by Billie Green
"And even if he did, don't you think you're being a little unrealistic? You didn't exactly unearth a scandal. This is a legitimate practice, used by all the major corporations."
"I don't care if the pope himself does it," Ben said, his voice cold and stiff. "It's wrong."
Sunny's dream was gone now, dissolved into nothing by the insistent voices in the living room. She sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees as she listened to Ben talk to the woman in the next room.
"I don't realty know what you're upset about, Georgia. I'm not trying to harm your father's company. I can't stop what's going on there, but I don't have to be associated with it."
"You know why I'm upset, darling," the woman he called Georgia said softly. "Why do we have to let this tear us apart? Am I my father's keeper?" she added in a whimsical voice.
Sunny slowly rose from the bed, her breathing suddenly restricted. This woman really cared for Ben. She could hear it in her voice. And Ben? How did he feel? Did he return her feelings?
As unpleasant as the thought was, Sunny had to consider the possibility. He was certainly running away from something in his past. This woman perhaps?
"I told you when we said goodbye that it wasn't the reason," Ben said, his deathly quiet voice coming through the closed door with a frightening clarity. "Finding out how your father runs his business was merely a catalyst. It opened my mind to what was happening to me. I left a way of life that was wrong for me. And you just happened to be included in the things that were wrong," he added callously, his voice cynically amused.
This wasn't Ben. This cold stranger couldn't be the same man who had almost cried because Sunny had worked to repay him for his kindness.
There was something very wrong about the scene in the next room. Something that frightened her. She had to stop what was happening in there. She had to bring back her Ben. But how?
It was several minutes before the woman spoke again. And when she did, her voice was filled with anger. "And this is right? Do you really think you're achieving nobility by living in this filthy hole like some—some over-the-hill hippie!" she spat out. Then seconds later she gave a contemptuous laugh. "I'm surprised you don't have some hot little thing living with you. That would complete the scenario in the expected way."
"Unless I'm very much mistaken," Sunny murmured in the next room, "that's my cue."
Drawing in a deep breath for courage, she walked to the door and threw it open. She leaned against the door frame and closed her eyes as she stretched her arms above her head in a sleepy yawn, letting the silk shirt rise high on her thighs.
"Ben!" Georgia gasped.
Sunny allowed her eyes to open wide in surprise and stared at the woman. She was tall and slender, her raven hair pulled into a sleek, sophisticated knot at the base of her neck, matching the expensive lines of her tailored burgundy suit. She didn't look like a wicked witch who could cast a spell of coldness over Ben. She looked like a beautiful, but ordinary woman.
But when Sunny glanced at Ben from the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the stern stranger whose voice she had heard through the door. He was sitting in an armchair facing the standing woman. Although the couch was now a couch rather than his bed, she had evidently caught him off guard, for he wore only his faded jeans. Suddenly Sunny resented the fact that he was sitting there half-naked before this woman.
"Ben," Georgia repeated. "Who is this?"
"Oh!" Sunny said quickly before Ben could reply. "I didn't know we had company. I overslept," she added apologetically. "We don't have guests very often." She walked forward, extending her hand, her hips swinging in time with her words. "My last roommate called me"—she hesitated, searching wildly for a name to suit her new image— "Ready Betty," she finished triumphantly.
When the woman stared at her hand with horror, Sunny turned to walk to Ben. "But Ben calls me Sunny," she said, sliding across the arm of the chair to sit in his lap. "Don't you, Benjy?"
She could feel his body shaking with laughter beneath her, and as she looked into his eyes, the sparkle of life that she was used to seeing there had returned.
When she lifted her head to give him a smacking kiss on the mouth, she heard him choke out in comical horror, "Benjy?" and she had to tighten her lips to keep from laughing aloud.
Turning her head back to the woman standing across the room, Sunny broke contact with the undermining twinkle in Ben's eyes. "Are you a relative of Ben's?" she asked innocently. "We don't get out very often and I haven't met any of his family."
She watched in curiosity as the woman's breathing gradually returned, to normal and she said tightly, "I am not related to Ben. I'm his fiancee."
"His fiancee?" She glanced back at Ben, raising an eyebrow in amused inquiry, then smiled beatifically at his 'fiancee.' "Then you can understand why we don't get out much. I mean, don't you think he's—uh—like totally awesome?"
"Ben! Who is she? And what's this all about?" Georgia asked angrily. Then, after a moment, her eyelids drooped and her voice grew soft. "Darling, you're too intelligent to fall into this kind of common trap."
She made the words sound vulgar and Sunny bristled, making a monumental effort to control her features before she spoke again. "He is awfully smart, isn't he? I mean, have you seen his books? Physics and history and archeology. Even psychology. I tried to read them, but I'm not very bright," she said cheerfully. Then her lips pouted as she wrinkled her brow in thought. "They all seemed to talk an awful lot about phallic symbols." She ignored Georgia's choked exclamation and Ben's shaking body as she switched off the pensive mood and began to giggle. "I had to look it up in the dictionary and you wouldn't believe what it means. It means—"
"Sunny!" Ben said, pulling a lock of her hair in warning.
"What?" she said, looking up at him innocently. "Oh . . . not in mixed company, right? Well, I'll tell you what it means later." She glanced apologetically at Georgia. "I'm afraid you'll have to look it up for yourself."
Somehow Georgia didn't look quite as beautiful with red splotches on her face. She seemed to be having an attack of some kind as she leaned heavily against the end of the couch, her eyes closed tightly. After a moment her heightened color subsided. Slowly she opened her eyes and smiled, first at Sunny, then at Ben.
"Ben." Her voice was no longer scornful, merely carefully polite. "I don't suppose you'd like to go somewhere more private to discuss this?"
Ben tightened his arms where they lay around Sunny's waist, lifted her so he could stand up, and then replaced her in the chair. "No, Georgia. I don't think that would be a good idea," he said apologetically, his voice missing the hardness that had frightened Sunny before. "I'm sorry, but we really don't have anything to talk about."
For a moment it looked as though she wanted to argue with him; then she seemed to see something that intrigued her in his eyes. She stared at him with curiosity, then shrugged slowly. "No, I guess we don't. And I'm sorry, too. I don't think you know how sorry."
Turning to Sunny, she smiled ruefully and said, "You don't make a very convincing dumb blonde, Miss . . . Sunny." She sighed. "But whatever you are, it seems to be what he wants."
Sunny could almost hear her making a mental insertion about the quality of Ben's taste, but this time when she extended her hand, it was accepted, albeit reluctantly, and she suddenly felt sorry for the woman she had done her best to undermine. Sunny didn't like the feeling. It was much more comfortable to dislike her.
When the door closed behind his visitor, Sunny looked up at Ben. "I almost liked her," Sunny said slowly.
"You needn't sound so guilty about it," Ben said, laughing. "We weren't right for each other and, deep down, Georgia knew that. She just didn't want to admit it."
Lowering his large frame to the couch, he stretched his legs out before him and pinned Sunny with his gray gaze. "Now, what was all that about?" He paused and, before she could answer, gave a shout of laughter. "Ready Betty? Where on earth did you hear that?"
"It
's what Mary Louise calls the—uh—ladies who drop in occasionally on the men in the building."
"Mary Louise sees too much for her own good." His eyes narrowed sternly. "What made you decide I needed a Ready Betty at that point? I take it you were listening at the door."
"You make it sound like I was eavesdropping," she said indignantly. When she saw his raised brows, she added, "You were talking very loud. I was simply—overlistening. And the reason I came in was because you sounded like the Ben you've been running away from. You don't like that Ben, I know you don't." She bit her lip when she saw him stiffen, "I owe you whether you want to admit it or not. For taking me in. For being so kind." She shrugged helplessly. "So I came in to chase him away." She looked up at him beneath her lashes. "Well, it worked, didn't it?"
As she watched surreptitiously, the stiffness left his face and his eyes began to twinkle. "You're something else," he said softly. "And sometimes I think I'm better off not knowing just exactly what it is you are."
"You're not really mad, are you?" she asked, knowing the answer, but needing the reassurance.
"No, I'm not mad. But, Sunny ..." He stared down at his hands. "What did you mean when you said I don't like 'that Ben'?"
"I just have a feeling . . . Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems sometimes that you think this thing you were trying to hide from was really inside you, that you're afraid you won't be able to run away from it because it's not in the world, but in you. I assumed what I saw and heard today was that other Ben, the one you don't like."
He remained thoughtfully silent for a moment, then said slowly, "You see too damn much, too." He leaned his head back against the couch in a weary gesture. "I told you that everyone is afraid to face what's really in his soul. Maybe it's not everyone, but only me. . . . Whoever me is," he added wryly. "I seem to be one person when I'm around people like Georgia and her father, and someone else entirely when I'm with you." He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "Somehow that makes me sound unstable and . . . weak."
"That makes you sound very human," she corrected softly.
"And which do you suppose is really me?"
"Both," she said softly, wanting so badly to go to him and comfort him. "When you're with people who only understand power, then you're strong and shrewd. But when you're with people who appreciate the softness and the beauty in the world, then you can let your gentleness show through. If you did it the other way around, then you really would have problems because the people who worship power would laugh at the softness and the gentle people would shrink from the display of strength."
Suddenly she started to chuckle softly when she v saw his stunned expression. "I'm doing it again, aren't I? I'm sorry."
"No, don't be," he said, shaking his head. "It just threw me for a minute. I don't know why I always expect you to say something naive and unrealistic. You know, 'Hey guys, let's put on a show' like in all the old Andy Hardy movies." He laughed suddenly when he heard her quip. "Andy who?", then picked up his train of thought "Then you come up with something like that. It makes a lot of sense. At least, I don't sound so bad when you put it that way."
He remained silent for a moment, staring at his hands as he held them together in a peak before him. Then he looked up at her. "You mentioned Georgia's father. How much of that did you hear?"
"Quite a lot, actually."
"And you're not curious?" He gave her an amused look.
"I'm dying to know all about it," she admitted. "I have been for days. How could I not be with the paintings and other expensive things you have around here that you could have pawned?" She gave a martyred sigh. "But since I refused to let you probe into my past, I felt it was only fair to extend you the same courtesy."
"You poor thing." He laughed. "As a matter of fact, I think I'd like to talk to you about it." He stood and walked to the window, glancing at her over his shoulder. "But first I would appreciate it if you would go and get dressed."
Lowering her eyes to her body, she discovered that when she had drawn her feet up beside her, the shirt had slid high on her thighs, the side slits exposing peach-colored panties. "Oh . . . Yes, you're right. I'm sorry," she stuttered, feeling the color rise in her face.
Ten minutes later, when she was dressed and her color had subsided, she sat once more on the armchair, staring at the perfectly molded muscles and smooth dark skin of his bare back.
"You'll need a little background first," he said, gazing out the window. "I was what's commonly called a 'bright young man.' Lord, how I hate that phrase. It makes me sound like a light bulb. Georgia's father's company was my playground. My future was all mapped out. I ate, drank, and slept the company. And in a few years, I would have had the presidency." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "I had no doubt of that. I knew what Mr. Sellers had planned for me and I went along with it. Being president of a large corporation seemed a step in the right direction."
He wandered over to his desk and leaned against it, resting one thigh on the scarred surface. "A pleasant little side-benefit was Georgia. She's a sharp lady. She saw which way the wind was blowing. She recognized the ambition in me and made sure she attached herself to whom she thought would be the winner."
Sunny made no comment, but she could have told him that Georgia's motives for attaching herself to Ben were not that clear-cut. She may have, as he said, recognized him as a winner, but that was not her main reason. Ben could have been an ordinary pencil pusher and still would have attracted the attentions of women like Georgia.
"Then the snake entered the Garden of Eden and my first bite of the apple was decidedly rotten." He grinned suddenly. "Which is a silly way of saying I found out the company had been using underhanded and, to my way of thinking, unforgivable practices for years."
He paused. This part was difficult for him. She could see it in his face. "You know that there are certain substances that are illegal to use in the United States?" She nodded. "It's not uncommon for companies to sell those products to third world countries. I knew those things were happening and, like every other average citizen, it made me a little sick to think money was more important than people." His voice became low and intense. "But I had never looked closely enough at my own company to find that they were doing the same damn thing."
For a moment he stared silently down at his clenched fists. When he spoke at last, his voice was harsh. "All those years I spent there and I hadn't even bothered to find out what was going on."
It hurt so badly to see him condemning himself, but she was helpless to do anything about it. She knew this was something he had to resolve by himself. "What did you do?" she asked quietly.
"I went to Mr. Sellers. It was just possible that he didn't know either. Things like that happen. In a company that big, sometimes the right hand doesn't know what the left is doing. But he knew all right; He knew and even when I asked him about the people whose health was being affected at that very moment, he shrugged it off. His only excuse was 'Everyone does it' and he proceeded to name the companies—companies bigger and more respected than his—that do the same thing."
He laughed bitterly. "I wasn't naive. I knew about the things that went on privately in the business world. Hell, I've used some of those dirty tricks myself. You have to be ruthless when you're dealing with that amount of money and power. But this wasn't a business opponent we were talking about. This was the lives of people who had nothing to do with the business world. These people never know from day to day where their next meals are coming from. They don't deserve that kind of treatment," he ground out with dark intensity.
"So I left. I gave up everything that had to do with that kind of life. Except my paintings. The money that came from the sale of my house and the rest, went into more paintings. I had never collected with an eye to their possible increase in value. I bought what pleased me. It sounds silly now, but the beauty of those paintings seemed to be a hope that I could hang onto, an indication that there was something pure and good somewhere in the world."
"And you've found nothing else in the world with that same purity and goodness?" she asked slowly. It seemed so strange to her that she could look around from any point in the world and see so much to please her—so much that was good, when he could see so little.
"Sometimes. Sometimes I think I have, but then I realize it's only an illusion and has no basis in reality."
"I wonder if you know how sad that is," she murmured.
"Are you going to analyze me again?" he asked warily.
She laughed. "No, I'm not. I have faith in you. I know that eventually you'll work it out. And when you do, you'll see that the good outweighs the evil. If for no other reason than that, selfishly, people want to be surrounded by what pleases them. And goodness is more pleasing than evil."
"You have everything all worked out, don't you?" He was staring at her curiously.
"Not everything," she murmured,. running her eyes wistfully over the bare flesh of his upper torso. Then she grinned when she saw him watching her. "I still don't understand the theory of relativity."
He seemed suddenly to realize that he was only half-dressed, for he rose abruptly from the desk and ran a hand distractedly through his thick, brown hair as he muttered, "Yes, well, I guess I'd better get dressed."
He darted a glance at her, his eyes narrowing in exasperation when he saw the amused twinkle in her eyes. "I have to go to the post office," he explained belligerently.
She watched silently as he picked up his shirt and headed for the bathroom. With every minute that passed they came closer and closer to the final step in their relationship. It seemed incomprehensible to her that she could leave him without knowing him completely. It had to happen. This thing between them was too strong to ignore. The question was—when?
***
Ben held his packages between the wall and his chest while he fished the key out of the pocket of his jeans. In his haste, he almost dropped both it and a small heavy sack that began sliding precariously downward as he struggled to maintain his balance.
