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Authors: Barbara Delinsky

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At that instant something within Justine shriveled and died. It was as though she were a balloon, inflated, inflated, inflated, with each breath a bit of the fullness Sloane brought to her life—then suddenly, the air sputtered madly out, leaving her hopelessly empty, totally drained. Happiness burst before Sloane's dark accusation. She didn't love him enough? Was that why the pain inside grew ever larger, to replace that awesome void?
 
A month passed with no word from Sloane. It was, for Justine, a month as tedious as any she had ever spent. For her life was strangely dichotomized, with gross distinctions between the lawyer Justine and the woman Justine, and an ongoing war, albeit cold, between the two. There was the Justine O'Neill who entered, with determination, the domain of Ivy, Gates and Logan every morning, who
conducted her meetings with clients and attorneys in her usually efficient and humanistic way, who operated in the courtroom with the same aplomb for which she had become known. Then, however, there was the Justine O'Neill who returned home alone at night tired, discouraged, lonely, restless, and seemingly unable to rally her private wits about her.
Over and over she relived the weekend in Westport, its love, its passion, and, finally, its grief. Sloane would simply not compromise, it appeared, if the month's silence was any indication of his intent. Either she would marry him … or their relationship was at an end. Such seemed the ultimatum he had wordlessly given her. Though her heart ached inconsolably, she was unable to give in. There had been too much anguish in her past; she saw too much of it in her present. She wanted freedom from that particular torment. Unfortunately, in choosing that freedom she had unknowingly opted for a different brand of torment, one that came from deep within and robbed her of the ability to smile.
“You're looking very sober lately, Justine.” John stood at the door of her office late one afternoon, when most of the firm had left for the night. “Overworked?”
“No more so than usual.” Her hand continued to move across the page, her pen making notes for a speech she was scheduled to deliver the following morning.
“Then you aren't getting enough sleep. You look tired.” Having invited himself in, he now sat leisurely in the chair before her desk.
“Anything else you'd like to tell me?” She glanced up quickly, her sarcasm coated with fatigue. “I love it when you say such nice things.”
“I wasn't trying to be ‘nice.' You do look tired. Man troubles?”
“No.”
“Too fast.” He caught her. “That came out a bit too fast. Is it Sloane?”
“I haven't seen Sloane in weeks.” Her pen bore the brunt of the teeth she sank into its tip.
John's blue eyes narrowed in hint of amusement. “So that's the trouble.”
“John,” she sighed wearily, putting the pen down with a snap, “I'm really not in the mood for discussing this. It's been a very bad day. Please—” Her throat felt suddenly strained, and, for a horrifying moment, she thought she would cry. Tears had been all too common in her private hours; up until now she had mercifully managed to keep them private. With every bit of her willpower, she swallowed convulsively, ordering herself to maintain composure. It worked, though her struggle did not go unnoticed by her colleague.
“He may just be playing it cool, you know. Men do that sometimes. And the fox—the fox is an expert at avoiding the trap.”
Justine's sharp laugh was a surprise to even her. Though it was devoid of humor, it was the first such sound she'd made in days.
Avoiding the trap,
she mused—he
was
the trap!
Misinterpreting her response as a sign of encouragement, a hint of her opening up on the matter, John continued. “The fox has unique methods of breaking the line of scent, of misleading and confounding all those after him.” She lifted a shaped eyebrow in curiosity, unconsciously egging him on. “Sure. He stops in his tracks, turns around, retraces them for a while, turns front again and moves ahead just a fraction of that distance—then suddenly bounds sideways, off the track, preferably into a stream or onto the top of a fence, and runs off.”
“Fascinating,” she grumbled facetiously, wondering just how she had managed to find this wildlife expert—or he, her.
“He even manages to hop onto the back of a sheep once in a while, to hook a free ride, track free, then jump off when the coast is clear. Very clever, if I don't say so myself.” He smiled, so caught up with his discourse that her frown was ignored.
That frown, however, was becoming a semipermanent fixture on Justine's face. It was particularly noticeable at home, where she had usually been so relaxed. Susan was concerned.
“Are you feeling okay?” she asked one Sunday morning in good nursely fashion when she tired of watching Justine roam idly around the apartment in uncharacteristic avoidance of the mouth-watering Sunday edition of
The New York Times.
Usually there was good-humored rivalry about who read which section first. On this particular morning Susan had the paper all to herself. “You're not getting sick, are you?”
“No, Sue. I'm fine. Really.” Her eyes were glued to the street below, seeing nothing, yet mesmerized by the occasional movement of life there.
“Things been tough at the office?”
“Mmmmm.”
And, after a pause—“No word from Sloane?”
Justine shuddered lightly before recovering herself. “No.”
“Look, Justine. Maybe you should get away for a while. It's nearly the end of June. You were planning on taking a few weeks in August anyway. Why not move them up?”
Vacation? What good would vacation do, if the demon was within? Was there any escape? “No, Susan. It's probably better if I work. I'm just tired now. The Fourth is coming up—I'll have a short vacation then.”
How easy it was, she mused, to give pat answers to questions whose crux was much deeper! How simple it was to put off the expressions of concern—to keep friends and colleagues on the outside, at a safe distance from her
turmoil. Only Sloane had penetrated her thick-skinned veneer; only he had stolen into her heart. In hindsight, she marveled at his cunning, yes, his
cunning
in captivating her. Their explosive physical attraction had been mutual; that had helped his cause. But he had stalked her with such brilliance, such laid-back persistence, that she couldn't have recognized her growing love if it had been waved before her clear, emerald eyes.
Her love for Sloane was a fact, but a sadly deficient one. As Sloane himself had said that last day in Westport, she must not love him enough if she still refused to marry him. Perhaps he was right. But, she asked herself poignantly, what about
his
love for her? What was
its
nature, that he could sever all contact with her of his own free will? Was this, as John had consolingly suggested, a tactic? Was he merely exercising the sharp-honed intelligence for which the fox was known? His parting words to her that fateful Sunday afternoon when he pulled to a brusque stop outside her apartment building had been a curt “I'll contact you,” but they had been his
only
words of that seemingly endless drive from Westport to Manhattan and had been delivered with an undertone of pure business. Had he something in mind?
Indeed, he did. The Silver Fox was not to be underestimated. “Justine”—Daniel Logan's summons vibrated firmly over the intra-office line—“I've got Sloane Harper in here. Could you join us for a moment?”
Any other member of the firm she might have been able to put off; Dan Logan she could not. Surely Sloane Harper would have known that! And surely, she simmered in frustration, he would have to know how potentially uncomfortable a public confrontation would be for her—recalling in vivid detail how intimate their last confrontation had been.
Standing weakly, she tugged at her skirt and smoothed down the soft folds of her blouse. The early summer's heat
seemed to have suddenly penetrated even the air-conditioned confines of the office, choking her at the throat, the wrist, the waist—at every spot where her clothes touched her body. But the inevitable had to be faced. Mustering the shreds of a nearly nonexistent self-possession, she walked the route to the senior partner's omce—wondering all the while what nature of weapon the firing squad would use.
“Excuse me?” she heard herself say moments later as she sat straight-backed in Dan's office. Sloane was far to her right, nearly behind her, standing, watching, alert. Other than a perfunctory word of greeting upon her arrival, he had not spoken.
“That's right, Justine,” Dan repeated patiently. “We would like you to accompany Sloane to Alaska for the preliminary work on his project.”
Eyes paler green in disbelief, Justine looked from Dan to Sloane, then over to Charlie Stockburne. “I don't—I don't understand. What use would I be to Sloane in Alaska? I don't know anything about the corporate end of the law. Certainly it would be more appropriate if one of the others went.” Pulse racing, she focused her attention on Dan, excluding Sloane's stern expression as much as possible. Having known his warmth, his tenderness, his love, this near formality was a torture.
“Perhaps you've misunderstood me, Justine.” Dan eyed her sharply, his gaze, in its reproof, saying far more than his words. “Sloane proposes to use you as a consultant on the project he is planning. You won't be actually acting as his lawyer on
behalf
of the corporation, but rather—”
“—as an employee of the corporation—” she interrupted on a soft note of dismay at the gist of the suggestion.
“‘Consultant' is a more dignified word, Justine.” Sloane finally entered the ring, throwing down the gauntlet with his unique air of majesty. Slowly and with characteristic dignity, he approached her. “I feel that, with your
background in family law, you might be of help. Are you at all familiar with the situation of economics in Alaska?”
Helpless as the walls began to close in around her, Justine shook her head. So this would be her punishment for refusing to marry him—a sentence of subservience as his underling? To be near, yet just beyond reach—was this what he had in mind? Fighting to quell the churning within, she willed her attention to what Sloane was saying.
“Since the advent of the oil pipeline, Alaska has, to state it simply, come into a lot of money. The question is how to most suitably spend it—or invest it—such that the people of the state receive the greatest long-range benefit.”
“And your job?” she probed, interested despite herself.
“CORE International has been retained by the state of Alaska to determine the areas of greatest need. It will be our job to canvas the state, identify what we believe to be the most serious deficiencies in social, educational, custodial services, then make proposals for a course of action to remedy them.”
“Very impressive,” she murmured, “and exciting”—then quickly remembered herself—“but I still feel that any one of the men would be more suited to accompany you than I would be. And, frankly, I don't see how I could fit this into my schedule.”
Dan eyed her reproachfully. “On the contrary. Many of the courts are closed during the summer months. And you'll have enough time to rearrange your speaking engagements, alert clients, redirect appointments. There are plenty of people here who can cover for you. And, I believe” —he challenged her to deny his claim—“you were planning to take several weeks off in August anyway. Am I wrong?”
“August?” Was that when this fiasco was scheduled to take place? “Ah, no, you aren't wrong. I
was
planning to take off time then.” She punctuated her emphasis on the
past tense with a pointed glance Sloane's way. “When is this Alaska trip scheduled?”
It was the tall, silver-haired keeper of her heart who answered in a clear, deep tone. “We are planning to spend the entire month up there. Any problem?” A manly brow arched into lines on his forehead, lines she had never noticed before. In fact, as she stared closely now, there were other lines she hadn't noticed. He looked wan, tired—as she felt.
“A month?” Her heart fell another notch. “Four weeks? I don't know”—her strawberry-blond curls jiggled with her tentative headshake—“that's a stretch. To be gone from the office for that length of time—”
“Justine”—her attention flew to Dan—“this matter is not exactly up for your debate.” He seemed to be more ruffled, less patient. Was he, too, uncomfortable with the proposal? If so, he was equally as uncomfortable with her hesitancy. “As a member of this firm, it is in your best interest to make whatever arrangements are necessary to prepare for the trip. Sloane will fill you in on the details. There will be several briefings beforehand. I believe he can tell you what clothing would be appropriate for summer in Alaska—I certainly can't!” He chuckled wryly.
Justine found no humor in his quip. “Then I have no choice? This is an order? It's either go … or …” she gestured toward the door with her thumb, her eyes flaring in anger and disbelief, “ … leave?”

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