UPON THE STORM

by Justine Davis

  She shuddered under the impact of that admission, that baring of heart, soul and battered ego. How very, very far he had come… God, she had put him through hell. But she had never thought, never dreamed, that he could feel that way. Not about her. And to admit it so openly, so honestly… That old, arrogant facade had hidden more courage than she'd ever thought of having. She knew she couldn't match it.

  "I don't… I can't…"

  She shuddered again, and he could see that she was teetering on the edge of mental exhaustion. He was feeling it himself, that drugged, numbed sense of a mind forced to deal with too much in too short a time. He stood up.

  "Christy, please … can we get out of here? You need a … break from this, and so do I. We can get something to eat and unwind. Will you? We can talk it all out, soon, but let's just let it rest for a while."

  He held a hand out to her. Numbly, barely aware of what she was doing, she took it.

  * * *

  Eight

  « ^ »

  She looked at the interior of the new, luxurious but surprisingly unobtrusive silver car curiously.

  "I dumped the Ferrari," he said briefly, noting her look. "It didn't feel right anymore."

  "I know."

  She'd heard that he had donated the expensive car for a raffle, a raffle that had brought in thousands of dollars to a local charity. It had been the first in a long chain of events that had made the headlines everywhere.

  He flushed. He hadn't meant to sound as if he was blowing his own horn. He pulled the driver's door shut sharply.

  She was puzzled when they pulled in behind a large gray building and he got out to lead her toward what was obviously a back door. It had begun to rain again, and they were nearly running when it dawned on her. Of course. Trace Dalton couldn't go in the front door. He would cause a riot.

  "Christy, don't," he pleaded, feeling her sudden stiffness. "I just don't want us to be disturbed, that's all."

  That was unlikely, she thought as she took the chair he held for her. They had the room to themselves, a small, private banquet room that was clearly meant to seat at least a dozen people. And she had no doubt that it would stay that way; she didn't need the obsequiousness of the owner, who had personally met them in the kitchen and led the way, to tell her that. This further proof that the rich and famous were definitely different did nothing to abate her growing unease.

  She sat silently, tracing the elaborate pattern on the silverware with a nervous finger, not even hearing Trace's orders to the awed waiter. She wasn't even sure what meal he had ordered. Was it lunch? Or dinner? Anything seemed possible; she felt as if she had relived years in that office.

  "Hurricane Productions," she murmured.

  "It seemed like a good name," he said softly, seeming to suddenly find the silverware pattern fascinating himself. "I wanted it to be special. I wanted to do … something real, I guess. Something different. Because I was different."

  He paused, as if he half expected her to deny it. She said nothing, just continued to outline the intricate curves on the knife's handle.

  "Christy?"

  The slender finger stopped its circling. Slowly, reluctantly, her head came up. He looked into eyes wide with mingled doubt, pain and confusion.

  "I'm sorry, Christy. Maybe I was wrong to trick you into this." His hand went to the scar again. "But I had to know what went wrong. It was … killing me. But I never meant to hurt you." He brushed tousled, rain-dampened hair back from his forehead, letting out a weary sigh. "If you want to go, I'll take you back."

  Surprise overtook the other emotions in her eyes. "You'd do that? After all this?"

  "Nothing's worth that look in your eyes."

  She studied him for a moment. "What about the look in yours?" she asked softly.

  Those eyes widened, searching her face. Before he could speak, the flustered waiter arrived to set plates before them with all the reverence of one making an offering at a shrine. And the warmth that had glowed briefly in her eyes was gone.

  It was the longest meal of his life. He barely tasted what little food he ate, and he picked at the rest idly. At last he gave up. He stared at his plate. "I went to a backpacking store once, a couple of years ago." His voice was low. "I got some of that freeze-dried food. Apple cobbler, as a matter of fact. It tasted the same."

  He didn't expect her to answer; she'd said almost nothing through the entire meal. Nothing since the moment when that light had died in her eyes. He knew why, knew that she was thinking once again of the world he lived in, thinking she'd been right, that there was no place for her in it. He didn't know how to convince her, to make her believe—

  "You went to a store?"

  His head shot up. "Yes. I couldn't explain what I wanted, or why, to somebody else when I wasn't sure myself."

  "Must have been great for business."

  There it was again, that stiffness, that cool withdrawal. He carefully set down the fork he'd been toying with. "Do you want me to quit?"

  Her brow furrowed. "What?"

  "Quit. Hang it up. Walk away."

  She stared. "From what?"

  "From this damned world of mine you're so sure you don't belong in."

  "Quit acting?" She was astonished. "Why on earth…?"

  "If that's what it takes to convince you, that's what I'll do."

  "Convince me?"

  "To give us a chance." His eyes were fastened on her face with an intensity that was almost tangible and added to Christy's stunned confusion. "That's what it is, isn't it? Why you don't believe how I feel about you? If I was a … a car salesman, you'd believe me, wouldn't you?"

  "Believe you?"

  He took a deep breath and reached across the table to take her hands in his. With the look of a diver on the highest platform, he braced himself for the plunge.

  "I love you, Christy Reno." Her eyes widened with shock, but he gave her no chance to protest. "I've spent three years trying to change it, but I can't. And if you get up and walk out on me right now, it still won't change it. No matter what you do, where you go, you'll carry that with you, even if you decide never to see me again."

  "Trace, no…" It was barely a whisper; he ignored it.

  "I'm not going to be one of those people who drift in and out of your life. I'm here for good. It's up to you to decide how."

  Her face was pale and her eyes shadowed as she stared at him. Slowly, as if in a daze, she shook her head.

  "I mean it, Christy. It won't make a bit of difference to how I feel if you leave right now. Oh, I'll hurt, but I've lived with that for three years. And I still love you." He gave a short, harsh laugh. "I don't seem to have any choice. But I've done it alone this long, I guess I can keep on doing it, if you make me. I hope to God you won't." He tightened his grip on her hands. "And if quitting is what it takes…"

  He shrugged, as if he'd been talking about changing his hairstyle. Christy's look of shock turned to disbelief, and in that moment he saw the wary, distrustful child who had been deserted too many times. She thought he was bluffing. He got abruptly to his feet.

  Christy stumbled a little as he grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the door. He paused to let her regain her balance, but neither of them spoke nor slowed again as he led her somewhat ungently toward the car.

  "Where are we going?" she ventured to ask after he had driven several miles in grim silence.

  "To show you I meant what I said."

  His tone didn't invite further questions, and she subsided into silence. It was easy enough to do; her mind was whirling. He loved her? She shook her head in inward denial. He couldn't. Not Trace Dalton.

  But he'd looked for her. He hadn't forgotten, not in three years. Even though he said he'd tried. She stole a sideways glance at him; his face was drawn, his jaw set, as he stared out at the rainy pavement. Could it be true? Lord knows she hadn't been able to forget him. She never would forget him, even without the daily reminder she had…

  Her heart plummeted. Even
if it was true, even if he did love her, that love would never survive what she'd kept from him. No matter what he thought he felt, it wouldn't sustain the blow of that complication. But God, it had been wonderful to believe, just for a moment…

  He pulled into an underground parking garage. Without a word he got out, walked around the car and opened her door. She followed him meekly, sensing he was not in a mood to be trifled with, wondering what on earth he was doing. Her curiosity escalated when she saw the name of a well-known agent on the office door he held open for her. She saw the surprise that registered on the face of the receptionist, the surprise of seeing an unexpected guest.

  "Is he alone, Sheila?"

  "Why, yes, but—" Her eyes flickered doubtfully to an inner office door.

  "It's important," he said brusquely and, still gripping Christy's wrist, headed for the door.

  A pair of bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrows shot up on the balding forehead of the man in the big leather chair. He spoke quickly into the telephone he'd been holding, then replaced it in the cradle as he stood up.

  "Trace! I wasn't expecting to see you again so soon." He held out a hand as he smiled jovially; Trace shook it rather stoically. Concern showed suddenly in light brown eyes masked by thick glasses. "Nothing wrong with the contract, is there?"

  "No. Yes."

  The older man blinked. "I see." He glanced at Christy. "And I suppose this lovely creature is responsible for this uncharacteristic state of confusion?"

  "Christy Reno, George Boyce."

  The introduction was brief to the point of rudeness, and the bushy brows shot up another notch. It had been a long time since George had seen this Trace Dalton. He'd forgotten how much of a change there had been. He nodded at the young woman who seemed to be trying to back away. She was blushing, a rather charming touch that George found himself believing despite years spent in a town full of women who could turn both blushes and tears on and off at will.

  "So what is—or isn't—wrong with the contract?"

  "Nothing. But cancel it."

  The eyebrows reached their zenith. "What?"

  "You heard me. Cancel. I quit."

  "But you've been fighting the network for months for the okay! You can't quit this picture now!"

  "I'm not quitting the picture, George."

  The round face regained its smile. "If that was a joke, it was a rotten—"

  "I'm quitting, period."

  George Boyce stared. "What?"

  "You heard me," Trace repeated grimly. "I'm quitting. Everything."

  "The producers aren't going to like this," George warned, bewildered. "They count on your outside appearances to help sell the series—"

  "Everything, George."

  The little man went pale. "You can't mean…?"

  Trace was answering George, but his eyes were fastened on Christy's shocked face. "When shooting resumes after the hiatus, it will be without me. I am officially retired."

  The astounded look on George Boyce's face told her that none of this had been planned. If he had known about this, the portly man facing her should be the actor, for it was an award-winning performance.

  "Put the word out, George. No interviews, no questions."

  "But, Trace," he gasped, "why?"

  "It's personal. And for once it's going to stay that way. I'm sorry to spring it on you like this, but I had no choice."

  Christy's eyes narrowed at his choice of words. Her shock was giving way to anger, the anger of someone being backed into a corner. He was bluffing. He had to be. Nobody loved anybody enough to do this. He just couldn't take no for an answer. He was trying to make her give in and using this to do it. Her chin came up.

  Trace saw it, welcomed it; any sign of emotion was better than that cold silence. "Still don't trust me, do you?" he said softly. He turned to George. "Announce it this afternoon. Call the studio first. And keep them off my back." His tone softened for a moment. "I know it'll be rough, George. I'll make it worth it. This year's percentage again, maybe?"

  "You really mean it." The eyes behind the glasses blinked in final comprehension.

  "I mean it."

  Christy had to believe him now. She sat staring at the flickering screen of the television, staring at the picture of Trace that glowed behind the newscaster's shoulder. And listening to the voice delivering the news that had stunned the entertainment industry.

  "—citing only personal reasons for the startling move. Producers of Dalton's popular series, Air West, expressed shock at the news and hope that something can be worked out with the star."

  They cut to a clip of a harried studio executive, who unctuously expressed his sympathy and understanding about Trace's changed mental state since his "terrible experience" three years ago, but somehow all Christy could see were the fading dollar signs in his eyes.

  Christy sat back in the overstuffed chair and tried to control the emotions ricocheting around inside her. She never should have come here, she thought; she needed time to absorb all this alone. But Trace had been emphatic, and she had been so numb, that she had acceded to his stubborn insistence that he wasn't letting her out of his sight. She could have her own room, she didn't even have to speak to him if she didn't want to, but she was staying under his roof.

  And so now, her bags already tucked away upstairs in the airy blue-and-white room overlooking the beach, she sat in his living room, all too aware of his eyes burning into her from across the expanse of white tiled floor.

  She sensed him move toward her and turned her head to stare out the huge floor-to-ceiling windows at the ocean. She wondered why he'd bought this house; she would have thought he'd had quite enough salt water to last him a lifetime.

  "Now what, Christy?"

  She turned back to find he had knelt beside her chair and was staring up at her intently. Her gaze flicked to the television screen, then back to those incredible eyes, turquoise in the fading light, shadowed slightly by the thick fringe of lashes. He read her expression easily.

  "I knew you wouldn't believe it wasn't a setup, not unless you saw it like that." He jerked his head in the direction of the screen.

  "Why?" Her voice still sounded dazed. "You can't quit—"

  "I just did."

  "But—"

  "You still don't get it, do you?" He reached for her hands. "None of it means anything anymore, Christy. It's only been a way to get through the past three years. It lost its glow the day you made me wake up and take a good long look at myself and what I'd become."

  "But you changed—"

  "And it's a battle, every day. It would be so easy to slide back into it. There's always somebody to kowtow to me, to pile on the flattery, to pump me up into believing my own publicity. And I've been afraid for three years that the day would come when your memory might not be strong enough to help me fight it. Sometimes you seemed so far away…"

  She wondered if he knew how much aching longing he had let into his voice, just as she wondered if he knew how much that tone tore her apart. Here, now, in this moment, she could almost believe…

  "But you're a star—"

  "To hell with that! If that's what's keeping you from giving us a chance, then it's not worth a damn to me!"

  She stared at him, unable to doubt that he meant what he said despite her mind's insistence that it was impossible. He tightened his fingers around hers.

  "I love you, Christy. Please don't run from me. I've kept the promise I made you, just give me a chance to prove it to you."

  His words were coming in choppy bursts, as if he'd had them stored up for a long time, never sure he would ever have the chance to say them. He loved her, Christy thought dazedly. Or he thought he did. But so had the others…

  "Don't lump me in with them," he said quickly, reading her thoughts as easily as if she'd spoken them. "I'm not one of them. I'm not going to disappear on you. Please, Christy, give me a chance."

  She couldn't convince him. She could see the fierce determination in his eyes, and
she sighed inwardly. She owed him this, she supposed, after all he'd gone through to find her. He would soon realize that it wouldn't work. All she had to do was give it time. He would see that he'd been wrong, and then she could at last put him out of her mind. She'd long ago given up trying to put him out of her heart.

  "Give me a month, Christy. Just a month. You were going to be here two weeks anyway, what's two more? Then—" He lowered his eyes, but not before she saw him blink rapidly. "Then I'll get out of your life—if that's what you want."

  It will be what you want by then, she thought, her eyes on his bent head, her fingers itching to reach for the tousled silk of his hair. I can't live in your world, nor can I live with myself if you give it up for me. You think now your work doesn't matter, but you'll come to hate me for coming between you and what you want to do, should do.

  "Christy?" He didn't look up.

  "All right."

  She saw him suck in a breath, and his head shot up, his eyes wide with shock. "You … mean it?"

  "I mean it. One month. You'll know by then."

  "So will you," he said firmly, so unwavering that for a split second she almost believed he could do it, just by sheer force of will. But then that last little bit of reality, that final bit of ammunition with which she could have ended things here and now, came back to her, and she felt a harsh pang at the futility of his gallant effort.

  Perhaps she should tell him now. Bring it all to a halt, make it easy for him to send her packing. No, she couldn't. She could solve this on her own, and he need never know. If she told him, he would probably always wonder, always think she would be waiting in the wings with some kind of claim or demand. She would let him learn how impossible it was, and then she would quietly depart, without a scene. She could give him that, at least. And she resolutely refused to admit that there was anything else to her decision to stay.