As the barbecue progressed his jade eyes began to follow her with an anxious, puzzled expression, and he asked her more than once what was wrong. She always answered with a meaningless smile and a swift change of subject.
By the time Gypsy picked her way through the meal of excellent barbecued ribs, baked potatoes, rolls, and crispy salad, Sarah had obviously seen enough. Laughing, she ordered the men (who had cooked) to do the cleaning up, seized Gypsy’s arm in a companionable grip, and led her across the yard to the railing at the cliff.
“If you’ll forgive an old, outworn cliché,” she told the other woman ruefully, “the atmosphere between you and Chase is thick enough to cut with a blunt knife. You two have a fight? Or am I being incurably nosy?”
Having seen more than enough of the ocean the night before, Gypsy turned her back on the view and leaned against the railing. She smiled slightly and murmured, “No to both questions.”
Sarah was silent for a moment. “Forgive me if I’m probing—a psychologist’s stock-in-trade, I’m afraid—but can I help?”
“Is your couch free?” Gypsy managed lightly.
“For a friend in need? Always.” Sarah leaned back against the railing and pulled a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from the pocket of the man’s shirt she was wearing over a halter top. “Dreadful habit. Want one?”
“Thanks.” Gypsy accepted a light.
“I didn’t think you smoked,” Sarah said.
“I quit three years ago.”
“Uh-huh. But now… ?”
“Am I on your couch?” When Sarah nodded with a smile, Gypsy murmured, “I need a temporary crutch, I suppose.” She blew a smoke ring and concentrated on it.
“Why?”
“To keep from falling flat on my face. Although I think it’s too late to prevent that.”
“Falling as in ‘in love’?”
“Are you that perceptive or am I that obvious?” Gypsy asked wryly.
“A little of both. You watch him when he isn’t watching you. And another woman always knows.” She paused. “You’re scared.” It was a statement.
“Terrified,” Gypsy admitted almost inaudibly
“Why? Chase is a wonderful man.” She smiled when Gypsy looked at her. “I’ve known him longer than I’ve known Jake; he introduced us.”
Gypsy wondered suddenly—an inescapable feminine wondering—and Sarah obviously understood; her smile widened.
“No, there was nothing serious between Chase and me. Just friendship. He’s been searching ever since I’ve known him. Last night I realized that he wasn’t searching any longer.”
Gypsy fixed all her concentration on grinding the stub of her cigarette beneath one sandal.
Sarah went on slowly, thoughtfully. “He’s been lonely, I think. His upbringing… well, he missed a lot. Don’t get me wrong—Chase and his father have a very good relationship. But he missed being part of a family. He missed the carefree, irresponsible years. I don’t think he’s ever done a reckless thing in his life.”
Gypsy, thinking of a masked rider on the beach, smiled in spite of herself.
Sarah was obviously observing her closely. “Or maybe I’m wrong about that. You’ve been good for him, Gypsy.”
Gypsy moved involuntarily, not quite sure that she wanted to hear this; not quite sure she could stand to hear it.
“You’ve unlocked a part of his personality.” Sarah’s voice was quiet and certain. “He was so relaxed last night, so cheerful and humorous. I’ve never seen him like that before. And he looked at you as if you were the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.”
“Please…” Gypsy murmured.
“What is it? What’s the problem?”
“Me,” Gypsy said starkly. “I’m the problem. I’m afraid— very much afraid—that I’ll ruin things between us.”
“How?”
“My writing.” Gypsy showed Sarah a twisted smile. “He doesn’t understand—and I don’t think you will.” She fumbled for an explanation. “Sometimes I get… obsessed. The story fills my mind until there’s no room for anything else. For days or weeks at a time.” She laughed shortly. “A friend with a couple of psychology courses under his belt told me once that I had a split personality.”
“No,” Sarah disagreed dryly. “Just an extremely creative mind. One out of every ten writers goes through roughly the same thing.” She smiled when Gypsy gave her a look of surprise. “Creative minds fascinate scientists and shrinks; research has been done, believe me. You’re not alone.”
It was strangely reassuring, Gypsy thought. “But can Chase adapt to those kinds of mood swings? Sarah, I’m an absolute shrew! My own parents couldn’t live with me once I started writing. And I’m no bargain when I’m not obsessed! I can’t cook, I hate housework, I’m untidy to a fault—totally disorganized.”
“Has any of this bothered Chase so far?” Sarah asked reasonably.
“No. But we’re not living together.”
“I’ll bet he’s around a lot though.”
“Yes, but it’s not the same.”
“True.” Sarah lifted a quizzical brow. “You won’t thank me for pointing out that you’re crossing your bridges before you come to them.”
Gypsy sighed. “Meaning that all these rocks I’m throwing in my path may turn out to be more imagined than real, and why don’t I give it a chance?”
“Something like that.”
“Let’s drag out another cliché. I’m afraid of getting hurt.”
“Welcome to the human race.” Sarah’s voice was as sober as Gypsy’s had been.
“Close my eyes and jump, huh?”
“Either that—or don’t take the chance. And spend the rest of your life wondering if it would have been worth it.” After a moment of silence Sarah added softly, “Some smart fellow once said something about it being better to have loved and lost…. I have a sneaking suspicion that he knew what he was talking about. But I don’t think you’ll lose.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think you’ll find that Chase is as adaptable as a stray cat. I think you’ll find that he’ll treasure the laughter and the fights, that he may even make it easier for you. I know he’ll try.”
“And I couldn’t ask for more than that,” Gypsy said softly.
The two women smiled at each other, and Gypsy added wryly, “Keep a couple of hours of couch time open, will you, friend? I just may need them.”
Sarah laughed. “I’ll do that. But I don’t think you’ll need them. Shall we join the menfolk, friend? Jake should be swearing a blue streak by now; he hates cleaning up as much as you do.”
“Nobody hates it as much as I do.”
“Better hang on to Chase, then. With him it’s sheer habit.”
“Military schools have their uses.”
And on that light note they joined the men.
seven
GYPSY RELAXED A BIT DURING THE NEXT few hours. She was still thoughtful, introspective, but able to respond naturally to Chase. And she no longer stiffened when he touched her. Chase was patently relieved, although obviously still puzzled.
A late afternoon shower sent them inside around five, where they sprawled in various positions in the den and commenced a spirited game of charades. Sarah was the hands-down winner with her comical silent rendition of “My Old Kentucky Home” and received a standing ovation from the others. A fire was kindled in the fireplace as the rain continued outside, and Sarah and Jake went happily to raid Chase’s kitchen for popcorn.
Gypsy sat silently on the couch, trying not to think too much about the jade eyes gazing up at her. Chase was lying on the couch with his head in her lap, and she could feel the steady beat of his heart beneath the hand resting on his chest. She stared into the fire.
“All day long,” Chase said in a musing voice, “I’ve had this weird feeling, Gypsy mine.”
Reluctant to meet his eyes, Gypsy nonetheless looked down. “About what?” she asked lightly.
“It’s ha
rd to explain.” Chase toyed absently with her fingers. “As if… Juliet was about to shove Romeo off the balcony. As if Cleopatra told Marc Antony to walk the plank of her barge. As if Lois Lane asked Superman to take a flying leap.”
Gypsy couldn’t help but smile.
“As if you were trying to find some way of saying good-bye to me, Gypsy mine,” he finished quietly.
She felt the utter stillness of the room, the level, searching gaze of his eyes, and her smile died. She shook her head slowly. “No.”
He lifted her hand to cradle it against his cheek. “I’m glad.” His voice was husky. A faint twinkle lighted the darkness of his eyes. “Besides—I wouldn’t let you run me off with a loaded gun. Don’t you know that by now?”
“Masterful,” she murmured in response, her free hand unconsciously stroking his thick copper hair.
“Always.” He pressed his lips briefly to the palm of her hand. “Which reminds me, about that phone call last night…”
Gypsy’s faint smile remained. This was one subject she had been prepared for. “What about it?”
“That’s just it: what about it? Why do I get the feeling I have a rival for your affections?”
“Sheer imagination.”
“Will you tell me who it was?” He wouldn’t be put off.
“Can’t. I don’t know myself.” Her smile widened at his skeptical look. “I swear. It was my—uh—mystery lover. He calls every night.” She carefully studied Chase’s blank look; if he was acting, he deserved an Oscar, she thought wryly.
“Have you called the police?” he demanded.
“No.” Gypsy wasn’t about to explain that.
“Gypsy—”
“He’s harmless, Chase. Besides … I like him.”
Chase stared at her. “Maybe I should start calling you,” he muttered.
“Maybe you should. And muffle your voice a bit.” “What? Why?” He looked thoroughly bewildered. “Never mind.” Gypsy looked up as Sarah and Jake entered with the popcorn. “Oh, good. Popcorn!”
Both the rain and the other couple had gone by eleven that night, after a late supper of leftover barbecue and a shoot-’emup western on television. After Sarah and Jake had driven off, Gypsy felt more than a little let down when Chase solemnly offered to walk her home. She wondered irritably if he was trying to drive her crazy, then thought of the night before with a smothered giggle. Well, maybe he had cause!
As soon as they stepped out onto the porch, Chase stopped her with a frown. “You’ll get your feet wet.” As though she were contemplating a walk across crushed glass, he added, “Sandals are no protection.” He swung her easily into his arms and started across the darkened lawn.
Gypsy linked her fingers together at the nape of his neck. “Let me guess.” Her voice was grave. “Sir Walter Raleigh? The White Knight?”
“The former.”
“No cape to lay across a puddle?” she asked in a wounded voice.
“No puddle,” he pointed out. “And the cape’s rented.”
“Details, details,” she said airily.
“Don’t pick on me when I’m trying to be heroic,” he complained mildly.
“Sorry. Shall I change the subject, Walter?” She felt his arms tighten, and added hastily, “I’ll change the subject. I’ve been meaning to ask you what you named your cat.”
“She’s not my cat, she’s Corsair’s cat. And he can have her back whenever he wants her.”
“Uh-huh. The mailman told me Friday that you’d been asking around to see if she has a home hereabouts. And you ran an ad in the paper too.”
“Busybody,” Chase muttered.
Gypsy ignored the interruption. “So you found out that she’s homeless?”
He sighed. “Not anymore.”
“I thought so. What did you name her?”
If a man could squirm while walking and carrying a grown although pint-size woman, Chase squirmed. “Cat.”
“Try again,” she requested solemnly.
He sighed again. “Angel. Dammit.”
Gypsy bit back a giggle. “Those blue eyes get ’em every time,” she said soulfully
Not really uncomfortable, Chase laughed softly. “Corsair’s obviously been talking to her; she thinks she’s a queen. I’ve moved the family into one of the spare bedrooms, and she keeps trying to move them back. One of us is going to give up sooner or later.”
“Bet I know which one.”
Chase dipped her threateningly over a very wet hedge. “And just which one do you bet it’ll be?” he asked politely.
“Angel, of course.” Gypsy giggled. “I have every faith in your perseverance, Walter.”
“Smart lady.” He stepped onto her front porch and set her gently on her feet. But he didn’t release her. “Busy tomorrow?”
Gypsy managed to nod firmly, even though she couldn’t seem to make her fingers remove themselves from his neck. “I have to work. I’ve fallen behind.”
“My fault?” he asked wryly.
“No. The first half of a book is always slow.” She hesitated, wanting to warn him of what would surely come, but dimly aware that it was something he’d have to find out for himself.
“You’d better get some sleep, then.” One finger lightly touched the faint purple shadows beneath her eyes. “You look tired.”
“I’m not.” Gypsy felt heat sweep up her throat at the hasty reply. But the truth was that she didn’t feel tired. She felt on edge, restless, and sleep was the last thing on her mind.
Unfortunately Chase apparently wasn’t picking up undercurrents tonight.
“Good night, Gypsy mine.”
He kissed her. On the nose.
Leaning back against the closed front door after he’d gone, she automatically turned the deadbolt and fastened the night latch.
Dammit.
She frowned as Bucephalus came into the hallway and wagged a long tail at her. “Out?” she queried dryly. Bucephalus woofed softly.
Sighing, Gypsy went through the house to the kitchen, letting him out and Corsair in. “You’re wet, cat,” she muttered. She looked at the few dishes in the sink, mentally flipped a coin, and turned away from them. She dried Corsair and fed him, then let Bucephalus back in and dried and fed him. Gypsy ignored the dishes. Again.
Restlessly she took a long shower, changing the water from hot to cold halfway through and musing irritably over the untruth of certain remedies. She killed time by washing her hair, then stood naked in front of the vanity in the bathroom as she dried it with her dryer.
She stood there for a long moment after the buzz of the dryer died into silence, staring into her own eyes. Resolutely she mentally flipped another coin.
The gown was in the bottom drawer of her dresser—just where Rebecca had placed it on one of her visits.
“You might need it, darling.”
“I have the only mother on the West Coast who advises her daughter to go out and seduce a man.”
“Surely not. Look at the statistics.”
Silently Gypsy slipped the gown over her head. It was white silk, nearly transparent, and as form-fitting as a loving hand. Delicate lace straps were almost an afterthought to hold up the plunging V neckline. The silk was gathered slightly just beneath the V, then fell in a cascade of filmy material to her feet.
The matching peignoir was long-sleeved, made of see-through lace to the waist and silk from waist to floor. It tied in a little satin bow just at the V of the gown.
Gypsy slipped on the high-heeled mules and studied herself in the dresser mirror, a bit startled. Normally she wore a T-shirt to bed; seductive silk nightgowns had never been a part of her wardrobe. This one suited her, however. The stark whiteness emphasized her creamy tan and raven’s-wing hair, and turned her eyes almost silver. Almost.
She scrabbled through three drawers to find the bottle of Christmas perfume never opened, locating it finally and using only a drop at the gown’s V neckline.
“I’m going to feel like an absolute
fool if this doesn’t work out,” she muttered to herself, leaving her bedroom after a hurried glance at the clock. It was just after midnight, and she didn’t want to be around if her “night lover” decided to call tonight.
She left the pets in the kitchen, closing the back door behind her but not locking it. Who knew when she’d be back?
She stood on the porch for a few moments, gazing over at Chase’s house; only a few dim lights were on. Gypsy stepped off the porch… and her courage deserted her.
Only half aware that her high heels were sinking into the wet ground with every step, Gypsy began to pace back and forth. She held up the long skirt as she walked, absently addressing whatever shrub or flowering plant happened to be handy.
“Now what? Do I go over and ask to borrow a cup of sugar? In this outfit? Not exactly subtle, Gypsy. Why don’t you just hit the man over the head with a two-by-four?”
She frowned fiercely at an inoffensive holly bush. “So what if he rejects you? You’re a big girl—relatively speaking. You can handle it. The world won’t come crashing down around your ears if the man laughs at you. Will it?”
Since the holly bush remained mute, she paced on. A rosebush listened meekly to her next strictures.
“You’re a grown woman, dammit! Why don’t you act like one? You’re only technically innocent, after all. You’ve probably seen things he’s never seen! Why, you spent an entire summer observing the D.C. plainclothes cops, and if that didn’t show you life, I don’t know what would!”
The rose didn’t venture a response, so Gypsy started to turn away. But she nearly fell. Regaining her balance, she looked down slowly. She was standing completely flat-footed: both heels had sunk completely into the wet earth.
Using words her mother had never taught her, Gypsy stepped out of the shoes. Still holding her skirt up, she bent over, wrestled the shoes from the clinging ground, and flung them angrily toward the house.
“A grown woman,” she muttered derisively. “Just call me Pauline!”
Courage totally gone and ruefully aware that she couldn’t pull off a seduction even if somebody drew her a diagram, Gypsy abandoned the idea. It would have to be up to Chase, she decided. And if she’d said “No involvement!” one time too many, then that, as the man said, was that.