“I don’t like putting you out of your own house.”
“The guest house is mine as well.”
“I would have been fine out there.”
He arched a brow at her. “I didn’t know if anyone would be comfortable there.”
“Oh!” she gasped, remembering Keith and the fire. “I... I wouldn’t have been afraid.” Now she was lying. The guest house, rebuilt, might be just a bit eerie.
“Kathy, I want to be out in the guest house.”
“Yes, but what about... Tara?”
He didn’t blink. “Tare has her own room here, the one we called the Blue Room. She likes lots of space for her things. We... both like space.”
“Oh. Still...”
“If you’ll be too uncomfortable, I can have Peggy rearrange the room assignments.”
“No, it’s all right. Good night.”
“Good night.”
She turned away from him and hurried up the stairs, knowing then exactly where she was going. Third door down the hallway to the left, the huge room with the wonderfully decadent bath that looked out over the patio and pool area, to the bay—to the guest house.
The light was on when she came into the bedroom. She saw it and its contents instantly and it was like being hit by bricks. It was the same. The huge bed with the old brass fittings, customized to the new size. The sheer curtains beneath the heavier brocade, the early American dressers, wash-stand and wardrobe. The black and peach patterned Oriental rug on the floor over the polished hard wood. She swallowed. She almost felt as if she had been physically punched, a right-hander from Rocky, straight into the gut. She closed her eyes. Oh, God, it hadn’t changed.
She forced herself to step into the room. Her suitcase had been set on the floor. She grunted as she threw it up on the bed, opened it blindly, dug out her things. She started for the bathroom, hesitated, biting her lip as she wondered what she would find within it that belonged to Tara Hughes. But Miss April kept her own room—she needed lots of space. Still, mightn’t she have a few things in Jordan’s bath?
To Kathy’s relief, she did not. The bathroom was as masculine as Jordan himself. It was tiled in black and beige, the fixtures were gold-plated. The tub was a huge Jacuzzi, the one they had ordered as one of their first expenses for the place. There was a separate shower, double sinks. She laid out her toiletries, stared at her reflection as she brushed her hair. This was torture. She was nuts.
That had already been established.
He was still convinced he had seen her running to Keith the night of the fire.
God, why? How could he?
She turned away from the mirror, startled that tears were stinging her eyes. It was why she had left. And damn, she had been right. He still didn’t believe her, no matter what he said. And if he didn’t believe her, wasn’t it possible that he thought even worse of her. Not just that she had been cheating on him in some strange way, but that she might have been responsible for the drugs Keith had taken, for the fire that had started?
Mechanically, she turned on the water in the shower. She’d been so exhausted. Now she felt restless.
She showered, the past and present a frightening blur in her mind. She stepped from the shower and wrapped herself in a towel. Found her nightgown, slipped it on. Brushed her teeth. Mechanically. Things to do for bed. Like breathing.
She wished she’d finished the mudslide. Had more champagne on the plane. Kept a bottle of Valium in her suitcase.
She left the bath and returned to the bedroom. Gazing around it before switching off the light, she lay down on the bed, and cursed herself for remembering the feel of it. Memories flooded back to her. Good memories. So many good memories. They’d talked in bed, argued in bed, made love in bed. She laid her suitcase on this bed when she was packing to leave. She could remember it with painful clarity. She had packed because they had quit talking. Because there had been something in the way he looked at her. Because he hadn’t believed in her anymore, hadn’t believed what she was saying. He didn’t persist in calling her a liar, he just looked at her with eyes that accused her, the warmth had left his touch. She was desperate to talk, but he wouldn’t talk. She could remember the night before she left, lying here, lying beside him.
“Say it, Jordan, damn you, say what’s on your mind!”
But he was silent, staring up at the ceiling, his fingers laced behind his head.
“There’s nothing more to say.”
“I wasn’t with Keith the night he died.”
“I know, you told me.”
“But you don’t believe me.”
“It’s over.”
“Damn you, Jordan, you don’t believe it is!”
“Keith is dead; for God’s sake, leave it alone.”
“We need to talk—”
“Go to sleep, Kathy. Keith is dead.”
Keith was dead. The fire that had consumed him now a bitter, haunting scent wrapped around their lives. She slammed a fist against Jordan’s chest. “You bastard, you stinking, self-righteous bastard. Yes! Keith is dead. And so are we! I hate you for what you think and feel. I hate you, I hate you—”
She kept slamming her knotted fists against him. Suddenly he was swearing, shouting back. Suddenly she was in his arms and they were saying hateful things, and in their fury, they were making love, cursing one another still. Even as he lay atop her spent, she whispered out the lie that seemed the only way to salvage something of her pride and soul.
“I hate you for this, Jordan, damn you!”
She didn’t hate him. She wanted to touch him somehow, really reach him. Striking him, loving him, none of it seemed to matter anymore. She couldn’t really get into his heart, his soul or his mind. She had lost something special that had been hers for so very much of her life.
He turned his back on her. The distance gaped between them on the bed. She wanted to touch him so badly, to shake him, make him believe her. But she had tried. Something was in his mind, and he wouldn’t believe her. The next day when they’d gone to the studio, she’d come out to find him laughing with the receptionist. He hadn’t laughed with her since Keith had died. She’d walked past him, and out of the place. She’d thought he would follow her. She had still thought he would follow when she’d packed that night. Rashly, angrily. It hadn’t been the receptionist. It had been the look in his eyes.
He hadn’t followed her home, and he certainly hadn’t followed her to New York. He’d filed divorce papers instead.
There was no way she could sleep.
She stood. She walked around the room. Prowled it.
At last came to a halt.
She stood by the window in what used to be her room, looking out at the night on what used to be her patio. Oh, God. She shouldn’t have left. She should have forced every issue. Fought him harder. She’d been hurt; he’d been hurt. She’d run.
She shouldn’t have left.
But, dear God, for the sake of her heart and soul, she shouldn’t have come back.
The moon was a crescent, high in the night sky. Its glow was picked up in the azure pool water below her. Beyond the pool and the columns and the trellis, the night lights set crystal prisms down upon the darkness of the bay water.
And to her left, was the guest house.
At the upstairs bedroom window, there was a silhouette.
As she was silhouetted, she realized. The bedroom light was not on in the guest house and she did not have her light on. Her room was illuminated by a soft glow from the bathroom, as was the bedroom of the guest house.
A man stood by the window. She couldn’t make out his face, much less his eyes, yet she knew it was Jordan, knew he was watching her as she watched him. A tall, silent, dark sentinel, watching her.
Even as she stared out across the space between them, he lifted a hand to her. She lifted hers without thinking in response.
Minutes ticked by. He did not turn away. Neither did she. Then he lifted his hand again, and moved away from the window
at last.
And her heart began to thunder.
He was leaving the room. Coming to her.
Because the fight wasn’t done. And they were going to fight it again.
Nine
KATHY TURNED FROM THE window herself, cursing softly beneath her breath.
Why was she so sure he was coming here?
Because once again, she had no makeup on, and her choice of nightwear was simple, cotton, tailored. She was clean—that was the best she could say for herself.
What difference does it make? she taunted herself. If he was coming, he was coming just to talk.
It was human nature. She wanted to look good. Sexy. She was competing with Tara Hughes, for God’s sake. No, she wasn’t... She had left the ring.
She heard him tapping on her door. God, he could move fast when he wanted to!
She bit into her lower lip. Tired, she was really tired, she’d just tell him that; she couldn’t keep on talking.
The door opened a crack. “Kathy?” It was Jordan’s room, Jordan’s house, and he was... Jordan.
“Kathy, damn it, are you all right?”
She inhaled and exhaled, alarmed by the hot tremors that seemed to be streaking through her.
She found strength and life and hurried across to the door, opening it the rest of the way. “Jordan, I’m fine. Just tired, really tired...”
She broke off, staring at him. He looked wonderful. Face so smooth now, hair a little shaggy and silvered. He was wearing a black terry robe, open at the throat and chest, falling just to his knees. His gaze was intense as he looked down at her. “Kathy...”
Her name was a strange, pained whisper. She felt as if something caught in her throat, as if her breath were being subtly sucked away.
“Kathy...”
Then suddenly his eyes lifted from hers. He was staring past her and through the window. “What the hell is that? What is going on?” he demanded, striding past her to stare hard outside.
“What?” she said, hurrying after him.
Looking out, she saw what he had seen. Light in the guest house. A small vein of light, like that from a flashlight. Moving.
Jordan turned from the window, starting back across the room.
“Wait!” Kathy exclaimed.
He paused, annoyed as he looked at her.
“Jordan, it could be dangerous, a prowler. Can’t you just call the police? This place has an alarm, right? Call security!”
“No, I want to see who it is myself.”
He started out of the room again. She followed closely behind him. He stopped.
“What are you doing?”
“Going with you.”
“Kathy, it may be—”
“Dangerous. Right. You shouldn’t be going.”
“Kathy, stay here!”
He started out again. She waited until he was halfway down to the first floor, then she charged after him, silent in her bare feet.
He swung on her. “Kathy—”
“Go! I’m behind you.”
“Stay behind me!”
“I will!”
He strode through the living room and into and out of the large kitchen, thereby following a path that skirted around the grounds rather than traversing the lighted patio area. They moved quickly along the brush to the side door of the guest house, slipping inside that way. Jordan hesitated, picking up an old baseball bat from the pantry, then coming into the living room area. The guest house was silent. He started up the stairs with her behind him. She kept peering into the dimly lit darkness, making certain no one was coming upon them from behind, while he kept his eyes glued in the direction they followed.
They reached the second floor. She watched his fingers curl tightly around the bat as they came up into the bedroom, the only room of the second floor. Kathy saw the light, moving...
Close up behind Jordan, she instinctively clutched his hips, trying to look around him. Then she saw his shoulders slump as the tension suddenly eased from them.
“What is it?”
“Nothing!” he muttered in self-disgust, moving aside to allow her a view of the room. To the far side, she saw that a light in the closet had been left on. The flow of an air-conditioning vent was causing a sleeve to flutter backward and forward over the light, creating the illusion that someone was moving about the darkened room.
“Oh, God!” Kathy breathed; then she laughed uneasily. “It was nothing!” Her gaze swept around the guest house bedroom. Nice. It had been furnished in Mission style with bold, square-cut furniture with no-nonsense lines. The drapes were crimson over white, the upholstery was done in complementing shades of crimson and deep royal blue. A clean-lined marble mantel stretched across the wall opposite the closet, along it an entertainment center with television, stereo, and disc player. All state of the art. Near the stairs that led straight into the room was a small refrigerator/bar combination.
This room was different, but then, the original guest house had been part of the old property, built in the nineteen twenties. He might have had the outside built to the exact specifications of the original, but inside he had modernized. Nicely.
She glanced at Jordan. He was barely aware of her it seemed, staring outside, into the night, again.
“Jordan, who did you think was in here? Why didn’t you want to call the police?”
“What? Oh, it’s a damned good thing I didn’t call the police, isn’t it? I would have looked like an idiot.”
“Please tell me, what the hell is going on with you?”
He shook his head, then lifted his hands. “Nothing.” He shook his head again as if disgusted with himself. “Nothing,” he repeated.
She didn’t know exactly why—Jordan was not the type to elicit sympathy—but she was struck with the sudden urge to go to him, touch his face, reach out, understand. But he was standing tall and hard as brick, his features taut, and he wasn’t welcoming her into his thoughts. He didn’t want her.
It was why she had left.
She bit into her lip, swiftly lowering her eyes as she felt the sting of tears behind them. She had to get out, away from him. She started quickly from the room, passing him at a brisk stride to escape the guest house.
“Kathy!”
She ignored him, hurrying down the stairs. He caught up with her just as she had left the place, his fingers wrapping around her arm to swing her back around to face him. “Kathy, what the hell—”
“Let go.”
“But what—?”
“Listen, you don’t have any answers for me, I don’t have any for you. Let me go.”
She jerked her arm back. He was still then, letting her walk away.
Was that what had happened before? she wondered bitterly. She had left, so he had watched her go?
She returned to the main house, entering it the way she had left it, through the kitchen, through the living room, up the stairs, and back to the bedroom. She strode to the window, certain that she would see Jordan out there, looking up now, standing straight and stiff, angry but enigmatic.
Yet even as she stared out the window, she heard a shuddering of wood and she spun around again. Jordan hadn’t remained where she had left him. He had followed her back. He stood in the doorway, staring at her for a second, then he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him.
“Damn it, Kathryn, what the hell do you want me to say to you? Something was wrong ten years ago—”
“Yes! Keith died!” she cried out.
He shook his head, looking pained again. “It was more, damn it. He didn’t just become careless or suicidal. Something happened that night.”
“And you’ve dragged me back here because you blame me?” she demanded, surprised to discover that she was shaking. She pushed away from the window, fists clenched at her sides as she approached him, defiance and challenge glistening along with the pain in her eyes. “Do you, is that it? Do you blame me?”
“No!” He shouted at her. His hands were suddenly upon her s
houlders, their fingers like vises, “No, damn it, that isn’t it!”
“Then what?” she cried, amazed at the force of emotion rushing through her. This was a nightmare, standing here. Oh, God, it was so much the same as it had been before...
Too much the same.
One of his hands moved. Caught and lifted her chin, tenderness defying the tension as his eyes locked with hers. Calloused fingers, made rough and rugged from constant play upon guitar strings, brushed, feather-light and shaking, over her flesh. He was going to speak—but he didn’t. His mouth lowered to hers. She could have moved. She didn’t. She waited for the touch, for the contact. It came within milliseconds, yet by then she felt like a puppet, jerked within and without by strings of searing mercury. His mouth melded to hers. Time again eclipsed. She knew his lips, the feel of his kiss, the intoxication and hunger it could fuel. She could have broken away. No bonds held her. No force coerced her. Intelligence dictated she run.
Simple yearning kept her there, feeling evermore the pressure of his mouth, the power of his hands. His touch... Oh, God, she was touching him as well, she had wanted so badly to feel his face, smooth-shaven now, to stroke his hair, explore, remember...
She was unaware of exactly when the buttons seemed to slip free from her tailored nightgown, fully conscious only of the feel of his hands on her nakedness, of the absolute need to touch in turn.
This was Jordan. Jordan, whom she had known all her life, so it seemed. When he had been young and lanky and all bones. When he had matured, when his chest had broadened, when his muscles had formed. She was so familiar with the slight clefts at the small of his back; she knew the tiny scar, caused by a fishing hook, at the top of his right thigh. She knew the feel of his flesh, the way that he moved. Knew his warmth and his scent, the way he could touch and tease her in return, tantalize...
It was insane, she told herself. If she just paused to think about this...
But she couldn’t convince herself to do that. Her flesh—her blood—didn’t want her to think, no part of her wanted thought to intrude. Just as she wasn’t quite sure when her buttons started to slip open, she didn’t quite remember moving, walking, reaching the bed, finding herself sinking down within it. But she was there. And he was with her. And the sweetly burning heat of his body was pressing into hers with a wild, urgent, fantastic energy that seemed to sweep any possible threat of thought from her mind. His mouth was upon hers... gone from hers. Her breath was ragged. Her heartbeat seemed constant, but that was because it combined with the thunder of his. Within, without, she throbbed with that beat; hungry, wanting. The frantic trail of his kiss against her. She did take a second to be grateful for the darkness, for the kind glow of the moon outside and the pale gleam that filtered in from the bath. Darkness was sweet, so sweet. She didn’t have to think in the darkness, she didn’t have to be afraid...
For All of Her Life Page 12
