The Night Remembers (26 page)

Daphne wished she were being held, too. She would have enjoyed clinging to the security of Adam's broad shoulders, but Adam hadn't made the slightest move toward her. He just stood there, a somewhat wary expression on his face as he waited for her to claim her valuables. She surreptitiously studied the taut line of his mouth as she signed for the little plastic bag containing her possessions. He was, she thought, absolutely furious with her. She didn't blame him. She was furious with herself.

It was one thing to land in jail for a cause you believed in. And quite another to end up there for no good reason at all.

"Are you all right?" he asked when she came away from the desk. His voice was low, his words clipped.

"Yes, Adam," she said, head down. "Fine."

He reached out and lifted her chin with his forefinger, forcing her to look at him. "You're sure you're all right?" His eyes scanned her face for a brief, intense second or two, searching for heaven knew what. His expression was concerned and—for just a moment—fearful. "You're not hurt? We heard that there was broken glass."

"No," she said softly. Her hand came up to touch his. "I wasn't near the glass when it broke. I'm fine."

"Good." His hand dropped. "Then, shall we go?" he said tightly, putting his hand under her elbow to lead her out of the station.

"Yes, please." Sunny answered for both of them, curling her arm through Brian's as they headed for the door. "Let's get out of this place."

They exited the police station to the glow of the late afternoon sunlight slanting across the pavement—and the flash of a newsman's camera exploding into their faces.

"What the hell—" Adam began, raising a hand to shield his face. He automatically drew Daphne closer, as if to shield her, too.

"Dr. McCorkle, how do you feel about your wife being involved in the antivivisection protest at the Hillman Medical Research Center?"

"No comment," Brian muttered, heading his wife toward the yellow Mercedes parked at the curb. Adam and Daphne crossed the pavement to the forest-green BMW parked right behind it.

"Dr. McCorkle, do you condone your wife's activities?" The reporter was persistent.

Brian shook his head, still refusing to answer. He pulled open the car door and handed Sunny inside. She went quietly, kept silent by the look on her husband's face.

"Dr. McCorkle..."

The questions were still coming fast and furious, thrown at them from all sides by what seemed like dozens of reporters. In reality, there were only four. One of them, apparently, was just a little better informed than his colleagues. He aimed his question at Adam, who had not yet reached the safety of the car.

"Dr. Forrest, how does having your wife involved in a criminal protest against a medical research center affect your relatively new position at Children's Hospital? Do you think it will affect your career there?"

Daphne's eyes widened at that. She hadn't given a thought to how this might affect Adam. At least, not careerwise. After all, she wasn't his wife anymore and what she did should have no bearing on Adam's career. Even if she were his wife, it should have no bearing. She opened her mouth to correct the reporter's assumption. "I'm not Mrs.—" she began, but a hand clamped down on her arm, silencing her.

"We have no comment," Adam snapped, assisting Daphne into the passenger seat of his BMW He slammed the door and stalked around the front of the car to the driver's side. Without a word, he inserted the key into the ignition and gunned the engine to life. And then careful, controlled, always-in-charge Adam left rubber on the road as he peeled away from the curb.

Daphne sat silently, unable to think of anything to say to defuse his anger. What could she say? "I'm sorry" was woefully inadequate. It was true, of course, but inadequate. "I didn't know what I was getting into" was true, too, but still no excuse. She
should
have known what she was getting into because anything was possible when Sunny McCorkle, master crusader, was involved.

"If I had known what Sunny was up to," she offered at last, "I wouldn't have gotten involved."

Adam didn't even glance at her. "A bit late for regrets, isn't it?" he said, downshifting as the car crested one of San Francisco's famous hills.

"I didn't say I
regretted
getting involved," Daphne snapped back, stung into saying something that she didn't mean by the abruptness of his comment. "I think it's a worthwhile cau—" The lie stuck in her throat. She didn't think it was a worthwhile cause at all. "Well, I'm sorry you had to get involved in the whole thing," she finished, eyes downcast as she plucked at the fabric of her jumpsuit.

"I suppose you'd rather I just left you sitting in jail? Would that have suited you better?"

"Brian would have bailed me out," she said, shrugging.

"Brian would not have bailed you out!" Adam exploded. He hit the steering wheel with the fist of his hand. "You're my responsibility!"

Daphne's head came up, all her senses ready—eager—to do battle. "I am not your responsibility," she said firmly, putting out a hand to brace herself against the dashboard as Adam turned onto their street. "I'm not anyone's responsibility."

"You're not even responsible for yourself!"

"Oh, really?" Her brows nearly disappeared into the wisps of hair on her forehead. "And who do you think has been taking care of me for the past several years? Santa Claus?"

"I wouldn't be the least bit surprised."

He swung the car into the driveway, bringing it to an abrupt halt only inches from the cream-colored paint of the garage door. Automatically, Daphne reached for the door handle, then stopped when she realized that Adam hadn't turned off the engine. "Do you intend to finish this—" she paused, searching for a word "—this
discussion
out here? In front of all your neighbors?"

"I don't want to finish it at all."

Daphne sat up straighter in her seat.
"You
don't want to finish it! Well, that's just too bad, Dr. Forrest, because I do."

"Fine. Finish it on your own. I have to go back to the hospital." He revved the engine as if to emphasize his impatience to be off.

"Oh, that's right!" Daphne said, her voice low and fierce with the effort to keep from shrieking at the top of her lungs. "Run off to the hospital whenever life gets a little too real for you. Hide behind your white coat. Well, I've got news for you, doctor. Your problems will still be waiting for you when you get back," she informed him icily, shoving the car door open.

He turned his head toward her. "Will they?" he said, very softly.

For just a moment Daphne hesitated, caught by the look on his face. It was hopeful and worried at the same time. She almost said something soothing, but then she realized the car was still running, that Adam's foot was still revving the gas pedal, and the moment vanished.

"Count on it!" she shouted, springing out of the car before he could say another word. She slammed the door as hard as she could then turned and flounced across the yard into the house. Tires squealed as Adam backed out of the driveway and roared off down the street. "Damn the man!" she cursed aloud, wishing she had something to throw. "He hasn't changed a bit!"

Oh, he was older, smoother, more expert with words of love. No, not love, she thought, her expression suddenly vicious.
Seduction.
He knew all the right words to say when he had her in his arms. But when it came to emotion—real, honest, heartfelt emotion—he was as closemouthed as ever. Be it love or hate or anger, he couldn't say the words. Couldn't tell her what was in his heart.

Well,
that
was coming to an end! And soon. Very soon. She would wait until he cooled off, until he wasn't so blazingly angry. And then she would confront him with her feelings, all of them, and demand that he expose his own. If she had to hold him down and sit on him, she would know what he really felt. There would be no more pussy-footing around the edges of this relationship of theirs. If it was love, the real, committed, ending-in-marriage, forever kind of love, she wanted to know. And if it was just a sexual fling... well, she wanted to know tha
t, too. She couldn't go on like this, not knowing. It would drive her crazy before very much longer.

Somewhat calmer now that she had made a decision, she walked through the deserted house to the bedroom, shrugging out of her clothes as she went. They felt soiled; dirtied by the hands that had run so impersonally over her when the police officer had patted her down looking for God knew what.

In the bedroom she kicked off her shoes, tugged her sweater over her head, and pushed her jeans down her legs to the floor. She kicked them off, then, remembering she was trying to be more tidy, bent over to pick them up. The kitten, Tiger, wound his way between her feet, asking for attention.

Daphne scratched behind his ears. "What's the matter, little fella? The other guys desert you?"

"Meow," said Tiger piteously, rubbing against her hand.

Daphne straightened, tossing clothes over her arm. "Yeah, I know just what you mean," she said, carrying the soiled garments with her to the bathroom. She dropped them on top of the wicker clothes hamper and reached into the shower to turn on the taps. Her clothes weren't all that felt dirty after her little run-in with the law.

The phone was ringing as she stepped out of the shower. For a moment, she considered not answering it. It might be Adam. But, she decided, he knew she was here. And there was no sense in making him any madder than he already was. Besides, maybe he had chosen the phone as a way of apologizing.
Fat chance,
her mind sneered as she reached for the receiver.

"Hello?"

"Thank goodness I finally got you." Elaine sounded breathless and exasperated. "I've been calling all afternoon.
Where
have you been?"

Daphne hitched her towel a little more securely around her damp body. "Believe me. You don't want to know." She sighed, sinking down on the bed. "So—" her voice became businesslike and professional"—what's the problem?"

"Mr. Chan is here
now
and he's leaving tomorrow night. And he wants to see you. I told him you'd—"

"What happened to our Monday meeting?" Daphne interrupted her new business partner.

"His oldest grandson is having surgery on Tuesday—or is it Wednesday? Anyway, he wants to be back with him for that. Which means he's here now, two days ahead of schedule."

"Can't you handle it?" Daphne inquired. "You're a partner."

"I told him that, Daphne. But he insists on seeing you. You know how he is about dealing with the 'head man.'"

"Yes, I know." Daphne fell silent for a moment, thinking. Mr. Chan had the worst timing in the world. She needed to be
here
right now, dealing with Adam and the rest of her life. But business was business. And Mr. Chan was there about the fabrics for her new lingerie line. She needed to see him now, too, if the line was going to launch on schedule. Damn!

"Daphne, you there?"

"Yes." Her voice was resigned.

"You flying out?"

For a moment more Daphne struggled with what she should do and what she wanted to do. "Yes," she said, her sense of responsibility winning out. Besides, maybe two or three days would given Adam the time he needed to really cool off. "Yes, I'm flying out."

Rapidly, now that her decision was made, she began to plan. "Have someone meet the next San Francisco plane at La Guardia. Unless you hear otherwise, I'll be on it. And send a basket of fruit to Mr. Chan's suite with my—
our—
compliments. And make reservations at someplace fancy for dinner tomorrow night for three." She ripped a piece of paper off the telephone notepad and began scribbling. "Yes. You, me and Mr. Chan. It's high time he got used to dealing with someone other than me. No, I don't know his favorite restaurant, but you can have your secretary call his secretary and find out what his favorite place is. Oh, and would you please make sure there's enough food for a couple of days in my apartment? Nothing fancy, just something to keep me alive for a day or two. I'll be co
ming right back." She paused a moment, listening. "Let's not go into that now, okay? We'll discuss it when I get there. Yes. Bye."

Daphne pressed down on the telephone button, breaking the connection with New York, and dialed the airlines. After making reservations on the next flight into La Guardia, she called a taxi and then hurried to the bathroom and finished putting herself together.

In less than twenty minutes she was dressed in trim ankle-length slacks and a matching unlined jacket in a nubby beige fabric with a russet-colored string knit sweater beneath it. Large copper discs adorned her ears, a long oblong silk scarf in shades of brown, beige and peach was looped under the lapels of her jacket, and flat strappy sandals in deep tobacco-brown were on her narrow feet. She stuffed a few essentials into a large leather-and-canvas carryall and headed for Adam's den to write a note.

While dressing, she had debated whether or not to call him instead, and calmly, rationally explain the situation. But just thinking of his thundercloud of a face put her right off that idea. A note, she decided, was the safest bet. Cowardly, but safe. He should be good and cooled off by the time he got home and read it. If she called the hospital to explain, he might still be mad. Or she might be interrupting something, which would make him mad all over again. A note would be better.