Читать книгу Escape for New Year - Shirley Jump - Страница 13

“Sam Bishop? Is that you?”

In response to the male voice at their backs, Laura pulled up at the same time Bishop swung around. A smile breaking on his face, Bishop offered his hand to the jovial-looking man striding up.

“Robert Harrington.” Bishop shook the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”

Mr. Harrington, a rotund man in an extralarge dinner suit, arched a wry brow. “Enjoying the ballet, son?”

Bishop tugged an ear. “It’s … lively.”

The man chuckled as if to say he understood. Obviously, Robert Harrington wasn’t a Swan Lake fan, either.

Earlier, on the heels of their Sunday morning eggs Benedict tradition, she and Bishop had journeyed to Sydney and, after strolling around the Rocks, one of Sydney’s most historic harbor-side suburbs, had checked into their Darling Harbor residence, a five-star-hotel three-bedroom penthouse Bishop used if business kept him in the city during the week. Soaking up the sunshine on the balcony and watching the boat activity on the sparkling blue waters below had absorbed the rest of their lazy afternoon. They’d arrived at the Opera House with barely enough time to be seated. Five minutes ago they’d joined the rest of the Opera Theater’s glittering crowd to partake of refreshments during intermission.

Their seats could have been better, but Laura wouldn’t complain. It was the thrill of the experience she adored. Her mother had introduced her to the theater, in all its guises, at an early age. She’d dreamed of perfecting pointe work and pirouettes and one day starring in the Australian Ballet. But professional ballerinas were superb athletes; heart conditions, even mild ones, weren’t the norm. So Laura, along with Grace on occasion, had been content to enjoy a number of magical performances as enthusiastic spectators.

Laura wished Bishop shared her love of the art form, but she was only grateful he hadn’t bleated on about coming along; a lot of men might suggest their wives take a friend while they chilled out at a football match or poker game. But Bishop was one of the most supportive people she’d ever known.

That’s why she was certain they could work out this difference regarding how to start their family. When he truly understood how important having her own child was to her—when he evaluated the risks from a less, well, paranoid point of view—he would come around. He’d support her, as he always had. This time next year, they might even be singing lullabies to their firstborn.

Boy or girl, she’d be beyond happy with either. Or both.

Laura put those thoughts aside as she smiled a greeting at this middle-aged couple. Wherever they went, it seemed Bishop bumped into someone he knew. Why should a night at the Opera House be any different?

“You haven’t met my wife.” Robert Harrington turned to a lithe, graceful-looking woman. “Shontelle, this is Samuel Bishop. We had business dealings a year back.”

“Pleased to meet you, Samuel.” Shontelle’s pearl-and-diamond necklace sparkled under the lights as the chattering crowd wove around them. Laura waited. Bishop was usually prompt with introductions but, for once, he missed a beat.

Taking the initiative, she introduced herself. “Pleased to meet you, Robert, Shontelle. I’m Laura.”

While Shontelle returned the greeting, Robert scratched his receding hairline. “Laura … Sam, wasn’t that your wife’s name?”

Her cheeks pinking up, Shontelle delivered her husband’s ribs a silencing nudge.

But Laura only laughed. “Not was. Is.”

Robert’s eyebrows shot up and his smile returned. “Well, that’s great.” He clapped Bishop’s tuxedo-clad shoulder heartily. “Great to see you together.”

The two couples bantered on a few minutes more, then went their separate ways. She and Bishop found a relatively quiet corner in the bustling room, away from the heart of the glitter and constant clink of glasses.

Laura spoke over the rim of her champagne flute before she sipped. “That was strange.”

“Strange?”

She imitated Robert Harrington’s baritone. “Wasn’t that your wife’s name? Didn’t you think that was odd?”

Bishop raised his glass in a salute. “Guess we should get out more often.”

“You know what else is strange? I’ve lost weight. I’ve been the same weight for years but now this dress is big on me.”

“It looks beautiful on you. You probably just haven’t worn it for a while.”

She examined the fall of her red evening dress. The bodice was highlighted by black lace inlays and the back decorated with multiple ribbon crisscross ties, which she’d drawn tightly to compensate for her leaner figure.

“I wore it a month ago to that business dinner in Melbourne, remember?”

His chin lifted the barest amount. She could have sworn his eyes narrowed as his gaze roamed her face.

“What else do you remember?”

He hadn’t finished the sentence before that northern footbridge flashed to mind. Then she remembered the hospital, thinking that she was pregnant. She remembered the doctor, the test, the tears—

Laura sucked back a quick breath then, blinking into her champagne flute, frowned.

There hadn’t been any tears. She’d been disappointed that the pregnancy test was negative, but also grateful she hadn’t risked a baby’s well-being when she’d taken her tumble. She remembered being so happy to see her husband and wondering at his odd behavior … that Bishop hadn’t come and embraced her straight away. It had taken a little while for him to thaw, even when they’d gotten home. But last night, he’d been as loving as ever.

So why this gnawing, niggling feeling at the back of her brain all of a sudden? A wavering sense that something, somewhere, between them was missing? Robert Harrington’s curious comment hadn’t helped.

Wasn’t that your wife’s name?

“Laura, are you okay?”

Bishop’s deep voice hauled her back. He was looking at her intently, his brows drawn. And the bell was ringing, calling them back to their seats. Feeling off balance, she slid her flute onto a nearby ledge.

Was she okay?

Willing the faint dizziness away, she pinned up her smile. “Absolutely fine. I’m looking forward to seeing the rest of the ballet.”

As they moved back through the crowd, the bell ringing low and persistent, Bishop threaded his jacketed arm through hers. She always felt so proud walking beside him. People noticed her husband—not only his movie star looks, but that unconscious quality that radiated off him like crackling heat off a fire … a vibrant warmth that was inviting and yet also potentially dangerous. Instinct told people you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of Samuel Bishop. Not that they would ever be on opposing sides. Their difference of opinion on how to start a family didn’t count. As she’d told Grace, they’d work that out.

“You didn’t have much for dinner,” he said as they climbed the carpeted stairs behind the slow-shifting throng. “We’ll order some supper when we get in.”

One part of her wanted to go straight back to the apartment, make love and then order a cheese platter and a fruity wine to savor throughout the night. Another part wanted to eke out as much of this dazzling evening as she could. Bishop was right. They did need to get out more.

“Let’s walk back to the apartment,” she suggested as they arrived at their gate. “We can stop for a bite on the way.”

He flicked a suspect glance at her red high heels. “In those shoes?”

Teasing, she bumped her hip to his. “These shoes deserve to be shown off.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled, the bell stopped ringing and the theater lights dimmed. “Then shown off they shall be.”

Laura didn’t want to tell Bishop she hadn’t remembered buying the shoes … like that handbag … like forgetting she’d slipped off her rings before Grace had driven her to hospital. In hindsight, she probably shouldn’t have mentioned she thought she’d lost weight. But they were trivial bits and pieces that would filter back in time. And when they did, no doubt this annoying niggling—that there’s something missing feeling—would up and fly away.

After the curtain had dropped and thunderous applause faded, he and Laura left the theater to stroll down the many Opera House steps, then along the boardwalk.

The night was mild and still bubbling with life—buskers strumming, tourists milling, night owls taking advantage of the round-the-clock restaurants. Laura was praising the prima ballerina’s performance in the last act when Bishop’s step slowed out front of an open-air café. Cozy tables dotted a timber deck that overlooked dark harbor waters awash with milky ribbons of moonlight. The coffee smelled out-of-this-world good.

“How are the heels holding up?” he asked. “Your feet need a rest?”

“I vote chocolate cheesecake.”

His gaze flicked from the dessert display window to her knowing eyes, and he laughed softly. She was well aware of his sweet tooth and he was aware of hers.

“With two scoops of ice cream?” he suggested.

Her hand in his, she tugged him toward the tables. “Done.”

He pulled out a chair for her by a roped railing, and a waitress took their orders.

“What time do you have to be at work tomorrow?” Laura asked casually as she skimmed the ballet’s keepsake program for the tenth time. But despite the casual tone, Bishop knew she was already wishing the morning away. He’d worked long hours when they’d been married. Still did. She’d always dreaded Monday mornings when he left her to travel to his office in the city.

“Actually, I’m having a couple of days off.”

Her eyes popped. “You never have time off.”

“I’m sure I had time off for our honeymoon.” A glorious week cruising the Greek islands. Santorini, Mykonos. The days had been brilliant. The nights were even better.

“Honeymoons are compulsory as far as vacations are concerned.” Her finger, trailing his left jacket sleeve, ended its journey by circling that shiny gold band. Her voice took on a note of doubt. “Are you sure the company’s not in any trouble?”

“If it were, I’d be chained to my desk.” He poured two glasses from the water carafe. “Trust me, Bishop Scaffolds is stronger than ever.”

The worry, pinching her brows, eased and she raised her water glass. “Well, then, here’s to a good long sleep in.”

While she sighed over how romantic the twinkling bridge looked with a full yellow moon crowning its arch, Bishop made a mental note to text Willis; the boss wouldn’t be in until at least Tuesday. From there he’d take each day as it came. Willis was more than competent to handle the day-to-day grind. As for the parties who were inquiring about purchasing the company …

Bishop flicked out his napkin as the cake arrived.

If the potential buyers were keen, they’d wait a few days.

They’d each enjoyed a first succulent taste of slow baked heaven when an elderly gentleman sporting an olive green beret presented himself with a flourishing bow at their table. He carried a battered easel. Two pencils sat balanced behind one ear.

“Would your wife care for a portrait?” the gentleman asked with a heavy French accent.

Bishop smiled dismissively. He liked his privacy.

“I don’t think—”

“She’d love one,” Laura piped up, before sucking chocolate sauce off her thumb and sitting straighter. “She’d love one of the both of us.”

Out the side of his mouth, Bishop countered, “Do you really feel like posing for half an hour?”

“No posing,” Frenchie said, flicking out his squeaky easel and wedging the legs into the planks. “Eat, talk. Reminisce. While I—” he whipped a pencil out with a magician’s finesse “—create.”

“I know what we can reminisce about.” Laura’s foot under the table curled around his pant leg. Bishop imagined her red painted toes as they slid up his calf. “Those amazing days we spent together sailing the Aegean.”

He angled slightly down. Out of sight, his hand caught her foot and he tickled her instep. “How about that unbelievable night on Naxos?”

“Please, please. Sit closer.” Frenchie feathered a pencil over the paper then stepped back to inspect his work so far. “This, I know, will be magnifique.”

Bishop reveled in the sweetness of chocolate and honey vanilla while listening to Laura’s recollections of their honeymoon … what they’d eaten and when, the people they’d met, their private dance on their private balcony in the moonlight that last night. Curious that she’d forgotten their divorce yet could remember every sensual detail of the time directly after their wedding as if it were yesterday. While the Mediterranean breeze and their lovemaking had kept them warm, she’d whispered in his ear and made him promise to take her on a cruise every year.

In between mouthfuls of cake, they talked and laughed. Bishop was so engrossed in their memories of Greece that he’d almost forgotten about the portrait until Frenchie set aside his pencil and announced, “It is done!”

Now, in the shadow of the Opera House’s enormous shells, he dragged himself back to the present and reached for his inside jacket pocket.

“How much do I owe?”

Frenchie waved a blasé hand. “Your choice.” Then, obviously proud, he pivoted the easel around.

Laura’s hands went to her mouth as she gasped. “Oh, Bishop, it’s perfect.”

Bishop had to agree. It captured not only their images but the gay atmosphere of the night as well as their obvious affection for each other. It was like looking back in time.

“It was a pleasure to work with a couple so very much in love.” Frenchie beamed.

Laura’s eyes glittered in the flickering candlelight. “Does it show?”

“Like a comet,” Frenchie enthused with a grand sweeping gesture, “illuminating a velvet night sky.”

Laura’s expression melted and Bishop slid out a large bill. Frenchie might be a bit of a poet, but his description wasn’t much of an exaggeration. That’s how they must appear to others tonight. Head-over-heels newlyweds in love. While they’d talked and shared desserts it had felt that way, too. He would’ve liked nothing better to have sat here, like this, all night.

By the time they finished up, it was late, so Bishop hailed a cab and her feet in their gorgeous heels got to rest.

As they crossed beneath the crystal chandelier of their hotel’s grand marble foyer, the efficient-looking concierge—a different man from the one earlier today—glanced up from checking something behind his desk. A big grin etched across his face and he fairly clicked his heels.

On their way to the lifts, Laura commented, “Very friendly staff they have here. You should tip that guy for that special welcome home.”

His step faltered the barest amount before he slid over a smile. “It’s because you look stunning tonight.” With the portrait in its cardboard sheath under his arm, Bishop stopped before the bank of lifts and thumbed a key. “You’re glowing.”

The lift arrived and she moved inside, smiling at his compliment, but deep down holding herself against a faint stab. Glowing was a term often bestowed upon pregnant women. Before that doctor at the hospital on Friday had informed her that she was mistaken—that she wasn’t pregnant—she’d actually felt as if she were glowing, even with that scrape and bump on her head.

But she could well be glowing tonight. They’d had a wonderful evening out, and with Bishop playing hooky from office duties tomorrow, there were many more hours of “wonderful” ahead.

As the car whirred up to the penthouse floor, she leaned on Bishop to balance as she eased off one four-inch heel then the other.

Bishop took note. “You’ve shown them off enough for one night?”

Performing, she twirled a shoe around her finger. “Oh, this is only the beginning.”

His brows hitched and pupils dilated until the crystalline blue of his eyes was near swallowed by black. When the metallic door slid open, she sashayed out ahead, sandals draped provocatively over one shoulder. She heard his footfalls on the marble tiles behind her.

“Guess you’re not tired,” he said.

“You guessed right.”

They entered the suite, a vast cream, black and crimson expanse, furnished with clean lines and minimalist finesse. She cast her shoes aside. Unable to hold back a moment longer, she coiled her arms around his neck and tipped her mouth up to meet his.

The ballet had kept her occupied earlier, but when they’d sat by those sparkling harbor waters tonight, eating their cake and reliving those fantastic few days abroad after their wedding, there were times Laura had needed to bunch her hand in her lap to divert the energy she’d felt pulling her toward him. It was as if she were hooked on an invisible line and desperately wanting to be wound in … to let him kiss her with all the heat of emotion both their hearts could give.

In the cab home, crossing the hotel foyer, riding the lift, she’d wanted to do exactly this … let him know with a touch of her hand, the stroke of her tongue, that she couldn’t live without him. With his breathing deepening now, his bristled chin grazing rhythmically against her cheek and his arms locked around her, the hot need inside of her only grew. Like a bulb without spring sunshine, she could survive without Bishop, but she would never know such true warmth.

Such real love.

That would never change. No matter what challenges they faced, they would always have this. An insatiable, natural need to be close.

When he grudgingly released her, her heart was pounding so hard that the vibration hummed through her body all the way to her fingers and toes. Her hand filed up through the back of his hair as she breathed in the glorious scent he left on his pillow each morning.

“Know what I want to do?”

“How many guesses do I get?” His voice was low and husky with desire, his eyes lidded with want.

“How many do you need?”

“I’ll take one.”

Her palms splayed over the broad ledge of his jacketed shoulders as she pressed in against him. “What if you’re wrong?”

A lazy grin hooked one side of his mouth. “I’m not wrong.”

“So I don’t need to give you a hint?”

That lazy grin widened. “Hints are always welcome.”

“Well, then, first we need to take this off.”

She dipped beneath his lapels and scooped the jacket off his shoulders. His lidded eyes holding hers, he tossed the coat aside. She assumed a speculative look as her palms ironed up the steamy front of his shirt.

“And that tie needs to go, too,” she decided, tugging the black length free from beneath its collar.

Bishop asked, “What about cuff links?”

“Cuff links are definitely out.”

He managed the links while she saw to his dress shirt studs. When the last button was released, her touch fanned the steely ruts of his naked abdomen then arced up through the dark, coarse hair on his chest. She let out a sigh as her nails trailed his pecs before catching the shirt and peeling the sleeves slowly down.

Anticipating the moment, she quivered inside as she lightly pressed her lips below the hollow of his throat; the pulse she found there matched the throb tripping a delicious beat at her core. A cord ran down one side of his tanned neck. When the tip of her tongue tasted a trail up the salty ridge, his erection, behind its zipper, grew and pushed against her belly. Growing warmer by the second, she blew a gentle stream of air against the trail her tongue had left.

“Do you remember what we were wearing on the balcony that night on the ship?”

His hands were kneading her behind, rotating her hips to fit against his as he attentively nipped the shell of her ear.

“I remember what we weren’t wearing.” Cooler air brushed her back as he tugged on a ribboned bow and her bodice loosened. “Would you like to slow dance on this balcony tonight?”

Sighing, she ground against him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

A knock sounded at the door, then a call. “Room service!”

Laura’s stomach jumped while Bishop’s chin went down. He searched her eyes.

“We haven’t ordered anything, have we?”

“It’s a mistake.” Slipping back into the mood, she wove a hand up over the hot dome of one shoulder. “Ignore it.”

“It might be important.”

“Not as important as this.”

Falling back into the magic, she drew his head down and kissed him more thoroughly than the first time.

But the call came again. “Mr. Bishop, room service, sir.”

Groaning, Bishop unraveled her arms and headed for the door. “Remind me to hang the sign up as soon as he’s gone. Do. Not. Disturb.”

A bellboy with a sun-bleached surfer’s mop stood behind the door. He didn’t raise a brow at Bishop’s state of half dress but merely handed over a shiny silver bucket, its sides frosty and the well filled with an impressive-looking bottle as well as two chilling glasses.

“Compliments of the house, sir,” the young man said, then spun on his spit-polished heel with a cheerful, “Good night.”

As Bishop hung the sign then closed the door, Laura crossed over and read the note, penned on hotel stationery.

“Welcome back, Mrs. Bishop.” She shook off a laugh. “I was here just a couple of weeks ago, and a week before that.” Staring at the note, she cast her mind back then set the note down on the teak hallstand ledge. “We should send this back. They’ve made some sort of mistake.”

“Have they?”

She shot him a questioning look then shrugged. “There’s no other explanation.”

“Maybe there is.”

As he held her gaze, she sent him a dry grin. “Then I’d like to hear it.”

“Would you?”

Her jaw tightened and she crossed her arms. “Don’t do that, Bishop.”

“Do what?”

“That. Answer everything with a question.”

As Bishop’s eyes hardened—or was that glazed over?—an icy shiver chased up her spine. Feeling bad, foolish, she pressed her lips together. Her tone had been brittle. She hadn’t meant it to be. It was just that …

Well, first there’d been that Robert Harrington and his odd comment, then the concierge’s almost surprised reaction at seeing them, now this offering from the hotel management as if she’d been gone for years.

It didn’t make sense.

But she was aware of the look on Bishop’s face. Removed? Concerned? He thought she’d overreacted and he was right. Management had sent champagne. He was suggesting there was some good reason. Which was feasible. And unimportant. She was making more of this than she needed to. She was curious—puzzled—that’s all.

Pasting on a smile, willing the flush from her cheeks, she nodded at the bottle.

“Either way, it’s a nice gesture. We should thank them in the morning.”

Bishop moved past and carefully set the bucket on the coffee table. If Laura thought she was confused, he hadn’t a clue what he was doing or what he planned to do next.

Every step he’d taken since Friday afternoon had led to precisely this moment. Logical steps. Steps that had made sense at the time. Even making love last night. In his defense, he could put up a good argument for that. What man in his right mind could’ve refused? Particularly when it was this man with that woman.

When she’d waxed on tonight about how unbelievable their honeymoon had been, recreating all those images and feelings while they’d nibbled on cake, she’d accomplished something he would never have dreamed possible. She’d taken him back—really back—in time. He’d looked into her eyes, so animated and thirsty for life—for him—and, God help him, he’d only wanted to stay.

And that awareness made this situation—where they stood now—different than it had been last night, or this morning.

He hadn’t wanted to force any recollections back too fast, too soon. He’d tread lightly, initially, because he hadn’t known how to go about it, then because he’d liked to see her happy. Ultimately he’d liked feeling happy again, too.

He’d been very happy tonight.

Before the champagne had arrived, they’d been on the brink, about to make love again, and yet when she’d looked so frustrated and confused just now, he’d tried to force that memory door open again, and more than a crack. He’d pushed to try to make her remember. And he’d done it for a reason. A selfish reason.

If this happened—if they had sex, made love, came apart in each other’s arms—he wanted it to be real. Maybe if she remembered the past, the ugly breakup, while she was feeling the way she did about him now, the anger and pain would pale enough for them to be able to work something out. That’s all he’d ever wanted.

To work things out.

He folded down into the circular leather lounge, smoothed back his hair with both hands then found her eyes again.

“Laura, come here. We need to talk.”

“About what?” She crossed and sat close to him, her beautiful face wan, her emerald eyes glistening with questions.

“We need to make an appointment.”

“An appointment for what?”

“A follow-up. To get you checked out.”

She blinked several times then tipped away. Even laughed a little. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” She went to object and he held up his hands. “Okay. No more questions. Except one. And I want you to think about it before you answer.”

She searched his eyes and eventually nodded. “All right.”

“At the hospital, you said you thought you were pregnant. It is possible you were mixed up? That maybe …”

Not wanting to say it but needing to, he exhaled and reached for her hand. Gripped it tight.

“That maybe you’d been pregnant before?”

Her expression cracked—half amused, half insulted. As if she’d been burned, she pried her hand away.

“That’s ridiculous. For God’s sake, Bishop, I’d know if I’d been pregnant before.”

So adamant. Too adamant.

He swallowed against the ache blocking his throat. Out of anything he could have asked her—anything that would have set off a battery of alarm bells—that question had to have been it. And yet the only reaction he got was a disgusted look as if he’d called her a name. If he bit the bullet, went further and tried to explain about their discussions two years ago, how she’d been so happy with his decision to try to conceive, then ultimately so crushed …

Her eyes glistened more. A hint of panic hid behind the sheen. But her voice was hauntingly level when she spoke.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

His midsection clenched and his gaze dropped away.

He’d had no illusions, but this was way harder than he’d thought. Near impossible.

He believed he’d asked the right question, but there was another. And now that he’d come this far, he had to ask it, for both their sakes.

After finding her gaze again, he lowered his voice. “Laura, how do you think you’d handle losing a child?”

She let out a breath. And smiled. Hell, she looked relieved.

“Is that what all this is about?” She leaned nearer and braced his thigh. “Nothing bad will happen. We have to believe that. I know everything will be all right. Have faith. Have faith in us.” She squeezed his leg. “I do.”

The emotion clogging his throat drifted higher and stung behind his nose. How could he respond to that? He had nothing. Then a crazy notion hit. So crazy, he wanted to laugh.

Wouldn’t it be something if she fell pregnant again and this time everything worked out? If she didn’t get her memory back, what man would convict him? She’d be happy. His soul would be redeemed. Or, if she fell pregnant before her memory returned, couldn’t they work through to reinvent the happy ending they’d both deserved the first time around? Was that too crazy to hope for? Another chance?

Her hand left his thigh. “You mentioned something about a slow dance on the balcony.”

Before he could respond, she stood and held out her hand. He looked at her for a long, tormented moment. There was no right or wrong. No win or lose. No way to predict how this would end. Or if it would.

His fingers curling around hers, he found his feet and led her out onto the balcony.

A cool harbor breeze filed through their hair as he cradled her close and she rested her cheek against his fast-beating heart. With the distant hum of traffic for music, he began to rock her gently around. After a few moments she murmured, so softly he barely heard.

“I love you, Bishop.”

High in his gut that tight ball contracted more and time wound down to a standstill. The decision was instinctive.

He put aside the man he was now, the man whose heart had been mangled and who had vowed to never marry again. He tamped down the voice that said not to lie. That cried out what he planned was unforgivable. Instead, he assumed the mask of a man just three months married. A man who knew he should let go of the guilt over surviving his brother and forego the fear of “what ifs” in the womb and beyond. A man who wanted their own child as much as Laura did, no matter what.

No matter what.

He brushed the hair from her cheek, whispered her name then, willing himself to believe it, said, “I love you, too.”