Emma Harte - Hold The Dream Part 36

"Why?" she demanded with terseness.

"I have no desire to get married again," he said almost chattily, "not with my track record. I've had enough of grasping wives and the divorce court. Besides, I'm paying too much in alimony as it is. Hundreds of thousands of dollars a year. But if I were ever demented enough to take that suicidal plunge, I can a.s.sure you my bride would have to be a rich one."

"Oh come off it! Money doesn't interest you, Ross," she scoffed. "You couldn't spend your millions if you lived to be a hundred."

He said nothing.

Skye said slowly, her face growing soft, almost tender, "We've had so much together. We have a child, and I love you very much." '

"You don't seem to understand-I don't love you."

She flinched but kept her hurt to herself. He had a penchant For being cruel, and his moods changed like the wind. In five minutes he might easily do a turnabout and sweep her off to bed. That had happened so many times before. A thought came to her, and she stood up, went and sat down next to him on the other sofa, laid her hand on his knee. She drew closer, whispered, "You don't really mean that, Ross darling, you know it's not true. You do love me. There's a special kind of magic between us, and there always has been." She smiled into his cold face, her eyes enticing. "Let's go to bed. I'll show you just how strong the bonds are between us."

He lifted her hand from his knee and placed it in her lap. "I didn't think you were a m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t, that you'd want a repet.i.tion of your misadventure with Shane O'Neill. It must be very humiliating for a woman like you to realize that her s.e.xual expertise has lost its power." ; She pulled away from him, gasping, and her eyes filled with tears.

Wanting to be rid of her, he went in for the kill, said in the quietest but hardest of voices, "You see, Skye, you don't turn me on anymore."

Rising, she blundered across the 'room to the window, flicking the tears off her cheeks, trying to stem their flow, her shoulders heaving. She knew she had lost him. Her life was in shreds.

Ross also rose and crossed to the small Regency writing table. He opened the drawer, took out his checkbook, picked up the pen and wrote. As he ripped the check out of the book she turned around, stood staring at him, puzzlement replacing the anguish on her strained face.

"What are you doing?" she asked, beginning to tremble.

'This is for you, for the child," he said, pushing himself up out of the chair, walking to her. "I will make arrangements with my accountants for you to receive the same amount every month. It should be more than enough." He stopped in front of her, held out the check.

Skye shook her head wildly. "I don't want it, Ross. I can support our child. I'm not interested in yourmoney, and I never have been. It's only you I want. As a husband, as a father for Jennifer."

"That's too high a price for me." He tried to force the check into'her hands but she refused to take it, balling her fists, backing away from him.

He shrugged, turned, walked back to the sofas in front of the fireplace. He opened her handbag, slipped the check inside, then carried her bag to her, put it in her hands. "I think it's time for you to leave, Skye. I'm expecting guests. It's over between us. There's nothing more to say."

Lifting her head, she gathered some of her shattered pride around her, and she was surprisingly cool andsteady as she said, "Oh yes, there is something more to say, Ross, and it's this ..." She paused, lookeddeeply into his face. "Things are not over between us and they never will be, whether we see each otheragain or not. And one day you're going to need me. I don't know for what reason, or why, but need meyou will." She opened her bag, took out the check and tore it in half without looking at it. She let it flutterto the floor. And then.she pivoted and walked away from him without a backward glance, her pacemeasured and controlled.

Ross picked up the torn check and pocketed it, his face expressionless. He would write another onetomorrow and mail it to her. He ambled over to the window and parted the curtain, looked down ontoPark Avenue. In a few minutes she would leave the building and cross the street as she always did,heading in the direction of Lexington. He sighed. It was a pity about the child. His face softened afraction. There was no way he could have his three-year-old daughter without the mother, and themother he neither wanted nor needed. She was far too troublesome in far too many ways. He felt asudden twinge about Shane and the manner in which he had maneuvered him, had tried to throw Skyeinto his arms. Funny coincidence, he thought, the way Skye and Shane were introduced in Yorkshire andthen a week later he phoned me at the bank with an introduction from Emma Harte. The minute he hadmet Shane he had thought of Skye, realizing he might have found a solution to his problems with her. Hehad manipulated Skye, had augmented the beginning of the affair, if one could call it that. Oh well, theysay all's fair in love and war. Skye's unexpected revelation about Shane's impotency had surprised him,though. Shocked him. Shane O'Neill, of all people. Poor son of a b.i.t.c.h, Ross muttered, wondering forthe second time what woman had so got her hooks into O'Neill he couldn't perform with anyone else. : Ross pressed his face to the gla.s.s, saw Skye hurrying across Park, lingering on the center island, waiting for the lights to change. She was wearing the mink coat he had given her. He supposed he had loved her once. Now she bored him. He let the curtain drop, and she was instantly dismissed as he turned his mind to his present plans.

Moving toward the fireplace, Ross Nelson stood for a few minutes with his hand on the mantelshelf, staring into s.p.a.ce, lost in his reverie, pondering Paula Fairley. He had known her for years, paid little

attention to her in the past. But this morning, in her office, he had been intrigued by her. He had to have her. He was going to have her. n.o.body, nothing would stop him. Now there is a powder keg of suppressed s.e.xuality, he decided. He had spotted that at once. It was apparent in the way she held her body, from the hunger he had detected in those unusual violet-tinted eyes, so long-lashed and seductive. He would put the match to the powder keg, explode it, then lie back and let the flames of her s.e.xuality consume them both. He began to realize that just thinking about her excited him inordinately, in a way he had not been excited for some time, jaded as he had become. He itched to get his hands on that slender body, so willowy and graceful, yet curiously boyish except for the beautiful b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He closed his eyes, holding his breath, recalling how taut and firm they had looked under the white silk shirt she had been wearing. He l.u.s.ted for her right now, this very minute. Her image was suddenly so vividly alive in his mind he snapped his eyes open swiftly, lowered himself onto the sofa, knowing he must dispel the tantalizing picture of them in bed together. He would have a miserable evening if he did not do so immediately.

But Ross Nelson discovered she was difficult to forget, so potent was her s.e.xual appeal to him. And then of course there was her money. He began to contemplate her great fortune, Emma's fortune, which she would inherit one day. To his astonishment the idea of matrimony was suddenly most appealing after all. There was a husband in the background somewhere, wasn't there? He would soon dispense with Fairley. Once he had bedded Paula she would be his completely. They always were, particularly those who came inexperienced and breathless with antic.i.p.ation into his arms.

He felt the old familiar ache in his groin. To take his mind off s.e.x he endeavored to concentrate on Paula Fairley's huge fortune. The ache only intensified. He crossed his legs, growing uncomfortably hot. He began to laugh at himself. How fortunate it was that he had not indulged himself in his erotic imaginings about Paula earlier. Otherwise he would have been forced to take Skye to bed-for one last time.

He glanced at the phone on the writing desk, wondering why it had not yet rung. He had been expecting to hear from Paula the moment he had arrived home.

Chapter Thirty-two.

"Where on earth did those ghastly vermilion roses come from, Ann?" Paula asked, staring through the open door of the drawing room and then turning to look at her grandmother's American housekeeper.

Ann Donovan, standing next to Paula in the large entrance foyer of Emma's Fifth Avenue apartment, shook her head. "I don't know, Miss Paula. I left the card on the console, next to the vase."

She followed Paula into the room, continuing, "I wasn't sure where to put them, to be honest, the bouquet is so huge. I even wondered if I ought to leave them out here. In all the years I've worked for Mrs. Harte we've never had roses in the apartment. Don't you like them either?"

"They don't really bother me, Ann, at least not in the way they disturb my grandmother. I'm just not accustomed to seeing roses around, that's all. I never plant them, or buy them, for that matter." She wrinkled her nose, indicating her distaste, remarked offhandedly, "And that color, it's such a violent red, and the whole arrangement is overwhelming. Very pretentious."

She reached for the envelope, ripped it open, looked at the card. It had been signed by Ross Nelson. His writing was small, neat, cramped almost, and he was inviting her to his country house for the weekend. What cheek he's got, Paula thought. And what makes him think I'd want to spena the weekend with him? I hope he's not going to become a pest. She tore up the card, dropped it into a nearby ashtray, said to the housekeeper, "I really can't stand the roses, Ann, would you mind taking them out to the back, please?"

"No, of course not, Miss Paula." Ann picked up the offending vase and headed out of the drawing room, saying over her shoulder, "You received some other flowers-not very long ago. I popped them in the den."

"Oh. Well, 1 suppose I'd better go and look at them," Paula murmured, walking out after the housekeeper, who was already hurrying across the foyer in the direction of her own rooms.

Paula's face lit up the moment she saw the lovely little basket of African violets in the center of the mahogany coffee table near the fireplace. She bent over them, touched the glossy dark green leaves, then the velvet-textured petals of the deep purple flowers. How delicate, how tender they are, she thought and picked up the envelope. It was blank and she wondered who the violets were from as she opened it. She stiffened in surprise. The name Shane was scrawled across the front of the card in his familiar bold handwriting. There was no message, simply his first name.

Still holding the card, Paula sat dosvn on the nearest chair, frowning to herself, not quite certain what to make of the flowers. For the first time in almost two years he had done something sweet and thoughtful, the kind of thing he used to do in the past. And she was at a loss, not sure how to deal with it. She pondered. Was the basket of violets a signal that he wanted to be friends with her again? Or merely a polite gesture, one made out of a sense of family obligation and duty? Certainly sending her flowers was a way of saying welcome to New York without his actually having to speak to her.

Paula glanced into the fire, her expression abstract. She was positive that Merry would have told him she was in the city. After all, they were brother and sister and business * colleagues, and they chatted back and forth across the Atlantic on a weekly, sometimes daily, basis. Perhaps her friend had put pressure on Shane to make an effort, to be nice to her. His aloofness and remoteness still perplexed Paula. How many times had she asked herself what she had done to hurt or upset him, and how many times had the answer, been a negative one. She had done nothing wrong. Yet she continued to hold himself apart, barely acknowledging her existence. And when he did do so, she knew it was because he had no alternative, considering the long and intimate involvement of their two families.

Pulling her eyes away from the fire, Paula stared at the card again and for the longest time. The simple signature without one other word was not very encouraging. In a way it was intimidating. If only he had suggested that she phone him, or hinted that they might get together before she returned to England.

d.a.m.n, she muttered under her breath, and suddenly stood up abruptly, unexpectedly filled with anger. Shane O'Neill had been her dearest friend for as long as she could remember, since she could first walk and talk. They had grown up together . . . shared so much . . . become so very close over those formative and meaningful years . . . their lives had been so deeply intertwined . . . and then he had dropped her, turned away from her, and without any kind of proper explanation. It was not logical.

I've had enough of this. I'm sick and tired of people behaving as if my feelings don't matter, she thought, still bridling with anger. She rushed out of the den to find her briefcase. It was on a bench in the foyer where she had left it when she had walked in from the office. Grabbing it, she sped back to the den and sat down at the desk. Snapping open the locks, she pulled out her address book, turned to Shane's New York numbers, then sat back in the chair, eyeing the phone.

I'm going to have it out with him once and for all, she decided, whether it's tonight, next week, or the very day I leave. I don't care when it is, as long as I pin him down, finally. I want to know why he ended our long friendship so cruelly. I'm ent.i.tled to an explanation. She reached for the receiver, then let her hand fall away, realizing it would be prudent to calm herself first. Yes, it would be most unwise to confront him now. She had not seen Shane since April. He had just sent her flowers. Therefore it would appear odd, even irrational, if she tackled him about their relationship out of the blue. Also, she abhorred telephone confrontations, preferred to look people right in the eye when she was thrashing out something of crucial importance, needing to observe their reactions. I ought to have insisted on a frank talk long ago, she added under her breath. I've been spineless. It suddenly occurred to her that she was not so mucn angry with Shane as she was with herself. She should never have permitted the breach to continue as she had. Her annoyance began to dissipate.

Sitting up straighter, she lifted the receiver, then hesitated. How would she begin the conversation? You are befuddled, really jet-lagged tonight, she told herself with a rueful smile. Obviously you'll thank him for the flowers. What else? It's the perfect opening gambit. She dialed his apartment. The phone rang and rang. There was no reply. Disappointed,-she replaced the receiver. Then something his father had said to her on Sunday night flashed through her mind. Uncle Bryan had made a remark about Shane's being as addicted to work as she was these days. Paula looked at her watch. It was a few minutes before seven. Could he still be at the office? Miranda had given her two numbers for O'Neill Hotels International, and one of them was Shane's private line.

Once again she dialed.

The phone was picked up on the second ring. "h.e.l.lo," a very masculine voice said.

"Shane?"

There was a pause before he answered. "h.e.l.lo, Paula," he finally said.

"Why, Shane, how clever of you to recognize my voice and at once," she exclaimed with a.s.sumed flippancy. "I'm so glad I caught you. I just got back here and found your violets. They're lovely, so springlike, and it was such a dear thought. Thank you."

"I'm glad you like them," he said.

His neutral, unenthusiastic tone was so off-putting it chilled her, but nevertheless she hurried on: "It's been ages since we've seen each other, at least eight months, and now here we both are, far away from Yorkshire, a couple of tykes in New York City. The least we can do is get together-" She stopped, then taking a deep breath said, very rapidly, "-for dinner."

There was an even longer pause at his end of the phone. "I ... er . , . well ... I'm not sure when I could do that, actually. When were you thinking of, Paula? Which night?"

"Tonight seems as good a time as any," she said determinedly. "If you're not already busy, that is."

"I am a bit, I'm afraid. I'd planned to work late. I have an awful lot of paperwork to catch up with this week."

-* jou ve got to eat sometime," she pointed out in ner mosi persuasive voice. She laughed gaily. "Remember what Grandy was forever saying to Mrs. Bonnyface at Heron's Nest. All work and no play, et cetera. And you never used to argue with that sentiment."

He was silent.

Softly she said, "I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be pushing you like this. I know what it's like to be overburdened by work. Perhaps another night. I'm going to be here for about three weeks. I'll leave it up to you; call me if you have a free evening. Thanks again for the flowers, Shane. Bye." She hung up immediately, not giving him an opportunity to respond.

Pushing herself out of the chair, Paula walked over to the coffee table, picked up the card and threw it into the fire, watched it burn. He had been cold, unbending, only marginally civil.

Why? Why? Why?

Whatever had she done to Shane O'Neill to make him behave in such an unfriendly and unkind manner? She ran her hand through her hair distractedly, then shrugged as she returned" to the desk. I am a stupid fool, she thought. He's probably heavily involved with Skye Smith and can't be bothered to entertain a childhood friend, especially one he no longer cares about. He might even be living with her. Merry and Winston think their relationship is platonic, but how can they really know? They're always saying he's closemouthed. Funny, though, he never was with me, nor I with him, for that matter. We never had secrets; we told each other everything.

The phone shrilled. She glanced at it, picked it up. Before she said h.e.l.lo he spoke.

"I couldn't make it for at least an hour, maybe a bit longer," Shane said hurriedly, sounding breathless. "I'll have to go back to my flat to change, and it's turned seven already."

"You know you don't have to bother doing that for me, of all people, for heaven's sake," she exclaimed softly, surprised but gratified that he had rung back. "After all, we're family." She laughed under her breath. He was vain about his appearance, but she didn't mind. She rather liked that trait in him. "Anyway," she went on, "you can freshen up here if you want, and, listen, we don't have to go to a fancy restaurant, a simple place will do nicely."

"All right. I'll be there around seven-thirty," he said, see you then." He hung up as swiftly as she had done a few minutes before.

Paula sat back, staring at the phone. She felt curiously light-headed and wondered why.

Shane O'Neill sighed heavily, crushed out the cigarette he had lit before calling Paula.

Reaching for the phone again, he dialed a small French bistro he liked, made a reservation for nine o'clock, and then stood up. Hurriedly rolling down his sleeves, he fastened the b.u.t.tons on the cuffs, knotted his tie which he had loosened earlier, then walked over to the closet to get his jacket and overcoat.

You're a b.l.o.o.d.y fool, he chastised himself, allowing her to get to you in the way she did. You threw your resolve not to see her out the window, and all because she sounded so wistful when she said good-bye. And disappointed. And lonely. Desperately lonely. He had lived in that solitary and isolated state far too long not to detect it in her immediately. Besides, he knew and understood Paula much better than anyone else did, and he had always been able to accurately gauge her moods, even when she was putting up a front. Like her grandmother, she was adroit at doing that, and exceptionally deceptive. She could don that inscrutable expression at will, effect a gaiety when she spoke that did nothing to betray her real feelings. Except to him, of course. She had adopted a fraudulent lightness with him a few moments ago, he was well aware. Her laughter and flippancy had been forced. So his sister had been right. Paula was troubled, disturbed. But about what, exactly? Business? Her marriage? Well, he wasn't going to contemplate that relationship.

After slipping into his sports jacket, he pulled his overcoat off the hanger and left the offices, locking the door behind him. Several seconds later, stepping out of the building onto .Park Avenue, he was relieved to see that the traffic had eased. He spotted a cab, hailed it, jumped in and gave the address on Fifth Avenue. Settling back, he fished around in his pocket for cigarettes and his lighter. '

As he smoked, a sardonic smile struck his wide Celtic mouth. You're putting a noose around your neck, O'Neill, he warned himself. But then you knew that when you sent her me nowers; You expected her to call you when she received them; be honest, you did. You simply lobbed the ball over into her court. Yes, this was the truth-and yet only partially so.

That afternoon, on his way back to the office from the hotel site, he had noticed the violets as he had pa.s.sed the flower shop and instantly thought of her eyes. Then, as he had hovered uncertainly outside, gazing through the window, he had been transported back in time, back to the house by the sea, and she had been there in'that dreamlike villa high on the soaring cliffs . . . dreamlike child of his childhood dreams ... the tender young girl with the garden hoe . . .

He had gone in and bought the violets, knowing how much she would love them, not giving it a second thought, swept along by the tide of his nostalgia. Only later had he questioned his motives.

Oh, what the h.e.l.l, it's too late now, he thought, impatiently stubbing out his cigarette. I've invited her out. I've got to go through with it. After all, I'm a grown man, I'm well able to handle the situation. Besides, I'm simply taking her to dinner. Surely there is no harm in that.

Chapter Thirty-three.

Some ten minutes later Shane was alighting on Fifth Avenue at Seventy-seventh Street.

Since he had lived in Emma's apartment for the first three months he had been in New York, the doorman on duty knew him, and they exchanged greetings before the man turned to the intercom to announce him.

Riding up in the elevator to the tenth floor, Shane discovered he had a tight knot of apprehension-or was it antic.i.p.ation?-in his chest. He cautioned himself to watch his step with Paula, took a firm grip on his emotions and arranged a pleasant smile on his face. When he reached the duplex, he hesitated for a split second before ringing the bell. As he lifted his hand to do so the door suddenly opened and he found himself staring into Ann Donovan's pleasant Irish face.

"Good evening, Mr. O'Neill," she said, stepping back to let him enter. "It's nice to see you."

"h.e.l.lo, Ann, it's nice to see you too." He walked in, closed the door behind him, shrugged out'of his overcoat.

"You're looking well."

Ann took his coat. "Thank you, and so are you, Mr. O'Neill." She turned "to the coat closet, and added,

"Miss Paula's waiting for you in the den."

But she wasn't. She was walking across the s.p.a.cious hall toward him, a bright smile of welcome on her

face.

The impact of seeing her hit him in the pit of his stomach, and the shock sped down to his legs. For a moment he was rooted

to the spot, unable to move or speak. He recovered himself swiftly, stepped forward, the smile on his face growing wider.

"Paula!" he exclaimed, and he was surprised that his voice was steady and perfectly normal.

"You got here in record time, Shane," Paula said. "It's just seven-thirty."

"Not much traffic tonight." His eyes were riveted on her as she drew to a standstill in front of him.