The Lady and the Lion (3 page)

But they did want to talk to her. Oh, yes. They talked as if a dam had burst. They spilled out words in a torrent tending to stare at her while doing so, telling her things she had no right to know. That was the "asset" her father appreciated so much. Even men with high security clearances who certainly should have known better told her things they shouldn't.

To impress her, according to her father.

Her quiet balcony-neighbor had been right; her father was using her to further his own ambitions. Perhaps she'd feel differently about her talent if it were important in her own career or project to be able to glean information—but she doubted it. Seldom willing to hide her own motives or intelligence for any reason, she was unlikely to choose a career that demanded an ability to interrogate or dissemble.

So what
did
she want to do with her life?
A tricky question—especially for a woman of twenty-eight who should have made her choice long ago.

The answer came to her that night as she lay awake in bed, drifted into her mind and settled firmly. She wanted a simple life.
Love, a home, children.

She had grown up in a lifestyle so many people seemed to think was glamorous.
The expensive schools, living and vacationing in exotic places, wealth.
She had worn jewels and designer gowns, sailed on yachts, flown in private jets. She had, quite literally, danced with princes.

But she had never felt she quite belonged in that life. More comfortable with her hair loose and her face free of makeup, wearing jeans or sweatpants, she had turned herself into a part-time lady to please her father. Now, tying awake in her quiet bedroom, she knew it had been a loving gesture that had backfired. She could be a part-time lady, but she could never replace her mother and she couldn't go on submerging so much of herself out of guilt.

She wanted a home and family. She wanted a simple life. She wanted to paint.

That last was so surprising a thought that she actually caught her breath.
Paint?
Well, sure, she'd painted in school; in fact, her art teacher had said she was quite good. But she'd never been conscious of the desire to go on with it. Had she?

Erin let the tantalizing thought follow her into sleep, quite wary of making a quick—and possibly wrong—choice.

She woke up around four and ordered coffee and juice sent up, grateful for twenty-four-hour room service that delivered her order promptly. It helped her to be awake and clear-minded when she called London a few minutes later. The call went through quickly, and she kept her voice calm and casual when she greeted her father.

"Hi, Dad."
Characteristically, her father had more important things on his mind than a polite greeting.

"Erin, I can't find next month's schedule. Where on earth did you put it?"

"It's in the center drawer of your desk." she answered automatically. "Dad—"

"They want me in Turkey in six weeks. Burleigh's retiring, and I'm to fill the post for at least a year. It means packing up and moving again, but there shouldn't be a problem, you've gotten quite good at it. The residence is furnished, of course—"

"Dad."
Erin drew a deep breath. "I won't be going with you, to Turkey or anywhere else."

"Nonsense, of course you will." Richard Fane Prentice, Earl of Westford and the ambassador Britain chose to utilize for temporary duty in sensitive areas of the globe, sounded merely impatient. "There's a great deal to do, Erin, so you'd better come home right away."

"No," she said softly.

Silence, utter and astounded, greeted that simple word.

Erin took another breath. "Dad, I didn't choose a diplomatic career. You did. It's your life we're talking about, not mine. I have to live my life. I'm not even sure I want to stay in England. I've always felt more at home in the States." She hesitated. "I'm a coward to tell you like this, I know, but I just didn't know how to say it. I don't want to hurt you, or disappoint you, and I don't want us to fight—"

"Erin, what are you talking about?"

She winced at the grimness she heard in his voice, and forced herself not to weaken. "I'm talking about choices. I have to make my own, Dad. I have a lot of thinking to do, but I know that the one choice I won't make is to fit myself into your life because that's where you want me to be. I'm sorry."

"Come home," he said quietly. "We obviously need to talk, and not like this."

She managed a faint laugh. "No, I'm not brave enough to come home just yet. The habit of doing what you want is too strong. Besides, I know you'll ask questions—and I don't have all the answers. I will, but I need time to myself to find them."

"Erin, we have to talk about this."

"Yes.
But not just now.
I only wanted to tell you that I won't be coming home today—or in two weeks. I'm going to stay here for a while. Maybe go up to New England and visit Mother's family. And I won't be calling every morning. Your secretary isn't hopeless, Dad, and you aren't nearly as absent-minded as you think; you don't need me to keep your life in order."

He was silent.

There was a great deal Erin would have to tell him eventually. As he'd said, they needed to talk face to face. But even though she'd managed to say more than she had expected to be able to, she wasn't yet ready to confront the problems head-on. She'd given him something to think about, and that was enough for now.

"I'll call you in a few days."

"Erin—"

"In a few days.
Dad.
I love you. Bye." She cradled the receiver and stared at the phone for a few moments, feeling that a weight had eased even if it hadn't completely disappeared. She wasn't sure her father would patiently wait until she decided to call him again, but she hoped he would. And she brushed aside the faint pang of guilt she felt at having hit him with this just when he was preparing to take on a new assignment. Where her father was concerned, there would never be a "right" time, she knew.

She rose from the edge of the bed before she realized where she was going, but wasn't very surprised that her steps led her directly to the balcony doors.
He
had given her the courage to begin confronting her problems, and she wanted to tell him that. She opened the French doors and went out into the cool darkness.

He wasn't there. She knew. She felt it. There was an absence,
an emptiness
on the other side of the security screen. Still, distrusting her own senses, she couldn't help but ask softly, "Are you there?"

Silence, except for the muted sound of the waves below.

Disappointment and an odd sense of hurt swept over her, and Erin chided herself for the feelings. What was wrong with her? It wasn't as if they had an appointment out here, or that she could expect anything at all from him.

"Idiot," she muttered to herself. Maybe he'd gone straight to bed, tired after work. Or maybe his job had ended and he'd checked out of the hotel.

He was a stranger, after all.
Just a quiet voice in the darkness that had eased her anxiety and shown her the right path to take.
She didn't know him. Not his name. Not even what he looked like. And why did he matter to her? It was ridiculous. She'd
wanted
no demands, no obligations or expectations, and here she was upset because he wasn't where she'd expected him to be, where she wanted him to be.

She reminded herself of all that. But she waited. The eastern horizon lightened, graying toward dawn. The first purple and pink tendrils of light turned red and then gold. The sun peeked over the rim of the ocean cautiously, then lifted, finally, to announce a new day.

He didn't come.

Keith hadn't expected it to be so difficult. He'd told himself firmly he wouldn't go out onto the balcony the third morning, and he managed not to. Instead, he had remained in his sitting room, gazing at the balcony doors, watching the dawn from that silent, lonely vantage point. When he finally went to bed, he didn't sleep well.

His first clear thought on waking in the afternoon was of her. He wondered if she'd called the man in her life, if she was still worried. He wanted to know those answers with an anxiety that unnerved him—and made him angry. What on earth was wrong with him? For months, he'd been single-minded to the point of obsession, all his thoughts and determination, all his emotions, fixed immovably on the plans he had so cautiously put into motion.

And now...
He was so close he could almost feel hot breath on the back of his neck, the end of it all finally in
sight,
and at the very point when he most needed every thread of his concentration he couldn't get this woman out of his mind.

Dangerous wasn't the word for it.

He didn't know what it meant, this fixation on a woman whose name he didn't know, whose face he'd never seen. The timing couldn't have been
worse,
he didn't like what was happening to him. He didn't like it because he couldn't seem to control it.

Keith left the hotel earlier than usual and went to the marina, becoming that other man because
he
was untroubled by a sweet voice on a dark balcony, by unfamiliar feelings and troubling thoughts. The man who called himself Duncan wore his expensive silk suits, diamond rings, and Rolex with careless assurance and laughed often, though his eyes remained hard and enigmatic. Duncan owned a boat named
Ladama
and a Lear jet, both with Colombian registry. Almost every night he threw a party on his boat, one glittering affair after another where only the best food and wine were served.

But no drugs.
Duncan had told Guy Wellman, a wealthy and powerful businessman who'd attended last night's party, that it wasn't wise for a man such as himself to let it
be
known he had access to drugs. Not wise at all. There was no need to advertise the fact and invite inconvenient attention from the law, he'd said with a laugh.

On this evening, at a small, rented apartment halfway between his hotel and the boat, Keith became Duncan, slipping into the skin of his alter ego with the ease of nightly practice, and thoroughly submerging his own personality. He moved among his guests when they arrived at the boat, expertly nursing one drink while giving the appearance of drinking a great deal, talking to everyone without saying anything of importance, his reckless laugh heard often. As the night wore on he became, outwardly, even more careless, betting and losing ten thousand dollars on a single throw of a pair of undoubtedly loaded dice one of his guests produced, and paying his losses blithely.

No one could have guessed he was playing a carefully constructed role, and certainly no one could have looked beneath that glittering shell to the fury, bitterness, and grief that had marked its creation.

It was near midnight when Guy Wellman arrived at the boat, bringing with him a man "Duncan" had requested to meet. The party was incredibly noisy by then, the introduction almost shouted, but Keith heard it clearly. Offering his hand to Vincent Arturo, he cordially greeted the man who had destroyed his family.

At four A.M. Keith let
himself
into the silent hotel suite. Guided only by the faint bedside lamp, he made his way through the sitting room to his bedroom, where he undressed. He took a long, hot shower, washing away the remains of that skin he wore nightly and its taint of smoke and corruption. When he at last felt reasonably clean, he donned a robe and went out into the dark sitting room.

He found a bottle of juice in the suite's wet bar, drinking from it as he sat down in a chair and tried to unwind. His gaze strayed to the closed balcony doors, but he was so tired, so utterly bone weary that he couldn't even swear at himself.

And there was, besides, something else. During this long, tense night, he had realized just how fragile his hold on sanity was. He had politely greeted a man he wanted to strangle with his bare hands, and in that moment he had known how terribly easy it would be to give in to the rage. It wasn't the way he wanted his justice, not with blood on his hands. The urge to release his savage emotions had shaken him badly.

He'd been so close to killing in fury with his own hands that, even now, he wasn't sure what had stopped him. He was even less sure that whatever it had been would stop him next time.

Keith stared at the balcony doors, seeing what he didn't want to see and understanding. He needed an anchor, something to hold him centered when all the wild emotions yanked at him. He hadn't planned for it, hadn't realized it would be necessary. But it was
,
he saw now. Too much alone in this, too disconnected, he needed a reminder of sanity to keep him from making the all-too-easy step over the edge.

It wouldn't take much to pull him back, he thought. Not much.
A sweet voice in the darkness talking of sane things, a soft laugh, the whisper of silk.
A distraction, yes, but one this side of madness, to keep him rooted here. He knew it was dangerous, but the greater danger lay in what he might do if he forgot what peace and pleasure felt like.

She probably wouldn't be there, he thought. She'd probably checked out and gone home, back to the man who wanted her to be with him. The gentleness in her voice as much as her words had told Keith she would go a long way to avoid hurting anyone deliberately.

And tonight, he had felt the urge to kill.

He got up and set the empty juice bottle aside, crossing the room to the balcony doors and opening them. He went out into the cool darkness and settled onto the chaise, looking straight ahead without seeing, but listening intently. And as soon as he heard her, he spoke.

"Good morning."

"Good morning," she responded a bit breathlessly. "I thought you must have gone. Yesterday, I mean."

Keith rested his head back against the chaise, feeling his tense muscles begin to unknot. "No. there was... something I had to do."
I had to stay away from you. But I can't.

"You sound tired," she said, the concern in her voice obvious.