She snuggled under the covers and put her mind to other, more immediate problems—such as how could she drag her nonexistent flu out for the next three weeks without Michael getting suspicious?
Six
MEGHAN CALLED IN sick on Friday as part of her ploy. She did, however, finish some work she’d brought home with her. One of those cases was Michael’s. She made several calls regarding the matter, and phoned Greta to request that some additional information be gathered for her by Monday. Shortly after noon when Michael called to check on her, she told him she was better but still a little woozy when she got out of bed.
Not quite an hour later, there was a soft knock at her door seconds before her doorbell chimed. Frowning, Meghan went to the door and called, “Who is it, please?”
“Michael.”
“One minute, Michael,” she stalled. And that was all it took to scoop up her files, run down the hall, and throw them in the spare room. She shucked her sweatpants and T-shirt and climbed into her robe, messing her hair and adopting a haggard look as she headed back to the door.
She shook her arms to loosen her muscles, slouched her shoulders, and tried to look pathetic as she peered around the door at Michael.
“Oh. Hi, Michael,” she greeted him weakly.
“Hi. You look as awful as you sounded on the phone, poor darlin’,” he graciously commented with concern. “May I come in? I’ve brought you something.”
“I don’t know, Michael.” She hesitated. “I wouldn’t want you to catch my bug.” She pulled her head back to cough disgustingly into the sleeve of her terry robe.
“Impossible,” Michael said confidently. “I never catch stuff like that. I’m as healthy as an ox,” he assured her.
“Well, maybe in Texas. But this is New York. We have very potent germs here,” she warned him.
“Maybe, but ours are probably bigger and stronger, so it all evens out in the end, I imagine,” he said, grinning. “Are you going to let me in, or am I going to have to force the door open?”
Meghan had to admit that in all likelihood, his chances of catching her particular condition were impossible, and her chances of getting him to go away were just about as good. So with a weary sigh, she widened the gap in the door, allowing him to enter.
“If you brought me chocolates, I think I should warn you that my throat is all raw, and I probably won’t be able to eat them,” she whined peevishly as she thought a sick person might.
“Much better than chocolate when you’re sick is my mother’s beef broth,” he informed her cheerfully, ignoring her distemper. “I think you call it bouillon up here, at least that’s what the chef at the Essex called it when I gave him the recipe,” he said, heading for her kitchen.
“You called your mother for her recipe for beef broth?” she asked, so amazed she forgot to sound sick, as she followed him into the kitchen.
“Sure did,” he said over his shoulder, looking for a pot. “And you’ll thank me someday, because it’ll get you back on your feet and feeling as healthy as a horse.”
Meghan thought it appropriate that a Texan would think it took beef broth to make you feel like a horse, but she kept it to herself. Her thoughts and emotions in turmoil, she felt like a piece of gum stuck to the sole of somebody’s shoe. This huge man was so innately good and kind, he could kill her with guilt and shame. Her eyes began to fill with tears, and her heart was heavy with remorse. Why couldn’t things be different?
“This’ll fix up those watery eyes too,” he said sympathetically. “You go sit down and I’ll bring this in to you.”
“You really don’t need to wait on me,” she protested. “You’ve gone to too much trouble as it is.”
“Liberated women,” he said irreverently with a shake of his big, dark head. “You’ll do yourselves in if you don’t let people help you once in a while.”
Too weary to argue the point, Meghan shuffled off to the couch. Plopping down onto the cushions, she drew her feet up and tucked her robe around them. How was she going to get out of this one? she asked herself with a heavy sigh. “Tell him,” her conscience told her emphatically. “Tell him and get it over with.” Meghan knew it was good advice and she wanted to use it, but she knew she wouldn’t, couldn’t today. Why did he have to be so nice? It was very hard being cruel to a nice person, she concluded miserably. And she knew that whichever road she eventually took, Michael was bound to be hurt.
“Here ya go,” he said, carefully carrying the bowl of thin soup and placing it in her lap. “Now eat up while it’s hot.”
Spoonful after tasteless spoonful, Meghan ate, aware only of the man sitting beside her watching her solicitously, and the jangling of her nerves that grew stronger with each mouthful. She slid him a quick glance and saw he was smiling in a very self-satisfied way.
“Feeling better, aren’t you?” he asked, confident of her answer. “I told you that would do the trick. Even the color in your face is better.”
It was Meghan’s guess that he could make a rutabaga turn pink if he stared at it long enough.
“It was very good. Thank you. And thank you for all the trouble you went to, but it wasn’t really necessary,” she said, wishing he’d leave now that his act of charity had been completed. “I’m quite capable of taking care of myself.”
He grinned. “I know you are, but don’t forget, I have a vested interest in you. I personally want to make sure you get well quickly. I brought enough soup for a couple of days, and I’ll come by to …”
“Oh, no. Please,” she pleaded. “Don’t come again.” Seeing his sudden frown, she explained, “I … I’m not a very nice sick person and having people around only makes me feel uncomfortable and embarrassed. Please, it was very kind of you to bring your mother’s beef broth, and I’ll certainly eat it, but I’d really rather be alone.”
Michael considered her request for several seconds, then bargained, “Can I at least call and check on you?”
“Yes, of course.” Meghan sighed with relief. “But you don’t need to. I’ll be fine in no time.”
“I want to,” he stated firmly, rising. “Get plenty of rest, you look a little strung out,” he added with concern.
Meghan just nodded, hoping he would go away. She’d agree to almost anything to get him to leave. Again, the idea of simply blurting the whole story out to him crossed her mind. Surely his anger would be easier to cope with than his benevolence.
She followed him to the door, anxious to hasten his departure.
Michael turned to face her at the door. His big hands came forward, and he gently took her by the shoulders. He studied her intently before he finally placed a tender, heart-quickening kiss on her forehead.
“I’ll call you later,” he promised, then opened the door and left.
Meghan fell back heavily against the door. She blew the hair off her face and rolled her eyes heavenward. “I can imagine how unhappy you are with me right about now. But if you could help me out a little here, I’d sure appreciate it,” she prayed aloud.
Saturday morning she tempted the fates with a quick trip to her gym. She ran several of what Lucy called gentle jogs around the track, and worked with some passive machines before going home. This time when Michael called she was up and around a little more, but still weak and frayed around the edges. When he mentioned that he knew she must be feeling a little better because her phone was busy earlier, she simply said that Lucy phoned frequently to check on her too.
Sunday she felt much stronger and thought if she rested well, she might make it into work the next day.
“Good,” said Michael encouragingly. “I’ll call you and see how you feel. Maybe you’ll be up to going out for a bowl of gruel or something.”
“Michael, let me call you. I’ve been sort of glancing through some of my papers here, and I need to check on a few more things regarding your purchase. I’ll call you, and we can discuss some of them and maybe work out a day for that dinner too,” she said.
“All right
,” he agreed slowly. “But there’s no maybe about it. Eventually you and I are going to have a nice long talk, and it won’t be about anything vaguely associated with the law.”
The next day she waited until mid-afternoon to phone Michael.
“Michael? Meghan Shay,” she said in greeting.
“Meghan,” he said cheerfully. “I’m glad to hear from you … at last,” he added pointedly. How many times today had he picked up the phone to call her only to lay it down again, telling himself it was important to trust that she’d call him if she said she would? He’d been obsessed with the woman since he’d met her. She was on his mind constantly, and yet … he didn’t mind it at all. He enjoyed thinking about her. How had she gotten under his skin so quickly? His tough bachelor’s hide had become very thin since she’d come into his life, and it felt terrific and frightening at the same time.
“Sorry, Michael. But you wouldn’t want an attorney who didn’t know all the facts, would you?” she said, cajoling him.
“I’ll let that one pass, Meghan,” he said, his tone lightening. “So. Do we discuss business or pleasure first?”
“Let’s get business out of the way,” she said, opting for firmer ground.
“Okay.”
“Actually, Henry was right; this case is fairly cut and dried. All your stipulations have been agreed to, and their attorneys are cooperating wonderfully. It’s just … well, it’s … I don’t even know how to put this,” she faltered, trying not to offend him.
“Pretend the question has something to do with venereal disease or my fertility,” he quipped, enjoying himself.
The aftermath of Michael’s bomb was deafening silence.
“Meghan?” he called cautiously. “It was supposed to be a joke. I’m sorry.”
“Listen, Mr. Ramsey,” she said coolly. “I don’t know how they do things in Texas, but where I’m from, a truce is a truce. You don’t make up your own rules as you go.” Hoping he felt like fighting back, Meghan thought this might be a good way of getting out of dinner.
“I said I was sorry, Meghan,” he said in repentance.
Rats! she thought. “What I wanted to say,” she started, “was that I’ve been doing some checking. Dobson’s is an extremely solvent company and basically a good buy …”
“Thank you,” he interrupted.
“… but even taking into consideration the fact that you’re buying the rights to the name,” she went on without hesitation, “the asking price you’re willing to pay is ridiculously high. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to do a little dickering here?” she finished.
“Have you met the Dobson brothers yet?” Michael asked indulgently.
“No.”
“Well, when you do, you’ll find that what they’re asking, in my opinion anyway, isn’t nearly what they ought to ask for.”
“Why?” she questioned, her curiosity piqued.
“These two old guys started a neighborhood newspaper to sell to their friends when they were ten and six years old. The older one was a good student and a little shy as a boy, so he did all the writing. The younger brother was an extroverted go-getter. He went out and brought back all the news.
“Later they both got jobs on newspapers and after several years set out on their own. They hocked everything, and for years they and their young wives and babies lived on practically nothing in order to get Citizen’s Magazine off the ground.
“The rest of their story is mostly about a hell of a lot of hard work and the struggles they fought to maintain the integrity of their publications, which, as you know, now number eight separate magazines and periodicals.
“I honestly don’t think what they’re asking is too much to pay for the fruits of their endeavors, for the use of their good name, or for two old men’s lifework. So I’ll pay it,” he said, finishing his story on a note of admiration.
Meghan was silent for a while, considering the man Michael Ramsey was. Her heart swelled with pride.
“Have you ever been poor and had to struggle, Michael?” she asked, wondering at his empathy.
“No.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “My dad had things pretty well set from as far back as I can remember. But he and my mother lived through some tough times. They don’t take anything they have for granted, and they wouldn’t let their children either.” He laughed in remembrance.
“We can talk more about it over dinner tonight,” he said, smoothly leading into a subject closer to his heart.
“Tonight?” she stalled.
“Are you up to it?” he asked, trusting soul that he was.
“I am a little tired, but how about Wednesday or Thursday?” she suggested deceptively.
“How about tomorrow night?” he offered.
“Tomorrow’s Tuesday,” she pointed out.
“Yes, I know. Don’t they serve dinner in New York on Tuesdays?”
She giggled. “I’m not sure. I always go to see Jeff on Tuesday.”
“Jeff?” he questioned, sounding calmer than he felt.
“Lucy’s little boy. My godson,” she explained, grateful for a truthful excuse not to see him. “I see his mother frequently, but I found I was so busy sometimes that I’d go for months without seeing Jeff, so I try to save Tuesdays for him. I … love him a lot, and I want to watch him grow up. My time with him is important to me,” she added, wondering if Michael understood.
“Sort of a family night, huh?” He rather liked her loyalty to Jeff and forgave her for putting him off. He also realized he was glad she liked children, comparing her with other professional women he knew who didn’t or wouldn’t take the time to show it.
“I’m afraid so,” she said, holding her breath for his reaction.
“Okay, Wednesday it is. Same time,” he confirmed. Meghan sighed. Not only did he understand, but after Wednesday there were only two weeks to go before the beginning of her leave. She could last two weeks, she thought with Lucy’s optimism.
Tuesday evening, long after Jeff had worn Meghan out and been shuffled off to bed, Meghan and Lucy sat talking and drinking steaming cups of black coffee.
“Well, you have to give him credit, Meghan. The man is no schlemiel. He’s smart and clever. If you trip yourself up in one of your fibs, he’s going to take you to the cleaners.”
“I know, and I’m trying to be careful, but when he’s around, or I talk to him on the phone, I get so nervous I can hardly think. And when he’s not around, it keeps going around in my head how wonderfully … wonderful he is and what I’ve done to him,” Meghan confided guiltily.
“What are you going to do if he asks you point blank about that night at the Essex,” Lucy asked, pushing a plate of cookies closer to Meghan.
Meghan blew a long sigh out between pursed lips. Taking a normally forbidden cookie, she sighed once more before finally saying, “I don’t know. Three-fourths of me wants to tell him the truth. He deserves it. And I know it would make me feel better. But there’s still a small part of me that is too ashamed, for one thing. For another, I’m scared to death of what he’ll do.”
“He wouldn’t hurt you?” Lucy questioned.
“No.” Meghan was sure of that. “But he would definitely interfere, although I wouldn’t blame him at all if he had me arrested and sent to prison for life for setting him up like I did,” Meghan concluded gloomily.
“Well, you can’t start getting all … schmaltzy at this stage. You’ll think of something. You’re too close to an end,” Lucy tried to encourage her.
Meghan frowned at Lucy and studied her with concern. “We have to get you out of Hoboken. Have you listened to yourself talk lately? Schmaltzy, indeed!” Meghan said indignantly, before she burst into giggles.
For her date with Michael, Meghan wore a white crepe sheath. It had two swags of loose fabric that crossed the front to conceal her burgeoning figure, a V neckline in front and back, and glittering rhinestones trimming the shoulders and long, slender sleeves. She was very pleased with this disguise. She looked anything
but pregnant.
This time while she awaited Michael’s arrival, there was no nausea. Try as she might, she just couldn’t conjure it up. However, her ultra-healthy dose of fear was alive and thriving, she noted. She looked around the room one last time to make sure all was in order.
Clean. Tidy. Scotch and glasses out. Coat. Purse. Three-way bulbs in the lamps on high.
When the bell chimed, she opened the door to a triumphantly grinning Michael.
“You look extremely … healthy tonight,” he said, his gaze devouring her with relish. Lord, she was beautiful.
Meghan gave a soft, embarrassed laugh and thanked him, then added, “Would you like to come in for a drink? The scotch is out,” she informed him pointedly.
“Darlin’,” he said regretfully, “I’d love to but I have in my possession a pair of the most coveted theater tickets in town. The show starts at eight-thirty, and the cab is waiting.”
“Which show is it?” she asked enthusiastically, knowing one could not get too intimate at the theater.
“It’s a surprise,” he whispered secretively, then added in his normal voice, “Get those pretty buns in gear or we’ll be late.”
The Broadway show was the season’s crowd pleaser for which both Lucy and Meghan had been trying to get tickets for months. And it was a pleaser. A romantic comedy Meghan and Michael enjoyed tremendously.
Another delightful aspect to the evening was Michael. He was a considerate and charming companion. Meghan found herself talking to him almost as easily as she did to Lucy. Well … almost. Lucy’s eyes didn’t twinkle at her quite the way Michael’s did, nor did Lucy ignite the same warm fires in Meghan that Michael’s scent and slightest touch did. Nevertheless, despite the physical and mental tension his presence created, Meghan found herself responding to his easy, amicable manner.
At intermission, she mentioned that if she hadn’t known for sure that he’d grown up amidst the tumble-weeds of Texas, she’d swear that he’d been brought up as part of New York’s elite. The fact that he seemed to know so many of the “right” people and was so comfortable in their presence surprised her.
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