The Wall (9 page)

I take it?' the deep voice sounded right behind her, and she whirled.

Chuckling at the expression on her face, Greg looked past her at the

array of sandwiches and the steaming coffee and murmured

appreciatively, 'A feast for a starving man!'

'Help yourself,' she invited, pulling out a chair for him and laughing

when he sat down. He looked up enquiringly, one dark brow up.

'Am I the cause of that laughter?'

'In a way. You make this kitchen seem so small, and that chair

positively groaned when you sat in it,' she told him with twinkling

eyes. 'I guess I hadn't realised how big you really are.'

In response to her good humour, he suddenly smiled. Sara couldn't

seem to take her eyes off his strong features. While he ate, she sipped

coffee, and they talked about light things, but she got the strangest

feeling as they relaxed together. It was as if they were, really saying

something else, something deeper to each other. Sara looked up from

her coffee quickly once and found his eyes on her in the most intent

and gentle way.

Good heavens, she thought, as she suddenly felt as if she were

drowning in that gaze, what's happening to me? I had no idea he

could be so—her thoughts stopped, and she searched for something

to say.

'I—I saw you outside last night,' she commented at random, and the

gentle look in his eyes was slowly replaced with a look of

puzzlement.

'I'm not sure I know what you mean.'

It was her turn to feel a slight puzzlement and she explained, 'Out in

the front yard, after I went inside, were you—walking around about

half an hour later?'

He frowned. 'I went right home. Are you sure you saw something?'

She sat very still and thought over the last night, and gradually a cold

chill crept over her. There had been a dark figure out front, she felt

sure, and the realisation that it hadn't been Greg after all put an

entirely different light on the situation. She had completely forgotten

that she had been afraid enough when she had thought that it was

him. Standing abruptly, she went into the living room to stare out of

the front picture window. The direction of her gaze showed her that

there was nothing where a tall figure had been before, no brush or

bush or tree that could be misconstrued as something else. There had

been someone there last night—she was sure of it. A hand touched

her shoulder and she jumped violently. Without looking around, she

became aware that Greg was very close. She could feel his body heat

at her back, and on impulse she leaned back against his chest. He

immediately put his arms around her, and it felt so good and warm

and right that she sighed, closing her eyes. A slight pressure at the

side of her head told her that he was leaning his cheek against her

hair. She had never felt so small and vulnerable and yet so safe,

before in her life. Greg was very careful in how he held her; she

could feel the restrained power in his arms. They stood this way for a

long time.

'There was someone out there last night, Greg—I swear it.'

His arms tightened and his head went up as he too looked out the

window. 'Where?'

She pointed out the spot to him, for some reason unable to feel the

alarm that had been so apparent just minutes before. Greg's presence

was too immediate and overwhelming to her. He looked out the

window for a minute, and when she tilted her head back on his

shoulder to see his expression, he quickly smiled reassuringly and

dropped a kiss on her hose. 'I need to get going, I'm afraid—got a lot

of things to do, and Beowulf is penned up. He needs a meal and a

run. Would you like me to stop by later this evening, and have a look

around outside, just in case?'

Sara looked up gratefully at him. 'I'd appreciate it if you did. I'd feel

much better about things, really.'

'I'll knock at your front door, then, and let you know that it's me

prowling about outside, so that you don't faint from shock, all right?'

She nodded, and a strange look came over his face, a brooding look

that was almost hostile. It was as if a shutter had come down over his

features, masking his thoughts from the outer world. She had begun

to know him better, though, and to understand him in an instinctive

way. She knew enough to look beyond that careful mask, and she

saw his dark eyes watching her with great attention. Intuitively

guessing his feelings, she ignored that brooding look and went up to

him to put a light hand on his arm with a smile.

'I really am fine, you know,' she murmured. 'Don't worry about me.'

His body relaxed, though his face didn't change. He said abruptly. It's

just that when you didn't answer the door today, I started to wonder .

. . call me if you need anything.'

'I will.'

She walked him to the front door, thanking him again for the

firewood. He turned back to answer her, his eyes smiling again in

that subtle way, then his eyes lit upon the upright piano. 'Oh, was that

left here with the furniture?' he asked idly, flicking a careless hand to

it. Sara turned to see what he had meant and stiffened. It was an

involuntary reaction, and she couldn't help herself even though she

knew that he had sensed her strange behaviour and was looking at her

oddly.

'No,' she replied shortly, moving away. 'It's mine. I had it brought in

when I moved.' To tell the truth, she owned three pianos, all in vastly

better shape and quality than this one, but she had bought it for

temporary use, not wanting to ship hers halfway across America.

Greg was watching her with an interested look. 'So you play. Are you

good?' He looked thoughtful and she felt suddenly desperate to wipe

that look off his face. She didn't want him to find out who she was

just yet. It would cause a rift, either in his thinking or in hers. He

would back away from her like a cat landing on hot bricks, she

guessed, because of her exposure to the public, or she would run

away from him in a panic, afraid that she would never know his

motives for continuing their relationship were he to discover her real

identity.

'So-so,' she muttered, then she said quickly. 'Maybe some day I'll

practice up and play you something. I'm rusty at the moment.' It's

true, she argued silently with herself. I am out of practice. This silent

argument didn't assuage her sense of guilt, for she knew she had let

him think that she was a bashful amateur. Her own concept of being

out of practice was totally out of the league that she had implied to

him she was in. She could sit at that piano and play with a passionate

grace at any given time. The tiny mistakes that she would be apt to

make would not be noticed by a normal listener.

Greg was smiling down at her easily. Was it just her imagination or

did something flit across his face? 'Maybe some time you could. I'd

like that—I'm quite a music lover.'

'Oh no!' she groaned involuntarily, and he looked at her with both

brows up. She added hastily, 'I bet that means you're an intelligent

and informed critic and you only listen to the masters in the field.

Now you'll never get me to play!' A good excuse, she congratulated

herself. Without conceit, she knew that she had a distinctive style,

and she didn't want to try to put him off with a clumsy attempt to

play either badly or in another style.

'But I would take into account your experience and not judge you

unfairly,' he promised, with a curious smile.

'I'll bet,' she retorted, and laughed. 'Enough! I have work to do and

you have a starving dog, so I don't want to hear any more. See you.'

She leaned weakly against the door after he left. 'Fool!' she berated

herself angrily, and the sound of her own voice was so loud in the

suddenly silent house that she jumped. Why, oh, why hadn't she lied

when he asked her who owned the piano? Was it that she secretly

hoped he would guess the truth about her and demonstrate how little

it mattered to him? Did she hope that if she gave him some subtle

clue as to who she was, he would sooner or later recognise her? Was

it a cowardly way of letting him know the truth and yet getting out of

having to tell him personally? Whatever the reason, it was too late to

change what had happened. She would have to wait and see. Time

would tell whether he recognised her or not.

She was so agitated that she started to pace the living room back and

forth. It took her exactly seven good sized paces to cover the open

area, then she turned to pace the seven steps back. She noted this

with one detached corner of her mind in the crazy, irrelevant way she

had whenever she was really upset. It was solemnly filed away for

future reference. The other part of her mind told herself emphatically

just how stupid she was to be paying so much attention to such a

trivial detail while she had other more important things to think

about. But she couldn't help counting the steps once she had made the

observation. It was like a tape recording playing over and over again:

Seven
up,
seven
back,
five to the
front
door and then seven
up,
seven

back ...
She forced herself to stop and sit down in an effort to think

calmly. Greg Pierson, a man with shadowed eyes, shadowed past,

shadowed motives. What did she really know about him? Materially,

nothing.

A tiny voice whispered, his eyes are warm. She shook her head so

violently that her hair whipped around and caught on her eyelashes.

Raising a hand to push it away impatiently, she stared out of the

picture window at the grey day. Would it rain?

He's strong, that little voice whispered to her. Sara gave a short

mirthless laugh. If she didn't stop this soon they would be taking her

away in a straitjacket! Pretty soon she would be talking to people

who weren't really there, and she promptly said aloud, 'So what?' Her

serious thoughts gave way to a little bit of giggling, and she shook

herself mentally, going into the kitchen to wash up the few dishes

that had been dirtied. She took an excessive amount of time with the

two coffee mugs. She had bought them in Mexico a few years ago,

and they were hand-crafted, very pretty.

He is gentle with you, and concerned, that small voice spoke again.

The still quiet knowledge could not be denied, and she sank slowly

into a chair, the dish cloth in her hands, twisted and unnoticed.

She let herself think of him freely then, without trying to escape from

the direction her thoughts were leading her to. It was, she mused, too

late for her. It had been too late when she had looked into Greg's eyes

and had seen him smile that first heart-stopping time. What kind of

fool was she? She had become infatuated with a total stranger

without a second's resistance.

She was twenty-eight. She was lonely. So what? Many people are.

She had been lonely for most of her life. What was so different now?

She was eager for some kind of meaningful relationship for a change,

instead of the sterile empty acquaintances she'd known for so many

years. She wanted the pain and the pleasure of giving and taking,

learning and loving. That she would fall for the first decent specimen

that stumbled her way without knowing who she really was! What

would he think of her if he knew? That had her smiling grimly. She

could imagine what he might say. A more amusing thought struck her

then: what would Barry think?

He would, she thought crudely, have a hissy fit, and the thought

made her laugh aloud. 'God, Sara!' he would expostulate. 'Don't you

know enough not to get emotionally involved with a vacation fling?

Baby, you've gone right around the bend!'

Someone knocked on her front door and she moved swiftly to

answer. Greg, she thought, but when she swung the door open and

smiled widely at the man standing on her porch, her grin of delight

quickly turned to a blank stare of astonishment and dismay.

'Hello, love,' said Barry, shuffling his feet nervously and smiling

tentatively at her expression. 'Can I—er— come in?'

'Oh, good grief!' she groaned, letting the door knob slip from her

nerveless fingers. The door, left to swing by itself, gently swished