He shook his head, but there was a smile in his eyes. "I think you mean that you'd rather have someone who's exactly wrong for you."
Kate answered softly, "Maybe I would."
He got up and came around her desk. Kate stood to meet him. He touched her arms lightly, and his eyes were warm. There was no awkwardness as Kate rested her hands against his chest and they kissed.
His lips were soft and warm and pleasant. His kiss was thorough and leisurely and enjoyable. But that was all it was. Just a kiss.
When they parted, they both knew, and they both smiled. Jeff said gently, "Do fireworks ever happen the first time?"
Kate's smile began to fade, and it was a struggle to maintain it. Unexpectedly, her eyes misted over. She replied, with a strange hoarseness to her voice, "Sometimes."
He looked at her without reprimand or demand. "At this point in my life, Kate," he said simply, "I'm not sure how much I care about the fireworks. I think it's more important to find security, compatibility and permanence." He smiled. "I'm getting too old for surprises."
Kate fdt a wave of sadness that was inexplicably mixed with something else—wonder, because until this moment she had never realized what it was she really wanted. She said softly, "Funny. I used to think the same thing."
And then she stepped away from him, a hundred half-formed thoughts bombarding her. She was suddenly seized by the urge to be moving, to be alone, to try to sort through what her mind was trying to tell her. She looked at Jeff, smiling with a brightness that was half relief, half questioning happiness. *'Jeff, thank you," she said sincerely. "For caring, for wanting me. But we both know nothing is happening between us. We're great business partners and a perfect medical team, but to try to make it into anything more would make us both uncomfortable. And it's good that we found out now."
He looked at her for a moment, and then one comer of his mouth turned down in a wry admission of the truth. "Well—" he sighed "— it was a good idea."
She smiled and leaned forward and brushed his cheek with a kiss. "Yes, it was." She turned to go.
"Dinner is still open," he called after her, but Kate was hurriedly gathering up her purse and her bag. She felt suddenly almost breathless with the need to examine the things that were just beginning to occur to her.
"Thanks," she returned on her way out the door. "Another time." She paused with a wave and a grin. "My treat!"
Without thinking about it, she drove toward her father's house. Things were beginning to make sense to her, and she was not at all certain she liked the picture that was forming. It was an exciting picture, to be sure, thrilling and hopeful but disturbing nonetheless. She needed someone to talk to. And because she couldn't talk to Kevin, her father would have to do.
She had been so certain that what had developed between her and Kevin had been nothing more than the result of the crisis they had survived during the storm. But Jeff had been with her during the storm, too. He had, figuratively if not literally, saved her life. She had looked up from a state of near panic, and he had been there, calm and controlled, and he had seen her through it. He had actually given her more technical support than Kevin had. She had depended on Jeff more during those nightmarish hours than she had Kevin. She would never forget that horrid stretch of makeshift surgery; no two people could share something like that and remain unchanged.
But when fear and shock had overtaken her, it had not been Jeff's strong chest against which she had broken down and sobbed. It had not been Jeff in whose arms she felt safe enough to sleep. She had not fallen in love with Jeff.
By all rights she should have. Jeff was attractive, articulate, intelligent, good-natured. They had everything in common, up to and including an office and a practice. He had stood by her side through the most demanding crisis in her life, and she had let him share the most protected part of her life—her patients. But he had no place in her heart, because Kevin was already there. He always had been.
The most astounding part was that it had taken Kate this long to realize it. It still made no sense—she still didn't know how to deal with it—but the truth was undeniable. She had loved Kevin long before the storm brought them together. And she loved him still.
Her father didn't answer her first ring, but Kate was persistent. She saw his car in the driveway and knew he was home. She was about to use her key when she heard his disgruntled voice on the other side of the door. He flung it open with a scowl on his face.
He looked as though he had just flung on his clothes, which Kate found peculiar for the middle of the afternoon. His belt was unbuckled, his shirt was unbuttoned, and his hair was rumpled. She was about to comment on his appearance when the scowl on his face faded to resignation and he opened the door wider. "Come in," he said.
And then he did the most startling thing. He turned and called ova: his shoulder, "Honey, it's Kate. Come on out."
Shock was the mildest of words to describe what Kate felt as Iris, her employee, part-time mother and longtime friend, came out of the bedroom, wearing only Jason Larimer's robe. Of the two women, Iris seemed the more composed, although she was far from comfortable in the situation, it was obvious. Kate felt her face go every shade from white to scarlet, and she couldn't say a word.
Her father looked at her with dry and distant amusement. "If it makes you feel any better," he said, "we're getting married."
He extended his hand for Iris, and she came forward, wrapping her fingers around his in an age-old lover's gesture. The worry on her face was softened momentarily by tenderness as she glanced at Jason, and then she looked at Kate. "Kate," she said, ''I hope you're not too upset."
Kate sank to the nearest chair.
Jason cast an amused glance at Iris. "What did I tell you? She never suspected a thing."
The two of them sat on the sofa across from Kate, her father looking wearily expectant. Iris looking nervous. And all Kate could manage was "Why did you keep it such a secret?''
Her father laughed broadly. "Secret! Little girl, everybody in town knows but you! We were beginning to think we'd have to send you an engraved invitation to the wedding before you'd catch on. You can be so blind sometimes, Katie."
Kevin's voice, eyes sparkling tolerantly. "You're so blind sometimes, Katie." He had known even then. Perhaps because he saw with his heart and not just his eyes.
Iris said quickly, "Kate, it's my fault, I'm afraid. I was afraid you wouldn't approve, and I thought we should approach you slowly."
Kate's eyes grew wide. "Approve?" She was having enough trouble just adjusting to this, much less deciding whether she approved. "Why wouldn't I?"
Iris and Jason shared a glance that was so filled with relief and affection that if ever there had been any doubts on Kate's part, they were erased. And now that the truth had a chance to sink in, Kate discovered that she did approve, wholeheartedly. If she had ever considered matchmaking for her father—which of course she hadn't—Iris would have been the woman she would have chosen. Her earliest memories were of the two of them as a team; Iris had almost been part of the family all these years. It was just that she had never pictured the two of them romantically, and adjusting to changes was not something Kate did well—as she had proved with Kevin.
Puzzled, she said, "But how long... I mean, when did this start?"
Iris smiled. "You know how it was, Kate. Your father and I have be«i together so long it's difficult to say exactly when we fell in love. We just sort of grew to love each other."
"After your mother died," Jason added, "especially in these last few years, since I retired. Iris and I have been seeing each other differently, I suppose. Only we were both too comfortable," he added ruefully, "or maybe just too damn cussed, to do anything about it." And he sobered. "Until the night of the storm and we realized how close we came to losing each other. Life's too short, Katie. I made up my mind then not to waste any more of it."
He looked at Iris, and Iris returned softly, her eyes only on his, "So did I."
&nbs
p; "You told me one time," Kate murmured, half to herself, "that the storm didn't really change anything; it just made us see more clearly what was already there."
Her father returned his attention to Kate. "Did I? Then I was right."
"Daddy, what would you say if I told you I was marrying Jeff Brandon?"
Iris looked shocked; Jason's brows drew together in a piercing glare. "I'd say you were a damn fool."
Kate couldn't help grinning as she got up from the chair. New discoveries, insane hopes and absurd desires were bounding and buoying inside her until she felt as if she could fly. "That's what I thought you'd say."
She swept over to the sofa and embraced them both swiftly. "Congratulations, you two. I couldn't be happier."
She was at the door before her startled father thought to ask, "Wait a minute—what did you come here for?"
"Just some advice to the lovelorn," she called back. "Thanks for giving it to me."
She closed the door behind her, and Iris looked at Jason curiously. "What do you suppose she meant by that?"
He looked worried. "I don't know."
Iris's brows came together thoughtfully. "You don't think she was serious about Dr. Brandon, do you?"
Jason looked at the woman who had brought him love again after so many years, and he came to a decision. "I'll tell you one thing," he said firmly. "I'm not interested in taking that chance. It's about time somebody put a stop to this nonsense. It might as well be me."
He reached for the telephone.
Chapter Thirteen
"Will somebody get me wardrobe?'* Kevin shouted. "How many times do I have to ask?"
Wearily, the director rose and crossed over to him. "Whaf s the problem now, Kevin?"
Kevin turned to him, snapping, "You tell me! Just look at this shirt!'' He wore a denim jacket embroidered on the back with a brilliant multicolored eagle and beneath it a screen-print T-shirt with a red abstract design. It was the design he seemed to be objecting to. "What the hell is this supposed to be, anyway?" He gestured furiously. "It looks like a damn spaghetti stain." He stripped off the jacket—at five hundred dollars a shot, he went through approximately two of them a week—and let it drop to the ground. Then he peeled off the shirt and threw it in the director's face.
"All right, babe. Hey, no problem," the other man soothed. He balled up the shirt and thrust it at a passing technician. "So we get you another shirt." Then, at the top of his lungs, he yelled, "Wardrobe!"
"And another thing," Kevin continued shortly. He picked up a copy of the script and gave it a contemptuous thump with his fist. "Who writes this damn dialogue? Why don't the women on this show ever get to say anything besides 'Oh, Colt, I don't know what I'd do without you'? Real women don't talk like that!"
His female guest star gave him a grateful look, but the director only patted his shoulder. "That's why they call it fantasy, babe," he explained patiently, and Kevin thrust the script at him.
"Fix it," he advised darkly, and turned on his heel and stalked away.
In passing, someone slipped a black shirt over his arms; someone else scurried to drape his jacket over his shoulders like a cape. Kevin walked faster.
A canopy had been set up on the lot to protect a wet bar and a couple of chairs from the glare of the noon sun, and it was there Kevin found Carl waiting for him. "It's about time you got here," he greeted him ungraciously. "I called you over an hour ago." He took a club soda from the ice bucket and popped the cap.
"My feet are like wings sahib,'' Carl replied lazily, but his expression was alert. He didn't make house calls to the set except in case of emergency. This emergency of Kevin's had been building for weeks. Perhaps months.
He settled back in a chair with something more potent than a club soda and watched Kevin dispassionately. The network's highest-paid star had lost about ten pounds over the summer; the cameras loved it, but Kevin thought it made him look sick. For a while after returning from Mississippi, Carl had worried that his most lucrative client might indeed be ill—or trying to make himself so— but after a while he had straightened up, started working out and getting some sun. He looked fine on camera. The weight loss made him look tougher. The scar on his shoulder had worked out well, too; Kevin had been right—they had written it in as a bullet wound and written the season opener around it. It was only off camera that it became obvious things weren't so fine with Kevin Dawson.
"Notice you're keeping up the temper tantrums," Carl commented, sipping his drink. "That's fine, old chap, just fine. Make them think you're dissatisfied. Then we'll strike for a bigger contract next year."
Kevin watched the bubbles dance as he poured the club soda into a glass. He said mildly, "I'm glad you brought that up." He took his glass, strolled over to a chair and settled down. He looked Carl straight in the eyes. He said, "I want out."
Carl was impassive. "Out of what?"
"Out of this show."
"Impossible." Carl waved a languid hand, as though the concept did not even merit serious rebuttal.
But Kevin's eyes were steady, the set of his jaw firm. Carl had a moment to reflect that Kevin looked calmer at that moment than he had seen him in months, and that worried him. "My contract is up with this season," Kevin said without qualification. "I'm not going to renew."
Absolutely nothing registered on Carl's face. He was a pro. "Would it trouble you too much if one inquired why?"
Kevin looked down into his glass for a moment, took a sip and then met Carl's eyes again. There was nothing in his expression but calm resolve. "I've outgrown it," he said simply.
Carl drank from his glass without ever losing eye contact with Kevin. "It will take a bit more than that, dear boy."
If there ever had been a doubt that this was a spur of the moment decision, a threat or another one of Kevin's recent and inexplicable lapses into temperamental behavior, it was erased by Kevin's next words. This was obviously something about which Kevin had thought long and hard; it occurred to Carl to notice that this was, in fact, the first time since he had known him that Kevin had seemed sure about anything.
"The image has worn out," he explained. "I don't have room in my life for the schedule anymore; too many important things are falling by the wayside. I'm not the same person who developed Colt Marshall, and I don't believe in him anymore." He shrugged, then smiled. "Didn't you ever wake up one morning, Carl, and realize that you hate what you do?"
Carl's gaze was steady. "Every day." He lifted his glass again. It was almost empty. "Now, assuming that this peculiar madness still possesses you when it comes time to actually renegotiate your contract, what is it, exactly, that you plan to do? Retire to the Bahamas and weave baskets? Dogsled in Alaska? Or perhaps settle down with your doctor friend in Victory, Mississippi, and make babies?"
Kevin's eyes grew very hard, like fired glass. It was an amazing thing to see. Kevin had always been such a placid, malleable personality, but lately—most especially when one happened to mention that unfortunate little burg in Mississippi—he acquired characteristics that made even Carl hesitate. He had never realized before that beneath all the fuss and feathers there might be a force to be reckoned with in Kevin Dawson.
Kevin said coldly, "It's Victoria Bend." And he looked as though he might say something else, something both he and Carl would regret, and both men tensed for it. Then Kevin stood abruptly and paced back over to the bar. His movements were tight and his voice, when he spoke, very restrained. "Right now, I want to start doing films. And I want to look at some good parts. None of this hackneyed fluff, either. I want something solid.''
Carl lifted a mild eyebrow. "Was it a mere year ago I was begging you to expand your horizons? You told me then, if I recall, that you weren't interested. 'Not ready,' I believe, was the term you used."
Kevin turned, bracing his arms against the bar. His eyes were still very cold. "Well, I'm ready now. If acting lis the only thing I can do, I may as well do it right. What about that new Morgan property? Everyone in t
his town has seen it but me."
Carl dismissed it out of hand. "Not for you, matie. The male lead is a psychotic; murders his wife and chilidren. Your fans would commit mass suicide were they to see you play a role like that."
"It sounds like a challenge," Kevin insisted stubbornly. "It's exactly what I want a chance at."
Carl was getting worried. "Now, look here, my friend—"
"Mr. Dawson, there you are!" A young man ran up, panting. Kevin looked at him impatiently. "There's a phone call for you in your dressing room. It sounds urgent."
Kevin scowled and turned back to Carl. "Take a message. Now, you listen to me, Carl—"
"But it's long distance! A Dr. Larimer—"
Kevin felt his heart stop, and when it started beating again, he thought his head would explode. He took two steps toward his dressing room and then turned back to Carl. "Get me that script," he commanded, and then he ran.
Kevin burst into the trailer, flinging the door open so hard that it bounced on its hinges and then slammed itself closed with a bang. His palms were so slippery that he almost dropped the receiver as he snatched it up, and his heart was pounding so loudly in his ears that he was certain he wouldn't be able to hear the voice on the other end. After all this time, all this waiting.
"Katie?" he said breathlessly into the phone, and his disappointment was so acute it twisted in his stomach with a physical pain when he heard the reply.
"So," Jason Larimer said with a low chuckle, "that answers one question, anyway."
Kevin had to sit down. He felt foolish and hurt and bitterly disillusioned. He should have known. Katie was no silly romantic given to sudden changes of heart. She had said she didn't want him. No, she had said she didn't love him. She knew her own mind, her own feelings. She wouldn't change.
And how long was he going to nurture this insane dream that one day she would?
"Hello, Dr. Larimer. How are you domg?" It was an effort to make his voice sound normal. His throat hurt, as though with the tightness of tears. That made him feel like a child, and he was impatient with himself.
After The Storm (Men Made in America-- Mississippi) Page 20
