The Lady and the Lion (2 page)

After a few moments, he turned his head and looked upward, his dark, benign gaze searching until it located a particular balcony a dozen floors up. There was a figure up there that might have been a man, his attention fixed on the beach and the young woman taking her morning run.

The old man watched the younger for some time, his stillness complete, dark eyes very intent. It was as if he were listening to some soft, far-off voice that demanded his utmost attention. Then, imperceptibly, he relaxed, and a singularly sweet smile curved his lips.

"Now then," he said in a rich, gentle baritone, nodding slightly to himself. "Now then, we'll see."

Keith Donovan leaned his forearms on the balcony wall and watched the lone figure running along the beach. He was too far away to have a clear look at her. All he could be certain about was how slender she was and how long her red hair was.

And an incredible voice.
A slight accent, very faint—more cosmopolitan, he thought, than anything else. But that voice... musical and oddly haunting, unusually expressive, it had pulled at him in a way he'd never felt before.

He told himself he was just tired. The past months had left him feeling so disconnected that a sweet voice on a dark balcony had seemed a lifeline. That was it. That was why her voice had affected him this way.

It wasn't a reassuring thought. He couldn't afford any distractions, couldn't spare the emotional energy for—for what? Keith frowned, his gaze still on the tiny figure now almost out of sight. What was he worried about? She certainly hadn't indicated that he was anything more than a neighbor she had spoken to out of politeness. The conversation had been brief, and she had neither offered her name nor asked to know his.

So why did he feel so affected by her? The question was troubling, and Keith brushed it away almost violently. He forced himself to turn away, to retreat inside his room and firmly close the balcony doors. With a long, tense night behind him, he needed sleep, but he had discovered it was difficult for him to wind down, to drop his guard and rest. That was why he'd developed the habit of sitting out on his balcony and watching the dawn each morning, needing the interlude of peace.

The conversation with the woman had helped him to relax, he knew, but he didn't like it. Still, having learned to take what came, he blanked his mind and went to bed.

It was afternoon when he rose, and he quite deliberately avoided going out onto his balcony even though his curiosity about the woman had increased. He ordered room service, remaining in his suite because that, too, was habit, cautious habit.
Careful, wary habit.
The fewer people who saw him, the less chance there was of the wrong person seeing him in the wrong place and out of character.

But today, for the first time, he was edgy, restless. He left the suite only once, going to the hotel's gym to work out as he sometimes did, needing the exercise but, even more,
needing
an outlet for tension and excess energy. Today, it didn't seem to help much. The hours between waking and leaving to go to the boat seemed to stretch forever, and it was a relief when he finally left his suite just after eight that evening. As usual, he took the stairs and left the hotel unobtrusively by a side exit.

He changed between hotel and boat: He changed his clothes and hair, his posture, his voice. He pushed from his mind a quiet hotel suite, a darkened balcony, a soft voice, and peace. When he stepped onto the boat, he was someone else.
Someone whose laugh held a reckless, ruthless, dangerous edge.

It was after four the next morning when he returned to his silent hotel suite. He showered, washing away the clinging scents of cheap perfume, smoke, and liquor, then wrapped a towel around his waist and went out onto the dark balcony. He was as weary as usual, yet this morning was different and he was conscious of the difference only after he'd settled into the chaise.

He was listening, he realized. He was waiting for the soft click of French doors opening on the other side of the security screen, for the whisper of silk as she moved. He had heard both the morning before, despite the muted roar of the waves far below, and he was listening for the sounds now.

Keith shook his head slightly. This was absurd, he told himself.
And dangerous.
He'd chosen, eyes wide open, to stand alone in this, and he had no right forming even a transient relationship with anyone who wasn't involved in what he was doing.

He stared out at the dark ocean, telling himself to go back inside, to simply cut the tenuous connection before it could become something too important to lose. But even as the wary voice inside him murmured that warning, he couldn't help but question it. What was he risking, after all? A few minutes of dawn peace shared with a stranger. And besides, she probably wouldn't even come out again.

The thought had barely registered when he heard the soft click of her balcony doors, the whisper of silk as she moved. He felt her presence on the other side of the screen with an intensity that took him by surprise, and he couldn't stop himself from greeting her.

"Good morning."

"Good morning."

She was disturbed, he realized instantly; it was in her voice, a tremor that could have been pain or anger—or both. He found himself turning slightly toward the screen, staring at it as if he could penetrate it and the darkness. But he couldn't, of course, not with his eyes.

"Bad night?" he asked quietly.

A kind of laugh reached his ears, a sound that held very little humor. "No, the night was all right."

He was silent for a moment,
then
spoke in the same quiet, undemanding tone. "Sometimes, it's easier to talk to a stranger when we're upset.
And easier to be honest in the darkness."

"Dawn questions?"

'"Only if you want me to ask them," he told her. "I'll listen, if you do. Maybe the answers will come."

If she hesitated, it was momentary, and when she spoke again her voice was taut. "How do you tell someone you love that you can't be what he wants you to be?"

Keith felt a strange pang that he refused to acknowledge. "What does he want you to be?

"There." She laughed, again with no humor. "Just there, on the edge of his life. Playing the role he wants me to play.
Shaping my life to fit his."

"And you can't do that?"

"I have.
For a long time.
And it's... smothering me.
The demands and expectations.
It wouldn't be so bad if I felt useful, that I mattered. But all his attention is devoted to his work, and sometimes I think I'm invisible to him. I have to break away. At least, I think I do. But I don't know how to tell him without hurting him. And I don't know what I'll do after."

"What do you want to do?" Keith asked.

She sighed. "I don't know. That's one reason I'm here, to try and figure it out.
And now...
This morning, when I called, he told me to come home.
Back to London.
He can't find anything, he said, and his secretary is hopeless. He needs me to keep his life running smoothly."

"That doesn't make you feel that you matter to him?"

"No. Someone else could do what I do. It isn't
me
he
values,
it's what I do for him."

Keith hesitated,
then
repeated, "What do you want to do?"

"I don't want to go back. Not yet. It's such a strong habit, to be what he expects, that I'm afraid I'll just take the path of least resistance if I go back now."

He couldn't help but wonder
,
 
with
another strange and unacknowledged pang, if they were discussing her husband or lover. It sounded that way, he thought. He didn't want to ask outright, wary of being something other than the disinterested and impersonal voice he had promised to be. So he kept his voice soft, his questions dispassionate.

"Did you tell him?"

"No. I told him I was enjoying my vacation, told him I need the break."

"Why can't you tell him the truth?"

"I don't want to hurt him."

"You're hurting yourself by remaining silent. Wouldn't
that
hurt him if he knew?"

"I don't know."

She sounded a little lost now, and he responded instinctively to that pain. "You aren't sure he loves you?"

"No, I'm sure he does. It's just...
well,
his career is the most important thing in his life. I think he expects it to be the most important thing in
my
life too. You see, I'm something of an asset to his career. He's told me that more than once. Others have told me as well."

Keith was too curious to let that pass. "How are you an asset?" he asked. For a long moment, it seemed as though she wouldn't answer, but then she did, her voice holding a hint of constraint.

"It's difficult to explain. There were people he was having trouble making connections with until I began to act as his hostess at dinners and parties. People would tell me things they wouldn't tell him, things he needed to know. He says I have the knack of listening."

Frowning in the darkness, Keith said, "He's using you." There was a slight sound on the other side of the screen, as if she moved almost instinctively in protest.

"It didn't seem so at first.
Meeting people, talking to them.
I never got information damaging to anyone, just little things, bits and pieces that might have given him an edge. I was willing to do it. It's important, what he does, and I agree with his goals.
Usually."

"But not always."
It wasn't a question.

"No.
No, not always."
Her voice turned rueful. "But he says that I don't understand the large picture, the long-term view of things. That my
duty
is to tell him whatever I learn and let him decide what's to be done with the knowledge."

"How do you feel about that?" Keith asked.

"Patronized."
The response was instant and sharp. After a moment, she laughed a bit shakily. "It all began to build up inside me,
that's
why I left." She hesitated again,
then
said, "I'm sorry. I have no right to dump all this in your lap."

Keith, who had been thinking even as he listened, ignored her words. Slowly, he said, "Someone you love expects you to play a part that makes you uncomfortable, to be a pipeline for information that helps him in his career. He expects you to fit yourself into his life in a way that satisfies his needs rather than yours. You feel you don't matter to him except in that role. Even more, his demands are smothering you. Your own thoughts and opinions aren't
valued,
your life isn't yours to live."

"Did I say all that?" Her voice was small.

"I think you did."

"I'm sorry."

Turning his gaze out toward the ocean and the graying darkness that heralded daybreak, Keith said, "Don't be. I'm just here to listen to the tough dawn questions, remember? And the most important question, I think, is—what are you going to do about your problem? Running away hasn't solved anything."

"Running?"

"It's what you did. You couldn't tell him how you felt, so you just left. But now he wants you to come home, so what are you going to do?"

"I'm not going home. Not yet. Maybe if I stay away long enough..."

"Hell change? Do you really believe what you're saying?"

"No." She sighed almost inaudibly. "I don't. He doesn't even recognize a problem. And he won't until I confront him. That's what you're saying, isn't it?"

"You said it."

"I'll hurt him. I don't want to hurt him."

Keith hesitated, then said, "Do you realty believe it's better to go on hurting yourself? To go on living a life you don't want, being a person you're not? If he knew what this was doing to you, do you believe he'd choose to enrich his life at the expense of yours?"

Answering the last question, she said very quietly, "I hope not."

They were both silent for several minutes while the sky lightened in the east, and then she stirred slightly.
"Tough questions.
It doesn't help much that I know the answers."

"Sometimes," he said, "knowing the answers gives you nothing except more questions."

"Until another dawn?"
Her voice was wistful.

He hesitated, then said, "Don't force it. Take the time you need and let the answers sort themselves out. We always know what's best for us, if we'll just be patient and allow our instincts to tell us."

"Then I'll try. Thanks. I had no right to impose, but you've been a lot of help."

"No problem." He resisted the urge to keep the conversation going, telling
himself
firmly there wouldn't be any more morning interludes like this one. Already, he'd gotten involved despite himself, her problems worrying him, and he just didn't have the energy to spare. It had to stop.

"Well... thanks again," she murmured, and he listened in silence to the soft sounds of her leaving the balcony.

He sat gazing out at the dawn, watching the first reddening of the horizon become a blazing sunrise. He did get up and look down on the beach where she was beginning her morning run.
Red hair.
Beyond that, he didn't think very much. After a while, he went into his suite and to bed.

He didn't go out onto his balcony the next morning.

Erin spent most of the day just thinking. She walked on the beach, swam in the hotel's pool,
treated
herself to a sauna and massage. It was rare for her, this luxury of time to herself, and she enjoyed it. The sense of guilt she felt at so abruptly having deserted her father was still with her, but fainter now and much less painful than it had been.

Other problems didn't seem so overwhelming now, and she was even able to feel a kind of wry amusement at the number of male hotel guests who apparently felt she shouldn't be alone. It was something Erin had coped with since her teens, and the stage of being flattered by the attention was long past. She had learned, often painfully, that her looks drew men who were never interested in seeing beneath the centerfold proportions and striking features... men who never cared about her ideas or her feelings.