Meghan looked at Lucy as if she were suddenly inspired with a superior idea.
“That’s it, Lucy.” Meghan grinned exultantly. “He’ll leave soon. And if he doesn’t, I’ll be leaving in a month or so anyway. If I can be pregnant for nine months, I can surely put up with him for one. At least he doesn’t make me nauseous,” she said, giggling. “Speaking of nausea, when will that go away? Greta’s not stupid, you know. If she catches me as pale as a ghost with a mouth full of crackers again, she’s going to start getting a little suspicious.”
Greta was suspicious, but not of Meghan’s physical condition.
“That big hunk of Texas called while you were out,” she reported, when the young attorney returned to her office.
“What big hunk of Texas?” Meghan inquired too casually.
“Well, how many big hunks of Texas have you met lately?” the older woman wanted to know.
Meghan’s gaze wandered around the room as she tried to recall the exact number.
After several seconds, Greta supplied the answer for herself.
“Michael Ramsey.”
“Oh. What did he want?”
“He wanted you to call him when you got back from your doctor’s appointment,” Greta relayed.
“Oh,” was Meghan’s response.
“I didn’t realize you had another appointment to see Lucy this afternoon,” a concerned Greta said, hoping for more information on Meghan’s health.
“We … we had lunch at Tonio’s,” she mumbled guiltily. She left instructions to tell all callers she’d left for the day to work on a pile of paperwork that had to be cleared up by Monday. Then she walked as nonchalantly as possible into her office and closed the door.
She didn’t hear Greta murmur a knowing, “I see.”
Five
THAT WEEKEND WOULDN’T go down as one of Meghan’s favorites.
She stayed in the entire time, sure that now that lightning had already struck once, a second time was entirely possible.
She worked on a couple of cases she’d brought home from the office. She watched television absently. She read the first page of the same book twice and finally tossed it onto the coffee table beside one of her cooked and recooked TV dinners—not her favorite fare.
Her answering machine had been on all weekend, but on Sunday morning she took Lucy’s call and one from Connie, who inquired about her health and offered his help if she needed it. Put out with her, it was his way of letting her know he still loved her.
She didn’t, however, return any of the calls Michael Ramsey ordered her to. Not the Friday night call when he said, “I’ll pretend that I think you didn’t go back to the office this afternoon. Please call me when you get home.”
The Saturday morning call was a little nasty. Why should she answer, “Unless you were out working on another thesis last night, I’m sure you eventually got my message. I’m still waiting for your call.” In the afternoon his call was slightly threatening, “Meghan. I have the patience of Job, but don’t push me.” Meghan was too nervous to call after that. Later that night she realized the afternoon call was nothing compared to the one he made at ten-thirty. “Dammit, Meghan! Call me!”
Michael’s last call came on Sunday afternoon, and Meghan’s heart fluttered with anxiety when he informed her calmly, “I’ll be calling you at the office in the morning, Meghan. If you don’t take my call, I’ll be over in person. If you call in sick tomorrow, I may have to have a talk with my friend Henry and tell him you’re avoiding my calls. … Talk to you soon, darlin’.”
Monday morning she was in the office for Michael’s call.
“Yes, Mr. Ramsey,” she greeted him cheerfully.
Before she could say anything else, he broke in angrily, “Why the hell didn’t you answer my messages?”
“I am sorry, Mr. Ramsey. I did get all of your … kind messages, but the last one led me to believe that rather than return your call last night, you preferred to call me here this morning.” Hesitant, she then added coyly, “Isn’t that right, Mr. Ramsey?”
Silence.
“Mr. Ramsey?”
“Meghan,” he said semisweetly. “I’ve kissed the little freckle you carry low on your left hip … and then some. So don’t you think you ought to call me Michael? Henry does, and I haven’t been nearly as familiar with him.”
“Very well, Michael, if that’s what you want. Was there anything else you wanted to discuss?” she asked innocently.
She could hear him breathing heavily on the other end of the line, but he didn’t speak.
“Michael? Was that all you wanted?” she repeated.
“No! That’s not all I wanted. I want you to go out to dinner with me,” he said testily.
“What a kind invitation, Michael,” she cooed. “Is this business or pleasure?”
“Would ‘pleasure’ get you there?” he asked cautiously.
“I don’t go out with clients, Michael,” she said purposefully.
“Then it’s business,” he said through gritted teeth.
“Oh. Well in that case, I do have a couple of free hours this afternoon if you would like to come in—”
“Meghan,” he interrupted. “I do not want to come into your office. And I think I ought to let you know I’m near the end of my rope.”
She laughed softly and confided, “You know, Michael, I never would have dreamed that someone from Texas could ever run out of rope. However, if tomorrow would be more convenient for—”
“Dammit, Meghan!” he bellowed, and then there was silence on both ends. Finally, as if speaking to the village idiot, he said, “Meghan, darlin’, I’d rather not have to threaten you to get you to have dinner with me, but I promise you, if you don’t come out with me, I’m going to spend the entire night thinking up something really terrible to do to you.”
Meghan sighed loudly, fatigued from the battle of wills. Seeing herself as the loser in this skirmish, she gave one more valiant try.
“Michael,” she said, her voice pleading for mercy. “We’ll be working together fairly often over the next month or so. I promise you’ll have plenty of time to browbeat me. Couldn’t we just leave it at that?”
There was silence for what seemed like an eternity before Michael said slowly, “What if I don’t? What if we call a truce?”
“A truce?” she asked, stunned by his sudden turnaround.
“Yes, counselor. It’s like a contract … a pact. A deal not to fight anymore.”
“A truce,” she clarified.
“Yeah. How about it?”
“I’d like that,” she said, truly grateful.
“Then can we have dinner together tonight?” he asked with assurance.
“Well, I … well … could … could we make it Thursday instead?” she asked, playing for time. The longer she could avoid him, the better. If they could make it Thursday, she’d have only three weeks to go before she left town.
“Thursday?” he exclaimed, his voice rising again.
“I’m sorry, Michael. I … I …”
“Thursday,” he broke in. “Eight o’clock. I’ll pick you up.”
“Oh. I could just meet you. You don’t—”
“I’ll pick you up,” he reiterated.
“Fine.”
The week whizzed by. At seven fifty-five on Thursday night Meghan was totally dressed, totally petrified, and totally nauseous.
Her forehead and the back of her neck were moist with perspiration. She was sure her face looked as pale as chalk. But she was as ready as she’d ever be. She had cleverly chosen a moss green evening dress that was lined in taffeta. In two pieces, the flowing blouson top had a drop waist and side hip band trimmed in pearls. The skirt was comfortable and extremely becoming with its elasticized waistband to conceal her pregnancy and the pleats to flatter her figure.
An unsavory saltiness seeped into Meghan’s mouth as she waited anxiously for Michael to arrive. At this point in her pregnancy she knew all the signs of an imminent erupt
ion and made a mad dash for her crackers. Not in their usual place, Meghan cursed the lovable Mrs. Belinski and started flinging open cupboards and drawers as the doorbell chimed.
“Oh Lord,” she moaned dejectedly, swallowing a mouthful of saliva, hoping it would stay down—hoping everything would stay down—as she went to greet Michael.
Throwing open the door, she instantly and swiftly retraced her steps back to the kitchen, blurting out, “Come in and sit down,” as the contents of her stomach bounced erratically between her abdomen and the back of her throat.
A bewildered Michael stepped cautiously into Meghan’s cheerful apartment and quietly closed the door. Entering the living room, he guessed she had disappeared into the kitchen, because from around the corner came a conspicuous barrage of crashes and clangs and resounding clatter. Through the din he thought he heard a string of low-spoken expletives, but when the clamor finally ceased, Meghan walked calmly and slowly into the room and leaned serenely, and to Michael’s eye very seductively, against the wall.
Aside from the fact that she was a little pale, more than likely from nerves, she looked ravishing, and Michael’s heart began to beat at a rapid-fire pace.
“Hi,” she croaked softly, giving him a nervous smile. “Are you ready to go?”
“Sure … unless you’d rather have a drink here and relax a little bit first. We have lots of time,” he offered obligingly.
“A drink?” she asked blankly, her mind-over-matter delusion needing her full concentration.
“Yes, a drink. Usually it’s some sort of fluid … in a glass or a cup. I’m not picky,” he said graciously. “Water is fine. Or tea or coffee. Even vegetable juice.” He paused, watching her curiously. “Anything but oyster juice,” he said. “I’m not overly fond of oyster juice.”
“Oyster juice?” she pronounced, her beautifully green and expressive eyes staring at him woefully.
“Yeah,” he said, baffled by her strange reactions. “In fact,” he went on, “about the only things I absolutely refuse to put in my mouth are oyster juice, cow tongue, and sushi.”
“Oh Lord, Michael!” she spat out in disgust as she raced into the bedroom.
After several minutes of kicking his heels around in the living room, completely disoriented by the situation, Michael wondered if he ought to check on her—maybe apologize for something.
Hanging over the toilet, a disgruntled Meghan tossed what she hoped was her last cracker and sighed deeply.
“Meghan? Are you all right,” came Michael’s deep baritone voice through the door.
“I’ll be fine,” she called, jumping up dizzily to turn on the shower, which would muffle any noises she made. “Just go, Michael. Go into the kitchen and drink anything you like,” she said, and then as an afterthought added, “If you see anything you’re not … overly fond of, just … put it in the garbage,” she managed to say before she belched reminiscently.
She assumed Michael had gone in search of a drink, because he didn’t say anything else. She stretched out on the cool tiles of the bathroom floor until the nausea and light-headedness subsided. Slowly, she brought herself back to a standing position. Not one to be overly concerned with her looks when death was threatening, she splashed cold water on her face and patted it dry. Taking deep, calming breaths, she turned off the shower and moved to the door, wondering how on earth she’d ever explain this to Michael.
Michael had drawn his own conclusions. Meghan found him sitting on her bed waiting for her.
“A little under the weather, huh?” he said sympathetically, kindness and concern etched on his face. His gray eyes examined her astutely as she held onto the doorjamb for support. “Must be the flu. It’s that season,” he deduced.
“Lucy says there’s a lot of it going around,” she muttered, nodding in agreement. It was better than anything her foggy brain had come up with.
“Poor thing. Come here, and I’ll help you get into bed,” he commiserated. As he stood, she saw he was holding an old flannel nightgown that had been buried so far down in her dresser, she’d forgotten she had it. As she looked from the gown to her dresser, he explained unselfconsciously, “It’ll keep you warmer than the others. Come here.”
Reluctantly, she went to him. If he brought out his horsewhip now, she’d be too weak to stop him, she thought.
He turned her away from him and began to draw down the zipper at the back of her neck. She spun around, clutching her dress to her, panic rising to temporarily replace her nausea.
“Don’t be silly, Meghan,” he said wryly. “I’ve already seen all there is to see.”
That’s what you think, she said to herself.
“And I’ve never before attacked a woman on her deathbed,” he finished, turning her again. As he unzipped her dress, he murmured, “Of course, there’s a first time for everything.”
When she jerked around to face him once again, fear and outrage in her green eyes, he laughed deep and low in his throat and grinned at her charmingly.
“I’m teasing, Meghan,” he said in a soothing voice as he began to peel her clothes away. He held her flannel gown while she wiggled into it, and when she had finished, he turned her around and buttoned up the opening in back.
“I’ll do that,” he informed her, as she started to hang up her dress. Ordinarily she wouldn’t have bothered, but she’d paid a small fortune for this bit of designer camouflage and thought it might be worth taking care of.
With Meghan in bed, Michael placed a cool, damp cloth over her forehead and tucked the blanket up around her neck. He regarded her with concern for several minutes, then started to leave the room. “Be right back,” he said over his shoulder.
In the kitchen he pondered the tricks one’s mind could play. He had thought he’d remembered her body as well as he knew his own, but his memory hadn’t recalled her being quite so full breasted, and her formerly flat abdomen was in actuality just slightly rounded. Neither error made much difference. She was still as incredibly lovely as she had been in all his dreams.
Meghan was feeling perfectly well by now, but her heart and mind were racing a mile a minute. She marveled at the way his most casual touch affected her. Her whole body was tingling with excitement. Aside from the fact that she hadn’t gone out with anyone since the night she’d met Michael, no one before that had ever made her feel this way. Actually, it was a little frightening.
Michael entered the room again. “Would you like me to stay on the couch tonight? In case you need anything?” he offered, placing a glass of water on her bedside table.
“Oh, no,” she said, alarmed. “I … I just like being left alone when I’m ill. Thank you, anyway. And I’m … sorry about our date.”
“I’m just sorry I didn’t notice how sick and pale you were,” he confessed.
“Don’t feel bad, please. It’s my hair.”
“Your hair?” he repeated stupidly.
“Uh-huh. Redheads are notoriously pale. And when pale gets paler, it’s still just pale,” she explained, as if it made perfect sense.
“I see. Well, that makes me feel a little better, anyway,” he said, his lips twitching into an amused grin. “If you don’t want me to stay, will you at least make me a promise?”
“Sure,” she said amiably.
“Call me if there’s anything you need, or anything I can do to help,” he said, indicating that the paper he laid beside her phone had his number on it.
“I promise,” she vowed.
He leaned over and dropped a warm, sweet kiss on her forehead, replaced the cloth, and stood grinning down on her.
“I’m taking a rain check on our dinner, Meghan. You get well quickly,” he ordered.
She returned his grin brilliantly and promised, “I will and … thank you, Michael.”
“Good night, Meghan.”
“Good night.”
Michael left the light in the hall burning because it shed enough of a glow to illuminate most of her apartment.
He scanned
her living room trying to glean more information about her. It was a neat, tidy, and impeccably clean room. He added domestic to his list of details about her.
On a table near one of the chairs he spied three photographs. One of an older couple and a young woman, which didn’t offer much information other than that all three were blond. The second picture was of Meghan and three red-headed men. One man was older, and his hair, like the others, was the identical shade of Meghan’s, but was showing signs of gray. Her family.
The last picture was older than the others. It depicted a blond woman, who looked remarkably like Meghan, and the red-headed man, looking years younger, from the previous picture. Her parents, he realized.
What a treasure chest he’d found. She was sentimental, devoted to family, and came from a line of red-haired, green-eyed kinsmen.
Well, that was enough to go on for now. It was more than he’d known a week ago.
“Michael? Are you still here?” came Meghan’s tired voice.
“Yes,” he whispered guiltily, as he went down the hall again and stuck his head into the room. “It occurred to me you might want an aspirin or something to settle your stomach.” He’d always been quick on his feet, he thought gratefully.
“No. Thank you,” she whispered back. “I don’t take any kind of medication, except some vitamins that Lucy gives me. I usually just ride these illnesses out.”
“Well, okay then, good night,” he said, as he added “health conscious” to his list of Meghan’s traits and left the apartment.
Meghan breathed a sigh of relief when she finally heard the door close softly and latch itself. She’d listened to him prowling around out there and had held her breath. From his tone, he had obviously found nothing questionable and Meghan thanked the heavens for her continued good fortune.
Ambiguity reigned again as she was torn between the joy of her good luck and the disgrace of continuing to deceive Michael. He had been so kind and gentle. It amazed her that such a Goliath of a man could be so tender and comforting. He was a charming man, and Meghan felt really sad about having to get rid of him somehow.
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