Private Dancer (21 page)

Bev shut her eyes and massaged the bridge of her nose. She’d been out of sorts lately, to put it mildly. The previous week she’d had a touch of the twenty-four-hour flu that was going around. That day she could feel a headache coming on. Maybe she’d go home when Harve arrived.

The buzzing of her intercom gave her a start.

“Visitors, B.J.,” Cory announced, clicking off before Bev could ask who it was.

She was adjusting her sagging shoulder pads when her office door swung open. Bev rose, astonished at the beaming couple who entered. “Arthur? Lydia? How wonderful to see you! How are you?”

“Happy,” Lydia said, holding out her arms, weepy-eyed. “Deliriously happy. And we owe it all to you, Bev.”

Bev rushed around her desk to hug Lydia, and Arthur stood back, smiling sheepishly, shy as ever. Bev hugged him too, once she’d recovered from Lydia’s exuberant embrace, and before the three of them were through with their reunion, they were all laughing and blinking away tears.

“Tell me everything!” Bev said, bringing them with her to sit on the couch. “I want to know all about your wedded bliss.”

Lydia was delighted to comply. She described how she and Arthur had renewed their wedding vows in a rose garden in Key West, and their recent return to Beverly Hills. “The dogs rushed Arthur and knocked him over when we got out of the car. I’ve never seen them so excited. They completely ignored me!”

Bev laughed, aware that the couple’s visit was just what she needed to perk her up. She’d been in a state of mourning since that disastrous day in Nassau.

“Is everything all right, dear?” Lydia patted Bev’s hand as though she’d been reading her mind. “You look a little peaked.”

“How’s S-Sam?” Arthur broke in, his first words since he’d entered the office.

Bev toyed with the idea of telling him that Sam was fine and leaving it at that. But both he and Lydia were staring at her so intently, she found herself wanting to tell them the truth. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen Sam since the cruise.”

Arthur went noticeably pale. “Is there a problem? Oh, dear, I hope it wasn’t because of me.”

Bev had never discussed what happened in Nassau with anyone, not even Harve, and she was reluctant to do so now. There was so much heartache dammed up inside her—anger, confusion, and especially hurt. She felt like the little Dutch boy in the fable who didn’t dare take his finger out of the dike. Talking about Sam Nichols meant risking a flash flood, but she’d reached a point where she needed to talk to someone. And she couldn’t leave Arthur thinking he was responsible.

“Sam is a man with some very deep scars,” she said, choosing her words carefully. “He’s afraid to let anyone close.” She was referring to emotional wounds, but her mind flashed a graphic reminder of his mutilated upper body and the scar that forked from his mouth. Her throat constricted as she thought of how much pain Sam had suffered.

She glanced up to see Arthur and Lydia clasp hands. It was an instinctive reaction to her news, Bev realized. They were reaffirming their bond, reassuring each other of their devotion. At the same time that Bev was happy for them, their linked hands were a piercing reminder of her own losses.

“It’s too bad Sam isn’t here to see you two,” she said, unable to hide her own sadness. “He pretends to have such disdain for marriage, and especially for the healing power of love. I wish he could know how happy you are.”

“Sam’s a fool,” Arthur blurted out passionately. “What is life about if you can’t share things, everything—the joy and the pain—with someone you care about?”

Bev was caught off guard by the depth of Arthur’s conviction. The words ricocheted in her head, forcing her to consider them. He may have been speaking about Sam, but what he said applied to her too. She had cut herself off years earlier, right after Paul left. Her reaction had been to hole up like a hermit in her Valley home, refusing to share any of her pain. And her reaction to

Sam’s rejection had been very much the same. She would have isolated herself totally if her father hadn’t needed her help at the agency.

She could feel the sadness cresting inside her. All that aching emptiness, all those wasted years. “Excuse me,” she said, looking away as tears threatened. It was pain from the past she was fighting. They were yesterday’s tears, and they stung that much more bitterly for having been denied.

“I’m sorry—” Her voice caught as she tried to regain control. “I was afraid this might happen.”

Lydia sat beside her and put an arm around her. “Is there anything we can do, Bev? Would you like us to leave?”

Bev shook her head. She wanted to fall into Lydia’s arms and cry her heart out, but pride kept her rigid. “No, it’s all right. Just give me a minute.”

“We love you, Bev,” Arthur said softly.

Bev’s throat swelled with a sudden stinging heat. Their kindness was more than she could handle. She had to get out of the room or she would never get control. “Please, it’s all right. I’ll just go wash my face.”

A wave of dizziness swept her as she stood up. It was so sudden she could hardly catch her balance. The floor seemed to shift under her feet as she walked, and by the time she reached the office door, her face was filmed with perspiration.

“Bev? What’s wrong?” Lydia said, standing.

“I don’t know.” She turned back to them, and the room went pale, then blindingly white. “I think I’m going to faint,” she said, sliding to the floor.

“Pregnant? That’s impossible!” Bev gaped at the doctor from the emergency room examining table and shook her head. “I can’t be pregnant now.”

The young resident laughed softly. “Tell that to the baby you’re carrying.”

Bev just couldn’t fathom it. She kept shaking her head until finally she began to feel dizzy again. “It’s impossible. Nothing ever happened before.”

“Something happened this time,” he said, busily making notes on her chart. “Maybe you’ve been more relaxed lately, less anxious about getting pregnant.”

Bev glanced up at him and nodded, but she hadn’t really heard him. “We tried for
five
years.”

The doctor met her gaze over his clipboard, smiling this time. “In that case, congratulations.”

“Congratulations?” Bev echoed as it finally dawned on her. “I’m pregnant. This is terrible.”

“Doctor!” A nurse burst into the room. “There’s a man in the hall who insists on seeing the patient. I asked him to wait, but he won’t listen.”

A man? Bev’s heart leaped as the door swung open. For one crazy, ridiculous instant, she thought it might be Sam. She even imagined she saw Sam’s face as the man stormed in the room. But as soon as her visitor opened his mouth, Bev knew she’d been hallucinating.

“B.J.!” Harve Brewster bellowed. “Are you okay, baby? What happened? They told me at the office that you fainted.”

“I’m okay. Dad,” she assured him.

“What do they say it is, B.J.? You been eating right?” He swung around to the doctor. “It’s not a brain tumor, is it?”

Bev could see that her father was worried sick. She would have preferred waiting to tell him, but she knew he would drive the hospital staff crazy if she held out. “It’s nothing serious, Dad, really. They say I’m ...” She smiled apologetically as though she was asking permission. “Pregnant?”

“Pregnant?” Harve’s face flushed crimson as he stared at her, and then his voice dropped to an incredulous whisper. “You, B.J.? Pregnant? How did that happen?”

“The usual way, I guess.”

“You’re having a baby?” He clapped a hand to his chest, totally baffled. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing! Who’s the father?”

“Dad, can we discuss this later?” Bev glanced over at the doctor, who nodded hurriedly, still making notes as he left.

“No, we can’t discuss it later,” Harve said, storming her bedside. “You’re my daughter. I didn’t even know you were dating. Who is this guy? Why haven’t I met him?”

There was no stopping him now, she realized. She’d created a monster. She would have to tell him or go into hiding. “You have met him, Harve. It’s Sam.”

“Sam?
My
Sam? You and Sam Nichols?” Harve spun away as though trying to catch his breath, and then he turned back slowly. “He’s going to marry you, of course.”

“No, Dad, he’s definitely
not
going to marry me.”

“Why not? I’ll—”

“Dad! That’s not how it is.”

“I’ll tell you how it is.” Harve balled a fist and slammed it into his open palm. “I never should have saved the miserable bum’s life, that’s how it is.”

“G
IVE ME A BOTTLE
of something,” Sam said, pushing his empty beer can across the bar. “Anything but Caribbean rum.”

The Red Monkey’s bartender rubbed his stubbly jaw. “Maybe you ought to stick with beer, Sam. You’ve been hitting it pretty hard. Mixing is sure to mess you up.”

“That’s the point.”

“Don’t go getting drunk and disorderly on me, okay, buddy? I’d hate to see you do something stupid.”

“The bottle.” Sam’s tone left no doubt about his intentions. If he didn’t get the booze, he’d go over the counter and help himself. Do
something stupid
? He nearly choked on that one. His buddy, the bartender, obviously didn’t understand. Sam was drinking to
keep
from doing something stupid.

Sam’s personal code of ethics wouldn’t have won him a round of applause in church on Sunday, but the one thing he didn’t do was drink and drive. He’d gotten himself good and wasted every night that week precisely because it kept him
in
the neighborhood bar and
out
of his ragtop convertible. Otherwise he’d be out cruising the lonely streets at night and ending up Lord only knew where.

The last time he’d gone cruising, he’d ended up parked outside Brewster’s waiting to get a glimpse of B.J. It wasn’t the first time he’d found himself there— and it wouldn’t be the last, he knew. The week he’d returned from Nassau, he’d gone nearly nuts with the need to see her, to set things straight and tell her the real reason he ran like hell from relationships. It had nothing to do with other women. He hadn’t looked at a woman since he met her. It was fear. Gut fear. He was afraid of that day when his reckless ways would no longer intrigue her, of that day when she would ask him to change, to be some other man
... the man she really wanted
.

He’d watched her leave Brewster’s that night on the dot of five, wearing her polyester slacks and her lace-collared blouse. And once again he’d told himself to sober up and smell the coffee. It was business as usual for B.J. Brewster. She wasn’t pining away for Sam Nichols’s thrill-a-minute lifestyle. She’d made the adjustment without a hitch.

So be it, he’d told himself all the way back to his rat’s nest of an apartment. So be it. She’d looked happy. Or at least content. What gave him the right to clear his conscience at her expense? He’d given her enough grief.

“Hey, Nichols—”

Sam heard the gruff male voice, but he wasn’t in any mood for conversation. “Later,” he said as the intruder began to tap his shoulder.

“I want to talk to you, buddy.”

“Give it a rest,” Sam warned. Where the hell was the bartender with that bottle? As a set of beefy fingers dug deep into Sam’s shoulder, he swung around, ready to do damage if he had to. The huge fist came at him so fast, there wasn’t time to duck. A haymaker punch caught him square on the chin and sent him reeling.

He took a barstool down with him and landed on it, breaking most of the rungs. Pain shot through him; muscles were wrenched under the bruising impact, and ribs screamed in protest. At least it wasn’t his bad side, he thought, grimacing. Now he’d have a matching set of scars. He shook his head to clear it, rubbed his throbbing jaw and looked up at the guy who decked him. Harve Brewster? “Why’d you do that?”

“This is how you repay me?” Harve bellowed, shaking his fist. “I save your worthless life and all I ask in return is that you keep my daughter out of harm’s way—my
only
daughter! And this is how you repay me?”

“What did I do?”

“Don’t give me that innocent act,” Harve growled, pulling Sam to his feet. “Come on,
son
. We got some talking to do.”

Bev was all set to clean Moby Dick’s bowl when her doorbell rang. “Who’s there?” she called out, coming out of the kitchen with a load of algae cleaner, a pink plastic bucket, and her rubber gloves.

“Delivery for B.J. Brewster.”

Delivery? She hadn’t ordered anything. “Just a minute,” she said, setting her equipment on the floor. She straightened her blouse and tried to sweep flyaway tendrils of hair into her pink bandanna, but the moment she opened the door, her hand stilled and her heart nearly stopped.

She gaped at the whoppingly big bouquet of freshly cut daffodils in front of her. And at the man who held them.

“Sam? What are you doing here?”

“Bringing you flowers?” He held out the bouquet tentatively, as though he weren’t at all sure of his welcome.

Bev couldn’t have welcomed him if she’d wanted to. She felt as though the floor had dropped out from under her. She stepped back, her stomach lurching as a wave of dizziness washed over her. She was going to be sick! “Excuse me,” she cried, signaling him to stay where he was as she made a dash for the bathroom.

“What’s wrong?” he called after her.

She didn’t actually lose the oatmeal she’d eaten for breakfast, but it was a close call. Morning sickness! Her only prior brush with it had been some queasiness on arising. She hadn’t realized how lucky she’d been. Once her stomach had settled down, she ran a damp cloth over her face and neck, and steeled herself to go out and face him again.

“Are you okay?” he asked as she returned to the living room. He was still standing on the threshold, daffodils at half mast, concern brimming in his blue eyes. She’d been so startled when she opened the door, she hadn’t noticed how drastically he’d changed. His trademark aviator sunglasses were resting on the top of his head, tucked into thick dark hair that was neatly swept back off his face. It actually looked as though he’d used a comb instead of his hands. He was clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and smiling without noticeable tension. Only his black leather jacket saved him from being mistaken for a yuppie.