by Sandra Brown
There was a wide window to correspond with each of the arches. Feeling like a criminal, she crept over to each one, cupped her hands against the panes of glass, and peered inside. The rooms had high ceilings, were well furnished and immaculately clean. There was a living room with an enormous fireplace and comfortable sofas and chairs, a study with bookcase-lined walls and a massive desk littered with papers, and a dining room. The last room had a terrazzo tile floor and wicker furniture. Through the window Andy could see that one of the side walls was solid glass. The room was filled with tropical plants. A ceiling fan circled overhead.
An old man was sitting in a wheelchair, reading—or was he sleeping? She went around the corner of the house to the other side and looked through the sliding glass door. He was reading. A book lay in his lap. His age-spotted hand turned the page slowly. A pair of wire-rimmed eye-glasses were mounted on his bony nose.
Andy jumped when, without even looking up at her, he said, “Come in, Mrs. Malone.”
Chapter Two
Shock paralyzed her. She couldn’t have said which surprised her the most, that the old man had known she was there in the first place or his benign expression as he looked up at her and smiled. She was as surprised by the father as she had been by the son. She had expected something like George C. Scott’s portrayal of General Patton. Where was the stern military bearing? The General Michael Ratliff of today exemplified benevolence. She had seen pictures of him, but they had been taken forty years ago and bore little resemblance to the frail old man in the wheelchair.
Her incredulity seemed to amuse him. “Come in closer where I can see you better, please, Mrs. Malone.”
Andy forced her legs to propel her through the opened glass door and, into the garden room. “Are you General Ratliff?” she asked hesitantly.
He chuckled. “Of course.”
“H—” she swallowed hard. “How do you know who I am? Were you expecting me?” She wondered briefly if Les had called to ask the general for an interview but dismissed the idea before it was full-blown. That wasn’t exactly Les’s technique. And besides that, no one talked to the general without first consulting Lyon. Lyon’s mind wouldn’t easily be changed.
“Yes, I was expecting you,” he said, with no further word of explanation. “Please sit down. Would you care for something to drink?”
“No, no, thank you.” Why did she suddenly feel like a school girl caught out in a mischievous prank? She sat on the edge of one of the wicker chairs with a high, fanned back and a bold print cushion. She tucked her envelope purse between her thigh and the armrest and tugged at the hemline of her skirt. Her back was erect. “You didn’t look up before speaking to me. How—”
“Military training, Mrs. Malone. I’ve always had ears like radar. My excellent hearing was the bane of my junior officers. They never could criticize me without my hearing them.” He chuckled again.
“But how did you know my name?” In spite of having been caught red-handed spying and trespassing, she was enjoying herself. It was a heady feeling to know she was at last in the presence of one of her country’s most illustrious war heroes. He was feeble of body, but his mind was razor-sharp. His eyes were rheumy, but she suspected that they saw more than he wanted people to know. Or was it his keen perception that made it seem that way? His sparse white hair was neatly combed, military fashion. He was dressed in an impeccably starched and ironed one-piece jumpsuit. “Have you ever seen my television program?” she asked him.
“No, I regret to say that I have not. I knew who you were because Lyon told me that he had met you in town yesterday.” He watched for her reaction.
She smoothed her features into a placid mask. “Oh?” she asked coolly. “Did he also tell you how rudely he behaved?”
The old man laughed a loud, short, barking laugh that set off a fit of coughing. She jumped up, alarmed, and leaned over him, ready to help. She had no idea what to do and didn’t even want to consider the repercussions should anything happen to him while they were alone. The spasm finally subsided, and he waved her back into her chair. After taking several deep breaths he said, “No, Lyon failed to mention his rudeness, but it sounds like him.”
He wiped his streaming eyes with a white linen handkerchief. When he was done, Andy could have sworn there was mischief lurking in them. “He told me that another leech from the press was nosing around town asking questions. He called you … let’s see … a nosy bitch. Yes, I think those were his exact words. He went on to say that no doubt you thought you could use your face and body to get a story out of a corpse. Then he described you in great detail.”
Hot color flooded her cheeks, and she gnashed her teeth in anger. That wretch! Leech. Bitch. And to think he’d accuse her of something so despicable.
She wanted to wallow in her anger, to savor it, but realized that the general was weighing her reaction to his son’s account of their meeting with interest. “General Ratliff, I want you to know that your son is wrong about me. True, I was asking questions about you and your life here at the ranch, but only because I want—”
“You don’t have to defend yourself to me, Mrs. Malone. I’m only telling you how you impressed Lyon. So that I may form my own unbiased opinion, let me get the facts straight. You work for a cable network, and you want to interview me for your television program. Is that correct?”
“Yes, sir. We, that is I, want to do a series of interviews that could be run on consecutive nights for a week. The programs would be a half-hour each.”
“Why?”
“Why?” she echoed, not understanding his question.
“Why do you want to interview me?”
She stared at him in perplexity, shook her head slightly and said, “General Ratliff, surely you can guess that. You’re a part of American history. Your name will be in every textbook written about World War II. For years you’ve kept yourself sequestered on this ranch. The American public is curious to know why. They want to know what you’re doing.”
“I can answer that in one word: nothing. I sit here day after day, getting older, deteriorating, waiting to die.” He held his palm up when he saw her about to protest. “Now, Mrs. Malone, if we’re ever going to work together, we must be honest with each other. I am about to die. I’ve waited a long time for it, and I’m rather looking forward to it. I’m tired of being old and useless.”
There was nothing for her to say, so she kept silent as they stared at each other. It was the general who spoke first. “Hypothetically let’s say that I agree to let you interview me. Could I lay down the terms of my capitulation, so to speak?”
Her heart began to pound. He was going to agree. “Yes, sir.”
“Very well. You may have your interviews, Mrs. Malone, though why you would rather interview me than some much more dashing figure is beyond me.”
“I think you’re quite dashing,” she said and meant it.
He laughed, much less violently this time. “In my youth perhaps. Now, as to my terms. You may ask anything about my childhood, my schooling, my military training, my career before and since the war. I was a foot soldier in World War I. Did you know that?” Without waiting for an answer, he continued. “You may question me about the war as a whole, but I will not discuss individual battles.”
“Very well,” she said slowly.
“I will be quite blunt in refusing to answer should you ask a question about a specific battle.”
“I understand.” She didn’t, but she’d agree to anything at this point just for the chance to get the interviews.
“When do we start? Today?”
She grinned at his enthusiasm. “No. I’ll notify my crew tonight, and they’ll arrive with the equipment in a day or so.”
“Will the interviews be on film?”
“Video tape.”
“Video tape,” he said musingly, as though he couldn’t quite grasp the concept.
“It does the same thing as film, but doesn’t have to be processed. It’s like tape in an
audio tape recorder, except with the video, too.” He nodded solemnly. “I can use the time until the crew gets here to select settings. I don’t want all the interviews to be recorded in the same place.”
“And we’ll have a chance to get to know one another,” he said, winking at her. “How long will it take?”
“We’ll work every day only as long as you feel well. I think if we recorded one complete program a day, that would be acceptable to everyone. We should be finished—”
“You’re already finished.”
The harsh words burst into the room from the doorway through which Andy had come in. She whipped her head around to see Lyon as a menacing silhouette against the bright landscape outside. His hands were planted on his hips. He was dressed in jeans, a western shirt, and dusty cowboy boots. His hair was windblown. His expression was ferocious.
“Come in, Lyon. I believe you already know our guest, Mrs. Malone.”
Lyon strode into the room. He pointedly ignored his father’s attempted courtesy. Instead he glared at Andy. “What in the hell are you doing here?”
Andy sprang to her feet. She wasn’t about to look up at him like a penitent. “You know what I’m doing here.”
“I also know the underhanded way you managed to get through the gate. Mr. Houghton and I were well into the second row of boxwoods when he happened to mention the poor little lady he’d driven here to keep her appointment with Gracie after her car broke down. Gracie’s been here longer than I have, and to my knowledge she’s never had an ‘appointment.’ I put two and two together, and unfortunately it added up to you. Now, Ms. Malone, you’re leaving. By force if necessary.” She had no doubt that he meant it. He was reaching for her arm when his father deterred him.
“Lyon, your mother would be distressed by your lack of manners, especially toward a lady. I have consented to Mrs. Malone’s interviewing me.”
Had he been struck with a shovel, Lyon couldn’t have looked more stunned. “Dad … you … are you sure?” Showing a sensitivity she wouldn’t have thought him capable of, he knelt beside his father’s wheelchair and placed his large, tanned hand on General Ratliff’s shoulder. “Are you sure?” he repeated.
The general’s eyes locked with his son’s. “Yes, I’m sure. I won’t do any others, but Mrs. Malone is so charming, I find I can’t refuse her request.”
“Charming be damned,” Lyon snapped, rising to his feet. “Don’t let her talk you into anything you don’t want to do.”
“Have you ever known me to be so gullible, Lyon?” he asked softly. “Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. I want to do this.”
“Very well.” Lyon’s nod was equally terse.
“Well, Mrs. Malone, it seems that it’s all settled,” the general said pleasantly.
“Thank you, General Ratliff,” she said, “but please call me Andy.”
“I like you, Andy.”
“I like you, too.” She laughed and the general joined her, sharing the enjoyment of having met each other.
“Excuse me,” Lyon said chillingly, driving a wedge of hostility into the congenial atmosphere, “but I have to get back to work.”
“Lyon, let Mr. Houghton do what he knows to do. You take Andy back to wherever she’s staying and help her move her things here.”
Andy and Lyon turned in unison to face General Ratliff. Both stared at him in mute bewilderment. At long last Andy found her voice and stammered, “B—but I’m at the Haven in the Hills, and I assure you I’m quite comfortable.”
“But not as comfortable as you’ll be here,” the general said amiably. “You’ve not tasted Gracie’s cooking.” So, thought Andy, Gracie is the cook. “And I may get the urge to bare my soul at any time of the day or night. You wouldn’t want to risk missing that. All things considered, it’ll be much better for you to stay under this roof until we are done with the project.”
“But my crew will be at the motel and—”
“How many crewmen will there be?”
She tabulated quickly. “Four.”
“Then we’ll put them in the bunkhouse. There’s plenty of room. I’ll hear no more objections,” he said, in a voice that was reminiscent of his former command. “Lyon and I are too much alone out here. You’ll be a welcome diversion.” He started the battery-operated motor of his chair. “Now, please excuse me. The two of you have tired me out. I’ll see you at lunch.”
The softly purring motor on the chair propelled it out of the room, and Andy was left alone with Lyon. He must have known of his father’s auditory capabilities, for he waited until the wheelchair was out of sight before he turned to her. “You should be very proud of yourself.”
She defied the accusation in the hard grey eyes. “I am. Your father readily agreed to the interviews. You could have saved us both a lot of time and trouble if you’d conveyed my request to him months ago rather than returning all my letters unopened.”
“He may have consented to these interviews, but I haven’t.” He toured her with scornful eyes. “Isn’t your life exciting enough? What motivates someone to pry into the personal lives of other people? Is that how you get your kicks?”
She hated the taunting curl of his mouth. “I’m not prying. I only want to talk to your father and record those conversations on tape, to be shared with thousands of people who will be interested in what he has to say.”
“That sounds real good, Ms. Malone. Noble and forthright. You may very well be nominated for sainthood.” The mocking smile was wiped from his face as if it had been swept away by a magic wand. His lips thinned to a resolute line. With violent speed he grasped her arm above the elbow and hauled her against him. The rigid lips barely moved as he said, “But I’m warning you, you do anything, anything to distress or harm my father, and you’ll wish to God you hadn’t. Do we have an understanding?”
The breath had been knocked out of her when her breasts had been flattened against the rock wall of his chest, but she struggled to get the words out. “We do.”
He stared down at her, nodding his head slightly as if to say that he’d decide to believe her when she had proved herself. For moments that stretched into a small eternity he continued to stare at her. She couldn’t breathe. Didn’t dare. If she moved at all, she’d only call attention to the juxtaposition of their bodies, which suggested either a wrestling hold or a lovers’ clinch, and either way she didn’t want to acknowledge it.
At the same time she decided to remain perfectly still and not fight him, realization of their tempting proximity dawned on his face. She was freed—suddenly, reflexively, instantly. An objective observer might have thought he considered being close to her dangerous. “Let’s go get your things.” The suggestion was no more than a growl. “I’m not a taxi service.”
She wanted to come back with a scathing refusal, but she would have been speaking to his retreating back as it went through the glass door. She followed him around the length of the porch, which she learned surrounded the house, to the back, where his El Dorado was parked in a four-car garage.
He didn’t even hold her door for her but went straight to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. He had already started the motor and was wearing an impatient, put-out look by the time she caught up with him and got in on the passenger side. She telegraphed what she thought of his manners by slamming the door hard. His reply came back clearly in the form of a stony silence. He didn’t care what she thought.
They roared out the gate and down the highway. The scenery along the roadside blurred, and she didn’t even want to guess how fast they were going. He drove with one elbow propped on the open window ledge and with his fingers tapping the roof of the car in time to a tune known only to him. The wind wreaked havoc with her hair, but she’d be damned if she’d ask him to close the window.
“That was my car,” she said as they shot past the compact still parked on the shoulder of the opposing lane.
“We’ll stop and get it on the way back. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to the
little lady.”
She treated him to a murderous look before turning her head to stare out the window. It was her fervent wish that she could keep her motion sickness at bay as she watched the landscape roll by with sickening speed.
They didn’t speak again until he braked the car within feet of the motel room door that bore the number matching the one on her key. She looked at him quizzically.
“You’re not the only one who can ask nosy questions, Ms. Malone.”
The gray eyes he leveled at her made her unaccountably nervous. What else had his inquiries about Andy Malone produced? “I’ll be right back,” she said, fumbling for the door handle and pushing her way out of the car. Even with the windows down, she’d found the confined space stifling.
Hurriedly unlocking her door, she went into her room. When the door wouldn’t close behind her, she turned to see Lyon standing in the doorway with his hand splayed wide, holding it open. “I’ll help.”
“That isn’t necessary.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
Forcing her backward, he pushed his way inside and closed the door behind him. The room, which had seemed small before, shrunk to doll house proportions once he was inside. He tossed his car keys onto the middle of the bed, which the maid had already made up, then plopped down on it himself and leaned against the headboard, stretching out his long legs so that his booted feet barely hung over the edge. When Andy just stood in the middle of the room staring at him, he said, “Don’t let me bother you.” His grin was arrogant and infuriating. It told her that he knew very well he was bothering her.
She turned her back on him and opened the suitcase lying on the rack in the closet alcove. She began furiously tearing garments from the hangers and stuffing them haphazardly into the suitcase. Several pairs of shoes were picked up from the floor and virtually thrown into her shoe bag. The drawstring popped and vibrated like a rubber band when she yanked it closed.
