The Whisper Of Wings (16 page)

He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. Such a heavy responsibility. Such a delicate decision to make. It was growing ever more difficult by the day. Only one thing was markedly clear to him. Whatever would cause a woman to leave her home, penniless, alone, with nowhere to go, whatever would cause her to brave the streets of New Orleans alone, was enough to give him pause to consider. He wasn't willing to give her up just yet, to send her packing back to her family, if indeed she even was the missing woman the investigator had informed him about. He instinctively knew that would be the wrong thing to do. For her. Perhaps even for himself.

CHAPTER TEN

Upon arriving in Virginia, Michaela had settled into the Standeven household with more ease than she had imagined possible. She'd even grown accustomed to eating at the dinner table alone with Gerald and his imposing father, albeit still a bit shyly. But the incident with the police had thrown all that to the wind, and she was once again avoiding Christopher Standeven. No one had made mention of the visit from the law, but she was afraid that Mr. Standeven's patience would inevitably wear thin and he would start pressing her for answers. It had become a worry that kept her away from him as much as possible.

As awkward as the circumstances were, Michaela had become a rather distinctive part of the household. Careful not to disturb Mr. Standeven, she went about the house as quietly as she could manage, gliding along the polished floors as silently as a winged creature. When she wasn't with Gerald, she spent a great deal of her time with Mrs. Avery, helping her as often as she was allowed. She'd met all of the staff and had even grown a bit used to having her own personal maid...Sadie, a beautiful waif of a French girl who was just shy of twenty.

Michaela was edgy today. She had no real duties. The phone had barely rang all morning, and Mrs. Avery had already shooed her out of the kitchen twice, insisting that there was nothing for her to do. Gerald had gone off for the day, something about seeing to a class at college, and without his presence, Michaela felt lost, empty. She didn't know what to do with herself. She was reluctant to leave her room for fear that she would run into Mr. Standeven, and yet she was too restless to stay cooped up with only her horrid memories. She needed to get out, do something to stop the churning of her mind. But without Gerald she didn't even feel comfortable going for a horseback ride. She didn't want to be presumptuous or do anything to offend Mr. Standeven.

Left to her own device, her thoughts had turned to things from her past. Memories. Dreams that she had left behind when she'd fled her father's house. Aspirations she couldn't quite dispel, despite all of her father's attempts. They were all coming back to her now, now that she was safe. The desire was stronger than ever, and she was just restless enough to give in to it.

The house was quiet as she made her way downstairs, almost hollow without the sound of Gerald's boisterous voice. Always in good spirits, her dear Gerald. He hadn't even been gone for a full day, yet she already missed him.

At the bottom of the stairs, she paused, hesitant to go through with the liberty she was about to take. No one was in the hall, though she could see through the huge archway across the foyer that Sadie was meticulously dusting the library. She could hear the tiny clinking sounds of porcelain against wood as Sadie gently picked up each respective object, carefully dusted it, then placed it back in its original position. It was an oddly comforting sound. Everything was as it should be. It was a feeling she'd never had when she'd been under her father's roof, a feeling she had come to need.

She took a deep breath and gathered her strength. She hadn't seen Mr. Standeven all morning, and she was hoping he wouldn't be in his office today. Perhaps he too had gone off to take care of business somewhere. If that was the case, her mission would be all the easier.

With trembling fingers, she smoothed the skirt of her simple but elegant dress, an expensive gift that was yet another testament to Christopher Standeven's generosity. She took another deep breath to try and calm her taut nerves, and started down the hall, her ears attuned to any sounds that might alert her to Mr. Standeven's presence in his office. All was quiet. Certain that she was alone, she stepped inside his huge kingdom of gleaming mahogany and masculinity. A quick glance at his desk showed no sign of Mr. Standeven's typical workday. With a bit more confidence, she went to the tall metal storage cabinet opposite the desk. The paper she wanted was on the very top shelf, stacked in two neat, stark-white piles. She only required a few pieces. She was sure no one would mind.

She silently opened the doors and then stood on tiptoe, trying to reach the top of the stack, but her fingers barely brushed the bottom. Though she was tall for a woman, she couldn't quite stretch far enough. Were she to try and pull the entire stack down, she would only succeed in spilling the paper all over the floor. That wouldn't do. It might get wrinkled and dirty, and then everyone would know what she was up to.

She stared at the paper, contemplating it for some time. She wanted it badly, but it wasn't worth upsetting anyone over. She even thought about using a chair to reach it, but she was afraid to disrespect Mr. Standeven's pristine furniture. She didn't want to scuff it or damage it in any way. She couldn't ask one of the servants to get the paper for her. They might ask questions. Had Gerald been there, he would be more than happy to oblige without asking questions. But Gerald wasn't there. She was on her own.

She had just about decided to abandon the notion altogether when a hand reached around her and up over her head, successfully retrieving a stack of paper at least an inch thick.

She sucked in a breath of surprise, but didn't dare turn around. She already knew who it was. His hands were very distinctive. No one else in the world had hands like that. Beautiful, strong hands. Hands that would make any woman swoon.

"Is that what you were after?" Christopher's rich voice murmured so close to her ear that it rustled her hair.

Her eyes fluttered closed of their own accord, and for a split second she thought she might faint. She had to force herself to remember to breathe she was so affected by his sudden presence, his pulse-altering nearness.

She could hear her breathing, ragged in her own ears. She hadn't even known he was there, hadn't heard him come up behind her. She didn't know what to say, what to do, how to explain. She couldn't even make herself turn around to face him, let alone respond.

"Michaela? It
was
the paper you wanted, wasn't it?"

She opened her eyes and stared at the items in the cabinet before her, stared without seeing. There was no malice in his voice, no anger, nothing to make her feel that he resented the intrusion. Yet, she felt the need to apologize nonetheless. If she'd only known he was there, working, she would have never set out to disturb him.

"I-I'm sorry. I had no idea you were here." She paused to swallow the lump in her throat. Her hands were trembling, her throat was dry, and her thoughts were so scattered she could scarcely collect them. "I didn't see you."

"I was standing by the window."

He made no move to put any distance between them, and remained so close that she could feel the heat of him, could smell the fresh, clean scent of him, could feel his breath warm on her neck. His arm was half wrapped around her, the paper still in his hand. He was still offering it to her. She stared at it, not knowing whether to take it or not. She couldn't think with him so close. Even to speak seemed impossible to her. She knew her voice would give away her emotion.

"It's no inconvenience, I assure you. I must admit I was rather preoccupied, anyway."

Christopher didn't want to tell her that she was the object of his preoccupation, didn't want to admit that he was disturbed by the fact that she'd been avoiding him. He knew it was because of the incident with the police. She was still frightened, still concerned about going back to whatever horror had caused her to flee her home in the first place. She didn't trust him. The fragile silken bond he had so carefully woven had been broken, snapped in a single moment when the police had arrived. She thought he knew something, something she didn't want him to know. And perhaps he did. But he wanted her to come to him and tell him herself, to confide in him of her own free will, to trust him implicitly. It made his nights restless and his days sadly lacking in accomplishment. The truth was, he wouldn't rest until he knew, until she did trust him.

Michaela's chest heaved once, then twice, and she ran her tongue out to moisten her dry lips. She must get hold of herself. It wouldn't do to behave like a doe-eyed girl. He was so far beyond that. She would only make a fool of herself if she couldn't get her wits about her. But she couldn't seem to. His arm was almost brushing her waist, so close to her breasts, her heart. His presence was delightfully heady. She wanted to sink into the feeling, revel in it, but she didn't dare. She had to answer him, had to say something, anything.

She forced herself to reach out and put her hands on the paper. He must have realized how hard they were trembling because he didn't let go right away. He merely stood there, and she knew she would remain senseless until he moved away.

"Is it enough?" he asked.

"Yes."

"If you need more—"

"No," she blurted, rather too hastily. "No," she repeated more softly now. "It's more than enough."

He released the paper, and she realized then how much she had needed his extra support. Without it, she almost dropped the batch. When his hand came round to steady hers again, lightly touching hers, she felt heat flood her loins, a sweet burst of sensation she'd never felt before. She almost gasped at the odd mix of pleasure and alarm, and only just managed to prevent herself from doing so.

"Are you all right?" he murmured, his voice washing over her like a caress.

"Yes," she breathed, her nostrils flaring as her heart reared and plunged inside her breast.

"Are you sure?"

She managed a nod.

"Michaela, do you trust me?" he suddenly asked.

She didn't answer. She couldn't. Not yet. Not when he was so near.

"Perhaps just a little?"

"I...." The syllable was more a sob than a word, and she instantly bit it off, embarrassed that it held so much of what she was feeling.

She felt his chest brush against her back, and then he took her by the shoulders and gently turned her to face him. She kept her eyes on the paper she clutched, clutched so tightly that it creased the sides. She couldn't look at him. If he ever found out how she felt about him.... She could never let him know.

"Michaela, I don't want you to be afraid of me. One day I expect you to come to trust me implicitly, and expectation can be a powerful incentive."

One hand remained on her shoulder while the other came up to cup her chin, to lift her face up to his. She raised her eyes to meet his, though still afraid of what he might see there, afraid of drowning in his gaze.

"Trust me, Michaela. Trust me with your memories."

Her pulse quickened. Did he know? Did he suspect? Could he see it in her eyes? She never had been able to lie. She had always been too honest, too open, her face far too expressive.

"I won't let you down."

She almost sagged against him with relief. It was not his intent to ask questions, to force her memory. He was merely trying to reassure her in that way only he could do. She should have known, should have trusted.

She started to speak, but he stopped her.

"Sh." He touched her lips briefly with his forefinger. "I've interrupted your mission. I should let you get back to it."

She stared at him for a moment, not quite sure she knew what to say. He smiled and dropped his hands away from her. She swayed a little, as if it was a shock to her system not to have him near anymore. Fortunately, he didn't notice. He had already turned his back, taken a few steps toward the desk. She felt empty now, drained of every drop of energy she'd had in her body. It was all she could do to maintain her composure while he was near, and she feared she hadn't been entirely successful.

She glanced down at the paper she held, and when she looked back up, she found him watching her, open curiosity in his gaze.

"You don't mind then?" she managed.

"Of course not. Take as much as you like."

She looked away, still embarrassed. She didn't deserve to have the paper. She had already taken enough from him. "It seems an awful lot. I could leave it. I suppose I don't really have to have it."

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course, you must have it. It's what you want."

She looked back at him to gauge his reaction. He was frowning. Her uncertainty seemed to displease him.

"I...suppose I should be more gracious." She ended in an embarrassed little shrug. Lord, she wanted the ground to open up and swallow her. She felt like crying, but she didn't dare allow herself to do so in front of him. He would take it all wrong.

He was leaning against his desk now, his arms folded across his chest, contemplating her rather too intensely. She felt compelled to go on. She had to explain somehow.

"It's just that I feel so awkward." She focused her gaze on the paper in her hands. "I have no way of repaying you for everything you've done for me. I'm afraid I'm not even sure how to thank you most of the time. I feel that I'm a bit of a nuisance, and a...a...." She broke off and bit her lip to keep the tears from falling.

"Your appreciation is noted," he answered, so low that she barely heard him. "And you are quite welcome."

She looked up. With a smile, he came to stand in front of her again, his eyes raking her face. She didn't look away this time. She couldn't. He had her trapped in his powerful gaze, a gaze she was compelled to meet. She became so mesmerized that when he broke the connection she felt the familiar flutter in her breast that signaled her disappointment. She was being silly. All these flights of fancy were ridiculous. She was reading him all wrong. Perhaps her own reactions to him clouded her judgment. He couldn't possibly feel anything for her but pity. Certainly not the emotion she hoped for.