Heart of Winter (27 page)

“If you're drinking warm milk,” she observed, “it's probably spiked.”

He chuckled softly. “Probably.”

They managed a companionable silence the rest of the way back to her apartment. It wasn't until they went up in the elevator that he broke it.

“Do you like to bowl?” he asked.

She laughed. “I like to try,” she admitted. “Most of the time the ball goes down the alley.”

“I'll teach you,” he told her. “All it takes is the right technique and a little practice.”

“I'd like that,” she said, smiling up at him.

He searched her soft green eyes and scowled as they left the elevator and walked down the carpeted hall to her door.

“Is something wrong?” she asked, when they reached her apartment.

He rammed his hands in his pockets and sighed heavily. “Time,” he said, sketching her face with restless eyes.

“Time?” she prompted.

“You need to be spending yours with a younger man,” he said.

“I thought I was,” she replied, darting a mischievous glance up at him.

He shook his head. “It's only a matter of time before someone mistakes me for your father.”

“Only if I wear roller skates and braid my hair,” she assured him.

He reached out a big hand and touched her cheek lightly. “Are you sure?” he asked.

Her face went solemn. “Am I too young for you?” she asked gently. “I know so little…”

“That makes you a novelty in my life,” he replied. He pulled at a lock of her long, dark hair. “I know very little of innocence. My wife was far from being a novice when I married her. And I wouldn't have married her if Candy hadn't been on the way.”

“What a lovely name,” she murmured.

“She was a lovely little girl,” he replied quietly. His dark eyes clouded.

Her fingers went up to touch his chiseled mouth. “You've never talked about it, have you? Not once. Not to anyone.”

“You read me very well, little one,” he told her, catching her soft fingers to press them against the hard lines of his cheek. “No, I haven't talked about it. But I think I could, with you.”

“I'm flattered.”

“It's not flattery.” He drew her palm to his mouth, and she felt the warm excitement of his lips against its softness, running through her like electricity.

She could smell the clean, tangy scent of his skin as the action brought his dark head closer. She felt her heart storming against the walls of her chest. He affected her as no man ever had. Everything about him attracted her; the bigness of him, the dark masculinity, even the scent of his cologne. She wanted with all her might to reach up and bring that hard mouth down against her lips.

He looked up and saw the expression in her face, and something seemed to explode in his dark eyes.

“Don't tempt me, honey,” he said in a soft, deep tone. “If I start kissing you right now, there won't be any stopping me.”

She flushed. “I wasn't…” she protested weakly.

His dark eyes sparkled wickedly. “Weren't you?” he teased.

She lowered her eyes to the heavy rise and fall of his massive chest, hating her inherent shyness.

“Don't be embarrassed,” he said gently, and she felt his fingers lightly touching her hair. “Delicious things happen when I touch you. You'll never know what it cost me to walk away from you that day at the farm.”

She smiled at the carpet. “I felt terrible,” she murmured. “I didn't sleep for two nights, and I was sure you hated me.”

“You do inspire violent emotions, little one,” he said wryly, “but hatred isn't one of them. Not for me.” He sighed, leaning his forearms over her slender shoulders. “I knew you weren't sophisticated, but that innocence—I thought it was more a pose than anything else, and I indulged you. But the way you responded to me…”

She lowered her eyes to the steady rise and fall of his massive chest. “I've got a mental block about sleeping with men,” she admitted quietly. “I believe in forever afters.”

“And probably, unicorns,” he teased lightly. “I'll be honest, Carla, I've tried marriage and I find little to recommend it. I enjoy my freedom.”

“And the women that go with it,” she said with a wry glance.

He looked vaguely uncomfortable. “Do you want to know something irritating, little girl? I haven't had a woman since the night of that cocktail party.”

She flushed at the frank statement. “Lack of opportunity?” she asked breathlessly.

“Lack of interest,” he replied. His heavy brows drew together in a scowl. “I want you. No one else.”

“Bryan, I'm sorry…”

He laughed mirthlessly. “God deliver me from innocence,” he said in a gruff undertone. “It may be gold floss to fiction writers, but it's hell on a man's appetite.”

She felt her temper catching fire and abruptly she jerked away from him, opening her door. She stood just inside it, her pale green eyes flaring up as they met his puzzled glance.

“Let's just say good-night, and goodbye, and it's been fun,” she said tightly. “I'm dreadfully sorry I leave a bad taste in your mouth, but I want more out of life than one night in a man's bed! Good night!”

She slammed the door and locked it, leaning her hot forehead against it tearfully, feeling its coolness drain some of the heat away. There was no sound outside in the hall for several seconds. Then there was a harsh, muffled curse and the sound of heavy footsteps dying away. Tears welled up and overflowed in her eyes, dribbling down her cheeks and into the corner of her mouth.

I hate him, she thought raggedly. Her eyes closed tightly. I hate him so much…

An ache made her chest feel hollow as the sobs racked her slender body. A picture of his dark, handsome face floated around in her mind as she went to change clothes. It haunted her like an attractive, persistent ghost.

She did hate him—she did! Her even white teeth chewed on her lower lip as she stripped off the dress and exchanged it for a flowing gold and green patterned caftan. He didn't care a jot for her pale dreams of a home and children and a man to share with. He simply wanted her body—probably because it was the first that had been refused him.

The tears started again. She wiped them away with a vicious hand and went back into the living room. She didn't normally drink, but there was about two inches of wine in an old bottle in the cupboard, and she sloshed it into a juice glass and threw it down her throat. It stung pleasantly, giving her heartburn.

“Story of my life,” she muttered, “cure's worse than the ailment.”

She poured a glass of milk and washed the wine down with that, idly contemplating ways she could get even with Bryan Moreland. All of them seemed to end with her in his arms.

Her face went hot at the memory of the last time she'd been there, of a pleasure so intense it hurt. The touch of his hands, his mouth, the sight of his dark, quiet face above her with a strange glow in the orange firelight.

“Oh, God, I love you,” she whispered shakily, her eyes closed as she saw him again and again in her mind. “I love you so.”

The sound of her own voice sobered her, especially when she realized with a start what she'd been muttering. It shocked her so that she didn't hear the telephone until its third insistent ring.

Her heart jumped impatiently as she picked it up, hoping to hear Moreland's deep, slow voice on the other end. But it wasn't him. It was her informer.

“I just wanted to see what you'd come up with,” Daniel Brown said lightly. “I hadn't heard anything from you lately.”

“I'm still working on it,” she said, aware in her heart that she hadn't really been working on it very hard. Part of her was terrified that Bryan Moreland just might be mixed up in the land deal.

“I know someone who can get you a copy of those financial records, if that's the impasse,” he said. “By tomorrow morning, if you like. I could meet you in that little coffee shop on the mall.”

“It wouldn't involve a break-in, would it, Dan?” she asked quickly. “Our lawyers would frown…”

“I've got a girl friend at city hall,” he interrupted. “She'll do it for me. Well?”

She swallowed. “I'd appreciate any help you could get me,” she said finally. She was hurting so much from the confrontation with Moreland that very little of the conversation was registering in her mind.

“I hope you're not getting too involved with His Honor,” he added suddenly. “He's in it up to his thick neck, and I can get proof of that, too.”

Her face went white. “What kind of proof?” she asked in a voice far calmer than she felt inside.

“How about a check for one hundred thousand dollars, made out to him, signed by James White?” he asked smugly.

She felt her heart stop, and for one long, insane instant she wondered if it would ever start again. “For what?” she managed.

“His share of the kickback, of course,” Brown replied. “Moreland, White and King are all in it together. It was White's land. He had his agent, King, propose it to Moreland for the airport at a two-hundred percent profit, and Moreland buffaloed it over the City Council. It was worth about one-third of what the city paid for it, and one third is what the city got. The rest of it was split among the three men. White got the city's actual cost, plus a few thousand. The rest of it was split between Moreland and King. I'll bring you a photostat of the check, too.”

She twisted the telephone cord round and round her finger. Her voice faltered when she found it. “I'll meet you at the coffee shop at ten-thirty.”

“I'll be there.”

S
he still didn't want to believe it. It didn't sound like Bryan Moreland. He had money—at least, she'd heard that he did, and the farm was big enough to be proof of some kind of independent wealth. And he had integrity. She'd have staked her life on his honesty, his forthrightness. Loving him had nothing to do with that opinion, either. She'd have felt that way if they'd been bitter enemies. She smiled to herself wistfully. After tonight, that might be the truth.

The doorbell sounded in the stillness, and she sighed wearily as she went to answer it. It was probably one of the neighbors….

She opened the door and looked up into a dark, quiet face with lines she hadn't seen before. He looked absolutely worn out.

“Got a cup of coffee?” he asked calmly.

She nodded, feeling her heart shaking her with its sudden, insistent pounding.

She stood back to let him in, pausing long enough to close the door before she led him into the kitchen and poured him a mug of fresh, hot coffee.

He leaned back against the counter to sip it, his dark eyes sliding up and down the caftan appraisingly. “You look very exotic in that,” he remarked casually.

She shrugged. “It's kind of like walking around in a tent,” she replied.

He smiled fleetingly, but the smile didn't reach his solemn eyes. Abruptly he set the cup down and reached for her, slamming her body against his, wrapping her up in his big, warm arms, holding her as though he was afraid she might vanish any second. His lips were against the side of her neck, pressing gently, softly.

She melted into him with a muffled sob, feeling the warmth and strength of his big body with a sense of wonder. Her arms stole inside his jacket and around him, her fingers tracing the hard, rippling muscles of his broad back.

“Damn you,” he whispered in a searing undertone. “I haven't had a minute's peace since I met you.”

“Neither have I,” she said miserably. “Oh, go away, Bryan…!”

“I can't,” he said, drawing back to look down at her with brooding, strange eyes. “You've cast a spell on me.”

A little of her old audacity came back. “That's funny, you don't look like a toad.”

“Don't be funny,” he said, and his face was as hard, as formidable as ever. “I don't feel like laughing right now.”

“What do you feel like?” she asked without thinking.

His eyes narrowed, glittering at her out of his leonine face. “Like picking you up and throwing you down on the nearest bed,” he said harshly. “Not for one lousy night, but every night for the rest of my life.”

She stared at him as if she wasn't sure she'd heard him. “What do you mean?” she asked softly, afraid of the answer even as she asked the question.

“Don't you know?” he laughed mockingly.

She dropped her gaze to his white shirt. “Bryan…”

He tipped her face up to his descending mouth, and it bit into hers before she could even begin to form a coherent thought. He was rough with her, as if he'd been holding back as long as he could, and his control was wearing thin.

“Open your mouth,” he whispered unsteadily, roughly, his hand tangling in her long, loosened hair, as he pulled her head roughly back onto his shoulder. “Wide, Carla…” he said huskily, his arm crushing her, his kiss deepening intimately, blotting out thought, regret, sanity.

A moan broke from her throat, and he pulled away just enough to search her drowsy, confused eyes. “You see?” he asked in a voice that was deep and slow and not quite steady. “I could make you submit. I don't even have to work at it. I touch you, and your body flares up against mine like a torch.” He brushed his open mouth against her forehead. “You can talk about morality from now until hell freezes over, but if I pressed you, you'd let me have you, Carla. Not because of an uncontrollable desire, but beause you're in love with me.”

She felt the shock run through her body as if she'd touched a live wire. He knew! But how could he, when she'd only just discovered it herself?

He felt the sudden stiffening of her body in his arms and drew back to study her. “Don't panic.”

She swallowed hard. It was unnerving to meet that level, intense gaze. “I…I didn't realize…it showed,” she said weakly.

“You have a very expressive face, little one. It was flashing like a neon sign tonight, even through that burst of temper.” He locked his hands behind her back and swung her lazily back and forth. “I walked around the block twice, muttering to myself, until it suddenly occurred to me that the only reason you were so angry was because you wanted me as much as I wanted you.” He smiled wryly. “Then it stood to reason that you cared too much for a casual fling, and all the puzzle pieces just fell into place. I came back to see if I was right.”

The embarrassment was like a living thing. She felt weighed down by it. “I…it's still an impasse,” she said quietly. “I know you could force me, but I'd hate you.”

He shook his head. “You'd love me,” he corrected. His eyes looked deep into hers. “It would be everything either of us could want, for the rest of our lives.”

“But, desire isn't enough….” she protested weakly.

A corner of his chiseled mouth went up. “Did I neglect to mention that I'm in love with you?”

Tears burned in her eyes, hot and overflowing down onto her flushed cheeks in a tiny flood. He blurred above her.

“Don't,” he whispered. His fingers lightly brushed away the tears.

“It's like coming to life all over again,” she murmured shakily, “after being dead inside. Sunlight…”

“I know.” His lips brushed her wet eyes. “You taste of wine,” he whispered at her mouth. “Trying to drink me out of your system?”

“Umhum,” she murmured. She smiled wistfully. “It didn't work.”

“Liquor won't do it,” he whispered, kissing her softly, possessively. “But a few weeks behind closed doors might. We'll go on the way we have for a little while longer,” he added seriously. “Until you're very sure. But I don't have a doubt in my mind how it's going to end.”

“Neither do I,” she murmured. Her eyes studied the strong, hard lines of his face.

“What are you looking at?” he asked.

“You never seem to really relax, to let go,” she said gently. “I was wondering if you ever do, even with a woman.”

He smiled gently at the expression on her face. “Oh, I let go, all right,” he laughed softly. “Would you like me to show you?”

She lowered her eyes shyly. “I think you'd better go home.”

“I think so, too.” He studied the caftan. “I can't feel anything except skin under that flowing thing, and I'm getting ideas right and left.”

“I wasn't expecting company.”

“But you were hoping, weren't you?” he asked perceptively.

“Yes,” she admitted, her heart in her eyes. “Oh, yes, I was.”

He stopped the words with his hard mouth, kissing her roughly, briefly. “Sleep well. Meet me at the office around twelve, and I'll take you to lunch.”

She blanched, remembering her meeting with Brown, the accusations…but she put them all out of her mind for the time being. She smiled. “I'll be there.”

She didn't sleep for a long time, thinking about the night that had ended so unexpectedly. It was hard to believe that a man like Bryan Moreland could actually be in love with her. She had so little; he had so much. But between them, they seemed to have everything.

Her mouth was still bruised from the pressure of his, her ribs still ached from the embrace that had seemed to crush her. A man couldn't pretend that kind of emotion, she thought dazedly. And to realize that a man she loved could feel that way in return amazed her.

Brown's words came back to haunt her, tearing the delicate fabric of her dreams. Tomorrow, she'd go to meet him, and maybe all his accusations would vanish like nightmares in the daylight. She wouldn't—she couldn't—believe what he'd told her. Bryan Moreland wasn't a crook; she was sure of that. She fell asleep finally, with a picture of Moreland's leonine face in her soft eyes.

 

Daniel Brown was waiting for her in the small coffee shop where she'd arranged to meet him, his long pale fingers nervously clutching the fragile stem of the half-empty wineglass that held what remained of a cup of coffee and a smear of whippped cream. He looked up as she entered, and a relieved expression crossed his face.

She forced a smile she didn't feel and sat down in the chair he pulled out for her.

“Nippy out today, isn't it?” she asked, slipping out of her heavy black coat.

“A little.” He took a quick sip of his coffee. “Can I order something for you?”

“Espresso,” she said.

He gave the waitress her order and sat back down with a heavy sigh.

“Have you got it?” she asked suddenly. Better to have the truth all at once, if it was the truth, than to dig it out a sentence at a time.

But even as she hoped he might not be able to produce that damning evidence, he reached in his pocket and pushed a folded sheaf of photostat copies across the spotless white linen tablecloth at her.

With a hard swallow, she opened the papers with trembling fingers and looked at the first of the copies. Her heart felt suddenly like an anchor in her chest. Her green eyes closed momentarily. It was a check for one hundred thousand dollars, made out to Bryan Moreland, signed by James White. Her gaze flashed to Daniel Brown's curious, wary face.

“I know what you're thinking,” he said unexpectedly. “Look at the second photostat before you say it.”

Puzzled, she turned to the second sheet, and saw what he meant. This photostat was the endorsed back of the check, with Moreland's unmistakable signature.

Dully, she thumbed through the rest of the material. There was a photostat of a page of financial records with the disbursement of five hundred thousand dollars to James White Realty for a tract of land marked airport land purchase. Another sheet was from the tax assessors office, showing the fair market value of the property at one hundred thousand dollars. It was enough, more than enough, to give to the paper's legal staff. In fact, the very obvious overpayment might be enough to make an accusation and prosecute.

“This will destroy Bryan Moreland politically,” she murmured.

“Probably,” came the cool reply. “But the evidence speaks for itself. They were trying to cover up an overpayment of four hundred thousand dollars—of which your aging boyfriend received one-fourth. Explain that, if you can.”

She stared at him, pausing while the waitress put the cup of espresso in front of her. “Now tell me the real reason why you're doing this,” she asked quietly.

He looked taken aback. “I told you already, I…”

Her eyes narrowed. “I know what you
told
me. I want the truth.”

He shrugged, averting his gaze. “All right, maybe I felt like a little revenge. We were in love, you know.”

“You and who?” she persisted.

“Mrs. Moreland, of course,” he said bitterly. “She was much younger than he was, and he treated her like dirt. She was nuts about me.”

Those words haunted her all the way back to the office. Something wasn't quite right, although revenge might be a good motive for helping to nab a crook. But if it wasn't revenge…

When she handed over the photostats to Edwards, he and the legal staff were convinced that they had a blockbuster of a story.

“You've done a damned good job, Carla,” Edwards told her with a rare smile. “I knew you'd pull it off.”

“Brown won't testify, you know,” she said. “And I can't reveal my source by telling where and how I came by those photostats.”

“We'll work that out,” he assured her.

“What if…” she cleared her throat. “What if it's a frame?”

He studied her closely. “You know better than to get involved with a news source.”

She nodded, and smiled bitterly. “You can't imagine how well I've learned that lesson.”

“Go eat something,” he said with a paternal pat on her shoulder. “It will all come right.”

Bill Peck stopped her just as she started out the news-room door. “Want to have lunch with me and talk about it?” he asked with uncharacteristic kindness.

She shook her head. “Thanks. But there's something I've got to do first.”

His eyes narrowed. “Don't go. He'll rip you into small pieces.”

Her thin shoulders lifted fatalistically. “There's very little left to be ripped up,” she said in an anguished tone. “See you.”

 

She walked into the waiting room of Moreland's office with a heart that felt as if it had been pounded with a sledge hammer. Her face was pale, without its usual animation, and her body felt as taut as rawhide.