The Name of the Game

by Nora Roberts

  in love with you, Johanna. Sooner or later you’re going to have to swallow it and take the next step.”

  “I’ve told you all along that it couldn’t lead anywhere. Now I’m telling you why. And that’s only half of it. My half.”

  “There’s more?” He hooked his thumbs in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Okay, give me the rest.”

  “You’re an actor.”

  “Right the first time, but you’re not going to set any bells ringing with that answer.”

  “I’ve been around actors all of my life,” she continued, searching for patience. “I understand the strain and demands of the job, the impossibility, especially for a talented actor, of maintaining a private life that keeps anything truly private. And I know that even with the best of intentions and effort relationships suffer. If I believed in marriage—which I don’t—I still wouldn’t believe in marriage to an actor.”

  “I see.” It was difficult enough not to be angry with her, and it was impossible not to be furious with the people who had had the major hand in forming her beliefs. “Then you’re saying that because I’m an actor—worse yet, a good one—I’m too big a risk.”

  “I’m saying that what there is between us can’t go any further.” She stopped, wanting to be strong. “And that if you don’t want to see me again, I’ll understand.”

  “Will you?” For a moment he studied her, as though he were considering it. A few steps away, Johanna prepared herself. She’d known it would hurt when it ended, but even her worst fears hadn’t come close to this. When he crossed to her, she made herself look in his eyes. She could read nothing in them.

  “You’re an idiot, Johanna.” He yanked her against him so hard that her breath whistled out in surprise. “Do you think I can turn my feelings for you on and off? Damn it, you do, don’t you? I can see it in your face. Well, I’m not going to step neatly out of your life, and if you think you can push me out, you’re going to be disappointed.”

  “I don’t want you to go.” Tears clouded her eyes, though she’d thought she was through with them. “I just don’t think—”

  “Then don’t think.” He swept her up into his arms. “You do too much thinking.”

  She didn’t protest when he carried her upstairs. She was through with arguing, with excuses, with reasons. Perhaps it was a weakness to want to be taken care of, but she couldn’t find the strength to stand on her own tonight. She didn’t want to think. He was right about that. She didn’t want to think at all for whatever hours of the night were left. For once, feelings took no effort and she could let them dominate.

  She needed him. If she hadn’t been so drained it would have frightened her to realize it.

  The bedroom was dark, but he didn’t turn on the light. The fragrances from her garden were carried up and through the windows on the night air. In silence he laid her on the bed and sat beside her.

  There was too much to say to speak at all just yet. He’d once thought her cool, tough and self-sufficient. That woman had attracted and intrigued him. Intrigued him enough, Sam thought, to have caused him to dig deeper. The more he knew about her, the more layers he’d discovered.

  She was tough, in the best sense of the word. She’d taken the blows, the disappointments, and had worked her way through them. Some people, he knew, would have buckled under, found a crutch or given up. But Johanna, his Johanna, had carved a place for herself and had made it work.

  Underneath the toughness he’d found passion. He’d sensed and now was certain that it had gone untapped. Whether it was fate, blind luck or timing, he’d found the key that had released it. He wouldn’t allow it to be locked again, or to be opened by anyone but himself.

  Beneath the passion was a touching shyness. A sweetness that was a miracle in itself, considering her childhood and the disillusionments she’d faced so early in life.

  Now, beneath all the rest, he’d found a core of fragility. He was determined to protect that vulnerability. And it was to the fragile Johanna that he would make love tonight.

  In kindness as much as love. In compassion, as well as desire.

  Softly, his touch barely a whisper, he brushed her hair away from her face. There were tears still drying on her cheeks. With his fingertips, he wiped them away. He wouldn’t be able to prevent more from being shed, but he would do whatever he could to see that she didn’t shed them alone.

  He kissed her once, then twice, where the tears had lain. Then he kissed her again, tenderly. Night shadows shifted across her face, but he could see her eyes, half closed with fatigue but very aware, as she watched him.

  “Do you want to sleep?” he asked her.

  “No.” She put her hand over his. “No, I don’t want to sleep. And I don’t want you to go.”

  “Then relax.” He brought her hand to his lips. His eyes, so dark and intense, seemed to absorb everything she was. “And let me love you.”

  It was just that easy.

  She hadn’t known love could be soothing. He hadn’t shown her that before. Tonight, when her emotions were raw and her self-esteem at its lowest ebb, he showed her another side of desire. A desire to please, and one to nurture. A desire to have, and one to heal. He touched her as though she alone mattered.

  He drew off her shirt so that the material trailed over her skin before it was discarded, but he didn’t take what she would have given. With his eyes on hers, he removed his own. When she reached for him, he took her hands, pressing them both to his lips.

  He undressed her slowly, carefully, as though she were asleep and he didn’t want to disturb her. The tenderness of it brought its own strange ache. Though she was naked and totally open to him, he contented himself with long, lazy kisses and the feel of her hair under his hands.

  Her skin looked so white against the dark spread. He ran his hand down her arm, watching the movement. The moon had waned to a thin crescent, shedding little light, but he already knew her so well. Still, he traced her face with his fingertip, outlining her features for his own pleasure.

  He’d never treated her like this before. Johanna closed her eyes as she began to drift into contentment. Even through passion and hunger, he’d always shown her an unexpected sweetness. But this . . . this was what it meant to be cherished. This was the way promises were given when they were meant to be kept. It made her eyes swim and her heart break, just a little, at the beauty of it.

  He felt stronger somehow, being gentle. He’d never wanted her more than he did at this moment, and yet he had never felt less need to rush. The passion was there, and growing, but it was filled with a need to comfort.

  Time passed unnoticed, unheeded. In the darkest hours of the morning, he led her gently higher.

  The rhythm of her heart beat under his lips, fast, unsteady, but not yet desperate. Her arms were around him, holding him close, but there was no urgent press of fingers. She moved with him, willing to let him set the pace, grateful that he had understood, even if she hadn’t, that she needed care.

  Had she ever noticed how strong he was? How the muscles of his back and shoulders flexed and rippled with his movements? She’d touched him before, held him just like this, but each time she had she’d been driven close to the edge. Now the ride was quiet and unhurried, like floating on a raft on a still lake.

  Inspired by love, she sought to give him the same gentleness he showed her. Her touch was easy, her demands few. She heard in the murmur of her name that he felt as she did. They might never come together so perfectly, so unselfishly, again.

  Her sigh was quiet as she opened for him. They merged without heat but with much warmth.

  Later, much later, she lay beside him, sleepless as the sky began to lighten.

  11

  He could have strangled her. When Sam woke, he found himself alone in bed and the house empty. In the bath, her still-damp towel hung tidily over the rail. The room carried, very faintly, the scent of her. The clothes he’d removed from her the night before had been put away. Downst
airs, he saw that her briefcase was gone and the flowers freshened. Her phone machine had been cleared of messages and reset.

  In crisis or in control, Johanna was always organized.

  He was sure he would strangle her.

  In the kitchen he found the glasses they’d used the night before conscientiously rinsed and draining. Propped against the coffeepot was a note in Johanna’s neat handwriting. I didn’t want to wake you. I needed to get to the hospital early, then to the studio. The coffee’s fresh.

  She’d written something else, crossed it out, then signed the note simply Johanna.

  His mother could have written it, Sam thought as he skimmed it a second time. Only she might have added, Leave the kitchen the way you found it. Damn it, Johanna.

  He stood in the kitchen dressed only in jeans and tossed her note onto the counter. No one would ever accuse Johanna of not having her feet firmly on the ground. But there were times when it was better, even necessary, to keep them planted beside someone else’s. She still needed to accept that he was that someone else. He’d been sure he’d gotten through, but he’d forgotten how incredibly stubborn she could be.

  Absently he bent down and picked up the kitten, who was doing figure eights between his legs. She wasn’t hungry. Johanna had left Lucy well taken care of, with a full dish in the corner. She only wanted some affection. Most creatures did, Sam mused as he stroked her fur. Apparently that wasn’t enough to make Johanna purr and settle trustingly in his arms.

  It looked as if he still had a fight on his hands. Sam gave the kitten’s ears a last scratch before he set her down again. He could be hardheaded, as well.

  ***

  She was thinking of him. Sam would have been amazed if he had known how hard and long she’d struggled over those few brief lines she’d left him. She’d wanted to thank him for being with her and to tell him how much it had meant to her that he’d been kind and understanding when she’d been down for the count. She’d wanted to tell him that she loved him in a way she had never before and would never again love. But the words had seemed so empty and inadequate on paper.

  It was hard to need someone, really need him, when you’d spent your entire life making certain you could handle anything and everything on your own. How would he have felt if he’d known how close she’d come to waking him and asking him to come with her because she’d been dreading the thought of facing this day alone? She couldn’t ask, any more than she could forget that she now had no secrets from him, physically or emotionally. Dealing with this day alone was imperative if she was ever to face another without him.

  The nurse on duty this morning was younger and more approachable than the one the night before. She told Johanna that her father was resting comfortably, then asked her to have a seat until Dr. Merritt could be located.

  Johanna chose the waiting room because the corridors seemed so public. She’d managed to evade the reporters outside but didn’t want to take any chances on having to deal with any who’d been clever enough to sneak in.

  Inside, an elderly woman and a boy of about twenty sat half dozing on a sofa, hands linked. On the wall-mounted television a morning show flashed cheerfully, showing a demonstration of gourmet cooking. Johanna moved to a table where twin pots of coffee and hot water sat on warmers. She bypassed the tea bags, ignored the little bags of powdered cream and sugar and poured a cup black. As she took the first sip, she heard the break for local news.

  Carl W. Patterson was the top story. Dispassionately she listened to the newscaster recite the press release she and the publicist had written over the phone the night before. It gave a great deal more information on Carl’s career than it did on his illness, and she knew Carl would have given it his nod of approval. The report ended by saying that Toni DuMonde, Patterson’s housemate and fiancée, could not be reached for comment.

  At least the woman wasn’t a fool, Johanna thought as she chose a seat. There were some, she knew, who would have spilled their guts to the press and enjoyed the melodrama. And if Toni had, Johanna imagined, Carl would have cut whatever strings tied them together as soon as he was able.

  “Miss Patterson?”

  Johanna rose automatically. The moment she saw the doctor, her calm fled. The nurse had said Carl was resting comfortably, but that was hospital talk. She fought back the touch of fear and offered her hand.

  “Dr. Merritt, I hope I’m not too early.” Or too late.

  “No, as a matter of fact your father’s awake and stable. As a matter of precaution we’ll keep him in CCU for another twenty-four hours. If he continues to progress, he can be moved to a private room.”

  “The prognosis?”

  “The prognosis is good, if he cooperates. A lighter work load is essential. How much influence do you have over him?”

  Her smile was almost amused. “None at all.”

  “Well, then, he might find himself confined to the hospital a day or two longer than he’s counting on.” Merritt took off his glasses to polish the lenses on the hem of his coat. “As I explained to you last night, certain adjustments will have to be made. Mr. Patterson will have to realize that, like the rest of us, he has certain limitations.”

  “I understand. And I wish you the best of luck explaining the same to him.”

  “I’ve already spoken to him briefly.” Merritt slid the glasses back on his nose. He gave Johanna a smile that was gone almost before it formed. “At the moment, it’s more important to reassure him. We’ll speak about future care soon enough. He’s asked to see Miss DuMonde and someone named Whitfield. It may be good for him to see his fiancée, but—”

  “Don’t worry about Whitfield. I’ll handle it.”

  Merritt only nodded. He’d already decided Patterson’s daughter had a good head on her shoulders. “Your father’s a fortunate man. If he’s sensible, there isn’t any reason why he shouldn’t lead a full and productive life.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “Fifteen minutes only. He needs calm and quiet.”

  She was both as she walked into the small curtained-off room in CCU. Her father was as he’d been the night before, eyes closed, wired to machines. But his color was better. She stood by the bed, studying him, until his eyes flickered open.

  It took him a moment to focus. It occurred to Johanna that this was certainly the longest their eyes had ever held. When she saw recognition in his, she bent to brush his cheek with hers.

  “Good morning,” she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral. “You gave us a scare.”

  “Johanna.” He took her hand, surprising her. He’d never been quite so alone or quite so weak. “What have they told you?”

  Why, he’s frightened, she thought, and felt a stirring of sympathy. It had never occurred to her that he could be frightened. “That you’re a fortunate man,” she said briskly. “And that if you’re sensible the world will still see quite a number of Carl W. Patterson productions.”

  It was exactly the right thing to say. She hadn’t realized she’d known him so well. “Damned inconvenient time for my body to set booby traps for me.” He glanced around the room, and the moment of closeness vanished.

  “The hospital’s contacting Toni,” Johanna told him. “I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”

  Satisfied, Carl looked back at his daughter. “They say they intend to keep me strapped down here another day.”

  “Yes. More if you make a fuss.”

  “I’ve work to do that can’t be done from a hospital bed.”

  “Fine. I’ll tell them to release you. You might be able to edit Fields of Fire before you keel over again.”

  His expression changed from impatience to astonishment, then to something she’d rarely seen directed at her—amusement. “I suppose I could spare a few days. But I don’t want that ham-handed Whitfield to get his hands on it.”

  “I’ve sent for Loman.” His expression tightened immediately, and he became the cool, disapproving man she’d lived with most of her life. “I’m sorry
if I overstepped my bounds, but when I contacted Whitfield last night and saw how things were, I thought you’d prefer Loman.”

  “All right, all right.” He waved away her apology. “I do prefer Loman. Whitfield has his place, but God knows it’s not in an editing room. What about the press?”

  He’d forgotten to be frightened. Johanna thought, and bit back a sigh. It was business as usual. “Under control. Your publicist issued a release this morning and will update it as becomes necessary.”

  “Good, good. I’ll meet with Loman this afternoon. Set that up for me, Johanna.”

  “No.”

  The effort of making plans had already sapped his strength, and that only made him more furious. “No? What the hell do you mean, no?”

  “It’s out of the question.” Her voice was calm, which pleased her. There had been a time he could have used that tone and made her quake. “It should be all right in a day or two, once you’re in a private room and stronger.”

  “I run my own life.”

  “No one’s more aware of that than I.”

  “If you’ve got some idea about taking over while I’m down—”