Passion's Promise (12 page)

"I hate to say this, Kate, but we're going to have to stop. I'm addressing another group at noon, and I have a few things to take care of first. Can I interest you in another speech? You're a good audience. Or do you have to get back to New York?" He circled the room, putting papers and pens in his pockets, and looked over his shoulder at her with the look one reserves for a friend.

"Both really. I should get back. But I'd like to hear you talk. What's the group?"

"Psychiatrists. The subject is a firsthand report on the psychological effects of being in prison. And they'll probably want to hear how real the threat of psychosurgery in prison is. They always ask about that."

"You mean like frontal lobotomies?"

He nodded.

"Is there a lot of that?" She was momentarily stunned.

"Even a little 'of that' is too much. But I don't think it happens often. Maybe occasionally. Lobotomies, shock treatment, a lot of ugly shit."

She nodded somberly and looked at her watch.

"I'll go pick up my things and meet you there."

"Are you staying at a hotel around here?"

"No, my agent got me someone's apartment."

"That's convenient."

"Very."

"Want a ride?" He said it easily as they walked toward the door.

"I ... no ... thanks, Luke. I've got a few other stops to make on the way. I'll meet you at your speech."

He didn't press the point, but nodded absently as they waited for the elevator. "I'll be interested to see this piece when it comes out."

"I'll have my agent send you tear sheets as soon as we get them."

He left her in front of the hotel and she walked to the corner and hailed a cab. It was a nice day to walk, and if she had had more time, she would have walked all the way back to the apartment on Lake Shore Drive. It was a warm autumn day with a bright sky overhead, and when she reached the apartment building, she could see sailboats skimming over the lake.

The ghostly apartment echoed her footsteps as she ran up the stairs for her suitcase, pulled the dust sheet over the tidily made bed, and pulled down the shade. She laughed, wondering what Luke would have said if he'd seen it. It didn't fit the image of Kate. Something told her he would not have approved.

Or maybe he would have been amused, and together they might have pulled the sheets from all the furniture, lit the fire, and she could have played honky-tonk on the grand piano downstairs—put a little life in the place. Funny to think of doing something like that with Luke. But he looked like a good man to have fun with, to giggle at and tease and chortle with and chase. She liked him, and he had no idea who she was. It was a safe, happy feeling, and the makings of the article already felt good in her head.

Luke's speech was interesting, and the group was receptive. She made a few notes, and nibbled absently at the steak on her plate. Luke was sitting at a long, flower-strewn table at the front of the room, and she had been seated nearby. He looked over at her now and then, with mischievous laughter in the emerald green eyes. Once, silently raising his glass toward her, he winked. It made her want to laugh in the midst of the psychiatrists' general sobriety. She felt as though she knew Luke better than anyone there, maybe even better than anyone else. He had shared so much of his story with her all morning; he had given her the peek into the inner sanctum that Simpson had prophesied she'd never get. It was a shame she could not reciprocate.

Her flight was at three, and she had to leave the luncheon at two. He had just finished speaking when she rose. He had taken his seat at the dais, the usual crowd of admirers around him. She thought about just leaving quietly, without troubling him with thanks and goodbyes, but it didn't feel right. She wanted to say at least something to him before leaving. It seemed so unkind to pry into a man's head for four hours, and then simply vanish. But it was nearly impossible to get through the crowd near his table, and when she finally did, she found herself standing directly behind him, as he spoke animatedly to someone from his seat. She put a light hand on his shoulder and was surprised when he jumped. He didn't seem the kind of man to be frightened.

"That's a heavy thing to do to someone who spent six years in the joint." His mouth smiled, but his eyes looked serious, almost afraid. "I get nervous about who stands behind me. By now it's a reflex."

"I'm sorry, Luke. I just wanted to say goodbye. I have to catch my plane."

"Okay, just a sec." He rose to walk her out to the lobby, and she went back to her table to pick up her coat. But Luke was waylaid on the way, and he was locked into another cluster of men as she fidgeted near the door, until she couldn't wait any longer. Unkind or not, she had to go. She didn't want to miss her plane. With a last look in his direction, she slipped quietly out of the room, crossed the lobby, and retrieved her valise from the doorman as he opened the door to a cab.

She settled back against the seat, and smiled to herself. It had been a good trip, and it was going to be a beautiful piece.

She never saw Lucas standing beneath the awning behind her, a look of storm clouds and disappointment on his face.

"Damn!" All right, Ms. Kate Miller. We'll see about that. He smiled to himself as he strode back inside.

He had liked her. She was so vulnerable, so funny . . . the kind of tiny little woman you wanted to toss up in the air and catch in your arms.

"Did you catch the young lady, sir?" The doorman had seen him run.

"No." He broke into a broad grin which bordered on laughter. "But I will."

"Called me? What do you mean he called me? I just walked in the door. And how did he know how to get hold of you?" Kezia was almost livid with rage at Simpson.

"Calm down. Kezia. He called over an hour ago, and I assume that the magazine referred him to me. There's no harm in that. And he was perfectly civil."

"Well, what did he want?" She was stepping out of her clothes as she spoke, and the bath was already running. It was five minutes to seven, and Whit had said he'd pick her up at eight. They were due at a party at nine.

"He said he didn't feel the article would be complete unless you covered the meeting for that moratorium against prisons tomorrow in Washington. And he'd appreciate it if you'd hold off turning the piece in until you've added that to the rest It sounds reasonable, Kezia. If you went to Chicago, you can certainly go to Washington for an afternoon."

"When is this thing he wants me to go to?" Goddamn Lucas Johns. He was being a pest, or at least egocentric. She had written the outline for the piece on the plane, and enough was enough. Her sense of triumph was evaporating rapidly now. A man who called scarcely before she'd stepped off the plane could hardly be trusted not to pry.

"The moratorium meeting is tomorrow afternoon."

"Hell. And if I go by plane, I'm liable to get spotted by some asshole society reporter who'll think I'm going down there for a party, and he'll try to catch a quick bit of news. And then I'm liable to end up with the paparazzi down my back."

"That didn't happen on the way to Chicago, did it?"

"No, but Washington is a lot closer to home, and you know it. I never go to Chicago. Maybe I should drive down tomorrow, and ... oh God, the tub! Hang on!"

Simpson waited while she went to turn off the water. She sounded nervous, and he assumed that the trip had been hectic. But it had been good for her. There was no doubt about that. She had braved it out, done the interview, and no one had recognized her, thank God. If they had, he'd never have heard the end of it. Now there were any number of interviews she could do. And Johns had certainly sounded pleased with her work. He had mentioned spending almost four hours with her. She must have handled it well, and Johns' casual references to "Miss Miller" showed that he hadn't the faintest idea who she was. So what was her problem? Why so jumpy? She came back on the line with a sigh. "Are you drowning over there?"

"No." She laughed tiredly then. "I don't know, Jack, I'm sorry I jumped on you, but it really makes me nervous to do this kind of thing so close to New York."

"But the interview today went well, didn't it?"

"Yes. Very. But do you think the moratorium is really important to the piece, or is it that Luke Johns is on a star trip now and wants more attention?"

"I think he made a valid point when he called. It's another sphere of his action, and could add a lot of strength to the piece. Atmosphere, if nothing else. It's up to you, but I don't see any harm in your going.

And I know what you're worried about, but you saw for yourself in Chicago that there was no problem with that. No paparazzi, and he hasn't the faintest idea that you're anyone but K. S. Miller.

"Kate." She smiled to herself.

"What?"

"Nothing. Oh, I dont know. Maybe you're right. What time does the meeting start? Did he say?"

"Noon. He'll be flying in from Chicago in the morning." She thought about it for a minute, and then nodded at the phone.

"All right, I'll do it. I suppose I could fly down on the shuttle. That's innocuous enough. And I could be back easily by tomorrow night."

"Fine. Do you want to call Johns yourself to confirm it, or shall I? He wanted confirmation."

"Why? So he could line up another biographer if I didn't go?"

"Now, now, let's not be nasty." Simpson chuckled in spite of himself. There were times when she needed a good boot in the ass. "No, he said something about picking you up at the plane."

"Shit"

"What?" Simpson sounded faintly shocked. He was much less used to that from her than Edward, who was of a comparable vintage but a little less proper.

"Sorry. No, I'll call him myself. And I don't want to be met at the plane. Just in case."

"I think that's wise. And do you want me to arrange someplace for you to stay? If you want to stay at a hotel we could bill it to the magazine, along with your plane fare."

"No, I'd rather come home. And that place you got me in Chicago was fabulous. Must be quite a home when it's in full swing."

"Used to be ... used to be. I'm glad you liked it. I had some good times there, many years ago." He drifted for a moment and then reverted to his business voice. "So you'll come home tomorrow night then?"

"Damn right." She wanted to get down to SoHo, and Mark. It had been days! And tonight she had that damn party at the El Morocco to go to with Whit. Hunter For-bishe and Juliana Watson-Smythe were announcing their engagement, as though everyone didn't already know. Two of the dullest, richest people in town, and worse luck yet, Hunter was her second cousin. The party was sure to be shitful, but at least the El Morocco was fun. She hadn't been since before the summer. And not only were the dumb bastards getting engaged, but they had decided to have a theme for their party. Black and White. What fun it would have been to appear with George, her dancer friend from SoHo. Black and White... or Lucas for that matter, with his black hair to match Kezia's, and their equally white skin. How absurd—and worth a mountain of news for a year. No, she'd have to settle for Whitney, but it was a shame. Luke might have been fun at a party like that. Fun and outrageous. She laughed aloud as she sank into her bath. She would call him after she dressed, to tell him that she'd meet him in Washington tomorrow. But first she had to dress, and she needed time for a party like the one they were going to. She had long since decided what to wear for their charming soiree in black and white. The creamy lace dress was already laid out on her bed, fiercely decollete and gently empire, with a black moire cape, and the new David Webb choker and earrings she'd bought herself last Christmas: an onyx set with a generous supply of handsome stones, diamonds of course. At twenty-nine she had stopped waiting for someone else to buy that sort of thing for her. She bought them herself.

"Lucas Johns, please." She waited while they rang his room. He sounded sleepy when he answered.

"Luke? Kee . . . Kate." She had almost said it was Kezia.

"I didn't know you stuttered."

She laughed and his own laughter answered.

"I don't. I'm just in a hurry. Jack Simpson called me. I'll come down to cover that moratorium thing tomorrow. Why didn't you mention this morning that you thought I should be there?"

"I didn't think of it till after you left." He smiled to himself as he spoke. "I think you'll need it, though, to round out the rest. Want me to pick you up at the plane?"

"No, thanks. I'll be fine. Just tell me where to meet you." He did and she wrote down the address, standing at her desk in the white lace dress and the black moire cape, delicate black silk sandals on her feet and one of her mother's diamond bracelets on each arm. And then she started to laugh.

"What's funny?"

"Oh, nothing really. It's just what I'm wearing."

"And just what are you wearing, Ms. Miller?" He sounded vastly amused.

"Something terribly silly."

"Sounds very mysterious to me. I'm not sure if you mean leather hip boots and a whip, or a rhinestone-studded peignoir."

"A little of both. See you tomorrow, Luke." She hung up on a last gurgle of laughter as the doorbell rang, and Whitney appeared, as crisp and elegant as ever. For him, of course, the black and white had been easy. He was wearing a dinner jacket and one of the shirts he had made four times a year in Paris.

"Where were you all day? And my . . . don't you look splendid!" They exchanged their standard dry little kiss, and he held out her hands. "Is that something new? I don't remember seeing that dress before."

"Sort of. I don't wear it often. And I spent the whole day with Edward. We did up my new will." They smiled at each other and she picked up her bag. Lies, lies, lies. It had never been like this before. But she knew as she swirled out to the hall that it was going to get worse.

Lying to Whit, lying to Mark, lying to Luke. "Is that why you write, Kate? For fun?" She remembered Luke's question as the elevator swept them down to the lobby, and her brows knit as she thought of the look in his eyes. It had not been accusing, only curious. But no, dammit! She didn't just write for fun. It was real. But how real could anything be, when whatever you did, you draped in lies?