Logan held her gaze for a long moment; then he glanced down at the table. Draining his glass, he took his place before her. “We had better eat,” he said, his voice carefully casual, “before everything gets cold.”
Clare had done nothing to confine her hair as she lay all day in bed. It spilled over her shoulders in golden strands, curling against her neck and down across her breasts. Once she glanced up to find Logan watching her, holding a forkful of avocado salad in midair. The strangeness of having him there in her room brought a flush of color to her cheeks. His interest was also disturbing. This evening he wore beige slacks with a beige-and-blue sports shirt. He looked relaxed, at home in his surroundings, and yet there was something about his manner that made Clare feel flustered and aware of a need to be on her guard. She had not seen him since earlier that morning, when he had settled her in her room with a sedative. His concern then had been comforting, but she had not expected it to last.
“Isn’t this better than eating alone?” Logan asked, breaking in on her thoughts.
“Yes, though if you don’t stop pampering me, I am going to be hopelessly spoiled when this is over. I haven’t thanked you for the roses. They are beautiful.” Red roses were usually for love. No doubt he had sent them because it was what people would expect of a fiancé. It could not hurt to pretend, just a little, could it?
“I’m glad you like the roses. As for the rest, it’s little enough after this morning.”
Clare looked down at her plate, then looked up again. “About this morning, could I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
“Did you see anything of the skier who caused me to fall? I mean, he — or she — whoever it was, came down the slope behind you.”
Logan put down his fork. “I saw the skier, yes. But he veered off from where I came to a stop. His face was covered — goggles, ski mask, cap pulled down over his hair. I didn’t really know what had happened. I looked back, and you were down, then this skier came flying past. I was more interested in getting back up to you just then than the other person, especially since I didn’t know he had caused your fall.”
“He? Are you certain it was a man?”
“No,” he said almost reluctantly, “I’m not.” “It could have been a woman, then? Could it even have been Janine?”
“I didn’t mean to disturb you with it, if you were willing to accept the theory that your fall was an accident, but as long as you have guessed, then I will say the skier was almost certainly Janine. I wouldn’t like to swear to it, considering the weather conditions and the way she was dressed, but styles of skiing are fairly distinctive. The equipment she was using was standard rental stuff, not her European boots and skis, but the size was about right, and then there is the suspicious way she gave me a wide berth. Why would she do that unless she was afraid of being recognized despite her disguise?”
“But why? Why would she want to harm me?”
“She wasn’t too happy with the way you turned the tables on her in my room the other night.”
Clare gave a nod. “And she wasn’t too thrilled, either, with the way you opted to come with me on the lower slopes instead of taking one of the long trails with her this morning.” There had also been Janine’s warning to stop throwing herself at Logan in public, though Clare did not see any reason for bringing that up again.
“I expect she meant to embarrass you by making you take a spill. Unfortunately, she cut it too fine.”
Clare, remembering the way her pole had been jerked from her hand, could not agree. Janine Hobbs had meant to hurt her if she could. The producer’s wife would have shed few tears if Clare had broken her neck. That anyone could wish her harm, even in the form of a serious accident, was so unbelievable to Clare that she could not quite bring herself to put it into words.
“Does Janine realize you suspect her?” she asked after a long pause.
“I haven’t mentioned it to her, if that is what you mean,” Logan answered, “but I think she knows. She didn’t say a word when I told her I was dining with you this evening, and it was not because Marvin was present. We were alone.”
“I suppose some good came from this morning, then,” Clare said with an attempt at lightness. If Logan had looked at Janine with the contempt burning in his blue eyes that Clare saw there now, she did not wonder that the woman had not tried to detain him. Abruptly an idea surfaced in Clare’s mind. Circling it cautiously, she was not certain if she dared put it into effect. What Logan would say, she could not imagine, but it was always possible that he might not find out. Deep in thought, she fell silent.
“Would you like dessert?” Logan asked when Clare leaned back on her pillows and dropped her napkin beside her plate.
Clare shook her head. “I couldn’t.”
“Help me finish the last of the wine, then.”
Watching as he rolled the table aside, poured wine into her glass, and handed it to her once more, Clare said, “Are we celebrating something?”
“I wondered when it was going to dawn on you.”
“There was always the possibility that you were plying me with drink for nefarious reasons. I thought I would wait and see what you meant to do.”
“One day,” he said slowly, “you are going to joke your way into a dangerous situation. But not tonight.”
Conscious of something suspiciously like the pique of disappointment, Clare said, “So what are we celebrating?”
Instead of answering, he walked to the connecting door, unlocked it, and went into his own room. He returned a few seconds later carrying a manuscript. This he brought and dropped into Clare’s lap.
Clare gathered up the pages in one hand. It was his screenplay, though it was no longer bound. “What is it? What have you done?”
“Made a few changes,” he answered, taking up a position on the foot of her bed. “They are not hard to find, if you know where to look.”
For a long moment Clare held his gaze; then she sat up straight and without ceremony handed her wineglass to Logan to hold. She flipped through the pages, scanning a few lines here, a few there. At last she looked up.
“You have changed your women,” she said in wonder.
He laughed. “You make me sound like a sheikh.”
“You know what I mean,” she said, waving the manuscript at him in an impatient gesture.
“Yes, I do. Do you like them better now?”
“Oh, yes, much. But why?”
“I decided after sober reflection that you were right; my female characters lacked strength. If they were going to behave the way I showed them during a crisis, they would never have lasted on the frontier, and if the women of the Old West had been weak, where would we all be now?”
“It’s not only that,” Clare said earnestly. “Both brothers in your script, at one point, fall in love with the same girl. The most intelligent and honorable of them makes great sacrifices to win her, while the other brother, for all his greed and weakness, displays the finer side of his nature to her. If she is a silly, vain, clinging little thing, it just doesn’t make sense!”
“No, it certainly doesn’t.”
“She has to have some character, something besides a pretty face.”
“She certainly does.”
His ready acquiescence brought Clare up short. She stared at him with a frown between her eyes. “Why are you being so agreeable?”
Her suspicion seemed to amuse him, for a laugh broke from him. His only answer was to hand her back her glass, however. “To women of character,” he said, and drank, laughter gleaming in his blue eyes as he watched her.
He did not linger long after that. She needed to rest, he said, but Clare thought the constraint that came between them following his mocking toast also had something to do with it. Taking the remains of their meal with him so she would not be disturbed by the waiter when he came for the table, Logan had gone into his room. A short time later, Clare thought she heard him go out, seeking livelier company, she supposed. She gave her pillow a
hard thump, then allowed herself a wry smile for her petulance.
Hopping around on one foot, Clare washed her face, brushed her teeth, and made ready for bed. The jarring movement made her ankle throb. She thought that once she lay back down again, it would stop, but it did not. She tried to ignore the pain, to distract herself by reading. It didn’t work.
At last she flung the covers aside and struggled to one foot again. She had a bottle of aspirin tablets with her, but it was on the dresser across the room. Clenching her teeth, Clare started toward them, though the pain of each hopping step brought a sick feeling into her throat. The deep-pile earth-brown carpet that covered the floor did not help matters. Its cushiony softness seemed determined to trip her.
Just as she reached the dresser, she stumbled and fell forward, catching its edge. The perfume, makeup, and sunscreen bottles that sat in a neat line on its surface fell with a rolling clatter. Clare grabbed for them and only succeeded in banging her elbow. The bottle of aspirin tablets skittered across the polished surface and toppled to the floor.
Clare took a deep, steadying breath; then, with grim determination in her eyes she worked her way around the end of the dresser and knelt with one hand outstretched toward the bottle.
At that moment the door behind her swung open. Swift footsteps crossed the carpet, then Logan went down on one knee beside her. His strong brown fingers closed around the bottle. He glanced at it, then swung to put it in her hand.
“Was this what you wanted?”
“Yes,” Clare whispered.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I ... I thought I could get it. Besides, I was almost sure I heard you go out.”
“Only for the evening paper,” he said, indicating the folded newspaper beneath his arm. Placing his hands under her elbows, he helped her to her feet. “Are you in pain?”
“A little,” she admitted.
He scanned her white face, then gave a nod. Tossing his paper onto the foot of the bed, he turned to the insulated carafe filled with ice and water that stood on a tray at the other end of the dresser. With economical movements he poured water into one of the plastic glasses provided by the lodge and handed it to her, then, taking the tablets from her, shook two of them into her hand. Face impassive, he watched as she swallowed them. Receiving the glass from her, he set it back on the dresser. Before she could guess his intention, he bent to catch her beneath her knees and lift her into his arms.
“Logan, no,” she gasped. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Don’t I?” he asked, his grip tightening.
Something in the low timbre of his voice affected her senses with a sweet languor. Though she knew she should protest, she did not care if he never let her go. Against all reason, against her will, she felt herself yielding to the planes of his body and the muscled hardness of his arms. Her body pliant, supple, she clung to him, the darkness of a confused and fearful longing shadowing her eyes.
Logan drew a deep breath, holding it constricted in his chest. The strong beat of his heart seemed to shudder through her, increasing the frantic pulsing of the blood in her own veins. He stared down at her, his gaze moving over the soft luster of her skin where it was not covered by the apricot silk of her gown. A muscle corded along the length of his jaw.
With sudden decision he leaned to place her on the bed. His lips brushed hers with gentle fire, and then he turned away. Picking up his newspaper, he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
She was grateful for his help, Clare told herself, and also for his restraint. It was a relief that he had not mistaken her weakness for an invitation. That did not explain the hot, silent tears that slid from the corners of her eyes, nor the feeling like the heaviness of despair that weighted her chest.
There was snow on the Plexiglas dome overhead, a white cover that made the open center of the lodge dimmer than usual. Now and then the melting snow, turned to slush by the warmth of the bright midmorning sun, would slide onto the roof, leaving a clear section of blue sky shining through like a piece of polished turquoise. The water in the heated pool beneath the dome lapped gently against the sides as Logan swam up and down with slow strokes. Clare, lounging in a cane chair filled with cushions, flipped through a magazine, pretending to read. Instead, she watched the man, memorizing the way his hair, sleek with water, molded to his head, the look of inward concentration he brought to what he was doing, and the smooth coordination of his muscled shoulders as his arms cleaved the water. It was a useless exercise, she knew, one that could bring her nothing but pain, now or in the future; still, she could not help herself.
At the sound of a door opening, Clare looked up. Janine and Marvin Hobbs were just emerging from the coffee shop at the far end of the pool. Marvin hailed Logan, then dragged up a chair and motioned him from the water. Logan heaved himself with a lithe movement to the side of the pool to sit relaxed with one arm resting on his knee. Marvin said something to Janine, and the woman glanced at Clare. The producer’s wife nodded and made a laughing remark that made both men smile; then, with conscious grace she moved along the side of the pool to where Clare lay.
“My dear Clare, we have been so worried about you — oh, your poor face!”
Self-conscious in spite of her intention to ignore Janine’s gushing solicitousness, Clare raised a hand to her cheek. “It’s nothing. It will be completely healed in a week.”
“I do hope so. Such a pity if that silly little accident should leave you scarred. But as I was saying, Marvin and I have positively badgered Logan for news. We would have come to see you yesterday, but he would not hear of you being disturbed. I swear it is hilarious to think of him keeping people from you when so often they have had to be kept from him.”
She would have to remember to thank Logan for the mercy of sparing her such a visit when she had been feeling her worst. “He has been good to me.”
“I am glad to see you realize it, though I expect you are enjoying having a man like that at your beck and call, having him carrying you up and down like something precious on a pillow.”
“Why? Because you would?” Clare asked, her tone tart.
“You are out of sorts this morning, aren’t you?” Janine said with satisfaction. Looking around, she chose a tubular chair with green print cushions to complement her bright green dress and drew it up beside Clare’s lounge.
“Not especially, all things considered,” Clare replied.
Janine sent her an uncertain glance, smoothing her dress down over her knees. “You seem in an odd humor to me.”
“Because I don’t want your double-edged commiserations? How ungrateful of me! You will have to excuse me, I have other things on my mind, other things that just happen to concern you, Janine. I would like to have a few words alone with you as soon as it can be arranged.”
“Alone? What on earth for?” The woman stared at Clare with her brows lifted in surprise, though there was an element of wariness beneath her poise.
“There is something I would like to discuss.”
“What is the matter with here?” Janine asked, spreading her hands to indicate the open space around them.
“I would prefer not to be interrupted.”
“And I would prefer not to be inconvenienced any more than is necessary. If you have something to say to me, then say it now.”
Clare closed her magazine and put it to one side. “All right, if that’s the way you want it. What I wanted to speak to you about is my little accident, as you called it, only it wasn’t an accident, as you are well aware.”
“I haven’t the least idea what you are talking about.”
“I think you do. I am saying it was you on the ski slope yesterday, you who deliberately sliced in front of me, hoping to make me fall, making sure of it by snatching my pole when it looked like I might recover. There is no use denying it; you were recognized.”
“You are lying!”
“No. And I would advise you to keep your voice down, unle
ss you would like me to repeat my tale to your husband.”
“He wouldn’t believe you,” Janine said, but the tone of her voice, much quieter than before, was an indication that she was far from sure.
“Possibly not,” Clare conceded, hiding her sense of triumph. “I wonder if he would believe Logan.”
“Logan? Logan recognized me?”
“So you admit it?” Clare asked quietly. Janine need not know that Logan was uncertain of her identity.
“Definitely not,” Janine answered, but her eyes were harried as she turned to look at the two men at the end of the pool.
“It makes no difference. I am sure the police will be able to get to the bottom of the matter.”
“The police!” Janine swung to face Clare, her face pale beneath the coating of her makeup.
“It is a question of assault, you see.”
“You weren’t touched,” Janine declared, her eyes narrowing.
“Wasn’t I? How do you know, I wonder, if you weren’t there? The important thing, however, is that there was intent to cause physical harm, and there are any number of witnesses who can testify to that.”
A cold smile curled Janine’s mouth. “Quite the little lawyer, aren’t you?”
“No, but my father was before his death.”
“Then if you are so sure of your facts, why haven’t you gone to the police already?”
The question was not unexpected. “I would have,” Clare said with an air of candor, “but it could not help but be embarrassing. Logan would have to be dragged into it. Everything would come out — his relationship with you, why he came up here, how I came to be with him, your objections to my presence, your husband’s jealousy, everything. The papers would have a field day, of course. I might have the satisfaction of seeing you brought to book, but at what cost? No, I feel sure there is some other way for this matter to be settled.”
“And just what did you have in mind?” Janine inquired, her words cold and even with the rage that burned inside her.
“Surely you can guess,” Clare said gently. “First of all, you will agree to leave Logan in peace. I think you know that if there ever was anything between the two of you, it is over now.”
Sweetly Contemporary Collection - Part 2 (Sweetly Contemporary Boxed Sets) Page 47
