Liar's Moon (23 page)

“Egotist!” she snapped.

“No,” he said softly. “I just know you very, very well. Every—delectable inch. And you are made of fire, my love, not ice.”

He released her and reached for the connecting door. “We’ve an hour before the courthouses and license bureaus close. If your hatred for me is deeper than your belated love for your son, by all means go your own way. And if not, well, meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes. Prepared to marry me—and give me each night that sweet empty shell!”

He smiled, opened and closed the door. Tracy slammed a fist against it, shouting her rejoinder. She doubted if he heard or cared.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

T
racy had had her fantasies about marrying Leif. His house would have been the place—out in the back with the sun reflecting off the water, the roses in full bloom, the lawn alive with friends and family. She would have worn white, albeit it slightly tarnished in truth—traditional to the end. A gown with tiny seed pearls sewn in by hand, a veil that rippled and cascaded down her back. And she would walk, of course, with a brilliant smile, ready to take his hand.

And Leif…

His eyes would glimmer with smoke and silver; he’d wear white, too, for it would be an afternoon wedding. He would be resplendent, for the cut would be perfect and fit to the lean contours of his body with an unmatched elegance. His lips would curl into a wonderful crooked smile, and she would feel the wonderful warmth and radiance of love sweep over her.

Once she had harbored such a fantasy. When she had dreamt those many years ago. Dreamt—so near here, right outside of Zurich!—that it had all been a nightmare. She hadn’t been taken away; Leif hadn’t married Celia. He had combed heaven and earth to find her and swept her away to be married in a field of roses. Her mother had been reconciled; Jesse had given the bride away, and
clasped his best friend’s hands with tears in his eyes as he bid
him care for his daughter…

The real wedding wasn’t her fantasy—and yet, perhaps, in a way it was. For despite it all, at the crucial moments, she felt a blazing sizzle of happiness. Illusion, perhaps, but there. His awkward smile for her right before the ceremony began. The warmth of his hand on hers. The little squeeze of his fingers that seemed an unspoken promise. A touch that might have hinted at the things that could not be spoken, not when so much lay between them.

Perhaps, even, fact was greater than fantasy. The light in his eyes when they touched hers as he placed the gold band around her finger, that slight trembling in his hands. Greater, perhaps, than fantasy, because she had never imagined the emotion, the warmth—the way she would feel when the words were spoken out loud that in fact, not fantasy, she was Leif’s wife.

It should have taken days; Leif seemed to have some influential friends who managed to secure a license immediately. Two strangers served as witnesses; she barely understood a word of the ceremony.

But she was his wife.

She wasn’t in white; she wore a soft red scooped-neck sweater and a navy shirt. Leif was in a sweater and beige jacket—nice, but very casual. They were already married and it seemed his hair was still damp from the shower.

It
was
fantasy, Tracy decided. It didn’t matter what was said, what was worn. It mattered that she had those moments to believe, with all her heart, that
he loved her
as deeply as she loved him. Precious, precious moments, because the past was doomed to come between them again.

It was dark outside. Only the very slim sliver of a
moon gleamed down upon them as they left the church, with Leif anxious to reac
h the corner—and Rob and the car.

But he paused suddenly, looking up at the sky.

Then, looking at Tracy with a crooked smile: “Liar’s moon, Tracy. So it would seem that not all truths have been told.”

They’d procured the papers they had needed last night and this morning; he hadn’t come near her since until it was time to leave for the little church. He’d suggested that she sleep—she didn’t think that she’d actually slept more than an hour since they’d gotten here.

And to make matters worse, they’d passed her grandfather’s house on the way. The house where she’d lived all those months. Th
e house where Blake had been born
.

“Oh, but you’re convinced you know all about truth, aren’t you, Leif?” Tracy asked him wearily. “Either my mother or my grandfather had my father killed—you just have to decide which.”

He was silent, not replying to her sarcasm.

“Let’s get back to the hotel,” he said simply. He caught her hand and hurried to the car. The ever quiet and uneasy Rob greeted them both with a hello and drove them back to the hotel.

Tracy was suddenly loathe to go up the stairs to their room. She hadn’t had a decent word for Leif in nearly two days, but she suddenly hung on his arm.

“
I’
d like a drink.”

He gazed down at her and slowly, slowly smiled. “Whatever you wish.”

They didn’t sit down in the restaurant, but in the lobby near the fire, where a pretty blond waitress served cocktails in elegant attire. Again, the flow of easy conversation seemed to be all around them. Skiers and partiers
vacationed here, lovers and friends, and they were all so comfortable, so at ease.

Tracy ordered a double Tom Collins and she felt again Leif’s wicked amusement. She didn’t look at him, but stared into the fire. He sipped a Scotch without comment, too, and eventually the silence dragged out so long that she leapt to her feet and hurried up the stairs—without him.

Then she wondered if that action wasn’t even more tearing upon her nerves—because he didn’t follow. She paced so long that her feet began to hurt. She cast off her boots and trod in her stockings to the door between the two rooms and entered her own, longing for a shower— without Leif around.

She kept the water running for a long, long time. It was far better than speculation. Far better than stepping out.

But at last she emerged, surprised that someone from the hotel hadn’t beaten on the door to demand that she leave the water be. She toweled herself hurriedly dry and donned the one night garment she had—thankfully a red flannel gown that had a wonderfully chaste neckline and fell all the way to her toes.

But before she could leave the bath, she gripped the sink. Dizzy, expectant. She stared at herself and saw her eyes again—blue and wide and
dilated
. She slammed a fist against the counter with a choking little cry.

She was warm, flushed, tremulous. Because she wanted to be with him. It had become as natural again as breathing, as feeling the sun against her face. She had to hate him for what he had done; for his manipulation.

But hadn’t her grandfather and mother manipulated her life with a greater cruelty. And she didn’t hate them.

She was hurt and wounded and horrified; she despised what they did. But not them.

She loved Leif. A part of her was secretly thrilled that she had become his wife—but to what cost?

Still shivering, she closed her eyes and sank to the floor, hugging her knees to her. It was frightening. She didn’t want to love with the type of obsession that had sent her mother back to her father time and time again. Yet, hadn’t they created their own hell? She and Ted might have gotten a divorce—sad, but better than the life they had led. Jesse might have given up something. Had they both been cowards—or had life simply played against them at every turn?

Tracy bit her lower lip and felt around the sink to find her watch. It was nearly midnight, and still Leif hadn’t come for her. She trembled all the more thoroughly. Where were his demands now—now that she admitted she was more than willing to fulfill them, even if she was still too wounded to offer the truth to him? She stood and rinsed her face with cool water. She straightened her shoulders and came out.

Leif wasn’t in her room. She crossed to the connecting door and silently opened it. He wasn’t there either. Where had he gone? To celebrate the bitterness of her surrender. And then she heard it—a soft, clacking sound. Like pebbles against a glass pane.

Frowning, she walked to the window seat and cast the curtains aside. A second clattering of pebbles fell against the window. More perplexed, she hefted up the glass and stuck her head outside.

Leif was far below her in the snow, still dressed in his wedding attire, but now adorned with an acoustic guitar about his neck. He smiled at her and waved.

And began to play a love song.

Oh, it was one that she knew. Not written for her, she knew, for it was nearly twenty years old. But it was one that she loved. Jesse’s work, Leif’s work. A tune that haunted the mind and the senses, where the music and the lyrics combined to create magic.

It had, she knew, topped the charts for weeks on end.

It was different now. There were no drums; no keyboard hummed in the background, no base sounded, there was no sax, and no flute. Just the simple sound of the guitar and his voice. A sound uniquely his—a tenor with a husky rasp that defined it, that should have been a flaw—that was instead an evocative asset, a signature of the man, known instantly by generations.

Known to the core, to the bone, by Leif Johnston’s new wife.

She closed her eyes; she felt it. She opened her eyes, and she couldn’t still the slow smile that came poignantly to her lips. She met his eyes and knew a harmony and a sadness, thinking of all the suspicions and lies and bitterness that lay between them and could not be erased overnight.

But she thought then that, yes, she loved him. And yes, she’d been given back the son that she thought she had lost.

And listening to the love song, she began to believe in magic. The song ended. The last chords of the guitar faded away. He looked up to her, and she could not see his expression, but she thought that there might be tenderness in his eyes.

The night was still—and then there was a sudden round of applause—and a burst of noise.

Tracy hadn’t thought that anyone would be on the street that late; Leif was suddenly surrounded by people —recognized now that he held the guitar. Now that the
unique sound of his voice had been for her. To her surprise, Tracy thrilled with a sense of pride. Even in Switzerland the Limelights were remembered.

She watched as he signed autographs, and she heard him laugh as he thanked a young man for the use of the guitar, returning it to him. Then he gazed up at the window quizzically and extricated himself from the situation, telling them he had been serenading his new bride.

There was more applause.

Blushing, Tracy swiftly brought her head back through the window and hastily closed the glass and the curtains.

She was more nervous than ever. Keyed and tense. Trying for a facade of calm, she sat before the dressing table and picked up her brush, threading it through her hair mechanically.

He came at
last. He paused in the doorway, watching her. She should have told him that his song had been beautiful, that the action had been whimsical and romantic, and a wonderful thing to have done—for her. But she couldn’t speak. Her throat was tight
.

He came up behind her. She saw his reflection in the mirror. He came so close that she paused with her brush in midair, for the back of her head was flush with his stomach and his hands were on her hair while his eyes held hers in the mirror.

He didn’t speak to her, nor could she yet find the words to say to him. His fingers just played through her hair in a gentle massa
ge, then moved over her throat t
o the button at the neck of her very chaste gown. He slipped it and lowered his head, placing the tightest kiss upon her collarbone, then upon the arch of her throat then upon her shoulder as the material gaped and opened.

He straightened again, behind her, wrenching his
sweater over his head, moving closer again to rub the silky tendrils of her hair against his stomach in subtle motion.

And still he held her eyes, the soft stroke of his touch brushing her nape, her neck, her throat once again. Watching the blue pools of her eyes in that mirrored image all along. At last slipping his hands beneath the shoulders of her virginal flannel gown and causing it to fall from her shoulders. His gaze fell at last as the bronzed length of his hands cupped and curled over her breasts, thumbs rubbing over the nipples until a little sound escaped from her. Her lashes fluttered over her cheeks, hiding her eyes from erotic contact.

Tracy turned in a sudden motion, her own quivering, small white hands upon his hips, her face buried against the taut flesh of his stomach. She nuzzled against him, feeling the short coarse hairs tease her lips and cheeks and nose. She began to scatter kisses there, tenderly nipping at his flesh, taunting it with the soft flick of her tongue. Her finger delved beneath the belt line, stroking absently as she kissed him. He caught a mass of her hair with his palms, inhaling sharply as he brought them trailing through his fingers, against his flesh.

Tracy paused suddenly, hiding against him, caught in a turmoil of longing and truth. The night was cool; his touch was fever. Evocative fever rippled and danced all through her, and her greatest desire was to cast herself into his arms.

Not exactly an empty shell…

She was his wife, at long last. And if the fantasy of a white and traditional wedding had faded, the magic of his touch had not. She had fallen in love with him years ago and lost him. And now he was hers—only pride stood in her way.

“Tracy,” he whispered suddenly, raggedly, “Don’t stop now!”

He didn’t really give her much choice in the matter; his grip, tender, gentle—urgent—fell upon her naked shoulders, bringing her from the chair and into his arms. His fingers thread through the hair at her nape, tilting her head. And again his eyes met hers. No mirror image now —just naked in glistening silver and boldly intent with thirst. His eyes closed, a shudder raked through him, and he brought his
li
ps to her.