For All of Her Life (3 page)

“Jeremy—” She was going to hang up because she was in a state of shock and didn’t trust herself to talk until she really understood just what was going on. Coincidences! First the album and now this.

“Kathy, don’t you dare try to think up an excuse to get rid of me. I’m telling you—”

“Don’t tell me! I—”

She suddenly didn’t need an excuse. She was interrupted by a tapping on her hallway door.

It had to be Alex or Bren. Her conscientious doorman wouldn’t have allowed anyone other than her daughters to come up in the elevator without calling her first on the intercom.

“Jeremy, there’s someone at my door.”

“I’ll wait,” he offered cheerfully.

“It has to be one of the girls—”

“Yes, but you’d best make sure, right? Life can be dangerous, my sweet!”

She started to set the receiver down, then paused, bemused despite all that had just assailed her. “Jeremy, if it is a killer-rapist-thief at the door, just how will you be able to help me over the phone?”

“I’ll hear you screaming and get the police over there right away,” he assured her. “Even if we lose you, we’ll have a chance of catching him, right?”

“Jeremy—never mind!” She set the receiver down and hurried out of her office through the apartment’s spacious living room to the “front” door. The other door—the kitchen door, opened just around the hallway, but in apartment living, that became the “back” door.

She didn’t pause, but threw the door open, ready to lecture whichever errant daughter had forgotten to take her key.

She paused, her mouth open in mid yell, but there was no one there. She stepped out into the hall and walked down it a bit.

“Alex? Bren?”

There was no reply. She turned the corner to the elevators, saw nothing amiss, and gave a shake of her head. As she headed back down the hall, she saw that the front door remained open, but when she stepped through it, she thought she heard a rustling sound that moved through the kitchen to the dining room and out onto the terrace that looked out over the city. She held her breath, thinking maybe it was best that she had left Jeremy on the phone; someone just might be in her apartment. She started to silently slip through the living room, anxious to reach her office and pick up the receiver. Then she realized she was being an idiot, rushing into the apartment where she could be trapped. She started to turn back, hesitated as the rustling sound came from the kitchen. The place had seemed so innocuous just moments ago. Now it was dark and shadowy. And dear God, this was New York—not that all cities couldn’t be dangerous, but by sheer force of numbers, there seemed to be more dangerous people here. She’d never been afraid before, though she’d been aware of dangers and how to avoid them. She didn’t go into dark alleys, ride the subway through bad sections of town—or at midnight—or park in questionable areas on those few occasions when she did care to drive. And she had taught the girls to be careful. She had hammered into them that forewarned is forearmed. The apartment was in a nicely upscale area of the city with a true neighborhood feel about it, but...

Oh, God, there
was
someone in the kitchen.

Ice-cold fear swept around her. Paralyzed her for fleeting milliseconds. She tried to think. She’d read every article in the world on what to do under such circumstances. Don’t fight an intruder. Do fight an intruder. Feign sleep. Don’t see his face. Make sure he knows you don’t see his face. Run. Scream like hell. Blow an alarm whistle. Spray him with pepper mist or mace or even bug spray. Shoot the sucker, and shoot to kill.

She didn’t keep a gun; she didn’t know how to shoot. She’d bought mace once, kept it in her purse for a while, taken it out and put it...where?

And the bug spray was in the kitchen.

With the intruder.

So much for forewarned and forearmed. So much for being careful.

So much for her upscale neighborhood.

And her conscientious doorman!

Everything she had ever heard swirled in her mind. Minutes seemed to have gone by; only seconds had passed. For all her thinking she’d realized only two things—she didn’t want to die, and she wasn’t going down without a fight.

The first thing she saw that she could curl her fingers round was a Lladro statuette. It was a stunning Deco piece of an elegantly slim woman in a swirling fur, an equally elegant wolfhound at her heels. It was one of Kathy’s favorites, but she didn’t even think about that, she picked it up, ready to wield it as a club.

Then...what to do?

Wait. Wait and see what came from the kitchen.

No, no, no, that wouldn’t work. If he had a gun, he’d come from the kitchen. He’d see her there in the light spilling out from her office. He’d shoot her before she had a chance to wield her Lladro as a club.

Inch to the doorway from the living room to the kitchen. If possible, make a bolt for the hallway door. If not, slide against the wall, at least have the element of surprise against him and make the first attack.

Oh, God, she was trembling from head to toe. Her heart was pounding so loudly it threatened to burst her ribs and leap from her chest. She was inhaling desperately for air. She warned herself to breathe normally. He would hear her panting, hear that frantic thunder of her heart...

She scampered across the room, flattened herself against the wall. An immense shadow started from the kitchen and she raised the statuette, bringing it down hard even as she heard her name called out in a puzzled fashion.

“Kathy?”

Crash.

The statuette shattered. The dark shadow swore and spun on her. She backed away, stunned. Shaking harder than ever. She’d hit him; hit her target.

She hadn’t begun to stop him. But it didn’t matter. She wasn’t in any danger.

Not in any danger of death, at the least.

Because there, with little chips of painted porcelain dusting his shoulders, stood Jordan.

Oh, God. Speak of the devil. The devil had appeared.

D
IFFERENT.

He was a little different, subtly changed with time. But it was him. He was there. After all this time, all the years of silence. He was standing just feet from her.

With her Lladro smashed over his head and shoulders.

“Jordan!” She’d gasped his name, too stunned at first to realize that she wanted to kill him for scaring her so damned badly.

He rubbed the top of his head with both hands, staring at her with narrowed eyes, his jaw taut, surprise and annoyance in his hard gaze. “Kathy, damn, I didn’t think you’d exactly be pleased to see me, but this really wasn’t necessary.”

“Believe it or not Jordan, I am pleased to see you—I thought you were a thief! I didn’t hit you on purpose!”

“Whoa, you must have quite a wallop when you do strike with intent!”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Damn you, Jordan, I thought you were some kind of dangerous—”

“Little has changed,” he murmured.

“All right, I admit there were numerous times in my life when I did want to crack you over the head with something, but this wasn’t one of them. I thought you were a robber—a murderer, rapist, or worse.”

“No, my life hasn’t gone that far downhill yet. Your door was wide open after I knocked, I thought you were hurt, or something was wrong. I was calling out to you. Both your doors were open, and you wouldn’t answer me!” He winced, touching a sore spot on his head. “Dammit!” he murmured again, gritting his teeth and turning away from her, pacing to get a grip on his temper.

His footsteps took him back out into the hall, and he spun again, jaw set hard, eyes glittering. “Fine, we start over! Kathy, damned nice to see you. May I come in?”

May he come in!
She was still shaking, just beginning to accept the fact that she was going to live. He’d been out of her life for years, and she wasn’t ready to have him slip back into it tonight, scaring her half to death in the bargain.

“No!” she snapped, and slammed the door in his face, still completely unnerved. She hadn’t meant to slam it. It was just that...

Imagine! She had thought nothing more could go wrong in a single night.

Jordan Treveryan was here, in New York, at her home. She had left him nearly ten years ago, had closed the door to the past. She had been civil. She’d left with dignity, but she had nearly died, it seemed, to create a new life. She’d been right to do so. She loved her new life. But when she had struggled so hard to forget him, it hadn’t seemed to help that she had been so damned
right.

And it didn’t help now. Because he was back. With the door closed, she could still see him clearly in her mind’s eye. As tall and straight as ever. A few more lines in his face—“character”—but darned handsome. His silvering hair was longish, curling around his neck, he’d grown a mustache and a beard. His lime green eyes were as sharp and bright as ever, and he seemed, if anything, a little slimmer than he had been when she had seen him last. He wore dark jeans, a blue silk shirt, and a soft leather, tan jacket with a casual ease. He was wearing an aftershave that was mild and subtle, yet irritatingly alluring.

It was a nightmare, an absolute nightmare. She had to be dreaming.

No. Jordan was here, and she had clouted him on the head before slamming the door in his face.

Wrong!
she told herself. So wrong. They had fought too many times like children. She had accused him of doing it. Now she was not being terribly mature herself.

But she wasn’t ready for this, any of it, and certainly not for facing Jordan!

She drew the door back open. He hadn’t moved. He stared at her, a sandy brow arched.

“Sorry. Instinct,” she told him.

“Like the crack on the head?” he asked politely.

“Jordan, honest to God, I was terrified. I thought someone had broken in here while I was out in the hallway.”

“What were you doing in the hallway?”

“Looking for the person who had knocked.”

“I knocked.”

“Then where were you?”

“Trying the other door, then getting worried when I saw the first one wide open with no sign of you. Kathy, you’ve got to be more careful—”

“I am very careful! This is life. I do manage alone, and you’ve no business—”

“My daughters live here,” he reminded her.

“I am usually very careful.”

“You left that door open.”

“I won’t let it happen again.”

He sighed. Obviously, his head didn’t hurt quite so much anymore. He was trying very hard for patience again. “Okay. Can we try to start over?”

“We can.”

“I’m the one with the bump on the head.”

She nodded, grinning slightly. “That was one of my very favorite Lladro pieces.”

“It’s the only head I’ve got.”

“It was a gift.”

“From someone special?”

“It was a gift from you,” she said wryly.

“I am sorry,” he said.

“Fine. I’m sorry about your head.”

“But Kathy, you wouldn’t have stopped a burglar that way, you’d have just made him mad.”

“I’ll hit harder next time.”

“You’d need a better weapon, and there shouldn’t be a next time!”

“Jordan, I apologize for hitting you on the head.”

He inhaled and exhaled. “It’s all right.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor.”

“It’s all right.”

“Want me to take a look?” She stepped toward him in the hallway.

“No. I do not want you looking at my head!” he snapped, scowling, “especially out here in the hallway.”

“There’s no one around,” she assured him.

“Kathy, may I come in?” he asked, swallowing down his impatience, speaking very politely.

She inhaled, taking a good look at him.

Oh, God. He was nicely dressed. He had the ability to look both elegant and rugged all in one. She was without makeup, in a cotton nightgown that was not one of the sexy choices she might have made. And she was
older
than him, for God’s sake!

“Kathy, please, may I come in? I need to speak with you.”

“I have a telephone.”

“Please...Allow me to speak with you now.”

She’d hit him on the head, slammed the door in his face, and now she was being childish. “Of course, of course...” she said and moved aside, sweeping out an arm. “It’s nearly midnight, I wasn’t expecting you, I haven’t seen you in a decade, and you just scared me half to death, but please, Jordan, do come in.”

He arched a brow at her sarcasm, but stepped past her, not responding to it. He didn’t touch her, but she could almost feel him as he moved by. She breathed in and recognized that scent, that subtle aftershave that somehow still managed to tantalize. He hadn’t changed it. Why should he? Certain things about him were set. She had known him most of her life, they had only been strangers for the past ten years and certain things didn’t change. He drank his coffee with one teaspoon of sugar. He wasn’t a heavy drinker—and never had been—but he liked good red wine with an Italian dinner and he loved beer—Budweiser—when he was playing poker or spending a hot day at the beach or fishing or boating. Since they’d been really young, he’d loved a good volleyball game, chicken on the barbecue, and though he loved music more than anything in the world, his favorite evenings were spent in quiet, before a low-burning fire, no lights except for the soft streaks of red and yellow that illuminated from the flames.

All
of that might have changed.

But it hadn’t, she was sure. Just seeing him, she knew. He hadn’t changed much at all.

Right. He was still pigheaded and stubborn. Dominating. Their arguments had nearly raised the roof upon occasion.

But had that really been why she had left?
The question taunted her suddenly.
She
had left, but he had been the one who had filed the divorce papers. Almost before the door had closed behind her, she remembered bitterly.

But it had ended!

And now, just like that, he was back. In her home. The same man who had set his hands so protectively upon her shoulders. Ten years and she could still remember way too much—way too clearly. It hurt to see him. It was also good.

She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth as he walked by. He wasn’t just stepping past her.