Stormy Vows

by Iris Johansen

  There was a shocked look on the receptionist's face. “But you don't understand, Miss Sloan,” she stammered. “I can't go against Mr. Donovan's orders.”

  “I'm not going anywhere without Randy,” Brenna said flatly. “So you are going to have to, aren't you?”

  “It's just not possible,” Paula Drummond said, almost in tears. “Please be reasonable, Miss Sloan. Mr. Donovan will be most displeased.”

  Brenna had opened her mouth to tell the girl what Michael Donovan could do with his displeasure, when Walters interjected smoothly. “You can't do anything about it tonight, Brenna. Paula is only obeying orders, and you'll only get her in trouble. Why don't you go along with the arrangements right now. When you see Mr. Donovan, you can speak to him about making any necessary changes.”

  The voice of reason again, Brenna thought impatiently, wishing she could fault the argument. She was beginning to understand why Monty had risen so quickly at Donovan Enterprises Ltd. He was a very persuasive gentleman.

  “Okay. I'll do as you suggest for the present,” Brenna said reluctantly. “But I want to speak to Mr. Donovan right away, Monty.”

  Monty Walters nodded, ignoring Paula Drummond's outraged gasp. He understood the receptionist's incredulity. One didn't demand an audience with Michael Donovan in his own kingdom of Twin Pines. Such an act was unprecedented, but then so were all Donovan's actions in regard to Brenna Sloan. Perhaps Donovan's reception of her request would be in accordance with this exceptional behavior.

  “Mr. Donovan asked me to call him when we arrived,” he said quietly. “I'll ask him to get in touch with you.” He touched Brenna's cheek lightly. “It's been a long day. Why don't you try to take a nap? You look exhausted.”

  Brenna nodded ruefully. She probably looked a wreck. With only four hours' sleep last night and the long drive today, she felt achingly tired. “I will,” she promised, smiling. “Thank you for everything, Monty.”

  “My pleasure, Brenna,” he said lightly. “I'll see you soon, no doubt.” With a casual wave, he turned and walked out the door.

  “Well, now that we're all in agreement, we'll get you settled, Miss Sloan,” Paula Drummond said brightly. “Which are your bags?”

  As she silently pointed out her personal luggage, Brenna was tempted to tell the girl that they were not all in agreement. There was no way that Michael Donovan was going to get away with this high-handed interference in her personal life. As she gave Doris Charles a few quiet instructions as to Randy's likes and dislikes as to food and his general schedule, she already felt a sense of loss. She and Randy had never spent even one night apart, and she was feeling distinctly shaky at the idea of the parting. He had become the center of her life since Janine died.

  “I'll take good care of him,” Doris Charles said kindly. “It's only a five-minute walk to the cottage. You can come and see him as often as you wish.”

  Brenna felt an absurd desire to say thank you. Thank you for telling me I can come and see my own child. She already felt he had been taken away from her. “I know you will,” she said huskily, “and it's only for tonight.” She brushed the top of Randy's head with a light kiss, and turned away quickly before she changed her mind. She followed Johnny Smith out the far door and down the paved path toward the small, elegant redwood cottage.

  four

  JOHNNY SMITH UNLOCKED THE FRONT DOOR and touched the wall switch, flooding the interior with light. He preceded her into the room, saying cheerfully, “I'll just carry these on through to the bedroom, Miss Sloan.” Taking her silence as assent, he crossed the deeply carpeted living room to a door on the left, leaving Brenna to gaze in amazed admiration at the interior of the cottage.

  The living room area was carpeted in pearl gray with matching drapes at the casement windows. The modern furniture was in shades of violet and purple with cream pillows thrown in luxurious profusion on the lavender couch. Clear glass occasional tables gave a tranquil, pristine quality to the living room. In the dining area, a silver bowl with a multitude of floating violets was the colorful centerpiece on a magnificent glass dining table. There appeared to be a small kitchenette leading off the dining area, but she decided not to explore further, and followed Johnny into the bedroom.

  Brenna found that the boy had pulled open the drapes and was coming out of the adjoining bathroom. “Plenty of towels,” he said briskly. “Sometimes the maids forget.”

  The bedroom, too, was carpeted in pearl gray with the same violet accents, she noticed. The queen-sized bed was covered with a royal purple taffeta spread, coordinating with the matching drapes at the long French windows.

  Johnny pointed to the cream princess phone on the side table. “You dial nine to get an outside line, dial six to get the main hall switchboard.” His bright, brown eyes were eager. “Would you like for me to bring you something from the cafeteria, Miss Sloan? It wouldn't be any trouble.”

  Brenna shook her head, smiling. “No, thank you, Johnny,” she said. “Mr. Walters and I stopped for dinner earlier.” She realized with a little shock of surprise that this teenager was only a little younger than herself, yet she felt a million years removed from his youthful enthusiasm.

  Johnny nodded, and walked briskly to the front door. “The kitchen is well stocked if you feel like a bite later,” he said, and then grinned engagingly. “I'm a great one for midnight snacks, myself.”

  “Me, too,” Brenna confided solemnly, from where she stood in the bedroom doorway.

  “Be sure and tell the desk if you need me,” he said, and with a final grin he quietly closed the door.

  Brenna stood there for a moment, feeling a great sense of aloneness sweep over her as the door shut on that cheerful presence. Looking around the exquisite apartment, she wondered dazedly what she was doing in all this luxury. She didn't belong here. She belonged in that small apartment in Los Angeles with Randy. Then she squared her shoulders determinedly. She was just tired and dispirited over the separation from Randy. This was a great opportunity. She would be an idiot to let herself become intimidated by these rich surroundings. She was the same Brenna Sloan here as in her own apartment in Los Angeles. All she had to do was to hold to that truth with both hands, and she'd be all right.

  She considered making herself a cup of hot chocolate, but decided not to bother. She was suddenly unutterably weary. Opening a suitcase, she pulled out a white jersey tailored robe and shower cap, and drifted into the bathroom. She noticed, without surprise, the lavender tub and gray and crystal accessories.

  She made the shower a brief but thorough one, wanting only to sample the softness of the queen-sized bed. After toweling off on the huge fluffy towel on the heated rack, she slipped on her robe and gave her hair a lick and a promise with the brush she found on the built-in glass vanity. Then with a sigh of contentment she lay down on the bed, not even bothering to remove the spread. She'd get up and unpack soon, she thought drowsily as her lids closed. And she wanted to be sure to talk to Donovan about Randy tonight. She tried to force her weighted lids open again, knowing she should try to call Donovan before she gave in to this delicious sleepiness. That was the last thought that surfaced before she fell soundly asleep.

  It seemed only a moment before she was awakened by a thundering cacophony of sound. She moaned and rolled over, trying to ignore it, but it continued interminably until she realized it was someone at the front door. She sat up, and slowly rose to her feet. Catching sight of the clock on the bedside table, she realized groggily that it was almost ten. She had slept for almost two hours! It wasn't enough she realized, as she stumbled bleary-eyed out of the bedroom, across the living room to the front door, and fumbled with the lock.

  She wasn't even surprised to see an extremely angry Michael Donovan on the doorstep. Leaning her head against the door, she peered at him owlishly, observing that he looked as vital and alive as ever in figure-hugging black cords and a black turtleneck sweater, his hair a dark flame above the sombre garments. She wondered sleepily if there was suc
h a thing as an energy vampire. Just the sight of his electric-charged vitality made her feel tired—more tired, she corrected herself drowsily.

  “Hello, Mr. Donovan,” she said, yawning.

  “Good evening, Miss Sloan,” he said sarcastically. “I hope I didn't disturb you.” He pushed the door open, and brushed by her, closing the door behind him with a resounding slam. She flinched at the sound, as well as at the obvious untruth. It was quite evident that Donovan was not at all sorry to have awakened her. He strode into the center of the living room, and turned to regard her impatiently, looking outrageously out of place in the delicate grays and violets of the room. Like a pirate at a royal garden party, she thought dimly.

  “I understand you wanted to see me,” he said sarcastically. “I tried to phone you, and it rang off the hook, so I came over.”

  “You phoned me?” she asked sleepily, trailing behind him into the living room. “You must have called the wrong number,” she said tiredly, gravitating toward the lavender couch, and curling up in the corner. “I would have heard it.”

  “I did not call a wrong number,” he said between clenched teeth. He moved with pantherish grace to the gray extension phone on the glass end table, and checked the phone quickly. “You have the volume turned off,” he said disgustedly, adjusting the dial. “It's hardly courteous to ask me to get in touch with you, and then turn the telephone off, Miss Sloan,” he said curtly, his blue eyes blazing.

  She felt the stirrings of indignation at the unfair accusation, but she was still too sluggish to take umbrage. “I didn't turn down the volume,” she said lifelessly. “It must have been the previous occupant of the cottage.”

  Donovan's eyes narrowed as they raked over her. “What the hell is the matter with you?” he demanded roughly. “Are you on something?”

  “On something?” she asked vaguely. Then realizing what he meant, she woke up with a vengeance. She sat up straight on the couch, swift color pinking her cheeks.

  “I do not take drugs, Mr. Donovan!” she said angrily. “I'm merely very sleepy.”

  He shrugged. “It's an understandable assumption. Your generation seems partial to crutches.”

  “And yours wasn't?” she inquired sarcastically. “I believe yours was known as the protest generation. You started the whole drug culture.”

  “Touché,” he said ruefully. “Not me personally, I assure you.” His gaze ran over her lingeringly. “Are you always so slow to wake up?” he asked abruptly.

  “Not everyone wakes up all in one piece,” she said resentfully. “Though I'm sure you're one of those who switch on like an electric light.”

  “Yes, I am,” he said absently, his eyes thoughtful. “One of us will have to change,” he said obscurely.

  She stared at him in confusion, but before she could voice a question he continued curtly. “Monty said there was some problem with your living arrangements. What is so important that it couldn't wait until tomorrow?” he demanded, looking around the richly furnished room casually. “Everything seems to be in order.”

  “Everything is not in order!” she said hotly, rising to her feet and facing him belligerently. “Randy isn't here with me.”

  The keen blue eyes became suddenly watchful. “The child?” he asked carefully. “I made adequate provisions for him. Doris Charles has excellent references, and her apartment has been furnished with everything a child could possibly want.”

  “Everything but his mother,” Brenna grated, her hands clenching into fists. “I want him with me!”

  Donovan strolled over to the small portable bar in the corner, and poured himself a Scotch and water, before turning to face her.

  “That won't be possible,” he said coolly. “I prefer that the child be cared for in the residence hall. You'll need all your concentration for the next week or so. I don't want you distracted by maternal worries.”

  “That's ridiculous,” she said angrily. “I've always taken care of Randy myself, and I assure you that my schedule has been more demanding than you can imagine.”

  “But not as taxing as the one I'll ask of you,” he said bluntly. “There are a number of scenes that have to be reshot, as well as the rest of the picture to finish, and I fully intend to bring the picture in on schedule, Brenna,” he said forcefully.

  “I've agreed to accept Miss Charles' assistance,” Brenna said in exasperation. “What difference could it possibly make if she and Randy move in here?”

  He took a long swallow of his drink before he answered. “It makes a difference to me. In case you haven't noticed, I run things here.”

  “So I've been told,” she said bitterly, her brown eyes suddenly bright with unshed tears as she gazed pleadingly at him. “Why should you object to me having my son here?” she asked huskily. “Won't you change your mind?”

  His eyes were brooding as he met hers across the room. “No, I won't change my mind,” he said harshly. “I don't want him here, Brenna.”

  “But why?” she asked distractedly. “You can't just arbitrarily refuse without giving me a reason.”

  His eyes narrowed to steely slits, and she knew she had angered him. He carefully put his unfinished drink on the bar, and said coolly. “You want to know my reason, Brenna? Then you shall have it.” He crossed the space between them in three swift strides. “You're pushing me, Brenna. I hoped to have more time,” he said softly.

  “What do you mean?” she faltered, breathless at his sudden proximity.

  He shrugged, the black knit of his sweater straining over powerful shoulders. “You're not ready for this yet,” he said calmly, “but I'm tired of playing games.” He looked directly into her eyes, and said deliberately, “I don't want your child here, because it drives me crazy to see you with him.”

  Brenna couldn't understand this incredible statement, and she looked up at him in total bewilderment. His two hands reached up to cup her face. “You see, I've discovered you were abysmally wrong about the type of woman that turns me on,” he said huskily. “I want you, Brenna.”

  She felt as if she were being hypnotized by those piercing eyes that held her in a magnetic thrall. He was so close that she could feel the vibrant warmth emanating from him, the smell, the clean scent of soap and the indescribable essence of the male animal. “No,” she cried, her eyes clinging to his. “It's crazy!”

  “Do you think I don't know that?” he asked savagely. “Do you think I go around seducing twenty-year-old girls as a matter of course? I don't like this one iota.” He drew a ragged breath, and spoke more calmly. “All that I know is that when I saw you at the audition yesterday afternoon, it was as if someone had punched me in the stomach. I wanted you more than I have ever wanted any woman in my life. I've got to have you, or go totally insane.”

  “You're already insane,” she whispered. “Things just don't happen like that.”

  “I didn't think so either,” he said harshly. “I seemed to have become completely obsessed by you. I never cared a damn about chastity in a woman before, but the thought of another man having had you before me, makes me want to strangle you.”

  His eyes gleamed with such savagery that a flicker of fear shot through her, and she took an involuntary step backward. His hands fell away from her, and his mouth twisted cynically. “Don't worry, I haven't reached that stage of barbarism yet,” he said hoarsely. “Though I just may, if I ever catch you with any other man. I can't even bear to see you with the child, knowing that another man fathered him.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?” she said dazedly. “First, you tell me you want some sort of affair with me, and then that you can't bear to have me around my own son.” Her voice rose hysterically. “What am I supposed to do? Drown him? You're completely mad!”

  He shrugged. “I knew it was too soon,” he said. “I was going to wait a little longer, until you got to know me better. I know it's a shock to you.” His mouth twisted wryly. “As for the child, I'll just have to learn to tolerate him, won't I?”

 
; “Tolerate?” The word added fuel to her growing anger. That anyone would have to “tolerate” the adorable, sunny imp that was Randy was unbelievable.

  “I shouldn't bother,” she said coldly. “Neither of us need your tolerance, Mr. Donovan.”

  “The outraged lioness in defense of her cub,” he murmured mockingly. “Tell me, now that I've invited you into my bed, don't you think that we're on personal enough terms for you to call me Michael?”

  “As our acquaintance will be ending right here and now, I hardly think it necessary,” she said coolly, turning toward the bedroom door.

  His hand caught her arm as she walked past him, and he whirled her around to face him. “You're not walking out, Brenna,” he said grimly. “You've got a job to do.”

  “As your mistress?” she asked sarcastically, lifting her chin.

  “Eventually,” Donovan said coolly. “But at present I have a film to make, and you agreed to take the role of Mary Durney.”

  “Impossible,” she said shortly. “I couldn't do it now.”

  “You'll do it,” he said grimly. “The two things have nothing to do with each other. If you think I gave you the role to apply some sort of sexual harassment, you're wrong. I'll get you into my bed because you want to occupy it, and not for any other reason.”

  “Then you're going to be very disappointed,” she said defiantly. “I'll never want you or any other man like that, Michael Donovan.”

  “I think you will,” he said with narrowed eyes. “I have no small amount of experience with women, and I'd judge you to be highly combustible material indeed, Brenna Sloan.”

  “Then you'd be wrong,” she said hotly, her denial all the more adamant for the furtive memory of that momentary weakness in the wings of the Rialto.

  He shook his head, his face mocking. “I don't think so. It's natural that you should be bitter and afraid of initiating any new relationships. You've obviously been hurt by your affair with Randy's father. Seventeen is an extremely sensitive age for something as traumatic as that to happen to a young girl. It's no wonder you've been rejecting other men since then.”