The Count From Wisconsin (12 page)

He fell silent again, then said, "Tony and I were roommates in school."

"In college?"

"We shared an apartment in college along with Pete, but I'm talking about before that." He inhaled. "I have to go quite a ways back for you to understand the situation. My grandfather was Francois Denoisel Delanore, brother of the late Comte de Nuit." He smiled. "He was what you might call a black sheep. In 1912 he emigrated to America, bringing along just enough money to keep him in trouble. Then in 1916, when he was twenty-five, he met and married my grandmother. He settled down long enough to see my father born two years later, then he was killed in World War I. I can remember my grandmother talking about what a great hero he was for sacrificing his life for the country that had taken him in in his time of need." He grinned. "After she died, my father told me the old man had left Belgium just one step ahead of a bunch of irate husbands. He also told me the hero actually died in a barroom brawl. But it doesn't matter. She kept her dreams right up to the end."

He rested his forearms on the table as he continued. "What this is all leading up to is the fact that when I was twelve the old count was getting on in years and was—as they say—without issue. Dad had died when I was ten so the count got in touch with my mother. He eventually convinced her that since I could inherit the title at any time, I should be educated in the proper schools."

He picked up a piece of ham, staring ahead thoughtfully as he took a bite. "No one knew he would last as long as he did, but it probably wouldn't have made any difference. The right schools to him were European schools." He frowned, remembering. "So I went to France to boarding school. That's when I met Tony. Although his father was English, his French mother insisted his education be in French.

"The school wasn't bad, but can you imagine what it was like for a twelve-year-old kid who had never been out of Wisconsin before that?" He smiled, but it was a sad smile. "I was miserable. Tony was two years older, but had a maturity the English seem to breed into their children. He saved my life, Kate, He taught me how to take care of bullies without constantly getting my head bashed in. He was my brother, my friend, and I'm afraid sometimes my parent."

Kate had the feeling that there was more to it than Tony taking care of him. He must have held on to Tony as his only family In a strange place.

"He also bailed me out of a French jail when I was fourteen," he said, grinning.

"The time you were in jail that doesn't count?" she asked, curiosity filling her eyes.

He nodded. "Henri, the boy who gave us a proper introduction the night we met, is having some trouble with his younger brother. That's why he knew about that time. I thought it would make him feel better."

"What happened?" she asked, studying his smiling face.

"When I think about it now, it seems it happened to another person. I had the crazy idea that if I got in trouble, my mother would let me come home. So I swiped a watch. Tony had his father take care of bailing me out and seeing that it didn't go on any permanent record." He glanced at her. "So you can see that I owe him quite a bit."

She nodded. Alex was a man who would pay his debts, no matter what the cost to himself.

"Later we both attended something called a grande ecole," he said. "I don't know if there's an American equivalent, but it's different from a university in that the students are prepared for high-ranking careers in such things as civil and military services, commerce, industry. . . things like that. Only about a tenth of all the students who try for it pass the entrance exams."

He shifted in his chair, then suddenly stood and began clearing the table, waving Kate away when she rose to help him.

"As unlikely as it seems," he went on, "that's where we met Pete . . . and Charles. I never really had anything against Charles. He just seemed a little odd to me." Deep lines appeared around his eyes as he concentrated on the past. "He would never participate. In anything. Sports, parties. Sometimes I wondered if he were participating in life. But he always watched those who did with an ugly jealousy." He shrugged as he put the last container in the refrigerator. "That's all I can tell you about Charles. He was there, but that's all. I haven't got a clue to why he's doing this to Tony. I can't remember him being any more resentful of Tony than of me or Pete.

"This . . . this incident that the letters keep referring to, it had nothing to do with Charles. No one was involved except Tony and a girl." He got another beer from the refrigerator and took a long swallow before going on with his story. "Her name was He1ene. She had short black hair that made her look like a mischievous boy until you looked closer. I have to admit I was a little in love with her myself . . . until I got to know her better." He shook his head. "I still can't understand how Tony could have been so thoroughly fooled by her. They were supposed to be engaged, but she kept the ring in her purse and only wore it when she was with Tony. She broke dates with him time after time and each time he made excuses for her."

"She was seeing someone else?"

"Someone else? There was an army of someone elses. She even tried working her wiles on me once. But Tony was my friend and the fact that she was cheating on him made her look ugly. I wanted to tell Tony what I had seen and heard, but I felt it wasn't any of my business. You don't know how many times I've kicked myself for that."

"No, you were right," she said. "If he was obsessed with her, he wouldn't have believed you.

It would have caused a rift in your friendship at a time when he needed his friends."

He smiled at her attempt to ease his conscience, then shook his head. "One day she came to him and told him she was pregnant. Tony was over, the moon. He liked children and it meant they would get married—which was what he wanted."

He drew in a harsh breath and she could tell the next part wouldn't be pleasant.

"She told him she didn't want the baby and she didn't want to get married," he said flatly. "All she wanted was enough money for an abortion. I could have killed her for that. She didn't even try to let him down easy. It was as though she enjoyed hurting him. Then when he refused to give her the money for an abortion, she changed her tune. She became sweet and pliant and talked about their future together. She said she hadn't really wanted to get rid of the baby; she was only testing him, to see if he really loved her or would take the easy way out." He sighed. "You can guess what happened then."

"She pretended to need money for something else?" she asked quietly.

"For prenatal care," he confirmed in disgust. "She could have let it go at that. She could have simply told him later that she had miscarried. But she didn't. She called him the next day to tell him she was on her way to an abortionist and that he didn't have to worry about it because the baby wasn't his."

She sucked in her breath. "A double blow," she whispered with the sheen of unshed tears glistening in her eyes. "Losing her and the baby at the same time."

He nodded. "Tony went crazy. I tried to stop him, but there was nothing I could do except trail along behind as he went through the slums looking for her. He didn't even know what part of town she was in when she called. When I finally convinced him it was impossible to find her, we went back to the apartment and sat up all night waiting for her to call again."

He paused and she knew she didn't want to hear what he was going to say next.

"The police called about nine the next morning," he said quietly. "They had found his telephone number in Helene's purse. She was dead. She had bled to death in a little room in a suburb of Paris."

She tried to take in all he had told her, but it was too much, too fast. "I'm sorry, Alex," she said, her voice hoarse. She covered both his hands with hers. "It must have been very painful for him." And you, she added silently. The friend who wanted so badly to comfort but couldn't.

They sat for a while as they were, hands entwined, communicating silently. Then Kate said, "But I still don't understand about the blackmail part, Alex. The only guilty party is dead. How could anyone threaten Tony with that kind of information?"

"I've tried to tell him that," he said, nodding. "The letters blame him for everything—the pregnancy, the abortion, and Helene's death—but he had nothing to do with any of it."

She rubbed her forehead thoughtfully. "Was his affair with Helene common knowledge?"

"In our circle? Sure it was. But everyone also knew Helene was sleeping around. No one connected her death with Tony."

"Someone obviously did . . . and still does. They're out to hurt him." She glanced at him. "I suppose the notoriety that would follow newspaper stories would do that"

"In his profession, notoriety is the norm." When she glanced at him in inquiry, he said, "Have you ever heard of Anthony Blakewell?"

She started to shake her head no, then stopped. "Anthony Blakewell. . . the Shakespearean actor?"

He nodded. "No, it's not publicity that's bothering him. Or the threats to tell his wife. Diane knows all about it. What's throwing him is that the author of those letters claims to have evidence that the baby was Tony's after all." He hesitated. "Tony and Diane can't have children. I think that's part of what's eating at him. He simply wants to know the truth and he wants the constant reminders to stop. He wants the past to be buried for good."

"What exactly do the letters say?"

"After accusing Tony, they demand that he turn down a contract he's been offered—the chance to star in a movie. It would mean a move to California, but it could be a major break in his career. He won't give that up. And even if he were willing, it wouldn't get him any closer to the truth. The only way is to find Out who's sending them and why." He frowned, flexing-his shoulders wearily. "And that's where I come in. I've got to find out who it is and stop him."

"We've got to," she corrected him softly.

"That's right," he said, the tired look disappearing from his eyes as he gazed at her. "Did I tell you how lovely you look in Pete's robe?"

She grinned, trying to copy his light tone. "Pete's got rather flamboyant taste, doesn't he?"

"It matches his personality," he said dryly.

He stood and stretched, his strong, lean body holding her eyes fast. When he turned and found her eyes on him, he caught his breath sharply. Then, shaking his head, he said, "I guess we'd better decide where we're going to sleep, Duchess."

She nodded silently and followed him out into the hall. They were both avoiding the sensual tension that had been building steadily. Being alone in an apartment was suggestive enough without this thing, this incredible awareness, that was between them.

"Would you rather have Pete's bedroom or the guest room?" he called back over his shoulder.

"I think I'd prefer the guest room. Pete looks like the type to have-concealed mirrors over the bed."

He laughed. "Not that I know of, but I wouldn't swear to it." He opened a door and showed her a modest-sized bedroom, elegant in powder blue and gray but not as showy as the rest of the apartment. Its small satin-covered bed was obviously built for one and she stared at it for a moment.

She hesitated as she walked through the door, glancing up at him through her lashes. "I guess I'll see you in the morning then," she said huskily.

He nodded and started to turn away, then halted abruptly and swung back around and pulled her into his arms.

"Kissing in bedroom doorways can be dangerous stuff, Katy," he whispered. "But I'll be damned if I can wait till we're in a more circumspect place."

He dipped his head and pressed his lips against hers, lightly at first, but within seconds he lost control and the kiss showed his fierce need. Kate didn't even try to withstand the onslaught. She had been aching for this kiss all day— ever since she had found him kneeling beside her in the hay that morning. She parted her lips eagerly, meeting his searching tongue with her own.

Last night she had stopped him because her feelings for him were confused. Tonight there was no confusion, no hesitation. Her path was clear-cut . . . and it led straight to him.

The kiss deepened until she felt they were merging into one. Her hands climbed up his back beneath his T-shirt, her fingers grasping and kneading the hard muscles. She felt him tremble at her touch and a thrill such as she had never felt coursed through her.

When he reached inside the velvet robe and took the weight of one breast in his callused hand, she felt fire leaping in her blood and raised her knee to press her bare thigh against his. He was pressing her back into the doorjamb urgently and with his free hand he cupped her buttock to bring her closer as the fever burned in them both.

He drew back his head with stiff abruptness,-sucking in a harsh gasp of breath. His hand shook slightly as he gently stroked her cheek and stared into her caramel-colored eyes.

"I'm not rushing you, am I, Katy?" he rasped out urgently.

"No," she said, giving a shaky laugh.

"Good." The word came out in a gust as he took her hand, and she blinked in surprise when he began to pull her with rough haste toward the master bedroom.

As they went through the door, she smiled indulgently at the relief she had heard in his voice. The heat between them had been banked down to a slow boil now that they were no longer locked in each other's arms, and she was pleased to see that there was none of the embarrassment that people usually feel after having exposed their emotions to another.