Overseas

  “What about your parents? What were they like?”

  “My parents.” He looked at me sideways and lifted the cup to his mouth. “I’m not sure I can explain this properly.”

  “Secret agents, huh? You’re the hidden love child of Bond and Moneypenny?”

  He choked on his coffee. “Bloody hell. Was it that obvious?”

  “I took a DNA sample. Look,” I said, setting down my coffee cup with an abrupt thrust. “Do you mind if I change?”

  “I do,” he told me solemnly. “I rather like that frock. But go on. I imagine it’s rather more pleasure for me to watch than for you to wear.”

  “Something like that. I’ll be right back.”

  “I’ll be waiting,” he said.

  I fled down the short hallway to my bedroom. I wanted to change, it was true. The dress wasn’t exactly comfortable. But the more pressing imperative was that, after all the champagne and excitement, my bladder was about to explode. I twisted myself into a pretzel, unzipping my dress, and slipped on a bra and my usual evening uniform of tank top and yoga pants and cardigan; then I went to the bathroom and started in surprise at the reflection in the mirror. I looked possessed. My skin glowed with color; my drab gray eyes burned almost silver. I pulled out the pins from my hair and shook it free, and then found an elastic to twist the waving strands out of my face.

  He was standing up when I came back, looking at the photographs on the windowsill. “That’s me with my best friends,” I said. “Michelle and Samantha. We went through Europe the summer after college. I think that was Paris.”

  “Yes, Paris,” he said softly. He turned around and looked at me. “Now I feel rather ridiculous,” he complained.

  “You can loosen your tie,” I pointed out.

  “I wasn’t brought up to loosen my tie,” he said, but he untied the bow anyway and released the top button of his shirt, drawing apart the pointed triangles of his dress collar. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew out an envelope. “For you.”

  “What’s this?”

  “I arrived just before the silent auction closed,” he said. “I felt I owed you something more than a simple apology, for my behavior last Christmas.”

  “You don’t owe me anything.” I eyed the envelope suspiciously. “And it had better not be that thing with Brian Williams, either, because I don’t do live TV.”

  He laughed. “It’s not. Open it.”

  I took it from him and ran my finger under the flap. “Oh no,” I said, feeling the blood drain downward from my face. “Oh, no you don’t. You are not, repeat not, going to give me a freaking airplane share!”

  “I already have.”

  “Julian, the bid was… I don’t even want to say it! I mean, way, way too much.”

  “It was a charitable donation,” he said.

  “That’s not the point. You can’t just give me stuff like this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m not that kind of girl,” I bit out, thrusting the thing back in his hands.

  He flinched in horror. “I didn’t mean it like that! I’m not expecting…”

  “No, it’s not that. I know you’re not… that it’s not… But you see,” I tried to explain, past the heat building once more under the skin of my face, “it’s kind of the elephant in the room, isn’t it?”

  “Elephant?”

  “Oh, please. Who you are, Julian. Your… um… your…” I looked down at my fingers, picking anxiously at one another. Your money. The m-word. Just say it. But instead I only sighed: “Let’s sit down. We might as well get this over with.”

  “Get what over with?”

  “This.” I sank into the sofa, girding myself. “Ground rule one: you are not allowed to buy me expensive gifts.”

  “Define expensive.” He dropped down next to me and folded his arms.

  “Well,” I said, “it’s kind of like pornography. You know it when you see it. And this is definitely too expensive. Way, way, way.” I peered at his face, which had settled into a pensive frown. “Look, flowers are nice. I love dark chocolate. Maybe even the day spa. But nothing I couldn’t afford to buy myself. Nothing I couldn’t reciprocate.”

  “But it’s useful,” he protested, holding up the envelope.

  “Julian, be serious. I mean, don’t you worry…”

  “What?” he pressed.

  “That I’m just a gold digger.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why not?”

  “Darling,” he said, “believe me, I know the difference. I’ve had a bloody sign hanging around my neck from the time I was born.”

  “Well, but maybe I am a gold digger.” I drew up my legs against my chest. “Because it’s part of who you are. Don’t you see? I have to prove to myself that it isn’t true, that I don’t care about your millions. Or billions. Whatever it is. Don’t tell me!” I held up one hand. “I don’t want to know. Look, how do I explain this? I never wanted to be Cinderella. Never wanted to be that girl, the one looking for a rich guy to drape her with diamonds. I always wanted to make it on my own, and it scares me that… that from the moment I met you, I felt this… this connection. And I didn’t even know you. So maybe it is the money. Maybe I really am that girl. Charlie said something today…”

  “Charlie,” he said crossly.

  “No, but he made me think. Because obviously we can’t separate you—Julian—from what you are. You’re a very successful man, and I’m a woman, and maybe I’m just programmed to respond to that. Millions of years of evolution.”

  He lifted one of his long angled eyebrows. “And that’s all? There’s nothing else to like about me?”

  “No! No, of course not. You’re…” I stopped, feeling the blush rise up. “Well, I’m not going to sit here and list it all. But yes. I mean, you don’t lack for attractive qualities. Obviously.” A pause. “You’re gentlemanly, for example. I like that a lot.”

  “Thank you.” He seemed amused.

  “Or maybe it’s your looks, which makes me even more shallow.”

  “Kate.” He sighed, reached out his hand to touch my fingers. “You’re overthinking this.”

  “Well, I have a tendency to do that.”

  “Then let me apply a little logic for you. By the very nature of your job, you’re in daily contact with any number of wealthy men. One or two of them have surely worked up the courage to ask you out by now. Am I right?”

  “One or two,” I admitted.

  “And did you accept any of them?”

  “No.”

  “Paul Banner, for example. He must be worth a fair amount.”

  “Oh, blech!”

  “You see? So please allow me to flatter myself that this sweet blush of yours,” he said, brushing my cheek with his finger, “might perhaps be due to some genuine feeling for me. Which I shall do my best to deserve.” He paused. “Now, that’s a rather cynical expression crossing your face just now. Don’t you trust me?”

  “Well, no. I really don’t know what’s going on here, to be honest. Why you disappeared on me, and why you’re back. And then why you even began with me at all. You should be out partying with models and actresses, not drinking coffee with nerdy investment bankers.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. Do you really think so little of me? Of yourself?”

  “No. I know my own worth. But it’s not the kind of thing that inspires instant attraction, is it? Especially to a man who’s spoiled for choice.”

  He lifted the coffee cup to his lips, covering a smile. “Spoiled for choice, am I?”

  “Oh, please. You’re like catnip, Julian.”

  A caustic laugh. “Not if one keeps clear of the cats.”

  “Well, maybe I’m one of them. How would you know?”

  He flashed me a teasing under-look from across the rim of his cup. “Perhaps I’ve been studying up. Perhaps I know all about you.”

  My head snapped up. “What? Do you?”

  The amusement vanished. He reg
arded me steadily, soberly, faint lines gathering about the corners of his eyes. This time I recognized it, that comprehensive gaze of his: picking apart, one by one, the seams that held me together. “I have,” he said, setting down the cup, “been guilty, on rare occasion, of placing myself where I hoped I might perhaps catch a glimpse of you.”

  “Like last night?”

  “A perfect evening for a run; I thought you might feel the same. I never meant to follow you, but it was growing dark…” He glanced away. “I was concerned for you.”

  I watched him for a moment, the side of his face visible in the lamplight: the clean beauty of it, drawn in effortless strokes by some unseen expert hand; the faint blush still staining the skin of his cheek, exactly as I remembered. “I just can’t figure you out,” I said at last.

  He looked back at me, eyes alive. “Can’t you?”

  “That’s why it was so hard, when you cut me off. Because I’d thought better of you. Because when I walked into your house at Christmastime, it all felt so familiar. Like I knew you, knew all about you. Maybe not the details, but the essentials. You were different and interesting and… and… right. It was so right.” I bent my head into my knees, to block the sight of his face. “And then you just left. You repudiated it.”

  “Kate,” he whispered, “I’ve many faults, God knows, but I never meant to trifle with you. Not the least of my… my distress, these past months, was the fear that I’d hurt you. What you must think of me.”

  I didn’t reply.

  “Kate, look at me.”

  “I can’t,” I said, my voice muffled against my knees. “I can’t think clearly when you’re looking at me like that. I haven’t even gone on a date in three years, Julian. I have zero immunity.”

  “Well, it’s been jolly longer than that for me. So if I can be brave, so can you.”

  I felt his hand on my chin, lifting my head. His face was closer than I expected, aglow as I was, the color high in his cheeks.

  “I wish I could promise you I won’t hurt you again,” he said. “But there are… circumstances… I can’t explain to you, at the moment. And so the only thing I can promise you is that the feelings I have for you are very real indeed. I’ve known them for longer than you realize. And to those I can and shall be faithful, without fail. Do you understand me?”

  I nodded, mesmerized.

  His voice dropped to a whisper. “Oh, look at you, darling. Staring into me with those great silver eyes of yours, reading my soul. I shouldn’t be here with you, the most reckless self-indulgence, and yet I can’t seem to bloody well help it anymore.” He stopped and looked down. “And I can’t forgive myself for that,” he murmured, as if to himself; then he looked back up, holding my eyes, and said fiercely, “But I can at least give this to you, Kate: There is no one else for me. There will be no one else.”

  It was impossible to doubt him, impossible even to look away. I sat there in silence, returning his gaze with bemused fascination. “But you hardly know me,” I said at last.

  “Yes, I do.”

  I gestured to myself. “And I’m not exactly trophy material, either. You really should wait with all your fancy promises until you’ve actually seen the merchandise.”

  “I believe I’ve got the general idea.” A knowing little smile curled his mouth, not gentlemanly at all. “That damned alluring frock of yours.”

  I laughed, surprising myself. “You should have seen the one Alicia picked out. Talk about having a sign around your neck.”

  “And it’s such a lovely neck.” His right hand lifted, trembling, and fell back into his lap.

  “It’s all right. I don’t mind.” I reached out bravely and took his hand and placed it, palm down, between my own. It was broad and capable, lightly callused, with long elegant fingers and neatly trimmed nails. A few downy golden hairs grew up from the back; I whorled them gently with my fingertip. “You must play the piano for me sometime,” I told him.

  “I shall,” he promised.

  “Where were you hurt?” I cleared my throat and nudged back the sleeve of his tuxedo, exposing his wrist. He wore simple gold cufflinks. “May I?” I asked, fingering one. He nodded. Carefully I drew the cufflink out of its hole and set it on the coffee table. “I don’t want to hurt you,” I said, looking back up at his face.

  “You won’t,” he said. “It’s long healed.”

  I drew the sleeve back, almost to his elbow, and took in my breath. A long irregular scar ran the length of his forearm, gouging deeply in the middle. “Oh my God,” I said. “What happened?”

  “Glass,” he said, “from the windshield.”

  “But it’s so… jagged!” I ran my finger down the long thick path, lined on either side by white pinpricks from the stitches, and my eyes filled with tears.

  “Don’t,” he said tenderly, reaching up with the other hand to the back of my head, his head bent forward, his forehead nearly touching mine. “It happened so long ago.”

  I looked back up. “Please don’t do this again.”

  “That’s not likely.”

  “I can’t even stand to think about it. Just… the pain…”

  “Well,” he admitted, “it bled like the devil.”

  His left hand still rested on the back of my head, fiddling with the strands of my hair. I lifted the other one to my cheek. He caressed the line of my cheekbone, the length of my jaw; his finger curved around my ear before drawing down the side of my neck, his eyes following the movement, examining every detail of my skin, my shape.

  “How terribly long I’ve wanted,” he said, “to do just that.”

  I was splintering inside, absolutely shattered. He held me in the palm of his hand. I let my feet slip back down to the floor and lifted my hand to his face. His brow creased, as if he were under some kind of strain. I ran my fingers along the lines, smoothing them. “It’s not fair,” I said. “You’re so beautiful.”

  “Well,” he told me, looking saddened, “it’s yours, for what it is.” He turned his head to kiss my palm, and then his hands moved to cradle my face. His thumb brushed against my lips, parting them fractionally, inquiring.

  I snapped my mouth shut and pulled away.

  “What’s wrong?” he demanded.

  “Coffee breath,” I said, through my clenched lips.

  He ducked his head and let out a despairing laugh. “Kate, haven’t I been drinking the coffee, too?”

  “Oh, but it won’t affect you at all, will it?” I said bitterly. “You’re Julian Laurence, and you’re not subject to the same rules as normal human beings. I’m sure your breath will be all sweet and limpid, no matter how much coffee is in there, and I’ll taste like the inside of a Starbucks. A stale Starbucks.”

  “Come here,” he said, pulling me into his arms, shaking with laughter. “This is what I adore about you, Kate. There’s no one like you. From the first moment…” His arms tightened around me. “I want you exactly like this. I want never to let you go.” He leaned back against the arm of the sofa, drawing me with him until I rested luxuriously upon the breadth of his chest, the satin weave of his tuxedo jacket cooling my cheek.

  “Heaven,” I whispered, feeling his fingers travel up and down my spine. We lay there quietly a moment. I could hear his heart beat steadily next to my ear, a strong slow athletic pulse.

  The buzzer rang. I jumped up, startled.

  “What’s that?” Julian asked.

  “No idea,” I said, checking the clock. Eleven-thirty. “I mean, it’s Joey downstairs, but Brooke should have her key. Or maybe he’s just trying to warn us…” I went over to the intercom and pressed the talk button. “Hello?”

  “Kate. It’s Joey. You have a visitor.” His voice sounded ready to burst.

  “Who is it?”

  “I’ve sent her up already. Just giving you the heads-up.” I heard him laugh, and then cut off.

  Her?

  I put my hand on my forehead and slumped against the wall.

  Julian got up. “Wh
at is it? Your roommate?”

  “Worse,” I groaned. “It’s my mother.”

  8.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, opening the door. “I didn’t realize you were coming.”

  “Honey, I was worried sick! You didn’t answer your phone.”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess it’s still turned off.” I kissed her cheek and gave her a hug. “Uh, Mom…”

  It was too late. She was already brushing past me into the living room, and stopped dead.

  Julian stepped forward. Don’t worry, he’d reassured me a second ago. Mothers love me. “Good evening, Mrs. Wilson,” he said, in that lyric voice of his. “What a very great pleasure.”

  She just stared at him: at his face, his frame, the immense gravity of his presence; at his tuxedo, with its curving black bow tie hanging guiltily on either side of his unbuttoned collar.

  I cleared my throat. “Um, Mom,” I said, “this is my friend Julian. Julian Laurence.”

  “Oh,” she said hoarsely.

  Julian smiled his radiant smile and held out his hand. “You flew in tonight, I expect?” he inquired.

  She placed her hand in his and allowed him to shake it. “Yes,” she said. “I was so worried about Kate. I told her, when she moved to New York…”

  “Mom, I told you I’m fine. It was a completely freak thing.”

  “I suppose,” she said, not taking her eyes off Julian, “I have a lot to thank you for, young man.”

  I winced. Young man. For God’s sake.

  He shrugged. “It was nothing, I assure you,” he said. “Kate’s a supremely capable young woman.” Then he unfolded his Saturday night special, that wide private beautiful smile, the lady slayer.

  Mom was slayed. I watched her face soften and melt, like butter left out in the sun, and turned to roll my eyes at Julian. “Come on, Mom. There’s still a little coffee left. Where’s your bag?”

  “Oh,” she said, “that nice young fellow downstairs is bringing it up.”

  “You mean Joey?”

  “Is that his name?”

  “You must sit down, Mrs. Wilson,” Julian said, motioning her to the sofa. “I imagine you’re exhausted. When did your flight arrive?”

  “Ten-thirty,” she told him.