The Way of Women (5 page)

She pulled her mink coat closer. She’d always maintained a model’s leanness, but lately
gaunt
better described the body she ignored in the mirror. Along with a few other choice and not so gentle names. She thought of herself as permafrost in the tundra. Even when the surface melts, the frozen core reigns.

Two blocks later her right heel snapped off in a steel grate. Cursing under her breath, she hobbled to the corner and whistled at the first taxi she’d seen that blustery morning.

She leaned back on the seat, eyes closed against the cabby’s questioning glance in the rearview mirror. Her address was all she could force past lips now clenched against the tremors rocking her body. She breathed deeply, forcing herself to swallow the bile bouncing in her throat.

When the driver stopped in front of her apartment building, she thrust several bills into his hand and threw herself from the vehicle just in
time to heave her guts into a planter. She vomited again and yet again. Sanity ebbed away, and a black cloud was taking over when the familiar voice of the doorman penetrated her stupor.

“Now, miss.” A strong arm that half led, half carried her inside accompanied the voice. His Irish brogue deepened in his concern. “And you’ll be all right in a moment, here.” He locked the front door with his free hand and then helped her across the marble foyer and into the elevator. When her knees buckled, he caught her up in brawny arms and punched the button for the penthouse.

Her second waking of the day felt little better than the first, but at least she was alone—in her own apartment—in her own bed. Flat on her back, willing the world to stand still. She stared at the twenty-by-twenty-eight, triple-matted, and framed photo on the wall. Rosy-topped Mount St. Helens in all her evening glory. Jenn had taken the shot from the north end of Spirit Lake to catch the full reflection. The Lady and the lake. With a sky so blue it hurt her eyes, she had felt the fir needles under her feet and heard spring singing in the moving bows above her. It had been her last weekend living at home, before she left, seeking fame and fortune, for the Big Apple.

The ache to see her mountain again pierced her numbed senses. But since the eruption, she couldn’t bear to see the changes in her mountain. While she’d watched every newscast, read every word written about it, and commiserated with her parents when they called, she’d refused to go home. Made all kinds of excuses. Sure, she’d been busy, had deadlines, had premieres to attend … 
Today she knew she had made a putrid hash of her life and couldn’t live without seeing The Lady one more day. Maybe it was time to do something that truly mattered to her. Two hours later she boarded a flight to Portland Oregon. J. E. Stockton was going home.

As soon as she snapped her seat belt, she closed her eyes and slipped into a no man’s land of shifting shapes and feelings. Her head hurt.

Captain Mitchell Ross folded his army-green dress jacket and carefully placed it in the overhead compartment. He started to loosen his tie but stopped when he looked at the woman in the window seat.
Interesting face
, he thought and wondered about the body hidden in the expensive mink coat. She never stirred when he sat down and buckled his seat belt. Either she was ill, the smudges under her eyes testified to that, or she was exhausted, or …

Jenn resurfaced as she sensed someone invading her space. She’d felt him sit down. Her seat mate was obviously a man, his aftershave expensive and sexy. She allowed her lashes to raise a fraction of an inch and found herself looking into the dark blue eyes of the officer staring at her.

“You’re awake.”

“I haven’t been asleep.”

“Are you all right?” His elbow pressed into her from the armrest shared between their seats. “You look like—”

“Hell?”

He grinned, showing perfect teeth. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t go that far. I thought more along the lines of ill.”

“You could say that.” She turned her face to the window, hoping to discourage him. She’d seen that light of interest too often, in too many men. She refused to play the game—not now, not ever again.

Slightly disgruntled at such on obvious, even rude, turnoff, Mitch settled back in his seat. Rarely was he forced to play the part of pursuer. He loosened his tie and dug in his breast pocket for a pack of chewing gum. Ordinarily he would offer a stick to his seat mate. He glanced again at the woman in mink. If she stayed bundled up like that, she’d have heatstroke. He shrugged. Not his problem, but she looked bad.

Mitch smiled to himself as the plane gathered power, thundering down the runway. He heard the fine-tuned roar deepen and the frame shudder just before the wheels left the concrete and the aircraft thrust itself into the ascent.
His
fingers itched to be on the stick,
his
feet on the pedals and
his
eyes scanning both the horizon and the instrument panels.
Pilots always have more fun than passengers
, he thought. Or at least, most of the time. Other flights as a passenger had been most profitable, in terms of pleasure, that is.

While Jenn slept through the drinks and meal, Mitch settled in for a boring flight. He’d flirted mildly with the flight attendant, strictly out of habit, and tried to ignore his seat mate. When he leaned his seat back and closed his eyes to catch a few winks himself, even his years of military conditioning failed him. He’d slept standing against a German wall and
curled in a Korean foxhole, but the aura of the woman in the mink precluded any rest for him in the plane seat next to her.

Disgusted at his reaction, he turned and let himself study her. God, she was thin. What was she, one of those anorexics? He checked her emaciated left hand. No wedding ring and no evidence of a recent removal. Long fingers and recently manicured nails with soft pink polish. No artificial nails. He liked that. Her body was effectively hidden in the coat.

But her face, he permitted his stare. High cheekbones, strong chin, straight nose—cataloged they sounded ordinary, but there was strength there and a hidden seductiveness. His fingers itched again, this time for a camera. He’d bet three months’ pay that face would come alive through the all-seeing lens.

“Finished?” Her voice slashed through his reverie. She didn’t bother to open her eyes.

Mitch smiled, a disarming smile that covered a multitude of pranks when growing up. That same grin usually devastated his female companions. Not in this case.

He tried another tack. “Do you hate everybody, or is there something about me you particularly dislike?”

Jenn snorted. She flicked her fingers like one would to shoo away a bothersome insect. “Look, soldier boy, I tried to give you a polite hint. I don’t want anything you have to offer. I’m not interested. Now, is that cut and dried enough for you, or do you need a memo from your commanding officer?” She hadn’t even the energy to glare at him, but that lack pounded exclamation points behind her statement.

Mitch stared at her a fraction longer. Nothing in her face betrayed the vitriol with which she’d just doused him.

“No wonder you’re so comfortable in that coat—must be mighty cold
in there.” He shook his head. “Pardon me, ma’am, for bothering you.” He faced front. “Maybe next time we meet, you’ll be in a more humane mood.”

Jenn didn’t bother to answer.
Whatever makes you think there will be a next time?

Turbulence over the Rockies reminded her that she had a stomach. She felt it flutter back in place after a vertical drop. Another quick dip, and the morning’s nausea forced her to think of the bag in the magazine pouch in front of her.
Don’t be stupid
, her inner voice prodded.
You have nothing left to heave. What do you want to do, make a complete jackass of yourself again? Let this army jock think you need his strong arm? Come on, J. E., where’s this control you’re so proud of?

Jenn breathed deeply once, then again, and let her spine slump against the seat. She dropped her chin into the cushion of the mink collar and allowed the relaxation to permeate her body. She swallowed past the bile crowding her throat and, with a super convulsive effort, choked down the bitter phlegm. Her eyes remained closed until the flight captain’s voice broke into her consciousness.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll be on the ground in Portland in about ten minutes. You can see Mount St. Helens steaming off to the right. As I’m sure you all know, she’s been puffing off and on for several weeks now. Our flights between here and Seattle have had some spectacular views. Those of you on the left can see Mount Hood. There’s some speculation that he could blow too, if St. Helens really lets go. I hope you’ve had a pleasant flight. The crew and I thank you for flying the friendly skies.”

Jenn leaned her forehead against the window, her heart aching at the gray tears staining The Lady’s once pristine slopes. Spring coming to the Pacific Northwest meant peaks still glistening from a late snowfall or cloud cover on the many dismal days. Today the clouds had parted to show the steam rising from the crest of the peak like vertical puffs from a locomotive champing to leave the station. The tear that sneaked past her iron will and rolled down her cheek gave mute testimony to her pain. J. E. Stockton had come home.