Читать книгу Honeymoon For Three - Sandra Field - Страница 8

CHAPTER THREE

CORY held out her glass to Slade for a refill, shadows dancing over her features from the candle that flickered on their table; she was rather proud to see that her hand was entirely steady.

“I want to have a baby,” she said, and heard the words coming from a distance, as though someone else were saying them. “I’d like you to be the father. But I don’t want to get married or live with you or even see you again once I’m pregnant.”

There was a moment of silence, a silence so charged with tension that Cory frantically wished her request unsaid. Then Slade bit out a single word. “No!” His voice was raw with pain, and she watched as wine sloshed over the edge of her glass.

The stain on the cloth looked like blood. With a superstitious shiver, Cory looked up. The same pain had scored deep lines in his face; his eyes looked like those of a man in hell. She felt as though, rough-handed, she’d ripped a dressing from a wound not yet healed. Yet she’d had no inkling of the presence of the wound, and no idea as to its source or meaning.

Appalled, she whispered, “Slade, I’m sorry.”

Briefly Slade closed his eyes, knowing he’d revealed something he’d have much preferred to keep hidden. With a superhuman effort he clamped down on himself, forcing breath through the tightness in his chest. Picking up his serviette, he mopped at the spilt wine and said, more or less evenly, “You took me by surprise—that’s all.”

“Come off it! You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong, but kindly don’t pretend that nothing is. I’m not blind and deaf.”

Hard-eyed, he said, “Mind your own business, Cory.”

She plonked her glass down and said with more vigour than tact, “I bet you’re not often taken by surprise, Slade Redden. Especially by a woman.”

Pain translated itself to anger. “You take the cake, I’ll grant you that. Here’s a guy who’ll donate a park ... might as well get him to make a baby while I’m at it.”

“There’s no need to be crude.”

“I feel crude.”

“I told you it was a ridiculous idea!”

“Ridiculous comes nowhere near describing it. And the answer, in case you’re wondering, really is no.”

The expression on his face when she’d first spoken had given her that message right away. Bright patches of color staining her cheeks, she said, “OK—the answer’s no. So let’s forget about it. Why don’t you order the chocolate pâté? Then I could try it too.”

Slade’s anger went too deep to be so easily defused. “You drop a bombshell like that and then expect me to discuss desserts?”

“You’ve given me your answer—there’s nothing more to discuss!”

“That’s what you think.” He’d been ambushed by an old agony, there was no question of that; but now that he’d subdued that particular feeling Slade was aware of other emotions, none of them pleasant. “If you didn’t want anything to do with me afterwards, why should it matter to you whether I’m married or engaged?” he demanded. Because that, he thought with ugly accuracy, was where she’d knifed his self-esteem. In the cold-blooded way she was prepared to dismiss him. As if he didn’t exist.

Faintly surprised that he should even have to ask, Cory said, “Oh, that wouldn’t be moral. To cheat on another woman, I mean.”

“Whereas bringing up a fatherless child would be?”

Her temper rising, Cory said, “I don’t want to talk about this any more; I thought I’d made that clear.”

“We’re going to. Whether you want to or not.” Viciously he stabbed at the cloth with his fork. “How many other men have you asked?”

“None!”

The odd thing was that he believed her instantly. “So why me? Why don’t you ask your squash partner? You must know him a whole lot better than you know me.”

“Joe?” Cory frowned. “How do you know about Joe?”

“I have a guest pass at the club where you’re a member.”

Cory didn’t like that, not one little bit. She summoned a smile and looked at Slade through her lashes. “Well, I could scarcely ask Joe. His girlfriend might object.”

Slade’s jaw dropped. “Oh,” he said, and realized he’d been surprised twice in the last five minutes. Maybe Cory Haines was good for him, he thought sardonically. Because she was right—it was a long time since he’d allowed a woman to knock him off balance. “Then why me? You must know a lot of other men.”

“They all live in Halifax. I don’t want to be tripping over them afterwards. You’re from Toronto—although I’d really rather you were from Vancouver. Or Outer Mongolia.” Avoiding his eyes, she counted off her fingers one by one. “You’re handsome, you’re healthy, you’re intelligent—good genes, in other words. You don’t live here, and—this is important to me—you have principles and you live by them. On top of that, as I discovered on the dance floor, you’re not indifferent to me.”

“Why, when you’ve listed all my good points, do I feel as though I’ve been insulted? I’m not a prize bull, for God’s sake!”

She tilted her chin. “This discussion’s a complete and total waste of time. You said no—remember?” She gestured to the waiter and when he was standing by their table said crisply, “I’ll have the key lime pie and a coffee, please.”

“Chocolate pâté and coffee,” Slade said. As the waiter turned away, he took a deep breath and said in a more reasonable tone and with entire truth, “I’m curious. You’re very young—why this burning need for procreation?”

She said flippantly, “Oh, I probably garden too much. You know, the birds and the bees, all those seeds being planted and coming up in the spring. Fertility, fruition and fecundity.”

“Cute, Cory, cute. What’s the real reason?”

“I could tell you to mind your own business.”

“You could. You’d even be justified. But I’d really like to know.”

Cory stared into her wine, where the candlelight had kindled flames the colour of rubies, until Slade was almost sure she’d forgotten both his presence and his request. Then she whispered, “I’m not so young. I turned thirty-one last October. I’ve wanted a child for years; I’ve always known that being a mother would fulfill me in a way my job never could. But I wouldn’t be sitting here having this conversation if Sue hadn’t had her baby last week.

“Slade, I really was happy for her; of course I was. She’s my best friend and a healthy baby is such a miracle.” As a sheen of tears glittered in her eyes, Slade fought down the urge to take her hand in his. In the same toneless whisper she went on, “But I envied her too. Envy’s a horrible feeling! How can I want something that’s hers?”

Considering that only moments ago he’d been furious with Cory, Slade’s voice when he spoke sounded oddly gentle. “You’re a bright and very lovely young woman ... marry someone and have a whole pack of babies.” This time he did reach out and cover her hand with his own, feeling tension stiffen her fingers. Her skin was smooth, her bones paradoxically both delicate and strong.

I don’t want her to marry someone else, he thought blankly. And explain that if you can, Slade Redden. Because you’ve got no intention of marrying her yourself.

Earlier, Slade’s anger had roused in Cory a matching anger; now his gentleness made her want to cry. She looked down at his lean fingers with their well-kept nails, at the strong bones of his wrist where they emerged from his cuff, and suddenly wrenched her hand free. “I don’t want to get married! Slade, I’m sorry I ever brought this up; it was really stupid of me. Can we please change the subject?”

She looked very unhappy. A host of questions hovered on the tip of his tongue. But why ask them? He’d said no, and he’d meant no. No ifs, ands or buts on that one. So she was right. It was past time to change the subject and the one thing he wouldn’t do was ask her to dance again. “Here come our desserts,” he said. “You can have one spoonful of my chocolate pâté—no more.”

With a watery smile she said, “You’ll give away real estate but not chocolate, hmm?”

“A man’s got to have his limits.” After the waiter had gone, Slade put a generous dollop of the rich dark chocolate on his coffee spoon and held it out across the table. With the beginnings of a real smile, Cory leaned forward, closed her eyes, and licked the spoon clean. “Heavenly,” she said solemnly.

Her throat was as smooth and creamy as her blouse; her hair was sliding out of its pins, falling in silky strands about her ears. I still want you, Slade thought. Nothing you’ve said or done has changed that. I want you so badly it hurts.

And what the hell am I supposed to do about that?

Then Cory opened her eyes, smiling right into his. His face was naked with desire, exposed and vulnerable to her in a way that touched something so deeply buried within her that she hadn’t realized until now that it still existed. For several seconds, seconds that shivered with intimacy, she held his gaze. Then her lashes dropped and she said with only the slightest of quivers in her voice, “Do you want to try the lime pie?”

“No, thanks,” Slade said huskily. “Cory, I don’t want to get involved any more than you do.”

“Then we won’t get involved,” she said. “It’s simple.”

He wasn’t sure that anything about Cory Haines—or his reaction to her—was simple. He passed her the cream for her coffee, and with a huge attempt at normality said, “You’re thirty-one years old and your company’s only been in existence for five years—what did you do before that, Cory?”

She ate a mouthful of pie and rolled her eyes in ecstasy. “Luscious,” she said, and in her mind quickly rehearsed an edited version of her working life that would reveal nothing she didn’t want it to; her answer would have the added advantage of masking with words that devastating moment of intimacy.

“I took a course in business administration and went to work for a travel agency when I was nineteen.” The same year she met Rick. “More or less by chance I started specializing in making the arrangements for women traveling alone, and tapped into a market that eventually led me to manage the agency, and then buy it out.

“I ran it for three years and at first it was enormous fun—I got to go to all kinds of interesting and exciting places. But one day I realized I was spending far too much time in the office staring at a computer screen and dealing with accountants.” She grinned. “So I sold it. At a substantial profit, I might add.”

“You’re not the type to be cooped up in an office.”

“Definitely not.” She took another mouthful of pie. “That summer I worked as a naturalist in a privately owned resort on the west coast. While I was there, I began to understand that the wilderness is beautiful on its own. Effortlessly. It’s the cities that need help. Lots of help. So I took a course in horticultural design and set up my own business here on the east coast.” As far from Rick as she could get. “It took a while to get known, but I’m doing fine now.”

“So what’s next, Cory?”

She laughed and said with the eagerness he’d come to expect, “I’d like to branch out into supplying unusual bulbs and perennials—ones that can survive our maritime climate. A lot of the catalogues are from the west coast and the fruit belt in Ontario—the Atlantic region’s been neglected. I’d enjoy doing that.”

“I’m sure you’ll succeed ... Do you want some more coffee? Or a liqueur?”

“No, thanks. I should probably head home; I have an eight-thirty appointment tomorrow morning. Let’s split the bill, shall we?”

“Why not?” he said agreeably. “Shall we share a cab too?”

“I brought the truck. The passenger seat is full of soil samples I’ve got to send off to be analyzed—sorry about that.”

She wasn’t really sorry at all, thought Cory. It was bad enough that she’d asked him to father a child. She wasn’t going to crown the evening by inviting him in for a nightcap.

The sooner she got rid of him the better.

They dealt with the bill and the tip, then Cory led the way into the foyer. When she had her coat on, Slade said, “I’ll walk you to your vehicle before I call a cab.”

Suddenly aware that she was exhausted, Cory also realized there was no point in arguing with him. She walked out into the dark street, pulling her coat closer. “Is it ever going to warm up? I’m only a couple of blocks away.”

Slade took her by the elbow. Music drifted from a jazz bar; traffic lights blinked red and green, and a crowd of teenagers jostled them on the sidewalk. Cory walked fast, her heels tapping on the concrete, her one desire to be alone in her little house. She’d made a fool of herself tonight. An utter fool.

When they reached the truck, she turned to face Slade. “I don’t expect we’ll see each other again,” she said. “Thanks so much for all your help with the land, Slade. And good luck with all your other projects.”

The wind was playing with her hair; she looked as remote as a statue. He had nothing to lose. Nothing. He cupped her face in his hand, kissed her parted lips and stepped back. “Goodbye, Cory,” he said, and to his considerable satisfaction saw that she no longer remotely resembled a statue. Rather, she looked as if she’d like to run him over with her truck. He added blandly, “I’ll wait here until you’ve driven off.”

With uncharacteristic clumsiness she unlocked the truck and climbed in. Then she slammed the door, and with a roar of the accelerator drove away down the street.

Slade headed up the hill, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. He’d eaten too much; it would do him good to walk back to his hotel. Besides, he was too riled up to sleep.

Cory Haines wasn’t any more indifferent to him than he was to her.

Not that it mattered. Because he was going to put her right out of his mind.

Two days passed. Slade met with the mayor and the city council, pushed through his plans for the waterfront, inspected several sites on the Bedford Basin, and was approached about a lucrative contract in Montreal. But all his spare moments were spent thinking about Cory. Cory and her idea that he father a child.

Why didn’t she want to get married? Was she widowed or divorced? Why had she been so rigid in his arms on the dance floor, so resentful of his kiss by the truck? And why had she chosen him as the sole recipient of her idea?

It was an atrocious idea. So why the devil was he thinking about it night and day?

He knew why. For one thing, if he agreed to it, it would mean he’d be able to make love to her. Assuage the gnawing hunger for her body that had been with him ever since he’d first met her. Maybe then he’d be able to forget her, and she’d stop figuring in his dreams every time he laid his head on the pillow.

The other reason was one he had difficulty bringing himself to acknowledge even in the privacy of his own thoughts. If Cory got pregnant, then a child of his would be alive in the world. His own flesh and blood. Alive. Living and growing and learning.

Cory would be a good mother; he’d stake everything he owned on that. But he, Slade, would be an absentee father, his sole act that of procreation. He wouldn’t love the child. He wouldn’t even see it.

He’d be uninvolved. Safe.

His thoughts went round and round in his head, like hamsters on a treadmill. But, unlike the hamsters, he couldn’t get off the treadmill. Let alone out of the cage.

He spent the weekend with his mother, hanging pictures, carrying boxes up from the basement and painting the smaller of the two bedrooms; on Sunday they drove to Mahone Bay, where she bought herself a lovely antique armoire that he lugged into the newly decorated room and polished with lemon oil.

He planned to go back to Toronto before the end of the week. On Tuesday evening, irritable and out of sorts, he walked to the squash club. He’d booked a court for an hour, which should be long enough to wear himself out; Tom had promised to meet him there. At least when he was playing squash there wasn’t time to think about Cory. Nor was he worried about meeting her there; she and Joe always booked for early in the morning.

He played like a man demented, fighting for points he wouldn’t ordinarily have contested, risking shots that more often than not paid off, to his surprise and Tom’s chagrin. Because he was totally focused on the game, he didn’t notice the small crowd of onlookers in the gallery above his head, their heads swiveling to follow the shots. He certainly didn’t see Cory among them.

She was standing well back, clutching her racquet to her chest. For a big man Slade moved like greased lightning, his sneakers squeaking on the floor, his racquet digging the ball out of impossible situations; he was constantly on the attack, only rarely allowing himself to be caught defensively. A lot could be learned about someone by watching him play a game. He was, she thought fancifully, playing as though demons sat on his shoulder.

Ten minutes before she was due for her own game, she edged free of the spectators and ran downstairs to the women’s locker room.

Slade, had he been asked, might have agreed with Cory about the demons. But Tom, a chemistry professor, had had an extremely frustrating day at work, and at the end of fifty-five minutes Slade won by only a narrow margin. They shook hands, laughing, then Tom wandered over to the benches to talk to one of his students. Slade strode down the narrow corridor towards the locker rooms, swiping at his wet hair with his towel. He had to figure out a way to return those high-lobbed serves of Tom’s and keep control of the T at the same time.

He didn’t even see the woman until he had collided with her. His elbow brushed the softness of a breast, his arm automatically clutched her round the waist and her racquet dug into his ribs. Then she pushed back from his chest and he saw that it was Cory. She was wearing shorts and a white knit shirt, a sweatband holding back the thick sheaf of her hair. He said blankly, “You only come here in the mornings.”

“Joe’s out of town. So I’m playing with a woman friend.” Slade’s T-shirt was soaked with sweat, clinging to his chest so that she could see the curl of dark hair from throat to navel and the jut of his collarbones. He was still breathing hard.

Feeling breathless herself, her palms tingling from the contact with muscles as hard as a board, she heard him say, laughter warming his voice, “You don’t want to be within ten feet of me right now. I’m in need of large quantities of soap and water.”

This man to be the father of her child? Heaven help her. Cory said ironically, “I was watching you for a while. Remind me never to get in a squash court with you—you’d pulverize me. Do you always play like that?”

“Cory,” he said, “after your game why don’t you join me at Harold’s Pub for a snack and a beer? I’ve been thinking about your idea.”

She said vigorously, “That’s one discussion I do not want to reopen.”

“I might agree to it,” he said.

She paled. “Are you serious?”

“Given certain conditions. I think we should at least talk about it some more.”

With a hunted look she said, “I’m late; I’ve got to go. All right, I’ll meet you there in about an hour.”

Sweat was stinging his eyes. Slade wiped his face again and headed for the shower. He’d really only opened the way for negotiations, he told himself as he pushed open the locker-room door.

He hadn’t made any hard and fast decisions.