Heart of the Night (39 page)

“I was wondering when you'd be back.”

“What's happening?” he asked casually, but there was a wariness in his eyes, which never once left the stranger.

“Come.” She took his hand and led him into the room. “This is Dennis Becker. He's been helping me. We've come up with some ideas that you'll love. Dennis, Sam Craig.”

The two men shook hands, Sam far more cautiously than Dennis, who burst out with, “It's a pleasure to meet you, Sam. I've worked with Susan, and her father before her, but this job is something quite different. You have a delightful place here. The interaction of light and lines is fantastic. By the time we're done, you'll have something to be proud of.”

Slowly Sam turned to Susan. Quietly he asked, “What's this about?”

Susan slid her elbow through his and said proudly, “I'm decorating your home. You told me that you don't have the time or the talent. Well, I have both, and what I don't have, Dennis does. We've put together a whole plan with diagrams, pictures, estimates. Come see.”

She tugged on his arm, but he held back. He had spent the last twenty-four hours doing surveillance on two of Rhode Island's heaviest drug dealers. One of their customers had OD'd practically before his eyes. He had blown his cover trying to get the man to the hospital before he died.

The last thing he wanted to see at that moment was a decorating plan.

Brushing his fingers over his upper lip, he bought himself a minute to search for moderately tactful words. “Uh, Susan, do you think we could make it another time?”

“But Dennis is here now.”

“Another time?” he repeated.

“But we have all the plans here. All you have to do is point to what you like, and we'll go ahead with the order. It takes a minimum of three months for delivery on most of these things.”

Aware of a growing annoyance, Sam worked to keep his voice low and even. “I don't think this is the right time.”

But Susan was enthusiastic enough not to heed his warning. “This is the
perfect
time. Dennis is in from New York. We've both put a lot of thought into this, and we're ready to act.”

“You should have clued me in.”

“And ruined the surprise?” Leaving his side, she bent over the sofa and raised a multicolored drawing of his living room furnished to the hilt. “Is this gorgeous or what?”

Sam was quickly realizing that bad timing wasn't the only problem. If Dennis had come from New York with elaborate drawings, no less, there were already expenses to be paid. Though Susan hadn't yet asked for a cent, Sam wondered whether, left to her own devices, she'd spend him broke.

Suddenly the most basic differences between them reared up and hit him between the eyes. Unable to face that after what he had just been through, he said, “I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed.” Turning on his heel, he left the room.

Slightly bewildered, Susan looked from where he'd vanished to Dennis and back. “Give us a minute,” she said and ran in pursuit of Sam. She caught him on the stairs and followed him up, hissing, “Sam,
Dennis
is here.”

Without breaking stride, Sam went right on into the bedroom. He tossed his jacket to the bed. “Fine. You visit with him.”

“He's not here to visit. He's here to do business.”

“Whose business?” He whipped his sweatshirt over his head and came out looking a little more rumpled, but no softer. “Not mine. I didn't invite him, and I sure didn't hire him.”

“No one hired him. He's doing me a favor by being here He doesn't get any money until you agree to the plans.”

Sam tossed the sweatshirt on top of the jacket. “And how much does he get then? A flat ten thousand for his services?”

“Five thousand, plus expenses and a commission on the furniture. As decorators go, he's not bad.”

Sam sputtered out a laugh. “‘As decorators go, he's not bad.' Susan, I don't have an extra five thou for Dennis, and even aside from Dennis, the estimate you've got is probably three times my budget.” He kicked off his sneakers. “You forget who you're dealing with.” Sitting on the bed, he went to work on his socks.

“If money's the problem, I'll help you out.”

“No way.”

“Why not?”

His eyes bore into her. “Because I don't do things like that. If I buy a condominium, it's because I can afford it. If I decorate it, I'll do it in a way I can hack. I'm not a charity case. Until you came along, I thought I was doing real well financially. I don't want you telling me that what I earn isn't enough. I pay my own way, Susan. I'm no gigolo.”

She was taken aback, but only for a minute. “I thought you wanted a nice place.”

“I already have a nice place,” he said, tossing one sock aside, “and I resent that little man downstairs—or you—suggesting that it isn't adequate as it is. I like this place. I never said I was in a rush to decorate it, and I never gave you permission to do it. I never gave you permission to do anything.” Tossing the second sock aside, he stood.

“I thought we were beyond that.”

“Beyond what? Talking? Discussing things? Asking the other's opinion?” He was working himself into a royal snit, letting off the frustration that had built through a tense and sleepless night. “What kind of relationship is this, anyway?”

“That's a good question,” Susan said. Everything inside her suddenly hurt. Her pain came out as indignance. “Apparently I overestimated it.”

“Damn right, you did. We've known each other for little more than two weeks, yet you assume I'll lie down and let you walk all over me. Let me tell you something, sweetheart,” he jabbed his bare chest with his thumb, “no woman does that to me. I'm the man in my house. I make the decisions.”

Susan was stunned. “I don't believe I'm hearing this,” she murmured, then raised her voice. “You're a fraud, Sam Craig! You have long hair and sing a liberal song, but it's a front. You're a cop, as traditional as they come. Your woman is good for two things, food and sex. You're little better than a Neanderthal.”

Hands on his hips, he glared at her. Wearing nothing but a low-slung pair of jeans and a disgruntled expression, he did look primitive. “Maybe, but that's the way it is. I've lived alone for a long time and I don't like people waltzing in and taking over. This is my house. Got that? And another thing—I don't like coming home from work grubby and tired to find you dripping in silk, playing footsies with a guy who's probably as queer as a three-dollar bill.”

Susan mirrored his angry stance, planting her own hands on her hips. “Maybe you don't like coming home from work to find me, period.”

Running his fingers through his hair, he looked away. “I'm tired. I don't need this shit.”

Having long since forgotten the importance of keeping her voice down, Susan cried, “There wouldn't have been
any
shit if you'd been a little cooperative. But you couldn't do that, could you? You take delight in making a fool of me. You always have.” She drew herself up straight. “Well, I don't need
that
shit. I don't know why I bother with you at all.”

“Because,” he said in a sarcastic drawl, “you like where I take you in bed. Face it, sweetheart. That's the crux of the appeal.”

“You're crude.”

He barked out a laugh. “Crude? Me? Look who's talking.”

“I'm not crude.”

“Want some quotes?”

She didn't, and she was too upset to want much of anything but a speedy escape. “I thought we could find a comfortable meeting ground, but that's impossible. You're a lost cause, Sam. You have no class. None at all.” With her hair flying, she whirled around and left while she still had the last word.

*   *   *

On Wednesday afternoon, Savannah delivered her final argument to the jury. The judge's charge was brief and to the point, and by three o'clock the jury was sent off to deliberate. Savannah retired to her office to await their return, but by nine o'clock, they were sequestered for the night. With no hope of a verdict then, Savannah stopped home for the mail before going to Jared's. After sleeping the night away in his bed, she awoke feeling on edge.

“Is it always this way?” he asked, having been replaced by the morning DJ in time to wake Savannah. Now he stood by the side of the bed, while she sat at the edge, leaning against him as he stroked her back.

It was a divine way to wake up, Savannah knew. She only wished she could enjoy it fully. But she was tense. “When a trial goes longer than three or four days, there's more at stake. It's hard when the jury's out.”

“Any idea how long they'll be?”

She shook her head against his stomach, then wrapped her arms around his waist. “Could be two hours or two days. I don't want to begin to think about any longer than that.”

*   *   *

Fortunately, she didn't have to. The jury came back shortly after noon that day with guilty verdicts on nineteen of the twenty-six counts. It was a definite victory for Savannah and the state, and in its wake came multiple interviews with the media and a meeting with Paul. As she'd gotten in the habit of doing, Savannah took her assistants, in this case Arnie and Katherine, out for a celebratory dinner to thank them for their help on the case, but the celebration wasn't a lingering one. Savannah wanted to go home. She wasn't feeling well.

Jared called her at her townhouse at nine. He already knew the verdict; she'd left him a message earlier, and he'd followed the news reports, but he hadn't spoken with her since morning. “You must be thrilled.”

“Uh-huh.”

It was a minute before he said anything. Then, “You don't sound it.”

“I'm so tired.”

“Are you shaking?”

“I'm too tired for that. I'm just lying down.”

That didn't sound like the Savannah he'd come to know. If she wasn't asleep, she was awake and doing something. He felt a glimmer of concern. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Sure.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm sure.”

“Can I come over?”

“Uh-uh. I'd be lousy company.”

“I'm not asking for a barrel of laughs. I'll read while you rest.”

“No. I think I'd rather be alone. Just to come down a little. Okay?”

“Sure,” he said, but the minute he hung up the phone, he knew that it wasn't. Savannah didn't sound right to him. If something was bothering her, he wanted to know what it was. He wanted to know what “coming down a little” meant.

She was used to being alone. He wanted her to get unused to it.

Without risking another refusal, he drove to her townhouse, then had to wait too long for comfort after he'd rung the bell. Finally, she answered the door.

Her face was bare of makeup, her hair tumbling past her shoulders. Her long robe was wrapped tightly around her and sashed at the waist, and her bare feet looked fragile. In fact, she looked fragile all over, he realized. Yes, she looked tired. More, she looked washed out.

“I was worried,” he said to explain his presence, and stepped inside before she could protest.

Not that she would have done that. Deep down inside, she was glad he'd come. She'd told him not to, still he was there, which pointed to things like concern and affection. It also pointed to strength. He had countermanded her request. Few men she had known recently would have done that.

More than anything, though, she was glad not to be alone.

Quietly, she returned to the living room sofa and lay down, curling her legs beneath the robe. He hunkered down before her.

“Aren't you feeling well?”

“I'm okay.”

He touched her cheek. It was cool, as was her hand, which he enveloped in his. “Congratulations on the case. You should be proud of yourself. I'm proud of you.”

She gave a weak smile and whispered, “Thanks.”

“You came across beautifully on the news. Beautiful, and beautifully.”

Again she gave him a weak smile, but it didn't last long. In the instant before she closed her eyes, he could have sworn he saw a well of sadness in them. Lightly, he stroked her hair.

“Is there a letdown at the end of a trial?”

“Sometimes,” she said without opening her eyes. “You've been living and breathing the trial for days, suddenly it's gone.”

“Is that what you're feeling now?”

It was a minute before she answered. “No. I'm relieved it's over. It's been a tough one. I've had a lot else on my mind.”

“Like Megan?”

“And you.”

“Mmmm. I like the way that sounds. Now if I could get a little smile to go with it.” She gave him a little smile. “That was puny. Try again.”

Her smile was fuller this time, if a bit helpless. She opened her eyes to look up at him. He was so sweet. So gentle. Lord, she loved him.

Her smile faded. Unconsciously, she drew her legs up a little tighter.

Jared was attuned to her every move. “You're not feeling well. Is it your stomach?”

“I'm okay.”

He persisted. “Is it your stomach?”

“I have cramps.”

“From something you ate?”

She shook her head and closed her eyes again. “I got my period this afternoon.”

Of all the possibilities, that had been furthest from his mind. But now he relived the conversation they'd had right after they'd made love for the very first time. She had been more than prepared to have his baby. They had argued about the merits of single parenthood. He had told her he wanted to be involved.

But there wasn't any baby. He felt a sudden and unexpected twinge of sadness. “Ahhhh, Savannah,” he whispered. “I'm sorry.”

“It's okay. Just cramps.”

“It's more than that.”

She looked up at him, startled to see his expression. “It's probably just as well,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably. “I have a life, you have a life, we barely know each other.”