Forever My Love, Page 2

  They would laugh and remember what their first place had been like. She had been eighteen and he had been twenty-two and they were trying to live off his club-date fees while she went to school and worked part-time at the Burger Barn. She had been desperately in love with him right from the very first time she had seen him playing his guitar at a friend’s wedding. He had been so tall, lean, fascinating with his deep, penetrating eyes that seemed to gaze upon her with ancient wisdom, to sparkle with laughter, to deepen with something more intense. He had appeared older than his years, or maybe it was just that he had already been through so much—a wretched childhood as an orphan, three years in the service, a third of that time in the volatile Middle East, then attendance at a college and survival with his music at the same time.

  Kathy had been a senior in high school, and from the first time his eyes had met hers across the room, she had been in love. Later, when the band had stopped playing and pre-recorded music filled the break time, he had walked straight to her, and he had danced with her. She had stared into his eyes and slowly smiled. When he had gone to play again, he sang a song he had written, a soft, romantic ballad he called “Forever My Love.” She had felt his voice touch her. It was husky, sure, a tenor with just the slightest hint of a masculine rasp. His eyes had been on her, and she knew that the song had been sung just for her. He admitted later that he’d never sung it in public before, that it had never come together before, but when he had met her, the words, the music, everything had just fallen in place.

  Forever, my love…

  Well, they had tried it, they had vowed it, and maybe a certain amount of the love would always be there. But on that night so long ago when they had first danced they hadn’t known all that was to come between them, the good times and the bad, the heaven and the hell. Nor had they had any way to see the pain that was to befall them.

  Kathy sighed softly, opening her eyes. Darkness was falling rapidly. She looked up and saw a murky sky with the stars just beginning to dot the gray.

  She started suddenly, thinking that something had tapped against the redwood privacy screen. Sam, she decided. It had to have been Sam. Still, she straightened and stared out. All she saw was the darkness. She rose out of the tub, passing the gilt-edged Victorian mirror by the closet. She paused and smoothed a stray strand of hair. She was still staring at herself seconds later, she realized. Looking for age lines? she taunted silently. Standing away from the mirror, she saw that she did resemble her daughter a great deal. They had the same huge blue eyes and the same soft blond hair, which they wore layered just past their shoulders. And they were both lean and petite with moderate but ample curves, as she liked to call them.

  It was when she stepped closer to the mirror that the. differences became obvious. Shanna lacked the tiny lines and grooves around the eyes that defined Kathy’s age. Maybe it was more than the lines. Maybe it was something in her eyes that betrayed her so quickly. Maybe she needed something to clear them away.…

  “No,” she told the mirror. “Those are character lines, and I earned every single one of them.” Managing a rueful smile, she told herself she was not going to wax nostalgic any longer.

  She started down the hallway and across the living room. It was only when she was halfway to the kitchen that she realized the television was on and that Patty was standing stock-still in the middle of the room, staring at the screen.

  “—and it is believed at this time that Brent McQueen was also aboard the yacht Theodosia when it exploded. McQueen and Johnny Blondell were reportedly having serious problems, and McQueen was expected to lay his grievances before Blondell. The body of Johnny Blondell has been found, but not McQueen’s. The search team will have to wait for the fire on board to die down before they can look for the remains of any further victims. No one knows the cause of the explosion at this time, but arson is expected.”

  Kathy inhaled sharply, unable to comprehend what she was hearing. She walked closer to the television. The anchorman was still talking. A picture of Brent was flashed across the screen, a picture almost twenty years old, one with her in it. His arm was protectively around her, there were conspiratorial smiles on both of their faces, and they were both very beautiful in the simple happiness that radiated from their faces. The picture had been taken at the airport, right after their marriage.

  Her hands clenched into fists at her side and she fell to her knees, a ragged, anguished cry wrenched from her lips. Patty walked to her and patted her shoulders. “Kathy, they don’t know anything yet. He probably wasn’t aboard the yacht. You can’t jump to conclusions like those stupid newsmen.”

  Kathy looked from the screen to Patty, dazed.

  “He was having problems with Johnny and he might have died because of them. That little rat! Johnny Blondell was a junky, a womanizer, a slime and an abuser—”

  “Kathy, the man is dead.”

  “And he might have taken Brent with him! Oh, my God!” Kathy breathed. “Shanna! Thank God she can’t have heard anything yet!” She hopped to her feet, raced to the phone and tried to call the television station to find out more information. When she finally got through, they were vague, saying that the police didn’t know any more yet. “Watch at eleven, and we’ll bring you up-to-date information,” a deep male voice told her.

  “Wait a minute! You’re reporting very irresponsibly!” Kathy swore. “You’re saying a man might be dead—”

  “Honey, wait till eleven. What does all this matter anyway?”

  “It’s going to matter tremendously to his daughter, in whose name I intend to sue you!” Kathy said, and slammed down the receiver.

  “Kathy—” Patty began sympathetically.

  “I’m all right!”

  She wasn’t all right. She was ready to burst into tears. She was torn apart for Shanna. And she was bleeding herself.

  A bell clanged, warning them that someone was at the gate. Kathy frowned and hurried to the door, looking through the peephole that showed whoever was on the porch and also magnified the scene at the gate.

  A man was standing there.

  “My God!” she whispered. “It’s about Brent, I know it!”

  “Kathy,” Patty began again. “Wait—”

  Kathy threw open the door and hurried down the porch steps and along the flower-bordered tile path. The dog barked, and Kathy told him to get back. She swung open the gate and cried out when she saw that it wasn’t just a man, but Robert McGregor, a plain-clothes cop who had gone to school with her and been a friend to both her and Brent.

  Fear rushed through her. He had come to tell her that Brent was dead. The world spun, and she thought she was going to crash to the ground.

  “Kathy! It’s all right. Listen to me, please. I haven’t got much time, I’ve got to get back to the marina. Listen, he’s not dead, I’m sure he’s not. I talked to Brent tonight.”

  “What?” she gasped and sagged against him. He caught her.

  “Let me get you back to the house.”

  “No, no. Tell me now. Talk to me, Robert, please.”

  “Brent called me. He wanted to talk with me about something. He said he wanted to see me before he saw Johnny. So I know he’s all right.”

  “But you haven’t…you haven’t seen him?” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “But I saw the newscast, and I knew you must be going insane. Now listen to me. I’ll find Brent.”

  She nodded stiffly. “I’ll go with you.”

  “No. You’ll go into the house and you’ll calm down and relax. I’ll find Brent.”

  “But—”

  “Please, Kathy. Come on now, I’ll take you in.”

  She straightened and offered him a tight smile. “No, I’m fine, I promise. Go on. And thank you! Bless you!” she added in a whisper as she watched him go down the walk. Then she hurried into the kitchen. “It was Robert McGregor,” she told Patty. “He says that Brent wasn’t on the yacht. He talked to Brent.”

  Patty nodded. “Why do
n’t you lie down for a few minutes?”

  “If you promise to listen for the door or the phone.”

  Patty smiled her agreement, and Kathy headed for her bedroom. She was numb. She had to believe Brent was all right. She had to.

  She entered her room and closed the door behind her. She had never changed the room. There was the huge closet, the entertainment center, the stereo, the bookcases, the television and DVD machine. The woodwork had been carved to complement the turn-of-the-century dresser set. Old and new, masculine and feminine touches, were combined. It was a room designed for a couple to share. A place to laugh and dream together, to hide away from an intrusive world.

  She covered her face with her hands.

  The room almost looked as if she had been waiting for Brent to return for the past three years. But now it seemed he never ever would.

  Nonsense. Robert had said that Brent was all right.

  She was too jittery to sleep. Knowing only another bath would calm her down, she hurried into the bathroom, trying to function normally. After turning on the tap, adding more bubble bath, she pulled the drape on the window of the door that led out to the pool and cabana, and mechanically stripped off her clothing. She stepped into the water.

  There was a whirl of darkness in the shadows of the night, and before her scream could find voice, a hand clamped hard over her lips. She threw up a spray of water, flailing with her fists to free herself.

  “Kathy!”

  She heard her name in a hoarse whisper and still she struggled desperately. When she was dragged against a rock-hard chest, she thrust her knee forward in terror and heard a soft grunt.

  She managed to escape the arms, but before she could step from the tub the arms were around her again, dragging her back. She opened her mouth to scream but her assailant’s arms and hands were on her mouth once again. He was holding her in a vise-like grip. She writhed and twisted to no avail, panicking when she felt fingers just beneath her breast.

  “Kathy! Kathy! For the love of God, it’s me!”

  She froze. Hysteria rose within her. She had conjured him from the illusions of her mind. She had thought about him stepping into the tub with her.…

  And now he was there.

  He wasn’t dead at all. He was there, in her bathtub.

  He eased his hold. She drew quickly away from him, gathering bubbles around her, staring at him incredulously.

  He was real. A lock of dark, damp hair had fallen seductively over his forehead. His eyes were the same deep rich amber, the lines around them a bit deeper, but attractive. He had a handsome face with a fine bone structure that indicated integrity. The face had aged remarkably well, and it was even more fascinating now for all that character etched into it. She stared at him and knew his death would have killed her deep inside, and that life would have lost all meaning for her. She was still in love with him, and she always had been.

  “Brent!”

  “Kathy.” His voice was husky and low. It was sexy and sensual and deeply masculine, and it touched her as it had always touched her. “Kathy, shut up, please. I need your help.”

  “Why did you attack me?”

  “Why did you scream?”

  “I always scream when strange men enter my bathroom.”

  He grinned. “I’m not a strange man.”

  “Oh, I do beg to differ!” she retorted. “You’re an extremely strange man!”

  “Kathy—”

  “Brent, for the love of God, would you please get out of the bathtub?”

  His smile remained in place. “Brings back memories, doesn’t it?”

  “Out!”

  “Kathy, I need your help.”

  “Get out of my tub!”

  He rose and stood dripping on the bath rug. He pulled off his sneakers and socks. “I hope there’s still something of mine around here somewhere,” he muttered, unbuttoning his shirt.

  “What are you doing?” she nearly shrieked. His sodden shirt fell to the floor. He was half-naked, his jeans clinging tightly to the line of his hard, lean thighs and the muscled curve of his buttocks. The bronze chest that she had ached to touch was suddenly before her, and she was so unnerved she could scarcely bear it.

  She leaped up, heedless of her nudity, grabbed a bath towel and wrapped it around herself. But her fingers were trembling and she dropped the towel. He reached for it and handed it to her. Her eyes met his. Then all the emotions that had surged through her in the past few minutes exploded to the surface.

  “Damn you! Damn you! You need my help? You broke into my house, you attacked me in the tub—”

  “Kathy, our house, I still own part of it, remember?”

  He was smiling. He was actually smiling. Of course. She was standing there with the towel between them, swearing away, stark naked. Slowly, his lips curled in the way that was so Brent McQueen, and he gave her an easy sensual smile like the one he had given the young woman in the video.

  She snatched the towel, then slammed the palms of her hands hard against his chest.

  “Kathy—”

  “Brent McQueen, how could—”

  She broke off as a voice from outside the bedroom door interrupted them. “Kathy!” It was Patty. “Kathy, if you need me…”

  For the third time Brent slapped his hand over her mouth. “Tell her you’re fine!” he warned her. She stared at him, her eyes narrowing. He was tense and deadly serious. There was something very hard and lethal about him, and despite herself, she shivered.

  What in hell was going on?

  He had always been hard; the service had done that to him. And he had always been smart, so he had sometimes been cynical. And he had always been more than a bit of a chauvinist, demanding, autocratic.

  But this was something new.

  “Kathy?” Patty’s anxious voice sounded again.

  His eyes glittered, dancing in the false light of the room. “Kathy, so help me God!” he said. His hand rose carefully from her mouth, but he still held both her arms in the vise of his fingers.

  “Patty wouldn’t hurt you!” she whispered.

  “Tell her to go away!” Brent insisted in a soft growl.

  “You know you don’t live here anymore and we’re not married anymore and I’m not at your beck and call—”

  “Kathy!” He towered over her, his features taut and strained. “Tell her you’re fine. Tell her to go away!”

  “I can’t—”

  “You will!”

  She stared at him a moment longer, thinking that she ought to tear every hair out of his head. Then he would be bald. And maybe he wouldn’t be so attractive.

  No, every hair could be out of his head, he could be painted purple and he would still have the raw, masculine charisma that so easily attracted the adoration of women and the admiration of men.

  She breathed deeply, then called out softly. “Patty? I’m fine, just getting dressed. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Oh! Thank goodness. I heard some noise. I was getting so worried.”

  Staring at Brent, she listened to Patty’s soft footsteps on the carpet as the woman moved away. “So you are alive,” she whispered to Brent.

  “Disappointed?” he asked her.

  “Of course not. Shanna would have been terribly hurt if you had died.”

  “Just Shanna?” His hands were on her, still holding her close.

  “Well, of course, your death would upset me, too. For old time’s sake.” Once again, she shoved her fists hard against his chest. “Let me go, Brent, and for God’s sake, tell me what the hell is going on!”

  He didn’t let her go, not right away. He caught her hands, and his fingers wound around her wrists. Then he stared at her for what seemed like aeons. His eyes flashed gold and fire as they moved over her face, then her form. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. That his lips would touch hers with their special, intimate seal, and all the hurt and pain would be gone, erased, like magic.

  There was no such thing as ma
gic, and nothing could erase the things that had gone between them.

  He released her and walked out of the bathroom. She followed him, grasped her robe from the bed and quickly slipped into it. Her towel fell to the floor and she realized she could not stand. She sat at the foot of the bed.

  He paced, rubbing his temple with his thumb and forefinger.

  “Brent?”

  He didn’t seem to hear her, and only continued to walk across the room.

  “Brent?” she repeated. “I’ve played it your way. Now I asked you to tell me—”

  “Dammit, Kathryn, I don’t know what is going on.”

  “But you’re alive and—”

  “Yes, yes! And I’m alive because I wasn’t on that boat. But Johnny’s murderer is after me, and I can’t quite figure out what the hell is going on.” He had stopped pacing and stood before her tensely. Then he dropped to one knee and caught her hands. “You’re going to listen to me, Kathryn, and do what I say.”

  “Brent—”

  “You don’t owe me anything. But you’re going to do what I tell you now!”

  It was an order, not an appeal. He really hadn’t changed at all.

  She pulled her hands away and curled her feet beneath her. “Am I really? Tell me, McQueen, just what it is you’re assuming I’m going to do.”

  Chapter 2

  This really wasn’t going at all well, Brent thought, staring at Kathy as she stared at him. He hadn’t expected to find her in the bathroom, and he hadn’t expected her to scream at the sight of him. Well, all right, so maybe he hadn’t expected her to jump up and down with joy, but he hadn’t thought it would get so damned physical.

  Or that it would hurt so much. As if his heart was being torn out all over again.

  He stiffened his spine and squared his shoulders. This had to do with life and death, and she was going to have to listen to him. She had to quit with that imperious stare. But then that was part of Kathy’s charisma. She looked like a snow princess with her startling blue, almost cobalt, eyes and silky blond hair. Her features were near perfect. Her face was oval, her cheekbones defined, her lips generous but beautifully shaped, and her eyebrows with a little arch that could give her a look of annoying superiority. Despite that, there had been times when his need to protect her had been enormous. And it could be just like trying to protect a barracuda at times, he reminded himself.