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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

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BOOK: Don't Tempt Me
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It was nearly three weeks following her miscarriage, an early Wednesday evening. Her time was chosen well, calculating as she had that Sloane would be staying in the city at his penthouse, rather than driving out to Westport.
As she carefully dressed, she felt a spark of life she hadn't felt since before her return from Alaska. It was mid-October now. New York was embroiled in an Indian summer such as it hadn't known in years. Temperatures had hovered in the high eighties for two days; on this evening it was warm but comfortable. Though she had put on several pounds during the past weeks, Justine was aware of the loose fit of her sand-hued gabardine slacks, grateful for the pleats in front and the belt at the waist that, cinched in, gave the fitted look she wanted. Her blouse was of soft brown silk, draped easily over her arms, falling softly from her shoulders and breasts to disappear into her pants. Rest had erased the dark smudges from beneath her eyes, as it had eased the lines of tension which had been present when he had last seen her.
Lightly applying dabs of mascara and blusher, she glossed her lips, fluffed her hair, then stood back, eyeing the woman in the mirror with intent scrutiny. Attractive,
yes. Stunning, no. Vulnerable, yes. Confident, no. And very, very apprehensive, without a doubt.
With momentary determination, she cleared her mind of the situations she might face when she finally saw Sloane. She wouldn't take it that far. Every instinct told her that to see him, to talk with him, was imperative, yet what she would say or do was still a mystery to her. Unseen forces drove her on, bidding her gather her purse and keys, take the elevator to the lobby, and slide into the cab which the doorman summoned. It was her voice that issued the address, her hand that fumbled with her wallet as she arrived at her destination, her eyes that spoke of uncertainty as she entered the stately high rise and encountered its security guard.
“Sloane Harper, please,” she said, willing calm.
“Is he expecting you?”
“N—no.”
“Your name?”
“Justine O'Neill.”
With an odd look, the properly attired guard studied her as he mumbled into the mouthpiece of his phone. His expression was hard and impersonal when he faced her directly. “Go on up, Ms. O'Neill. The penthouse.”
“I—I know.” Lowering her eyes, she moved past him to the elevator, doubt growing with every footfall, every step bringing second thoughts. What was she doing here? Should she turn back? What could she say? Perhaps she should run …
Fears nagged at her, confusion assailed her. The elevator skyrocketed her smoothly to the penthouse as her self-possession bottomed out. The door slid open and held for several moments. It had begun its automatic close when she finally stayed it with the touch of her hand. Timidly, she stepped out.
There was one door at the far end of the corridor—a heavy oak-grained door. It was open. Heart lurching, she
began the long walk. Slowly, the doorway came ever closer. In the dimness of the inner hallway she could see nothing. It was as though she were being drawn inexorably to the spot, to the man—as it had always been for her with Sloane.
Reaching the door, she stopped. Was it too late to turn? What would he say? Perhaps he would turn her away. Perhaps he would tell her his love had died. Perhaps he would … be … with another woman …
Gathering herself, Justine fought the demon of fear within her. She knew that she wanted Sloane. Yes, she wanted him in every way imaginable. She wanted him as lover, friend, and—yes—husband. And she was prepared to fight!
All was quiet within. Stepping over the threshold, she closed the door behind her. From the small central hallway her eye gravitated to the large living room beyond. It was decorated handsomely with dark Spanish pieces covered in browns, oranges, and creams. Masculinity was all about, yet there was nothing harsh about the room. Its floors bore a thick patterned carpet; its walls offered paintings and prints of the European theme. The far wall was a floor-to-ceiling window. And before it stood Sloane, his back to her, his hands thrust into the pockets of his tailored slacks.
For a brief instant every doubt, every question, converged on Justine, rendering her knees weak, her limbs trembling. But only for an instant. Then something else took over. A surge of strength, born of determination, surged through her. If she had been thought to be effective in the courtroom, this would be her greatest trial. Whether the conversation now proved to be an opening statement or a closing one would depend, in large part, on how she expressed herself in the next few moments. Fists white-knuckled, she took a step forward, then stopped. For
Sloane turned around and speared her with a look meant to injure.
“What do you want?” he growled malevolently, eyes narrowed, body in a state of coiled readiness. He was the Silver Fox, ready to attack his wounded prey for the final time.
It took every ounce of courage she possessed to keep from cowering from him. He was menacing in his anger, devastating in his very evident disdain. And she was his prey, helpless before him, possessing but one source of defense —her love. On it she relied to give her strength.
Sloane's fury assaulted her head-on. “Why have you come?” he seethed. “I thought we settled everything that had to be settled between us. What is it you want now?”
Dressed in dark linen slacks and a light blue sport shirt, open at the neck and rolled at the cuffs, he was compelling. She recalled the first time she had seen him and knew that this was no different. Even in his anger, she was drawn to him.
“We have to talk, Sloane.”
“We've already talked. What more is there to say?” The force of his attack nearly crumbled her resolve. Only love kept her going.
“I was wrong,” she began softly, then spoke with the conviction she felt. “I was wrong back then. I've made a terrible mistake.”
There was neither gloating nor any other outward sign of triumph in Sloane. His glower persisted; her mind conjured up the image of the fox, teeth bared, ears flat back, ready to lunge given that slightest bit of provocation. But provocation was not what she had in mind. Determinedly she went on.
“You were right. I have gone through life with blinders on regarding things such as marriage, children, happiness. I only knew that I was hurt when I was a child and I would do anything to avoid a repeat of that.” When he said nothing, but merely stared sharply at her, she wondered
if they were beyond the point of reconciliation. Had his love turned to hate so easily? Compulsively, she continued.
“I hadn't planned on falling in love, Sloane. I had dated enough over the years, but things had always petered out before there was any kind of emotional involvement—maybe that's why they did peter out, precisely because of the superficiality of the relationship. When I met you, things were different. Before I even knew what was happening, I was in love with you.”
Dropping her gaze, she studied the design underfoot, blindly tracing its bold lines, trying to gather her thoughts into coherent speech. Sloane was obviously going to be no help to her. She was on her own.
“I'm not sure what I expected to happen after that weekend in Westport. I knew that I loved you, yet I believed that I simply couldn't marry you. You have to understand—I've spent a lifetime vowing to remain unattached. Suddenly, you came along. I couldn't change those long-held beliefs overnight.”
Sloane had not moved during her argument. There was neither a blink nor a flinch; nor was there sign that he intended to react. Justine's eyes felt the harshness of his gaze; against her will, she began to wilt. If it was all for naught, he should just tell her to leave, that he did not love her as he had once.
Hands twisted convulsively at her waist, she felt she could say no more without some sign that he was hearing her. “
Say
something, Sloane,” she finally cried.
Despite the bridled anger which held his features taut, his voice was remarkably steady. “Do you love me, Justine?”
Her eyes filled with hope, then flooded with fear. Was he bent on bringing her to her knees, on total humiliation? Well, she decided, tilting her chin higher, if he was, so be it. He would have the truth from her today.
“Yes. I do love you.”
“Then, what about the baby?” he demanded more vehemently. “If you claim to love me, why didn't you tell me you were carrying my child?”
Justine froze. “How did y—you—”
“The pills, Justine. Do you remember when I saw that bottle of vitamins while we were at the cabin in Alaska? The prescription was given by a Thomas Devane, M.D. When I returned to New York, I looked up the name in the phone book. He was no internist; the letters spelled out obstetrician. And there's one major reason a woman sees an obstetrician—and takes vitamins on prescription.”
As he talked, Justine saw his anger mix with hurt. In her own shock at his awareness of her condition, she might have missed it, had it not been for the uncharacteristic luminescence of his dark, dark eyes.
Defensively, she turned, but he was close behind her with one fluid step. “Why didn't you tell me? It was my child, too. I had a right to know.”
He had used the past tense; obviously he knew of her miscarriage. “You know I lost the baby?” she asked in a whisper, wrenched again by the loss.
“Yes. I had called the doctor to make sure you were well. I left my name and number with him. He was kind enough to call me when you miscarried.” Again, she flinched, but Sloane was wrapped up in his own turmoil. “At least
he
agreed that I should know.”
Justine whirled around to face the charge he made. His towering height, crowned with sparkling silver, nearly robbed her of breath. Gasping loudly, she caught herself.
“I couldn't tell you. You had asked me to marry you—I knew that you wanted marriage. I was frightened that—if you knew I was pregnant—you might use the child as a bargaining point. Don't you see? I was against marriage to begin with. And to enter into it—or be coerced into it—for the sake of a child would have been even worse!”
Her voice had risen sharply. Now, she lowered it, recalling that particular time when she had discovered she was pregnant.
Avoiding his gaze, she forced herself onward, determined to tell the whole truth. “When I learned I was going to have a baby, we were only on businesslike terms. It was soon after you had manipulated my presence on your expedition. We weren't seeing each other in a personal way; I assumed it was over.” Her eyes blurred at the thought; swallowing, she calmed herself enough to allow speech. “The baby became a substitute for you, Sloane. I couldn't have you. You wanted marriage or nothing, and I couldn't choose marriage. You have no idea how happy I was at the thought of having you—through your child—to live with always.”
At that point, given the poignant truth she had just confessed, Justine knew that, if she hadn't reached Sloane yet, she never would. Her heart lurched when she looked up to see the lingering anger in his face. Cringing instinctively, she wrapped her arms about her and withdrew into herself. It was too late. There was no point in torturing herself further at the hand of his disdain. Turning to leave, his voice stopped her. Hurt had now superseded anger in his tone.
“You say you love me, yet you wouldn't share the joy of a growing child with me. What about Tony? You had no qualms about calling
him
to your bedside!”
An instant flashback to that evening in the hospital brought the blurred image of Sloane to her mind. At the time she had thought it her imagination. It seemed she was wrong. “So it
was
you at the door to my room … ?” she asked in soft wonder.
“That was quite a scene!” His nostrils flared, the grooves by his mouth deepened with his grimace. “One man comforting you on the loss of another man's child … !”
The first buds of hope sprung to life within her heart. If his hurt was spawned by jealousy, there was perhaps something to salvage after all. A tremulous smile toyed with her lips. “You were jealous,” she stated in a soft whisper.
His answering boom shook her. “You're damned right I was jealous! And hurt. And angry.
I
should have been there with you, Justine. It was
my
child—
my
loss as well as yours. Not this fellow Tony—”
“You're wrong there, Sloane. Tony felt the loss deeply. That baby would have been a blood relative of his.” At the mask of bewilderment that covered Sloane's face, she quickly explained. “Tony is my brother.”
His retort was fast and sharp. “You said you had
no
siblings—”
“He's my
half
brother. He was born when I was six.”
Bewilderment had turned to simple confusion as Sloane tried to put together the pieces of the jigsaw before him. “But, your parents were not divorced until you were nine. Tony was born …
before?”
“Yes. The relationship between my parents was impossible. My father met and fell in love with another woman long before the divorce. That was one reason why it was so messy. Tony was born out of wedlock; my father married his mother when he was four.”
For the first time there was genuine softening in Sloane's demeanor. “Did you know about … all this … when you were a child?”
She shook her head, sending ripples through the strawberry-blond curls which fell to her shoulders. “I met Tony for the first time when I was in college. He sought me out, on my father's instructions—though I didn't know that part until just recently. I never asked many questions of him; nor did he of me. We seemed to recognize a personal bond and clung to it as we became good friends. I knew nothing of his childhood until after the miscarriage … when we had it all out.” She blushed. “He set me straight on a lot of things.”
Sloane's attention was now fully hers. “Such as … ?”
This was the crux of her folly, the hardest part for her to accept. Pride swallowed, however, she forced herself to confess her ignorance. Wandering around his rigid figure, she approached the window, where the play of the evening lights of the city soothed her.
“Such as the fact that there was no love between my parents from the start,” she began softly. “Such as the fact that theirs was simply a marriage of convenience gone wrong. Such as the fact that my father is a warm and caring man.” Hesitating, she looked up. “I went to see him, Sloane.”
“Your father?”
“Yes. I flew out to Montana last week. I felt it was something I had to do. I had to know the truth. Twenty-one years is a long time to live a misunderstanding. And if I hoped to start over with a clean slate …”
Her thoughts had been on her relationship with Sloane; his were still on her father. “What was his reaction to seeing you?”
Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she refused to lower them. “He was … stunned … then thrilled. It was … as though I'd given him the most precious gift …” Recalling her father's open show of emotion, one tear escaped at the corner of her eye. “We spent the week together, just getting to know one another. He is much as Tony said he was. I liked him.” She paused for a deep breath. “And … I can believe that Tony did grow up in a home filled with love.”
The air was quiet between them. Justine lowered her gaze to the floor. But there was more to her confession, words that could be held in no longer. “Tony said many of the same things you did, Sloane—that I've allowed my
life to be shaped by misconceptions and misbeliefs—ideas that
I'd
chosen to accept as gospel. I've always prided myself on being right. Clear sighted. It's difficult to face the fact that I've been blinded all these years.” She hung her head in humiliation, suddenly drained of spirit. It was Sloane's turn. If there was any future for them, he would have to help her now. Slowly, she turned and looked up at him. “I was wrong, Sloane. So wrong.”
Above her was a face filled with similar sorrow and regret. Misinterpreting it, she began to tremble. But he raised his hands tentatively to her shoulders. His hold was light; its unsureness frightened her further.
“Your
brother?”
he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. “
Damn!
I've been sick with jealousy! I thought you had lied to me—about other men in your life, about our love. I even thought …”—he faltered, his words tinged with self-reproach—“ … that the D and C was … that you … that you had wanted to …”
As the gist of his accusation hit home, Justine's tenuous composure snapped. Tears filled her eyes as she pulled away from him, shaking uncontrollably. “How
could
you think that? I
wanted
that baby! More than anything at the time,
I wanted that baby
!” Her sobs mingled with cries. “I
needed
that child, Sloane. If I couldn't have you, I needed
it!”
All sound was choked off as she wept against her hands. Her resistance was down when Sloane came to hold her, drawing her quivering body against him.
“We'll have another, sweetheart. We will. I promise you that.”
It took several moments for his promise to reach her consciousness. Was the implication there? Did he still love her? Hands splayed against the firm warmth of his chest, she raised her tear-streaked face toward his. “Do you—can you—forgive me for my stupidity? For my stubbornness?”
The glow of love in his eyes, a sight she had seen before
—in Westport, in Alaska—and cherished, surged into her with its heart-talk. “Love forgives all, Justine. And I love you. Never forget that.” His lips lowered to touch hers, gently and sweetly, in slow reaquaintance. It was short but potent, a harbinger of all the fire to come. He was fully serious when he studied her face once more, searching and probing for the final solution.
BOOK: Don't Tempt Me
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