From the Heart (9 page)

“Yes, after the first year.”

“What happened the first year?”

Kasey hesitated. She hadn't meant to go into all of this, but the lack of demand in his questions had eased the telling. With a shrug, she continued. “I had an aunt, my father's sister. She was a good deal older than he—ten, fifteen years, I think.”

“You lived with her the first year?”

“I lived between her and my grandfather that year. There was a dispute over custody. My aunt objected to a Wyatt living in the wilderness. That was how she termed my grandfather's home. She was from Georgetown, in D.C.”

A memory stirred. “Was your father Robert Wyatt?”

“Yes.”

Jordan was silent as he let bits and pieces fall into order. The Wyatts of Georgetown—an old, established family. Money and politics. Samuel Wyatt would have been her paternal grandfather. He'd made his fortune in banking, then had gone on to become a top presidential advisor. Robert Wyatt had been the youngest son. Two older brothers had found a place in the Senate. The sister would be Alice Wyatt Longstream, congressional wife and political hostess. A very wealthy, very conservative family. As he remembered, there had been talk of grooming the youngest son for the top office in Washington.

He'd been a brilliant young lawyer. There had been a great deal of press when he was killed. And his wife . . . . Jordan frowned as he tried to remember things he had read and heard seventeen years before. His wife had been an attorney as well. They had opened a law clinic together, something his family had not wholeheartedly approved of.

“I remember reading about the accident,” Jordan murmured. “Then a bit now and again about the custody suit. My mother and father discussed it occasionally. She's acquainted with your aunt. There was a good deal of publicity.”

“Of course.” Kasey lifted a shoulder. “Wealthy political family squabbles with backwoods country doctor over child. What makes better press?”
Jordan heard the hint of bitterness slip into the careless words. “Tell me about it, Kasey.”

“What's there to tell?” She would have risen then, but his arm kept her beside him. His hold was gentle but firm. “Custody suits are ugly, and hideous for the child caught in the middle.”

“Both your parents were lawyers,” Jordan put in. “Surely they had clearly defined wills giving you a legal guardian.”

“Of course they did. My grandfather.” Kasey shook her head. How was he able to pull so much out of her with only a few words? She never discussed this part of her life with anyone. “Wills can be contested, particularly if you have a great deal of money and a great deal of power. She wanted me, not for me, but because my name was Wyatt. I understood that even when I was eight years old. It wasn't difficult; she had never approved of my mother. My parents met while they were in law school. It was one of those instant attractions. They were married within two weeks. My aunt never forgave him for marrying an unknown law student who was only at Georgetown University because of a scholarship.”

“You said you lived between your grandfather and aunt the first year. What did you mean?”

“Jordan, this was all very long ago—”

“Kasey.” He interrupted her, turning her face to his. “Talk to me.”

She settled back in his shoulder again and shut her eyes. The tension was back in her muscles. “When my aunt filed suit, things began to get ugly. There were reporters. They came to school, to my grandfather's house. My aunt hired a firm of detectives to prove he wasn't caring for me properly. In any case, I was having a difficult time dealing with it. My grandfather thought it might be easier for me if I lived with my aunt for a while. It would take some of the pressure off, and I might find that I wanted to live with her. At the time, I hated him for sending me away. I thought he didn't want me. I didn't stop to think that it was the hardest thing he'd ever done. I was all he had left of my mother.”

Jordan watched her run her thumb over the gold band she wore. “My aunt had a beautiful row house in Georgetown.
Thirty-fifth Street. It had high ceilings and fireplaces in every room. Fabulous antiques and Sevrès china. She had a collection of porcelain dolls and a black butler she called Lawrence.” Kasey started to rise again. She needed to move.

“No.” Jordan kept her against him. “Sit.” He knew that if she stood she'd find a way to avoid telling him any more. “What happened?”

“She bought me organdy dresses and Mary Janes and paraded me around. I was enrolled in a private school and given piano lessons. It was the most miserable time in my life. I hadn't gotten over my parents' death yet, and my aunt was far from maternal. She wanted a symbol—a nice, quiet child she could dress up and show to her friends. My uncle was away most of the time. He was nice enough, I suppose, but self-absorbed. Or perhaps that's not fair; he had a great deal of responsibility. Neither of them could give me what I needed, and I couldn't give them what they were looking for. I asked obnoxious questions.”

He laughed a little and kissed her temple. “I'll bet you did.”

“She wanted to mold me, and I refused to be molded. It's really that simple. I was surrounded by beautiful things I wasn't supposed to touch. Fascinating people came to the house whom I wasn't supposed to speak to, except to answer, ‘Yes, sir,' or, ‘No, ma'am,' when I was addressed. It was like being caged.”

“Your aunt dropped the suit.”

“It took her three months to realize she couldn't live with me. She told me if there was any Wyatt in me it was well-hidden, and sent me back to my grandfather. It was like being able to breathe again.”

Jordan frowned out over the lawn. From where they sat, he could just see the top story of the house. Is she feeling caged here? He remembered the way she had walked from window to window in the drawing room. He wanted a little time to digest the things he had just learned about her. “You're very close to your grandfather,” he murmured.

“He was my anchor when I was growing up. And my kite.” She smiled and plucked at a blade of grass. “He's a caring, intelligent man who can argue three viewpoints at once and believe all of them. He knows me, accepts me for what I am
and loves me anyway.” She brought her knees up and again rested her forehead on them. “He's seventy, and I haven't been home in nearly a year. In three weeks it'll be Christmas. There'll be snow, and someone will give him a tree in lieu of payment. His patients will be flooding into the house all day, bringing him everything from home-baked bread to homebrewed whiskey.”

She's thinking of leaving, he realized and felt a quick, unexpected panic. He watched the sun filter through the leaves and fall on her hair. Not yet, he thought. Not yet. “Kasey.” He touched her hair. “I've no right to ask you to stay. Stay anyway.”

She gave a rippling sigh. For how much longer? she wondered. I should go home until I recover from this, from him. Kasey lifted her head, prepared to say what she felt had to be said.

Jordan's eyes were on her. They were clear and seeking. He wouldn't ask her again; he wouldn't insist. Kasey realized he didn't have to. His silence—his eyes—were doing it for him.

“Hold me,” she murmured and held her arms out to him.

There would be no leaving him, she thought as she pressed against him. Not until she no longer had a choice. She had opened herself to him, offered. She couldn't take herself back now.

Then he was kissing her softly, without demand. He'd not been this gentle before, holding her as if she were something fragile. No, there would be no leaving him now. Kasey's heart had more power over her life than her intellect. Where she loved, she was vulnerable, and where she was vulnerable, her mind had no sway. She pulled him closer.

The kiss grew deep, still tender, but intimate and weakening. His hand went to her cheek to stroke her skin. It was soft, so soft, and had needs hammering inside him. He murmured her name and traced his lips down to her throat. There was warmth there and a taste he had grown to crave.

How was it she could give him so much and ask for nothing? But there was something he could give her, give both of them. “Kasey, I have to go to New York this weekend. Some business with my publisher.” He didn't add that he had been putting the trip off for weeks. “Come with me.”

“New York?” Her brows came together. “You haven't said anything before.”

“No. It depended on the progress of the book. Kasey.” He kissed her again. He didn't want her to ask questions. “Come with me. I want some time with you, alone. I want more than a few hours at night. I want to sleep with you. I want to wake up with you.”

She wanted it too. To be with him, away from the house. To be able to spend the night with him in complete freedom. Kasey could feel some of the weight beginning to lift. “What about Alison?”

“As it happens, she asked me just this afternoon if she could spend the weekend with a school friend.” Jordan smiled and brushed a curl from Kasey's cheek. “Let's consider it fate, Kasey, and take advantage of it.”

“Fate.” Her lips curved into a smile, and Jordan watched as it finally reached her eyes. “I'm a very strong believer in fate.”

N
ew York. The plane had landed in a miserable sleeting rain that was rapidly turning to snow. The streets were a sloshy, slippery mess, packed tight with cars. The sidewalks were crowded with people hurrying. Nothing could have delighted Kasey more. New Yorkers, she mused, were always hurrying. She loved them for it. And there wasn't a city she knew that appreciated the Christmas season more. Everywhere she looked there were decorations—trees, lights and glittering tinsel. And there were Santa Clauses everywhere.

She had tried to draw it all in on the cab ride from the airport to the hotel. Now, in the bedroom of the suite she would share with Jordan, she pressed her nose to the window glass and continued to look. There were lights and people and the muffled hum of traffic. It struck her how completely she had been starved for the sights and smells of humanity. She had needed the noise and the motion.

Jordan hadn't expected her to have this sort of enthusiasm for the city. From what she had told him of her childhood, he had thought she would prefer a rural setting. But she hadn't been able to see enough. She had been bubbling over in the taxi, pointing at this, laughing at that. Anyone would have taken her for a first-time visitor, but he knew she had spent several weeks in Manhattan in early fall.

“You act as though you'd never been here before,” he commented.

She turned to smile at him. The glow was there again. He could almost forget the unhappiness he had seen in her eyes only a few days before. “It's a wonderful place, isn't it? So many people, so much life. And it's snowing. I don't know if I could have made it through December without seeing snow.”

“Is that why you came?” He crossed to her to run a hand through her hair. “To see snow?”

“Naturally.” She lifted her face to brush his mouth with hers. “I can't think of any other reason. Can you?”

“One or two occur to me,” he murmured.

She slipped out of his arms to wander around the room. “Nice place,” she commented and ran a finger over the dresser top. The faint smell of rich polish hung in the air. “Not my usual working conditions.”

“We're not working.”

She looked back at him over her shoulder. “No?”

“A party, a few meetings.” He came to her again and turned her to face him fully. “I could have skipped the party and handled the meetings by phone if work had been the only purpose of our trip.”

“Jordan, I know you did this for me.” She covered his hands with hers. “I'm grateful.”

“I did it for me, too.” He drew her into his arms. What was she doing to him? He had known her two months, and she was rapidly becoming the most important thing in his life.

“Are we really alone?” she murmured. She felt the relief wash through her. “God, are we really alone?”

“Alone,” he agreed and lured her mouth to his.

“How soon is that party?” She pushed the jacket from his shoulders and began to work on his shirt.

“An hour or so.” His hands slipped up under her sweater.

“Tell me . . .” She nipped at his lip and felt his shudder of response. “Do you consider being late rude or fashionable?”

“Rude.” He ran his fingers down to unbuckle the thin belt she wore. “Very rude.”

“Let's be rude, Jordan.” She opened his shirt and sighed when her hands slid around him. “Let's be terribly rude.”

When they were naked on the bed, he took his time. They had time now for slow loving. Kasey slipped into a cloud of
pleasure. Where he touched, she heated; where he kissed, she ached. He was careful to keep his hands gentle, remembering the bruises he had given her before. Her strength, her drive, made it difficult to remember her fragility.

Her skin was smooth and pale, with barely a trace of a tan line. Though she spent many of her free hours outdoors, she didn't tan easily. He could see the contrast of the bronzed color of his hand against the milky whiteness of her breast. He took his mouth to it and heard her moan. She was more responsive than any woman he had known. There were no inhibitions in her. She loved freely.

Very gently, he caught her nipple between his teeth and felt her arch beneath him as she catapulted from contentment into passion. He used his tongue to kept her trembling until she was breathless and spent. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. Her murmurs urged him to hurry. But he moved without rush to her other breast.

“Jordan.” She could barely speak, for waves of need were pressing down on her. “I want you now.”

“Too soon.” He trailed his lips down her ribcage. “Much too soon.”

His mouth roamed, and she continued to shudder. He slipped his fingers inside her, taking her to a violent peak.

Delirium. Kasey knew she had passed all reason. Pleasure could give no more, passion could take no more from her. Yet he continued to drive her. Every cell of her body was alive, humming. She was nearly panicked to have him and clutched at him, willing him to be as desperate as she. His hands seared over her and had her quivering.

Then his mouth was on hers again—hungry, urgent. He took it to her throat with his teeth digging into her skin. He had forgotten his vow to be gentle. He had forgotten everything but the feel of her thin, agile body beneath his—and his own desperation.

Need sparked need, and he was inside her. There was no longer time for slow loving.

 

Jordan decided he didn't get used to Kasey as time passed but only became more intrigued by her. The elegant co-op overlooking Central Park was crowded with members of the
book world: writers, editors, literary agents and scions of publishing. But she was the vortex of it. Other women glittered in jewels, diamonds, sapphires, emeralds. She required none.

She sat on the arm of a chair, sipping champagne and laughing with Simon Germaine, the head of one of the top publishing houses in the country. J. R. Richards hung over her shoulder. He was on his fourth in a string of best-selling novels, each of which had made the transition to the screen successfully. Beside her was Agnes Greenfield, one of the toughest agents in the business. She had represented Jordan for ten years, and he decided this was the first time he had seen her grin. She'd smiled, sneered, and snarled, but never grinned. As he watched, Kasey laid a hand on Germaine's shoulder and said something that made him throw back his head and roar.

Kasey's eyes lifted and found Jordan's through the crowd. She smiled slowly as she brought up her glass for another sip. A shaft of desire shot straight through him, nearly settling him back on his heels.
How does she do it?
he demanded of himself. How can she make me want her when I'm still warm from having her? When am I going to get enough? He pushed the questions aside and wondered how long it would be before they could slip away and he could have her to himself again.

“The widening schism between elitist and popular literature has made it difficult for the average person to enjoy light, entertaining reading without feeling guilty.”

Kasey lifted her brow at J.R. as Jordan approached. “I've read all of your books, and my conscience is clear.” She sipped her champagne and smiled at Jordan.

It took J.R. a moment before he began to chuckle. “I think I've just been put in my place. I'm tempted to begin collaborating, Jordan, if I can find a partner like this.”

“I've been trying to convince Kasey to write a book of her own.” Germaine gulped down his straight scotch without a blink. He had a wide, florid face and a stone-gray moustache above his lip. Kasey thought he looked a bit like a children's TV show host she remembered from her own girlhood.

“I appreciate that, Simon.” Kasey pushed her curls behind
her ears and crossed her legs. “But I've always felt that being a writer meant being frugal with words. I'm very lavish with mine.”

“You tell a hell of a story, Kasey.” He patted her knee companionably, and she caught Jordan's lifted brow. “I've got editors to deal with the excess.”

“And I'm temperamental.” Kasey finished off her champagne and was immediately handed a fresh glass. “Thanks.” She gave J.R. a friendly smile.

“What writer isn't?” Germaine huffed and pulled out a thick cigar. “Are you temperamental, Jordan?”

“Periodically.”

“I'm difficult to work with all the time, which at least makes me predictable,” Kasey put in.

“The one thing I've found you are not, is predictable.” Jordan lifted his own champagne.

“The perfect compliment. Jordan, there's some fantastic looking caviar over there. I wouldn't feel right if I didn't stuff myself.”

They moved across the room to a sumptuously prepared buffet. He watched Kasey heap beluga caviar on a thin cracker. “You and Germaine seem to have hit it off nicely.”

“He's sweet,” Kasey said with her mouth full. She was already reaching for another cracker. “God, I'm starving. Do you realize what time it is, according to west coast time? Did we eat on the plane? I can never remember anything that happens at thirty thousand feet.”

“Sweet?” Jordan repeated, ignoring the rest. The adjective, applied to Germaine, was enough to arrest his attention. “I don't believe I've ever heard him described quite that way before.”

“Oh, I've heard the stories.” Kasey began to forage for something else and found a bowl of iced cocktail shrimp. “Heaven,” she muttered, spearing one with a toothpick. “He's supposed to be tough as old leather and mean as a starved dog. What is this?” She pointed toward another platter.

“Beef tongue.”

“We'll just skip over that,” she decided. She helped herself to another shrimp. “I like him.”

“Apparently, the feeling's mutual.”

Kasey smiled and paused long enough to drink some champagne. “Your sensibilities were offended when he put his hand on my knee. You're terribly cute when you're reserved and conventional, Jordan. Would it embarrass you terribly if I kissed you right now?”

She was baiting him, and he knew it. Firmly, he put his hand behind her neck and pulled her close. Her eyes laughed at him before he gave her a long, hard kiss. She carried the strong, exotic flavors of the buffet. When he drew her away, she was still smiling.

“Caviar's good, huh?”

“It seems I have a taste for it.”

She turned and piled another cracker high. “Have some more,” she invited with a grin. “I can't ever get enough of it myself.”

He took a bite of the cracker she held up to his mouth. “I want you out of here,” he told her quietly. “I want you alone, where I can take those clothes off you piece by piece.”

“An interesting proposition,” Kasey murmured, touching a finger to his tie. “Am I allowed to do the same to you?”

“Required.”

“Jordan!” A woman glided up to them—sturdy, fortyish and unashamedly blond and busty. Kasey flipped through her memory file and drew out a newspaper picture of Serena Newport, highly successful novelist who wrote books stacked with swashbuckle and sex.

Serena kissed Jordan heartily on both cheeks. “You don't show up at these things often enough,” she complained. “I like to be seen with classy men.”

“Serena. It's good to see you.”

“And who's this?” She gave Kasey a strong look. “Good God, thin as a rail and positively stunning. If I stand here for too long, I'll wind up looking like an albino elephant. Are you a writer, dear? And who colors your hair?”

“A fan, Miss Newport, and I was born with it.”

“God, it's disgusting.” She put her hand on an ample hip and shook her head. “Not the fan part, dear, the hair. Born with it? Dreadfully unfair. And whose fan are you, Jordan's or mine?”

“Both.” Kasey was liking her more with each passing minute.

Serena laughed in one short boom. “That's unusual. Not too many people read both
Last Abstinence
and
Passion's Victory,
do they, Jordan?”

“Kasey's unusual, Serena. Serena Newport, Kathleen Wyatt.”

“And what do you do? I know.” She held up a hand before Kasey could speak. “Don't tell me—you model.”

“Model what?” Kasey asked, enjoying herself.

“Clothes. No—an actress,” she stated, changing her mind. “That's a very expressive face.”

“Thank you, but I don't act professionally. Only in day-to-day encounters.”

“Quick, too,” Serena murmured. “You're not an agent trying to lure Jordan away from Agnes?”

“Not if I value my life,” Kasey replied.

“Well, my dear, I'm fascinated and totally baffled.” Serena hailed a passing waiter and grabbed a glass of champagne. There were chunks of precious stones on her fingers, and her nails were a brilliant red. “What are you?”

“I'm an anthropologist.”

“You're joking.” Serena looked at Jordan for confirmation. “Is she joking?”

“You wouldn't ask if you questioned her on the tribal rituals of the Sioux,” Jordan replied and finished off his drink.

“You don't say.” Serena drew out the words.

“Kasey's collaborating with me on a book.”

“
Hmm.
” Serena took a healthy swallow of champagne. “You don't happen to know anything interesting about the Algonquins, do you, dear?”

“Originally a North American tribe who were dispersed by the Iroquois in the seventeenth century. Most found new settlements in Quebec and Ontario,” Kasey countered.

“Fate!” Serena exclaimed and grabbed Kasey's arm. “Do you believe in fate, dear?”

Kasey shot a look at Jordan and grinned. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

“I've just started a new book. The first half is in England, but the second half has my now-penniless aristocrat off to the colonies. He's half-starved and all but beaten to death when
he comes upon a party of Algonquins. They wouldn't have scalped him or anything dreadful like that, would they?”