Running Wild (38 page)

“No.” He hesitated. That gleam in her eyes wasn’t anger.
Those were tears. What had he done? Sure, she was self-centered, but not—

“Then I will for you,” she said in a rough voice that slid
over his skin like sandpaper. “If I cared so much, I should have gone to
Saratoga when Minnie asked. I should have come out of my own self-absorbed
world and thought of her, instead of what was important to me. You are entirely
correct. And I live with those regrets every day.”

“Star,” he started forward again. He had to take it back,
touch her, sooth her.

She took more steps back. She snatched up her hat and purse,
dropped by the door. “It does not signify. I’m not carrying your child.”

“Star, listen—”

“And since we so vehemently disagree on the solution to such
an outcome,” she said, as she pinned her hat on, “we might as well put a period
to our liaison. It is what you wished for all along. Obviously, I was so
selfishly
attached to the idea that I
selfishly
ignored your sentiments on the
subject. You may rest assured . . .” She reached for the doorknob. Lifting her
chin, she turned her head. Her eyes, agonizingly dark, pierced him. “You may
rest assured that in the future I shall confine such relations to men who are
every bit as selfish as I am.”

NO! He lurched forward. “You will not! You belong to me!”

“I belong to no man!” She stormed through the door, slamming
it behind her. The reverberations through the building ended any pretense of
discretion.

***

Oh Lord, Star thought as she stepped into the cab. She could
not have said those things, could she? Such dreadful, hurtful words. Nicholas
would make a marvelous father. Of course a baby—
their baby
—would be far
more important than her work. She pushed her palms against her eyes to stop the
tears as the cab started moving. She could not really give his baby away, could
she? Such a thing would tear the very heart from her chest.

He’d proposed no better solution, however. Like marriage.
Why would he not propose a hypothetical marriage to protect the mother of his
hypothetical child? She would not require him to follow through, he must know
that. She did not want marriage, especially to a man who didn’t love her.
Didn’t he love her? At all? Oh Lord, but how could he even
like
her when
he thought her that selfish?

She lost the battle over tears and dropped her hands. The
tears streamed down her face, while her heart exploded in her chest. Shards of
pain flashed along her nerves, causing a stabbing in her forehead and a
wrenching in her belly. After all that they had shared, after everything she
had told him, she’d believe he knew her: her mind, her heart, her soul. She
confessed her secrets to so few people—to have them turned back on her. . . Oh
Lord, she was going to vomit.

She forced the bile back down her throat and reached into
her purse for a handkerchief to wipe her eyes. A warm, musky fragrance rose
from it: leather and gun smoke. It was
his
handkerchief. He’d given her
so many over the months. She kept one in her purse at all times, for those
moments when she wanted to be with him, but could not. That was love. She loved
him with her whole heart, and how, oh how, could he think so ill of her under
those circumstances?

The cab took the last familiar turn to home and started down
Ocean Drive. The waves crashing in the distance soothed her slightly. The ocean
was always there for her—even if Nicholas wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He did not
belong in her world, nor she in his, not that he’d invited her. She’d known all
along that it must end, but she had expected it would end without yelling and
bitterness.

The cab pulled to a stop and the driver opened the door for
her, dropping down the steps. “Are you feeling all right, Miss?” he asked
peering at her. “If you’re unwell, I could take you to the door.”

She pushed the fare into his hand, along with an extra-large
tip. “I’m sure. It will be the last time. Thank you so much for being
discreet.”

Looking worried, he took the money. “Been a pleasure, ma’am.
You take care of yourself.”

“I will,” she said and started down the path to the house’s
garden and the back door. In twenty minutes she would be comfortably enveloped
in her own bed. But she would not sleep. Her heart hurt far too much. She
didn’t think she’d ever sleep again.

Sir Philip Sidney, The Arcadia

Tennis did not correct for heartbreak, Star thought as she
wearily climbed the stairs to her room. Hitting the ball out of the court eased
tension and anger, but such extreme measures merely scored points for her
opponent. She’d lost three of three games against Samantha. No, tennis did not
cure heartbreak. It only increased despondency. She couldn’t, she thought as
the tears that she’d fought all morning threatened to spill out of her eyes,
couldn’t ever remember hurting quite so much. How did people recover from such
pain? It stretched every nerve in her body to the snapping point.

She opened her door and dropped her tennis bag, suddenly so
heavy it strained her weakened arms. Overwhelmed by grief, she stumbled across
the room to throw herself on her bed—

And stopped. Something was lying there, in the middle of her
gold and white bedspread. Shattered glass. Splintered wood. A photograph.

Her shattered heart jumped, proving that it was still
working. A broken frame lay neatly in the center of her bed, next to Nicholas’s
photograph. Or at least what had once been him. Someone had scribbled on it and
stabbed it, obliterating his face. Her side of the photograph had been cut out
away.

Her chest tightened so much that she could scarcely breathe.
Her hands shook as she picked up the photograph.

Footsteps outside her door. A knock. “Star?”

She jumped.

Del. She should answer. She couldn’t. Her brain was frozen,
her breath stuck in her chest.

“Sugar, may I come in?”

“Yes.”

The door opened. “I was wondering if you had seen Jane?”

“She’s gone,” she answered. How was she talking? She
couldn’t breathe. Could one talk without breathing? “On a picnic with Lee and
Jess and Simon Price.”

“Price?” he asked. His voice roughened on Simon’s name. Star
couldn’t blame him. Jane was in love with Simon. Anyone with an eye could see
it.

Del had very good eyes.

Nicholas did not. Not in this picture, not anymore. . . .

“What the devil is she doing with him?”

“Picnicking,” she repeated. She couldn’t think of kinder
words. Heart pounding she looked around the room. Everything was in perfect
order. Neat, dusted, perfect. Her eyes fell on the bureau where the picture had
sat. It was still there. Or her portion of the photograph, at any rate. Exact
same place, exact same frame.

“Well, she can blasted—are you all right?” Somehow her feet
propelled her to the bureau, where she picked up the picture to compare with
Nicholas’s.

“Star, what’s wrong?” Del asked, moving to her side. Concern
smoothed out the anger in his voice. “
Bloody hell
.”

“It’s Nicholas.”

“Have you been quarreling?”

“I didn’t do this,” she said. Her photograph had been
perfectly centered in the frame. If one looked closely, however, one could see
his hand on the back of her chair.

She felt Del stiffen beside her. Gently he took Nicholas’s
photo from her hand to examine it. “Then who did?”

“I—I’m not sure,” she said, even though she absolutely was.
She was suddenly hot—and so cold too. Dizzy.

“A maid,” Del offered, hopefully. “Is that the other half of
the photograph? You
reframed
it?”

“I just found it.
He
reframed it.” She started to
shake as fear clutched at her throat. Romeo had brought the new frame with him.
An exact duplicate. He had planned this as carefully as he had the destruction
of her clothing.

The world around her turned gray, then black around the
edges as it closed in on her.

“Star!” Del grabbed her arm as her legs buckled. He wrapped
his arm around her waist, and partly pulled, partly guided her to a chair. “Put
your head on the table there, sugar,” he said taking the photograph from her
hand. “Right, like that.” The marble top felt cool and smooth against her face.
Everything was fuzzy, sounds fading in and out: the ocean in the distance, a
bird somewhere singing lazily, a splash of water.

“Here, drink this.”

“I’m afraid to lift my head,” she mumbled. She was afraid
even to think.

“All right.” More splashing. A cool, damp cloth ran over her
forehead, her cheek and along her neck. Again and again gradually dissolving
the fog. By and by, she was back in her room, back to the table and that
dreadful picture. Taking a breath, she sat up.

“Better?” Del asked.

“Yes.”

“Good.” Del dropped the cloth on the table, and then fell
into a chair across from her. He peered at her. He’d removed his jacket and
rolled up his sleeves to reveal strongly corded forearms, scarred here and
there due to his abominable temper. Del had always been, an extremely handsome
man. Why did she never notice that about him? Why had she not loved, and
married, Del?

Because he was as much cousin as friend and because,
contrary to what everyone thought, Del had long since stopped loving her. He
was, and had been for five years, very much in love with his wife. Nothing else
explained his continued attention to a woman who possessed a fierce and often
unrestrained temper.

“It probably isn’t a maid,” he said presently. “A woman
would only do that if she had a crush on McGraw, and then she’d have ruined
your picture as well.”

“It was Romeo,” she said shakily.

He nodded gravely. “Your secret admirer. He must be quite
close to the family to have access to your room. Your butler is far too old. A
valet, perhaps? Does Port bring his?”

“Living in the house?” she asked breathlessly. Watching her
day in and day out. . .

“You’re turning white again, sugar. Perhaps you’d better lie
down.”

“On that bed?”

He stared at it for a minute. He rose. “I’ll clean it off.”

As he carefully gathered together the corners of the
bedspread to avoid scattering glass, she picked up the abandoned photograph. It
was the only one she had of Nicholas, taken on a trip to New York City. Ruined
now. Tears prickled her eyes. She’d have nothing to remind her of him once he
returned to Colorado. He wouldn’t write to her, wouldn’t visit again. He didn’t
want her, he’d made that plain. He wanted her body, yes, but not the heart and
mind that went with it or he would have proposed marriage. Others had done so
with half the encouragement, and Nicholas was no coward.

“Done,” Del said and reached down for her arm. “Come, I’ll
help you to bed.” When she was settled, he sat on the edge of the bed, holding
her cold hand in his. “Shall I ring for your maid before I find Uncle Ward?”

Father? A jolt flashed over her nerves as she sat up. “No!”

He frowned. “No? What do you mean no? We must tell him. Did
you not read the back of the photograph? It says ‘You belong to me.’ This man
has gone from amusing to threatening, Star, and ‘tis far past time to take
serious action.”

Father would keep her home, would suspend her writing, and
then she’d have lost Nicholas
and
her work. Her work had saved her after
Minnie’s death—she was counting on it to save her after her rupture with
Nicholas. “Del, please don’t. I’ll tell him myself, I swear it. But first I
have a few more articles I want to write, and you know he won’t let me once he
hears of this. He’ll make me relinquish my column. Romeo doesn’t—doesn’t like
my involvement in the movement, you see.”

Del raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? Why, then, on that he and
I agree.”

“I couldn’t care less about your feelings on the movement.”

“Which,” he said, squeezing her hand, “is why I never say
anything. In any event, this bloke’s dangerous, Star. He’s gone beyond flowers
and letters. Servant or no, this is trespassing and that’s a crime.”

“I doubt he lives here,” she said trying not to think of
that. “After all, how would he make those telephone calls?”

He sighed. “That is a point.” After pondering it for a
minute, he shrugged. “We’ll let the authorities solve it.”

“They’ll blame it on me, and when it gets out, as you know
it will, everyone else will say the same thing. The gossip will follow me for
months. At least give me time to plan how to handle that, Del. We’re in the
height of the summer Season.”

Del rubbed the side of his face. “Uncle Ward has influence,
and they’ll investigate, regardless of whom they believe to be at fault. But
you’re right, it’ll cause gossip.” He shook his head. “I don’t like it, but
I’ll give you time to prepare yourself. I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon to visit
the Chestersons in New York, and then the day after for home. I’ll wait to
telegraph Uncle Ward until I’m in Philadelphia.”

Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

Knocking.

The sound floated through Star’s nightmare of the demon
chasing her. It had escaped the cellar and was now just behind her. Her body
shook as she felt its hot breath scorching her neck. Oh God, where were
Nicholas and his rifle? No rifle anywhere, just a shattered picture frame. . .

“Star,” the demon whispered. “Wake up.”

The shaking came from outside as well. She opened her eyes.
A dark figure stood in front of her, blocking the moonlight. The demon. She
screeched and jerked sideways, across the bed.

“It’s Jane,” the demon said. “Light the lamps, won’t you?”