Oh, Clay, you're always thinking of yourself. Laura's voice was so clear in his head he panicked and looked around the hushed room to see where she was. Just once couldn't you think about somebody else? We all have problems, you know; you're not the only one . . .
She'd said that when he was complaining about having to share a secretary with the part-time accountant Laura had hired. He hadn't wanted to share anything; he was vice president for maintenance and quality control, and he deserved his own private secretary. I'll get you one when I can; I'm trying to keep the payroll down. I'm sure you can understand that.
Sure, he'd said, and kissed her, because he didn't want her mad at him. And that night he'd brought her flowers and a bottle of wine and they'd cooked dinner together at her place, and everything was fine; she still loved him.
But now she wouldn't. He'd gotten her in a hell of a mess,
Judith Michael
and she'd never love him again. She'd think he never thought of anybody but himself.
He left the library and went to a bar on Madero Street. The streets were even more crowded than in New York, but it didn't make him feel at home; everybody talked in Spanish, and he was an outsider. He brooded over a scotch and thought about himself. He had to: if he didn't, who would? Nobody cared about him.
Laura cared about him. For a long time. But no more.
He couldn't ever go back. There was no place for him anymore; no job, no sister, nobody who cared about him.
Well, shit, if he couldn't go back, why not tell them he'd done those jobs, and then they wouldn't blame Laura? What difference did it make to him? He was safe here; nobody knew where he was; he could call them up and tell them, and that would be the end of it. It wouldn't even stop him from doing more jobs when he needed money and excitement.
He finished his drink. The trouble with that was, he'd need some proof or they might think he was lying to protect his sister. Well, he had proof; he could send it to them. He wouldn't phone them; he'd write to this guy, Sam Colby, and tell him the whole story, and send one of the manila envelopes he'd taken from his file cabinet when he fled his q)artment. There were the two original Diirer prints inside that he'd taken from the Laughtons because he liked them, not because his broker had wanted them for somebody. And there were also six keys, copies made from wax impressions he'd taken in the rooms of Beacon Hill guests while they were out for the evening. Each was labeled: Guameri, Laughton, Farley, Serrano. . . . How was that for proof? Perfect, that's how it was. He'd send them to Colby. He could do that.
He could do that for Laura. Then she couldn't say he was only thinking about himself.
"The same," he said to the bartender, and in a minute another scotch appeared in front of him. What if it wasn't enough, though? What if all that nifty proof didn't bring people back to her hotels? Or what if it took a few months, maybe even a year, to get everybody back? She wouldn't have any money coming in. His confession wouldn't do a damn thing to
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help her there. She needed money to make the payments on her loans, and to keep the staffs of the hotels paid, and maintenance and all the rest. Thousands of dollars a month.
Well, she had those shares of Salinger Hotels stock. She could sell them, and then she wouldn't have so much to pay off every month. But that wouldn't solve anything. Anyway, she shouldn't have to sell her stock; she just bought it, and she was so excited about it, finally getting what she should have had in the beginning, after Owen left it to her in his—
"Goddam son of a bitch! I can take care of that, too!"
People stared. He'd been hunched over on his bar stool for over an hour, a solitary figure scowling as he downed his drinks. Now he sat up, his small mustache stretched above a wide grin. "It's perfect! It's beautifiil!"
He'd send Owen's letter to Colby, along with the Ehirer prints and the keys. He'd read the letter a dozen times: it proved Owen was totally in his right mind when he decided to leave Laura the hotels and his house and two percent of his shares in the company. Well, she'd bought the hotels and the shares, and she might not want the Beacon Hill house anymore, but how about another two percent of the company? Another ten million bucks' worth. She sure as hell could use that.
Unless the letter was too old to do any good after all these years. I need a lawyer. Clay thought. He started to laugh. That seemed very ftmny to him.
But the next morning he got very serious and went to see a law professor at the university. "I'm a law student at UCLA," he said earnestly. "I'm on a vacation and I brought some of my woik and I need some information, and if you could help me . . .
"I do not know the laws of all your states," the professor said.
"Well, this is general. Do you know if a jury's verdict can be cancelled years later if new evidence is found that shows it was wrong?"
"Ah, this I know. It cannot. Once a verdict is given, unless it is immediately appealed, it is final and cannot be changed.
"But if it was wrong— **
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"Even then. Except in cases of life or death, new evidence by itself can accomplish nothing.'*
"Shit," Clay muttered.
"Of course, if you find the new evidence was willfully withheld from the jury, then that would be fraud. If you can prove the deception, you might successfully prosecute someone for fraud. If that is what you wish to do."
Slowly, Clay looked up. "Fraud."
"If that is what you wish to prove. I gather this is not something you are doing for law school; this is a personal matter?"
"No! Well, sort of. I'm getting information for a friend."
"Of course. Is there anything else you wish to know?"
He shook his head. "You've been great. Thanks."
Felix in jail for fraud. The idea was so delicious Clay could almost taste it. He walked across the campus and took a bus into the center of the city. Felix in jail for fraud. They'd get back at him for what he did to Laura. And if he asked fcem to keep Owen's letter a secret so he could stay out of jail, they mi^t do that—in exchange for ten million dollars' worth of shares in Salinger Hotels, made out to Laura. Maybe more than that.
Absolutely beautiful. They had the bastard coming and going.
Except—he didn't know how to do it. If he sent the letter to Laura, who'd believe her if she said Felix had hidden it? Even if he wrote to Colby or somebody, telling them he'd taken it from Felix's desk, who'd believe him? The only way would be if Felix still had the letter and other people saw him with it.
He wandered into the Cafe Cordova for lunch and ordered huevos and a beer. When the beer came, he poured it slowly into his glass. And as he did so, an image came to him: a safe, nearly empty, in a New York town house on Fifty-first Street. If the letter was in Felix's safe, and he didn't know it, and he opened it in front of witnesses, there wasn't one single fucking thing he could say that would convince anybody that he hadn't hidden it to keep Laura from getting her inheritance.
Goddam, Clay thought, staring at his beer. That would do
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it. That would do it for Laura. And it would take care of Felix, too.
He grinned, feeling excitement build inside him. Of course he*d be doing it for Laura, only for her, but still, it was fantastic: really different, really dangerous. For the first time in his life, he was going to break into a house not to take something out, but to put it in.
Chapter 32
LAURA was speaking with the concierge when Paul arrived. At first she did not see him. "Everything must be the same," she was saying. "Just because we have empty rooms doesn't mean the service will change."
"I agree, Madame Fairchild. I told my assistant to take his vacation now because this week I can spare him but in a short time, when all is resolved and our guests return, I will need him once again."
Laura smiled. "Very good," she murmured.
"I have also told ... ah, excuse me." He looked behind Laura. "
Yes, sir, may I help you?"
"When Miss Fairchild is free," Paul said.
Laura spun about and found herself almost in his arms. Their eyes held, and her hand came up and met his. Their fingers twined. "Welcome home," she said softly. Her face was flushed.
He smiled at her, and she felt the years drop away. "When you're finished here . . ."
"Yes." She turned, her hand still clasped in Paul's, and swiftly concluded her conversation with the concierge. "Anything else we'll take care of tomorrow. Unless you have any questions?"
"No, madame. Everything is under control."
"Yes," Laura murmured. "Perhaps now it is." She looked at Paul. "Where would you like to go?"
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"Fd like to see your house."
She smiled at him. "I'd like you to be there." They walked through the lobby, hand in hand, not speaking. They barely spoke in the taxi; there was too much to say. It was enough to sit together, their hands still entwined, their bodies touching, their eyes meeting in a smile while the driver wove through traffic and talked back to a radio talk show.
Inside the house, Laura closed the door. "I would very much like to kiss you."
Paul chuckled. "My love . . ."He took her in his arms, and they kissed in a long embrace. "I picked a terrible time to be away," he said at last.
"But a wonderful time to come back. I did want you so, the last few days. ..."
He kissed her again, holding her, rediscovering how her
1^ body fit to his. "Do you know how often I've dreamed of this?
I've had so many conversations with you in my head you'll be
I hearing them for the next fifty years. Do you know how many
things I want to do for you? Do you have any idea how much I
love you?"
"Paul, what are you talking about?" She drew back and looked at him. "What about Emily? I can't pretend she doesn't exist."
"My God, you don't know. No, of course not, how could you? Emily is in California. We're getting a divorce. I can't be sure when it will happen, but soon. I'll tell you about it later. Not now."
"No, not now." Her eyes shone. She was warm, so warm; her blood sang and her mouth opened beneath his. "I want to make love to you," she said. She smiled with a hint of the liveliness he remembered. "It's very hard when a woman has to think of everything, Paul; you haven't even mentioned it. Does that mean you can't be sure when it will happen?"
He laughed. "I'm sure of love. And pleasure." He held out
his hand, and she took it as they walked upstairs. "Your house
gives pleasure. It's like the rooms you did at Owen's house:
filled with the most wonderful light and warmth."
n "A labor of love," Laura said. "I needed a place that was
^ comforting."
In the bedroom, in the pale amber light from the lamps in
Judith Michael
the courtyard, Paul took her in his arms. "Wherever we are, whatever we're doing, if you need comfort, my darling, this is where you'll find it. I promise you that. No questions, no doubts, ever again. This is where we belong."
Laura put back her head and held his look. "And I promise you love and trust and sharing, and to protect you, iif I can, from pain . . ."
"My God," he exclaimed. "How much I wanted to hear that, for so long, and didn't know it." His lips met hers, and when they kissed it was as if it were the first time, and as if they had never been apart. "Do you remember that room?" he asked. "Everything was white: the curtains and the moonlight —and you were wearing white. And I loved you."
"And took over a year to tell me," she said with a soft laugh.
"Not the first time I was a fool." He slipped her jacket off her shoulders and slid his hands under her cashmere sweater, spaiming her waist, then moving along her warm skin to her breasts, full and straining toward him. "So much to make up for," he said.
"No, not make up for," she murmured. "We're starting again." Her body was drawn to his, she felt she was melting against him, opening to him with an abandon she had fc«'got-ten. But something held her back.
Ben.
She had not told it all. And she could not make love to Paul, she could not start again, until no more secrets lay between them.
"Paul." Her voice was husky; she had to pull herself from him.
He held her still, his hands on her waist, and searched her eyes. *Tell me," he said.
They sat on the chaise beside the window; a sliver of a moon shone through the tree branches just beyond, flickering as the breeze stirred the few remaining leaves. *There's something I have to tell you, and it can't wait. I want you to know now, because I love you and whatever happens I want you to know the truth; there can't be any more lies."
He waited, watching her.
"I've never told you that I have a brother, another brother
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besides Clay. A half brother, so our names are different, but we were very close once. We quarreled and he went to Europe to live, and we hadn't seen each other for years. But now we've found each other again and I want you to understand why I didn't tell you about him, why I didn't tell anyone about him and he didn't tell anyone about me. ..." She hesitated, then looked straight at him. "It's Ben."
The room was silent. "I assume you mean Ben Gardner."
She tightened at the flatness of his voice. "Yes. I was with him last week, in Boston. If you'll listen for a few minutes— ** In a rush, barely stopping for breath, she told him as briefly as she could the story she and Ben had told Alhson and Leni. And then, still widiout a pause, she said, 'There's one thing more. I think you were right about Clay. I'm not sure—^I have to talk to him, and I don't know where he is right now—but I found out, after you left my office, that he was the one who stole Leni's jewels at the Cape years ago. That doesn't mean he's the thief Sam Colby is looking for ... I still can't believe . . . well, I just don't know. But I owe you an apology about that, too."
It was easier now. She had told it all, and her voice was steady. "I seem to have been wrong about a lot of very important things. I always liked to think I was so grown-up, but I've behaved like a scared little kid, and that makes it hard to—^"
"You aren't the only one," Paul said quietly. "My poor darling, worrying about all your apologies ... do you think you're the only one?"
At the love in his voice, Laura's breath came out in a ragged sigh. She hadn't realized how tightly she had been holding herself until now, when every muscle in her body loosened and she found her palms were wet in her clenched hands.
"We were all scared kids," Paul said. He put his arm around her and held her, and Laura rested her head on his shoulder. "Scared we'd been fooled, or taken advantage of, or done out of something. Scared we'd been wrong, and scared to admit it. But I was the worst; when I got scared I forgot everything I knew and loved about you; I turned away when you needed me most, and made you wretched— "
"I think this is what Ben calls a hair shirt," Laura mur-
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mured. Laughter bubbled inside her; it's all right; it's all right; I've told it all, and everything is all right.
"Hair shirt," Paul repeated. He chuckled. "I'm overdoing it? I'm enjoying itT'
"A httie, I think. Ben and I did, too. As if the more we apologize and the better we do it, the faster we erase the past."
"I don't want to erase it. I want to learn from it." His voice roughened. "And make you part of me." He turned her toward him and kissed her again, with a fierceness that was also a promise, and at last Laura let herself go: the barriers were gone.
They pulled off their clothes, helping each other, until once again they stood in each other's arms, their bodies curving together as they remembered, softness and hardness fitting together, already one. "I missed you; I wanted you ..." Paul said, his hands moving over Laura's body, shaping it, molding it, as if he were drawing it from memory. She slipped her hand between their bodies and slid her curved fi
ngers and palm along his hardness, listening to the sigh that broke from his throat, remembering it, loving the feeling of knowing she could do that to him. But then Paul's fingers were between her legs, wet with her, and everything in Laura was open to him, and longing. "I dreamed of you, dreamed of this, dreamed of us . . ."she said, moving against him. Their tongues found each other, Laura felt she had been starving, and could not eat ca" drink enough.
"Laura," Paul said, and the passionate sound of her nanae on his hps swept them up, held them, at last shutting everything out. Arms around each other, they went to the bed and lay on their sides, facing each other, smiing at each other, and as they kissed, Laura opened her legs and Paul thrust deep inside her. "Better," she sighed. "Oh . . . much better . . . than a dream." Her voice was as soft as the afternoon breeze that came through the open window; it seemed to taste of wine. And as they moved together in a liiythm their bodies had never forgotten, they were so closely «itwined tbey made one shadow on the wall beside the bed.
Laura slept, and when she woke, the moon had moved past the window. She opened her eyes and saw Paul watching her.
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She smiled drowsily. "I dreamed of that, too: waking up and finding you here. Did I sleep long?"
He slipped an arm beneath her and cradled her to his chest. "About an hour. Long enough for me to begin to believe this is real."
"It felt so good. I haven't slept much the past week." She closed her eyes again and placed small kisses on his chest, his nipples, the hollow of his throat. Making love to Paul was being strong and whole and loved, not battered by the actions of others; it was a tie to a past when she was with Owen. And it was a new beginning.
Paul raised himself on one elbow and leaned over her to kiss her eyes and her lips and then move down to take her breasts into his mouth, first one and then the other, playing his tongue over the nipples, slowly, teasingly, while his hand just as slowly and lightly moved along the soft skin inside her thighs. Laura lay against the pillows, letting the waves of sensation build within her, lifting her as if she were weightless; she floated through a dream, and the dream was Paul and all the longings she had held in the secret places of her heart, even when she thought she had put them away forever.
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