Forster, Suzanne (46 page)

"But that's not possible."

"It's not only possible, I saw it with my own eyes. I was conscious the whole time. It was your car that hit me. "

"But I was at a meeting, and I
drove
my car there."

He nodded, his laughter cynical. "Someone stole it, right? Is that the story? Someone stole your car and ran me down with it to make it look like you did it?"

"No one stole my car!" She walked to the window and looked out. The parking lot seven stories below was nearly full now, but it hadn't been when she'd arrived late last night. The Mercedes was parked up front without a scratch on it, or at least nothing that could be seen from this distance.

"Come and look," she told him. "My car's where I parked it last night when I got here, and that was
after
you'd been hit. The car would be dented if I'd been in the kind of hit-and-run you're describing, wouldn't it? Badly dented. You'd be able to see the damage even from here. Look. "

He struggled out of the bed, determination apparently overcoming any weakness he might have felt. He was wearing one of those embarrassing hospital gowns that fasten in the back, and this one was definitely too small for his large frame, but he didn't seem self-conscious in the slightest, even with Gus staring as she was at the considerable exposure of his strong, sinewy legs.

His grimace told her he probably had a few taped ribs in addition to his other injuries. Painful, but not serious. A sigh released inside her, all the stronger for its having been held back so long. God, how he'd frightened her.

She stepped back, giving him plenty of room as he approached the window. She didn't want to crowd him in any way. Even with his injuries, she was sure he could be dangerous given his present state of mind. She could hardly forget that he himself had once warned her that she shouldn't have made the mistake of leaving him alive in the snakepit.

He looked out the window, silent and pensive as he stared at the car. She could almost see his mind whirring, trying to make sense of what had happened. How could her car be parked outside, undamaged, if it was the same car that had run him down? He'd believed it was her and apparently steeled himself to that horrible reality, despite everything that had happened between them the last few days. She could hardly blame him, given her other attempts on his life—and what he swore he'd seen... her red Mercedes.

"I didn't do it, " she said, barely getting the words out. "J-Jack, I didn't. How can I make you believe me?"

He turned to her, distrust still smoldering in his features. The icy contempt she'd seen was banked now, overridden by the questions in his dark eyes, but it was there. He was torn, she could tell. He didn't want to believe her. It was probably easier not to, then he could justify whatever revenge he meant to take. He could go after the Featherstones and take them all down, her included. If he wanted to brutalize her alone, he could turn her over to the law with equanimity—

She met his questioning gaze with one of her own. "If the police believe it was me, why haven't they questioned me? No one's spoken to me or looked at the car. I've been here since last night—"

"The police don't know," he said brusquely. "I told them it happened too fast, that I couldn't I. D. the car. I just wanted to see what your reaction would be. "

So he'd had doubts that it
was
her; otherwise he would have reported her. "Did I pass the test?" she asked him.

"What the hell is going on, Gus?" He flared angrily and moved toward her, but stopped short of touching her. "Who's trying to kill me? If it isn't you, then who?"

Gus could think of any number of people who might want him dead, including her ex-fiancé and almost everyone else in the immediate Featherstone circle, with the single exception of Bridget. She also knew of someone outside the circle who might pose a threat to him. She'd come here to warn him about that, but she couldn't do it just yet, because he wasn't going to like her news. Of that she was certain.

"I can't imagine that you're without enemies," she said, softening her voice. "You've told me what you do for a living, and I don't mean security systems. " She meant killing people. He had told her that.

He slumped back against the windowsill as if exhausted. He probably shouldn't be out of bed, she realized, and she would have offered to help him back if she thought there was any chance he'd accept. Gazing at the rather endearing spectacle he made—a big, ruggedly handsome guy in a little bitty hospital gown—she felt a sigh of despair building. Her whole body trembled inwardly as she realized what she had yet to do. This was the lousiest possible timing, but she had no choice. There was something she had to tell him, something earth-shaking that had nothing to do with his car accident, and it couldn't wait any longer.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" She pointed out the chair alongside his bed. "Can I get that for you?"

"I'm fine," he insisted.

But he quite obviously wasn't. His jaw muscles were taut with pain as he studied her, searching her nervousness and noting the way she was mangling her white leather clutch.

"You look about as innocent as a hooker in a police lineup. You're begging me to believe you didn't do it, but I'm having a real hard time with that. "

He focused in on her again, his gaze hardening. "Convince me, Gus. Make me believe you. "

An odd sensuality had crept into his voice, and it abraded her nerves like a wire brush. Her bright red fingernails dug creases in the satin-soft contours of her bag. She was ruining the thing, but she felt as if she would fly apart if she let go of it.

"This isn't about guilt, Jack. There are things I need to tell you, and well... I think it might be a good idea if you sat down. "

He rose instead. "What is it?"

Gus tucked the bag under her arm and began to walk the floor. This was going to be bad, she could feel it. It was going to be worse than bad. There was no way he could possibly be receptive to her news given the situation. She could feel his eyes on her awkward gait and wished she'd had time to change. Her sky-high heels made pacing a challenge, but she was too uneasy to stand still.

"I've seen a... doctor, too, " she said, aware of the hesitation that had snuck into her voice. This time she almost wished it would stop her, that she wouldn't be able to get the rest of it out. But no such luck. "It seems I had a little accident, too, but I didn't know anything for sure until today. "

"Accident? What do you mean?"

For some reason tears welled up as she turned to him. Thank goodness he was across the room. She hoped he couldn't see the way her eyes must be glittering. There was nothing to do but say it, and yet her throat muscles grabbed frantically, and the words burned like acid as she tried to force them out.

"I'm pregnant, " she told him hoarsely.

He stared at her as if she'd spoken in another language and he hadn't understood a word of it. Pain struck Gus's heart as she took in his bewildered expression. She had imagined so many different reactions. This was not one of them.

"I'm going to have a baby, Jack. I—we—"

"P-pregnant?" The word came out cold and incredulous. She nodded. "A... bah... a baby?"

Now she could talk and he couldn't? Someone upstairs had a cruel sense of humor, she decided. His gaze was running up and down her body as if he were searching for evidence, and all the time he was shaking his head. Clearly this was not good news to him, she realized, and stupidly, she must have wanted to think it would be. But why? Because he'd carved her name in a heart on a tree? Apparently that one decidedly childish form of endearment had made her think that he cared, that he might want her enough to want her baby, too, especially if it were his child.

How perfectly absurd of her.

She drew in a deep breath, trying to calm herself. But her heart hurt so fiercely it might as well have been her flesh he'd carved instead of the tree. Too many TV commercials, Gus! Too many pregnancy test ads where the husband beams like a demented idiot and takes the little wife and mother-to-be into his arms. Too many Pampers ads,
too many ridiculously romantic, happily-ever-after fairy tales!

"I don't see how—"

"There's no mistake. " She cut him off indignantly. "I'm pregnant, and it's your child. I haven't been with anyone else. "

"When did that happen? We only made love two nights ago. "

"We made love in the desert, too, in the shower. Or have you forgotten?"

"Not likely, but I didn't—"

She looked at him accusingly, then added one pithy word. "Leakage."

He raised his hand, then dropped it helplessly. "Jesus, I do need to sit down. " He walked stiffly to the chair that sat alongside his bed and collapsed into its creaky vinyl contours. "How long have you known?" he asked.

Gus had expected surprise, even shock, but nothing like this. All the blood had drained from his face, and he seemed totally thunderstruck, almost unable to conceive of the idea.
Conceive.
Unfortunate choice of words, she thought.

"I didn't know," she said, "not for sure. I thought there might be a chance, and it was time for a check-up anyway, so I went in—"

"A baby?" he muttered under his breath. "Christ, what a sick joke this is."

Gus stared at him in horror, unable to comprehend how he could have said such a brutal thing. She was gripped with the urge to fly at him, to slap him! But he didn't even seem to be aware of her presence. He was shaking his head as if he didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"You bastard," she breathed. She couldn't stop herself. It spewed out of her like venom.
"You're
the sick joke. "

He looked up at her, his eyes still wild and disbelieving. It was the reaction she would have expected if she'd admitted that it was she who tried to run him down. In some way that Gus couldn't understand, this seemed a worse betrayal to him. It was easier for him to deal with the possibility that she'd tried to run him over than to find out she was pregnant with his child. A bitter taste seared the lining of her mouth as she attempted to swallow. It was anger mixed with scalding hurt. Her eyes brimmed with tears, and she shook her head, realizing she'd totally misjudged the situation.

She never should have told him. She should have done something—anything!—taken care of it herself, gone to a clinic. What an idiot she'd been wanting to share it with him, thinking that they would come to a decision together. Her mistake. A terrible mistake.

"I'll handle this myself, " she said, turning away from him. The door to his room might as well have been at the other end of the earth. She would never make it, it seemed so far away. She'd also come here to warn him and to confess that she'd done something stupid which might have endangered him. But none of that seemed to matter now. It was all connected to some distant, nebulous situation that had nothing to
Co
with the acid searing its way down her windpipe when she tried to breathe. She had said all she could say. There wasn't another word left in her that her stunned heart could muster or her lips could manage.

Chapter 25

"So is he
reeeeally
all right? Are you sure, Gus? Did you talk to him? Wha'd he say?" Bridget was lying on her back on Gus's bedroom floor, her slippered feet propped up against the arm of the overstuffed chair. Garbed in her usual pink leotard and tights, she was exploring the mysteries of Gus's sacred Cinderella music box. Lying on its back right beside her was the hippo Jack had bought her.

"He's fine,
Bridge. We've already established that. " Gus didn't know how else to discourage the child other than to be short and sharp with her answers. Bridget had been clamoring for information all evening about the man Gus most wanted to forget. But Gus wasn't prepared to explain any of that to the child, not just yet. She couldn't. She was in far too much turmoil. She could hardly breathe for it. She could scarcely think.

If there were razor blades in her voice, it was because those same blades were cutting their way into her heart, flashing and bright as diamonds. The nicks and lacerations were as fresh and tender as those on his face.
His
face. God, the very thought of Jack Culhane brought outrage.

Curled up in the matching overstuffed chair, Gus was furiously determined to concentrate on the limited partnership agreement she would be entering into with investors in the magazine. She'd had the family lawyer draw it up, but she wanted to be totally conversant with the provisions before she sat down to any discussion. She was determined to be taken seriously, but God help her, she'd been rereading this first clause for an hour and she still didn't know what it meant. She couldn't concentrate on anything. The bitter hurt she felt kept welling up, bringing her thoughts back to him.

"Why didn't you bring him home?" Bridget pressed on, undaunted. "I mean if he was fine, he should've come home with you, right? Are you sure he was fine? That car really creamed him, Gus. I thought he was dead for sure. Did they ever find the person who did it?"

"Bridget—" Gus was struggling mightily to be patient. Her niece had been traumatized by what she'd seen, and the child needed lots of reassurance, not only about Jack's physical condition, but about whether or not he was coming back. But Gus couldn't bring herself to pretend that everything was going to be all right, not even for Bridget's sake. Her emotions had turned on her. They were cutting her to pieces. Tomorrow, she told herself. By tomorrow some of this craziness would have subsided and she and Bridget could talk. "Isn't it bedtime, kiddo?"

"Not even close. I've got another hour to go. "

The bell-like chimes of the music box made Gus flinch. It was the theme from the Disney movie, and she could hardly believe that there was a time when she'd listened to it for hour upon hour, dreaming and yearning right along with Cinderella. Even a six-year-old should have known better!
Some day my prince will come?
If that wasn't the silliest piece of romantic crap she'd ever heard in her life, she didn't know what was. Whoever'd written the thing ought to be sued for putting that notion into young girls' heads! Normally she wouldn't have let Bridget play with the music box, but tonight it had seemed important to distract her.