Forever My Love (13 page)

She didn't speak, but she seemed content.

He smoothed her hair from beneath his nose. In time, he dozed.

Kathy awoke with a start when his hand landed with a not really gentle crack on her rear. She started up, sweeping the sheets around her and staring at him with daggers and reproach.

“What was that for?”

“You have to get up.”

“You didn't have to slap me!”

“That was just a love tap,” he said with a wave of his hand. He had been up for a while, she surmised. He was dressed in jeans and a red polo shirt. He had shaved and seemed in top form.

While she felt ancient, exhausted. She hadn't a speck of makeup on, and her hair was probably one big tangle.

“Rough night?” he asked her. “I didn't mean to wake you.”

He seemed so damned cocky. She couldn't resist. “You didn't!” she told him innocently.

He cast her a warning, reproachful glare and pretended for a moment that he would get her with the towel he had just plucked from the floor. She had to laugh, and he smiled and turned away. Her laughter faded because she knew that once he would have tossed himself over her, warned her that he was going to be damned sure she was awake this time, and made love to her all over again.

But this wasn't the past, and he was only here because all their lives might be in danger.

“Robert is on his way over,” he told her. “Coffee's on. I thought you could make the omelets this time. And they'd better be good. I'm starving. Some first mate you turned out to be. I didn't get a thing to eat all day.”

She arched a brow, sitting up, pulling the sheets to her chest. “I don't remember inviting you to any meals.”

“Well, if you want my performance to be the kind that really wakes you up,” he drawled, “then you have to keep me well fed, keep my strength up and all that.”

She threw a pillow at him.

He grinned. “Invite me to bed but not to dine!” He chastised from the door. “Unless, of course, you meant—”

He couldn't finish. She threw a second pillow at him and heard his laughter. Then the door closed.

She bit her bottom lip. How had they ever let this end? There could be so much laughter between them, so much warmth. If only…

If only, if only. She had lived with “if only” forever, it seemed.

Swallowing hard, she got up and hurried into the bathroom. After a brisk shower, she put on a little makeup, then dressed in jeans and a knit pullover. She paused before opening the bedroom door.

Brent was at the piano. He was playing slowly, but she instantly recognized the tune.

“Forever My Love.”

How could he? she wondered bitterly, then she heard the sound of his voice—husky, provocative, unique.

Tears rose to her eyes. She swung open the door, determined to ignore him.

She stalked past him into the kitchen. He didn't look up. He seemed perplexed.

She opened the refrigerator and nearly threw the eggs and ham and cheese on the counter. Then she realized he had stopped playing, he was staring at the keys.

“What are you doing?” she demanded harshly.

He looked at her. “What?”

“I said, what are you doing?”

“Oh, I was just thinking. Thinking about the tour.”

The tour! He was thinking about the tour! He was playing a tune that had managed to rip her heart out, and he didn't seem to remember that the song had fallen into place because of her. She felt like throwing the carton of eggs on his head. She turned and started to chop ham. He didn't seem to notice.

He left the piano and wandered over. “I poured you a cup of coffee. Over there.”

“Thanks,” she said briefly. She didn't look at him. Boy, was their ham going to be well chopped.

“Why don't you just puree it?” he asked.

The knife was in her hands. She looked at him, the knife raised innocently, and demanded sweetly, “What?”

“Kathy, what did that ham ever do to you? Ah, never mind. I think that's really my body on that chopping block. What did I do?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Ah! I've got it. You really were awake, that's it!”

She groaned and turned to the refrigerator for the butter. He was behind her, taking the knife from her hand, spinning her around in his arms. He was frowning, perplexed.

“What is the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Kathy.”

“Nothing, really. I—” Her eyes fell. “I just wish you wouldn't play that song.”

His eyes softened instantly. He smiled, and it was a curious smile, filled with tenderness and with pain. “I know. It seems to embody years, doesn't it? Our entire youth.”

No, our love! she wanted to say. But she didn't. She had already said too much.

“It just…hurts,” she said.

He pulled her against him, cradling her very tenderly. And they seemed to stand there forever. She felt his touch as she hadn't felt it before. She felt the tenderness and the magic that had always been there. She felt the elusive bond that had held them so tightly for so long. She felt the love, all the years they had shared, everything that had ever been right and natural.

Then the knife slipped and fell to the floor with a clang and they stepped quickly away from each other. Kathy turned abruptly toward the refrigerator and Brent moved around the counter.

“I was thinking about the tour,” he told her, “because Harry Robertson always seemed to be humming that tune. Nervously. And then sometimes I would catch him whistling it, and when I would look at him, he would always break off.”

“Maybe he was afraid you'd think he was trying to steal your song,” Kathy said.

Brent shook his head. “No, no, it wasn't anything like that. It was more like he absolutely hated the song.”

“He couldn't have. No one hates that song. It's one of the most beautiful you've ever written. It hit the charts for months on end! It's almost twenty years old and little kids and teenagers still seem to know it.”

“Well, Harry Robertson hated it,” Brent said flatly.

Kathy beat the eggs and said curtly, “Want to do the toast, please?”

“Sure. We have to keep your strength up, too,” he told her idly.

Then they both stopped because they heard Sam barking like crazy.

“Get down!” Brent snapped to Kathy. She saw that the gun was in his hand. He had been wearing it the whole time they had been talking.

“Brent—”

“Get on the floor, Kathy!”

He was heading toward the front door, wary, silent, alert. He leaned against the door frame and carefully stared out the peephole. He started to laugh.

“Brent, have you lost your mind?” Kathy demanded.

He turned to her, smiling. “No, just my instincts, I think. I guess you'd better throw on a few more eggs. It's just Robert. He's at the gate looking sadly perplexed. Poor Robert! Sam never did seem to take to him.”

Brent grinned and opened the door to step out. Sighing with relief, Kathy reached for another egg. Then she heard the gunshot. For a single instant she froze with terror.

Then she screamed and raced for the door.

Chapter 7

Common sense didn't enter Kathy's thinking. She had heard the crack, and had horrified visions of Brent lying facedown in a pool of blood.

She didn't pause at the door; she didn't look through the peephole. She threw open the door, screaming his name. Then she pelted down the walkway with such speed that she flew into him as he stood before the gate. The two of them tumbled to the ground together.

“Brent!”

There was nothing on him, no blood, no injury. His eyes weren't closed in pain. Instead they were wide open, staring into hers as if she was dangerously insane. She was on top of him, then Sam was on them both, licking Brent's face.

“Sam, quit!” Brent insisted. “Kathy, what the hell is the matter with you?”

“The shot! I heard a shot!”

“You heard a shot so you came running out the door? You idiot! If there had been a shot, you should have stayed the hell inside!”

He wasn't injured, he wasn't even touched, and according to him, there hadn't even been a shot. But she'd heard it! She was here because of her fear for him.

Her eyes narrowed. “Fine! The next time I think you might be in trouble, I'll let you bleed to death!”

“It would be smarter than running out here to bleed to death along with me!” he swore.

“Children, children, children!”

Kathy realized that a pair of feet shod in black moccasins was planted by their side. She looked up slowly to find that Robert McGregor had come in through the gate while the two of them sat entwined, arguing. “Getting along the same as usual, I see.”

“Kathy, get off me,” Brent groaned.

“Oh, Kathy, get off me, yourself!” she spat out. “You never oblige when I ask you to get off me.”

“Ah, the plot thickens,” Robert commented.

Kathy flushed. How could she have said what she said with Robert standing right there? It was Brent's fault; he was always goading her, it seemed. Whether he meant to or not.

Brent rose, then with hands planted firmly on her waist, he helped her up. She smiled sweetly at Robert. “The plot isn't doing a darn thing, Lieutenant McGregor, I assure you.”

“Oh, I think it's wonderfully thick,” Brent muttered darkly. “Kathy was going to save me from bullets with a shield of human flesh. Great idea, huh?”

“Bullets!” Robert said, then smiled at Kathy. “Kath, no bullets. An old car going down the street backfired, that was all.”

She smiled over clenched teeth. “Wonderful.”

“Maybe we shouldn't be standing here like this, though,” Robert said. “Not that I think that anything is going to happen here. Let's go inside.”

Kathy led the way in. Robert followed Brent. She ignored them both and went into the kitchen. She heard Brent telling Robert about Shanna, then she heard him go into an explanation of everything he had known or suspected when Harry Robertson had been arrested.

“You're sure that that's what's going on?” Robert asked him.

Kathy picked up an egg as she watched Brent shrug. “What else? Why, do you think—”

“I think what you think,” Robert said. “It's just we've got no leads, no clues. The bombing that killed Johnny was a very professional job. Whoever did it knew exactly what he was doing. And I'm sure you weren't meant to be in the explosion. I think someone thinks you know something.”

“Well, I don't,” Brent assured him. “I don't know a damned thing.”

Kathy added another egg to her mixture, watching the two men intently. She knew Brent well enough to believe his exasperated statement.

Robert ran his fingers through his short, dark hair. “What are you going to do about the benefit Friday night?”

Kathy reached into a cabinet beneath the counter for a frying pan. She set it on the counter.

“Robert—” Brent warned.

“What benefit?” Kathy demanded, leaning over the counter to challenge them both, pan in hand.

Robert arched a brow to Brent and looked at Kathy uneasily. “Kathy, it's been in the paper—”

“What benefit?” she repeated.

“It's not a concert or anything. Just a big party out on Star Island. To raise money for the homeless,” Brent told her.

“Well, you can't do it,” Kathy said. “Obviously. Robert, tell him he can't do it. It would be idiotic.”

“Kathy, I'm doing the damned benefit,” Brent stated irritably.

“Robert, tell him—”

“I think he might need to do it more than ever now, Kathy.”

“Don't you see, Kath? It might be the only way to talk to people involved, to try to figure out—”

“Are you both crazy?” Kathy exploded. “Brent, you wanted me out of town. You didn't think that my house was safe! Now you want to go out to somebody else's place and be surrounded by all those people—”

“People I've worked with,” Brent reminded her.

She stared at them incredulously. They thought Brent should go.

“Robert!” she wailed furiously. “How can you let him do this?”

“Kathy, we've got nothing! And he's not going to stay in a closet for the rest of his life, you know that! The place will be crawling with police and security.”

“It will probably be the safest place in the world for me to be,” Brent assured her.

“You're not a detective!” Kathy exploded.

She watched the stubborn set of his jaw and his voice went low, which tended to mean he was very angry. “Kathy, I need to go. What the hell are you doing with those eggs? Aren't they ready yet?”

“What?” she snapped.

“I said, what about—”

“The eggs, yes, well, they're right here, you all enjoy them!” She strode out of the kitchen, the frying pan still in her hand. Frightened and infuriated, she thrust it at Brent, catching him soundly in the stomach with it. She heard him grunt as she hurried down the hallway to her room.

Brent held the pan, gritting his teeth around the pain. Then he smiled at Robert. “She really loves me, you can tell,” he said.

Robert laughed, then sobered quickly. “I can give you a lot of protection but no guarantees, Brent. Do you really think doing the benefit is such a good idea? Maybe you should just disappear for a while.”

Brent shook his head. “What am I going to do, Robert, run for the rest of my life? I have to try to find out what this is all about.”

He walked around the counter into the kitchen with the frying pan. “Eggs?” he asked.

Robert winced. “I think I'll just take some coffee.”

“Oh, come on. My omelets are better than hers anyway.”

“Maybe she'll join us in time, huh?” Robert said.

“Oh, I don't know. She has a heck of a temper.”

“Well, so do you.”