'I do want you,' he said roughly. 'I always wanted you.'
Libby said a rude word.
'And you wanted me.'
'Well, I don't want you now!'
'Oh?' His voice was silky and slightly mocking. He ran his hand down her arm. She pushed him away.
'Damn you, Alec! Don't touch me.'
'I want to touch you.'
'And whatever Alec wants, Alec gets? Is that it?'
His mouth twisted bitterly. 'Don't I wish!'
'Been denied a lot, have you?' She didn't wait for an answer. 'Well, good,' she went on. 'Then this won't come as such a shock to you.'
'Be reasonable, Lib.'
'I am reasonable, Alec. You be reasonable now. You haven't been a part of my life for eight years. You were a brief fling, nothing more. You've never been a part of Sam's life. Why should I want you around now? What good would it do?'
'He'd know his father!'
Libby shook her head. 'I'm not sure that's good.'
'Libby!'
She shook her head stubbornly. 'I'm not.'
'Cripes, Libby. You can't expect me to just walk away, to take a look at my own flesh and blood and leave.'
'Yes, I can. I do.'
'I won't do it.'
'What are you going to do, then, Alec? Are you going to try to take him from me?' She flung it at him as a challenge, but the moment that she did there was a heart-stopping pause. She looked at him, horrified. 'You can't take him from me.' She sounded desperate and she knew it.
How could she help it? Damn Alec Blanchard, anyway. With all his power and fame, he probably thought he could have anything he wanted! Even her son.
Alec sighed again and shoved his fingers through his hair. 'I don't know what I can do yet. But I'm going to do something.' He shifted from one foot to the other, sounding infinitely weary.
She clenched her fists. 'I'll fight you every step of the way, Alec!'
He looked startled at her vehemence. 'Libby, for goodness' sake, calm down.'
'Calm down? You talk about taking my child away from me and you tell me to calm down!'
'I didn't talk about it. You did.'
'You didn't say you wouldn't.'
He shut his eyes. 'And I won't. Don't ask me to. I'm not walking out of his life. Not now. Not ever.'
'Alec…'
He shook his head adamantly. 'No. We'll sort it out.' He moved towards the door as if he was going to leave.
'I'm not going to let you walk on me, Alec. You're not going to just get whatever you want! I'll—'
He turned abruptly, facing her. 'We'll talk later, when you're rational.'
'I'm perfectly rational!'
'You're not.' He put his hand on the doorknob.
She came after him. 'Alec!'
'Not now, Lib. You wanted me to go, I'll go. For now.'
'For always,' she insisted. 'We don't need you. We don't want you.'
He let go of the doorknob and reached for her, taking hold of her arms with both his hands, turning her so that she was forced to look up into his eyes.
'But I want you, Libby. I mean that. Both of you. And I'll be back.'
* * *
It was the stuff of which once dreams—and now nightmares—were made.
Eight years ago if Alec Blanchard had told her he wanted her and had looked at her with that proprietorial gaze, Libby would have been over the moon.
No longer. She'd had a whole night to think about those words, to mull them over, examine them, dissect them. And she knew what she felt now: distrust. And fear.
She knew it wasn't her he wanted, no matter how possessive his look, no matter how determined his words.
It was Sam.
And he meant it. She'd seen it in his eyes, in the way he watched the boy, the pained smile, the tender curiosity. The hunger. Mostly the hunger.
But what did he mean about wanting them both? He couldn't really want her? Except perhaps as a bed partner. They'd certainly been compatible in that way, Libby remembered, her cheeks burning. But he hadn't loved her. His leaving her for Margo, his marriage and his subsequent, 'I'll certainly forget about you,' were not the words of a man who'd ever really cared.
No, if he wanted her now it was only because she had been fun for a roll in the hay and because it was through her that he'd gain access to Sam.
She wanted to run. All her instincts told her to forget her commitment to Professor Dietrich, to forget everything except grabbing Sam and running as fast and as far as she could.
But common sense defeated instinct. She knew Alec. He would follow her to the ends of the earth if he wanted something from her.
Running would never keep her safe from Alec. If she wanted to keep Sam, she would have to stand her ground.
Alec Blanchard had a short attention span, she thought bitterly. She knew that from experience.
He couldn't stay on Harbour Island forever; he was one of the most sought-after directors in the business. Surely he was only here for a brief respite and would be gone in a matter of days. She could hold out against anything he might try for that long.
And if he lasted the summer, she and Sam could leave first. In Iowa she would be in a better position. She'd have the moral support of her family and friends.
But that didn't solve her immediate problem. Right now she needed to figure out how to handle Sam's invitation to Alec to join the fishing expedition this afternoon. What would happen if Alec actually showed up?
Would he—heaven forbid—tell Sam that he was his father?
Suddenly she had to talk to him again. She practically flew down the street and around the corner to Maddy's house.
'What's Alec's number, do you know?' she panted when Maddy opened the door.
Maddy's eyes widened, but she didn't ask any questions, just rattled it off.
'Thanks.' Libby was out of the door again almost at once.
'You want to use my phone?' Maddy called after her. But Libby just shook her head. She'd use a public one. She didn't need this conversation taking place—even just her half of it—in the middle of Maddy's kitchen.
Maddy's cousin, Lois, answered and Libby asked for Alec.
'Who's calling, please?'
Libby swallowed then, gave her name. If Lois was surprised, she gave no indication of it, and moments later Alec came to the phone. His surprise was obvious.
'Libby?'
'I… I just wanted to say, Alec—if you… if you go with Lyman fishing this afternoon… if you talk to Sam, you… can't tell him.'
He didn't pretend to misunderstand her. 'Then you tell him.'
'Not… not now. He wouldn't understand.'
'He's never going to understand any better.'
'I can't, Alec. Not now!'
'When?'
'I…I don't know.'
'Soon.'
'I'll… see.'
'You have to tell him some time, Libby.'
She didn't answer and her silence spoke for her.
He sighed. 'Be sensible, Libby.'
'I'm trying to be. I didn't want this, didn't want you here!'
'What we want and what we get are two different things.' Alec said bitterly.
'How would you know?'
'Believe me, Libby. I know.' There was a long pause. Then he said, 'All right. I won't tell him. Yet.'
'Thank you.'
'But I expect you to.'
'Mmm.'
'What are you afraid of, Lib?'
You, she wanted to scream. I'm afraid of you. You turned my life upside down eight years ago. I'm afraid of it happening again. I'm afraid of it happening to Sam, too. But she didn't say any of it. She said dully, 'I'll tell him when it's time, Alec'
'Just do it,' he said. 'Or I will.'
She had to trust him, whether she wanted to or not. And she had to let Sam go, too. She could scarcely hide him away; Alec knew right where to find him. And, even if she'd wanted to, she couldn't think of a good reason to give Sam for keeping him home
.
She certainly didn't want him to think there was more between her and Alec than there seemed. She knew that if she made a fuss she would have to tell him who Alec was.
And she wasn't ready for that. Some time she would. Some time when she felt safe, secure. When she was home again, married. With Michael.
Then she would tell him about Alec. But not now. Not yet. She didn't even know how to tell him.
It would have been different if Alec had known about him from the first. Then Sam would have grown up with an awareness of his father. He would have grown up understanding how his parents came to live apart.
But seven and a half years had passed during which he'd known nothing. For seven and a half years she'd raised Sam by herself because Alec hadn't wanted to know. He had no right now to burst into their lives.
Sam was her son, not Alec's. It was her right, not his, to decide when to let Sam know who his father was.
Besides, he was a little boy. He knew nothing about the pain grown-ups could inflict on one another. There would be time enough for that.
She saw him off with Arthur, waving and smiling, hiding all her trepidation, till he was far down the hill. Then she drew a deep breath, bit her lip and went off to interview one of the ladies who baked for the hotels.
Clara was in her late seventies, sharp as a tack, and had plenty of stories to tell. They sat on her porch and while Clara reminisced, Libby listened, fascinated, grateful for anything absorbing enough to take her mind off Alec and Sam. She would have kept listening until Lyman came back with the boys, but Clara yawned suddenly.
That be plenty for now,' the old woman said with a smile. 'Don' want to wear you out.'
'May I come back?'
Clara patted her knee. 'Any time.'
She had just left Clara's when she heard footsteps behind her and a voice, an American voice, said, 'Excuse me.'
She turned to see a young man not much older than herself bearing down on her. He was smiling and he hurried to catch up when she paused.
'Wayne Maxwell,' he said, offering his hand.
'Libby Portman.'
He grinned. 'Thought you were a fellow American. What mag?'
'Mag?'
'Magazine. Aren't you a reporter, too?'
Libby shook her head.
Wayne looked at her doubtfully. 'I don't recognise you, but then I don't know everybody, I guess.' He sounded apologetic and somewhat surprised.
Libby shook her head, amused. 'I'm not a reporter. Really.'
'But you were tape-recording that old lady. Saw you yesterday, too, down by the dock talking to some fishermen.'
'I'm doing a research project.'
He laughed. 'Aren't we all? Blanchard's a hell of a project, isn't he?'
Libby swallowed. 'Blanchard?'
'Don't give me that,' Wayne chided her. 'You can 'fess up to me. We can help each other out.'
Libby shook her head. 'I'm a graduate student from Iowa. I'm doing an oral history project for my master's thesis.' She held out her notebook. 'Look.'
He took it and flipped through it, then looked up and shrugged, a rueful smile on his face. He handed the notebook back to her.
'Well, I'll be damned. You really aren't here dogging the famous director's footsteps.'
'No.' Not on your life.
Wayne grinned. 'Good. Means I can look at you as more than competition. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.'
There wasn't really any place to buy coffee, and Libby didn't want to be considered more than competition. But he seemed a nice enough man and, as long as he didn't know she had anything at all to do with Alec, there was no harm in chatting with him.
So she went along with him while he bought each of them a can of Pinder's Bahamian soda at the grocery. Then together they walked down to the dock.
Since he'd decided she wasn't competition, Wayne was quite open with her. 'Been here since last Sunday,' he said. 'Tried to get an interview right off with Blanchard. He won't see me, of course.'
'Why not?'
Wayne shrugged and settled down on the rough un-painted boards. 'Doesn't like the Press, our Mr Blanchard. "Too nosey," he says. "Life's private. Concentrate on my films," he says.'
Libby sat down beside him, staring out over the water to keep an eye out for Lyman's boat. 'Isn't that typical?'
'Probably,' Wayne said. 'It could be because of his wife's death.'
Libby frowned. 'What do you mean?'
'There was a reporter with her—driving her—when they crashed. Jerry Corson, his name was. They were heading down to LA to meet Blanchard. I guess Corson had talked Margo into a series of exclusives.' Wayne shook his head. 'Blanchard probably blames him.'
It was possible, Libby thought. She remembered Alec's reaction to Clive Gilbert's death, how much he'd blamed himself.
'He hasn't talked to the Press since.' Wayne sighed. 'It's been a year almost. Be nice to have a story.'
He would have one in spades, Libby thought, if he ever saw Sam and Alec together. And, as at this very moment she could see Lyman's boat approaching, she finished her soda and stood up. 'Thanks for the drink. It's been nice meeting you.'
Wayne got to his feet, too. 'You're welcome. Where are you off to now?'
'I have another interview up by the gaol. Want to walk along?' She hoped he would and was relieved when he fell into step beside her.
Libby didn't look back, even as she heard the boat coming nearer. She didn't know if Alec was even on board. She'd find out soon enough. She prayed that if he had been, he had kept his mouth shut. She wouldn't have to wait long, she was sure, to find that out, too.
'Your friend came with us,' Sam reported cheerfully when he came into the house, sunburnt and smiling, at suppertime.
Libby stopped ladling up the conch chowder. 'My friend?' she echoed. Not, your father?
'Alec,' Sam said. 'The guy who was here yesterday. And Juliet, too.'
Libby nodded, relief singing through her veins. He hadn't told. 'Alec's daughter?'
'Uh-huh.' Sam hoisted himself up on a stool and nibbled on a piece of the freshly baked bread Maddy always brought.
A bit of soup slopped on to the table as Libby set the bowl down. 'Is she… nice?'
Sam shrugged. 'She's OK. Didn't say nothin'. Just hung on him, y'know.'
Like her mother, Libby thought. The two times she'd seen Margo around Alec before the wedding, she'd attached herself like a barnacle to his arm. But she remembered that Alec certainly hadn't objected.
'Really?' she said vaguely, then changed the subject. 'Did you catch anything?'
Sam beamed. 'Tons. Lyman helped me clean 'em. We can freeze 'em, he says.'
After supper they did just that, with Sam chattering on about his day at school and fishing with Arthur, and Libby all the while mentally voicing a thousand questions about what Alec had done and what he'd said and what Sam thought of him.
She didn't say a word. If Sam volunteered, that was all right. She wasn't going to ask.
'Juliet isn't much of a sissy. She baited the hook when Lyman showed her,' he said, his tone respectful. 'But Alec had to help her pull her line in.'
Once he had done the same for her. They'd used hand-lines, the way Lyman always did. But while Alec had hauled in grouper and sergeant-fish and fish of every description that afternoon, Libby had sat there, her line slack, and wondered what he knew about fishing that she didn't. She hadn't really cared, though. Just being with him, watching him, talking to him, listening to him, had been good enough.
Then, all of a sudden, there'd been a sharp tug on her line.
'I've got one,' she'd said unnecessarily.
'Pull it in.' Alec was preoccupied with his own fish.
Libby pulled. The line cut into her hands. She wrapped it round and round, pulling harder, biting her lip. 'I think it's a whale,' she muttered.
Alec finished landing a small grouper and turned to laugh at her. 'Sure, Lib.'
She was panting now. Her arms hurt. T
he line was cutting off the circulation to her fingers.
'You want some help?'
She resisted at first, not wanting him to think she was a sissy. She fought the fish, struggled. The boat tipped crazily. And when it did that, Alec began to look concerned.
'It might be pretty big after all,' he conceded.
'Right,' Libby said through clenched teeth.
'You want to play him out a little?'
'What do you mean?'
'Loosen your hold. Let him run. Tire him. Then haul him back in.'
'Loosen the line?' She stared at him as if he'd uttered a blasphemy. 'Give up what little headway I've made?'
He grinned. 'Sometimes you have to. Only way to land 'em in the end.'
Libby wasn't convinced. But in the end, she gave him the line. He eased it out, let the fish fight away, then hauled him back, determined, patient, steady; inch by inch; bit by bit; hand over hand, Alec hauled it alongside the boat.
And when it surfaced they were staring down at a seven-foot nurse shark.
'Shall I?' Alec nodded towards the knife in the bottom of the boat.
Libby nodded arid handed it to him. He cut the line and let it go.
'All that work for nothing,' she said, watching it disappear into the depths.
But Alec had shaken his head and rubbed his aching hands. 'Not really. It's the challenge.' He had turned to her with his eyes sparkling. 'I love a challenge.'
Was that what Alec was gearing up for now? Did he see getting involved with her and Sam as a challenge?
Was he, heaven forbid, relishing the thought of trying to haul them in?
What happened the next afternoon certainly created that impression. Libby was typing up her notes, keeping one ear open for the sound of Sam coming through the door after school. Instead she heard knocking and found Maddy on the porch holding out an ivory-coloured envelope. The spiky scrawl of her name and Sam's on the envelope was clearly Alec's.
She'd only seen his writing once, but once was enough. She felt a shiver of trepidation run down her spine.
Sam, pounding up from school just then, looked at her with wide-eyed interest. 'Who's it from? Mike?'
'No.' She read it silently. It was brief. Would she and Sam like to join him and his daughter for dinner the following evening?'
'Who?' Sam persisted.
'It's from Alec Blanchard,' she said flatly.
Island Interlude Page 5
