Hostage Heart

by Renee Roszel

  Who then could she turn to for help? Why hadn’t she simply run up the Gasthaus stairs to her father’s room instead of making this paradoxical rush to a man who could not care less about becoming further involved in her personal life?

  Her bottom lip trembled slightly as she recalled why she did not automatically go to her father with this. Though she loved him dearly, and he, she knew, loved her, he was not an adequate confidant. Of that she had become painfully aware all too often after her mother’s death.

  As a scientist, Dr. McKenna could not be surpassed in the logical, intelligent way he attacked and surmounted a problem, but in everyday, person-to-person relationships, he was admittedly at a loss.

  When Drew had come home after leaving Jim an needed desperately to talk it out with her father, he had cut her off, stammering out self-consciously that the break-up was her affair, her decision. If the marriage was over, he would accept it without question. Then he had excused himself, mumbling that he was needed in the laboratory. Drew let a sad smile alter her lips. She could not fault her father, he was what he was, and she understood and accepted him, valuing his many accomplishments. For anything he might lack as a parent he more than made up for as a pioneering physicist. And she was proud of his achievements.

  No. She could not burden her dad with this, it would serve no constructive purpose. But, still, she needed someone. . .someone who could understand her fear of Jim’s sick possessiveness, and help her—even protect her, if need be.

  The local authorities were out of the question because the notoriety any complaint would cause would leave a terrible blot on the conference, and an ugly embarrassment for her father and the American delegation. It would leave a pall on the proceedings which would overshadow the importance of the paper her father had worked on for so long in preparation for this presentation. She imagined the newspaper headline: “Attempted Molestation of Ex-Wife, Ex-Hostage, Alleged at Fusion Conference.” Squeezing her eyes closed, she shuddered at the thought.

  Though she had every right to notify Jim’s employers of his attack, she didn’t want to revenge herself by permanently harming his career. After all, in two weeks the conference would be over. She would return to Los Alamos, New Mexico and Jim would go back to San Francisco. And, he was not really a dangerous man—not to anyone but her.

  But how then could she protect herself from him in the meantime? She stood, hesitant, unwilling to return to her hotel room where Jim might still be angrily waiting for her. But where could she go? Completely at a loss, knowing only that she couldn’t just stand there forever, she sighed deeply and took a slow, retreating step away from Rolf’s home.

  “Drew?” The deep voice called questioningly from some distance away.

  Stiffening, she stumbled to a halt, her heart catching in her throat.

  Turning tardily, feeling almost as though she were in a dream, she blinked her gaze back up toward the shadowy house. The door had been flung wide, and almost filling its rosy opening stood Rolf, a deep frown creasing his craggy features. He stood very erect and still, one hand resting on the door’s brass knob while the other curled around the door jamb. His legs were braced wide, as though it were necessary as a balance for the aristocratic breadth of his shoulders. Handsomely cut dark tuxedo trousers fit to perfection over his flat belly and down along the curve of his well-developed hips and thighs. The white shirt he wore sported tiny knife pleats along its front and was opened half way down to his narrow waist, revealing the wiry dark mat of hair that, from this distance, sharply deepened the color of his muscular chest.

  “Drew?”

  Repeating her name, he moved quickly across the wooden porch and with long-legged strides closed the distance between them and lightly touched her shoulder. “Do I flatter myself to think you changed your mind about that drink?”

  Momentarily confused, she shook her head. “Drink? I—I—no. I came here for another reason. But I—it was a mistake.” Lowering her gray eyes from his dark, searching ones, she continued, “I’ll just go.”

  He didn’t release her arm. “You’re cold. Where is your coat?”

  She couldn’t think of an appropriate, believable answer without telling him the truth. Keeping her face averted, she moved her shoulders helplessly.

  “Come inside.” It was not a suggestion, and Drew found herself being pulled along in his fast-paced wake.

  She did not want this and tried to pull away. “No, please, Rolf. It would be better if I—I just leave.”

  Once inside the semi-dark, rustic living room, he led her to a dark-brown, deeply grained leather couch that faced a newly lit, crackling fire.

  Completely ignoring her protests he commanded quietly, “Sit down.”

  Openmouthed, she lowered herself to the rich leather cushion as he picked up his dinner jacket from the back of the couch and draped it across her slender shoulders before moving to a tall liquor cabinet that stood beside the hearth. It was open. A brass bucket filled with shimmering cubes of ice sat next to a variety of bottles.

  “I was just about to fix myself a drink.” He lifted ice tongs and turned back over his shoulder to speak. “You look as though you could use one, too.”

  Not really wanting anything, she turned her eyes to the blazing fire. Her mind tumbling critically in her anxiety over Jim’s attack, she did not even have the mental capacity to make a decision one way or the other about something so unimportant as a drink. Nodding weakly, she whispered, “Thank you. Whatever you’re having will be fine.”

  He chuckled, drawing her curious stare. Startlingly white teeth were revealed in an outright humorous grin. “I doubt that, I’m having tomato juice. You look like you could use something more substantial than that.”

  Her lips parted in a surprised, “Oh,” but she recovered herself quickly. Being around Jim for so long, she had just naturally assumed. . . “Tomato juice would be fine, really.”

  Turning back, he confirmed easily, “Whatever the lady wants.”

  After a moment, he returned to the couch with two tall tumblers of juice, each wrapped in a small white napkin. Drew was surprised to see that a sprig of celery sprouted from each glass, a colorful, unexpected addition.

  She took it gratefully, her spirits somewhat lightened by Rolf’s amicable reception. “Thanks.”

  Lowering his long-legged form to the cushion next to her, he leaned back, making himself comfortable and draping a relaxed arm behind her, warming her with a heat quite different from the fire’s.

  He looked at her quietly for a moment before asking, “Am I right in assuming you were leaving when I came to the door?”

  She nodded, nervously putting the glass to her lips to avoid speaking, then winced, the salty juice smarting as it invaded the cut along her lower lip. Hoping he had not noticed the reaction to her injury, she glanced quickly up at him. His eyes were on her hands. Good! He had not noticed. In some surprise, Drew realized that she was ashamed—ashamed for Rolf to know that Jim had struck her and treated her so cruelly. And that fact made her feel even more positive that she had been wrong in coming here.

  Her fingers began to tremble under his inspection of them, and she had the wild feeling that in his quiet concentration he was listening to her thoughts!

  That fear was calmed, however, when he asked gently, “What has happened since I saw you this afternoon?”

  She looked down at her shaking hands curled about the frosty glass, sighing, “Rolf, if you’d just let me leave, we could forget this whole thing.”

  In a surprise move, he lifted the tumbler from her fingers, and reached across her to place it, as well as his own, on a marble-topped end-table. As he leaned past her, Drew became awkwardly conscious of his heady scent and had to fight the urge to lift her arms to his neck and draw his face to hers, begging him to help her. No—to love her and keep her forever as his wife!

  He sat back, putting space between them, and leaving her with a feeling of immeasurable loss.

  “Now, let’s s
tart again.” His tone was purposefully stern. He wanted answers, and his patience was wearing thin. “Why did you come here tonight?”

  She knew he was determined to get an acceptable explanation, and would not let her leave without giving him one. Staring unseeing into the flames dancing in the hearth, she hoped that her expression didn’t mirror her turmoil. How much would she have to reveal to satisfy him? Would he make her tell him the whole humiliating story? Not if she could help it! She began, vaguely, unsteadily, “I—I came here because I wanted”—she cleared her raspy throat—“I wanted to ask a favor.” Without looking up to read his reaction, she hurried on, “And I was leaving because I—” She almost said, “came to my senses.” But to save face she finished, “I changed my mind. The less involvement I have with you the better.” The sentence died in a whisper.

  A long drawn-out silence followed in which Drew could hear nothing but her own racing heart hammering in her ears, and the occasional protesting crackle of the fire.

  Finally, Rolf asked, a fine edge tingeing the question, “And just what was this favor?”

  “Nothing,” she tried. “I—I can take care of it.”

  “Drew.” His voice was now merely questioning, and he sounded a bit tired. “Something upset you enough to make you come to me in the dark, without a coat, on foot. If it was important enough for all of that, surely you can tell me what it was.”

  With the softening of his manner, she became aware that he had moved closer, the hard strength in the muscles of his thigh now pressed against her hip. With his unexpected nearness, her breathing became uncontrollably erratic, and she couldn’t think clearly. Abruptly, she stood up, putting a cooling distance between them.

  Shrugging off the coat, she lay it in the seat she had vacated. Exhaling dejectedly she spoke, a little more sharply than she had intended. “All right!” Unable to hold it in any longer, she blurted, “Jim is here.”

  He inclined his head to look up at her, his face losing expression. “Jim?”

  A sharp pang stabbed at her insides and her mind reeled. He doesn’t even remember who Jim is! Had she been of so little importance to him that his recollection of the fact of her former husband was totally nil?

  The horrible thought struck her that if she told her story to Rolf, he might agree that she did indeed have a problem, but he could very easily suggest she seek out the authorities, leaving her no better off than she was now! Swallowing hard, she wished she had kept her wits about her and never come!

  Turning away to face the bar, she explained without emphasis, without hope, “Jim Pollard is my ex-husband.”

  There was a pause. “He is a physicist?”

  She shook her head. “A reporter for a scientific magazine. I—I didn’t realize he’d be covering this conference. . . but he is.”

  Her eyes moved aimlessly over the ornately carved bar, from the bottles and ice bucket to the several glasses arranged near the ice. Suddenly it occurred to her that Rolf was expecting company. Could it be that after their meeting in the weinstube this afternoon, he had decided to invite another woman to his home for that drink?

  Her insides churned with that possibility. Of course! Why not? There was no moral obligation in the vows they had exchanged. She cringed inwardly, knowing now just what an unwanted intrusion her appearance must have been!

  “Oh, God!” she groaned, running a hand through her hair, mumbling in a pitiful squeak, “Forget it. I shouldn’t have come!”

  Pivoting on her heel, she headed single-mindedly toward the door, her pride shoving her toward the nearest exit. She couldn’t beg this man to protect her from Jim, no matter how fearful she was of his raging temper. She’d just have to think of another way out of this mess. Involving Rolf when he didn’t care to be involved would be just too humiliating!

  Her hand closed over the door knob. It clicked open loudly with a light turn, giving her easy access to the dark street.

  Rolf had said nothing, done nothing and she heard no sound from him now. He was letting her go without protest. She had been right, he was in a hurry to have her out of his way. But when she left, where would she go? Something deep inside her arrested that first step as her pride struggled against her need. Her common sense warred angrily with her desires, pulling her mentally to and fro. She must go! She must stay!

  She did not leave. The battle ended without a winner, without rejoicing, when the door clicked again as it closed. Drew’s shoulders slumped forward as she pressed her forehead to the smooth panels of the door. “I don’t want to ask this of you,” she moaned in abject misery, “but I really need your help.”

  “What kind of help?” The question was spoken softly, yet so near her ear she started, astonished at the soundlessness of his approach.

  She took a deep, shaky breath. “Jim. He wants me back.”

  Rolf’s touch was gentle as he fingered a smooth curl of hair at her shoulder. She felt him lift it, and as he did she could hear him inhale deeply of the light floral perfume that wafted from it.

  Caressing the silky lock between his fingers, he murmured, “I believe I understand.” Why did he suddenly sound so somber? “You don’t want him to find out about what happened between us in the East.” He sighed heavily. “Do you really think I am a man of so little integrity that I would tell anyone about that?”

  She was surprised by his assumption that she had come here to extract a promise of silence from him—a promise she would never in her wildest dreams have thought necessary.

  Turning abruptly to face him she exclaimed wide-eyed, “No!” Instantly regretting her move, she retreated defensively from his dusky face, only inches above hers, flattening herself against the door before she continued in a self-conscious breath, “It’s not that—just the opposite!”

  He straightened, a flicker of surprise danced across his dark face and a crooked smile twitched at the corners of his mouth. “I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that, Kindchen.”

  She swallowed, concentrating her gaze on his cleft chin, for his eyes were too hypnotic to stare into, and his lips overly inviting. . .and the broad, bare chest open to her view beneath the wide vee of his shirt was excessively sexual for her peace of mind. So she concentrated all of her attention on the clean-shaven chin, stammering, “Well—you see, Jim won’t believe—it’s—our marriage, that is, is over.” She shifted her weight, but not her eyes. “He wants me back, and he won’t take no for an answer. His. . . insistence frightens me.”

  Rolf moved his hand to cup her chin, lifting it as he scrutinized her face closely for the first time. She watched as his jaw tightened, and a muscle began an erratic twitching in the hollow of his cheek.

  Moving his thumb to tentatively trace along the slightly puffy lower lip, he questioned in a low growl, “Did he do this?”

  Lifting sparkling eyes to his, her throat closed with mortification. She could not answer.

  His dark eyes, now brittle and cold, slid from her eyes back down to the vulnerable curve of her mouth and the bruised wound. “Verflucht!” The curse was expelled in a snarl. “The bastard!”

  Drew’s eyes grew round with surprise and her cheeks burned fiery within the cool, firm grip of his fingers. She was embarrassed, dumbfounded at the vehemence of his reaction.

  “And your father? What does he say of this?”

  “I—I didn’t tell him. I can’t.” She barely whispered the words under his glowering look.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “I can understand that. Were I your father I would kill der Teufel!. . .the devil. . . .And the Polizei, you did not choose to involve them.” It was not a question.

  “No. I—I don’t want him arrested. I just want him to leave me alone.” At last, with the truth out, she could not keep her battered emotions in check a moment longer. A tear slid down her cheek, and she inwardly damned her show of weakness.

  His features softened noticeably with her distress. “What do you want me to do?”

  She breathed a long apprehensive breat
h. “I thought—hoped—you—you’d pretend to be. . .” she stopped, unable to bring herself to say “in love with me.” Trying again, she altered her words. “If we could continue this farce of a marriage,” she amended, “just for the conference. I’m sure if Jim thought I were married, he would realize it is all over between us, really over. And he’d leave me alone.”

  She pressed her lips together, enduring the relatively unimportant physical pain in her lip without notice. The emotional pain of his looming rejection of her proposal bore through her wrenchingly, and she tried to steel herself for his negative reply.

  “Farce?” His voice was questioning. “Drew, our marriage is not a farce. It is real, at least for now. You told me that yourself this afternoon.”

  She squared her shoulders bravely. “You know what I mean. If Jim believes we’re married—”

  “But we are,” he interrupted calmly.

  She blustered, hating him for forcing her to be blunt. “Oh, please, Rolf, don’t play with me! You know what I mean!” Anger came tremulously to her rescue. “For two weeks you—we would have to pretend to be happy. . . happily married! That’s it! That’s the favor I came here to ask. If you would pretend that we’re happily married for two weeks! Could you do that. . . for me?”

  Something changed in his eyes as he stepped back, lifting a heavy brow. “So, suddenly our positions are reversed.” He paused for one heart-stopping moment before going on, “Now it is you who needs this marriage to gain your own freedom, of sorts, from an over-possessive, brutalizing ex-husband.”

  She stared blankly up at him, shocked at their unexpected role reversal, struck for the first time by the irony of it.

  Pulling herself together with effort, she countered, “Er. . .yes, I suppose so. . .” Her reply grew taut as she went on, “But I am only asking for your help. I would never demand anything of you!”