking, she flipped onto the other side. She heard the vague echo of her name and found perverse satisfaction in his annoyance. His ego certainly was bruised; small solace for the tatters to which he’d reduced hers!

  To her amazement, he gave up after several minutes. She grew more alert, listening closely for any sounds of his prowling outside. But what could she possibly hear? Her bedroom was on the second floor. It was the middle of winter. Snow blanketed the ground, providing a natural cushion for footsteps, while thick storm windows blocked out not only the cold but extraneous noise as well.

  It was spooky, she had to admit, lying here, wondering if she was being stalked. She sat up to listen. Slipping quietly from the bed, she stood at the door. Everything was still. Had he left, the coward? Had he tossed in the towel so easily? Then it had been illusion, what she’d imagined he’d felt on St. Barts. Illusion and deception—all she detested.

  A sound caught her ear and brought her instantly alert. A door shutting. In the kitchen? Then she heard footsteps and nearly panicked. Someone was in her house. Someone had broken in. The alarm … what had happened to the alarm? Had she actually forgotten to reengage it after she’d come in? Everything had been locked; she was sure of it. Hand on her thudding heart, she stood rooted to the spot, thinking she should call the police but waiting, waiting.…

  “Leslie! Where are you? I know you’re here!”

  Her heart continued to thud, despite the wave of relief that swept over her. The footsteps came and went as he passed from area rugs to hardwood floors and back. He searched the living room, the dining room, the library, the den. On stocking feet she walked quietly from her bedroom door to the top of the stairs. Though the lower floor was bathed in light, she stood in darkness, waiting.

  When Oliver reached the stairs and looked up, he saw her instantly. Hand on the end curl of the wood bannister, one foot on the lowest rung of the steps, he stared up at her for a moment.

  “Come on down, Leslie,” he said evenly, his manner tautly reined. “We have to talk.”

  “How did you get in?” Her voice was as tight as his.

  “Through the garage. The lock on the inner door was easy to pick.”

  “That’s breaking and entering, Oliver. Another of your surprise talents?” She hadn’t moved, finding small comfort in the advantage of her raised position.

  “The fact is,” he snarled, whipping off his overcoat and throwing it over the bannister, “that it was a lousy lock. You should be better protected than that. I’m surprised no one’s broken in before.”

  “Someone has. I have an alarm system.”

  “It did one hell of a job just now.”

  “It wasn’t on.”

  “Swell! Your insurance company would be real pleased! So you’re one of those who feels that the little sticker on the front window is enough to scare away a thug?”

  “It didn’t scare you away. What would you have done if the whole system had gone off, and you’d found yourself surrounded by cops? It’s hooked in to the police station, you know.”

  “I would have told them the truth. And I certainly would have had your attention.”

  “Oh, you’ve got my attention, all right,” she spat. “You’ve had that since the first time I found you in my bed. Thing is that I could get you for perjury.”

  Oliver simmered. “Come downstairs, Leslie. I can’t talk standing here like this staring up into the dark. I’d like to see your face.”

  Her fingers tightened on the wood railing. “Why? So you can gauge my reactions and gear your words accordingly? So you can analyze my frame of mind and plot your counterattack? So you can—”

  “Leslie! Get down here!” he thundered, then swore softly and lowered his voice. “Please. It’s been a long day for both of us. I’m tired and no more wild about this turn of events than you are.”

  “I bet you’re not,” she bounded on, driven by the anguish festering within. “I bet you’d have liked to have kept the charade going a while longer. Fun.”

  Oliver shot her a withering stare, reached up to loosen his tie, then turned and headed for the den. In her mind’s eye, Leslie saw him approach the bar, remove a glass, open the small refrigerator below, extract the same bottle she had earlier and uncork it. Only when she heard the refrigerator door close with a thud did she very slowly start down the stairs.

  He met her at it
s bottom holding two glasses, his own and the one he’d refilled for her. Head high, she took it from him without a word and padded softly into the living room. It was a larger room, not quite as intimate as the den and, for that very reason, never a favorite of hers. On this occasion, she mused, it would serve just fine. She needed the space. She also needed four-inch spikes; she felt suddenly much smaller and more insignificant than she had before. It took all her courage to settle calmly into the armchair and tip her head at its most arrogant angle toward Oliver.

  She waited in silence, determined to do nothing to put him at ease. For ease was the last thing she felt. Looking at Oliver, vitally aware of his very presence in her home, she felt as though she were being torn apart. Strange, when Joe had come to her apartment that last time, she’d felt angry and strong and vindictive. Now, though, angry and vindictive were simply for show, while strong was nonexistent. What did she feel? She ached—inside, outside, everywhere.

  Oliver took several gulps of wine, then tugged his tie looser and unbuttoned the top collar of his shirt. Anchoring one hand in the pocket of his slacks, he looked down at her. “I was going to tell you this weekend,” he said quietly.

  “Were you.” It wasn’t a question, rather a statement whose blatant mockery was quickly punished by the piercing arrow of his gaze.

  “I would have told you as soon as we arrived in the mountains, once I’d isolated you from the world so you wouldn’t be able to run out of the house and barrel off in your car. That was a dumb thing to do, Leslie!”

  “That’s strange.” She gritted her teeth against the hurt. “I thought it was pretty smart. I wasn’t needed there. Diane was well taken care of.”

  “And what about us?”

  “We were well taken care of, too.”

  “Well taken care of … as in finished?” he asked, his voice grating. “Not quite.”

  She sipped her wine without tasting a drop. Then she took another sip, a larger one in search of the inner warmth that totally eluded her. She drew her legs up under her and wrapped her arms about her waist. “I think so,” she murmured. “You’ve ruined everything.”

  “Only if you decide that I have,” he countered firmly. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders rigid. “I’m not Joe Durand, Leslie. I did nothing immoral. And I didn’t set out to hurt you. That was the last thing I wanted to do.”

  “You lied.”

  “I never lied.”

  “You said you were a model. Not a psychiatrist. A model.”

  “I am a model. You’ve seen my work. I pose every so often just for the fun of it. And I never said I wasn’t a psychiatrist. I just—” his voice lowered “—didn’t say that I was.”

  “And that’s not lying?”

  “Technically, no.”

  “Then you’re splitting hairs, Oliver. You let me go on believing that … that … oh, what the hell.” Eyes moist, she looked away and took a fast drink of her wine.

  “Go on.”

  And give him the satisfaction of seeing how badly she ached? “No.”

  “You disappoint me,” he taunted. “You’re a woman of strong opinions. You mean to say that you’ve suddenly gone private with them? Where’s the woman who asked point-blank why I’d choose to spend a quiet week at her Caribbean villa rather than live it up at a nearby hotel?”

  “Maybe she’s wary of the answers. Maybe she knows not to trust them anymore.” Finding small satisfaction in seeing Oliver wince, she once again sank into a dark, brooding silence. Bowing her head, she didn’t see him set his wine down on the nearby coffee table. Only when his hands settled on the arms of her chair did she grow aware of the large body bent over her.

  “That’s bull,” his voice rumbled near her ear. “Her pride’s been hurt, and she’s vulnerable and in love—”

  Leslie snapped her head up. “She is not!”

  “No?” he hummed, his lips near her cheek.

  Momentarily unable to function, she closed her eyes. He was close and warm and beckoning. His smell, clean and natural even at the end of the day, titillated her senses. All week she’d waited to be with him. She wanted him so badly.…

  “No,” she whispered, reinforcing the lie. If he could do it, so could she.

  “I love you, Leslie,” he murmured, his own eyes closed, his own senses absorbing her closeness. All week he’d waited to be with her. He wanted her so badly.…

  “No!” she screamed, taking him by surprise and bolting past him. Oblivious to the slosh of wine over her hand, she ran to the fireplace and turned to face him. “No!” she cried, suddenly shaking all over. “I don’t want to hear it! You had plenty of time to say it before. You had plenty of time to say everything before. Now it’s too late. I can’t believe any of it!”

  “Leslie—” He started toward her.

  “Don’t come near me!” she yelled, cringing against the marble. When he continued forward, she tried to escape to the side, only to have her shoulders caught in the vise of his hands. “Let me go! I don’t want you touching me!”

  “You’ll hear me out,” he growled, then grunted when her foot hit his shin. Rather than releasing her, he slid his hands to her upper arms for better leverage, then with one hand relieved her of her endangered wineglass. “Childish, Les. Really childish.”

  “You must be used to it,” she gritted, trying to push against his arms and free herself. “You’re the expert on temper tantrums.” She twisted and turned, but to no avail. Even when she brought her knee up, she was thwarted. Anticipating her ploy, he easily blocked the move.

  “You told me about that little trick once before. Remember? You shouldn’t have tipped your hand.”

  “I didn’t think I’d need to try it on you. Let … me … go!”

  “No way,” he growled, all but carrying her to the sofa. “You’re going to hear me out if it kills us both.”

  “And then where will Diane be? Where will your other precious patients be? Where will the adoring public in love with the Homme Premier man be?”

  Having shoved her into an upholstered corner, he stood over her, his hands on the sofa arm and back, barring her escape. “I don’t give a good goddamn about anyone but you. And you will listen to what I have to say! Now, do I have to restrain you, or do you think you can try to behave yourself?”

  “I am behaving myself,” she said quietly.

  He stared at her suddenly still form for a minute, then straightened. Taking a long, ragged breath, he walked to the far end of the room, turned back toward her, and tucked both hands in his pockets.

  “When Tony suggested I spend a week on St. Barts, it sounded like a super idea. I was tired. I needed a vacation. When he told me about you and his little joke, I wasn’t deterred. It sounded like fun, entirely harmless. Tony said you were the independent sort and that you’d probably go about your business as though I wasn’t even there. Other than sharing laughs that first day, I didn’t expect a thing.”

  “Got slightly more than that, didn’t you,” she murmured morosely.

  “Slightly. I didn’t expect an adorable purple elf with a whopper of a head cold bounding into my bedroom to wake me up.”

  “Adorable?” She screwed up her face. “As in puppy? Something you trick into fetching slippers solely for the sake of a stale biscuit?”

  His tone softened. “Adorable as in fresh and pretty.”

  “Come off it, Oliver! I was sweaty and hot.” The last thing she needed was his sweet-talking, given her peculiar susceptibility to it.

  “Sweaty and hot, then fresh and pretty … and needing my care.” He came several steps closer. “You don’t know what that does to a man in this day and age, to feel needed.”

  She eyed him skeptically. “You’re needed all the time! Look at the way Diane needed you, not to mention the crew of unhappy people who must have brooded around Manhattan while you were away.”

  “Professionally, fine. I was talking personally. And on a personal level, it’s nice to feel needed once in a while.”r />
  “Polishes that image of the macho protector?”

  His lips thinned. “The image of the macho protector is nothing compared to the one you’re trying to project of the hard-bitten independent woman. Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Les.”

  She had no smart retort. He was right. She didn’t care for her tone any more than he did, and the fact that she was merely lashing out in anger did nothing to sweeten the bitter taste in her mouth. She dropped her gaze to the fingers clenched in her lap and listened as Oliver went on in a softer tone.

  “You saw me as the man from the ad. To tell you the truth, I kind of enjoyed it.” When she raised her head and took a breath to protest, he held up a hand. “No, no, Leslie. I’m not making fun of you. It was from a selfish standpoint that I enjoyed it. It was a new image for me. Believe it or not,” he said less surely, “I needed that.”

  “I don’t believe it,” she said, but without sarcasm. She was puzzled. It didn’t make sense. “What could possibly be wrong with being a psychiatrist?”

  “Do you like psychiatrists?”

  “No … but my situation is different. And my bias is strictly emotional. From an intellectual point of view, I respect the fact that you’ve had to make it through med school to get into psychiatry.”

  “Thank you,” he drawled with a touch of sarcasm of his own, then grew more firm. “But most people don’t think of that when they meet me. They think of how eager I must be to hear their problems, how good I must be at reading their minds, how neurotic I must be myself. When a psychiatrist meets people, they usually fall into two categories. There are those who treat him like he’s got the plague, who are aloof, who won’t go near him for fear that he’ll see something deep inside that they’d rather hide. And there are those who flock to him and tell him everything.” His face contorted. “Do you have any idea how boring that can be?”

  “Don’t you like your work?”