Cold Target Part 47

Despite her plea, he stood there, compa.s.sion written on his face. It was obvious that he knew something was wrong, terribly wrong.

"I... loved my husband. I can't..."

But she feared her eyes were saying something else. She had taken off the gla.s.ses as she'd made supper, and she wondered whether she was looking at him with the same longing that was in his eyes.

"Has someone hurt you?" he asked softly.

"No. I just feel wicked. Unfaithful."

"Harry never talks about him."

He was persistent. He was also moving toward her. His hand went to her cheek and he wiped something away.

She didn't realize she'd been crying.

She struggled for her composure. She felt the palm of his hand against her cheek. For a few seconds, she leaned into it, treasured one of the few tender touches she'd known.

Then he took it away. "I'll always be there for you, Liz," he said. "No matter what."

'But he wouldn't be. Not if he knew the truth.'

"Thank you."

"Thank you for supper. I get tired of my own cooking." She heard a forced lightness in his voice.

"You worked for your supper."

"So I did."

He regarded her with somber concern mixed with frustration. Then he picked up the box of tools he'd brought.

"Are we still on for riding Sat.u.r.day?"

'No'. She should pack tonight and leave in the morning before daybreak.

She nodded.

"Good night then."

"Good night."

The door closed quietly behind him but she still heard the sound of his boots against the wood of the small porch.

She wanted to run out after him. She wanted to tell him everything.

Instead she looked out the window as he pulled away. The stars were almost gone, shrouded by clouds that had grown from mere wisps to heavy, purple billows.

She looked down. Her hands were clenched in front of her as the sound of his car faded away.

'Don't go.'

'NEW ORLEANS'.

Gage followed Meredith back to the city. They had stopped at a drive-through restaurant in Jackson, then at a rest stop to eat and let Beast out.

It was a gloomy day. The rain that had fallen on and off throughout the drive seemed to foreshadow the next day, when the funeral would be held.

She had placed a call to Mrs. Edwards and had asked her to contact caterers for the gathering after the service. It would be at her parents' home again. It would be the second one in a week.

She wished there had been a way they could have driven back together, but they both needed their vehicles. The break for lunch helped, even the fact that Beast s...o...b..red all over her.

They sat next to each other on a picnic bench like any other couple. But despite last night--and the pa.s.sion that had raged between them--they were not a couple.

He had been gentle and tender and pa.s.sionate and fierce. He had made her body sing in ways she'd never thought possible.

And it had felt so very good when she'd gone to sleep in his arms and woke in them.

They hadn't spoken of love or commitment. The spectre of her parents' marriage haunted her, keeping her from uttering them.

'She never loved me'. She kept hearing those words over and over again as she drove.

Then why had her parents married?

If she knew that, then she might have more clues as to what had happened.

She suspected Gage had ghosts of his own. She looked in the rearview mirror. Gage was still right behind her. Beast's head visible on the left side. She smiled. When she had met him years ago, she never would have suspected Gage Gaynor of being such a complex man. She kept finding new layers to him.

She wondered if she would ever really know him. If she would ever have the chance.

They had decided she would stay with him tonight. She didn't want to be alone, and he didn't want her to be alone. She couldn't bear answering the phone and taking condolence calls and questions from curious reporters.

They arrived at his home at five P.M.

She parked on the street and met him at his car. He took her hand and together they went into his house, Beast at his heels.

He showed her the guest room. "Want a few minutes alone?"

"I need to make a few phone calls."

"Be my guest."

She really needed to make more than a few. She'd deserted poor Mrs. Edwards, who had to cope with getting the house ready and answering the phone. It had probably rung off the hook. She'd left Sarah to deal with irate clients.

She had never before abrogated her responsibilities. She had escaped, pure and simple. She wondered whether searching for information had been an excuse.

She used her cell phone and called Sarah first. "Any problems?"

"Nothing I can't handle. Reporters are all over the place, but the judge in the Keyes case postponed. He asked me to convey his sympathies."

"Judge West?"

"Yep, he has a heart after all."

"Thanks."

"I'll be at the funeral tomorrow."

"You don't have to--"

"I want to. And so does Becky. By the way, my kids are falling in love with that dog."

"No problem with the apartment?"

"No. He squeaked in under the thirty-pound pet limit."

"Can you keep him for a few more days?"

"The kids will be ecstatic. In fact, if you aren't going to keep him ..."

"I'm sure Nicky would be happier with your children. I'm gone so much." Yet it was another loss for her. She had been getting used to Nicky's presence.

She hung up and felt a tear wandering down her face. She sat down on the bed. The tears started coming. Not because of the dog. Or perhaps because of the dog. For some reason, it was easier to cry over a small loss than a huge one.

The tears came in torrents. She hated that, but she couldn't stop. Her father. Her mother. Her home. And now the d.a.m.n dog.

"Meredith?"

She turned away from the phone. And from the door where he stood. She tried to stop the flood of tears.

"Has something happened?" His voice was warm with concern.

"Something else, you mean?" She hated the self-pity in those words.

He entered the room and pulled her into his arms. "It's about time for a cry. You can't bottle it up forever."

"It's ... the dog," she mumbled. "It's so darn stupid."

"Did something happen to Nicky? I thought he was staying with Sarah."

"Sarah ... wants to keep him," she babbled.

She waited for him to make some smart comment. Here she was crying over a dog she'd kept all of a few days.

He didn't. He folded her in his arms and just held her.

"It's time, love," he said. "Let it go."

She yielded to the compulsive sobs that shook her even as she absorbed the comfort of his embrace. The tears came and came.

Finally, they slowed. Seconds later he was wiping the tears from her face with such gentleness that she started to cry again.

"I never cry," she choked out. "Not like that."

"Then you're due," he said.

"Thank you."

"Any time," he said with a lightness belied by the caring in his eyes.

'Love'. He had called her "love."

A meaningless endearment. Nothing more.

She straightened, brushed away the remaining wetness from her face. "I'm sorry. I'm not usually--"

"h.e.l.l, I would worry like h.e.l.l about you if that hadn't come," he said with a smile that was as intimate as a kiss.

She knew her lips were probably trembling, and she was sure of it when he leaned over and kissed her with such tenderness that she feared she would explode in tears yet again.

Instead she put her arms around him and the kiss deepened. He tore his mouth away and rained kisses up and down her face, licking the tears she knew still dotted her face.

She felt silly and stupid for the outburst and yet she felt better as well. Only now did she realize how she'd bottled so many emotions deep inside. She supposed she had gone through every known major one in the past two weeks. Grief, fear, terror, confusion, regret, loss.

She swallowed hard. "I think I can use a cup of coffee."

"Laced with brandy, I think." He pulled her close to his side and they walked together to the kitchen. She ached to taste his kisses again, but she also feared it. She wanted him far too much.

He was addictive. Too addictive.

She waited as he poured whole beans into a coffeemaker and a strong aroma filled the kitchen. An occasional tremor ran through her body, remnants of the crying jag. The emotions were still there, rumbling under the surface like a volcano with repeated eruptions.

She willed them to behave.

In minutes, he had steaming cups of coffee in front of them.

Then he sat down and studied her face. She knew it must be red and blotched and swollen.

His lips turned up in a quizzical smile. "Why must you be so pretty?"

"But I'm not."

He stared at her with astonishment. "Then you've never looked in a mirror."

"My mother ..."

Something like understanding crossed his face. "I hope you don't compare yourself to her."

She didn't answer.