Beloved Stranger (15 page)

“I know that,” she responded quietly. “She flatters him and he enjoys it. That’s all.”

He looked at her closely. “After all, in Rick’s book, that’s what women are for,” he said with sudden insight. “Isn’t that true?”

Susan was afraid it was all too true, but she wasn’t about to say so to Martin. “Not necessarily,” she answered coolly. She looked up at him out of remote, gray eyes.

“Where have you gone?” he asked very gently after a moment.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that you can retreat into yourself faster and put up a No Trespassing sign more successfully than anyone else I’ve ever known. It can be rather— disconcerting.”

Her face relaxed a little. “I’m sorry. I just don’t feel like discussing my husband.”

“All right, that’s fair enough. Now, what about letting me see your book?”

“Oh, Martin.” She looked abruptly very young and very vulnerable. “I’m getting cold feet.”

“Nonsense. We discussed this at lunch. If it’s any good, I’ll tell you. And recommend it to my agent. If it isn’t any good, I’ll tell you that too.” He looked at her soberly. “You didn’t just write it for yourself, Susan.”

She wrinkled her nose. “I know. Well, come along. It’s in my study. I’ve made you a copy.”

He grinned. “Good girl,” he said, and followed her through the french doors and into the house.

* * * *

“It went well, I think,” Susan said to Ricardo much later, after the last of the guests had driven away.

“Yes, I think so.” He smiled a little. “You have the knack of making people feel comfortable,
querida
.”

“Thank you,” she said in a low voice.

He yawned and sat down in one of the patio chairs. “I have a sore throat from talking so much.”

She sat down herself on a chaise longue and stretched out her legs. “Vicky was such a good audience, I expect you couldn’t help yourself.”

It was quite dark now and the only light came from the family room through the patio doors. She felt rather than saw him look at her. “She is a beautiful woman,” he said. “It’s second nature to her to be a good audience for a man.” His tone was casual, dismissive.

Susan stared up at the starry sky. No, she thought, Vicky Garfield was not important to him. Which was not to say that he wouldn’t sample what she was so clearly offering. After all, he had as much as said he thought marital fidelity was strictly for women. “I shouldn’t make the same mistake with Vicky that her husband made with his secretary,” she said coolly, warningly.

There was a moment of startled silence. Then, “Susan!” He sounded delighted. “You’re jealous.”

“No, I’m not.” There was a pause. “Well, maybe I am,” she amended. “You have to admit she’s hardly subtle.”

“She doesn’t intrigue me,
querida
.” She saw him move in the darkness and then he was sitting on the edge of her chaise. “You are the one who intrigues me. What were you doing with Harrison for such a long time in the house?”

She was astonished that he had noticed their absence. “I gave him my book to read,” she said a little unwillingly. The subject of her book always seemed to cause constraint between them.

“I see.”

She looked up, trying to read his face. “I can trust him to tell me if it’s any good or not, you see. I—I need to know, Ricardo.”

“I see,” he said again.

She went determinedly on. “If it is good, he’s going to recommend it to his agent.”

There was silence for so long that it became an almost tangible presence between them, then at last he spoke. “I don’t make any pretense to possessing Harrison’s critical ability, but you never thought to show it to me first?”

She was dumbfounded. “I never thought you would be interested.”

He flexed his shoulder muscles almost wearily. “No, I suppose I haven’t been very supportive, have I?”

“You’ve let me have the time to work,” she protested. “I have appreciated that, Ricardo.”

He stood up. “It’s late and you must be tired.”

“Yes.” She let him help her to her feet.

“I rather expected your friend Michael to be here tonight,” he said as he locked the french doors.

“I asked him. But he didn’t want to come.” She sighed. “I don’t think seeing me again made him very happy.”

“It was not seeing you,
querida
. It was seeing me that bothered him.”

“Poor Michael,” she said.

“Poor Michael, indeed.” He took her arm. “Come to bed.” She leaned against him gratefully as they went up the stairs together.

Chapter Twelve

A strange man arrived immediately after breakfast the following day and spent the morning closeted in the study with Ricardo. He was a little abstracted over lunch and Susan didn’t ask him any questions. She had long since learned that any questions from her would invariably be met by a brief, “It was business,” answer. If Martin thought she could hang out a No Trespassing sign, she reflected wryly, he should see Ricardo in action.

The day was pleasantly cool and Ricardo asked her if she’d like to take Ricky and go down to the Stamford Nature Museum. She was delighted by the idea and they packed the baby, the car seat and the stroller into the station wagon for the five-minute drive. Ricky was fascinated by the animals on the small farm and Ricardo and Susan enjoyed them almost as much. After walking about for an hour, they sat down by the lake to watch the ducks and Ricky fell asleep on the grass. “The man who was here this morning was from Latin American Watch,” Ricardo said as he slowly threw bread to the birds. “It’s a human rights organization that deals solely with Latin America. They’ve asked me to be on their board of directors.”

Susan looked curiously at his expressionless profile. “I see. And what did you say?”

He turned to look at her and the set of his mouth was grim. “I said I’d think about it. I’ve been involved behind the scene for a few years, but. . . .”

Somehow Susan was not surprised that a human rights organization was one of Ricardo’s “business” connections. “But what?” she prompted as his voice trailed off.

“I don’t have just myself to consider anymore,” he said a little roughly.

“I see,” she said, and now she was surprised.

“It would involve some trips,” he was going on. “And I won’t be very popular in some circles.”

She hadn’t thought of that. Abruptly she remembered the latest headlines from Central America and shivered. He could be in danger. If she knew Ricardo, he would go into this thing wholeheartedly if he went in at all. “You’ll probably wind up on everyone’s death list,” she said faintly.

He laughed but sobered almost immediately. “It won’t be as bad as that, Susan. I’m too prominent a figure to be picked off easily. But I want to be honest with you. It will involve me traveling about a bit, and it will probably involve some nasty accusations, too.”

She thought again of the unmarked graves and unknown prisons all over the troubled countries of Latin America. The thought of Ricardo lying in one of them made her feel physically sick. “And if I say I don’t want you to do it?” she asked uncertainly.

“Don’t you?” he responded bluntly.

Nervously she tore at the grass with unsteady fingers. He wanted to do it, she thought. He might do it even if she objected. But he was asking. For the first time, he was asking.

She kept her eyes on her own hands but she felt him there beside her. They were such complete opposites, she thought. The strong and the weak, the courageous and the fearful, the adventurous and the timid. Her whole instinct was to keep him safely home by his own hearth. She clasped her hands around her knees and cleared her throat. “If you want to do it, then you should,” she said, she hoped firmly.

She could feel some of the tension drain out of him. “Do you mean that?”

“Yes.” She turned to look at him. “I hope you have a good insurance policy,” she added lightly.

He grinned. “It won’t come to that,
querida
, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” she replied a little tartly. “No matter how good the policy, you’re worth a lot more to me alive than dead.”

His large brown eyes sparkled. “I hope you’re not just referring to financial matters.”

She remained grave. “Naturally, I’m referring to financial matters. What else would I be referring to?”

“I have no idea,” he replied, and chuckled at her look. “I’m not a fish to always rise to your bait.”

She made a face at him. “It’s getting late and you have a game tonight.”

“That’s true.” He yawned and stretched and rose to his feet with easy grace. “You collect the baby and I’ll collect the junk,” he said. She had to blink away a sudden tear before she could move to obey his instructions.

* * * *

Two days after the party Martin called and asked if he could come up to Connecticut to see Susan. “Of course,” she responded breathlessly.

“I could come up tonight. I have an appointment this afternoon.”

“Tonight will be fine. Oh,” she added belatedly, “Ricardo has a night game. He won’t be home.”

“I know,” Martin responded briefly. “I’ll see you later, Susan.”

Susan did not mention the phone call to Ricardo. She would tell him Martin’s verdict later, she thought. The house was quiet, with Maria gone and Ricky asleep, when Martin arrived at about eight o’clock. Susan brought him into the family room and gestured him into a comfortable chair. She herself took the sofa. He was carrying her manuscript and her eyes kept going back to stare at it. “Well?” she said tensely, “What did you think?”

“I thought it was going to be good, Susan,” he said deliberately. “Knowing you, I was sure it would be publishable. But I never expected this.”

Her gray eyes searched his. “You liked it?”

“I thought it was wonderful. Extraordinary, actually. Where the hell did you learn to write like this?”

Her eyes began to glow. “Oh, Martin, do you mean that?”

“I mean every word of it.” He was deadly serious. “You were Kate, of course?”

“Yes.” She spoke carefully, hesitantly. “It’s not all autobiographical, Martin. The central complication is fiction. But I did have an older sister like Jane— beautiful, joyous, intelligent.”

“What happened to her?” he asked curiously.

“She died in a car crash two years ago. It was so terribly tragic. Sara was so gifted, so lovely. It just wasn’t fair. I suppose in a way this book is my tribute to her.”

“But you realize, of course,” he said softly, “that the interesting character is the child.”

“Kate? Well, of course, she’s the filter through which the action is seen. . . .”

“She’s the interesting character,” he repeated, very definitely. “It doesn’t surprise me at all that she is the one who grew up to marry the hero.”

Susan felt her skin flushing. If only he knew why Ricardo had married her . . . “But you liked it?” she got out.

“I thought it was superb. There are a few rough patches, perhaps, but Susan, I really think it’s the best first novel I’ve ever read.”

She glowed with pleasure. “Oh, Martin, it means so much to me to hear you say that! I thought it was good, but then I didn’t really know.” Her small face was alight with happiness. “Thank you.”

“Thank you for showing it to me.” He looked down at the manuscript on his knees. “May I show it to my agent? I’m quite sure he’ll be interested.”

“Of course you may.” She gave a little shiver of excitement. “I’m so happy.”

He smiled a little crookedly. “Suppose you let me tell you a little about the publishing world,” he offered. “You’re such an innocent.”

Susan might be an innocent, but Ricardo most definitely was not. She would leave all the business arrangements up to him. However, she did not think it would be tactful for her to say as much to Martin and so she smiled and said softly, “That would be very nice, Martin.”

They talked about publishing and then about her book again and Susan found herself telling him a little about her own childhood. Before they knew it, it was almost midnight.

“I’d better get going,” Martin said as he glanced in deep surprise at his watch. “I had no idea it was this late.” He stared at Susan for a minute, his eyes taking in her slender figure clad in a soft, smoky-blue summer dress. “I can never keep track of the time when I’m with you,” he said quietly.

Susan smiled at him a little sleepily. “I know. I talk your ear off.” Her hair shimmered in the soft light of the lamp and her eyes looked wide and dark and mysterious. “You’ve been such a good friend to me, Martin,” she said.

“I’m afraid friendship is not the emotion I feel for you,” he responded a little harshly. “Surely you’ve sensed that?”

She had been curled up on the end of the sofa and now she sat up and swung her legs to the floor. The corner of her dress stayed caught under her for a minute and he had a brief glimpse of a bare, golden-brown thigh before she pulled it firmly down.

“Susan.” He moved to sit beside her on the sofa. “Surely you’ve guessed by now that I’m in love with you.”

Susan stared at him in dumb astonishment. He picked up her hands and bent his head to kiss them. “Please, Martin,” she said a little breathlessly. “Don’t.”

“I tried to stay away from you,” he was going on, his voice muffled by her hands. “I didn’t call you for months, but then I couldn’t stay away any longer. And once I saw you again, I was lost.”

“Oh Martin,” Susan said in great distress. “I had no idea. And you shouldn’t be saying these things to me. I’m not free to listen. You know that.”

“You could be,” he answered, and still retaining his grasp of her hands, he looked up. “I know it sounds almost ludicrous,” he said, “to think that any woman could prefer me to Rick Montoya, But I think I’d be a better husband to you. I understand you, you see.” She stared at him out of enormous eyes and slowly, very slowly, she shook her head. “God, Susan,” he groaned, “I love you so much.” He slid his hands up her bare arms to grasp her shoulders. “Will you at least think about what I’ve said?”

But Susan wasn’t listening. The sixth sense that always told her when Ricardo had entered the room caused her to turn her head and look at the doorway. Her husband was standing there watching them. His face was expressionless but at his side his fists were slowly opening and closing. “Ricardo!” Susan said breathlessly, and Martin dropped his hands from her shoulders.