Читать книгу Whatever Comes - Lass Small, Lass Small - Страница 6

When Jamie Milrose walked into his agency office the next day, his secretary said, “There’s someone waiting for you. He didn’t give a name, but he called you Sarge, so I let him wait in your office.”

“No kidding.” Jamie paused to relish the moment. There were very few who were still in touch, after the U.S. sojourn in Nam, who knew of his change in name, job and total character revamp. Those few were all cherished friends. Who would it be?

All the survivors in his group were forty-some-odd. They had been able to put Nam behind them. They were now spread out, very involved in their lives, established. They saw each other seldom but with great pleasure. Jamie opened the door with anticipation...and he drew a complete blank.

Jamie stared at the man sitting at his desk. The man looked up from the Wall Street Journal and greeted him, “Good morning, Milrose.”

Jamie couldn’t recall ever seeing him before in his life...then he walked closer and inquired, uncertainly, “Sean?” Jamie’s business with Sean had been conducted by mail and occasional phone calls from someone of the group. Jamie had met Sean once.

The lazy, husky voice was casual. “I believe it has been mentioned that, off the stage, I’m to be called Tris Roald?” With automatic courtesy, Tris rose and moved away from Jamie’s desk to stand with his back to the window.

Prickly, Jamie thought as he raised his brows. It said something for Jamie that he didn’t need to immediately sit in the chair of authority at the desk; he stood also and smiled in his non-army sergeant personality as he explained, “Forgive me. You have to realize I hear ‘Sean Morant’ all day, half the night and worse on concert tours. Had you ever been in Nam, you’d understand about brainwashing.”

“I was fifteen when that war ended.”

Tris’s control and power were there. Jamie could feel it. Tris was a man who ran his own life. “Fifteen was young,” Jamie conceded. “Then you can’t know how it could be to hear something endlessly and be swayed?”

With droll humor, Tris denied that. “I have a mother who was an army sergeant in the Korean War. She was a strong disciplinarian.”

“Was she now.” Jamie laughed. “I have to meet her. We can exchange stories.”

“I believe you would have the edge. Her war was an accepted one.”

“Ah, yes.” Jamie’s voice was soft and his liking for Sean began. “How did you know I was a sergeant?”

“I research my people quite thoroughly.” As he did everything.

Jamie nodded once before he asked, “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” And his eyes twinkled.

“Did you clear that article and cover layout in Adam’s Roots?”

“No, of course not.” Jamie’s voice was conciliatory. He knew with Tris’s words that the man was irritated.

The soft, husky voice suggested, “Tell me about Amabel Clayton.”

“An interesting experience for any man, she—”

“What do you mean by that?”

Jamie shook his head once. “Not your first impression. She looks like a man’s summer idyll, but she’s a staunch women’s righter. She’s also a damned good reporter. No one calls her Amabel...she’s called Clayton or Mab. On occasion it’s Mad Mab. She has asked for interviews, along with every other conceivable publication that can possibly call itself legit, and of course, as per instructions, I’ve turned her down—every time—although I did give her the publicity handouts.”

The roughened voice was grim. “She’s taken revenge? Just because I wouldn’t give her an interview?”

“I doubt the article was her idea. Wallace Michaels is her boss and he does push for what’s current. And not being able to see you, she was free to handle it any way she wanted.” Jamie added coaxingly, “We could tell her about those women.”

“I don’t owe anyone any explanation.” The mild tone was deceiving. Tris meant just that. The glint of yellow fire was in his brown eyes even with his back to the light. “I don’t like being labeled a womanizer.”

“The article will offend a few people—your mother, you, some of your good friends—but the great majority won’t be affected.” Jamie was practical about it. “This is ‘typical’ Rock Star stuff. It won’t harm you. It might cause irritation, with an increase in panting groupies, but that can be handled. No problem. This is a one-day sensation. In a week, it’ll fade away. I promise.”

“I would like a close look at her. I would like to talk with the kind of woman who could be so judgmental.”

“An...interview?” Jamie was startled.

“No. Anonymously.”

“Ah? Let’s see.” Jamie went to his desk and flipped through his appointments. “In two days there’s a reception for reporters and publicity personnel at the Beverly Hilton on Wilshire. As a sop to all the frustrated reporters, we give them—us!” Jamie grinned with real humor.

“Would anyone recognize me?”

“I don’t even recognize you.” Then Jamie cocked his head in disbelief. “You mean you’d go there?”

“Can you get me a badge?”

“You’d boldly go where no Rock Star has gone before? It would be madness, man!”

“I could be visiting from Indiana to see how the big boys handle things.”

It was the beginning of their friendship. “Where abouts in Indiana you from, boy? I don’t remember Indiana being in your bio.”

“I’ve an aunt up near Fort Wayne.”

“We’re practically kin!” Jamie laughed. “I’m from the actual city of Fort Wayne!”

Tris finally smiled. “I know enough about the city to pass casual inquisition.”

“I’ve a friend on the Journal Gazette who’ll cover for you. You can be their West Coast representative for the day. No problem.” Jamie hesitated thoughtfully. “Are you sure? It’s a rash thing to do.”

Tris’s instructions were firm. “You would ignore me completely.”

“If anyone asked me, I would say, ‘Sean? Here? You’re crazy! Why would he come to the lion’s den?’” Jamie appreciated the idea. “It would be illogical enough—no one would expect you to be there.”

“I’ll go. What do reporter types wear? Something somber? Something flashy?”

“A suit. Tie.” Jamie frowned rather absently. “Be professional. You’ll see all sorts of dress, but since you’re from Indiana, allegedly, you would dress. Let me put my mind to this—there must be an easier way for you to see Amabel Clayton.”

“It intrigues me to do it this way. And the sooner the better.”

“There’s enough madness in the idea to please me.” Jamie grinned in anticipated malice. “May I mention—later—that you were there?”

“No.”

“It tempts me.” Jamie coaxed for permission.

Tris’s refusal was said flatly: “Don’t even consider it.”

“It would be such a joy to see some faces as I told it. I could do it confidentially. I would limit it to two. Mab being one.”

“I’d fire you.”

Jamie gave a gusty sigh. “No humor. None at all...at all.”

* * *

So two days later, when the reporter/publicist meeting was scheduled, Tris drove a rented car to the hotel. The pressure in his life too seldom allowed him to be alone—there was simply never enough time—so he took advantage of any opportunity that came his way to be free for a while.

He kept a house in the canyon country, north and west of downtown Los Angeles. With the badge for the meeting delivered to him, there had been a picture of Amabel Clayton. She was “an interesting experience for any man.” Those were Jamie’s words. How could anyone who looked as she did be the shrew she must be?

He arrived at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, which is located on Wilshire Boulevard, west of Los Angeles, in Beverly Hills, seven miles from the Pacific. Tris handed the car keys to an attendant to park it in one of the garages. Then Tris went into the lobby, as he pinned on his badge and followed the discreet signs to the International Ballroom where the meeting was held.

There were close to a couple of hundred people in the crowd. There were more men than women. There was the subdued roar of conversation and laughter for they were almost all acquainted. It was their business to know each other.

Even in that crowd, she wasn’t hard to find. She looked like any man’s summer idyll, as Jamie had promised. It was a while before Tris could quit staring. It was odd the number of men who stood out of her reach but who looked at her with a kind of vulnerability. Look but don’t touch seemed a tested rule for her. So although some women spoke to Amabel, all of the men did at least greet her. She was natural and courteous in her responses. Why did Tris find that so strange?

With the cover story firmly in his mind as a shield against her, Tris worked his way through the throng to her as he considered approaches. It had been a good many years since he’d had to approach any woman. All he’d had to do was say okay.

He tried one of the classics deliberately. He wanted to hear her screech. Pretending to be joggled, and with perfect timing, he spilled his drink right into the open collar of her blue shirtwaist dress. He apologized, “I am sorry,” as he handed her a clean handkerchief.

“Don’t worry.” She busied herself with the mop-up. “I buy my clothes with this sort of thing in mind. But being only February, it is a little early in the season for an unexpected dousing.”

Her reaction puzzled him. She was lovely, courteous and kind. That wasn’t his mental image of Amabel Clayton. He said, “Back home in Indiana,” and he had to prevent himself from singing the line, “we don’t drink cocktails this early in the day.”

She held her dress out from her very nice chest and inquired, “What do you drink in the early afternoon?” And she raised those black fringed, blue eyes up to his and smiled just a little. Then she sobered and her eyes went out of focus as the most amazing shiver touched her core.

Without really paying any attention, he replied, “Lemonade under a sycamore tree.”

“In February?” Her reporter’s training saved her from the bemusement. “In Indiana? The spring thaw hasn’t even started.”

“February in southern California is a fooler. You forget how the top half of the country lives. In February all us Indiana farmers are down yonder, by the Rio Grande, sitting in the sun in trailer lots. They call us Winter Texans or Snow Birds, since we tend to migrate like birds to escape the northern winter.”

“How did a farmer get in here?” She moved one hand to indicate the ballroom and that meeting.

“Yes. Well.” He thought rapidly and replied, “I never actually farmed. I went to school and learned to read and write, and I’m a reporter in the metropolis of Fort Wayne, home of Mad Anthony Wayne, who licked the British.”

Taking anyone called Mad Anthony’s heroic deed literally, she expressed great astonishment. “He licked them? Why would he do a gross thing like that?”

Quite gravely he replied, “It wasn’t with his tongue, it was in the War of the Revolution.”

“And he was mad?”

“Probably because the British weren’t being nice.” He considered her damp dress. “He’s the one who said, ‘My country, right or wrong.’”

Fully realizing she was playing straight-woman for him, she asked, “Why did he say that?”

“More than likely his country was doing something he didn’t entirely agree with.”

“On occasion, I’ve had that very feeling.”

“We are members of the same club.”

It wasn’t until then that she laughed. “Are you new on the Coast?”

“And new in the world of journalism,” he agreed with complete honesty. Then he told her, “My name is Tristan Roald, but since that sounds like a contender for the throne, I’m called Tris. And on occasion that comes out Chris with a good many of the uninitiated.” Since it really was his name, his eyelids didn’t flicker, nor did his eyes shift even the least little bit, as he watched to see how deep her research had been, and if she’d discovered that fact about Sean Morant.

“Tristan Roald sounds like a Viking.”

“We tend to take that very seriously.” He nodded with the words quite emphatically. “Plunder and all that sort of thing.”

“I’m Amabel Clayton and I’m—”

He interrupted in his lazy, husky voice. “You wrote the cover story on the Rocker. Uh, what’s his name.”

She supplied the name easily. “Sean Morant. If you don’t recall that name, you must not be into Rock.”

Adroitly he avoided a reply by saying, “The cover was impressive. Do you really think he managed so many women in that short a time?” He began laying his trap.

“Pictorial proof.”

“You don’t think it might have been just circumstances? That he’s an actual innocent?”

She grinned.

To cover his face, he scratched his nose, since she was looking at him with thoughtful eyes, but he went on, “The pictures were taken,” he conceded. “But he might not have even been very well acquainted with those women.” He pretended the comment was casual. He had to hear her reply.

“I believe it’s the exactness in the duplication of the pictures that got to me. He always looks the same, his clothes, his designer-tossed hair, his expression of boredom. Only the woman is different. It’s time for another picture. The time lapse seems almost measured. It’s as if Sean yawns and grumbles, ‘It’s time for me to be photographed with another bimbo.’”

He smoothed a hand over his hair to be sure it was all still neat and orderly, and he questioned with raised brows, “Bimbo?”

Amabel groaned. “I had to interview them. One does wonder why he chooses them.” Then she had the grace to blush rather vividly and sputter, “Well, I mean, I suppose...” And she just coughed and tried to change the subject.

But he wouldn’t allow it. “You think he just chooses a body for...physical reasons.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’s not for conversation.” Her reply was so positive on that score that it sounded a little heated.

“Do you have an unrequited desire for Sean’s body?” His eyes were almost hidden by his lashes, but she could see the glints of golden laughter in them.

“I have the strangest feeling I know you.”

“Ever been to Fort Wayne?” he inquired with honest candor.

“No. I am going to Indianapolis in March for a Women’s Seminar—”

“I’ll be just north of there, in Fort Wayne. Where is the seminar?”

“At the Hyatt.”

“Ever been to Indiana? We’ve lots of wonders to see.” And he had eased her past talking about who he might look like—or indeed, who he might be.

They talked of hotels, Indiana, California, people, and she introduced him to several people as Tris. Two asked if they knew him. Was he a publicist? He looked familiar somehow. He replied, “Well, if you’ve ever been to Indiana there are a good many of us around, and we tend to have the family look. My mother was a Fell, and her family were Davie and Hughs. And there are some...” But oddly enough by then the questioner had lost interest.

At the buffet, he crossed glances with Jamie and gave him a bland, vague look of a stranger. Jamie coughed then choked quite hard, and he had to be slapped on the back.

Tris said to Amabel, “He’s probably drunk. Most reporters drink too much. Do you?”

“He isn’t a reporter—in fact he’s Sean Morant’s publicist. No woman drinks too much if she’s as opposed to men as I am.”

“Now why would you be opposed to men?” he inquired in great surprise.

“Basically... Well, that word says it all. Men are very basic.”

Tris snagged them each another drink from a passing tray—carried, of course, by a waiter—and he handed one to Amabel before he lifted his as he said, “Here’s to the good old days, when men were men and women were barefoot and pregnant.”

She refrained from sipping the drink and cautioned, “I can see we need to talk about women’s rights. I do believe you’ve been somewhat out of touch? And that’s especially bad for a news—”

But then a sly and droll woman’s voice interrupted, “You still here, Mab? I thought you had left.”

“Not yet.” And Tris was delighted to see Mab blush faintly. “I’m still here.”

And the woman eyed Tris as she replied in very slow, drawling tones, “So I see.”

Amabel ignored that and didn’t introduce Tris but asked him, “Has our sunshine staggered your physical balance and given you a cold? You’re a little hoarse.”

Tris replied quite easily, “All hog callers are hoarse.” And with some pleasure in his own ready tongue, he added, “Pigs are deaf.”

“You’ve said you were never a farmer, and since you’re new to the newspaper business, what did you do before? I have such a strange feeling I know you. Have I seen you somewhere?”

“Interesting you say that. It’s the oddest thing, but women often say that to me. Maybe it’s our past lives, my Viking ancestors raiding villages and carrying off women, and there’s now a basic, genetic fear of me.” He smiled. “Are you afraid of me?”

And that strange shiver shimmered inside her from her core to her nipples. She glanced aside and decided it wasn’t Tris; it was the damp cloth on her chest. She asked, “Have you been in porno flicks?”

“Do you watch them?”

“No, of course not.” He puzzled her and she was a tad impatient as she went on. “But you seem reluctant to tell me what you did before you began work on a newspaper.”

“The Journal Gazette,” he supplied the name as if to her inquiry.

She accepted that. “Before you began to work for the Journal Gazette, what did you do?”

“Is this an interview?” His eyes glinted. He was enjoying himself.

“No, of course not.”

“I’m perfectly willing, you know. This is your great opportunity.” He gave her a wicked smile. “If there are any questions at all, I’ll answer them truthfully. Fire away.”

“What did you do before you began reporting for the Journal Gazette?” She pretended to get out a pad and poised an invisible pencil as she looked up, elaborately attentive.

“I am only just associated with the Journal. I have yet to turn in my first article.” All true.

“And...what did you do before that?”

“A multitude of things, nothing with any future. I’ve been the background for Vogue fashion models a couple of times.” That was true. “I’ve helped do a Public Broadcast conservation tape.” That was true. “And I’m a poet.” He wrote lyrics.

“Make me a poem.”

“Uh, there once was a woman named Mab, who with men would flirt just a tad, but when it came to brass tack, she would just turn her back, and leave the men weeping and mad.”

She laughed. “Limericks are easy.”

“Poems take longer. Anything worthwhile takes longer. Like friendship.” He watched her. “Snap judgments are generally a disaster. I’m a good man.” That, too, was true.

She sobered. “Did I give the impression I thought you otherwise? I don’t know you well enough to make such a decision.”

“Very true.” His face was serious.

“And do you think I am really as heartless as your limerick?”

He smiled. “I’ll find out.”

“We were speaking of women’s rights,” she began. “After all this time, in our struggle, and with you being in the newspaper business, it seems incredible you can be so out of touch.” She was amused by his rash stance.

He didn’t bend. He replied, “You’ll be glad it’s over. It was nonsense. Thank God you all have come to your senses!”

“God is on our side,” she countered.

“If you tell that old, old joke about God being a woman, you’re going to make me cranky.”

They looked at each other, and although they smiled, amused by their chatter, their bodies moved almost as if they were squaring off for some kind of combat. He understood it, but she wasn’t really aware of more than the feeling. Both felt the strong attraction between them and each had a very good reason to be wary of the other.

She was cautious with men so that around her there was a solid wall of protective reserve, but while she felt he was a male threat, she saw the humor and attractiveness of this Tris Roald.

He had a very unfair advantage in knowing her identity when she didn’t know who he was; but he had the greater reason for his calculation. He intended to teach her a lesson. He excused himself, saying he had to make a phone call—and it was with a satisfaction, of hunter for prey, when he saw she was still there waiting for him when he returned.

They didn’t see anyone else in that crowd, as they sipped the wine and nibbled from the elaborate buffet. Mab only spoke to others who spoke to her. No one spoke to Tris, for no one knew him.

The two laughed and talked. She teased him, saying she was one of three non-Indian “natives” living in Los Angeles, everyone else was immigrant. Then she added the truth, telling him in actual Los Angeles, her family really went back only two hundred years. “My great-grandfather jumped ship on the way back to Boston. Ezekiel was a misfit, from the stern and rockbound coast of Massachusetts, who apparently wasn’t spoken about as kin by that branch of the family until after World War I!

“Ezekiel very boldly stole a Chinese girl from the ship’s hold. And he lived with the girl here in the sun of southern California. They had fourteen children, all of whom lived. He was a shrewd Yankee trader and he did excessively well.”

Tris nodded, watching her face. “Our families have much in common. Adventure, independence and trade.”

She agreed as she said, “And apparently a love for the written word. That grandfather had also stolen the captain’s pocket Bible, and his two-volume set of the works of Shakespeare. A family story tells to what lengths Ezekiel went, in order to eventually trace down the captain, to return the carefully kept books. Charming. Very sentimental.”

With his steady eyes on Amabel, Tris commented, “Another thing we have in common—honor. Our good names. Ezekiel had to clear his books of his theft. Did he also pay for the Chinese girl he stole? He did marry her?”

She thought Tris looked rather stern. He had a hard chin. She would hate to cross him. But there was that strange quivering deep inside her. And now even the surface of her skin seemed to feel him.

She blinked back into focus and replied readily enough. “According to the family Bible, they married soon after the seventh child was born. The family never mentioned the delay in Ezekiel’s marriage. I discovered the fact one rainy day, in browsing through the names and dates, and called my mother’s attention to it.

“She said preachers weren’t always available for the niceties and, on occasion, emotions could get entirely out of hand—and these weren’t those days and I should behave myself! To remember Ezekiel’s stolen wife.”

Amabel smiled a little before she continued, “I used to wonder about Ezekiel’s wife. She probably didn’t have any idea what in the world was going on when he snatched her and jumped ship. Then to be in a strange land, with a great bear of a bearded man whose voice rumbled sounds she couldn’t comprehend. Did she want to be with him? He was obviously friendly...fourteen children! But what about her?”

With no hesitation, Tris explained it all. “In olden days most captive women were chosen by the men, and women adjust well to captivity.” He slowly licked his lower lip as he glanced down her still-damp body.

“Spoken like a Viking.” She shook her head chidingly. “Why are you brown-eyed and dark-haired? And not even six feet tall? You must lack a whole portion of an inch!” She smiled sassily.

“We ranged far and wide, and differences have always intrigued men.” He reminded her, “Ezekiel chose a Chinese girl.”

“You think he gave her much thought?”

“A man that bold wouldn’t just take what was handy. It would be his choice. Any man who would—borrow—such reading material would be a sensitive, romantic, loving man.”

“How nice of you to soothe my worry about My Ling.”

“That was her name?”

“We aren’t sure. He always called her that and spelled it M Y. Her name could very well have just been Ling. And it was the possessiveness of a thief which made him call her his.”

“I like Ezekiel.”

“Men would. He forced his own life to be as he chose it. And dragged that little Chinese girl along. He was a formidable man from the stories handed down. But women shiver a little over being stolen. Women are very vulnerable. Men have directed our lives for all time. We are just getting to the place where we have a toehold in guiding our own fates.”

He dismissed her words. “It’s only natural for men to control women. My dad used to remember about the olden days when men had it all. I never thought things would get back to normal in my lifetime.”

She watched the wicked, golden glints of humor that betrayed him, and she smothered a smile in turn. “I’m going to run for an office in NOW.”

“Now? This year? Here in L.A.?”

“In the National Organization for Women.”

He gasped with some flair. “National? It’s spread that far? That sounds serious!”

She shook her head and sighed, gustily patient. “I believe we need to talk.”

He smiled. “Anytime. I’ll be glad to instruct you on the woman’s place in the overall scheme of world affairs. And yours in particular. I have a car, may I take you home?”

“Now what is the great-granddaughter of a captive Chinese girl supposed to reply to a descendant of a Viking under such circumstances?” She laughed as if it was cocktail chatter.

He replied easily, “Chance is a great determining factor in our lives. Each thing that happens nudges people into actions they wouldn’t have taken. Like my being here. It’s exactly the reason Simon Quint named his magazine Adam’s Roots.”

“You believe in fate?”

“You can call it fate, or kismet, or destiny or revenge.”

“I can’t believe you read horoscopes.”

“My life is self-determined. I do as I choose. I follow the paths I want to follow. May I take you home? I must leave now.”

“That’s a rash offer in this area. I could live fifty miles cross town. But you’re lucky—you don’t have to back down from your offer. I live just west of here in the Canyons.” She gave the address.

He said, “I’m staying at a house in that area. I believe you’re just on my way. Let’s go.” His smile was rather strange, and it did give her some pause, but she shrugged it off and they left.

As they walked from the room, he removed his tie and put it in his suit pocket. Then, using both hands, he ruffled his hair before he unbuttoned his shirt several buttons. He took off his suit jacket, unbuttoned and folded up his shirtsleeves, and slung the jacket over his shoulder very casually.

The photographer was there just outside the entrance to the hotel, and the pair looked up blankly as the pictures were snapped.

Amabel asked Tris, “Why us?”

“They may know who you are.”

“I’m not newsworthy,” she scoffed.

“Your article created quite a stir. You’re probably doomed to a life as a camera-dodging celebrity.”

“Don’t be silly,” she replied easily.

“It happens to the best of us.”