Читать книгу Pregnancy Of Convenience - Sandra Field - Страница 7

CAL rubbed his palms down the sides of his cords, and with the same deep reluctance that he’d felt a few moments ago, approached the bed. Resting his palm on Joanna’s cheek, trying to ignore the satin smoothness of her skin, he registered how cool she felt. He pulled off her gloves, chafing her cold fingers between his warmer ones. Ringless fingers, he noticed. Long and tapered, with neatly kept nails. She wore no jewelry, which rather surprised him. He met a lot of women, one way or another, and because he was rich and unmarried, spent a fair bit of energy keeping them at bay; most of them dripped with diamonds. So why didn’t the wealthy widow, Joanna Strassen?

As though he had spoken her name out loud, she moved her head restlessly on the pillow, her lashes flickering. Her left hand plucked at his parka, trying to pull it around her chin. Then she gave a tiny moan of pain, a deep shudder rippling the length of her body.

Quelling an instinctive surge of compassion, Cal eased off her boots, practical low-heeled boots that looked as though they came from a factory outlet. Definitely not leather. This, like her lack of rings, seemed oddly out of character. Her tights were black, her plain sweater a deep blue. Her figure was just as much an attention-grabber as her face, he thought grimly, and almost with relief noticed that she was shivering. Hastily he pulled the covers from underneath her body, then tucked them around her.

The room was noticeably warmer, so much so that Cal stripped off his own thick wool sweater. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror by the door, he ran his fingers through his disordered hair, which was the dark brown of polished leather. As for the rest, he’d always figured he had the right number of features in the right places and that was that. He’d never understood his appeal to women, blind to the unrevealing gray of his eyes, the strength of his chin and jaw, the flat planes of his cheeks and his air of self-containment, which many might see as a challenge. He’d been rather less than amused just before Christmas, when he was trying to avoid the attentions of a local divorcée, to have his daughter Lenny say to him impatiently, “You don’t understand why every woman you meet is after you? Get a grip, Dad. You’re a hunk. Big-time macho man. You should hear the girls in my school go on about you.”

“Oh no, I shouldn’t.”

Lenny had rolled her eyes. “You’re also intelligent, rich, charming when you want to be, rich, and a famous mountaineer. Oh, and did I mention rich? I rest my case.”

“Rich you got right,” he’d replied. “The rest—forget it.”

Lenny had laughed and cajoled him into helping her with some supplemental geometry, a subject that was as much a mystery to her as literature was a delight. Cal loved his daughter Lenny more than he could imagine loving anyone else in the world…more than he’d loved her mother for the last few years of his marriage, he could now admit that to himself. Although never to Lenny.

He should remarry. Settle down and provide a proper home for Lenny, add a woman’s presence to her life. Trouble is, he didn’t want to. Nor had he met anyone who gave him the slightest desire to embrace—for the second time—the state of holy matrimony.

If only he didn’t travel so much; it made it more difficult with Lenny. He’d curtailed his mountain-climbing expeditions the past few years. But he also had to travel for his work. Cal had inherited money from his adventurous, immigrant father; after multiplying this money many times over in a series of shrewd investments, he’d purchased an international brokerage firm; then, later, a chain of prestigious auction houses in Europe and New York, dealing with antiques and fine art. Although computer technology had cut back a certain amount of travel, there was still no substitute for a hands-on approach to his various business concerns.

One more reason why Lenny was in a private school in Switzerland.

The woman on the bed gave another of those low moans. Cal came back to the present, thrusting a birch log into the heart of the flames, and turning his attention to the bed. Despite the heaped-up bedclothes and the warmth of the room, Joanna Strassen was still shivering. Moving very slowly, his eyes trained on her face, Cal lifted the covers and got into bed beside her. Gathering her in his arms, he drew the whole length of her body toward his.

She fit his embrace perfectly, as though she had been made for it. Her cheek was resting against his bare throat, her breath softly wafting his skin; he could feel her tremors, the small rise and fall of her breathing against his chest, and the firm swell of her breasts pressed to his rib cage.

His body’s response was unmistakable. He still wanted her. No matter what she’d done.

Gritting his teeth, Cal thought about the ice ridges of Brammah, the ice cliffs of Shivling, the glaciers of Everest. All to no avail. Cursing himself inwardly, he then tried to imagine she was a fellow climber with hypothermia and that he was simply doing the medically correct thing.

Equally useless. Her skin was sweetly scented, her hair in its thick braid gleamed in the firelight as though the flames themselves were caught there, and each shiver that rippled through her slender frame he felt as though it were his own body. He’d been too long without a woman, that was his problem. After all, how long had it been?

If he had to struggle to remember, it had been altogether too long. Time he rectified that. Soon. And when better than now, with Lenny in school in faraway Switzerland?

There was that blonde in Manhattan, he’d met her at a charity ball; she’d insisted he take her phone number, he must have it somewhere. She’d certainly given every signal that she was willing to climb into his bed, no questions asked.

He couldn’t even remember her name. Shows what kind of an impression she’d made.

There was also Alesha in Paris, Jasmine in Boston, Rosemary in London and Helga in Zurich. All of whom he’d dated; none of whom he’d slept with.

Joanna Strassen stirred in his arms. Hastily Cal eased his hips away from hers, wondering if her shivering had lessened slightly. The sooner he got out of this particular bed, the better.

The woman in Manhattan had had a diamond pin stuck through her left nostril. That he did remember. No wonder he hadn’t phoned her.

A shudder suddenly ripped through Joanna’s body. Her eyes flew open, wide with terror, and with a strength that shocked Cal she pushed hard against his chest. “No!” she cried. “No, I won’t—” Then, with another of those racking shudders, she stared full at him. He saw her swallow, watched with a flash of admiration as she fought to subdue the terror that only a moment ago had overwhelmed her.

The terror that Gustave had come back from the grave to haunt her? His admiration vanished. But before he could speak, she muttered, “You’re not Gustave…oh God, I thought you were Gustave.” Her voice rose in panic. “Who are you? Where am I?”

“No,” Cal said evenly, “I’m not Gustave. Gustave’s dead, remember?”

Again terror flooded her eyes, eyes that were the sapphire blue of her sweater. As she pushed away from him, jerking her head back, she gave a sudden sharp cry of pain. Bringing one hand to her forehead, she faltered, “Please…where am I? I—I don’t understand…”

No wonder Gustave Strassen had returned again and again to his faithless wife. If he, Cal, had thought her beautiful when she was unconscious, how much more so was she with emotions crossing her face, with her eyes huge and achingly vulnerable in the firelight? He said with a deliberate brutality that at some level he was ashamed of, “You had an accident. You’re at Dieter and Maria Strassens’ house.”

Her body went rigid with shock. Then she brought both hands to her face, briefly closing her eyes. “No,” she whispered, “no…tell me that isn’t true.”

“It’s true. Where else was I to bring you? They, I might add, were no happier taking you in than you are to find yourself here.”

“They hate me,” she whispered, and for a moment the blue of her irises shimmered with unshed tears. “I don’t want to be here! Ever again.”

Either she was an accomplished actress, shedding a few tears to brilliant effect; or else everything he’d been told about her actions and character was inaccurate. Gustave, Franz, Deiter and Maria; were all of them wrong? It didn’t seem very likely. Cal said coolly, “Little wonder they hate you.”

She edged even further from him in the bed, her wince of pain instantly disguised. “Who are you?”

“Fate?” he said, raising one brow.

“Stop playing with me,” she pleaded, and again tears glimmered on her lashes. “Please…I don’t understand what’s going on, you’ve got to tell me.”

“I’m the guy who happened along the road after you’d run smack-dab into a telephone pole. You should be thanking me. With the car not running, you’d have frozen to death in short order.”

“The car…” She frowned. “I remember now, I got into the car and left here. It was snowing and windy, but the roads are so straight, I was sure I’d be all right.”

“It wasn’t exactly the most intelligent course of action,” Cal said bluntly.

“I couldn’t bear to stay! And they wanted me gone, they almost pushed me out the door. But once I was out on the road, I couldn’t see where I was going and then suddenly that pole was right in front of me…the last thing I remember was turning off the ignition because I was afraid of fire.”

“One more dumb move to add to the rest.”

“So they told you about me,” she said quietly. “And you believe them.”

“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t?” Cal demanded; and discovered to his inner consternation that he did indeed want to be supplied with those reasons.

“Oh God…” she whispered.

She looked utterly forlorn. In one swift movement Cal rolled out of bed. “I’ll go and get you some soup now that you’re awake. Then I’ll run a hot bath for you.”

She tried to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forced her back to the pillow. “Just go away,” she quavered. “Go away and leave me alone.”

If only that were possible. “You don’t like being confronted with the consequences of your actions, do you?” Cal said. “I suppose I should be congratulating you on having the rudiments of a conscience.”

“Stop! Just stop—I can’t take any more.”

She did indeed look at the end of her tether. Cal bit his lip, feeling uncomfortably like the school bully that had made his life a misery when he was seven and small for his age. Now that he was six-foot-two and entirely capable of looking after himself, he made it a practice never to throw his weight around. Especially with a woman. On the other hand, he was damned if he was going to apologize. When all was said and done, nothing could bring Gustave back to life. And wasn’t that the bottom line?

He said coldly, “I’ll be back in a few minutes. The bathroom’s through that door and if I were you, I’d stay in this part of the house. You’re not welcome elsewhere.”

“You think I don’t know that?” she retorted with a flash of spirit.

“Yet you’re the one who came here. Uninvited, I’m sure.”

“If you think I’m going to justify myself to you, you’re mistaken,” she said bitterly, turning her face away from him.

The flickering gold light illuminated the exquisite curve of her cheekbone. Dragging his gaze away, Cal strode out of the room. In the hallway he stood still for a minute, trying to subdue the turmoil of emotion in his chest. What was the matter with him? Yelling at a woman with a concussion? Thoroughly disliking her and wanting to kiss her senseless all in the same breath?

Disliking her was fine. She was, after all, a liar and a cheat, according to people who’d known her intimately. But kiss her? Was he out of his mind?

Lots of women had deep blue eyes and long black hair. Grow up, Cal. Or, as Lenny would say, get a grip.

After checking with Dieter he made a couple of phone calls, to Stephen with his change of plans, and to the airport, where he discovered all flights were canceled. Maria had set a place for him at the plain oak table in the dining room. Mechanically he ate a bowl of delicious wild mushroom soup and some homemade rolls, along with a salad of fresh greens, making conversation with her and her husband as best he could.

At the end of the meal Cal said, “Gustave’s things are in the back of my vehicle—would you like me to bring them in now, or tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow would be better,” Dieter said heavily. “Today, already we have been through enough.”

Maria said frostily, “I have put some soup on a tray. You will take it to her.”

“Of course,” Cal said. “That was delicious, Maria, thank you.”

“We start our day early,” Dieter added. “Living as we do so isolated, we keep to a strict routine. Breakfast at eight?”

“Thanks, that would be fine,” Cal said, picking up the tray Maria had deposited on the table. “I’ll see you then.”

He walked back along the hallway, again glancing into the parlor. The only books were thick, leather-bound tomes, the photos on the wall were of grim-faced ancestors, and there wasn’t an ornament in sight. Had the house always been this joyless? This austere? Had Gustave grown up in these stark surroundings, or were they a product of Dieter and Maria’s middle age?

Either way, Gustave Strassen was beginning to have his entire sympathy.

When Cal went back into the bedroom, his socked feet soundless on the bare hardwood, Joanna Strassen was lying flat on her back, gazing up at the ceiling. Her brow was furrowed, as though she were in pain; the white pillowslips and her cheeks were exactly the same color. A floorboard creaked beneath his heel. She gave a visible start, just as quickly controlled; the face she turned to him was empty of expression.

He said, “I’ll help you sit up.”

“I can manage.”

“Don’t be so dammed stubborn!”

Defiance flared in her eyes. But with that same superhuman control, she subdued it. Where had she learned such control? And why?

And why did he care so strongly about the answers to his own questions?

As Cal put the tray down on the bedside table, she tried to struggle to an upright position, her lower lip clamped between her teeth. He’d been concussed once, on the Eiger, and it had left him with a splitting headache. He slid the pillows from behind her back, propping them against the headboard; then he put his hands under her armpits, lifting her whole weight.

The soft swell of her breast brushed his forearm, the contact surging through his body. Unceremoniously he pushed her back on the pillows, hearing her shallow, rapid breathing. He said with unwilling compassion, “I asked Maria for some painkillers, you’d better take one.”

“They’ve probably got arsenic in them.”

“I’ll take one, too,” he said dryly, “if that’ll make you feel safer.”

“I don’t like taking pills.”

“Is that how you got pregnant?”

He hadn’t meant to ask that. He watched emotion rip across her face, raw agony, terrible in its intensity. As he instinctively reached out a hand in sympathy, she struck it away. “Just leave me alone,” she cried. “Please.”

She couldn’t possibly have faked that emotion. The pain was real. All too real. He said flatly, “So you regret getting rid of the baby.”

“Why don’t you use the real word? Abortion. Because that’s what you mean. And that’s what Dieter and Maria think I did.”

“That’s certainly what they told me.”

“And you believe everything you’re told?”

“Why would they lie to me, Joanna?” Cal asked, and found he was holding his breath for the answer.

“Because no woman in the world would have been good enough for their beloved Gustave! I was their enemy from the very first day he brought me here.”

Could it be true? Cal rested the tray on her lap and reached down to put more wood on the fire.

When he turned back, she was making a valiant effort to eat. But soon she pushed the bowl away. “That’s enough,” she mumbled, her lashes drifting to her cheeks.

He took the tray from her, standing by the bed until her breathing settled into the steady rhythms of sleep. She’d stopped shivering, and there was the faintest wash of color in her cheeks. She was going to be fine and he was a fool to stay in this room overnight. How could he lust after a woman whose every word he seemed to distrust?

First thing tomorrow he’d organize a tow truck and see her on her way. Then he’d give the Strassens Gustave’s gear and head for the airport. They’d rebooked him on a flight midmorning. Twenty-four hours and he’d have seen the last of Joanna Strassen.

It couldn’t be soon enough.

Glancing at his watch, Cal saw to his dismay that it was scarcely eight o’clock. After leaving the bedroom, he checked out the tidy ranks of books in the parlor. He’d been meaning to read the classics, and apparently now was the time for him to start, he thought wryly, leafing through a couple of volumes of Dickens. Then Dieter spoke from the doorway. “Ah, I thought I heard you in here. Maria and I are not our best, Cal, you must forgive us. You have no suitcase, nothing. Please let us give you a new toothbrush, some pajamas.”

Cal never wore pajamas. “That’s very kind of you.”

“Come through to the kitchen, and I will get them for you.”

Maria was putting away the dishes. Cal said pleasantly, “Your daughter-in-law has no nightclothes—could I trouble you for something?”

Her lips thinned. Without a word she left the room, returning with a carefully folded pair of striped pajamas over her arm. “Give her these.”

“We’ll be gone by morning,” he said gently.

“I regret the day our son first saw those big blue eyes of hers!”

Dieter came through the door, passing Cal towels, pajamas and toilet articles. “Thank you,” Cal said. “I’ll say good night now, I’m a bit jet-lagged.”

He was actually distressingly wide awake, all his nerves on edge. Grabbing War and Peace from the shelves on his way by, he strode to the back bedroom. Joanna was still sleeping, her neck crooked at an awkward angle. For several minutes he simply stared at her, as though the very stillness of her features might answer some of the questions that tumbled through his brain. She was too thin, he thought. Too pale. Asleep, she looked heartbreakingly vulnerable.

Normally he was a fairly astute judge of character. But something about Joanna had disrupted his radar. One thing he did know: next time he was asked to do a favor for a dead mountaineer, he’d run a mile in the opposite direction.

He added more wood to the fire and settled down with his book. Two hours later, adding one name to his handwritten chart of the characters, he realized the fire had nearly died out. After he’d added some kindling and a small log, he turned around to find Joanna Strassen’s eyes open, fixed on him. They looked almost black, he thought. Depthless and mysterious. Full of secrets.

He said heartily, “Sorry if I woke you. How are you feeling?”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”

Moving very carefully, she sat up. Then she swung her legs over the side of the bed and pushed herself upright. Abruptly she brought her hand to her forehead, staggering a little. “I feel so dizzy…”

“Here,” Cal said unwillingly, “lean on me.”

She swayed toward him. He put an arm around her waist, furious with himself for liking her height, and the way her cheek brushed his shoulder. “Why don’t you have a hot bath?” he added noncommittally. “It would relax you.”

She stopped, looking him full in the face. “I won’t relax until I’m on a plane heading east,” she muttered. Then her jaw dropped. “My flight—I’ve missed it!”

“Everything’s canceled because of the storm.”

Agitated, she said, “It was a seat sale, will they charge me more?”

Franz had said she was miserly with her money. Is that why she wore no jewelry? “They won’t. But if they did, surely you could afford it?”

Her eyes suddenly blazed like blue fire. “Oh, of course. I’m a rich widow. How stupid of me to forget.”

He’d always liked a woman with spirit. Suzanne, his wife, had made a fine art out of avoiding conflict. But then Suzanne had had something perennially childlike about her; she’d never matched him, adult to adult. When he’d married her, he’d been too much in love to understand that about her; or to anticipate how her behavior would affect him.

Suzanne had also lied to him frequently, with casual expertise. He’d gradually come to understand that she didn’t lie out of malice, but simply because it was easier than owning up to responsibilities or consequences; after a while he’d stopped expecting anything more from her than a modicum of truth. While he certainly was intelligent enough to realize that every beautiful woman wasn’t necessarily a liar, Suzanne’s legacy, overall, had been a deep-seated reluctance toward any kind of facile trust. This trait had done well for him in the world of business. But as far as Joanna was concerned, was it doing him a disservice?

With an effort Cal came back to the present. “Maria’s loaned you something to wear to bed. I’ll get it for you.”

As she supported herself on the frame of the bathroom door, he passed her the pajamas. Automatically she took them, the fingers of her other hand digging into the wood; for a moment Cal wondered if she was going to faint. He grabbed her around the waist. “What’s wrong?”

“How she hates me,” Joanna whispered, and suddenly flung the pajamas to the floor. “Don’t you see? They’re Gustave’s pajamas! She knew I’d recognize them.”

Cal said evenly, “You hated Gustave. Didn’t you?”

“I no longer loved him. If that’s what you mean.”

“I’m not sure it is.”

“You won’t believe me when I say this, because your mind’s made up about me. But a long time ago I realized that to hate Gustave would destroy me.”

Hate was horribly destructive: Cal was certainly sophisticated enough to know that. He said provocatively, “So you destroyed him instead?”

She sagged against the door frame. “Can one person destroy another? Doesn’t destruction come from within?”

Again, Cal could only agree with her. Into his silence, Joanna added fiercely, “So you think I could destroy you? And how would I go about doing that?”

“Like this,” said Cal, putting his arms around her and kissing her full on the mouth.

She went rigid with shock, her palms bunched into fists against his chest. Then she wrenched her head free, her breasts heaving under her sweater. “Tell the truth—it’s you who wants to destroy me,” she cried. “But I won’t let you, I’ll never let a man that close to me again.”

What the devil had possessed him to kiss her like that? And why, when she was glaring at him as though he was the Marquis de Sade, did he want to kiss her again? But differently this time, not out of anger but out of desire.

The bruise on her forehead standing out lividly, she backed into the bathroom and slammed the door in his face. The lock snapped into place. If she’d taken the prize for stupidity by attempting to drive a small white car through a blizzard, he was now a close second. Kissing Joanna Strassen had been the stupidest move he’d made in a dog’s age.

But he’d liked kissing her. More than liked it. It had inflamed every one of his senses.

When he left Winnipeg, he was headed to Boston on business. He’d give Jasmine a call. Wine her and dine her and take her to bed. That’s what he’d do. And the sooner the better.

In fact, he might even phone her from here. Yeah, he might just do that.

Picking up Gustave’s pajamas from the floor, Cal put them on the dresser. He could hear water running in the bathroom. He hoped to God Joanna wouldn’t slip or faint in the bathtub.

He’d broken a car window already today. He could always break down the bathroom door.

That would really impress Maria.

Somewhat cheered, Cal picked up War and Peace again. He had the whole night. He might as well get on with it.

Half an hour later, Joanna opened the bathroom door. She was fully dressed, her cheeks pink from the heat. Cal said calmly, “You can have these,” and passed her the new pajamas Dieter had given him.

“They’re yours,” she said inimically.

“They’re Dieter’s. I never wear pajamas.”

“And where are you planning to sleep?” Her nostrils flared. “Do you know what? I don’t even know your name.”

“Cal,” he said, and held out his hand, adding ironically, “Pleased to meet you.”

She kept her own hands firmly at her sides. “Answer the question.”

“On the couch. Unless you’d rather have it. It’ll be too short for me.”

“As far as I’m concerned you can sleep outdoors in a snowdrift.”

For the first time since finding her in the car, Cal’s smile broke through. “That’s not very nice of you. I did, after all, save your life.”

“And would you have, had you known who I was?”

“Of course I would. What kind of a question’s that?”

She chewed on her lower lip. “Thank you,” she said grudgingly. “I guess.”

“Put on your pajamas and go to bed,” Cal ordered. “Before you fall flat on your face.”

She was scowling at him as though her one desire was to strangle him with the pajamas. Cal quelled an inappropriate urge to laugh his head off. He’d give her one thing: she sure didn’t back down.

She shut the bathroom door smartly in his face. He re-made the bed, stoked the fire, and went back to his book. Considering the disruptive effect a black-haired woman was having on his life, he was getting quite interested in the doings of Pierre, Natasha and Prince Andrew. He’d have to tell Lenny. She’d be impressed.

The door opened again. As Cal glanced up, War and Peace fell from the arm of his chair to the floor with a resounding thump. Dieter was a big man: his pajamas were far too large for Joanna. Even though she’d buttoned them to the very top, her cleavage was exposed, a soft shadow in the V of the neckline; the blue cotton hinted at her breasts. The sleeves fell over her fingertips, and she’d turned up the cuffs of the trousers. Cal found himself staring at her bare feet, which were narrow and high-arched. Then his eyes of their own accord found her face again.

She had freed her hair from its braid, so that it rippled down her back. Under his scrutiny, she was blushing as though she were as innocent as his own daughter.

Which, of course, she wasn’t.

Slowly Cal got to his feet.