In Name Only
By
Roxanne Jarrett
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
The Air Quivered Between Them.
"Never!" she cried, wrenching out of his grasp.
He stared at her for a moment. She pulled her flimsy robe more tightly about her. A smile both haphazard and cruel formed on his face. "Never." He gave a small, cold laugh. "Never is a long, long time." Turning on his heel, he walked toward the door. "Be ready at eight o'clock, my love," he said before the latch clicked shut.
Jill was left alone in the room. If you don't want me, his arrogant smile had all but said, there are other women waiting… and willing.
ROXANNE JARRETT is not only a successful author but also a professional artist. She takes time off from writing her colourful romances to show in New York and Connecticut galleries. We think you will find the characters in her novels as lively and engaging as the portraits in her shows.
Dear Reader,
Silhouette Romances is an exciting new publishing series, dedicated to bringing you the very best in contemporary romantic fiction from the very finest writers. Our stories and our heroines will give you all you want from romantic fiction.
Also, you play an important part in our future plans for Silhouette Romances. We welcome any suggestions or comments on our books, which should be sent to the address below.
So enjoy this book and all the wonderful romances from Silhouette. They're for you!
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Silhouette Books
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Copyright © 1982 by Roxanne Jarrett
Map by Tony Ferrara
First printing 1983
ISBN 0 340 33263 8
Chapter One
There it was on the entry table, the familiar pale blue envelope with its array of bright Brazilian stamps, and the name Carteret-Todd, S. A., in the upper left-hand corner.
"Good old Uncle Dan," Jill Carteret said to herself. "Right on time." She picked the envelope up and headed back to her room, neatly avoiding her landlady who was sitting in the darkened parlor watching television.
Flakes of a late afternoon March snow, the harsh, wind-driven snow of Chicago, still clung to her old green wool coat and knit cap as she closed the door to her room behind her. So entranced was she with the envelope and its possibilities, that she let the flakes drip and melt willy-nilly onto the worn Persian carpet.
The dream was always there, as long as she did not open the envelope. Soon Uncle Dan would send for her. Soon she would escape the dreary city, her dreary work, soon she would fly to Manaus, Brazil, to the heart of the Amazonian jungle, to a more beneficent sun and warmth without end and green. Soon, soon, soon.
The trouble was, Daniel Carteret, president of Carteret-Todd, S. A.—her only surviving relative—had never made any promises, veiled or real. She had taken his intentions for granted, that was all. He had paid her four years of tuition at the university, and her board. He had asked only that she major in languages— Portuguese, in particular. Jill had a natural aptitude for languages, and was only too willing to comply. She had done more than that. She had taken studies in Brazilian culture, Brazilian history, politics, geography. She knew its map, its climate, its length, its breadth. She had soaked up Brazil so much that sometimes she found it difficult to believe that she still wandered amongst the gray, bleak buildings of Chicago.
When Dan Carteret sent for her, she could fit with ease into Brazilian life, into the life that had drawn him, as it was now inextricably drawing his niece. That life centered in Manaus, a city of almost six million inhabitants, a thousand miles from the Atlantic, perched where the Rio Negro met the Amazon on its way to the sea. She even knew of that strange meeting, called the Wedding of the Waters, where the Negro and Amazon eddied and then rode side by side for miles before melding at last into the one mighty river.
She had thought, upon graduation in the spring, that he would send for her. As each season went by— summer, fall, and now winter, she awaited his invitation. Thus far, eight months had passed, eight months of friendly, brief letters from Dan Carteret, eight months of distant affection—and nothing more.
Positions in Chicago for Portuguese speaking college graduates were in short supply, but Jill wasn't worried. Her knowledge was special. There would be a place in Carteret-Todd for her. Uncle Dan had groomed her to work with him. She was young and willing to learn. Although she was aching for change, for adventure, to put her heart, her soul into a project and help it grow, she waited without letting him know of her ambitions. It would not do to ask for more than he had already given.
So certain was she that he would send for her, that Jill Carteret had taken a temporary job as a typist. When the time for a break came, she wanted it to be swift and clean, with no regrets.
"Now, please let it be now," she whispered. Without removing her coat, she tore the envelope open and let the slim sheet of folded paper slide out into her hand. Even before she read the few typed words, however, fear gripped her. Something had happened to Uncle Daniel. The feeling was as palpable as if it had taken shape and come sliding out of the envelope with the letter.
She closed her eyes for a second, and then opened them, forcing herself to concentrate on the terse sentences before her.
"My dear Miss Carteret," the letter began. "I will be in Chicago on March 4 for one day only. Please make yourself available at approximately 11 a.m. Sincerely, Simon Todd."
She read the letter through once again, and yet once again. What in the world did it mean? Jill knew about Simon Todd, of course, or knew at least that her uncle had a partner named Simon Todd. Was it possible that he had bad news to impart? She shook her head. The letter was too cold, too formal. He couldn't be so cruel as to keep her waiting four days more if that were the case.
Uncle Dan. Her only surviving relative. The words were like a litany. Her only surviving relative and yet they had never met. All she knew of him was through his hurried correspondence and the snapshot of him which she kept on her dresser. He looked somewhat like her father, with the same dark, wavy hair and blue eyes, both of which she had inherited, and the deep cleft in his chin—her father's, hers.
"Jill? You there?" Her landlady tapped lightly at the door.
Resisting a deep sigh, Jill dragged herself to the door. She wanted to see no one. She longed for a nice, hot bath before dinner. She wanted to concentrate on the vague message Simon Todd had sent. Least of all, she wanted to chat with her landlady, however dear the woman was.
"I know, Mrs. Hughes," she said at once, upon opening the door. "I'm going to be late for dinner if I don't get a move on."
"Wrong," said Mrs. Hughes, smiling gaily. She was a delicate sparrow of a woman who was very fond of Jill. "Dinner will be a little late tonight, so you can take your time. Fish cakes, as you remember."
If it's fish cakes, it must be Friday. "I remember."
Mrs. Hughes produced a piece of paper from her housedress pocket. "And a message. I forgot to put it out for you. Your young man called."
"Thanks, Mrs. Hughes." Jill closed the door quickly, before Mrs. Hughes could say another word, and at last slipped out of her coat and hat. Derek Fairchild, regular as clockwork. A call every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. A little early today, or had she been late coming home? Never mind. Every Saturd
ay evening a date consisting of dinner, movie and then dancing in a noisy, blazing club. Followed at last by a sober kiss good-night at the door to the boarding house. Good grief, wasn't he as bored as she was? Why, she wondered, did she put up with it? But then, why did she put up with anything? Why had she let Uncle Dan tell her, long distance, how to run her life, and why, now, was she letting him abandon her?
Until her father's death, she had known very little about Uncle Dan. He was her father's brother, mining in Brazil, and that was all she knew. And then, alone in Chicago after her father died, and broke, she was just about ready to give up the idea of college, when there Daniel Carteret was, via airmail, via tidy, pale blue envelopes. Letters, money, instructions about what to study, lectures through four long years about the uses to which a knowledge of languages might be put eventually, and yet, in the end—nothing.
The truth was, Jill wanted to be rescued when she was eighteen years old, and more alone than ever, still wanted to be rescued, now that she was twenty-two.
She slipped out of her skirt and blouse into a yellow terry robe. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she made a face. Her hair, thick and wavy, seemed as usual, to be trying to escape the businesslike coil she had forced it into. Her dark skin and light blue eyes, set off by the yellow robe, seemed entirely too exotic for chill Chicago. She had always felt out of place there, the tropical orchid trying vainly to bloom in a world of cement.
She turned away. In a while she would begin to smell jasmine or rosewood, or find palm trees swaying outside her window. The vision of Brazil was getting to her. She propped herself up in bed, the letter in her hand. Her room was really very pretty, with handsome old furniture and violet-spattered wallpaper forming a sanctuary against the bleak world beyond. She had no complaints about her room or even Mrs. Hughes's Victorian boarding house, which stood on a tree-lined side street, a short train ride from the center of town. She had been lucky to find the room, lucky to have a warm, caring landlady. Still, it was nothing compared to Jill's sun-drenched dream of Brazil.
Brazil, Brazil. She sighed. A country with a long past, yet the country of the future, the last frontier. Her education cried to be useful. Her uncle's sense of time, however, was not the same as hers. He was busy—she a mere shadow in his life—the faraway daughter of a beloved brother, for whom he must have some unnamed plan. She sighed once again. She could be of use to him, she knew it. Manaus was a free port and surely an American with a good knowledge of Portuguese would be a valuable asset. It was what he wanted when he told her to study Portuguese, it had to be, and she had done her homework. How she had done it!
Now it was up to Uncle Dan. Another deep, deep sigh. She had better face the truth. But for his monthly letters, Jill Carteret might never have had him for her benefactor.
Tuesday, March 4, 11 a.m. Four long days away. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday. Four long days. Would Simon Todd come to the boarding house? Would he call first? Should they meet in the parlor with Mrs. Hughes serving coffee?
She must play it cool, be demure, sweet, grateful.
What did Simon Todd want? What did he want?
It all seemed so queer. Perhaps a letter would arrive in the meantime, explaining everything, Uncle Dan cheerfully wanting her to show Simon Todd the delights of Chicago. There were delights, of course. The museums, galleries, concert halls, the ballet. The tall, tall, gray, gray buildings. The slush. The wind driving off the lake and spilling down the canyons as if trying to impress everyone and everything with its icy impartiality.
The delights of Chicago. "That's it," she breathed out loud with some relief. "That has to be it. He's here on business and wants a guide, that's all. Well, at least I'll learn something about Uncle Dan. Maybe even a hint of his plans—if he has any." She was determined not to be disappointed. She slid down onto her pillow. Tuesday, March 4, 11 a.m. She would have to take off from work. That wouldn't be any hardship at all. Simon Todd, she wondered, drifting off to sleep. What was he like? What sort of man was he? What did he want?
The weekend went by quickly. Jill slept late on Saturday and then spent the rest of the day cleaning and refurbishing her wardrobe for the week ahead. On Saturday night she went to dinner and a movie and dancing with Derek. She did not mention the word Brazil once, although it sat at the back of her mind like a haunting.
"What's the matter with you?" he had asked once, impatiently, when she had drifted dreamily off.
"Nothing," she had responded hastily, forcing a smile. "Nothing at all. Just a little sleepy maybe."
She forgot about Derek as quickly as she forgot his kiss good-night. She slept late on Sunday again, and then in the afternoon, went to an exhibition at the Art Institute with a college friend—and did not speak a word about Brazil. She felt now that it was a magic word, kept best to herself until she met and talked to Simon Todd.
On Monday, Jill was back at her desk in the insurance agency. The harsh, fluorescent lit office never seemed uglier, where, seated in the midst of a row of bored typists, she pecked away at invoices. Time set a new record for passing slowly. It was with relief that she told her superior she could not work the next day. All the way back to the boarding house, the cold tweaked her small, upturned nose. Trying without much success to fight the aching damp that touched her skin through the old coat, she had the feeling that a good case of sniffles was on the way.
Later that night, thawed out at last, Jill spent some time contemplating the thin ranks of her wardrobe, trying to determine the correct thing to wear before an elderly gentleman who had spent a lifetime in the tropics. Something extremely sober and mature, she decided, with her hair forced once again into a ladylike coil. No makeup, although her dark, thick lashes always looked as though she had spent hours layering them with mascara.
Thus settled, she curled up in the parlor to watch television with Mrs. Hughes and some of the other boarders. There was no way she would be able to sleep, she told herself. Whatever Simon Todd had to say, her life was going to have to change, and the possibilities seemed endless. Unless of course, he merely wanted a guide around Chicago. Ugh. Tramping through all that snow with a complete stranger, trying to act as if she liked it.
Brazil. A name that was magic. Music. It had a green sound. And a sun sound. A sound of warmth and blue skies. And a sound of scents. Rowers blooming all year long. And tastes. Fruits whose names she had memorized but never eaten. Caju, biriba, sugar apples, carambolas, pitomabas.
What did Simon Todd want?
The thought came to her with a sudden, upsetting force. Perhaps Uncle Dan meant, through the medium of Simon Todd, to tell her that he was done with her. Perhaps he had married and had begun a family of his own. He had never once mentioned a wife but then why should he? He owed Jill nothing, really, not even insight into his private life.
Whatever it was, Jill knew that, as of Tuesday, March 4, at 11 a.m., things would never be the same for her.
In spite of herself, in spite of the dozen new ideas that came to her to explain Simon Todd's visit, Jill fell asleep that night. She awoke Tuesday morning completely refreshed, with the surcease of worry that sleep often brings. What would be, would be. The sun was shining at last, the snow on her window sill sending off blue and pink sequins of light. Jill made a face. She didn't want treacherous blue and pink sequins of light exploding outside her window. She turned from it. It was the northern sun's little winter tricks, tricks she didn't want played on her, not now.
Her hair was still wet from the shower, when Mrs. Hughes knocked at her door. It was 10 a.m.
"Mr. Todd to see you. Better hop to it, young lady. He doesn't look a man to keep waiting."
"Oh, no," Jill groaned. "That's not fair." She peered out of the door. "Mrs. Hughes, tell him he'll just have to wait."
Mrs. Hughes shrugged. "Suit yourself, my dear. But I'd rush if I were you."
"Shove a cup of coffee at him or something, would you please, Mrs. Hughes?"
Mrs. Hughes smiled. "If
that's what he wants, but I'd still hurry."
The landlady had turned away when Jill called her back. "What does he look like?"
Mrs. Hughes stared at her for a moment, a smile playing about her lips. "Like a man, I'd say," she murmured vaguely, and walked rapidly away without saying another word.
Keep cool, keep cool, keep cool, Jill told herself, ever more ringlets perversely curling her hair under the furious wind of her dryer. Now it would never sit still long enough to be wrapped up in a sedate hairdo.
"Oh, nuts," she muttered, throwing the dryer onto the bed. "I don't care what he wants. I don't have to sell myself to old Simon Todd. I didn't even invite him here."
She ran a comb through her hair and it bounced shinily about her shoulders. "That's that." She changed her mind about the sedate dress, too, and stepped into a pair of close-fitting jeans and a Western blouse. "Tuesday-morning-off-from-work clothes for Jill Carteret, and he's stuck with it," she informed her image in the mirror. Her figure was good and the jeans showed it off. She was small, with a tiny waist and long, shapely legs.
"Ready, get set, go." She slipped out into the hall. Mrs. Hughes was just coming from the parlor carrying an empty tray. She cocked an eyebrow at the way Jill was dressed. Jill grinned naughtily. It's too late now, she thought.
"He's waiting for you," Mrs. Hughes said in a disapproving tone.
Jill shivered slightly. Winter was everywhere. She pushed the parlor door to. Simon Todd stood at the window, his back to her, his hands in his pockets. He was dressed in a suit of luxurious brown tweed, his broad shoulders, even so, seeming to strain against the fabric, as if wanting to burst away of their own accord. He was very tall, with thick, copper-colored hair, out of which the morning sun picked golden threads.
Her heart suddenly began to pound. She felt the same strange fear as when the pale blue envelope revealed its slim contents. As if sensing her silent appraisal and the beating of the drums that had replaced her heart, Simon Todd turned, his dark-eyed gaze picking her out at once.
In Name Only Page 1
