Passion's Promise (14 page)

She was once again the poised Miss Saint Martin. He was beginning to think it was hopeless.

"No, traveling is a way of life for me by now, and it's for a good cause. How about some brandy?"

"Oh God, not tonight!" She cringed at the memory of the headache that had finally left her at dinner.

"Tied one on that bad last night, huh?"

"Worse!" She smiled and took another sip of coffee.

"How come? Having a good tune?"

"No. Trying to numb myself through a lousy one, and I guess I had a lot on my mind. Everything kind of got away from me."

"Like what did you have on your mind?"

You, Mr. Johns. . . . She smiled at her own thought "Can I blame it on you and say it was the interview?" A look of sheer female teasing danced in her eyes.

"Sure, you can blame it on me if you want I've been accused of a lot worse." So she had to "numb"

herself to get through the party. Interesting. Very interesting. At least she wasn't in love with that asshole.

"You know something, Katie? I like you. You're a very nice woman." He sat back and smiled, looking deep into her eyes.

"Thank you. I've thoroughly enjoyed the last couple of days. And should I make a terrible confession?"

"What? You flushed your notebook down the toilet back at the office? I wouldn't blame you a bit and we could start all over. I'd like that."

"God forbid. No, my terrible confession* is that this was my first interview. I've always done more general pieces. But this was a new experience for me." She wondered if all writers fell a little bit in love with the first person they interviewed. Inconvenient if the first person happened to be the tattooed lady at Ringling's.

"How come you've never done an interview before?" He was intrigued.

"Scared to."

"Why would you be scared? You're a good writer, so that doesn't make any sense. And you're not shy."

"Yes, I am. Sometimes. But you're difficult to be shy with."

"Is that something I should correct?"

She laughed and shook her head. "No, you're just fine the way you are."

"So what's so scary about interviews?" "It's a long story. Nothing you'd want to hear. What about you? What frightens you, Luke?"

Damn. She just wouldn't give. He wanted to stand up and shake her. But he had to look cool. "Is this part of the interview? What frightens me?"

She shook her head, and wondered what he was thinking.

"A lot of things frighten me. Fears can create a lot of confusion. Cowardice frightens me, it can cost someone a life . . . usually someone else's. Waste frightens me, because time is so short. Otherwise, nothing much. Except women. Oh yeah, women scare me to death."

After a moment of tension, there was laughter in his eyes again, and Kezia was relieved. For a minute she had felt him coming at her with both barrels, but she decided that was only her own paranoia. He didn't know she was lying. He couldn't possibly know, or he would have let on by now if he did. He wasn't a man to play games. She was sure of it.

"Women frighten you?" She was smiling at him again. "They terrify me." He tried to cower in his seat

"Like hell they do." She started to laugh. "Yeah, okay. You're right." They laughed and talked easily for another hour, as the brief tension between them eased again. She succumbed to a glass of brandy at last, and then followed it with another espresso. She wanted to sit there with him forever.

"There's a place I go to in SoHo in New York. The atmosphere reminds me of this. It's called The Partridge, and it's a funny little hangout for poets and artists and just nice people." Her face lit up as she told him about it, and he watched her talk. "Is it an 'in' place?"

She laughed out loud at the thought. "Oh no, it's an 'ouf place. Very 'out.' That's why I love it."

So, the lady had her haunts, did she? The places where she went to get away, where no one knew who she was, where. . . . "Then I'd probably like it, Kate. You'll have to take me there sometime." He slipped the suggestion in casually as he lit another cigar. "What do you do with yourself in New York?"

"Write. See friends. Go to parties sometimes, or the theater. I travel a bit too. But mostly, I write. I know a lot of artists in SoHo, and sometimes I hang out with them." "And the rest of the time?" "I see other people . . . depends on my mood." "You're not married, are you?"

"No." She shook her head decisively, as though to confirm it.

"I didn't think so." "How come?"

"Because you're careful, the way women are who're used to taking care of themselves. You think about what you do and say. Most married women are used to having someone else do that kind of thinking, and it shows. How's that for a classic male chauvinist remark?"

"Not bad. But it's also a very perceptive thing to say. Td never thought of it that way, but I think you might be right."

"Okay. Back to you now. My turn to interview." He seemed to be enjoying it. "Engaged?"

"Nope. Not even in love. I have a virgin soul." "I'm overwhelmed. If I had a hat, I'd take it off." They both laughed again. "But I'm not sure I believe you," Luke went on. "Are you trying to tell me that you don't even have an old man?" What about the faggot in the newspaper picture, baby? But he could hardly ask her about that. "Nope. No old man." "Is that true?"

Her eyes rose to his then, and she looked almost hurt. "Yes, it's true. There's someone I enjoy a lot, but I ... I just kind of visit him . . . when I can." "Is he married?"

"No . . . just sort of in another world." "In SoHo?"

Lucas was quick to pick up on things left unsaid. She nodded again. "Yes. In SoHo."

"He's a lucky guy." Luke's voice was oddly quiet. "No, he's a funny guy actually. A nice guy. I like him. Sometimes I even like to imagine that I love him, but I don't. It's not very serious between us, and never will be. For a lot of reasons." "Like what?"

"We're just very different, that's all. Different goals, different views. He's quite a bit younger than I am, and headed in another direction. It really doesn't matter. Mostly, it's just that we're different."

"Is that so bad? Being different?"

"No, but there are different kinds of 'different."1She smiled at her own words. "In this case, different backgrounds, different interests . . . just different enough to make it
too
different, but I still like him. And what about you? An 'old lady'?" The term always seemed funny to her, as though it should refer to someone's grandmother, and not his inamorata.

"Nope. No old lady. I move around too much. A few good women here and there. But I put my energy into the cause, not into my relationships. I haven't put out that kind of effort in a long time. I think the time for that is past for me. And you pay a price for the kind of work that goes into shit-kicking like this. You can't have it all ways. You have to make choices." He said a lot of things like that. In his own way, he was a purist. And his cause came first. "I meet a lot of good people to talk to, traveling around. That means a lot to me."

"It means a lot to me too. People you can talk to, in depth, are a rarity." And he was one of those rare people.

"You're right. Which brings up a question. I'd like to look you up when I come to New York sometime, Kate. Would that be okay? We could go to The Partridge." She smiled at him; it would be nice to see him. She felt as though she had made a new friend, and it was incredible how much of her soul she had shown him at dinner. She hadn't planned to; in fact she had planned to be rather guarded. But one forgot to be guarded with Luke. That was a very dangerous thing, and she reminded herself of it now.

"It would be fun to see you again sometime." She was purposely vague.

"Will you give me your number?" He held out a pen and the back of an envelope. He didn't want to give her time to back off. But she made no move to retreat. In a sense, he had her cornered, and she knew it.

She took the pen and wrote down her number, but not her address. There was no harm in his having the phone number.

He pocketed the envelope, paid the check, and helped her on with her jacket.

"Can I take you to the airport, Kate?" She seemed to  take a long time buttoning her jacket, without looking up, and then at last she met his gaze, looking almost shy.

"That wouldn't be too much trouble?"

He pulled gently at a loose wisp of her hair, and shook his head at her. "I'd like to."

"That's really very nice."

"Don't be a jerk, you're good company."

He watched her leave, and she turned to give him a last wave at the gate. Her hand rose high above her head and impulsively she blew him a kiss as she walked away down the ramp. It had been a beautiful evening, a great niter-view, a marvelous day. She was feeling sentimental about the success of it, and strange about Luke.

She boarded the plane and took a seat at the front, accepting the New York and Washington papers from a passing tray. Then she settled back in her seat and switched oa the light. There was no one next to her whom she might disturb as she read. It was the last flight to New York, and it would be past one when she got in. She had nothing to do the following day. Work on the Lucas Johns article maybe, but that was all. She had wanted to go to SoHo to see Mark tonight, but now she wasn't in the mood. It wasn't too late. Mark would still be up. But she didn't want to see him. She wanted to be alone.

She felt a gentle sadness wash slowly over her. An unfamiliar, bittersweet feeling of having touched someone who had moved on. She knew she wouldn't see Lucas Johns again. He had the number, but he probably wouldn't have the time, and
if
he ever did come through town, she would probably be in Zermatt or Milan or Marbella. He would be busy for the next hundred years with his unions and his cause and inmates and moratoriums . . . and those eyes . . . he was such a good man, such a likable man . . . so gentle ... it was hard to imagine him in prison. Hard to imagine that he'd been tough or mean, had perhaps stabbed a man in a fight in the yard. She had met a different man. A different Luke. A Luke who haunted her all the way home. He was gone for good, from her now, so she could allow herself the luxury of turning him over in her mind ... just for tonight.

The flight was too short and she almost hated to get off the plane and fight her way through the terminal to a cab. Even at that hour La Guardia was busy. So busy that she never saw the tall, dark-haired man follow her to within yards of the cab. He watched her slide into the taxi from only a few feet away. And then, turning away to conceal his face, he looked at his watch. He had time. It would take her half an hour to get home. And then he would call her.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Kate." She felt a warm rush come over her at the sound of his voice.

"Hello, Lucas." Her voice was tired and smoky. "I'm glad you called."

"Did you get home all right?"

"I did. It was a quiet flight. I was going to read the paper, but I didn't even bother." He wanted to say "I know," but he didn't, and stifled the urge to laugh.

"What are you up to now, Ms. Miller?" There was mischief in his voice.

"Not much. I was just going to take a hot bath and go to bed."

"Can I talk you into a drink at The Partridge? Or PJ. Clarke's?"

"Bit of a ride from your hotel in Washington, wouldn't you say? Or did you plan to walk?" She was amused at the thought.

"Yeah, I could. But it's not a bad ride from La Guardia."

"Don't be silly. I took the last flight in." What a madman he was to consider flying all the way up to New York for a drink.

"I know you took the last flight. But as it happens, so did I."

"What?" And then she understood. "You wretch! And I didn't even see youl"

"I should hope not. I almost broke my shoulder once, ducking down in my seat."

"Lucas, you're crazy." She laughed into his ear and lay her head on the back of the chak. "What a perfectly nutty tiling to do."

"Why not? I have a free day tomorrow, and I was going to take it easy anyway. Besides, I felt lousy watching you leave."

"I felt pretty lousy leaving. I don't know why, but I did."

"And now we're both here, and there's no reason to feel lousy. Right? So what'll we do? P. J.'s or The Partridge, or somewhere else? I'm not all that familiar with New York."

She was still laughing and shaking her head. "Luke, it's one-thirty in the morning. There isn't all that much we can do!"

"In New York?" He was not going to be put off that easily.

"Even in New York. You are too much. Tell you what, I'll meet you at P. J.'s in half an hour. It'll take you that long to get into the city, and I want to take a quick shower and change clothes at least. You know something?"

"What?"

"You're a nut."

"Is that a compliment?"

"Possibly." She smiled gently at the phone.

"Good. I'll met you at P. J.'s in half an hour." He was pleased with himself for what he had done. It was going to be a beautiful night. He didn't care if all she did was shake his hand. It was going to be the best night of his life. Kezia Saint Martin. It was impossible not to be impressed. But in spite of the fancy label, he liked her. She intrigued him. She was nothing like what he had imagined those women to be. She wasn't aloof and secretly ugly. She was warm and gentle and lonely as hell. He could read it all over her.

And half an hour later, there she was, in the doorway at P. J.'s, and in jeans. Not even tailor-made ones, just good old regular Levi's, with her silky black hair in two long little-girl braids. More than ever, she looked like a very young girl to him.

The bar was jammed, the lights were bright, the sawdust was thick on the floor, and the jukebox was blaring. It was his kind of place. He was having a beer, and she came over with a gleam in her eye.

"My God, you're sneaky! No one's ever followed me onto a plane in my life. But what a neat thing to do!" That wasn't entirely true but she was laughing again.

She ordered a Pimm's Cup, and they stood at the bar for half "an hour while Kezia glanced over his shoulder at the door. There was always the chance that someone she knew would wander in, or a group of late-night partygoers would arrive after a stop at Le Club or El Morocco, and blow the "Kate Miller" story to pieces. "Expecting someone, or just nervous?"