She lowered her voice and smiled sweetly. “It’s just that your romances aren’t any good. They’re so sad.”
Life is weird, isn’t it? You kill people off in book after book and that’s not considered sad, but the heroine of a romance falls for some guy who then walks off into the sunset, and that’s considered too sad. If I’d killed the s.o.b., the story would have been a tragedy. Tragedy is okay, murder is grand, but sad is bad. Even worse, sad doesn’t sell.
I listened to everything she said and noticed that for once she didn’t bring flowers or food—concrete proof that the publishers were genuinely annoyed. Bet they wished they could shake me until I saw sense, saw that it was my duty in life to kill people on paper and support the family of everyone who worked at my publishing house.
Funny thing was, I wanted to write mysteries. I was happy when I was angry. I was happy and confident when I was having fights with cab drivers and imagining which character I was going to kill next. Yesterday I had to go to Saks to return a suit that didn’t fit, and I told the taxi driver to take me to Fiftieth and Fifth. Ten minutes later I’m over on First Avenue—this is in the opposite direction from Saks. I just said calmly, “You’re going the wrong way.” When the driver told me in all of his seven words of English that this was his first day on the job, I smiled and told him how to get to Saks, then I paid the whole excursion fare and tipped him a dollar fifty. Trust me, this is not the real me.
Chapter Twelve
Cale was in her apartment, the terrace doors open, playing with an unreadable story of unrequited love when she heard the sound of a helicopter. At first she paid no attention to it, but it seemed to grow louder, then to remain in one place, a place that seemed to be just outside her windows. Annoyed, frowning, she got up to close the doors when she saw that the helicopter was indeed hovering above her terrace. Surely that was illegal, she thought. Surely New York had laws against helicopters being that close to apartment buildings.
With her hand on the knob, she started to close the terrace door when she heard an odd noise. Curious, she looked up at the wind-producing, noisy helicopter, then opened her mouth in astonishment.
Descending from the copter, his foot in a stirrup, holding on to a thick rope, was a man. Cale’s first impulse was to slam the door and get out of the apartment, but then she looked again. On the man’s feet were what looked to be cowboy boots of a deep carmine red. Only one person she’d ever met in her life wore cowboy boots: Kane Taggert.
She wanted to shut the door and go back inside the apartment, but she couldn’t. Instead, she stepped out onto the terrace and watched the slow descent of the man. Of all the absurd things, he was wearing a tuxedo at four in the afternoon, and if she could see clearly, he had a large green bottle under his arm and two champagne flutes in his hand.
She stepped back when he alighted and took his foot out of the stirrup. She didn’t say a word when he motioned to the helicopter that he was safely down. Even when the copter was gone and it was once again quiet, she still said nothing, just stood there and looked at this big man standing on her terrace, and waited for him to say something.
With a bit of a smile, he set the bottle down, opened it, poured, and handed her a glass of champagne. She didn’t take it.
“What do you want?” she said with as much hostility as she could manage.
Kane took a deep drink of the wine before answering her. “I came to ask you to marry me.”
Cale didn’t so much as hesitate but turned away and headed for the doors into her apartment. When Kane caught her arm, she jerked from his grasp.
“Get away from me,” she said. “I never want to see you again.”
“Cale—” he began.
She whirled on him. “I can’t believe you know my name,” she snapped. “I thought I was ‘the writer.’ ” With a sigh, she made herself calm down. “Okay, you’ve made your big entrance and I’m impressed, so now you can go. You can go down the elevator, unless you plan to use a parachute.”
Kane put himself in front of the terrace doors. “I guess I deserve whatever you hand me. I know I’ve been a heel. You’ve told me, Mike has told me, Sandy, my own sons have told me. Even my sister-in-law and my mother, neither of whom has met you, have told me in graphic terms that I am an idiot, stupid, and in general a fool.”
Cale wasn’t in the least swayed by what he was saying. “I’m sure there are other women who can tell you from your brother,” she said, “so go find one of them. Your tactics are wasted on me.”
Again Kane caught her arm. “It wasn’t the twin thing. It was that you made me forget my wife.”
She turned to frown at him. “Ruth made you forget your wife.”
Dropping her arm, Kane walked away from her to stand at the edge of the terrace and look at the back of the General Motors Building. Before it was built there was a scrumptious view of the Plaza Hotel and Central Park. “I don’t know if anyone told you or not, but Ruth looks like my wife. When I saw a photo of Ruth, I began to imagine that I’d get back what I once had. I thought about bringing Janine back to life; I thought of picnics and moonlight walks and the four of us snuggled together. I never questioned what Ruth was like because I thought I knew. She’d lost her husband and child in an accident, just as I had, and I knew we were meant to be together.”
Turning to look at Cale, he saw that her face was unforgiving. “I think I was attracted to you from the first moment I saw you. You were sitting there on that suitcase looking mad at the world. Then you started sneezing, and when you looked at me…” He grinned. “Well, you made me feel like every movie star, athlete, and astronaut rolled into one. I thought you were the prettiest thing I’d seen in years, and that annoyed the hell out of me.”
He took a drink of champagne then looked at her. “I was pretty awful about the rattlesnake. I should have said thank you, but the fact that you were competent, unafraid, and beautiful all in one didn’t fit into my plans. There was Ruth, my ideal woman, and I was lusting after a feisty little blonde. You made me feel…well, adulterous.”
He drained his glass, poured himself more champagne, and turned away again. “I’ve spent the last month with Ruth Edwards. It took a long time, but I finally realized that she wasn’t Janine, that she was someone else altogether. In fact, she was someone I didn’t like very much.” He chuckled. “And my sons hated her.”
Turning back around, he looked at Cale, still standing by the terrace doors, her face unreadable.
“So I’m your second choice,” she said. “Come on, cowboy, surely you could find a third woman and choose her. Why do you pick on New York women? Find yourself some nice cowgirl and—”
“I live in New York,” he said, obviously not planning to elaborate on that statement.
“You’ve had your say, so now you can go,” she said, turning toward the doors, but Kane caught her in his arms, spun her around, and kissed her. He kissed her ears, her neck, her face.
“I love you, Cale,” he said against her lips. “I love the way you make me look at you so that I can’t see any other women. I love your cynicism, your sense of humor. I love the way you look at my sons, the way you look at me. I love the way we make love together. I love your competency, your vulnerability, your neediness, your—”
“I am not needy!” It wasn’t easy to think when he was this close to her.
At that Kane snorted. “I’ve never met a human who needed more than you do. You need”—he kissed the end of her nose—“love.” He kissed her cheek. “Kindness.” With each word he gave a sweet kiss to another part of her face. “Attention. A family. Security.”
She jerked out of his arms. “You need a puppy!”
He didn’t let her get away from him. “I need someone who can see reality. I need someone who won’t allow me to wallow in self-pity for years, blind to everything else in life. I imagine that with you if I feel melancholy you’ll kick me and tell me to stop moping and give me some work to do. I can’t see you allowing someone the
luxury of wallowing in his own grief.”
“You make me sound like an overseer on a plantation.”
Chuckling, he drew her closer to him, rubbing his body against hers. “What can I say to convince you that I love you and want to marry you?”
Cale pulled away from him, holding him at arm’s length. “Look, I know you think this is all very romantic. We had a quickie…well, okay, maybe more than a quickie, in a hayloft, and you began to think it was the basis for a lifetime together. But you can’t marry me. I’m not…wife material.”
“What’s wrong with you?” he asked, but she could tell by his tone that he was teasing her.
“I’m a business, that’s what’s wrong with me. I am big business.” She took a deep breath and delivered the coup de grâce, the thrust that was guaranteed to turn any man off. “Last year I earned one-point-four million dollars, and I’ll probably earn more this year.”
Kane didn’t lose his smile, but nuzzled her ear. “That’s all right, sweetheart. A person can live on that.”
She pushed away from him. “Are you listening to me, cowboy? I’m not your ordinary little housewife. I’m not the little wife who’s there waiting for you when you come home at night. I get so absorbed in my stories that I can’t remember to eat, much less remember that I’m supposed to fix hubby a martini and have it waiting for him. Or do you just drink beer? And what do you mean, you live in New York?”
“I mean that I’m not what you think I am. I’m no more a cowboy than you are a circus performer. I deal with the stock market; I deal with real money, not that pittance you earn.”
She stared up at him, her mouth slightly open, her eyes blinking rapidly.
“Go on,” he said, “tell me the worst there is to know about you. No matter what you say, no matter what you’ve done, I love you. I want you to marry me. I’ll buy a floor of this building, and the kids and I’ll live there with their nanny so you can have this place just for your writing and to get away from us. Whatever you want, you can have.”
She thought of lots of reasons why she shouldn’t marry him, such as the fact that she hated him. Yeah, like she hated writing books, she hated him. Since she’d walked away from him she hadn’t been able to think of anything but him. Every waking, every dreaming moment she thought of him and his children.
“I hate you,” she whispered as she collapsed into his strong arms. “I really do hate you.”
“Yeah, I know,” he whispered. “And I don’t blame you. But if you give me the rest of your life, maybe I can change your mind about me.”
She couldn’t speak because the lump in her throat was choking her. When she heard the doorbell, she pulled away from him, trying to sniff back tears. “I have to…to…”
“That’ll be the boys. They want to show you their new books and—”
“Jamie and Todd are here?” The next second she was running into the apartment and throwing open the door. After only a second’s hesitation the boys leaped on her and the three of them went rolling onto the foyer floor. In the next minute Kane had joined them and the three males began tickling Cale.
“Answer me,” Kane said. “Answer me now!”
“Yes,” Cale said, laughing. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”
With one push, Kane removed his sons from Cale and pulled her into his arms. “I don’t know why I didn’t recognize you the minute I saw you.”
“Neither do I,” she whispered against his lips. “Neither do I.”
Book III
A Perfect
Arrangement
Chapter One
1882
Mr. Hunter, I would like to ask you to marry me.”
Cole couldn’t say a word; it was one of the few times in his life when he was actually speechless. There’d been many times when he’d chosen not to speak, but at those times a few thousand words had been racing around in his head and he’d simply refused to let them out. Not now, though.
It wasn’t that he was shocked at a woman asking him to marry her. He didn’t want to brag, but he’d had a few marriage proposals in his time. Well, so maybe they were more in the form of propositions and maybe they weren’t from women who could be called respectable, but there had definitely been women who had mentioned the word “marriage.”
What was shocking was that this woman was talking to him about marriage. This tiny creature was the type of woman who pretended that men like him didn’t exist. She was one of those women who swept their skirts aside when he walked by. Maybe later they met him in the back of the barn after church, but they didn’t talk of marriage with him, and they didn’t ask him in for Sunday dinner.
But he could believe that this little thing would have trouble getting a man. There wasn’t anything to recommend her. Except for a rather curvy front—and he’d certainly seen better—she was the type of woman you wouldn’t notice even if she were sitting on your lap. Not pretty, not ugly, not even homely, just plain-faced. She had dull brown hair, not a lot of it, and it looked as though a dozen red-hot pokers couldn’t make it curl. Plain brown eyes, plain little nose, plain, ordinary little mouth. No figure to speak of except for the nice round shape on top. No hips, no real curves at all.
And then there was her manner. Cole liked women who looked as though they’d be fun in bed and out of it. He liked a woman who could laugh and make him laugh, but this prim little creature hardly looked capable of pleasantries, much less humor. She looked like the teacher who would accept no excuse for not doing your homework. She looked like the lady who arranged the flowers for the church every Sunday, the woman you saw every day you were growing up but never thought to ask her name.
She didn’t look married. She didn’t look as though she’d ever had a man in her bed, a man snuggling against her for warmth. If she’d had a man, he probably wore a long white nightshirt and a cap and what they did they did solely for the procreation of the human race.
He took his time lighting a thin cigar to give himself some time to think—and to recover himself. He traveled so much and met so many people that he’d had to train himself to be a quick and accurate judge of both men and women. But so far, he wasn’t making any headway with this one. When he was younger than his present thirty-eight years, he used to think that women like this one were dying for a man to warm them up. He’d learned that cold-looking women were, for the most part, cold women. Once he’d spent months working to seduce a plain, prim little woman rather like this one, all the while thinking that a dormant volcano lay under her tightly buttoned dress. But when he finally got her knickers off, she just lay there with her fists clenched and her teeth gritted. It was the one and only time in his life when he couldn’t perform. After that, he decided it was easier to go after the women who looked as though they might welcome his advances.
So now here was one of these frigid, mousy little nothings, with her dress buttoned to her chin, her elbows held close to her body, and although he couldn’t see them, he was sure her knees were locked together.
He was seated on one of those hard, upholstered chairs the landlady considered fashionable, taking his time lighting his cigar and watching her, waiting for her to make the next move. Of course she had so far made all the moves. She had written him that she wanted to hire his services for a very personal matter and she’d like to come to see him in Abilene.
From her letter—written on heavy vellum in a perfect hand—he’d guessed she was rich and she wanted him to kill some man who’d toyed with her affections. That’s what women usually wrote to him about. If a man wanted to hire him, he generally wanted someone killed because of land or cattle or water rights or revenge or some such. But with women it was always love. Years ago, Cole had stopped trying to make both men and women believe he wasn’t a hired killer. He was a peacemaker-for-hire. He felt that he was really a diplomat. He had a talent for settling disputes, and he used that talent to do what he could. It was true that sometimes people got killed during the talks, but Cole only defended himself. He never
drew first.
“Please go on,” he said when the mouse didn’t continue. He’d offered her a seat, but she said she’d rather stand. Probably because that stiff back of hers wouldn’t bend. And she’d insisted that the door to his room be left open six inches—so no one would get the wrong idea.
She cleared her throat. “I know what I must sound like and look like. I’m sure you think I am a lonely spinster in need of a man.”
Cole had to work to keep from smiling since that is just what he thought. Was she now going to tell him that she didn’t need a man? All she wanted was for him to find the neighbor’s son, who had jilted her, and wipe him off the face of the earth.
“I try not to lie to myself,” she said. “I have no illusions about my appearance and my appeal to men. I would, of course, like to have a husband and half a dozen children.”
He did smile at that. At least she was honest about her need for an energetic man in her bed.
“But if I really were looking for a husband, a man to be a father to my children, I certainly wouldn’t consider an aging gunslinger with no visible means of support and the beginnings of a paunch.”
At that Cole sat up straighter in his chair and sucked in his stomach. It took some doing to keep from putting his hand on his stomach. Maybe he’d better stay away from his landlady’s apple pie for a couple of days. “Would you mind telling me what you want?” Not that I would ever, ever take this job, he said to himself. What did she mean, “aging gunslinger”? Why he was as good with a gun right now as he had been twenty years ago! None of these youngsters today—He cut off his thoughts when she started speaking again.