Tangled Vines (35 page)

When they approached the music room, she suddenly wondered if he was coming to see her. Hope brought Katherine to her feet. And it was in her voice when she called to him as he drew level with the door.

“Gil?”

He halted, and glanced in the music room. Irritation flashed briefly in his expression, and brought Katherine abruptly down. “Any objections if I use the phone in the main salon? I have an important call to make.”

“An important call?” she questioned, and murmured dryly, “How convenient for Natalie and Clay.”

When she saw the angry flush that stained his cheeks, Katherine knew she had guessed right. His supposedly important call was nothing more than a ploy to leave Clay alone with Natalie. She found no satisfaction in the knowledge, and turned away as the sound of Gil's footsteps continued down the corridor to the main salon.

The minute Gil left the library, Natalie went to stand at the fireplace and stare into the fire-blackened chasm, her head bowed, her back turned to Clay, isolating herself from him. She had built some shell around herself that made it difficult for Clay to read what was going on inside. He could only hope it was as brittle as it seemed.

“Natalie,” he began and took a step forward.

She stopped him in place with a softly harsh, “You should not have come here.”

“I couldn't stay away any longer. The thought of you alone, knowing the anguish you were going through, it was more than I could stand. I -”

“He knew.” It was as if she hadn't heard a word he'd said. Thrown by that; he withheld comment and waited, wondering if he had misjudged her. She half turned, sending him a haunted look as she hugged her arms tightly. “He must have known. Why else did he follow us?”

“I've tortured myself with that same question.” He moved closer when she swung back to the fireplace. “But we have to face the fact that we may never know the answer.” Lightly, he curved his hands over the fingers she dug into her arms. She shuddered at his touch, but didn't pull away, and Clay knew he had nothing to fear. “I wanted us to be free. I wanted us to be together. But not like this. Never this way.” He bent his head and lightly nuzzled his lips against her hair. “I love you more than life. I couldn't stand it if you hated me now.”

With a small moan, she turned and melted against him. He held her warmly, lovingly, not pressing her, not yet. Later, when he was sure there would be no guilt, no recriminations, he would bring up the subject of the merger.

The terrace doors to the main salon stood open. Kelly hesitated, then walked through them, the shadowed cool of the house a relief after the glaring beat of the sun. She paused and lifted her dark glasses to the top of her head, poking the earpieces into the sides of her nearly dry hair. She looked around for Katherine, but no one was in the room.

Voices came from the marbled entry hall and Kelly went to investigate, her bare feet making almost no sound on the salon's Persian rug. Before she reached the doorway, Mrs. Vargas walked in, her eyes widening slightly, betraying a faint surprise at finding someone in the salon.

“May I help you, miss?” Her gaze swept Kelly's bare feet and legs, and the short terry robe she wore over the gold swimsuit.

“Not really.” She had the distinct impression the housekeeper found her attire inappropriate for the salon. “I was looking for Katherine.”

“I believe Madam is in the music room. If you-“

“No,” Kelly quickly broke in. “I was just wondering what time dinner is tonight.”

“At seven, miss.”

“Thank you.” She made a brief detour around the housekeeper and headed once again for the doorway, reaching it as Katherine walked up.

“Did you enjoy your swim?” Katherine inquired. The words, the tone, and the smile, all held the politeness of a consummate hostess to her guest.

Kelly made a sound of agreement, then realized that wasn't enough. “I'm used to working out, but there hasn't been much time for any physical exercise since I arrived. The swim was just what I needed.” She was about to add more when she noticed Katherine wasn't listening. Her attention had shifted to the front of the marbled hall and the quiet murmur of voices that came from there. “Is someone here?” Her hand slid up the front of her robe, drawing the lapels a little closer together.

“Gil and Clay are just leaving,” Katherine replied. “They came to see Natalie and offer their condolences.”

Kelly heard the front door open and stepped out of the salon to steal a glance at the departing pair, curious about this unexpected visit considering the less-than-friendly relationship between Katherine and her son. Both men had already stepped outside, Gil moving out of view and Clay turning back to the baroness who stood just outside, holding the front door open. He said something to her, then raised a hand to her cheek and slowly stroked it. Kelly stared, stunned by the gesture that could only be described as intimate. She glanced uncertainly at Katherine.

“Clay's version of the sympathetic touch, I would suspect,” Katherine remarked with a definite chill in her expression that confirmed Kelly's initial impression.

Clay and Natalie Fougere were both more than acquaintances or friends. Yet her grief over Emile's death had seemed quite genuine. Kelly puzzled over that as she climbed the stairs to shower before dinner.

The chandelier, dripping crystal, showered its light over the wide entry hall, driving off the night's darkness. The polished marble on the floor and the sweep of the stairs gleamed softly under its light, a warmth and a richness to it that contrasted with its cool, hard look in daylight.

Sam was too used to his surroundings to notice the change as he covered the hall's length with long strides and continued up the stairs at a quick pace. He had only two things on his mind, a cool shower and Kelly, and the shower didn't occupy much of his thoughts. Ever since morning, he had been waiting for the day to end and the night to begin. It finally had, a little later than he'd planned.

At the top of the stairs, he swung away from the deep gleam of the pewter-finished railing and headed down the hall to his room. When he neared the door to Kelly's he automatically slowed his strides, hesitated, then went to it and knocked once.

“Come in.” The heavy door muffled her voice, altering the rich texture of it but-not the meaning of the words.

His hand circled the knob and turned it. With a push, he swung the door inward and walked into a darkened room. Not completely dark. A lamp burned in the small sitting alcove, but it was more decorative than functional, deepening the shadows in the rest of the room rather than chasing them off.

Then he saw her, standing at a window, her face a pale shine against the black of the night beyond the panes. She had on a silk robe and he noticed her hair was pulled back in a damnable braid again. She was too far away. He had to change that. Sam released the door, letting it swing shut, and moved toward her.

“Do you always stand around in the dark?”

“Not always.” But tonight Kelly had wanted to become lost in the shadows, to hide in the darkness and let it keep her safe...as it had so often protected her from her father's drunken rages.

She watched the dark shape of him come toward her. Then the sound of his footsteps stopped and he was there, by the window, very near her. Too near. She should turn on more lights, but not yet. Not yet.

“Sorry I didn't make it back for dinner.” His voice was pitched low, but she was more conscious of the quiet probe of his gaze. “I planned to, but every time I tried to get away, something came up. I'm afraid I haven't been much of a host.”

“I don't know about that. We did have coffee together this morning.” Casual. Keep it light and casual, Kelly told herself. It wasn't easy when she was so conscious of his presence and the way he smelled of earth and sun and something else that was male.

“True.” Sam's voice matched her tone. “So how did you spend your day?”

Kelly made a slow turn back to the window and touched a hand to a cool pane. “I swam, soaked up some sun, and thought.”

“About what?” She had been on his mind all day. Sam wondered if it had been the same for her.

“Dozens of things. Mostly about my job, though.” She leaned into the window and rested her forehead against the glass, staring out. “I can't lose it. Not now. Not after I've worked so hard to get it. There has to be some way to keep this from happening, something I can say or do to convince them not to let me go.”

“Don't you think you're borrowing trouble? You haven't lost it yet.”

“But with this leave of absence, I'm very close to it. Too close to it,” she insisted, “If I don't fight for it now, I will lose it. That's why it's so imperative that I come up with some plan of action.”

“Such as?” Sam watched her mouth twist into a smile that wasn't a smile.

“I haven't come up with an answer to that question,” she admitted, then sighed, something defeated in the sound. “I thought about going to the media with my story, try to generate public support. But how can I describe it to someone who hasn't lived through it? How can I make them understand what it's like to grow up with someone who drinks too much, who acts out against a child?”

“I got a pretty clear picture of what it must have been like when you explained it to me the other day,” he reminded her.

“You also saw the house, the filth and the bottles. Your eyes told you as much as my description did. Probably more,” she added. “I'm not good at putting my feelings down on paper, Sam. I know because I tried. A little while ago, I tried to write an op-ed piece for the New York Times, but it was no use.” She pushed back from the window and left her hand flattened against the pane. “It turned out to be an exercise in frustration.”

“It could be that you are too critical,” Sam suggested. “Do you mind if I read what you wrote?”

“Unless you're good at fitting pieces together, you can't. I tore it up and threw it in the wastebasket.”

“It couldn't have been that bad.” He was half tempted to dig out the scraps of paper and try piecing them together.

“It certainly wasn't that good. Television is my medium, not print. I can get my message across when I can let pictures tell half of the story.”

“Then use television.”

“But there aren't any pictures that can show the anger and the hate and the pain that have been bottled up inside all these years,” she protested, releasing her frustration in a sudden flare of temper. “How can I get a camera inside my head to show that my earliest memories are of being woken in the middle of the night by loud noises – the slam of doors or voices raised in anger or the crash of dishes and bottles being thrown? How do you show the confusion and the terror of a child alone in a darkened room, hiding in her bed, afraid to open the door, afraid of what was happening out there?” “Kelly. It was hell for you; I know that.” When his hand lifted to her, she pulled back from it, but his voice and his movement provided the distraction she needed to regain control of her emotions.

“Hell is one way of putting it.” Her voice was level again, although tinged with bitterness. Kelly turned back to the window. “Did I tell you about the first time he hit me, the first time I learned how really mean he could be when he ‘wasn't feeling good,' as Momma used to put it?”

“No. No, you didn't.”

“You'd think I would have forgotten it, repressed it. But I remember it very clearly, as if it was burned into my mind,” she mused. “It happened during my first year in school. I was in kindergarten. My momma had made me a new yellow dress to wear. She called it my sunshine dress, and I was so excited when she let me wear it to school. Off I went, a roly-poly little girl eager to show off her new sunshine dress. I thought I looked so special, but that's not what the older kids on the bus thought when they saw me in it. They laughed and said I looked like a fat little butterball. I tried to make them stop, but the more I tried, the more they teased me. It was worse on the way home after school. I was in tears when Momma met me at the front door. She wanted to know what was wrong and I told her.”

“I'm so sorry, honey.” Loving fingers wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Don't you pay any attention to what those boys said. They were just teasing you. This is a beautiful dress and you look lovely in it.”

“They said I was a fat butterball.” She hiccuped back another sob.

“Well, you're not. You're my little sunshine girl.” She gave her a hugging squeeze, then scooped her up and carried her over to the sofa. “Now, you sit right here and I'll bring you some brownies I baked specially for you. Okay?”

“Okay.” But her voice wavered on the word, and her chin continued to quiver.

She watched her mother go into the kitchen, and another tear slipped from her eye. She was sniffling audibly when her father walked in from the bedroom, his T-shirt only half tucked inside the waistband of his trousers.

“What's this?” He stopped to peer at her, swaying a little. “Are you crying?”

She nodded as more tears spilled from her eyes. “On the bus, Jimmy Tucker and that boy named Carl were making fun of me and calling me names.”

“Didn't you tell them not to do that?”

“Yes, but they wouldn't listen to me.”

“Then you should have punched them in the mouth.”

“They're too big,” she protested, her lower lip jutting out in a trembling pout.

“That's no excuse.” He picked her up and stood her up in front of the sofa, then got down on his knees, facing her. His face was close to hers and his breath smelled funny. “Come on. I'll teach you how to fight. Hold up your hands like this.”

She looked at his raised fists and shook her head. “But I don't want to fight, Daddy.”

“Well, you're going to anyway. Now, do what I say. Hold up your fists like this and knock my hand away when I try to hit you.”

She tried to do as he said, but when his hand snaked toward her face, she wasn't quick enough, and his fingers tapped her hard on the cheek.

“You've got to be faster than that, Lizzie-girl.” His hand shot out again, this time stinging her cheek with the sharpness of the hit.

“Ow!” She clamped a hand to her smarting cheek.

“Come on and fight. Hit me. Go ahead.”

“No. I don't want to,” she said again, growing more confused and frightened.

“You'd better fight back or I'll keep hitting you.” First one hand, then the other struck at her jaw with hard, stinging slaps. When she raised her arms to protect her face from more blows, he jabbed her in the stomach. She cried out, half doubling over and clutching her stomach. Immediately he hit her in the face again.

Frightened into anger, she screamed at him. “Stop it!”

“Getting mad, are you?” he taunted with a nasty grin. “Then fight back.”

He hit her again, harder than before. She fell back against the sofa's seat cushion, tears streaming down her face in earnest.

Her mother came hurrying out of the kitchen. “My God, Len. What are you doing to her?”

“He hit me, Mommy,” she sobbed.

“It was just a little tap. I'm teaching her how to fight.”

“She's only a little girl, Len.” She scooped her up and rushed her out of the living room to the safety of her bedroom.

“Why did Daddy hit me, Mommy?” she sobbed. “What did I do wrong?”

“You didn't do anything wrong, sweetheart. Sometimes...” Her mother paused and hugged her close, resting her chin atop her head. “Sometimes Daddy forgets how strong he is. He didn't mean to hurt you.”

“What did I do wrong?” Kelly repeated softly. “When you're little, you can't understand. You just feel all this confusion and guilt when you're yelled at for no reason, and especially when ordinary roughhousing turns into sadistic abuse. When I think of how many times my mother rescued me from him.” She stopped and shuddered expressively. “But she died and left me alone with him. Suddenly I had to grow up fast just to survive. I didn't really have a childhood. I was young, and the next minute I was old. Old and terrified. Not just of him,” she added quickly. “I was just as terrified that somebody would find out what my life was really like. That's why I lied about the bruises and black eyes. I couldn't bear to have people know the truth. I was too ashamed, too humiliated.”

“Ashamed,” Sam exploded, unable to remain silent any longer. “There was no reason for you to feel ashamed or guilty. You didn't do anything wrong. It was him. He was the one who hit you, who beat you.”

“How can I make you understand?” she said with a bewildered shake of her head. “If you are told often enough that something is your fault, you begin to believe it. You begin to think you must have done something. That's the worst part, the insidious part. It isn't just the physical blows. It's the damage that's done to your inner self, too. And you can't capture that on videotape.”

Dougherty had done this to her. Sam had never despised another human being so passionately before. But he did now.

“For a while today,” Kelly continued, “I seriously considered making the rounds on the talk shows. As you know, the trouble is my story isn't brutal enough. I wasn't sexually abused. His beatings didn't leave me crippled or maimed. The only thing that makes my story sensational to the press is the fact that he's been charged with murder. But even if I did go on the talk show circuit, what would it gain me? A lot of publicity and the image of an abused child as well as the daughter of a murderer. It certainly wouldn't guarantee I'd keep my job.”

“Would it really be so bad if you lost it?”

Kelly swung her head around, stunned that he would even ask such a question. “It's my whole life. All my friends are in television.” Even as she said that, she remembered the exceedingly brief phone conversation she'd had with DeeDee that afternoon. Kelly had called to let DeeDee know where she was staying, and to see if DeeDee had any questions on the Travis material.

To be honest, she had also called because she wanted to talk to someone who would understand the deadly effect of all this on her career, someone who would commiserate a little, maybe become indignant at the way she was being treated. But DeeDee had been polite and aloof, as if wanting to distance herself from Kelly just as Hugh had done in case the corporate suits started viewing her as a potential liability instead of an asset.

The memory of that phone call brought an ache to her throat and took the stridency from her voice when Kelly finished with, “Landing a job with the network has been my dream.”

“You must have had others,” Sam suggested quietly.

Once, Kelly thought. Once she had dreamed about having a nice home, children, and a man who would hold her and love her and protect her. But that was long ago, back when she still had romantic notions about life.

“Not really. Nothing but childish fantasies,” was the answer she gave Sam and turned back to stare out the window again. The moon was a white sliver riding low in the sky's blackness, punctuated by distant stars, their light so faint they made almost no impression on the night. “They're still calling for rain.” But the clouds that had been visible at dusk were now lost in the darkness.