Overnight Male (26 page)

L
ESS THAN AN HOUR’S
drive from Christchurch, New Zealand, in the library of a posh Greek Revival estate that looked out over the azure Pacific, Elliott Wainwright IV—who had at one time gone by the name of Adrian Padgett, among others—looked at the overstuffed manila envelope that sat on his desk. It had arrived from New York this morning, having traveled halfway around the globe—much as Elliott had done two years ago when he left the United States for the last time—to find its way to him.

It was not a good sign, this overstuffed manila envelope showing up the way it had.

He hesitated before opening it, wanting a few more minutes of blissful ignorance in which he could make himself believe the significance of the package’s arrival meant something else. Something happy. Something fortunate. Something besides what he was sure lurked beneath the innocent-looking manila.

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his beige linen trousers, ruining the line of the white linen guayabera shirt he wore with them. It didn’t matter, he told himself. He and his wife, Delilah—who had at one time gone by the name Iris Daugherty, among others—had built a good life for themselves here. Even if what he suspected lay in the envelope was indeed inside, no one could take that away from them. They’d paid cash for the estate and had invested the remainder of their ill-gotten gains wisely enough that not only could they afford their current lifestyle quite well, they’d even been able to repay much of their ill-gotten gains. They were doing their best to amend their past wrongs as well as they could—provided, of course, they could live like a king and queen until they did so.

No matter what, the two of them were safe in the life they had forged here. Not only was their house excessive in its beauty and wealth, it was also excessive in its security measures, right down to the full-time security personnel and Doberman pinschers, many of whom had become pets—especially Elliott’s favorite of the bunch, Pookie. So named by Delilah—let that be made clear.

As if conjured by the thought, Delilah entered the library then, all blond and tanned and beautiful and glowing. That last wasn’t due just to the summer sun that left her formerly fair skin bronzed a golden cream, but was also a byproduct of what lay under the scantly swollen mound of her belly. At almost fifty, Elliott was about to become a father for the first time. The realization by turns delighted and terrified him. Fortunately, Delilah was more than ready for the baby’s arrival. And fortunately for the baby, Delilah would be his—or her—mother.

“I saw Bryan bring up the mail,” she said as she strode across the library toward him, the flowing fabric of her variegated pareu dancing about her bare feet. “I saw the package. Have you opened it yet?”

Elliott shook his head. “I’m not sure I want to.”

“Maybe it’s good news,” she said. Though even she didn’t sound as if she believed it.

“Or maybe it’s the end of my world as I know it.”

She thrust out her lower lip in an obviously childish pout. “Oh, don’t be so melodramatic.”

He sighed, then stepped away from the desk. “Fine. Then you open it.”

She lifted her chin and smiled. “All right. I will.”

That was Delilah, he thought with affection. She was always the strong one.

She lifted the manila envelope from the desk and, without hesitation, jammed her thumb under the flap and jerked it along the top with a faint but—Elliott couldn’t help thinking—ominous
rrriiippp.
Then she withdrew the fat stack of papers from inside, taking a moment to read whatever the top page said. He tried to gauge the contents of that page by her reaction, but her face revealed nothing.

That was Delilah, he thought with admiration. She was always the self-contained one.

“Well, at least it’s not a form letter this time,” she finally said, looking up. “They addressed you by name and made some nice comments.”

Elliott sighed. “But they still rejected the book, didn’t they?”

She nodded. “I’m afraid so.”

“Same reasons this time?”

“Pretty much.”

“Tell me.”

She glanced down at the cover letter again and read, “‘Dear Mr. Wainwright. Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider your novel…’ blah, blah, blah ‘…unfortunately doesn’t meet our needs at this time…’ blah, blah, blah…Ah, here we go. He says, ‘Your writing is very strong, and your espionage novel is very compelling. Unfortunately, much of it is so far-fetched, we can’t see it being palatable to our readers. The fictional spy organization you’ve crafted for the story, although intriguing, is simply too over-the-top to be taken seriously.’” She looked up again. “Well, there you go, Elliott. Your life with OPUS was just too far-fetched to be palatable and too over-the-top to be taken seriously.”

He sighed heavily. “Note to self. Next time water down the reality of my experiences and make OPUS less OPUSy.”

She smiled at him as she placed the manuscript back on the desk. “I told you no one would believe half the stuff OPUS had you doing. Or half the stuff OPUS was responsible for.”

“At least my writing is compelling,” Elliott said, taking heart.

“Hardly anyone sells their first novel,” Delilah reminded him.

“Yes, but this is my third.”

“Hardly anyone sells their third novel.”

He chuckled at that.

“You’ll just send it out again.”

Yes, he thought, he supposed he would. Never let it be said that Elliott Wainwright IV—or any of the other men he’d been in his life—was a quitter.

“Besides,” she added, threading her arm through his, “I have something that might cheer you up.”

“What’s that?”

She took his other hand in hers and opened it so that his fingers were splayed wide, then she pressed it against her belly, which was nearly the size of half a basketball. “Wait for it,” she said softly.

So Elliott did. And after a few minutes he felt the flutter of something extraordinary against his hand.

“That’s your son or daughter,” Delilah said.

He shook his head in disbelief. They were procreating. In all his life, he’d never imagined himself capable of such a thing. He felt that familiar battle of pleasure and fear waging in his midsection, and was astonished to realize how easily pleasure won. Fear hadn’t even put up a fight this time. It had just slunk away.

He remembered a time when he had wanted to rule the world. Because he had wanted to be important. Had wanted to be remembered. Had wanted to matter in the big picture. Whoever it was inside Delilah pushed against his hand again, and he realized he was important. He would be remembered. He mattered very, very much.

With his hand still curved over her belly, he leaned in and kissed her temple. “You saved my life, Delilah,” he told her.

She cupped her hand over his cheek. “And you saved mine,” she replied.

She curled her fingers over the back of his hand, and they stood looking out the window at the blue, blue Pacific, not saying a word. None was necessary. None could say what they both felt so deeply.

Life was good. For all of them.