One Touch of Topaz (11 page)

“It matters to me. Topaz was part of St. Pierre, and that’s all over for you. Now there’s only Samantha.”

“Well, it shouldn’t bother you if it doesn’t me.” She grinned as she tilted her head to look at him appraisingly. “I wonder how you’d look in a baseball cap? Were you ever a Little Leaguer?”

He shook his head. “I was a bookworm.”

She chuckled. “Good Lord, I can’t imagine that. You’re so …”

He lifted one rust-colored eyebrow. “So what?”

“Larger than life.”

“Well, I’m larger than several species of life, anyway.”

She leaned forward, resting her arms on the table. “Smile.”

“What?”

“Smile at me. You have a wonderful smile, but you don’t use it enough. You either give me that flinty Easter Island glare or you study me as if I were some weird kind of fauna.”

He smiled, and she caught her breath as glowing warmth shimmered through her. “Not at all weird, a very lovely fauna.”

“But you
do
study me.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I guess I just like to look at you,” he said simply. “I thought you knew that.”

The color rose to her cheeks. “That makes me feel very … bridal.”

“You mean, I actually said something right?” He picked up his glass and gave her a half-mocking toast. “We’re not exactly the conventional couple, and heaven knows I’ve certainly not done anything to make this day special for you.”

But she
did
feel special, Samantha thought. She felt optimistic and excited and … new. It was as if the clock had been turned back to that time before she had learned about war and cruelty, a time when the entire world had seemed as young as she felt that evening.

She suddenly jumped to her feet and kicked off her high-heeled sandals. “I want to go out on the beach. Come with me, Fletch.”

He looked startled. “Now? There’s something I wanted to talk to you—”

“Now.” She was already halfway across the terrace. “I feel
good
. I want to run and laugh and …” Her words trailed off as she ran down the flagstone steps from the terrace to the beach.

She was gone, running down the beach, her full skirts flying in the wind, her dark hair shimmering with fire as the rays of the setting sun bathed her in their pink-red glow.

Fletch slowly rose to his feet, his gaze following her. He had never seen Samantha like this. He hadn’t fully realized the dark
shadow that had always clung to her until this moment when she had cast it off and was completely free. There was no shadow now. She was flaming with vitality, and he suddenly knew this was how she was meant to be.

She turned around and waved. “Come on. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” He took off his jacket and tossed it on the chair. “Not one damn thing. Wait for me.”

She stood there until he joined her, and then started out at a half trot again. “I like your island, Fletch. And I like your beach and your house, and your ocean …”

He laughed as he caught her hand, keeping pace with her. “I can’t lay claim to the ocean. And I think you’ve gone a little crazy. What’s gotten into you?”

“I don’t know.” She turned to face him, walking backward, her eager gaze on his face. “Or maybe I do. I think it’s hope, Fletch. I think I have hope.”

“Hope for what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Life. Happiness.” She gestured helplessly. “Everything. It’s been so long since I dared to think about anything but the next minute, the next hour. But now I can actually make plans for next
year
. It seems like a miracle.”

An unbearable surge of tenderness tightened his throat. “Does it, Samantha?”

She nodded. “I have a future.” She suddenly stopped. “And you’re a part of it.” She took a step closer and slipped into his arms with supreme naturalness. “I want to
know
you, Fletch. You’re going to be very important in my life.”

His arms tightened around her. “I think we know each other better than most married couples. At least, I know you. There’s not much to know about me. What you see is what you get.”

“I don’t think that’s true. I think there’s a great deal more to you than what’s on the surface.” She looked at him thoughtfully. “Every time I turn around, I learn something new about you. Talk to me. Where were you
born? Where did you grow up? Were you close to your parents?”

“Hold it.” He chuckled indulgently. “Give me a chance. I was born in Seattle, Washington, and I grew up in a suburb there. My father owned a small electronics plant. My mother was an engineer and worked very closely with him. They made a great team.” His smile faded. “My mother died when I was in college, my father three years later.”

“You were close?”

“Not particularly. They were … busy.”

Her expression softened. “I’m sorry. That must have been very difficult for you. A child needs—”

“Don’t waste your sympathy on me,” he said, interrupting. “You don’t miss what you’ve never had. I wasn’t a victim, though I was undoubtedly an accident they were forced to tolerate. Maybe my parents were workaholics who never should have had children, but I can’t fault them when I run my life the same way.”

“But you want a child.”

He nodded. “And I’ll be a good father. I won’t cheat—” He stopped, surprised. “Hell, maybe I do see myself as some kind of a victim. I didn’t think I was self-pitying.”

“You’re not.” She felt a tenderness that was almost maternal. No wonder he had erected such a high wall around his emotions. How many rejections had he suffered before he had been forced to emulate his parents and substitute ambition for emotion? Yet there was nothing unemotional about the Fletcher Bronson she had come to know. He was full of anger and passion and caring. “But I think you’re wise to have decided to have a child to complete your life. You need it.” She stood on her tiptoes and pressed a kiss as light as a summer breeze on his lips. “Just as I do. I’ll give you a child we can both love, Fletch.”

He gazed down at her, a multitude of emotions chasing across his face. “You don’t look much more than a child yourself,” he finally said gruffly. He reached out and
tugged playfully at a strand of her chestnut hair. “And I feel like a dirty old man.” He took a step back and released her. “I have to make a few phone calls. We’d better get back to the house.”

“Now?” She couldn’t keep the disappointment from her voice.

His smile was bittersweet. “I’m not twenty-one and full of hope and visions of the future. I’m thirty-seven and weighed down with years and responsibilities.” He took her elbow and began to guide her gently in the direction of the villa. “It’s one of the crosses you’ll have to bear as my wife. I have a merger pending, and I’m going to be under constant pressure for the next few months.”

“I understand.” She didn’t look at him. “I didn’t mean to … I know we have an agreement. I’ll try not to interfere.”

“For heaven’s sake, Samantha, this is your wedding day. I should be the one apologizing.”

She tried to smile. “But this isn’t the usual
wedding day, is it?” Her eyes slid away, and the words tumbled out feverishly. “I know how busy you are. It was very kind of you to spend this much time with me. It was silly of me to think it could be any different. Oh, look, my feet are all sandy.” They had reached the steps, and she pulled away from him and ran up the steps. “I’ll just go to my suite and wash them. I’ll see you later, Fletch. I hope those business calls go well.”

She quickly disappeared through the French doors into the house.

Fletch stood still on the terrace, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He had hurt her. He had robbed her of the radiance of happiness and hope; he had brought her back into the shadows. Damn, he hadn’t wanted to hurt her. If he hadn’t been so clumsy …

But he
was
clumsy, he thought grimly. He would blunder and hurt her, neglect and probably destroy her, if given the chance.

He moved slowly, heavily, toward the French doors. He had to talk to Skip and
Sara, and then he badly needed a drink. He wished to hell there really were some earth-shaking phone calls he had to make. It would have kept him from remembering Samantha’s face that moment before she had run into the house. It would have kept him from thinking of the note he had to write to give Sara for Samantha.

Rats, she looked about as voluptuous as Little Orphan Annie, Samantha thought in supreme discontent as she twisted and turned before the full-length mirror. Champagne beige was a good color for her, but that was all the nightgown had going for it. She made a face at her image in the mirror. What had she expected, for goodness sake? Expensive lingerie couldn’t give someone like her the earthy appeal of a woman like Monette Santore. Unfortunately one had to have some curves to put into a nightgown to make it sexy.

She turned away from the mirror with a
sigh of discouragement. She wished she hadn’t thought about Monette Santore. She was nervous enough tonight without worrying about Fletch’s former mistress.

Former? She stopped in mid-motion as she was reaching for her negligee, draped on the back of the rattan chair. How did she know the actress was relegated to Fletch’s past? There had been no clause in that contract she had signed that guaranteed his fidelity, and he had never given her any assurance he wouldn’t send for any woman who caught his eye whenever it pleased him. Why should he be satisfied with a wife who wasn’t as sexy or experienced or—She had to stop this, she told herself as she slipped on the negligee. There. She didn’t look nearly as bad with her bony shoulders covered. Maybe he wouldn’t notice in the dark how skinny she was. Still, it hadn’t been dark in the cave, and he hadn’t seemed to think she was too ugly. Perhaps it would be all right. Oh, Lord, she was nervous. Nervous and excited and—

There was a soft knock on the door. Fletch?

“Come in.” Her voice sounded quavery even to her.

Sara opened the door. “Hey, you look real pretty. Like one of those ads in
Vogue
. Do you want me to brush your hair?” She bustled into the room. “You’ve had a big day. Now why don’t you let me tuck you into bed?”

“Not yet. I’m waiting …”

Sara stopped in the center of the room, her eyes widening in surprise. “Mr. Bronson gave me a letter for you, but I thought you knew.” She hurriedly reached into her pocket and brought out a folded piece of stationery. She crossed the room and thrust the note into Samantha’s hand. “You call me if you need me.” She turned and hurried toward the door. “And don’t you stay awake worrying about any of this. You need your rest.”

“Sara?”

Sara turned reluctantly at the door.

“What did you think I would know?”

Sara’s gaze fastened on the note in Samantha’s hand, carefully avoiding her eyes. “That Mr. Bronson and Mr. Brennen took off in the helicopter for Miami forty-five minutes ago. It’s probably in that note he wrote you. I guess he was in a big hurry and didn’t have time to …” She trailed off and quickly opened the door. “You call me if you need me.” The door closed behind her.

Poor Sara, Samantha thought dully. She had been so embarrassed and distressed at having to be the bearer of bad news. It wasn’t every day a third person had to inform the bride that the groom had literally flown from the bridal nest.

She slowly unfolded the note. The note was terse, to the point, and typically Fletch: “Samantha, I’ll call you from Miami to explain. Take care of yourself. Fletch.”

Take care of yourself
. How very tender and loving, she thought as a shiver of pain radiated through her. But she wasn’t entitled to either love or kindness from Fletch. That
wasn’t in their agreement. Those business calls he’d had to make had evidently generated a fascination more urgent than his desire to sire a child. Certainly more urgent than his desire for her.

Oh, well, she didn’t care. It didn’t matter. She had no right to demand anything from Fletch.

Her hand slowly clenched around the paper, wadding it into a tight ball. If she had no right, then why was she hurting so much? And if she didn’t care, why did those brief words strike like acid-dipped needles?

She dropped the note on the floor and moved slowly toward the French doors that led to the terrace. He would be calling soon. Fletch always did what he said he would do. When he called, she must be controlled and calm. She mustn’t let him know.

Know what? She had been hiding, dodging the truth for so long that it was now obscure, veiled even from herself. But there always came a time to lift the veil. She had been a coward too long.

She opened the French doors and breathed in the warm salty air. The night was soft and sensuous; the sound of the waves rushing onto shore had an alluring rhythm. She must ignore both the sensuality and the allure. She moved toward the cushioned rattan chair and sat down, her slim hands clutching its smooth braided arms. She had to think. When Fletch called her, she must not be in this turmoil. She must know.

It was over an hour later when the phone rang.

Samantha rose and moved quickly from the terrace to the bedroom extension and lifted the receiver. “Hello?”

“Samantha?” Fletch’s voice was quick and vibrant. “Did I wake you?”

She almost laughed aloud. “No, I was waiting for your call.”

“Damn, that was a stupid question.” There was silence on the other end of the line. “I don’t have much time. My plane leaves in fifteen minutes. I’m sending Skip back to the island tomorrow morning.”

“That’s not necessary.” Her voice was steady, she noted with a sense of pride. “I don’t need him here. I’ll be fine until you get back.”

“You’re not going to stay at the villa. Skip is going to escort you to Paris and stay with you until you’re settled into the château.”

Her hand tightened on the receiver. “If that’s what you want. When will you join me there?”

There was another pause. “Not for some time.”

She tried to laugh. “Unless you’re thinking of a test-tube baby, I understand it’s a little difficult to conceive a child long-distance. Or do you intend to send for me when you have time? The way you send for Monette Santore?”

He muttered something beneath his breath that sounded faintly obscene. “No, I thought—” He stopped. “I decided it would be better to wait until you’re stronger. You have no business becoming pregnant until you’re entirely well.”