Moonlight Man (19 page)

“Okay, fine. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we don’t belong together. But not because I’m afraid of you, Marc Duval, or ever will be. If we don’t belong together, it’s because you don’t deserve me.” Suddenly, as if the anger had drained all her energy, she turned away, a long breath escaping her. “I’ve said what I had to say. Now, it’s up to you. I know I can’t force you. I’m staying at the Holiday Inn near Dorval airport. You can call me there if—”

Her voice broke and she struggled for control. Lifting her head, she made her way back to the paneled foyer. She stared at the dark brown wall, with its lighter wood strips every five feet, wondering dimly which one of them hid the elevator, and how she was supposed to call it. She saw no button, no arrow pointing down. She saw only a blur.

“Open sesame?” she whispered.

“That won’t do it,” Marc said, turning her around.

“What will?”

He unbuttoned her coat, slid it off her shoulders, and let it slide to the floor. “This will,” he said, his voice low, throbbing with feeling, as he slipped his hands into her hair and tilted her face up to his. He claimed her mouth in a deep kiss that left her knees weak and her head spinning.

After a moment, she said, “I don’t see the elevator opening yet.”

“Do you want it to?” She shook her head. “Then come back inside with me. There are things you have a right to know before you make a decision.”

“I know all I need to know. I love you.”

“And I love you, but that isn’t enough. You deserve the truth, and until you have it from me, you’re right, I don’t deserve you.”

Taking her hand, he led her back to the living room. Seating her on the couch, he paced away, looked out the window at a sky turned gray again. Hard, pebblelike snow began to beat on the glass.

“I loved Simone,” he said. “But I was busy with a demanding career. I … neglected her. We argued about it. Often. We shouted at each other, often. She was a very volatile person. But we always made up.” He turned and looked at her then, walking closer. “When she and Jean-Pierre were murdered, I was charged because one neighbor remembered those fights we’d had, and no one had noticed anything or anyone unusual in the neighborhood that day. It was known that I’d spent more nights at the office than I had at home in the previous year or so. Simone…” He swallowed and went on with difficulty. “Simone was nearly nine months pregnant when she was killed. There was talk that maybe I had done it because I’d learned the baby wasn’t mine. It wasn’t true. That child was mine. And I did not hit my wife, ever. I did not kill her and our baby and our son. This, I swear to you.”

On trembling legs, she walked to where he stood and curled her hand around his taut jaw. “I know, my love. I know that.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at her again, covering her hand with his, leaning his face into her palm as if seeking strength.

“Come and sit down with me, Marc … Jean-Marc.”

“Marc,” he whispered. “I’d rather you go on calling me that. It’s … special. Duval is my mother’s family name. I will stop using it now.” He took her hand and went with her back to the sofa, sitting with his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, his fingers thrust into his hair.

“So many times I’ve wished the case had gone to a full trial judge, jury, the works—and not been dismissed at the preliminary. Too many people had too many doubts, in spite of the fact that the judge berated the police for ever having laid the charges against me in the first place. ‘Wasting the time of the court,’ as he said, and ‘besmirching the good name of an innocent man.’ By that time, my good name was besmirched, and it was too late for apologies or explanations to make any difference.”

Sharon rubbed the back of his neck as he talked, her fingers soothing tense muscles. “After the case was dismissed, I knew I couldn’t function again as a prosecutor. I rejoined the family firm. We began to lose clients. I couldn’t let that happen, so I quit. The rumors grew worse, more vicious. I could do nothing to change things except go away to ease the burden on my family.”

He sat back and looked at her, his face haunted, his eyes full of shame. “I started to drink heavily. For weeks, I scarcely knew who I was or where I was, nor did I care. I didn’t care about anything.

“My father found me one day in a filthy flophouse in Toronto. He dragged me out of there and sent me away to find his son; told me not to come back until I had.”

She drew in a tremulous breath. “You found him, I guess. You came back.”

“I found him, yes.” Marc slid his hand over her sleek hair. “With your help, I found him, but I didn’t bring him back with me. I left half of him on the other side of the country.”

“Does your father know that?”

“Yes. He told me to go back. Back to you. To where I could be … complete.”

“Good advice,” she said, standing and walking away from him. When had his father told him that? A month ago when he first got home? “Are you going to take it?”

He stood, looking at her warily. “If you will forgive me, then I will.”

She held out her arms and he came to her. The next time she opened her eyes, Sharon found herself in a dimly lit bedroom, on her back on a bed, naked, with Marc leaning over her. “I love you,” he said. “And you’re right. I wasn’t giving you any credit for maturity, for trusting me, for not likening me to your first husband.”

“First?” she said. “I’ve only ever had the one.”

“Not for long.” He loved her with his eyes, his hands following the path his gaze seared along her body. Drawing his fingertips from her shoulder to her wrist, he encountered her gold bangles, riffled through them, hearing them jingle softly. “You wear these a lot. You were wearing them the first night I ever kissed you. They sounded like music when you put your arms around my neck. I just barely heard them over the pounding of my heart.”

She smiled. Maybe someday she’d tell him. “The first time we kissed was the first time I’d ever kissed a man with a beard.”

He rubbed his shaven skin. “My family was shocked. They said it wasn’t me. How do you feel about it?”

“I like you better this way,” she said without hesitation. “You have a strong chin. It seems a shame to hide it.”

“I’m not hiding anything anymore,” he said. “What you see is what you get.”

She sat up and pushed him down onto his back, running her hands over his body, planting kisses here and there. “I like what I see. I love what I see. When do I get it?”

Catching her close in his arms, he rolled her under him and crowded her legs apart with his own. “Now,” he murmured. “Right now!”

A long time later, she smiled up at him and said, “You’re incredible, Marc St.-Clair. You make the earth move.”

“Uh-uh.” He shook his shaggy head deprecatingly. “Not that incredible. Maybe I made the earth move, but I don’t think I made the elevator door open yet.”

She laughed, remembering that he had claimed a kiss would do it. “Tsk!” She shook her head. “I guess we’re trapped in here, then?”

“I guess so. At least until we figure out what it’s going to take.”

Snuggling closer, she said, “Maybe it’s just going to take time.”

“Right,” he murmured. “Let’s take our time,
ma chérie
. All the time in the world.”

S
HARON LAY IN BED
, propped on one elbow, watching her husband sleep. The birds outside had begun their dawn chorus an hour before, waking her long before the sun was up. Now, as always, she heard music in the song of the birds as they greeted the fresh June morning, music she knew she’d be writing before the day was out.

She cherished these moments in early morning, before Marc and the children were awake. They were her moments, time to reflect on the joys of her life, time to dream of the pleasures of the future, time to cradle with a loving hand the new life that was growing within her, not yet evident except to her. She thought that today she would tell Marc, so that he could rejoice with her. She needed no doctor to confirm what she knew was true.

She had so much. There could be no greater happiness than this, she thought. Beside her, making her jump, the telephone rang, loud in the slumberous room. Quickly, she lifted it, but not before Marc came fully awake, his eyes wide with concern as he gazed at her.

He saw her smile and relaxed as she said, “Hello, Papa. It’s good to hear your voice. No, no of course it’s not too early for me. I was awake. No, please don’t worry about the three-hour time difference. It doesn’t matter that you forgot. Do you want to talk to Jean-Marc?”

She laughed at the reply, and delightful color tinged her cheeks. A moment later she handed Marc the phone and lay back against her pillow, twisting the cord in her fingers as she watched his face while he spoke to his father, scolding him for having flirted with his wife and made her blush.

Then, his smile faded. A frown appeared between his brows. His chiseled mouth took on a taut, hard appearance. Sharon took his free hand in her own. His fingers curled tensely around it. He listened, spoke quietly a few times in French too rapid for her to follow, and then handed her the phone to hang up.

“What is it, love?” she asked, hitching herself back up on her elbow. “Marc? It’s not bad news, is it?” His father hadn’t sounded tense or strained. There had been no warning of anything dreadful. “Marc?”

He drew her down against his chest and ran a hand into her hair. She felt his fingers trembling. “No,” he said. “Not bad news. But, I guess … disturbing.”

“Can you talk about it?”

He rolled her onto her back and leaned up over her. “With you? Of course. With you, I can talk of anything.” But she could see that it wasn’t easy for him.

“It was about Simone and Jean-Pierre,” he said. “About their murderers. Papa says it will be in the papers today.”

“Murderers? Plural?”

Marc nodded. “The police were investigating a different crime and found some evidence in a house. Things taken from my home that link two brothers with the crime. They confessed as soon as they were confronted. They were … they were members of a satanic cult when they killed Simone and Jean-Pierre.”

“Oh, Marc!” She remembered the rumors to that effect, all those years ago. She curled her hand around the back of his neck as his face creased with pain and tears flooded his eyes. He dropped his head to her shoulder. For long moments, she held him while he relived some of the grief of years before. “I’m sorry,” he said presently, lifting his head.

With the corner of the sheet, she tenderly wiped his damp face. “No, my darling, you must never be sorry for those feelings. They are part of you, part of what makes you the man I love. You loved your family, Marc. You have a right to your sorrow.”

“I know, and all this time I expected to hate the man who killed them, but now that I know he—they’ve—been caught, I find I don’t. I pity them. Part of my sorrow is for them, for what they’ve been through and still have to go through,” he said, shocking her. “And for their family.”

“What? How can you care about them after what they did?” The boys’ parents, she could understand pitying. But the murderers? Never! What kind of pity have they shown?

“Neither my hating them nor even their remorse call bring back the dead. And it seems they do have remorse. They’ve had to live with what they did for a long time.”

Sharon sat up quickly. “Well, if you’re not angry with them, I’m furious on your behalf! What right did they have to destroy the lives of those you loved, and your life, too, at the same time?”

“No right, of course. And I am angry,
chérie
, but more angry about the terrible lack of reason behind a crime like that. They had nothing to gain. Their motive wasn’t even robbery. And they are so young. In their early twenties. They were mere children.”

They both fell silent, holding each other. How she loved him! Sharon thought. Even when he should have been railing against the murderers, seeking revenge, he was concerned with their well-being, seeing their side of it. The court system needed people like him, caring, judicious people who were capable of empathy.

“Marc?” she said after several minutes had passed. “It’s over now, love. You can go back, back to practicing law without ever having to worry again about what people think.”

He lifted his head, touched her face, smiled. “Yes. It’s over now, angel. And you’re right. I can go back to the law. I think I likely will. But oddly, since I met you, my worry hasn’t been what other people thought, only what
you
thought. I was sure I had buried the past before, but I was wrong. This has been preying on me. Always, I have wondered if you truly believed me incapable of harming my family. My past one or my present one.”

“I have never believed you capable of that,” she said, taking his hand and sliding it under the covers, laying it low on her abdomen, pressing it to the small hard mass she had felt there this past week. “If I had thought there was danger, would I have wanted this?”

He tilted his head to one side, cocking a brow. “Wanted what?” He knew what she wasn’t talking about. She didn’t have that look in her eyes. Not quite.

She smiled a sweet and secret smile. “Your—our—future family.”

His breath left him suddenly as he understood, and he cupped his hand over her abdomen. His eyes glazed over and he buried his face in her hair. “Our baby?” he said when he could talk. “Are you sure?” His voice was ragged, but his face was suffused with joy.

She laughed at him, wrapping her arms around his neck, nestling her body against his. “Our baby. I’m as sure as I’ve ever been about something like this. But if you want to make absolutely certain?”

Now that look was in her eyes! He smothered their shared laughter with a kiss, and took her up on her offer. It never hurt to make doubly sure.

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