A Treasure Worth Seeking (11 page)

"I miss you, too, Bart," she heard herself say without consciously thinking the words.

"I know this is important to you, darlin', or I wouldn't sit still for you being gone so long."

"And I know that you're not nearly as lonely as you're making it sound," she said lightly. "Have you cut down your dinner parties from six to four this week?"

"Now, come on, honey. Don't tease me," Bart whined.

"You know I don't enjoy anything unless you're there with me. Hurry on home, sweetheart. I love you, you know."

Erin swallowed hard. Had Lance mentioned love? Had she? Had she said, "Lance, I love you"? She didn't think so. She would have remembered. "I know you do, Bart," she whispered. "And I love you." Only not
that
way. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Not like—

"Do you need anything? Money? Can I do something for you here?"

He really was terribly kind to her. Would he be hurt when she told him she ha
d fallen suddenly, but irrevoca
bly, in love with another man? "No, Bart. I'm fine. I'll call you in a day or two and let you know my plans."

"Okay, honey. You take care now. There are some real weird dudes in San Francisco, you know. Be careful."

"I will. I promise. Good-bye, Bart."

"Bye-bye, baby."

Erin looked down at the diamond on her finger and admired it for what it was—a priceless, flawless gem. But its reflection was cold. It radiated no warmth. It didn't touch her heart with fire the way a pair of blue eyes under golden eyebrows did. Those eyes had more facets and capricious prisms of light than did the perfectly cut stone.

She slipped the ring from her finger and, having walked somnambulantly back into the guest bedroom, went to the dressing table where she had left her travel jewelry case.

Lifting the lid, she dropped the ring inside and closed the box with a decisive snap.

By the time she had dried and styled her hair and dressed in a casual pair of wool slacks and an angora sweater, she was trembling with weakness. The hot steamy bath she had taken had felt wonderful, but it had left her weak and light-headed. She desperately needed suste-nance.

She went downstairs and spoke to Mike, who was sitting within reach of the telephone on the living room desk.

Going into the kitchen, she switched on the light. The rain had stopped, but the afternoon was still cloudy and dark.

She couldn't find the can of potato soup that Lance had referred to, so she fixed herself a grilled cheese sandwich and a cup of bouillon.

Nearly all the sandwich was gone, and she sat sipping the broth when the back door opened and Lance came in.

Her face brightened immediately. She knew she looked fresh and pretty, flushing with the anticipation of their seeing each other again. Would he dare kiss her with Mike so near?

A happy hello froze on her lips and was never uttered when Lance turned around after closing the door and faced her. His features were harder and colder than they had been that first day when he had answered the doorbell.

His eyes glinted like chips of blue ice as they pierced through her. His body was tense, the muscles bunched in anger.

"I see you're feeling stronger. It's amazing what a little exercise can do." His tone was bitter and the words were harsh, deliberately hurtful, and full of innuendo.

"I'm much better," she said apprehensively. Why was he glaring at her like that? "W—would you like something?" She hated herself for stammering. What had she done that was so offensive? Didn't he remember what had happened just a few hours ago?

"No. I hate bouillon."

"Something cold?"

"No, thank you, Miss O'Shea," he said with exaggerated politeness. "Actually I came to see if you'd lend me your car. Your rental car," he corrected. "Clark just called and the car he took Mrs. Lyman in has broken down. They're stranded at a garage. She asked if I would come pick her up."

"Yes, certainly."

"She asked that you come with me—if you feel up to it."

Erin stood up shakily and nodded. "I'll be glad to go.

I could use some fresh air."

"I don't know why, Miss O'Shea. You seem in perfect physical condition to me," he sneered. He turned his back on her and left the room, going toward the living room.

Why was he acting this way? What had happened in the space of a few hours to convert the tender, fierce lover into this sarcastic, hateful man? How could he, anyone, deride such an explosive sexual union?

The answer to her own question hit her like a bucket of cold water in the face. It hadn't been that earthshaking to him. Affairs like that were probably commonplace to a man like Lance. In this instance love wasn't blind. She knew other women would be just as attracted to his virile good looks as she was. Erin O'Shea would join the ranks of women who had temporarily sated Lance Barrett's sexual appetite. He could easily forget what had happened.

She had been the oldest kind of fool. Not one word of coy protest had she uttered. Her conscience had failed her completely. Erin O'Shea, who had always prided herself on her upright morality and circumspect life-style, had given her body to a man without one consideration of the moral consequences. Now, because of Lance's attitude, she was deluged with guilt and self-deprecation.

He could treat her with inexcusable rudeness and scorn and then blithely turn his back on her and saunter out of the room. Had he screamed abusive insults at her, she could have withstood them, for she felt they were well deserved. But suddenly she was extremely angry. Like most women, the one thing Erin couldn't tolerate from a man was indifference.

She flew out of the kitchen, her eyes stormy, ready to do battle. She lost her impetus when she saw him leaning over the desk talking calmly to Mike. He was wearing his glasses as he studied a report one of his agents had called in. Just then he reached up and shoved them to the top of his forehead. It was such an endearing habit.
Lance, what'swrong?
she cried silently.

He wheeled toward her as if he had heard her words.

Dammit!
he cursed to himself. Why did she have to look so beautiful? The coral sweater enhanced the creaminess of her complexion that he knew extended all over her body. The gray slacks fit her tidy little fanny like a glove and he could almost feel those firm muscles in his palms.

The dark, soft curls fell gently around her head and he knew how they could curl sensuously around a man's fingers. Her eyes, which had bewitched him from the first time he had looked into them, now radiated a glow. A glow that unmistakably bespoke recent knowledge of a man. Him.

He had almost convinced himself that when he saw her again, away from the rain-induced ambience of the bedroom, the mystery of it all would be revealed as a sham, the magic would be exposed as a hoax. Nothing could have been that good. His deceiving brain had magnified a minor sexual experiment into a soul-rending experience.

How could she have lived this long, looking like she did, and never have had a man? His unexpected enlightenment on her virginity had almost stopped him. Almost. At that point, hell or high water couldn't have stopped him.

But what about her husband? Maybe she
had
been lying about that. That fancy fiance of hers must be the dumbest bastard in the world. Anybody stupid enough to let a woman like that remain innocent deserved to be betrayed by the scheming little bitch.

He drew an inward sigh.
All right, Barrett, she isn't ascheming bitch.
Until a few hours ago, she had been a virgin. Lance Barrett had never been a despoiler of virgins.

He hadn't forced her. Why had she submitted without a word?

Why?
Why had she let him make love to her? Beyond that, why had she participated to the point of making him feel like until this morning, he had been a virgin too?

Never had he been accepted so deeply and unrestrainedly. She had entrapped him with such tight perfection that it had transcended mere physical union and encompassed spiritual absorption. Even after he had given her all of himself, he had been reluctant to forsake the intimacy that bound his body to hers. Only an act of will had enabled him to leave her before he became a victim of that driving hunger again.

Now he looked at her and didn't know whether to slap her hard across her lying mouth or kiss it until she cried out his name as she had when a blinding light had exploded in them simultaneously and forged them together.

Brusquely he said, "Get your coat and the car keys."

Turning to Mike he said, "This shouldn't take long. I'll be back shortly."

"Sure, Lance," was Mike's only reply.

His hand, wrapped around her upper arm, was firm as he ushered her out the door and toward the Mercedes.

"Do you trust me to drive?" he asked.

"The only thing I can trust you to do is behave like a barbarian." She jerked her arm away and flung the keys at him. She went around to the passenger side unescorted.

Both doors were slammed jarringly and he started the motor, cursing under his breath when the cold engine took its time to warm up. Finally he shoved the car into gear and they lurched out of the driveway.

It was good to be outside. Erin pressed the button that automatically lowered her window and breathed in the frosty evening air. They sped along the streets in silence.

Lance's hands were firm on the wheel and he never took his eyes off the road.

Puzzlement, hurt, and anger vied for supremacy in Erin's mind, but she refused to allow Lance to see how upset she was. It would be a cold day in hell before she would ask what had happened that so drastically changed his mind about her. She didn't have to wait long before she found out.

Erin looked at him in surprise as he whipped the car off the main thoroughfare and wended through tree-lined lanes. She realized that they were in Golden Gate Park, but this particular area was unlit and deserted. He braked the car sharply and cut the engine. Large trees spread naked limbs over them like an umbrella bereft of its silk.

The foggy mist of evening swathed them in heavy silence.

Lance lay his right arm along the back of the seat as he faced her. Deep shadows were cast -on the planes and hollows of his face, making him appear sinister. Erin felt a momentary prickle of fear.

"You must be very proud of yourself, Miss O'Shea."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean that you have made a prize jackass out of a man old enough to know better."

"Please, Lance, I don't know what you mean." She strove to be reasonable over the pounding of her pulse.

"Shouldn't we be meeting—"

"They can wait," he snapped. "I want to have this out with you here and now."

Her own anger was growing under the condescending tone in his voice. "Have what out with me? I don't know what you're talking about."

To her amazement, he grinned, but the smile never reached his eyes. "You sure are being missed by that lonesome ol' polecat, sugar," he said in a perfect imitation of Bart's Texas twang.

Comprehension dawned on her and she was suffused with mortification and fury. "You listened! You eaves-dropped on my conversation!"

He shrugged negligently. "Habit. I listen to all the calls coming into the Lymans' house. You knew that."

She did, but she had forgotten. "But you knew that that particular call was for me personally. It couldn't have been of any interest to you!"

"Oh, but it was, Miss O'Shea," he objected smoothly.

"You'd be amazed at how informative I found it to be.

Now I know what a two-timing little liar you are."

"I am not!" she denied heatedly.

"No? 'I miss you, Bart. I love y
ou, Bart,'" he mi
micked. "You failed to mention to good ol' Bart what you were doing just before he called."

"That's disgusting," she spat.

"You're damn right it is," he shouted. "I think Bart would find it quite disgusting to learn that this morning his fianc
é
e was learni
ng to screw with unequaled apti
tude."

She didn't think before she slapped him. She hadn't even realized that she had until the sound cracked through the tense atmosphere of the car. Her palm stung, but it was worth the pain to see the stunned expression on Lance's face. Her victory was short-lived, however, because he was galvanized into action. Reaching across the car, he grabbed her wrist in an iron grip.

"If you ever do that again, I'll break your arm," he threatened and she believed him. His voice sounded like he had gravel in his throat. "I know your type, Miss O'Shea."

She winced under the pressure of his fingers on her wrist. "I'm not a type," she argued with more spirit than she felt.

"Yes, you are," he said with deceptive softness. "It's fun to have a lark with the government agent, play spy games, but you know you have your Texas millionaire to go home to."

"No," she said. Tears of pain were streaming down her cheeks. Not physical pain from his fingers digging into her flesh, but pain from realizing the low opinion he had of her. If only he'd let her explain.