In fact, Paul had heard his shout, but nothing would have made him turn back. He was going to see Laura.
Her hotel was less than three blocks away. If she was in the city, if she was in her office, if she would see him . . .
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He had not been in the Beacon Hill, and he was aware of the feeling of warmth and luxury that surrounded him the moment he entered the lobby, but he did not stop to look around; he walked to the antique desk in the comer and told the concierge he wanted to see Miss Fairchild. "It's urgent," he said. He took one of his cards from his wallet and wrote on the back, Please. "If you'd take this to her . . ."
"One moment," the concierge said, and a few moments later was holding a nearby door open for Paul. "Miss Fair-child's office is the last on the right."
It was a large room in light colors, with a sofa along one wall, a round table with four chairs, and an oval rosewood table piled with papers and books. There was no desk. Laura stood behind the oval table. She wore a blue business suit and a silk blouse, her head was high, and her face showed no emotion at all. Paul paused in the doorway. She was stunningly beautiful and almost formidable: he had nev^ seen her in a setting where the power was hers.
"Please come in," she said, and it was her low voice that broke the spell; everything else about her was different, but not that voice that had once told him she loved him.
She gestured toward the couch, and they sat on it together. "You told the concierge it was urgent."
"Yes." He paused, and Laura wondered what it could be that made him so reluctant to begin. Waiting for him, she sat on the edge of the couch, her back straight, her hands folded in her lap, trying to adjust to the sight erf Paul Janssen in her office, lliis was a part of her life so separate from him that it was the only place she could go for long periods without thinking of him; she had never even tried to imagine him here. Now she looked at him—this tall, lean man in dark trousers and a gray sport jacket of raw silk—and she wished him gone. He seemed to fill her office, taking more space than he deserved; he filled her vision and her thoughts, bringing back noemories. "What is it that is so urgent?"
He leaned toward her. "I'm working on a film about an investigator for insurance companies; his specialty is stolen art and he's working on a case. . . ."He paused briefly. 'There have been six major art thefts in the past three years, identical in the way they were carried out, so it seems one person or
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persons did them. The people who were robbed were Flavia Guameri, Britt Farley, Sid and Amelia Laughton, Carlos Serrano, Leni and Felix Salinger, and Daniel Inouti.*'
Laura looked stunned. "I know them all. They've all been guests in my hotels. Not Felix, of course, but Leni . . . They've all been robbed? But that's incredible."
"That's why I'm here." Rapidly, bluntly, he told her about Colby's investigation. "He has no proof, but I don't know what he's going to do next, and I had to tell you—you had to know that he suspects you or Clay, or both of you."
She was sitting very still, her eyes far away. The color had drained fix)m her face. "No," she said. It was almost a whisper. "No, no, no."
Paul moved toward her, to take her in his arms, to shield her from pain—^I'm always causing her pain, he thought with something like despair—but then he pulled back. He knew he couldn't, not yet. "I'd like to help if I can," he said quietly.
She looked at him, her face like stone. "Why? You thought I was guilty once; why should you help me this time? Maybe your investigator is right: once a thief always a thief. Why wouldn't he be right? I masterminded the whole thing— '*
"No, you didn't. You didn't mastermind anything. Not now and not before. I know that—"
"Know it? Now that someone says I committed another crime, you suddenly know I didn't do the first?"
Involuntarily, he smiled. "It doesn't sound logical, and I can't explain it, but, yes, I know it. I should have trusted you then, I should have believed in you enough to know you wouldn't lie to me, and now I do believe it. I'm seven years older; is that reason enough? I think I've changed in those years. I've thought a lot about us, and about myself: what kind of person I am, what's really important to me, what I've done wrong in the past . . . Danm it, I can't put it all in one neat package; do I have to?"
She was staring at him. "I don't know. It might help me understand. You think I should just believe you— "
"It goes two ways," he shot back. "You didn't trust me or believe me either, when we were together. You didn't tell me anything about your past or why you and Clay chose our family to work for, and you didn't stand up to Felix when he made
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that row over Owen*s will. If you'd told me the truth, told all of us the truth, and believed in us, we might have gotten past that; we might not have lost all these years. . . .**
Laura was silent, thinking of Ben. She still hadn't told all the truth.
"You can't believe that?" Paul asked, his voice bleak.
"Yes." Her voice was low. "I should have told you. I didn't know how. I was so afraid of losing you, losing all of you—^I couldn't do it." She lifted her hands and let them fall. *There always seemed to be good reasons for secrecy. I'm sorry. I should have told you. I wish I had." The last words were barely audible. "But the rest of it," she said more clearly. "Your believing in mc ... I don't know. I don't even know how to think about it. How can I, when you've just told me about this man, this investigation? If you're right and he's going to accuse me— "
"I'm not sure he is. I don't know what Sam will do next; he did admit he might be on the wrong track. I just wanted you to be on your guard— ''
"I don't know what that means!" It was a cry for help, and this time Paul could not hold back; he took her in his arms and cradled her to him. She clung for a moment, then tried to break away. "No, this doesn't help ... it just makes things worse— **
"It makes things right," he said and kissed her. His arms tightened around her as if he would bring her inside him if he could, his mouth opened hers, his tongue entwined with hers as he had dreamed of more times than he ever had let himself acknowledge.
Laura let herself go. She held him to her and her body opened to his, fitting itself to his, close, closer, bringing him into the empty space that had been there, the dry patch in her heart, since she had walked out of Owen's house. She had missed him, and longed for him, and now she held him with all her strength and let herself admit that whatever she did with her life, Paul was part of her and always would be. Owen had given her pride and confidence and helped her grow up and turn away from her past; Paul had given her die love that made her feel complete, and a woman. She knew it now; she did not shrink from it or try to deny it. She let herself want
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him and admit that she wanted him, even if it was just for this brief moment when nothing else could intrude.
*1 love you/' he said, his hps against hers. **Dearest Laura, I love you. Fve missed you and wanted you and never stopped loving you—^"
With a gasp, Laura tore herself away. "But you married. And made another life." Her voice shook. "And for years you thought I was— *'
"I was wrong! I told you; Vm trying to make you understand— '"
"I can't!** She began to walk around the office with agitated steps. "What do you want me to do? Think of you as a lover again? As a husband? Even if you didn't have a wife, how could I do that? Just . . . switch all my thinking? Just like that? One minute I have a life I understand and can plan for—a life I made and can count on and enjoy —and the next I'm supposed to chsmge it all because you show up and tell me you want to be a part of it? How can you be part of it?" She stood beside the window, looking at him. Her voice was firm now, and her gaze level; her other thoughts were pushed back and she was in control of herself again. "I can't even take the time to think about you. You've brought me something else to think about. Theft . . . and accusations . . . I've tried to get away fh)m th
is for eleven years! And you want me to think about love?"
His eyes held hers. "I could be a friend, if not a lover, and I might be able to help you, if you'd let me."
She took a long breath. "What did you mean when you said I should be on my guard?"
"I meant it looks like somebody's setting you up, or using you. And Sam has two suspects, not one."
There was a pause, then Laura's eyes daiicened. "You mean Qay. You're telling me to be on my guard against Clay!"
"Right. That's what I'm telling you. He could have done it; anyone in his job would have access to every part of every one of your hotels, and he could, use the money. He gambles—did you know that?—and for big stakes. Laura, too many things point to him for any reasonable person to ignore— **
"Reasonable! Who are you to talk about being reasonable? You want me to believe you've changed and you trust me even
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though it's not logical and I shouldn't expect it to be! Well, I'll tell you— logically and reasonably and trustingly —that Clay is not a thief. He hasn't stolen any art; he wouldn't do that to me even if he wanted to! He loves me and he cares about what I'm trying to build here! He's a part of it—part of my company—he'd be hurting himself to hurt the hotels—he's getting married—he's grown up— he's the one who's changed, not you!"
She knew that wasn't tnie even as she said it, but the words were tumbling out, mixed up with the love and longing she'd cut off while they burned inside her, her anger at herself for letting down her defenses, and the cold fury that had returned —almost exactly as she remembered it—from the time Paul and his family first accused her and Clay of thefts and lies and deception. "You don't know anything about Clay!" she cried. "Or me! You don't know—"
"You're right, I don't. But I want to." He strode across the office to stand close to her. "Damn it, Laura, I love you and I want to make up for the years we lost. I want to know you again; I want to know the woman you've become. You're right, I don't know anything about Clay, but what if Sam is right about him? Should I turn away and pretend Sam never talked to me when I know he might be hurting you? You've been hurt—^I know it, because I caused it—and I'm damned if I want you hurt again. I love you; I want to help you, protect you if I can, from anyone who's doing you harm—^"
"Stop. Please stop." Laura's voice was so low he had to bend closer to hear her; she had turned away to look through the narrow window blinds at the street outside. "I know you think you're trying to help me, but you can't help me by attacking Clay. He's my family; he's stayed with me all these years, and I won't let you or anyone try to make me stop trusting him. You wanted me to trust in you and your family; you want me to trust in you now. Then you can't ask me not to trust in Clay."
There was a long silence. The sound of car horns came faintly through the window; in the corridor beyond the closed door of Laura's office, a man's voice said good night and a woman's voice responded. Paul glanced at the small clock on Laura's rosewood table. He was very late. "I'm sorry," he
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said, his voice as low as hers. "You*re right, of course. You should believe in him and trust him." He hesitated. "I think blind trust may be as bad as no trust at all, but you know him, and Sam and I don't, and you may be right. Laura . . ." He took her hand and she turned to him. Her eyes were shadowed; he could not tell what she was thinking. "I have to leave; I wish I didn't, but I'm already late . . ."
She nodded. "Good-bye, Paul. Thank you for wanting to help. I'm sorry we quarreled again; we seem to do that more easily than anything else."
"No. We love more easily than anything else. Or we would, if we'd let ourselves. We did once; I haven't forgotten it. And neither have you."
"I'll never forget it," she said simply. "But we can't regain the past; too many things have happened since." Suddenly she smiled. "I've spent all these years trying to wipe out the past, and now I'm talking about regaining it. Nothing makes much sense, does it?"
His smile met hers. "If we find a way to regain it, that will make sense. We make sense, together."
Laura reached up and lay her hand along his face. "I wish we did." Then she walked to the door and opened it. "Goodbye, Paul."
When he reached her, he stopped. "I want to see you again."
"I have to think about it. I have so many things to think about. I'll call you."
He searched her face. "If I don't hear from you, I'll be on the phone, or camping outside your office."
"I'll call—when I have something to say."
Paul bent his head and kissed her. Their lips clung for a moment, and then he said, "Soon," and was gone.
Laura shut the door behind him and wsdked back to the table she used as her desk. So much woric to do, she thought, looking at the reports she had meant to read in the last hour of the day, and another stack of literature she had to read to prepare for the Salinger Hotels board meeting. Tomorrow. The meeting was tomorrow, and she still had to give her secretaiy instructions for the day, while she was in Boston. She sat down and picked up a memo from Gerard Lyon requesting
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new equipment for the kitchen and another sous chef because business was so good. But after reading a few lines she put it aside and swiveled her chair to stare again out the window.
/ think blind trust may be as bad as no trust at all.
She thought about Clay, back through the years. His adoration of Ben, how he had followed him around and wanted to drop out of school, as Ben had done, and live by stealing and whatever jobs he could get, as Ben did.
His restlessness at work. What the hell, Laura, you've got to admit it's just a job — even if it is your hotel — and everybody needs something more than that, something risky or free or whatever. . . . His love of fancy cars and expensive clothes. The loft he rented and the way he'd furnished it. The gifts he bought her. His gambling.
He gambles — did you know that? — and for big stakes. How did Paul know that? From the investigator, probably. Colby. But how did Colby know?
"What difference does it make?" She heard the words wrenched out of her in the quiet office, and she dropped the memo she was holding and leaned her head on her hands. I don't believe a word of what Paul said; someone else is stealing that art, and there are simple explanations for everything Clay does.
She turned back to her table and looked again at Lyon's memo. But it was no use. She swept the reports aside. I can't think about them; I can't think about work.
I have to know what the simple explanations are.
She looked at her gold clock. Clay had bought it for her at Tiffany's. Seven forty-five. He'd be home by now. She reached for the telephone.
Just to make sure.
Emily was sitting with a group of people in the Atlantis bar when Paul arrived. He kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry I'm late; the time got away from me."
She introduced him to the others. 'They've been keeping me company," she said lightly. "It's a good thing I found them; otherwise I would have sat here for over half an hour alone."
Paul glanced around, recognizing three television actors, a
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fashion model, and a Broadway star. "You're never alone in this place; that's why you always ask me to meet you here. Shall we go to dinner?"
"My, aren't we short-tempered?" she murmured as they walked down First Avenue. "Is it me, or was it a trying day?"
"It was a trying day, but I didn't think I was being short-tempered." Emily was silent. "Did you talk to Barry?"
"No. He had people in from Rome. His secretary said he'd be free Monday. He'll have to see me then or I'll make a tenible fuss. He knows I'm unhappy; he can't keep putting me off."
"I'm sure he'll see you; you're his favorite model."
"He isn't acting like it."
There was a pause. "And what did you do today?" Paul asked.
"Shopped for cruise clothes."
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bsp; He glanced at her. "Are you going on a cruise?"
*There's a whole group going to St. Thomas in December. I thought we'd go with them; you'll be finished with the film by then."
"I'm not sure of that."
"You told me you'd be finished by then! I'd love to go to St. Thomas, Paul. Or is it your family? Couldn't we skip Christmas with them just once?"
"Of course we could. I wasn't thinking of them."
**What, then?"
They reached II Nido, and Paul held the door for Emily. Instantly, the maitre d' appeared in the small, jammed entry-way. Emily's beauty always got attention, even in Manhattan, where women are expected to be beautiful, and almost inrnie-diately they were led to a table in the middle of the restaurant, where they could be seen by everyone. Paul took in the room: it was one of his favorites, with rough plaster walls cross-hatched with dark timbers, suggesting an Italian nobleman's house. Dusky mirrors of beveled glass reflected the diners, and he recognized a number of directors and designers, and an actor from a movie that had won an Oscar that spring. Emily always chose places where she would not be the only celebrity. Marriage to her had taught Paul that there was even greater celebrity in numbers, when the famous could feel
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themselves part of an exclusive club instead of adrift in a fickle world.
Paul ordered a bottle of wine, and Emily said again, "What, then? If you're not thinking about your family, what are you thinking about?"
"The film. Vm changing the focus, and that's going to set it back quite a bit. If I even do it at all."
She stared at him. "It's more than half finished. And the network has it scheduled for ratings month. You can't just tell them you're not going to deliver it; they might never help fiind another one!"
"That's a chance I'll have to take," he said. "I don't like the way the film is shaping up, and I'm not going to make it the way it now stands."
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