Forever My Love (3 page)

Patty nodded. “Why don't you lie down for a few minutes?”

“If you promise to listen for the door or the phone.”

Patty smiled her agreement, and Kathy headed for her bedroom. She was numb. She had to believe Brent was all right. She had to.

She entered her room and closed the door behind her. She had never changed the room. There was the huge closet, the entertainment center, the stereo, the bookcases, the television and DVD machine. The woodwork had been carved to complement the turn-of-the-century dresser set. Old and new, masculine and feminine touches, were combined. It was a room designed for a couple to share. A place to laugh and dream together, to hide away from an intrusive world.

She covered her face with her hands.

The room almost looked as if she had been waiting for Brent to return for the past three years. But now it seemed he never ever would.

Nonsense. Robert had said that Brent was all right.

She was too jittery to sleep. Knowing only another bath would calm her down, she hurried into the bathroom, trying to function normally. After turning on the tap, adding more bubble bath, she pulled the drape on the window of the door that led out to the pool and cabana, and mechanically stripped off her clothing. She stepped into the water.

There was a whirl of darkness in the shadows of the night, and before her scream could find voice, a hand clamped hard over her lips. She threw up a spray of water, flailing with her fists to free herself.

“Kathy!”

She heard her name in a hoarse whisper and still she struggled desperately. When she was dragged against a rock-hard chest, she thrust her knee forward in terror and heard a soft grunt.

She managed to escape the arms, but before she could step from the tub the arms were around her again, dragging her back. She opened her mouth to scream but her assailant's arms and hands were on her mouth once again. He was holding her in a vise-like grip. She writhed and twisted to no avail, panicking when she felt fingers just beneath her breast.

“Kathy! Kathy! For the love of God, it's me!”

She froze. Hysteria rose within her. She had conjured him from the illusions of her mind. She had thought about him stepping into the tub with her.…

And now he was there.

He wasn't dead at all. He was there, in her bathtub.

He eased his hold. She drew quickly away from him, gathering bubbles around her, staring at him incredulously.

He was real. A lock of dark, damp hair had fallen seductively over his forehead. His eyes were the same deep rich amber, the lines around them a bit deeper, but attractive. He had a handsome face with a fine bone structure that indicated integrity. The face had aged remarkably well, and it was even more fascinating now for all that character etched into it. She stared at him and knew his death would have killed her deep inside, and that life would have lost all meaning for her. She was still in love with him, and she always had been.

“Brent!”

“Kathy.” His voice was husky and low. It was sexy and sensual and deeply masculine, and it touched her as it had always touched her. “Kathy, shut up, please. I need your help.”

“Why did you attack me?”

“Why did you scream?”

“I always scream when strange men enter my bathroom.”

He grinned. “I'm not a strange man.”

“Oh, I do beg to differ!” she retorted. “You're an extremely strange man!”

“Kathy—”

“Brent, for the love of God, would you please get out of the bathtub?”

His smile remained in place. “Brings back memories, doesn't it?”

“Out!”

“Kathy, I need your help.”

“Get out of my tub!”

He rose and stood dripping on the bath rug. He pulled off his sneakers and socks. “I hope there's still something of mine around here somewhere,” he muttered, unbuttoning his shirt.

“What are you doing?” she nearly shrieked. His sodden shirt fell to the floor. He was half-naked, his jeans clinging tightly to the line of his hard, lean thighs and the muscled curve of his buttocks. The bronze chest that she had ached to touch was suddenly before her, and she was so unnerved she could scarcely bear it.

She leaped up, heedless of her nudity, grabbed a bath towel and wrapped it around herself. But her fingers were trembling and she dropped the towel. He reached for it and handed it to her. Her eyes met his. Then all the emotions that had surged through her in the past few minutes exploded to the surface.

“Damn you! Damn you! You need my help? You broke into my house, you attacked me in the tub—”

“Kathy,
our
house, I still own part of it, remember?”

He was smiling. He was actually smiling. Of course. She was standing there with the towel between them, swearing away, stark naked. Slowly, his lips curled in the way that was so Brent McQueen, and he gave her an easy sensual smile like the one he had given the young woman in the video.

She snatched the towel, then slammed the palms of her hands hard against his chest.

“Kathy—”

“Brent McQueen, how could—”

She broke off as a voice from outside the bedroom door interrupted them. “Kathy!” It was Patty. “Kathy, if you need me…”

For the third time Brent slapped his hand over her mouth. “Tell her you're fine!” he warned her. She stared at him, her eyes narrowing. He was tense and deadly serious. There was something very hard and lethal about him, and despite herself, she shivered.

What in hell was going on?

He had always been hard; the service had done that to him. And he had always been smart, so he had sometimes been cynical. And he had always been more than a bit of a chauvinist, demanding, autocratic.

But this was something new.

“Kathy?” Patty's anxious voice sounded again.

His eyes glittered, dancing in the false light of the room. “Kathy, so help me God!” he said. His hand rose carefully from her mouth, but he still held both her arms in the vise of his fingers.

“Patty wouldn't hurt you!” she whispered.

“Tell her to go away!” Brent insisted in a soft growl.

“You know you don't live here anymore and we're not married anymore and I'm not at your beck and call—”

“Kathy!” He towered over her, his features taut and strained. “Tell her you're fine. Tell her to go away!”

“I can't—”

“You will!”

She stared at him a moment longer, thinking that she ought to tear every hair out of his head. Then he would be bald. And maybe he wouldn't be so attractive.

No, every hair could be out of his head, he could be painted purple and he would still have the raw, masculine charisma that so easily attracted the adoration of women and the admiration of men.

She breathed deeply, then called out softly. “Patty? I'm fine, just getting dressed. I'll be out in a minute.”

“Oh! Thank goodness. I heard some noise. I was getting so worried.”

Staring at Brent, she listened to Patty's soft footsteps on the carpet as the woman moved away. “So you are alive,” she whispered to Brent.

“Disappointed?” he asked her.

“Of course not. Shanna would have been terribly hurt if you had died.”

“Just Shanna?” His hands were on her, still holding her close.

“Well, of course, your death would upset me, too. For old time's sake.” Once again, she shoved her fists hard against his chest. “Let me go, Brent, and for God's sake, tell me what the hell is going on!”

He didn't let her go, not right away. He caught her hands, and his fingers wound around her wrists. Then he stared at her for what seemed like aeons. His eyes flashed gold and fire as they moved over her face, then her form. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. That his lips would touch hers with their special, intimate seal, and all the hurt and pain would be gone, erased, like magic.

There was no such thing as magic, and nothing could erase the things that had gone between them.

He released her and walked out of the bathroom. She followed him, grasped her robe from the bed and quickly slipped into it. Her towel fell to the floor and she realized she could not stand. She sat at the foot of the bed.

He paced, rubbing his temple with his thumb and forefinger.

“Brent?”

He didn't seem to hear her, and only continued to walk across the room.

“Brent?” she repeated. “I've played it your way. Now I asked you to tell me—”

“Dammit, Kathryn, I don't know what is going on.”

“But you're alive and—”

“Yes, yes! And I'm alive because I wasn't on that boat. But Johnny's murderer is after me, and I can't quite figure out what the hell is going on.” He had stopped pacing and stood before her tensely. Then he dropped to one knee and caught her hands. “You're going to listen to me, Kathryn, and do what I say.”

“Brent—”

“You don't owe me anything. But you're going to do what I tell you now!”

It was an order, not an appeal. He really hadn't changed at all.

She pulled her hands away and curled her feet beneath her. “Am I really? Tell me, McQueen, just what it is you're assuming I'm going to do.”

Chapter 2

This really wasn't going at all well, Brent thought, staring at Kathy as she stared at him. He hadn't expected to find her in the bathroom, and he hadn't expected her to scream at the sight of him. Well, all right, so maybe he hadn't expected her to jump up and down with joy, but he hadn't thought it would get so damned physical.

Or that it would hurt so much. As if his heart was being torn out all over again.

He stiffened his spine and squared his shoulders. This had to do with life and death, and she was going to have to listen to him. She had to quit with that imperious stare. But then that was part of Kathy's charisma. She looked like a snow princess with her startling blue, almost cobalt, eyes and silky blond hair. Her features were near perfect. Her face was oval, her cheekbones defined, her lips generous but beautifully shaped, and her eyebrows with a little arch that could give her a look of annoying superiority. Despite that, there had been times when his need to protect her had been enormous. And it could be just like trying to protect a barracuda at times, he reminded himself.

She was still staring at him, waiting.

“Kathy, where is Shanna?” he asked.

She seemed startled. “Out with her boyfriend,” she replied. “I get the first questions, Brent. Why the bathroom? After three years apart, most men would have rung a doorbell.”

And after three years, most men might have found a new life, he thought bitterly. He never had. No matter where he went, or what he did, images of Kathy were always there. She intruded on a dance floor, she intruded in bed. Sometimes, alone at night, he'd stare at the ceiling and try to remind himself that they'd had an uncanny ability to fight like warring politicians. But the memories would keep going, and he'd remember the way the fights would end, how they would both be so alive and on fire with passion. And that made the love and tenderness that followed so much sweeter.…

But in the end, the pain had just been too much. When he couldn't bear it any longer, he had walked away.

She could have had the decency to change, though, he thought. She hadn't, not a whit. She should have gone gray, or gained fifty pounds, sagged somewhat with the gravity of time. But she hadn't. That was one fact he was sure of from their encounter in the bathtub. She was browned from the sun, slim and still beautifully curved. Her eyes were enormous and exquisitely blue. Her blond hair was soft and curled over her shoulders, looking sleek and achingly inviting.

“Kathy,” he said wearily, “you're not getting the drift of this—”

“Because you're not telling me anything!” she flared.

He swore softly and turned from her, padding to the closet. With any luck, she wouldn't have burned every single thing he used to own.

“Brent, you're dripping all over the place!” she called irritably after him. “All over my rug—”

He poked his head out of the closet door. “My rug, too,” he reminded her pleasantly.

She was on her feet, hands on hips, staring at him. “We agreed to keep the house together until Shanna was twenty-one. I'm to live in it, and we both have the option to buy the other out, or share in the profits if we sell it to someone else. The agreement does not mean that you can enter via the bathroom at any time and soak the place! You're walking all over with those drenched pants.”

She knew the second the words were out that she shouldn't have spoken. He stared at her hard, smiled slowly, then unzipped his pants. She turned with a soft oath on her lips because she knew damned well that he was going to strip his pants right off and throw them on the floor.

He did. She heard them fall. “Happy?” he asked her softly.

She strode quickly to the dresser that had always been his, and hunched down to reach the bottom drawer. She found a pair of his briefs, socks and jeans and threw them in the general area of where he was standing.

“Fifteen years and you suddenly want modesty?” he queried in the same soft tone,

“Fifteen, and then three!” she reminded him, her back to him as she fished through her own dresser for jeans and a soft blue knit pullover. She could sense that he hadn't picked up his clothing.

“Am I disturbing you?” he asked, and despite the circumstances, she could hear the humor in his voice.

She turned and looked him straight in the eye. “No.” Her gaze started to slip down his body. She couldn't stand there much longer. “Excuse me, I'll take the bathroom. If you think you can refrain from entering it for a few moments, that is?”

His smile slowly deepened. “Well, I'll try, Ms. O'Hara. I'll certainly try.”

She headed into the bathroom. She brushed her hair before the mirror over the sink and realized that her hands were shaking badly. She gripped the sink hard to make them stop.
He was alive
. The thought filled her completely. But he was talking in riddles, and she wasn't getting anywhere with him. The past kept leaping before them.