by Helen Conrad
And so she wore thrift store dresses and cheap sandals on stockingless feet.
“It's summer,” she'd told herself defensively as she'd dressed for the party. And at least she had tan legs, in her line of work. Her only extravagance was a pair of golden earrings shaped like climbing roses. They had been her last present to herself before entering into a pact with Jim, her coach and trainer.
“Harper! Hey, wait up.”
Her escort winced. “Uh oh,” he muttered, turning to watch as a group of men descended on them from the bar area.
Kathy knew this was her chance to get away and she took it, slipping out of his grasp as he was quickly surrounded by happy friends who’d searched him out. He looked at her as though he didn’t want her to go, but she waved at him and took off across the pebble path toward the house. Enough, after all, was enough. Wasn’t it?
She had some fund raising to do. Jim would be disappointed in her. She had to make up for lost time. Taking a deep breath, she turned and looked for the object of her quest, the man she’d been sent to appeal to. She dreaded this, but it had to be done.
She never should have come here alone. She'd tried to get out of it, but Jim had said, “You have to go. The university's board of trustees like to see their slaves groveling at their feet with happy smiles at least once a semester. They support our research. So go grovel.”
Jim, of course, weaseled out. He had a business appointment in Salt Lake City early in the morning, so he'd gone up to stay overnight, leaving Kathy to grovel on her own. She'd tried to do her part, smiling and nodding and listening to bores, but she knew all along that the most important thing she was here for was the money.
She should have warned Jim that it wouldn’t work. She just wasn’t good at this sort of thing. There was one man above all others she was supposed to captivate tonight.
“Charlton Boyd has a real eye for the ladies,” Jim had said. “All you have to do is charm him a bit. A little flirting, maybe. Harmless stuff. Just make him feel like you appreciate what a great guy he is. The wallets of his whole group of financier buddies will open wide. You’ll see.”
Fundraising was the part of this whole endeavor she was involved in that she hated the most. Begging, she called it. But there was no doubt they needed the money. Pool time didn’t come cheap. It just seemed a little weird to have to come all the way to Utah to do it.
“We have to go to where the money is,” Jim had said. “I’ll be playing the same game at a foundation meeting in Salt Lake while you get to go to a garden party in Ryan City. Maybe we’ll throw in a few talks to swim teams in the area the next day, and then we’ll be on our way back home to Destiny Bay. It’ll all be over in no time.”
It shouldn’t have been that tough. What she hadn’t counted on was Charlton Boyd. He was important. She approached him with a smile on her face, and when he turned and looked down at her, the smile froze into a painful mask.
He was so much like her father—the father who’d broken her heart time and time again. She generally tried to avoid her father as much as possible—sort of the way you avoided stepping on broken glass or getting hit in the head by a swinging door. But there he was, the same russet-colored hair turning grey, same blue eyes, same wide shoulders--same arrogance, same certainty that he was ruler of all he surveyed, same disdain for others’ feelings.
She panicked. She couldn’t do this. She managed to stammer out an explanation of who she was but all she wanted to do was to get as far away from the man as she could, as soon as she could. Just the way she felt with her father.
Still, she’d forced herself to try. She managed to relax her smile a bit and cock her head to the side and look up at him through her lashes. She hated it, but she did it.
She’d promised Jim she would.
And then he moved in closer and gave her the look that let her know, before the wallets would open, so would his bedroom doors. And that was a bridge too far. It set her up to do the unforgiveable—be honest.
Her heart began to pound anxiously. She had to get away. As she was trying to think of a graceful way to escape, she felt his hand slide in under the back of her blouse and trace its way up the length of her spine, just as he was telling the other men in the group how sexy he found athletic female bodies.
She should have been able to laugh it off. She should be experienced enough to know how to turn away overbearing men without making a scene of it. And with anyone else, she might have managed it.
But this man was so like her father in the most hurtful way—his utter lack of respect for her or what she was doing. It was just too much.
She jerked away, slapping at his hand and crying out, “Mr. Boyd! Please! Keep your hands off me.” Just like a lady in a 50’s sitcom. She might as well have called for her smelling salts.
She turned on her heel, going bright red as she heard the laughter behind her, and stomped off across the grass. And that was that.
Remembering it now, as she walked away, she cringed. What a fool she’d made of herself. What a disaster she’d made of the fundraising attempt. At least that was over now.
Now she just wanted to go back to her motel and get into bed and pull the covers up over her head. She started toward the exit but stopped short when she saw Carolyn Vestor, the swim foundation president who’d arranged for her to come and make nice to the board members standing with others nearby.
She couldn’t leave yet, not with Carolyn watching. Jim would hear she’d left early and he would think she’d chickened out. And in a way, she had. She was a complete failure. Once again.
Oh well. Her father would have shrugged and said, “What else is new?”
As she pictured that, she felt sick inside.
She had to calm down. She couldn’t ruin everything over such a silly, trivial insult. An insult the man probably didn’t even realize she’d taken so hard.
But she was still shaking. Over nothing. Nothing at all.
“There you are. The sunshine of my life.”
She looked up quickly, but not in time to avoid getting snagged by that Harper man again. Before she knew what he was doing, he’d kissed the tip of her nose and taken her arm into his possession once more.
“You don’t know how lonely I’ve been,” he told her smoothly. “The world is a cold place when I don’t have you with me.”
Despite everything, she laughed. Funny, but after her encounter with a really vulgar man, Harper’s high jinks seemed almost endearing.
“You’re crazy,” she said, shaking her head as she looked at him. “Tell me, what will your real wife do when she catches us hanging out like this?”
“You’re the only wife I’ve got at the moment,” he told her, smiling down into her eyes. “You’re all I need.”
“How lucky for me,” she said, but she had to smile. “Listen, I really have to go. I’m late for….” She shrugged. She couldn’t think of a good excuse.
“Stay with me, darling,” he murmured, threading his fingers through hers and leading her toward the pebbled path. “I’m lost without you.”
Kathy twisted around to look at her captor again. His gaze was dreamy as he smiled at her, and that gave her a tiny, shivering thrill.
Despite that—or maybe because of it--she had the sudden urge to slug him in the jaw and make a run for it. She was an athlete, after all, and she knew her own strength. She could do it. He was big, but if she caught him off guard, she'd get away with it. He deserved it. And yet ...
She really didn’t want to escape. She had to admit it—she was enjoying having a man this attractive paying attention to her. And the man was awfully good-looking—tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair, the ends bleached by the sun—a real hunk, all wrapped up in a starched shirt and stunning white jacket that fit him almost too well. All in all, he was not the sort of man she was used to being involved with.
She had a sudden mental image of Greg, her ex-husband, and though she pushed it quickly away, it reinforced the point. Thi
s was no ordinary man here. Why had he picked her to be his make-believe wife?
She couldn’t get over the feeling that she’d seen him somewhere before. It wouldn't hurt to follow along for a few moments and find out what he was up to. Would it?
“Where are we going?” she asked, suddenly realizing they were beyond the bounds of the party.
“You'll see.”
The house and grounds were set at the margins of a development, just at the point where the beginnings of the forest came down to brave the edge of civilization. They were following a brick pathway now, and as Kathy let her gaze trace its serpentine path across the grass, she found that it led right into— the woods!
She stopped in her tracks. “Oh no you don't.”
Curiosity was one thing, stupidity another. With one deft move, she twisted out of his grip and glared up at him, rubbing her hand where his fingers had been.
“Better get your bimbos back, Mr. Harper,” she said coolly. “I don't go for slipping off at parties.”
The little-boy-lost look was back on his face. “Really?” he said sadly. “No dallying in the daisies? No tiptoeing among the tulips?” He raised an eyebrow.
The fact that he didn't take her seriously was almost as infuriating as anything else he'd done in the last few minutes.
“Not even once,” she said coldly, hoping to put him in his place.
He shrugged, his wide shoulders moving smoothly beneath the silk cloth of his white coat. “You see, that's exactly why I chose you. I knew you were a lady of integrity.” He smiled at her. “I don't need a lover right now. I need a wife.” He gestured toward a stone bench that she suddenly noticed behind him. “This was my destination,” he explained, all innocence. “Would you sit and talk with me for a bit?”
She hesitated, looking from the stone bench back to the party. Every ounce of common sense she possessed told her to drop him like a hot potato.
And yet . . . and yet. . . .
They were out of the range of paper-lantern light by now, and looking at his face, she thought she saw something in the dark shadows that partially obscured his features— something that caught her interest, intrigued her. He pretended to be an open book—all smiles and harmless jokes and slick manners. But there was a mystery in his eyes. A sadness.
“I don't know why I should,” she said stiffly, trying to pull herself away, even taking a step in that direction, but still lingering.
“Neither do I,” he agreed softly, “but I'd appreciate the company. Please sit down.”
She found herself sinking onto the cold stone, not really sure why. “For just a moment,” she said firmly.
He dropped down beside her. “Moments,” he said dreamily, “are like bubbles floating past. You can reach out and touch, but try to possess”—he snapped his fingers in the air—”and they vanish in the hand.”
Whether summoned by the snap of his fingers or by some other sense, suddenly a waiter appeared before them, two glasses and a bottle of champagne on his tray.
“Ah, here's what we need,” her companion said happily, reaching for the glasses. “My good man, you've come just in time.” He handed one long-stemmed glass to Kathy and took the other for himself. “Here we are.”
She took the glass, but shook her head, bemused by him. “I don't drink.”
He smiled. “But I do.” With no hesitation, he took the bottle from the waiter as well. “This will do just fine,” he told him. “Though I'll probably need another in fifteen minutes or so.”
The waiter melted into the shadows.
Kathy frowned. “I think you've already had too much,” she said reprovingly.
“Relative term,” he countered, frowning back with mock seriousness. “Too much? Compared with what? Enough?” He squinted at the bubbles in his glass, and his voice turned bitter again for just a moment. “I've never had enough. I don't even know what it means.”
Then the beatific smile was back, and he raised his glass high, clinking it against hers. “We must toast wives, don't you-think? You make such a good one.”
She sighed. “Mr. Harper ...”
“Jason.”
She set her glass down on the bench between them. “I'm not a wife,” she said, watching him. About thirty-six or thirty-seven, she guessed, seven or eight years older than she was herself. He was a large man, solidly built—a man who, she was sure, exuded nothing but confidence under normal circumstances. But tonight he was overdoing the alcohol, and that took the edge off a presence she sensed could be intimidating.
“I'm not a wife,” she repeated. “Especially not yours.” She settled back against the hardness of the stone bench. “I assume you were only trying to get rid of the 'girls' when you claimed to know me. It worked.” She shrugged, palms up. “A nice 'thank you' would do. You don't need to keep me entertained all night.”
He smiled at her, shaking his head, as though she really didn't understand at all. “Ah, but I do.”
Her gray eyes narrowed, studying him. There was more to this than she'd thought at first. What sort of game was he playing? It would be tempting to think he'd been smitten by her charms, but she was too old for fairy tales.
“Are you going to explain to me what this ridiculous charade is all about?” she asked evenly.
He took a long drink, then refilled his empty glass.
“No,” he said calmly. “I don't think so.” His gorgeous eyes met hers and deepened. “Let's talk about you instead. If you're going to be my wife, I ought at least to know your name, don’t you think?”
“Kathy Carrington,” she told him reluctantly, half surrendering.
Something about this man seemed to make it impossible for her to dismiss him out of hand. She should get up and leave. She could now. He wasn't forcing her to stay. He was handsome and charming—but he was also drinking too much.
But something held her here. She looked at the beautiful lines of his face, the sculptured angle of his jawline, the sweep of his long, long eyelashes, and she felt a little breathless for a moment.
“Kathy Carrington.” He frowned, trying to focus, and something changed in his face. “Wait a minute. Do I know you?”
“I don't think so.” Her tone was dry. She doubted they would even have friends in common.
“No, wait.” He scrutinized her face thoroughly. “You're the swimmer who's trying to make the comeback, aren't you?”
He was the first person tonight who'd noticed without being told. She couldn't help but be a little pleased. “You saw the article in the paper yesterday?”
She'd been skeptical when the sports reporter had come by the university pool to interview her. But once she'd seen the treatment he'd given her in the morning news, she'd felt that old thrill. No matter how much she told herself that she was doing this for her own private and personal reasons, public recognition did play a big part in it all. She could remember what it had been like to be a winner, to feel the acclaim of the crowd. It was something she could feel again, if she worked hard enough. If she deserved it.
“I sure did.” He downed his second glass of champagne and grinned at her. “I read the whole thing. All about how you, at age—what is it? Twenty-nine? think you can get back into competitive swimming and challenge the sixteen- and seventeen-year-olds who regularly win the events.”
The smile faded from his eyes and he shook his head. “And I think you're nuts, the both of you. Who's your trainer? Jim Corbett, isn't it? The guy who took the gold medal in the fly in the Barcelona Games in '92?”
He knew swimming, that was for sure. She stared at him, and something suddenly started clicking in her mind. Jason Harper. Jason Harper.
“Jace Harper,” she breathed at last, her gray eyes wide with wonder. “You're . . . you're Jace Harper.”
He doffed an imaginary hat. “At your service.” His smile was touched with self-scorn. “That's me. Good old Jace Harper. Three gold medals at nineteen. A has-been at twenty.”
His smile faded. “But then, you
know all about it, don't you, Kathy Carrington? I watched you swim twelve years ago. You won a bronze medal and then turned your back on swimming. And now you've returned, going for the gold? Don't you think it's a little late?”
She hardly heard his words, she was still overwhelmed by the realization of who was sitting beside her. Jace Harper. He'd been like a god to her when she was young. The best swimmer in the world in his time. She'd never seen him swim in person, but she'd seen the videos ...
“You were wonderful,” she murmured, starry-eyed. “I had your picture up in my room. . . .”
He turned away, a dismissive gesture, and reached for the bottle again. “Yeah, well, that was then,” he said roughly, pouring himself another drink. “This is now. I don't swim anymore.”
Jace Harper. It had been years since she'd thought of him, but now that the memories had been stirred, she could see the resemblance. Jace had been a long, stringy kid, all sinew and muscle, with a grin that seemed to light up the sky.
Jason Harper was thicker, big and solid, and his face was less open, more cynical. Jace had been mystical to her. Jason was real. She was slowly coming back to earth.
“What . . . what do you do these days?”
He frowned, shrugged, and grinned, all in turn.
“Make lots of money,” he said. “And spend it on useless nonsense.”
He looked over at the party as though startled to realize it was still going on. “That's what I'm doing here in Utah,” he went on, after a soft hiccup. “Preparing to become even more fabulously wealthy.” He stared out at the trees and said, so low that she knew it wasn’t meant for her to hear, “And for what?”
He turned and glared at her from under lowered brows. “It's not as much fun as swimming, you know,” he lectured. “But swimming doesn't make any money.” He threw his arms wide, sloshing the pale liquid from his glass. “Oops,” he murmured, staring at the empty glass. “Can't waste this stuff. Who knows when our faithful Saint Bernard will return with more.”
