Читать книгу To Have And To Hold - Diana Palmer - Страница 9

The black Mercedes was gone the next morning, and it didn’t reappear until Monday, much to Madeline’s relief. It had been an eventless weekend, and a lonely one, and it had been marred by the unpleasantness of its beginning.

As Madeline got into her own car to start out to work, she mentally cursed a fate that had made her only close neighbor such a barracuda. Why couldn’t he have been some nice old retired man with a….”

She was backing out of the driveway as she was thinking, and the sudden metallic thud that brought her small car to a screaming halt shook her. Trembling, she glanced in the rear-view mirror to see the black Mercedes stopping and its door opening.

Her eyes closed momentarily as she opened her door. Why me, Lord? she wondered silently as the stormy, taciturn giant came toward her with narrowed, glittering eyes.

“How many driver’s license inspectors did you have to get drunk before you talked them into giving you a license?” he said shortly. “My God, do you drive with your eyes closed?”

Her lips made a thin line. She looked up at him, and it was a long way even in her two-inch heels. “Only when I’m backing over my neighbors,” she replied tightly. “Sorry I missed.”

He glared down at her. “What you need, young woman, are some manuals on safe driving.”

“What you need, old man,” she countered, “are some tips on how to behave like a gentleman.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Oh, excuse me, now I remember, I’m only doing it to attract your attention, isn’t that so?” She smiled sweetly. “Next time, I’ll wear a bikini when I back into you. Sorry I don’t have time to bat my eyelashes at you any more, but I’ll be late for work. You’ll send me a bill for the damages, I’m sure.”

“You can count on it!” he said in a voice like Arctic snow.

She glanced around him at the front bumper, where a dent the size of a half dollar was barely visible. She shook her head and sighed. “Such a lot of damage. You may need to garnish my wages. I’ll tell you what, just send the bill to Evenly Fried McCallum, and he’ll pay it—I’m his private secretary, you know, and worth my weight in diamonds. I chase him, too,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper.

“Bill whom?” he echoed, both eyebrows arching, his dark eyes incredulous.

“Excuse me, E. F. McCallum was what I meant to say,” she replied. “Only his friends get to call him ‘Evenly Fried.’ It’s the McCallum Corporation. You may have heard of it.”

“I may have.” His eyes narrowed, studying her quietly. “You work for McCallum, do you? What does the old man look like?”

“He’s short and bald and has terminal acne,” she replied smartly. “And he doesn’t like his employees to be late. I am sorry about your car—but it’s your own fault, you should never drive past my house when I’m backing down my driveway.”

She turned and got back into her little car.

“Honey, from now on, I’ll head for the nearest ditch when I see you coming,” he replied in that deep, slow voice, but there was a hint of a smile on his swarthy face. “Watch where you’re going from now on. I don’t have time for these little eyecatching maneuvers of yours. I’ve already told you, you’re not my type,” he added deliberately, almost casually.

“You conceited, lily-livered son of a . . . ” she sputtered after him.

“Nice try, but flattery doesn’t move me either,” he replied quietly, not even pausing in his measured stride.

“Ooooooh!” she screamed. But he wasn’t listening.

Madeline spent her entire break grumbling about her new neighbor while Brenda tried not to laugh too hard.

“Looks like he’s getting you flapped. Is he good-looking? Married?” Brenda probed gently.

“He’s ancient,” came the hot reply. “Gray at the temples, big as a barn and he runs all over people. And if he’s married, it has to be to Saint Joan!”

Brenda laughed. “That bad, huh?” A thought came to her, and her eyes widened suddenly. “Oh, you haven’t heard the latest news yet! Guess who’s in town?”

“Charlton Heston!” she replied in mock pleasure.

“No, not Charlton Heston,” Brenda sighed. “McCallum!”

Madeline’s eyebrows arched. “McCallum? Here? Really? Where?”

Brenda laughed. “Nobody knows where. They say he’s taking some time off, though, so he won’t be around the office. His doctors are making him slow down, escape from business pressures. So he’s in town but not in town.”

“Oh.” That was vaguely disappointing. “If his health is that bad, he must be pretty old.”

“I hear his health is bad because he’s been pushing himself right over the edge. His wife and son were killed in an airplane crash a few years ago. They say he gives everything that’s in him to the corporation now . . . I guess he must be horribly lonely. All that money and power, and nobody to care about him. Poor old man.”

“Poor is right,” Madeline sighed. “Money can’t buy absolution. He must hate being alive. He must feel all kinds of guilt because they died and he didn’t.”

“I hadn’t thought about it that way.”

“It doesn’t occur to most people,” she said in a husky whisper, with a smile that never touched her eyes.

Brenda clasped her hand warmly. “Phillip wouldn’t want you to feel guilt. Honey, he’d have been the last person . . . ”

“Please!” Madeline turned away, biting her lip to stem the rush of tears.

“Sorry. I thought . . . I mean, it’s been a year, going on two years . . . ”

She straightened and forced a smile to her lips. “And I should be getting over it. I know. I will. I’ve gone on living, haven’t I?”

Brenda’s gaze was piercing. “Have you? No dates in all that time, no social activities, no parties, no nothing. You work. You go home. You eat. You sleep. How long are you going to walk around dead?”

She felt her face going white. “I . . . I. . . .”

“This morning, for the first time in over a year, I saw you feel something,” Brenda persisted. “God love that neighbor of yours, honey, he’s breathed some life into you.”

Madeline stared at the toes of her shoes. “I hadn’t realized I’d been like that.” She smiled. “I guess you’re right, I really did feel something this morning. In court, I believe it’s called homicidal rage.”

“Been talking to Cousin Horace again?” Her friend laughed. “He’s still after the house, I guess?”

“With a vengeance.” Madeline shook her head. “Every time he calls, the first thing he asks is when am I going to marry somebody and let him inherit. Little does he know that I plan to die a spinster just to keep him from getting it.”

“I thought you liked the guy.”

“I do. He’s a good attorney and a nice man, and he’s the only first cousin I have left. But,” she added, “he does have this thing about money, and I don’t think he’s ever forgiven Uncle Henry and Aunt Charlotte for leaving everything to me. The clause about the house and property reverting to Horace when I marry was probably just to pacify him.

“Too bad first cousins can’t marry.”

Madeline made a face. “Yuuuch! If you’d ever seen Horace, you wouldn’t wish him on me!”

Brenda sighed. “I’d wish him on me. Do you know the last date I had was with a . . . ” and the conversation drifted back to Brenda’s favorite topic—her nonexistent love life.

The day seemed unusually long, and soon after Madeline got home the walls seemed to start closing in on her. She was vaguely restless, unsatisfied, and that had never happened before—not in recent years, anyway.

She left Cabbage curled up on a rug and went out the back door, barefoot, her mind on the tiny stream at the back of the property and how cool the water would feel. Dressed in white shorts and a lacy pink top, she made her way through the sparse woods, trying to walk carefully enough that the bark and pine needles and twigs didn’t rip the soles of her feet apart. Before she finally reached the bank of the cool little stream, she wished a hundred times that she’d worn sandals.

The stream was nestled in a green glade with wildflowers curling along the shady bank, and the water was sweet and cold and clear. She waded in it contentedly, careful not to splash water on her spotless shorts while she felt the rocks smooth and hard under her tender feet.

She closed her eyes on a sigh, feeling the wind in her face, hearing the murmur and gurgle of the water and the heavy thud and crackle of leaves as something came bounding towards her.

“Arrrrrff!”

Her eyes flew open at the loud bark as the Doberman came into the water with a mighty leap, and she screamed and slipped and fell with a great splash right into the water.

She glared furiously at the beast. He sat down in the water, eyeing her carelessly and watching her frantic efforts to sit up and smooth the wild fury of her hair.

“Urrrrrrr!” he purred, and seemed to grin, if dogs could.

“Oooooh!” she groaned angrily. “You great clumsy beast! Why can’t you stay at home and eat his steaks and push him into the water? Hmmm?”

He shook his wide black head, his sharp ears pricked as he enjoyed the water gurgling over his fur. “Ruff!” he replied, leaning forward with his long, thin nose as if to emphasize the playful bark.

With a sigh and a shake of her head, she relaxed in the stream and brought her knees up to wrap her arms around them. “Ruff to you, too, Charlie horse,” she murmured. “I hope you do realize that if that awful old man you live with catches us together, there’s going to be an awful scene? Oh, well.” She let her forehead rest on her arms. “All right, sit there. But do be quiet, okay?”

“Asssruth,” he said in a low bark.

“Nice puppy.” She reached out a slender hand and let him sniff it before she ran it over the sleek, silky fur over his eyes. He settled down in the stream beside her, and the water ran quietly around them both.

Only a few minutes had passed, and Madeline was lost in the peace and quiet of the glade when a rude voice shattered the enchanted silence.

“Suleiman! So there you are, you damned fugitive!”

Oh no, not again, Madeline groaned silently, looking up to find her neighbor on his way through the young trees, his look as black as the matching slacks and shirt he wore.

He stood at the bank and looked down at her, his hand idly going to the giant dog as it clambered up on dry land to sit and look contentedly up at him.

“Why,” he asked quietly, “are you sitting in the water fully clothed?”

She met his level gaze narrowly. “Why,” she returned, “don’t you ask your horse?”

He blinked. “My what?”

“That black one there. Remember him? He’s the one who had supper with me last week—and went for a swim with me today.” Her eyes blazed. “I can’t wait to see what he does next; every day’s a new adventure!”

He eyed her suspiciously. “He was on a lead,” he said, nodding toward the dog. “And I don’t think he’d have broken it without some coaxing.”

That was the last straw. She could hear her quickened breathing, feel the fury choking in her throat. “You think I lured him down here?” she asked tightly.

One heavy, dark eyebrow went up. He stuck his hands in his pockets and lifted his head arrogantly, studying her. “Did you?” he asked finally.

Her full lips made a thin line. “And I suppose I moved next door to you in order to attract your attention, too?” she persisted.

“It’s been done,” he replied matter-of-factly.

She stood up, ignoring the water that trickled down from her wet shorts in a downpour and stuck her hands on her slender hips. “Shall we have the gloves off?” she asked quietly, barely containing her temper. “Point number one, you’re years too old for me, and even if you weren’t, I am off men. Period. Point number two,” she continued, ignoring the sudden flash of his dark eyes, “I grew up in this house. It was my uncle and aunt’s, and I’ve been here for over eighteen years. Hardly,” she added with chilling politeness, “an attempt to attract your attention . . . Mr. . . . Mr. whoever you are!”

One dark eyebrow went up. “You really don’t know, do you? Call me Cal.”

“There are a lot of things I’d rather call you,” she remarked, still sizzling under her studied calm.

“Don’t strain yourself.” His dark eyes slid up and down her slender figure. “So I’m too old for you, am I?”

She flushed uncomfortably but stood her ground. “Yes, you are.”

“How old are you?”

“It’s none of your business—but I’m twenty-four,” she replied.

“Touché” he told her. “All right, Burgundy, let’s call it a draw and put up the gloves. I bought this property for a refuge. I don’t want it turned into an armed camp. Pax?”

She eyed him warily. “You started it,” she said defensively.

“I can finish it, too,” he said, the authority in his deep voice arresting. “I’ll ask you once more—pax?”

That or nothing, he didn’t have to say it, it was there in his dark, unsmiling face. She grimaced. “Pax,” she ground out.

“Like pulling teeth, isn’t it?” he asked. “Need a hand?”

She shook her head stubbornly, giving the Doberman a nasty glance as she found her way to the bank, careful not to slip again on the water-polished stones, where the ripples played.

She shifted from one foot to the other in the soft, cushy grass near the tree trunks to dry her toes.

“Suleiman knocked you down, didn’t he?” he asked her.

She nodded. “He didn’t mean to,” she said, defending the big beast sprawled at his master’s feet. “He’s just an overgrown puppy.”

“Come at me with a stick and you’ll see what kind of a ‘puppy’ he is,” he replied flatly. “I’ll walk you home. It’s getting late.”

She studied the hard, leonine face with a curiosity she couldn’t hide. He was used to giving orders, that showed. In experience, much less age, he was by far her superior, and his face was hard with lessons she had yet to learn. She felt a sense of loneliness in those dark deep-set eyes and wondered vaguely if he ever smiled.

“Suit yourself,” he said, taking her silence for protest. He turned, gesturing the dog to his side.

She ran to catch up with him, grimacing as her feet hit sharp bits of bark and twigs. “You are,” she breathed, “the most exasperating man . . . !”

He glanced at her. “You’re not McCallum’s average secretary. Where did he find you?” he asked suddenly.

He had her attention now. “You know him?” she asked excitedly.

“We’ve done business together,” he said easily. “Answer me. How did you get the job?”

“You might ask, instead of making it sound like an order,” she grumbled. “Mr. Richards hired me, promoted me, that is. I’ve been at the engineering offices for the past four years.”

They walked in silence for several steps. “Why are you off men?” he asked suddenly.

Her eyes misted, softened with the memory as she stared blankly straight ahead. “I had a fiance once. He died,” she said gently, in a tone laced with pain and memory and the sweetness of loving.

“When?”

She shrugged. “Well over a year ago, in an airplane crash, two days before the wedding. Isn’t that ironic?” she added with a hollow laugh. She drew a quick breath, and smiled suddenly. “Would it give away any deep, dark secrets if you told me what McCallum looks like? You have seen him, haven’t you?”

She met his quiet gaze and noted with a shock that his eyes were gray, not dark at all. Gray, like water-sparkled crystal in that swarthy face, under those heavy eyelids.

A corner of his mouth went up in a bare hint of amusement, and his eyes seemed to dance. “He’s old and bald and women follow him around like puppies. You didn’t know how close you were to the truth this morning, did you, Burgundy?”

She laughed, the sadness gone from her face. “I thought he might have two noses and wear his head in a bag, and that’s why we never saw him,” she explained.

He chuckled; it was a deep, pleasant sound that made magic in the enchantment of the forest in late afternoon.

She glanced at the pine straw on the ground. “I’m sorry I lost my temper at you. I don’t usually, I’m very even-tempered.”

He studied her face, his expression cool but with none of the wary curiosity that had been in it before. “There’s a reason for the way I was with you,” he told her solemnly. “I’ve been chased too much, and by pros. I’m not a poor man.”

“I thought you were,” she admitted shyly, watching as the house came into view through the trees. “That was a low blow, asking if you were the caretaker, but I was so mad. . . .”

“You thought that?” he asked in disbelief.

She frowned up at him. “Well, your shirt was frayed at the collar, and your car is a rather old Mercedes. . . .”

“My God. That’s a first.”

She turned and stood looking up at him at the edge of the yard. “It’s all the same to me if you live in a palace or a log cabin. I don’t choose my friends by their bank accounts, and don’t think I haven’t had the opportunity.”

His eyes studied her flushed face with a strange intensity. “Yet you spend your time alone, don’t you, Burgundy? No close friends, no socializing . . . don’t you know that you can’t hide from life, little girl?”

Her jaw stiffened. “My life pleases me.”

“It’s your funeral, honey,” he shrugged indifferently.

She glanced at the hedge, a thought nagging the perimeter of her mind. “You said . . . you bought that property?” She frowned. “Does the lady rent it from you?”

“Bess?” He pondered that for a moment. “In a sense.”

“Oh,” she said, accepting the explanation. “Well . . . I’d better go in now. Good night, Cal . . . Cal what?” she asked.

“Forrest,” he replied after a pause. “Good night, Burgundy.”

“My . . . my name is Madeline. Madeline Blainn,” she told him.

His narrow eyes scanned her flushed face with its tiny scattering of freckles. “Burgundy suits you better. Good night,” he called over his shoulder.

She stood at her back porch and watched him until his broad back disappeared through the hedge, the Doberman at his heels.

There was a subtle shift in their relationship after that. She waved to him when they happened to pass, when she was in the yard or driving past his house. And he waved back. There was a comradeship in the simple gestures that puzzled her. She found herself absently looking for her neighbor and his black Mercedes wherever she went. In the grocery store. When she went shopping at one of the sprawling malls. At the theater where she went to an occasional movie. In some strange sense, he represented security to her, although she couldn’t begin to understand why.

On an impulse one Saturday, she baked a deep-dish apple pie and carried it next door, braving his anger at an intrusion he might not want.

“Cal?” she called as she reached the carport, shifting the pie plate in her hands as she tried to find the source of the metallic noises coming from there. “Where are you?”

“Here.”

“Here, where?” she asked, looking around her, but there was only empty space unless she counted the Mercedes.

“Here, damn it!” he growled and suddenly appeared from under the rear of the car, flat on his back on the creeper, his white T-shirt liberally spotted and smeared with grease, a wrench in one hand. “What the hell do you want?” he demanded in an exceptionally bad-tempered tone of voice.

All her good intentions vanished. “I wanted to give you something,” she said.

“Oh? What?” he asked curtly.

“This.” She dumped the pie, upside down, onto his flat stomach, watching as it spread down the sides of his white jersey. “I hope you enjoy it.”

She turned on her heel, her lips in a straight line as she carried the empty pie plate home, ignoring the string of blue curses that followed her. So much for the truce, she thought wistfully.

* * *

Once she got over the attack of bad temper, she could laugh at what she’d done. Even if he never spoke to her again, it would be hard to forget the look on his dark face as he stared incredulously at the apple pie on his stomach. Serves him right, she thought as she sat down to the kitchen table and cut a slice of the other pie she’d made. Of all the unneighborly. . . .

The insistent buzz of the door bell interrupted her thoughts. With a sigh, she left the untouched slice of pie on the table and went to open the back door. The object of her irritation was standing there, head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed. He’d changed into tan slacks and a patterned tan knit pullover, and apparently his surge of temper was over, too.

“I thought someone should tell you,” he began deeply, “that when they said the way to man’s heart was through his stomach, they didn’t mean to dump food on it.”

The statement, and the taciturn way he made it, broke through her reserve. The laughter started, and she couldn’t stop before tears were tumbling down her flushed cheeks.

“Oh, I am sorry,” she apologized, “but I’d been baking all morning, and I thought you might like a fresh pie, and. . . .”

“I’m bad tempered when I’m in the middle of something,” he replied. “A clamp on the muffler came loose . . . oh, hell, Burgundy, I’m not used to women in broad daylight, much less women who can cook!”

That made her blush, and she stared at the door. “I’ve got another pie, if you’d like a slice.” There was a silence, and she looked up quickly, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, you’re in a hurry, I imagine, and I’ve got to go to the store!”

“Don’t panic,” he said quietly. “You’re not the kind of woman who throws herself at a man. I’ve learned that about you, if nothing else. I’m not in a hurry, and you don’t have to go to the store. I’d like that pie.”

“I . . . I . . . ” She took a deep breath and stood aside. “Won’t you come in?”

She motioned him to the table while she got down coffee mugs and another slice of pie. Meanwhile, Cabbage came in to see what the disturbance was all about and stood watching the newcomer with her crossed eyes intent and wary.

“Purebred?” he asked, leaning down to let the cat sniff at his hands before she began to purr and scrape her cheeks against it.

“Yes,” Madeline replied, setting a cup of coffee and a slice of pie in front of him at the table. “Her name’s really Sultana, but I call her Cabbage.”

He scratched the cat’s ears. “Do you show her?”

She shook her head. “Those lovely crossed eyes would disqualify her in any real competition, she’s little more than breeding stock. But I liked her because she wasn’t perfect.”

He took a bite of pie and nodded. “It tastes better than it felt,” he said with a glance in her direction.

She grinned self-consciously. “Sorry about that. If it’s any consolation, you didn’t do my ears much good.”

“I never pretended to be a saint.”

“God knows, you’d never be accused of it.”

He finished the pie and leaned back, satisfied, to sip his coffee, taking it black, as she had half expected. He set the mug on the table and pulled a cigarette from the package in his pocket. “Do you mind?” he asked formally.

She shook her head.

“Want one?”

“I don’t smoke.” She got up to get him an ashtray from the counter and set it in front of him.

“No lecture?” he asked with deliberate mockery.

“I live my life as I please,” she told him. “I think other people have the right to do the same.”

He lit the cigarette and threw his arm over the back of the chair, watching her through a cloud of smoke. He seemed to fill the room, not only with his size, but with the raw force of his personality. His dark, masculine vitality clung like the cologne he wore.

“I think it’s time you and I did some straight talking,” he said finally. His eyes narrowed, glittering across at her. “How would you feel about having an affair with me?”