by Linda Barlow
“I don’t know what to say. I had no idea.” She felt herself blushing. “I guess I owe you a belated thank-you.”
He shrugged. “All I did was make a phone call. You did the rest yourself. Sam never would have hired you if he hadn’t been convinced of your talent.”
“He never told me,” Annie said.
“No reason why he should have.”
Looking at him, Annie reminded herself that Matt was a skillful businessman who never did anything without having a clear-cut strategy. “Is there a reason why you’re telling me now?”
He looked directly into her eyes. “The most egotistical reason, I suppose.” His expression darkened. “I’ve just spent more than a year deprived of my freedom. The public has reviled me, most of my friends have abandoned me, my enemies have gloated.
“I know I wasn’t guilty of the crime of which I was accused. But I must have been guilty of something—some lack of charity or sensitivity or kindness toward others, perhaps. I must have done harm, or surely I wouldn’t have been as thoroughly hated.”
Annie made a sound as if to stop him, but he continued anyway. “I’ve seen that dislike reflected in your own eyes—and I hate it because it’s so different from what I once remember seeing there. Somehow I lost your respect, your affection. No doubt I deserve whatever feelings you hold toward me. But for my own sake, I think, I need to remind myself that not everything I’ve done with respect to you has been thoughtless or selfish or cruel. There was at least one generous act.”
The raw emotion beneath his words was so powerful that Annie was moved nearly to tears. She suddenly got a very clear and dramatic sense of what it must have meant to be Matthew Carlyle for the past year and a half since his wife had been killed.
It must have been hell.
She felt deeply ashamed. All this time, she realized, she’d been judging him… and finding him wanting. Yet it was all due to one stupid reason—that she’d believed he hadn’t found her good enough and had wanted to take some sort of petty revenge.
On that matter, at least, she’d been wrong about him.
Looking directly into his deep, burning green eyes, she said, “I owe you an apology.”
He shook his head. “No, you don’t.”
“I wish there were something I could do to—”
“Just relax, Annie. Right now I can’t think of anything nicer than simply having the pleasure of your company.”
She smiled. That much she could gladly give him.
Annie wasn’t sure when the tone of the evening changed. At some point a moment came when she ought to have risen from the table and said, “Thank you very much, but I think it’s time to go.”
The words were right there. Why couldn’t she speak them?
Instead, she allowed the fine red wine to relax her. The warmth from the fire seeped into her, and she luxuriated in the smoky scents of hickory logs, fine wine, gourmet foods, and the faint tang of hearty masculinity that imbued the entire place.
By the time the flourless chocolate cake arrived, they were laughing and gently flirting with each other. They agreed on a shared love of dark chocolate… that it was heavenly… life’s second greatest pleasure….
He fed her the last bit of the scrumptious dessert from the tip of his own fork.
This is crazy, she thought, as he rose from the table and took her hand. She walked with him into a room that had probably been used as the parlor to which the men retired after dinner for cigars, brandy, and males-only conversation. The room was dark, lit only by another low-burning fire. Like an old English manor, this house had a fireplace in every room.
He led her to a long sofa with soft, buttery leather upholstery, and they sat down. His right thigh was touching her left one and his right arm encircled her shoulders. She let her head fall against his shoulder and closed her eyes. Her heart was thumping wildly in her chest, yet at the same time she felt strangely calm and centered, as if anything that happened would be okay.
The wine, she thought. She’d never been much of a drinker.
Nonsense. She’d had less than one glass, and such a small amount of wine had never affected her like this before.
It wasn’t the wine; it was Matthew himself. He’d mesmerized her in London, and he was doing it again now. His body felt as cozy and familiar to her as if they had been lovers for years.
When he turned his face to hers it seemed a perfectly natural movement. His mouth approached hers and she turned hers up in readiness. His kiss felt wonderful. He was both tender and teasing, full of sensual promise. Her passions, unexpressed for so long, built swiftly as his arms tightened and his tongue began to probe. It felt lovely and very sweet.
But as she relaxed in his arms, he backed off. He leaned away from her and caught her eye. He gave her a pleasant, lazy smile and said, “Thanks, Annie.”
Bewildered, she said, “What for?”
“For not skittering away like a frightened rabbit. You’re the first woman I’ve kissed or held in my arms since the night Francesca died. I know that you don’t trust me, and who could blame you? You probably think—like so many others—that there’s at least an even chance that I’m guilty. But you came here alone, and you’ve shown every sign of loosening up in my company. I’m not egotistical enough to think that’s any tribute to my charm. It’s your goodwill that deserves notice.” He paused. “You’re a nice woman and good soul, Annie Jefferson.”
Several emotions jagged through her. The strongest felt like disappointment. “Thanks, I think. But is that why you kissed me? As some sort of test?”
He looked at her. Something leapt in his eyes. He shook his head and muttered, “No.”
She knew she shouldn’t push it, but she couldn’t stop herself. “Then why?”
“You drive me crazy,” he said slowly. “You always have, from the night we met on that airplane when we were both still married.”
Her mouth went dry. Something heavier came into the room with his words. Something darker. She’d unleashed it herself.
And this time she did back away from him.
“I should go,” she said.
For a moment she thought he would try to stop her. Or at least tell her in detail why she ought to stay.
Then she felt him also stiffen and disengage. “You’re right. You should.”
“We’ll be working together,” she said. “There’s some question about professional ethics here, and—”
“The cathedral is going to be finished soon,” he cut in. “That’s a lame excuse and you know it.”
“There’s no point in arguing,” she said softly. “It’s just a—a bad idea, for several reasons. As you say, you just got out of prison and you haven’t been with a woman for all that time. I could be any woman. You’d feel the same no matter who it was.”
“No. You’re wrong. That’s not it. That’s not why.”
She met his eyes. “Of course you would say that.”
His expression darkened. “I don’t lie,” he said sharply.
“Everybody lies. To themselves if to nobody else. None of us is completely conscious of our motivations.”
He nodded. “Okay. And what about you? Are you running away because you think there might be a conflict of professional ethics or because you’re not sure that these same hands”—he held them up—“that could tease and caress you into pleasure might also be capable of closing around your slender throat and squeezing the life out of you?”
Annie caught herself staring at those hands, marveling at their strength and their beauty, and remembering how they had felt that weekend in England, skillful and hot against her bare skin.
“Are you?” he snapped. “Is that what you secretly believe?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered.
His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “The irony is that I occasionally did think about killing her.”
She blinked. “What?”
“Haven’t you ever thought about it? Ridding the world of som
eone you hate? Or someone you’re angry with or jealous of? Someone who deserves punishment for some evil they’ve done, but who manages to escape with impunity over and over again?”
“I don’t sit around and plot people’s deaths, if that’s what you mean,” she said with a shiver.
“Well, maybe it’s more common among men,” he said. “I don’t think there’s any doubt that we’re generally more violent and aggressive than women are. But I’d be surprised if most men hadn’t occasionally fantasized about killing an enemy or a rival. Certainly I have. Although that’s not the sort of thing one admits to a jury,” he added dryly.
“So you’re admitting that you did at least think about murdering your wife?” she said nervously.
“I’m admitting I’m human, yeah. Francesca could be a very difficult woman to live with. Temperamental, demanding, controlling, excessively critical. The only time I was ever tempted to be unfaithful to her was that time with you in England, but she was unfaithful to me frequently. In fact, our marriage had been crumbling for years, and if it hadn’t been for her pregnancy, I’d have been perfectly content to let it die. We’d been trying to have a baby for years, and I’d pretty much given up. I wanted that child, Annie, even though I couldn’t be absolutely certain it was mine. I suspected her of having an affair, and I figured the baby could just as easily have been sired by the other guy.”
“If there was another guy,” Annie said.
“There was. There’s absolutely no doubt in my mind about that.” He was cold again now. He’d controlled the impulse that had threatened for a moment to sweep them both into a landscape where restraint was impossible.
“She admitted her affair to me that night—the night of the party, the night she died. She told me he’d been pressuring her to leave me… that she was so confused… that she’d been drinking again because she was so stressed out by his demands.” He shrugged. “Not being able to prove it at the trial was frustrating. But there was no reason for her to lie. I knew her better than anyone on earth. Francesca was telling the truth.”
“But she didn’t tell you who he was?”
“She refused to tell me.” He paused. His jaw tightened, and Annie saw a tiny muscle jumping over his cheekbone. “But I think she was ambivalent about him. Because what happened that night was no different from her usual pattern—drunken rages, then a desperate attempt to reconcile. A lot of wild talk about a divorce, then her insistence that she loved me and would love me forever.” He sighed. “It was a roller-coaster, and I’m not sure how much longer I could have endured it if it hadn’t ended when it did. My guess is that she drove the other guy just as crazy as she drove me.”
“And so he killed her?”
“It’s the best explanation I can come up with, Annie. He murdered my wife and he murdered my child. And that’s something that will haunt me forever.”
Chapter Fourteen
Annie left Matt’s house a little before eleven o’clock. By the time he walked her to the door, they both had themselves under control. He didn’t touch her again, even after she put her jacket on and turned, awkwardly, to face him at the door. Would he kiss her?
He did not. He walked her out to her car, though, and he stood there with his hands jammed into the back pockets of his jeans as she got in and started the engine.
“Thanks for the fantastic dinner.”
“Anytime.”
Well, shit. She opened the window and beckoned. Looking puzzled, he leaned over, his face near hers. She stuck her head out quickly and dropped a kiss on his lips, then pulled back and grinned.
“Bye!” she said and sped away.
*
After Annie had left, Matt sat alone in a leather recliner in his dark and gloomy house, staring into the dying embers of the fire. His thoughts were clearer than they’d been for months, and he needed to follow them through.
It was good that Annie had hesitated… and that he had controlled himself. The last thing he needed, or wanted, was to heedlessly fling himself into any kind of intimate involvement. What he had to do now was focus on getting his life back together. He had a business to run. He had relationships to reestablish. He had work to do.
Things changed very fast in the computer industry. Powerdyme had always been on the cutting edge, largely because of his own visionary talents. Granted, as Powerdyme had become increasingly successful, he had been able to hire a lot of talented people, and they’d proved their mettle by keeping the company thriving during the time that he had been wrestling with the state of California. But now, once again, they needed his leadership.
That was where he had to focus. He really couldn’t allow himself to be scattered about by the winds of his emotions. And yet…
Being jailed for eighteen months changes a man.
He’d had to face the possibility that he might never be free again.
He’d had plenty of time to think about all the things he regretted, all the things he’d done wrong. And now that he was free and life once again expanded out to the horizon, he had to make some decisions about how he was going to live.
Unfortunately, his thoughts on the matter were fairly contradictory. He knew he wanted a family, and children. He swallowed hard as he remembered everything he’d lost. Dear God, yes, he wanted another chance to have a child!
But he didn’t want to fall in love too quickly with a woman, commit to her without first getting to know her well enough to be sure they were compatible.
He’d made that mistake with Francesca, acting rashly in the flush of new love, remaining blind to her faults until well into their marriage. The last thing he needed to feel was that passionate pull of body to body, soul to soul. It was too easy to be deceived, too easy to overlook the details that would loom in later years and fracture the relationship. Desire is a powerful force, but it takes a deeper kind of compatibility to join two disparate souls.
He wished he didn’t feel such a strong desire for Annie Jefferson. He’d learned to distrust desire. Wonderful though it was, it was no basis for a permanent relationship. And its very power often served to mask the areas in which two lovers were not compatible.
He liked Annie. There was a great deal about her character and her temperament that would suit him very well. But there was no need to rush into anything. How much wiser it would be to take things slowly and find out if they were indeed compatible in other ways.
Her kiss, though, he knew would haunt him.
Her sweet, sweet lips…
Darcy woke suddenly, feeling stiff and disoriented. For a few seconds she had no idea where she was or why she was sitting up, feeling cold and cramped instead of lying stretched out in a cozy bed.
Sam.
Oh shit!
She’d fallen asleep in the car, parked on the street outside his house.
Had he seen her? What if he’d walked by, peeked into the car, and seen her curled up here? What would he think? That she was crazy? That she was stalking him? Would he call the police? Call a shrink? Fire her from her job?
Shit, shit, shit!
It was still dark out. She looked at the clock—4;11A.M.
What had happened to the blonde? she wondered. Had she spent the night? Was she still there, naked and satiated, lying pressed to Sam’s beating heart?
The pain arrowed through her middle.
Stop it! She glanced at the clock again and felt a moment of panic. How could she have fallen asleep given everything she had to think about, everything she had to do?
Jesus Christ, Darcy, you’re really skating on the edge this time.
Her fingers felt numb as she struggled with the car keys. Falling asleep in a car while spying on an old lover. It was sick. Sick. And it was stupid.
As she carefully started the car and pulled out of her parking slot her eyes checked out the opposite side of the street for the blonde’s little red Mercedes. It was no longer there. There was no sign of it anywhere on the street.
Well, that was something, at
least. He’d obviously kicked her out before morning. Maybe the blonde had been a lousy lay. Maybe he wouldn’t want to see her again. Maybe there was still hope.…
Oh stop with that crap, Darcy! He doesn’t want you, and if you had any sense, you wouldn’t want him either—the bastard!
And you certainly wouldn’t waste your valuable time and energy on this obsession.
She glanced again at the tiny clock on the dashboard. It was now 4:13.
Dammit.
Chapter Fifteen
Barbara Rae always rose a few minutes before the dawn. This was a legacy from the days when she had worked in the fields, mindlessly picking whatever fruits and vegetables were ripe and ready for market, and grateful for the work, backbreaking though it was. There in the fields amongst the ripening fruit, she would raise her face to the brightening sky and seek answers to the questions that had tormented her from childhood: Why is life so full of suffering? Is there anything to hope for? Why, oh why, do I feel such pain? How can I relieve the sufferings of others?
It had been many years before she had received any answers, and more still before she had dared to believe them.
At night, before sleep, she had no questions. Her nighttime prayer was silent, meditative. In the darkness she was receptive—she kept very still and listened in case God had something to say to her.
But in the mornings she questioned God. Interrogated Him sometimes.
On Friday morning, she rose slightly later than usual. Her limbs felt stiff and heavy as she got out of bed, and there was a faint humming in her ears like the echo of a distant wind. She dressed quickly and simply, as was her habit. She would shower later.
The morning was chilly, so she slipped into a jacket before she walked down the sidewalk to the cathedral. She hurried because she knew that a few of the workers arrived very early in the morning, to catch the first light.
Although the sky was still dark, there were signs of a brightening in the east. Barbara Rae treasured each dawn, and thanked God each morning that she had lived to see another. The world was surely a marvelous place! Despite all the sorrow of life—and all the evil that lurked in the human heart—the endless richness and variety of the world never ceased to delight her. It was so very exciting to be alive!
