Mittman, Stephanie (31 page)

"I
won't let him hurt you," he said, as if a little rabbit bite could compare
to the damage Ash himself had already inflicted. She finished with her
doctoring in silence, but continued to fuss over the rabbit rather than look at
the man who was making her breath come out in ragged little gasps she preferred
to blame on the cold.

He
put the chair cover over her shoulders again. "Why is it you always seem
to need warming, Charlie Russe?"

Oh,
how he made her lose herself with just his low soft voice, his pet name.

The
poor rabbit was losing patience with her, but still she adjusted the bandage
rather than look at him.

"I
was surprised to learn that Cabot has an interest in your warehouse," she
said, unwilling to let the conversation get out of hand, to let herself be
toyed with and turned away yet again.

Ash
let the rabbit's head go and pulled her away from the poor creature. All it
took was his hands on her upper arms to bring back all the feelings she'd felt
in his bed. She fought hard to keep her wits about her.

It
wasn't easy with him running his hands up and down her arms and pretending that
all he was doing was trying to keep her warm.

***

Was
the woman never warm? he wondered, and remembered a time when he felt her melt
in his arms. He closed the gap between them until his legs made waves in her
skirts.

"Cabot's
interest?" she repeated, waiting patiently for him to answer her.

He
let his arms drop.
Cabot's interest. Cabot's wife.
"Yeah, well, I
was pressed for money when the opportunity to go into business with Sam came
up. Kathryn offered me a loan, but Cabot intervened. He convinced me that I
couldn't risk what money my father had left my mother and offered to loan me
the money himself."

"Have
you ever paid him back?" she asked.

However
did Cabot resist those eyes? When she was happy they glowed until they warmed
his soul, and when they were sad, like they were now, he felt as if he'd sell
his soul just to put the sparkle back in them.

"No,"
he said. "I tried several times, but he never let me." Of course, it
was no surprise when he thought about it. After all, Cabot's need to control
those around him was bigger than the state of California. And as long as he had
given Ash his start, and never let him repay the loan, Ash could never really
take credit or pride in the business he would build.

"So
in a way the fire served to sever a cord he refused to cut himself."

She
nodded at him, shivering and reminding him once again of the other night in his
room. Hell, everything reminded him of that night. Not a moment went by when he
wasn't feeling the softness of her skin, the silkiness of her curls, not a
second passed that he didn't remember the look on her face when he told her
she'd have to get her loving from her husband. He imagined it hurt her nearly
as much as it had hurt him.

He
touched the tip of her nose to take her temperature. "You should go
in," he told her. "You're always freezing."

"I
just want to find Argus and give him one of Mrs. Mason's brioches from
breakfast. I'm trying to bribe him into better behavior." She called to
the peacock and strode out onto the back lawn in search of the wretched bird.
Ash followed along behind her, carrying Van Gogh in his arms and whispering to
the rabbit about how he supposed he'd follow the woman right into Lake Merritt
if that was where she wanted to go.

The
peacock sauntered out from behind the eucalyptus tree dragging his tail behind
him, and looked at Charlotte suspiciously.

"You're
a nice peacock," she told the nasty animal. "So pretty! You just need
a little more attention, don't you?" she said, reaching out to pet the
bird behind its regal crown.

Quicker
than Ash could react, the peacock had snapped at Charlottes finger and then
pecked again at the side of her hand. Grabbing at her wounds, she dropped the
biscuit and yelled at the bird.

"I
was just trying to be nice to you." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears.
"Stupid bird!"

He
pulled her hand to where he could see it and wished he could wring the bird's
neck himself. Instead he waved at the bird like some madman, sending it running
and squawking across the lawn toward the lake. Then Ash guided Charlotte back
to the porch, where he blotted at her hand with the leftover gauze.

"I
was just trying to be nice to him," she told him, more angry than hurt.

"Well,
maybe there are some creatures that just can't accept love, no matter how hard
a person tries to give it to them."

Oh,
the look she gave him!

"Yes,
well," she said, pulling her hand away and rising quickly, "there
seems to be a lot of that going around, doesn't there?"

"More
than your share, I'd say," he said, and watched as the tears that had wet
her lashes began to fall.

"Where's
Charlotte?" Kathryn asked, her steely
eyes pinning first Cabot and
then Ash himself to the wall. "It is seven, is it not?" She checked
the watch that had been pinned to her blouse for longer than he could remember.

"I
haven't seen her since early this morning. We've got Ash's case closing in on
us and Davis's appeal, and I don't know what she's up to," Cabot said.
"Nasty cut on her hand," he added out of the blue, and joined Kathryn
in staring at Ash accusingly.

"Is
she hurt?" Kathryn reached for her cane, ready to go see to the woman who
had obviously become a daughter to her.

"She
tried to befriend that deranged lawn ornament you've got out there," he
said, pointing toward the window.

"And
it bit the hand that fed it?" Kathryn leaned her cane back against the
table edge once again.

Cabot
laughed abruptly and said something about turnabout being fair play. Then he
yelled for Charlotte as if she were a tardy child who'd forgotten her time.

There
was no answer.

"I
don't think I've seen her since breakfast myself," Kathryn admitted.
"You don't suppose she's sick, do you?" Again she reached for her
cane.

Sick
at heart, maybe, he thought to himself, recalling how she looked down by the
water, where he'd caught a glimpse of her in the late-afternoon sun. As always,
she was without a shawl, and she stood with her arms wrapped around herself,
braving the wind to watch two swans drift across the lake. Her hair was blowing
behind her, fighting to be free of the bun she had confined it to, and her
skirt was flattened to the back of her body and billowed wildly in front of
her.

He
could almost imagine her with child, standing there, her skirt pretending it
was full of life. He had leaned against the window frame and watched her for
several minutes before she sensed him up there, turned, and, shielding her eyes
from the sun, sought him out.

She
didn't wave, didn't acknowledge his presence, but turned instead and watched
the swans and geese swim off in pairs. He'd considered joining her but thought
better of it. It was a sorry state of affairs when two grown people were
envying the waterfowl.

"I'm
sure she'll be all right," he reassured Kathryn without conviction.
"I mean, she'll be down soon, I'd suspect."

"Charlotte!"
Cabot yelled again, rattling the goblets and Ash's nerves. "Supper!"

"Supper!"
Liberty yelled from what had become his dinner perch, just inside the kitchen
doors where he often stole food just as Rosa was about to serve it. "Come
and get it!" he shouted, following the words with a very authentic belch.

"You're
next," Cabot said calmly as he unfolded his napkin and placed it on his
lap. "Charlotte! We are not waiting any longer!"

"I'll
just go check on her," his mother said, struggling to push her chair back
and escape the confines of the table.

"I'll
go," Ash said, sensing immediately that it was a mistake. The room went
silent, but no one tried to stop him and so he had no choice but to leave his
napkin on his chair and go after his sweet Charlotte Russe.

"Charlotte?"
he called loudly enough for his mother and brother to hear. "Are you in
here?" He poked his nose into the darkened offices and then headed for the
stairs. He hoped she'd had the good sense to come in out of the cold. He took
the steps two at a time. She couldn't have stayed out at the lake this late. It
was dark, for heaven's sake. He raced around the newel post at the landing and
hurried to her room. The swans had all found shelter by now. The geese would be
gone.

"Charlotte?"
He tapped softly on the closed door. No light came from beneath it. "Are
you in there?" Perhaps she'd lain down for a nap and fallen into a deeper
sleep than she'd planned. The cold air could do that to a person. Especially
one as small and delicate as his Charlotte.

Not
yours,
he told himself silently. Not
your
Charlotte.

He
pushed the door open. Silence and darkness greeted him.

"Damn
it, Charlotte, where are you?" Blood pulsed in his temples and his heart
thudded in his chest. Every time she was out of his sight he worried about her.
And that was only half as much as he worried when she was around.

Above
him he heard a creaking and he raced to the stairs. A faint light meandered
down the stairwell and he hurried up to his room.

The
door was ajar, a cold breeze flickering the lamp on his side table and chilling
the sweat that had gathered at his temples.

"Charlotte?"
he called softly, entering his room like a trespasser afraid of discovery.
"Charlie Russe?"

A
lump of fur sat on his dresser in front of the mirror, and for a moment he
mistook it for Van Gogh. There was something awful about it, treacherous, and
he came upon it slowly, his hand poised and ready, but unwilling to examine it.
There was no movement, no rhythmic breathing, and he knew the dark thing was dead
before he reached his hand out to it. Silkier than fur, finer, smoother, he
stroked it once and felt no resistance. The mass had no form, no body.

He
felt sick to his stomach and fought to swallow the bile that rose. Clutching
the mass he lifted it from the dresser and held it up, watching the chestnut
strands unfurl from his fingertips.

He
could see her out there, just beyond his window, the moon shining for her
alone, and he held the cluster out to her. "Why?" was all he could
force past his lips. Then, "What have you done?"

"No
one wanted the woman," she said, her chin thrust out proudly as if there
were no tears streaking her extraordinary face. "So I got rid of her. You
and Cabot should both be very happy."

She
looked almost like a pixie—some sprite, standing there in the moonlight, the
wind ruffling her short dark cap, and he thought that if only he could catch
her, she could grant his fondest wish.

"Not
that it matters to you any."

She
had been lovely before, but he hadn't realized how truly exquisite she was
until now. If she'd hoped to make herself unattractive, she'd failed miserably,
horribly, tragically.

"Well"—she
sighed—"as always, I'm freezing." She ducked her head and slipped in
through the window like some thief come to steal his heart. "I just wanted
to throw some covers over my plants. It's a bit cold for begonias."

"And
as long as you were here you thought you'd just..." He held out the hank
of hair that was still in his hand. He imagined it tied with a blue ribbon and
tucked away in some chest that would follow him to prison.

"I
saw the scissors," she said, shrugging, as if the act were
inconsequential.

"It's
surprisingly lovely," he said, reaching out with his empty hand and
hesitatingly touching what little hair remained. He had been intimate with many
women—hell,
many,
many
women if he were held to the fire—but
nothing was as purely carnal, as erotic, as running his fingers through the cap
of short dark hair that surrounded her upturned face.

"I
can't imagine what Cabot will think," she said nervously, touching the
wisps that teased her cheek. "Do you suppose I can somehow pin it back on
for court?"

Her
hand reached for the curls she'd so cavalierly severed, expecting him to
relinquish his hold. He had but one small part of her, these locks of hair, and
a memory sullied by his rejection. He did not let go.

"You
smell like rain," he said, taking a step closer so that just inhaling let
his body touch hers. "It's wonderful."

"It's
just beginning to mist outside." With him so close to her she had to tip
her head back to talk with him. It was an offering he couldn't resist, and he
dipped his head and touched his lips to hers.

She
answered back with a passion that nearly staggered him, and he had no choice,
it seemed, but to pull her against him and plant his feet firmly against the
rocky seas.

"If
only," he began, wishing away their past—Cabot's accident, all the women
he'd lusted after and left, her marriage to his brother; wishing away their
futures—his in a jail cell, hers here with a cold man who never so much as took
her in his arms.