Thin Ice (37 page)

Until the day he'd come home and found them in bed.

He'd felt run down that day to start with. Since his mother's death, he hadn't played wel, and Coach Granger had told him if he didn't shape up, he'd be riding the pines more than he already was.

Rather than give in to the flu he'd been fighting off, Eric had stayed behind after practice, as usual. He'd been so determined the extra hours would get him back in the game. Once he cracked the line-up again, he'd have a chance to get caled up to the majors. Nothing like ice time to attract a scout's attention. But he'd felt so miserable that day he'd given up and slogged home to bed.

Only to find it already occupied.

Poison gave way to something more palatable as Eric lay in his bed, hands stacked beneath his head, and recaled how he'd stood at the hands stacked beneath his head, and recaled how he'd stood at the foot of another bed ten years ago, a naïve twenty-year-old discovering his wife asleep in his coach's arms.

The bedside alarm had gone off, and Granger had silenced it without opening his eyes. He'd roled over, wrapped an arm around Monica, burrowed his face in her neck. “Rise and shine, sweetcakes, time to make the bed."

She smiled and slid a hand down his body. “Sure you don't have time for a quickie before you go? I'm going to need something to sustain me until tomorrow."

"Try your husband. He'l be here in half an hour."

"Are you kidding? The three-minute man? I blink and it's over."

He chuckled. “That's what you get for marrying an amateur."

"That's what I get for trying to make you jealous.” She opened her eyes, gasped and yanked the sheet over her breasts. “Eric! What are you doing here?” The question held more horror than guilt, as if he'd been the one caught in bed with a man who had a wife and three teenage kids who adored him.

"I live here,” he said.

Numbly, he left the room and found the bottle of bourbon he'd bought for their six-month anniversary. The bottle they'd never opened, because of Monica's miscarriage that night. A miscarriage that had driven them apart emotionaly these past two months.

that had driven them apart emotionaly these past two months.

Or so he'd thought.

As the bourbon seared his throat, Eric began to suspect Monica's miscarriage for what he later learned it had actualy been—a botched abortion to keep her lover from losing interest in her young, sleek body.

Sightlessly Eric stared out the apartment window, feeling used and dirty. He'd heard the rumors about Monica and Coach Granger, long before he'd married Monica. But love had blinded him to the truth. Love, and the desperate need to have someone to cal his own after his mother had died. He'd gone wild with grief when he'd heard the news. Nearly quit hockey altogether.

But then Monica had taken over his life, his emotions, his common sense. With her dark, soulful eyes and clever lips and hands, she'd convinced him the rumors about her and Coach Granger were just locker room talk from a bunch of horny hockey players with nothing better to occupy their pea-size brains. The truth was he'd only been a convenient smokescreen to alow them to continue their affair behind a façade of respectability. The coach was happily married, and suddenly Monica was too—to a man who openly adored her and had placed her on a pedestal beyond the reach of the teltale rumors.

Someone entered the room behind him. Eric continued staring out the window. Several long seconds later he heard the front door the window. Several long seconds later he heard the front door click shut behind the man he now knew kept him off the ice to keep his mistress within screwing distance. If Eric had been caled up to the majors, his ‘devoted’ wife would have had to go with him.

When Monica emerged from the bedroom ten minutes later, Eric stil sat at the dining room table, contemplating his bottle of bourbon. He wondered how long it would take him to polish it off.

He heard the familiar rustle of silk against satin, and waited for her to tel him she wanted a divorce.

Instead, she slipped her arms around him from behind, bent to trace her tongue around the curve of his ear.

Eric lost it. He swore and reared back, toppling her from her stiletto heels. Whirling around in his chair, he found her half-lying, half-sitting on the floor, wearing the black silk camisole and shorts set she'd worn the night she'd told him over a candlelit dinner she was pregnant. The night she'd made him the happiest man on earth. Al he'd ever wanted out of life was a family. A big one.

"Eric, don't do this. Please.” She lifted a pale, perfectly manicured hand as if to ward him off.

"I'm sorry. You startled me,” he lied, then swalowed his rising bile.

Had she realy thought she could fuck him into forgetting what he'd seen and heard? The thought of touching her now made his skin crawl.

She straightened into a sitting position, her wary eyes not leaving She straightened into a sitting position, her wary eyes not leaving his. She looked obscene in her skimpy black silk, her long white legs nowhere near as sexy as he'd thought before. Al he had to do was picture them locked around his coach's waist and he wanted to retch.

Gingerly, she massaged her right wrist. Despite his revulsion, his mother's teachings nudged his conscience. He'd been raised to respect and protect women, not maim them. “Did I hurt you?"

She shook her head and her long black hair rippled across her breasts. “I just fel on it a little hard."

Slowly, she stood. He wondered how long she planned to tiptoe around the topic of her affair as she went to the cupboard, got herself a glass, poured a shot of bourbon into it. She tossed it back and met his eyes, her own cool and direct.

"I think you should leave for a few days, until we've calmed down enough to discuss this rationaly."

It was Monica at her ice princess best. From the first, she'd caled the shots between them, the sophisticated older woman guiding her rough-around-the-edges lover through the dance of courtship, then marriage. Rather than argue, he nodded. He knew he wasn't coming back. The sudden flicker of fear in her eyes told him she knew it, too.

"I'l be at the Ramada in case anyone cals."

He left, the bottle of bourbon stashed in his suitcase. He'd be damned if he'd leave it for her to enjoy. The rest of their things she could have. He wanted no part of anything she'd touched.

He checked into the Ramada, broke open the bourbon, and drank himself into oblivion.

The next thing he knew he was being arrested for assaulting his wife in a fit of drunken rage.

When Emily returned to the hospital from lunch with Carmen, Sarah flagged her down from across the crowded reception area.

"You've got a visitor. Said she was a friend of yours. Things were getting crazy out here, so I let her wait in your office."

Emily frowned and headed for her office. The only friend besides Carmen who might visit her at work was Miranda. Had something happened to the baby? Eric? Fear quickened her step. But when she crossed the threshold, it wasn't Miranda she found waiting for her but Patricia Montgomery.

In her lap was Emily's picture of Robbie, dressed in his hockey uniform, grinning like a monkey. Reverently her fingers traced Robbie's features. As she lifted her head, Emily saw Patricia's tears.

For a long moment the two women stared at each other.

For a long moment the two women stared at each other.

Patricia spoke first, her smile watery. “He looks like my father did at that age."

Emily recaled Anna's words about how the Montgomery's wouldn't sit stil knowing they had a grandchild nearby. Dread filed her as she realized Ryan hadn't backed off on the custody suit; he'd simply regrouped and caled in reinforcements.

Patricia gave the photograph a final loving look, returned it to its place on Emily's desk. “I didn't come to cause trouble."

Old hurts prevented Emily from accepting the admission at face value. “Why did you come?"

"To say something I should have said years ago.” Patricia reached for her Gucci handbag. “You may find this hard to believe, but I honestly wasn't aware I had a grandson until a few minutes ago.” She withdrew a monogrammed handkerchief, dabbed at her eyes, and sent Emily an embarrassed smile. “You'l have to excuse me, I'm stil a bit overwhelmed by the discovery."

"His name is Robbie. He's in third grade."

Patricia's smile became one of pure gratitude. Emily moved to sit behind her desk. She needed distance, detachment. She'd never seen the unflappable Patricia Montgomery in tears before.

"You said you had something to say to me?"

"You said you had something to say to me?"

Patricia tucked her handkerchief back into her bag and straightened. “I never realized how bad it was between you and Ryan until I read your interview with Carmen."

Emily didn't confirm or deny Patricia's assumption.

"I've worked with Carmen on several occasions,” Patricia explained, much to Emily's surprise. “Articles about charity functions and the like. It was I who suggested she contact you for an interview."

Emily stared. “You? And Carmen? She never said a word. Why?"

"After listening to you at the banquet—and I was listening, despite what it may have looked like—I took a hard look at myself and realized I'd done you a grave injustice by turning a blind eye to your suffering at my son's hands."

"Patricia...” Emily began, “This is al a little too much for me to—"

"Please, hear me out. It's taken me more than two months to work up the courage to come here, but what I'm about to say needs to be said. When I saw you at that banquet and realized how much you'd made of your life, despite the ... obstacles my husband and I threw in your path, I felt very smal and ashamed. I've known al along I should have stood up for you when you left my son, but I didn't have the courage.

"I'm a coward. I always have been. That's why I've stayed with John al these years. I've never been able to summon the strength to walk away from the prestige of being a Montgomery. But you did, and I admire you for that more than I can say.

"When I realized how dedicated you are to helping others in ...

situations similar to ours, I knew I had to try to do something to make amends. So I caled Carmen and suggested she speak with you. I thought if between the two of you, you could help even one woman escape an abusive relationship, I'd have done something to be proud of for a change."

"Patricia, you've done plenty to be proud of."

Patricia continued as if she hadn't heard. “I couldn't do it myself, you see. I didn't have the courage. But after seeing you that night, I knew you did."

Emily realized Patricia had come to the end of her speech. She sank back into her chair to digest what she'd just learned. The irony of it almost amused her. Here Ryan thought Eric was responsible for her fifteen minutes of fame, when al along it was his own mother. She dragged a weary hand down her face.

"Oh, Lord. What a mess."

"I beg your pardon? Have I said something wrong?"

Emily looked up. “No ... no, of course not. I'm deeply flattered that Emily looked up. “No ... no, of course not. I'm deeply flattered that you think so highly of me, but...” The hel with it. Patricia had offered her honesty; the least she could do was the same. “I wish you hadn't contacted Carmen."

"Why not? The result was an excelent article. Insightful and informative. Hasn't the response been positive for Harmony House?"

Emily sighed, feeling guilty about letting her own problems diminish the interview's success. “Oh, it has. Overwhelmingly so. Donations have poured in. But I'm afraid things haven't fared so wel for me.

Your son took a strong exception to that insightful and informative article. He paid me a visit."

Patricia stared. “Ryan?"

As tactfuly as possible, Emily told Patricia about her son's ambush in the parking lot. When she finished, Patricia's face was filed with abject apology. “Oh, Emily. I'm so sorry. I never meant to..."

"I know you didn't, and I don't blame you. I guess I assumed if Ryan read the article, he'd do so with a remarkably clear conscience. He's never accepted any responsibility for his actions before."

"A family trait,” Patricia murmured bitterly.

Emily frowned, then saw her former mother-in-law in a new light.

“Patricia? May I speak frankly?"

“Patricia? May I speak frankly?"

With as little fanfare as possible, Emily explained that Ryan had admitted he knew about Robbie al along. When Patricia recovered from her astonishment, Emily said, “The point is, why didn't he confront me sooner?"

Patricia's response was caustic. “Because he's just like his father. A selfish, egotistic bastard who has no use for anyone unless they can be of benefit to him. Admitting he had a son would have placed Ryan in the position of acknowledging his responsibilities to the boy, and he's too self-centered and greedy to—” She halted abruptly, as if she'd been struck dumb.

Emily leaned forward in concern. “Patricia?"

The older woman sent Emily an enlightened look. “That's it. My mother's trust fund. Her wil explicitly states that if Ryan has no children by age forty, the principal reverts to him. At present, he's only entitled to the interest proceeds."

"That doesn't make sense. Wouldn't she want Ryan to perpetuate the family name?"

"My mother was a bit of an eccentric, but a shrewd woman. I'd venture to say she fuly expected Ryan to marry and have children, but worded her wil that way to ensure that there would be something left for them to inherit when the time came.” Patricia sighed. “Heaven knows Ryan's spendthrift ways have given his father and I more than one uneasy moment."