The Still of Night (34 page)

“I believe God exists, and He is good, and He is love.”

She had not expected that.

But he added, “That’s why I’m certain I’m damned.”

His words shot through her. “Why?”

“Dichotomy. Goodness cannot abide its evil twin.”

She searched his face to find the joke. Why would he say that? To shock her? To make her value her own salvation? In fact it did. Without that assurance, how could she face life? She shook her head. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Normally it triggers a desire to resurrect the dead. I’ll save you the trouble.”

She shifted to face him. “I can’t believe you’re that terrible.”

“Nature requires balance. For every action, reaction.”

“But God is above nature—both justice and mercy. Jesus accomplished justice so we could experience mercy.”

“Qué será, será.”

“But, Morgan, have you asked forgiveness, sought salvation?”

He smiled. “There you go.” He touched the turn signal and moved out around a loaded RV. “The point is, you must actually believe God’s love, or you wouldn’t want it for me.”

He was right. It hit her with amazing power. If she didn’t know inside that there was something better, why would she feel such despair for him? That despair opened like a chasm when she recalled it hadn’t always been that way. He hadn’t used the same Christian lingo, but his reverence had run deep as a well. How had it evaporated?

They drove in silence through miles and miles of dirt and lumps of scrubby growth, with Joshua trees, like crippled prophets, shouting to the wind. As the sun sent its last lingering rays across the desert, empty and flat, Jill’s soul spread out, exhausted. Then the lights of Las Vegas beckoned like a carnival of attractions. They were almost to the end of the strip when they reached the Bellagio. She had no energy to argue.

The bellman took their bags, the valet their car. The “little place on the strip” was immense and extraordinary, a casino as large as a city block, glamorous and elegant and so far removed from Jill’s experience it might have been another world. The entry ceiling alone, covered with giant multicolored glass flowers, cost five million dollars, according to the desk clerk. The floor was all mosaic tiles, and flowering trees and draping planters produced a powerful perfume wherever they walked. They took the elevator to their rooms on the twelfth floor. Morgan’s was across the hall and he tipped the bellman for both rooms.

Jill stood in the room, more tastefully elegant than any she’d set foot in to date, including places she’d lived. The king-size bed took only a small amount of the space appointed in tones of gray and rose with sitting chairs, lamps, and decorative tables. The bathroom alone was worth spending time in, with its soaking tub separate from the shower and a telephone handy. A courtesy robe hung in the closet.

This was not real. It was some wonderful dream, only her mind would never have imagined it. She had barely unpacked when Morgan tapped her door. His hair was damp, and he’d changed to an impeccably tailored suit. She stared. “Morgan, you look—I don’t …”

He stroked his chin. “A speech pattern you’ve picked up from your students?”

“Very funny.” She pushed his arm. “I’m trying to say I didn’t bring anything fancy enough to accompany you looking so …”

“Yes?”

She frowned. “You know exactly how you look.”

“Stroke my vanity.” The amusement was deep in his eyes.

She studied him boldly. “Sophisticated, debonair …” She faltered and looked at the wall. “Way too handsome.”

“What was that last part?”

She jutted her chin back at him. “Egotistical.”

He straightened his silk tie and shrugged. “Humility is overrated.”

“Well, my choice of outfits is humble at best. You didn’t say I needed anything like this.”

“There are shops downstairs. We can get you something appropriate.”

Without her summer income and the extra pay for the coordinator position given to Pam, she’d be hard pressed to pay her mortgage. “It’d be cheaper to order room service.”

“And miss Cirque du Soleil?”

She should have brought the black sheath, but she’d had no idea she’d need it. She had packed practically for a few days of assisting Morgan in his home. Disappointment tugged.

“Dress size six?” He looked down at her feet. “Shoe size seven?”

“And a half. But, Morgan …” This was insane. She hadn’t even considered shoes. She sighed. “There’s cash in my wallet.” From what she knew of hotel gift shops, it would probably wipe that out.

“Just give me your key.”

She handed it over. “You’ll charge it to my room?”

He smiled. “Freshen up. I’ll be back.”

She should just say no. As much as she’d love to have dinner and see the show—but he was already out the door. She pressed her fingertips to her forehead after he’d gone. So she was buying a new dress and shoes. Hardly something to lose sleep over. If Morgan’s own attire was any indication, his taste was exquisite. He would choose something nice. So why did it seem so imprudent?

Because she was completely out of her element. Midwest Cinderella at the ball. If she and Dan were from different planets, at least theirs were near and terrestrial compared with Morgan’s gas giant. But it was done now. She went into the bathroom and filled the tub for a quick soak. Lowering herself in, she wet a washcloth and held it over her face, breathing slowly and letting out the stress of the day.

And there had been plenty of it. But there had been good moments, too. Morgan was wonderful company. He always had been, and even now with their circumstances between them … but she couldn’t linger too long. She didn’t know how quickly Morgan would accomplish his mission, but she did not want to be still soaking when he returned. She toweled dry with the thick plush towel, then slipped into the terry courtesy robe.

At the lighted makeup mirror, she applied the sort of look she imagined this level of sophistication called for. While keeping it subtle for her natural coloring, she darkened her eyelids and lips more than usual, blush a little bolder along the cheekbone.

She applied perfume and tossed her hair with hairspray, curling a few tendrils into place, a far more glamorous look than she’d ever attempted. When the knock came at the door, she called from the bathroom, “Just leave it on the bed.”

When she heard the outer door close again, she went out. A tissue-wrapped parcel, shoe box, nylons, and even a silver clutch purse. She grimaced. The man had no concept of budget. Shaking her head, she unfolded the tissue from the hanger and stared at the dress.

Beautiful did not describe it. It was understated elegance. Steel gray with a slight shimmer, sleeveless with a gathered scoop front and a similar, though lower, scoop in the back. It was fully lined, requiring no slip and the cut allowing no bra. But it was modest in spite of that, thanks in part to her scanty endowment.
Thank you, Lord
.

Then she saw the label. Giorgio Armani. Though she’d never seen an Armani label, she knew the Italian designer was expensive, the kind of expensive famous people could afford, not Iowa schoolteachers. What was Morgan thinking? She searched for a tag but found no price anywhere. Maybe it was better not to know until after the show.

She slipped on the dress, nylons, and silver heels she would never have dared wear before tonight. She closed her eyes. “I’m Jill Runyan. I teach special ed, drive a secondhand Honda, and live in a townhouse with my cat.” Then she looked into the mirror and swallowed hard.

She didn’t expect to find Morgan in the hall, but there he was, leaning back against the wall, hands lightly in his pockets. His eyes testified.

She swallowed. “I lost Jill Runyan, and there’s only this woman in an Armani dress.”

He smiled. How come he was still Morgan, no matter what he wore? He removed a small box from his pocket, opened it, and took out a pair of coiled silver earrings. She had brought no jewelry at all, seldom even wearing it to work, given the nature of her kids. Morgan must have noticed.

“Allow me.”

Jill stood without moving as he slipped them through the unadorned pierce in her earlobes, his touch whipping her heart to a frenzy.

“Ready?”

“I’m an imposter.”

He smiled. “No one would ever know.”

They went downstairs and Morgan tucked her hand into his arm. “French or Thai?”

“You decide, Morgan.” She was too overwhelmed to choose.

“What do you think of Picasso?”

“The artist?”

“Come on.” He took her to the Picasso restaurant within the Bellagio. The walls were actually adorned with original works by the artist.

“He’s not a personal favorite of mine, but they do have great food here.”

Jill looked at the menu featuring items she’d read about but had never actually encountered and wasn’t sure how to pronounce. Foods such as poached oysters garnished with osetra caviar in vermouth sauce. In fact, that was the first thing Morgan ordered, though she chose the warm quail salad with sautéed artichokes and pine nuts, and at Morgan’s urging, she followed it with roasted pigeon crusted with honey and nuts. It was incredible food, as exotic to her palate as to her mind.

Morgan cut her a bite of his medallion of fallow deer in Zinfandel sauce. It was almost too much to absorb, food so fabulous it was an art form. And she’d given him tossed greens and artificial crab.

Morgan watched her with amusement. “Do you like it?”

“I don’t think a prosaic word such as
like
can be applied here.”

They had to pick up the tickets for
O
an hour prior to their tenthirty show time, but Morgan took her through the conservatory containing a sweeping staircase, trees, and a reflecting pool with fountains surrounded by botanical gardens and little statues clothed in flowers. They toured the fine art gallery, then made their way to the theater. The show spoke to everything creative and artistic in her, not to mention an athletic appreciation for the difficulty of such perfect synchronization of choreography and the stunning effects of costume, color, and flame all performed in or over the massive pool.

After the show they walked outside in the desert night. Jill closed her eyes as they stood at the railing around the Bellagio fountain under the stars. The water danced to the strains of whimsical music, forming patterns and motion to complement the sounds. First the meal, then the show, now this. Every part of her was exhilarated and enraptured. She would never forget it.

Morgan rested his hand on her lower back. “Glad we stayed?”

She leaned her head against his arm. “I’ve never done anything like this.”

His hand curled around her side. “You look good in Armani.”

“Who cares if I’ll be paying it off for the next three years?”

The corners of his mouth deepened. “It’s all paid.”

“No it’s not.” There was no way she’d allow that. “I want the receipt.”

“I’m terrible with receipts.”

She turned to face him. “Then I can’t keep it.”

“You can’t return it.”

“Morgan.”

His eyes went to her lips. “Indulge me.”

She hoped the darkness hid the flush that burned up from her toes.

He smiled. “I don’t often get to buy for someone else.”

“How much was it?”

He laughed low. “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it.”

“I hate that cliché.”

He turned back to the fountain, but his palm on her lower back was warm and gentle. “Just let it go, Jill. You worry too much.”

“Oh, after all, it’s just an Armani gown, shoes, purse, nylons, earrings.”

“Things. They don’t matter.”

Looking up, she saw the poverty in his face.

His night eyes reflected the fountains. “We’re just playing anyway.”

Was that all it was? One incredible night of make-believe? How could it be anything more? Her throat tightened.

He brought his hand up to her shoulder and stroked her upper arm. “The next fountain show is in fifteen minutes. I think it’s the classical one. Do you want to wait?”

“Why not?” Let it last as long as it could. Make a memory that wouldn’t fade.

“Let’s walk around the pool.” He let go and gave her his arm again.

It was so natural to slip her hand along the soft fabric of his sleeve.
We’re only playing
. In less than a week, she would be back in Iowa fighting for her job, her kids, and her sanity. He covered her fingers with his as they walked. It conjured memories too painful to probe, and worse, engendered dreams too impossible to entertain. They both knew it.

When they’d viewed each of the fountain shows and her eyelids were starting to droop, Morgan brought her back inside and somehow navigated the immense and circuitous gaming floor to the correct elevator to reach their rooms. Funny, she had thought Las Vegas was all about gambling, but they hadn’t gambled at all. Or had they?

Morgan stopped outside her door. “Here’s where I say, ‘Let’s have a drink in my room.’ And you politely decline.”

“I had a wonderful time, Morgan.”

His eyes dropped to her lips. “You know I want to kiss you.”

She trembled. “Please don’t.”

His throat worked and his good-night rasped.

“Sleep well, Morgan.”

He stepped back, crossed the hall, and went into his own room.

Jill closed the door behind her, achingly aware of what she’d lost. Not the glamor of Armani or the wonder of the place, but the warmth of Morgan’s fingers over hers and his pleasure in giving.

She dropped her face to her hands. No tears came, just the drought of soul she knew too well. She took off the dress and hung it carefully inside the tissue. She took off the earrings, feeling Morgan’s fingers there again. What sort of man put a woman’s earrings on for her? She laid them on the dresser and went to bed, completely cognizant that sleep no longer knew her name.

The wine at dinner had not begun to touch it. But the bourbon he took from the minibar was real medicine. He poured it over the ice scooped into his glass, closed his eyes, and drank.

His bone marrow harvest was in two days, but the doctors had not forbidden alcohol. He’d have to fast before the procedure so tomorrow night he’d be stone sober. But tonight cut too close. After the first drink, he changed out of his suit. After the second, he brushed his teeth and lay down. After a third he would stop counting, so he left the ice melting in the glass and slipped into sleep.