Snowflakes on the Sea

by Linda Lael Miller

  Nathan had been trying to tell her, even then, that he wanted a child. Now that she was about to give him one, it was probably too late. Biting her lower lip, Mallory lowered her head and cried.

  The rest of the day was ruined, for all intents and purposes, though she somehow got through it. She got no sleep at all that night—she spent it pacing, torn between calling Nathan and keeping her suspicions to herself.

  In the end, she chose the latter course. After all, the pregnancy hadn’t actually been confirmed, and the whole thing could be a mistake. She’d been to her doctor’s office very recently, and it seemed to her that if she’d been pregnant, Dr. Sarah would have noticed it.

  Noticed? She laughed ruefully as she refilled her coffee cup in the huge, gleaming penthouse kitchen. There had been no pelvic examination or lab tests, and pregnancy wasn’t something people noticed, like a new blazer or a different haircut. Not in the early stages, at least.

  With Brad’s expansive blessing, Mallory drove to her doctor’s office first thing in the morning. Her stomach was still quivering from another bout of raging nausea when she was squired into an examining room and told to undress.

  Mallory obeyed, eyeing the examining table and its metal stirrups with dread. Woman, the indignities you are heir to, she thought wryly as she took off her black flannel slacks, her blue silk shirt, her lacy panties and bra.

  She was wearing the obligatory scratchy white cotton gown when the doctor entered, smiling her most engaging smile. “Good morning, Mallory.”

  “Sarah,” Mallory returned cordially, with a slight nod of her head.

  “What’s the trouble?”

  Mallory grinned humorlessly. “I think I may have picked up a slight case of pregnancy.”

  “I see.” The doctor frowned and ran one hand through her already-tousled gray hair. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems to me that you’ve wanted a child for a long time.”

  Mallory lowered her head, pressing back the tears that burned behind her eyes. “I do—very much,” she said.

  “But?”

  “Nathan and I are separated.”

  The physician permitted herself a sympathetic sigh. “Serious?”

  “I asked him for a divorce.”

  Sarah Lester went to the shiny metal sink and began washing her hands. “Perhaps you can still work things out. In any case, Mallory, women everywhere are raising children on their own.”

  Mallory said nothing. She submitted to the examination, knowing all the while what the diagnosis would be, mourning the fact that Nathan wasn’t pacing the outer office like a standard expectant father.

  “Well,” Sarah said, as she scrubbed her hands again and Mallory sat up. “We’ll run the usual tests, but that’s a formality. You’ve got a passenger, all right.”

  Mallory couldn’t help feeling joyous, even though nothing else in her life was going right. She fairly floated back to the studio, mentally sorting through the prospective names she’d hoarded over the years.

  The cast and crew were on a break when Mallory reached the set, but Brad was waiting at her dressing room door. The sight of him reminded her that her marriage was in ruins and sent her spirits plummeting.

  “Well?” he asked gently.

  “August,” Mallory said in a tight voice.

  Brad planted a brief kiss on her forehead. “Congratulations, love,” he said.

  Mallory lifted her chin, forcing herself not to cry. “Thanks,” she said woodenly, turning to open the door. She was already late, and she still had makeup and a costume to deal with.

  But Brad caught her arm and made her face him again. “Why don’t you call Nathan?” he asked softly.

  Mallory shook her head. “I can’t, Brad.”

  “Why not? It’s his kid, too—he has a right to know about this, Mallory.”

  “Since when are you so concerned with Nathan’s rights?”

  Brad laughed wryly. “I’m not. I think he’s an obnoxious, arrogant bastard, but the fact remains that he fathered that child.”

  Mallory pressed her lips together and thought for a moment before she spoke again. “I don’t suppose it’s any big secret that Nathan and I are separated, Brad,” she said evenly. “And it’s probably equally obvious that I love him. If we can work things out, I want it to be because it’s right for us to be together, not because he feels paternal responsibility.”

  “Responsibility?” Brad shot back. “Do you think that’s all he’d feel? Listen, Mallory, I don’t like the guy and he sure doesn’t like me, but I do know him well enough to be sure he cares about you.”

  Mallory was not seeing Brad’s face, or the studio behind him. She was seeing Diane and Nathan alone, in that darkened island boathouse. “Maybe.”

  Brad grasped her shoulders in a sudden and rather desperate grip and shook her slightly. “Damn it, I love you too much to see you eaten up inside like this! I’m sorry—God, so sorry—that I let Diane talk me into that paternity suit scam. But Mallory, that’s all it was—a scam!”

  “That isn’t the problem, Brad.”

  “Then what is, pray tell?”

  “Diane.”

  Brad did not release her shoulders, and he tilted his head back, with a sign of frustration, to study the dark, high ceiling of the warehouse-turned-studio. “I suppose you found them together somewhere,” he said, his voice filled with affectionate scorn.

  Surprised, Mallory nodded.

  His fierce blue eyes turned to look at her face. “Mallory, what did I warn you about, that day I came to the island? Didn’t I tell you that Diane might try to do something to hurt you and Nathan both?”

  Again, Mallory nodded, her eyes widening.

  Brad swore in irritation. “Sure as I’m standing here, she set him up.”

  Mallory swallowed—talk about wishful thinking! And yet, the fact that Brad would offer that as a possibility, feeling the way he did about Nathan, gave the idea undeniable weight. “He kissed her,” she said, though she hadn’t intended to reveal that humiliating tidbit of information.

  Brad was clearly annoyed, clearly torn. “Somebody tell me why I’m defending Nathan McKendrick. Am I losing my mind, or what? Mallory, maybe she got to him for a second—God knows she’s been working on it long enough. What is one stupid kiss against a happy life together?”

  Before Mallory had to answer, the other members of the cast were straggling back, their break over. Gratefully, she escaped Brad and hurried in to change clothes and have her makeup done.

  Again, as she had the day before, Mallory turned in an excellent performance. Somehow, she was able to shift her churning, confused emotions to another level of consciousness and concentrate on Tracy Ballard’s outrageous pursuits.

  For the first time, as Mallory left the studio at seven that night, she thought that she might miss performing—at least in one respect. It was certainly easier, and much less painful, to be Tracy Ballard than Mallory McKendrick.

  The night air was brisk, though the snow was gone. Slush, muddy and slick, filled the parking lot, and Mallory made her way carefully toward her car. She was brought up short by the fact that Nathan’s silver Porsche was parked beside her own sporty Mazda.

  For a moment, Mallory considered rushing back inside the studio to hide. Before she could decide, one way or the other, however, Nathan was out of his car and striding toward her.

  The lights rimming the parking lot didn’t illuminate his face, but she could see that he was wearing tailored slacks, an Irish cable knit sweater and his favorite brown suede jacket. Without a word, he caught her arm in a gentle grasp at the elbow, and ushered her to his car. She was too overwhelmed to react until she was already seated inside the plush leather confines of the Porsche.

  “Nathan—what—?” she stammered stupidly, unable to read his expression in the shadowed profile of his face as he slipped behind the wheel and slammed his car door.

  “Dinner,” he said shortly, without looking at her.

  “Now just
a minute, you!”

  Nathan shifted the Porsche into Reverse with a smooth, practiced motion of his right hand, and the slush beneath the tires made a grinding sound as he backed the powerful car out of the parking space. “I’ve got an idea,” he said, with gruff mockery grating in his voice. “Just for once, let’s not argue. If that means saying nothing at all, so be it.”

  The spicy scent of his cologne was doing disturbing things to Mallory’s carefully maintained defenses, and she could sense the hard strength of his body even though they weren’t touching.

  “Okay,” she agreed.

  They drove in silence for some minutes before Nathan slipped a cassette tape into the slot on the dashboard and Willie Nelson’s voice filled the car. Mallory couldn’t help smiling at the realization that Nathan never, but never, listened to his own recordings. And even though rock was his career, he enjoyed everything from Indian music and jungle drumming to the classics.

  When both sides of Willie’s tape had been played and they were still driving, Mallory shot an anxious glance in her husband’s direction. “Where are we going?” she ventured. Oh, and by the way, I’m pregnant.

  They’d left the heart of Seattle far behind by then, and joined the swift traffic on the freeway going south. “To dinner,” Nathan answered irritably.

  “Where?” Mallory snapped back. “In Wenatchee?”

  Nathan tossed her a scathing look. “Peace—remember?”

  Mallory sighed and bit her lower lip.

  The restaurant Nathan had chosen was small and secluded and overlooked the dark waters of the Sound. Mallory could hear the unmistakable creak of a wooden wharf as they entered the tastefully rustic establishment.

  Nathan spoke to the hostess who greeted them in a terse undertone.

  “This way,” the woman replied, proceeding across a carpeted, dimly lit and totally empty dining room.

  “Where is everybody?” Mallory dared to ask as Nathan put one imperious hand on the small of her back and propelled her along.

  “This is a private party,” Nathan replied in a biting monotone.

  “How private?” Mallory wanted to know, her eyes wide with mingled amazement and alarm.

  “Very private. You and I add up to everyone.”

  “That’s what you think,” Mallory argued, only to regret her impulsive words instantly.

  Nathan’s gaze pierced her, impaling her for one shattering moment. “I’ll thank you to explain that remark,” he said in a low, even voice, standing stock-still in the middle of that elegant and deserted dining room.

  Mallory felt betraying color rise in her face, and her answer came out in an unconvincing jumble. “I merely meant that—I mean—surely there will be other customers—”

  A muscle in Nathan’s jaw flexed, and an ominous white line edged his taut lips. “Not good enough.”

  Mallory closed her eyes. “Nathan—”

  He took her arm again, roughly, and led her to the table selected for them. Then, impatient, he fairly thrust Mallory into her chair.

  “Brad called me,” he said bluntly, midway through the first course.

  Mallory stared at him, a forkful of shrimp cocktail poised halfway between the glistening crystal dish and her open mouth.

  Without waiting for her to speak, Nathan went on, his voice chafing Mallory’s heart. “I can’t tell you,” he drawled in sardonic tones, “how I appreciate hearing news like that from Brad Ranner. Thank you so much.”

  “I’ll kill him!” Mallory muttered, dazed.

  There was violence in the forced stillness of Nathan’s hands, in the crackling electricity of his ebony gaze. “You weren’t going to tell me,” he accused with quiet fury. “My God, Mallory, did you think you could hide the baby from me forever?”

  Tears of pain and outrage stung Mallory’s eyes and brimmed in her lashes. “Of course not!” she cried, leaning forward and slamming down her fork.

  “When?” he demanded. “When will I be a father, Mallory? That is, if you consider it any of my business.”

  Mallory’s throat ached savagely, and for a moment, no words would pass it. When they did, they were interspersed with little soblike catches. “August—the b-baby will be born in August. The t-timing is great, isn’t it?”

  With a harsh motion of his arm, Nathan slid his untouched shrimp cocktail summarily aside. His dark eyes were snapping, piercing Mallory’s spirit like lethal swords. “Why weren’t you going to tell me?”

  She uttered the first retort that came to mind. “Because I thought you’d drag me back to the island!”

  “Would that be so terrible? I know you’re not crazy about me, but you’ve always liked the island!”

  “We’ve got so many problems, Nathan! And a baby is the world’s worst reason for two people to stay married!”

  “Not to me, it isn’t!” he snapped. Suddenly, his powerful hands closed over Mallory’s wrists in an inescapable grip. “Listen to me, Mallory, and listen well. That child is as much mine as yours, and I will not be one of those fathers who conducts tours of Disneyland every summer and visits on alternating Sundays!”

  Mallory swallowed hard but said nothing. She merely stared at her husband, wide-eyed and stricken by the force of his determination.

  “Finish out your contract—whatever. But then you’re coming back to the island—specifically to Angel Cove.”

  “I am, am I? You can’t force me to live with you!”

  He smiled, but there was no humor in the expression. His eyes, scorching Mallory only moments before, were now chilling. “Don’t make me prove that you’re wrong, sweetness. You don’t have to sleep with me or even pretend that you’re any kind of wife—but you will live under my roof!”

  Mallory was fairly blinded with shock and fury. “Who do you think you are?” she challenged, keeping her voice down only by monumental effort.

  His eyes slid with dark contempt to her breasts and then to her stomach; it was as though he were looking right through the table, right through her clothes. “I’m that baby’s father,” he answered, and the conversation was clearly over.

  Mallory did eat her dinner, but she tasted none of the skillfully prepared food. She could think of nothing but the bitter, ruthless stranger seated across from her. He was, she knew, completely serious; he meant to drag her to his island house, if it came to that, and he would not let her leave with his child, be it born or unborn.

  It was all so high-handed! Apparently, Nathan thought he could control independent human beings as easily as he hired restaurants and chartered airplanes.

  The journey back to Seattle was made in numbing silence.

  But when Nathan drew the Porsche to a stop in front of the apartment building and blithely tossed his car keys to the doorman, Mallory was furious enough to fight. She stiffened in the car seat and refused to get out, even after Nathan opened the door and the cool night wind rushed in to chill her.

  He smiled savagely. “Think of your dignity, Mrs. McKendrick. Your image, if you will. How is it going to look if I throw you over one shoulder and carry you inside?”

  With a small exclamation of frustration, Mallory got out of the car. In the elevator, she fixed her husband with a look as scathing and fierce as his own. “If you think we’re going to live together, to sleep together, after all that’s happened—”

  Nathan touched her nose lightly. “I won’t attack you, love, so don’t worry.” He shrugged in a manner that made Mallory dizzy with anger. “But, then, I probably won’t have to, will I?”

  Soundly, with all the force of her fury and her pain, Mallory slapped him. “I despise you!” she hissed.

  “I know,” he said.

  Inside the richly furnished penthouse, Nathan gravitated immediately to the bar. Ignoring him as best she could, Mallory marched into the master bedroom, carefully locked the door behind her and began tearing off her clothes. Naked and trembling with rage, she strode into the imposing bathroom and wrenched on the shower spigots.

&nbs
p; When she returned to the bedroom, a full half an hour later, wearing only an oversize T-shirt of Nathan’s, she found him stretched languidly out on the bed, pretending to read a newsmagazine.

  Her throat closed, and something treacherous rippled through her stomach. “How did you get in here?”

  Nathan smiled winningly, as though they’d never argued, as though an impassable barrier hadn’t been erected between them. “I used the key,” he said.

  “Now you listen to me, Nathan McKendrick—”

  But Nathan wasn’t listening. He rolled easily off the bed, onto his feet, and pulled the soft cable knit sweater up over his head. After tossing that aside, he began undoing his belt, then the zipper on his slacks.

  Finally, stark naked, he feigned an expansive yawn.

  Mallory was gaping at him, as stricken by the bronzed, sculpted perfection of his masculine form as she had been the first night they were ever together. After a few moments, however, she regained her equilibrium and fled through the open door and into the living room. From there she rushed on to the kitchen.

  She was perched on the cool, glistening yellow Formica of the counter, despondently munching on a chocolate sandwich cookie, when Nathan walked into the room. He hadn’t bothered with a bathrobe, and Mallory averted her eyes stubbornly as he leaned back against the opposite counter and folded his muscular arms across his chest.

  That, no doubt, was why she was so unprepared for his approach.

  Facing her, Nathan placed the palms of his hands on the tender flesh between her knees.

  Though the motion stirred treacherous sensations in Mallory, and she knew that her face had pinkened, she lifted her chin and summarily took another bite of her cookie.

  Nathan laughed and shook his head. When he pushed her knees farther apart, it became much more difficult to sustain her indifference.

  She groaned involuntarily as he caressed the secret of her womanhood, cried out as he went on to claim a fiery preliminary possession.

  “You and I should never talk, Mallory,” he said in a hoarse, hypnotic whisper. “The minute we stop making love, it’s war.”

  Mallory was writhing slightly, hating him for what he was doing and not wanting him ever to stop. “Damn—you—”