To See the Daisies…First
Billie Green

One
Ben kept his head carefully bent, pretending to be absorbed by the blank notepad on the desk before him. The fluorescent light sapped the color from his brown hair and tanned face, giving him an older, harsher appearance. Through the glass panel of the office door he watched the small woman rise from the bench across the hall, its dark wood shiny from the inadvertent polishing of thousands of bodies through the years. She walked casually back to the door, twisting a lock of her long, red-gold hair around her index finger as she read the name on the panel for the third time.
C.E. BRADBERRY PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR
She had been standing in the hallway for fifteen minutes—almost half the time Ben had been there waiting for Charlie to return to his office for their regular Tuesday lunch date. And for those fifteen minutes Ben had watched her surreptitiously, waiting for her to enter the office and nervously tell him about the husband who was acting suspiciously or the teenage sister who had run away. He had even mentally rehearsed how he would tell her that he was not in fact C. E. Bradberry, but merely a friend who was also waiting for him to return.
He had studied her all this time as she hovered indecisively in the hall and, now, watching as her lips silently formed the words on the door, he thought he had at last grasped what it was that persistently drew his mind and his eyes back to her.
It wasn't the way she was dressed, although her clothing could certainly be described as unusual. You just don't run into many women wearing a man's trench coat on a hot September day. He stifled a laugh when he thought of the way she kept raising her slender arms to shake back the sleeves that periodically engulfed her small hands.
And it wasn't her face, although it too would be called unusual. The bright, clear blue of her eyes instantly caught the attention of an observer, calling up half-forgotten memories of the brilliance of the Texas sky after a sudden summer rain. The small, expressive mouth—bare of lipstick—looked as though it wouldn't know how to collapse into a sulk. These features, added to the lightly tanned skin, high cheekbones, and the slight tilt of her large eyes resulted in a face that couldn't be called beautiful, but would linger long in the memory.
However these were not the things that nagged at Ben as he watched her. It was something more subtle. Something that lay beneath the unusual surface. He raised his head as she turned away to open the door across the hall for a bent, old man who was shuffling along with the aid of a metal walker. She stayed a moment to speak to the frail man; then suddenly her laughter rang out, slipping like a wood sprite through the cracks around the door, drifting through the office like a song from another time.
That was it. That laughter was the audible evidence of what shone out of her unique features. It was like almost catching a ray of sunshine in your hand, only to have it slip away before you could grasp it. It intrigued and beckoned. It made him afraid to take his eyes from her animated face in case he missed something vital.
"God," he muttered, bringing one large hand up to massage the aching muscles of his neck. "I'm getting punchy from hunger."
What he was experiencing had to be a delusion. The sensations were foreign to him. They had no place in his world. He knew the instincts that a few months ago he would have trusted implicitly were now highly suspect. In fact, everything that had happened to him lately could probably be shoved together in one bag labeled symptoms.
Moving abruptly, he shoved the chair back and stood to walk to the dirty window that looked out over one dreary section of Houston.
Lord, how he hated the cliche "midlife crisis." It was an overworked, meaningless expression that lumped his unsettled state with that of thousands of others—men who traded their obligations for a few months of excitement that left them feeling emptier and older than ever. He resented any notion that his was an average condition. His ego demanded that what was happening to him be unique—an exotic, new mental process untainted by the snickers that accompanied the mention of middle-aged crazy.
His case was different. It had to be. Just because his discontent had hit him at nearly forty, a time when other men that age were longing for teenagers who made them feel sixteen again, didn't mean he had caught the same disease. He shoved his clenched fists into the pockets of his brown slacks when he realized he was trying much too hard to convince himself.
The facts. Look at the facts, he told himself. The facts would tell the story. And while his age and the fascination he felt for the young woman in the hall were certainly condemning bits of information, they didn't tell the whole story. In his favor was the spartan way he lived and, more important, the reason for his restlessness.
It wasn't youth and excitement he was searching for. Nor was it the company of beautiful women to boost his sagging ego. He was looking for one glimmer of sunshine in a world gone dark. He was Diogenes searching for the honest man he knew was hiding somewhere in his own soul.
Giving a short, self-mocking laugh at his fanciful thoughts, he leaned his shoulder against the wall. "You don't know what in hell you're looking for, you fool."
His lunch dates with Charlie were the only contact with his old life that he allowed himself. He had even put restrictions on the friendship that was the only remnant of his past. It was understood between them that there would be no mention of the world Ben had left behind. It had to be that way. The confusion of the present was too hard to deal with without adding confusion from the past.
And standing clear in the midst of all the confusion and uncertainty that surrounded him now was one sure fact—he didn't need any more complications. Like the woman in the hall. The only people who came here in search of Charlie had desperate problems of their own.
Glancing over his shoulder, he caught sight of her again. He had to admit this woman didn't look desperate. She looked like someone who was
In love with the world. And an errant husband was the last thing he would have associated with her. In fact, this small woman would probably keep her husband so fascinated, he wouldn't have time to think of other women.
Just like she's got you fascinated, came an unbidden thought.
Turning away from the window in frustration, he walked back to the desk and picked up the black phone. As he began to dial, his eyes wandered back to the hall and he saw her move her head to glance back at the door of Charlie's office. She shrugged, smiled slowly, then turned and walked away.
Slamming down the telephone, he swung around the desk and walked rapidly to the door. He had no idea why he was following her. He only knew his heart had started to pound when he saw her turn to leave and he had moved automatically, perversely following the instincts he had just warned himself not to trust.
The elevator doors were beginning to close when he caught up with her and he lunged awkwardly to stop them, then moved to stand against the back wall, feeling like a perfect fool as the elevator began to creak and groan, protesting the slow movement downward.
Now what do you think you're going to do, you ass? he asked himself, raising his eyes to the yellowed ceiling in disgust. Why don't you come right out and ask her if you can follow her around and watch her face?
"You don't look like a private investigator."
Her voice startled him. Not that it wasn't exactly as he had imagined it—clear and musical with a hint of what must be perpetual laughter. But he hadn't expected her to speak. She was staring at him curiously, apparently comparing him to her idea of a private investigator.
"I'm sorry," he said, his lips spreading in a smile that surprised him as much as her speaking. "Were you expecting Tom Selleck?"
"Oh, no," she assured him with an answering grin. "That's just what I mean. I thought the whole point was to blend into the background—be as nondescript as possible."
Ben thought of Charlie's horn-rimmed glasses and balding head and chuckled. "I see what you mean, and I think you just paid me a compliment."
"Why, yes. I guess I did at that," she said, tilting her head back to laugh up at him.
Fascinated, Ben leaned against the wall to watch her face. Hold on, you dope, he cautioned as he felt himself being wrapped in the spell of her smile. Remember, this is just another symptom of the restlessness that's been screwing up your life. She's just an ordinary woman.
But when the elevator stopped with a noisy jolt at the ground floor, his logical thinking fled and he touched her arm to detain her. "Is that why you decided not to come into the office?" he asked, responding to her look of inquiry, refusing to think of how he had pretended not to see her standing in the hall. "Because I don't look like Henry Kissinger?"
Her brilliant blue eyes ran up and down his large frame, resting for a moment on the laugh wrinkles around his eyes. Then she nodded as though confirming some secret conviction.
"I think I would like to talk to you after all," she said softly. "That is, when you get back." She smiled at him, her eyes crinkling softly at the edges. "Will you be gone long?"
"I was just going to have lunch," he lied smoothly. "Would you like to—"
"I'd love to," she interrupted, her grin widening infectiously, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she linked her arm through his. "Where are we going?"
Ben stared at her for a moment in stunned silence, then threw his head back and laughed in delight, suddenly feeling more alive than he had in months. "How do you feel about pasta? There's an Italian place just around the corner."
"I adore pasta," she said, her voice bubbling with enthusiasm.
As they left the building and walked down the street, passing structures that didn't claim to be historical, just old, Ben tried to hide the fact that he was staring, but the small face lifted exuberantly to the sun, the hair that blazed with golden fire, the vital way she walked beside him held his eyes fast. Unreasonably, he felt as though he had just given her a priceless gift. It felt good. Her hand on his arm felt good. And—to his astonishment—being Ben Garrison suddenly felt good.
He ushered her inside a small, aromatic cafe, then craned his neck to locate a free table. Finding one, he turned to look at her. "I see a table," he said, raising his voice in order to be heard over the noise. "Would you like me to hang up your coat?"
Her eyes suddenly sparkled with concealed laughter and a touch of the mischief he had seen earlier. "No, thank you," she replied demurely, denying the look in her eyes.
As they made their way through the maze of small, square tables, he wondered in exasperation what on earth he had said to amuse her. If she had purposely set out to intrigue him, she was doing one hell of a fine job of it.
When they had given their orders, he turned back to question her, but stopped when he saw her staring with a curious intensity at the center of the table.
Slowly she drew a breadstick from the straw basket. Lifting it to her mouth, she took a bite with strong, white teeth, then leaned back and sighed, her eyes closing as though she had just sampled a rare delicacy.
"Did you skip breakfast?" he asked, puzzled by her frank enjoyment.
Her spurt of laughter caused her to choke on the breadstick. Ben grabbed a glass of water, shoving it quickly into her hands. When the spasm subsided she looked up at him with laughing, watery eyes.
"As a matter of fact I did," she said.
"Why do I get the feeling you're using me for comic relief?" he grumbled, wavering between exasperation and amusement. "Why don't you tell me ..." His voice faded away as her hand paused in midair on its trip back to her mouth and a look of surprised enchantment settled on her expressive features.
He glanced over his shoulder to find the cause for her rapt expression, but saw nothing more than a room brimful of hungry—but ordinary—people. "What is it?" he asked in bewilderment.
"That man," she whispered in awe, still staring.
He looked again and pinpointed the man in question. "The one in the overalls? What about him? Do you know him?"
"Don't you see?" she asked in astonishment.
"I see a wino in dirty overalls who needed a shave about two weeks ago," he replied drily. "What am I supposed to see?"
She smiled as though she were indulging a backward child, then said softly, "Look in his back pocket."
Ben looked again, and suddenly he was confused and, unreasonably, a little frightened. In the back pocket of the dirty overalls there nestled three fragile yellow and white daisies.
An unexpected shudder shook his body and his eyes closed briefly as he tried to combat the flood of painful emotions that shook him. For in that moment he knew what he was trying desperately to regain in his own life—the ability to see the daisies first.
When he opened his eyes to stare across the table at her, in some incomprehensible way it seemed that she knew what he was feeling. And understood and hurt with him at the loss. It was an extremely uncomfortable sensation, almost an invasion of his privacy. He was not at all sure he wanted another human being able to see inside him like that. It made him feel vulnerable and exposed somehow.
Clearing his throat, he said gruffly, "Don't you think it's time you told me your name and why you came to the office?"
"I can't tell you my name," she said, taking another bite of the breadstick.
"Why?" Ben frowned as he leaned forward to rest his forearms on the checkered plastic tablecloth. "What kind of trouble are you in? I would keep the information confidential."
He felt a twinge of guilt now. He was quite deliberately misrepresenting himself to this young woman, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to confess the deception. Not just yet.
"I'm sure you would," she said sincerely, reaching across the table to touch his hand as though she were afraid she had offended him. "I don't doubt your integrity. I just can't tell you."
"Am I supposed to guess?" he asked, grinning as his somber mood disappeared at her touch. He considered her thoughtfully. "You're a Russian spy who wants to defect, but you're afraid the breadsticks are bugged, so you can't talk until you've eaten them all. Am I close?"
At her shout of laughter, he warily picked up the water glass again, ready to administer first aid if necessary, but she made it through this time without choking.
"I like you," she said with a chuckle. "I'm glad I changed my mind. And the reason I can't tell you my name is. ..."
Ben leaned closer, then groaned silently as the waitress picked that moment to arrive with their meal. He gritted his teeth during the arrangement of their plates of linguini, the ceremonial placing of the wine bottle, and the talkative waitress's attempts to convince them that they were in for a rare treat because Mama's clam sauce was the envy of every chef in town.
When the waitress was at last hailed by another diner, he turned back to his mysterious companion, giving her a stern look as she eyed the pasta longingly.
"The reason is . . ."he prompted.
"It's very simple," she said, picking up her fork. "The reason I came to you and the reason I can't tell you my name are one and the same." She looked up at him and smiled serenely. "I don't know who I am."
Two
The changing expressions on the face of the man seated across from her kept her mind—momentarily—off food. Shock came first, widening the gray eyes that should have been brown, causing his strong, square jaw to drop slightly, and she knew she had taken him completely by surprise. Gradually an eye-narrowing suspicion replaced the shock, then a quickly disguised anger.
He obviously thought she was trying to put something over on him. Apparently he didn't know how intimidating his size and stern features were. Definitely not a man to toy with.
Earlier, through the smoke-stained glass barrier, she had watched him working, and everything about him—his strong, compelling face, the neat, blue shirt covering but not concealing powerful shoulders, even the firm way he held his pen— pointed to the fact that this was a man who led a structured life. A place for everything and everything in its place. And, as if that weren't enough, the sensuality she had seen in firmly molded lips, sensed in his movements, caused a strange turbulence in her stomach, pushing her farther away from a decision to speak to him.
Then she had noticed his hair. Though neatly combed, it hung just a little below the conventional length that would have matched the rest of him, curling irrepressibly on the back of his strong neck.
She had almost gone in then, encouraged by the one comfortable flaw in his appearance, but just at that moment he had frowned and the grimness in his face had instantly reversed her decision.
It was only when they had stepped out of the elevator into the natural light that flooded the ground floor and she had seen the unmistakable laugh lines around his eyes, the quickly hidden touch of insecurity in his face, that she knew she could trust him with her story.
She stared now at his deeply tanned, rugged features, then said softly, "You don't believe me, do you?" as she dipped her fork into the linguini, unable to resist the smell any longer. Dropping her fork in exasperation, she raised her arms to shake back the full sleeves that dipped precariously into the clam sauce.
"Here," he said, reaching out as a sparkle of humor replaced the distrust in his gray eyes.
She extended both arms and waited impatiently as he rolled back the sleeves to a workable length. The aroma of the clam sauce was driving her wild, but she had the feeling that even if the food fell short of the waitress's claims it would taste like haute cuisine to her deprived tastebuds. As he rolled up the left sleeve she attacked the pasta with her free hand, an almost sensual "mmmmm" escaping her as the food settled into her empty stomach.
"You really are hungry, aren't you?" he asked, watching with bewilderment and a little awe as she ate without pause. "When did you eat last?"
"I don't know," she replied, hastily swallowing a mouthful of garlic bread to speak. "But it must have been a very long time ago." She raised her eyes briefly to smile at him. "I'm deeply indebted to you for feeding me. I was beginning to have dark thoughts—like mugging a pigeon in the park for his popcorn." Pausing thoughtfully, she added, gesturing with her fork, "You know, everyone should experience true hunger at least once in his lifetime. It has a way of wiping out the superfluous—the nonessential—and forces you to concentrate on the basics."
"And what would you classify as superfluous? Your"—he hesitated, giving her a skeptical look— "amnesia?"
"Ah," she said. "Now we're getting into a question of relativity. If you mean loss of memory in general, that's out of my range. Too deep," she explained, taking a sip of wine. "But my loss of memory—that I can handle. To me it is superficial, and therein lies the crux of my problem."
He waited with an impatient expression as she twined more of the dwindling pasta around her fork. When she didn't continue immediately he said shortly, "Are you going to tell me or not?"
"I'm just wondering where to begin."
"How about the beginning?" he offered drily.
Leaning back, she cast her eyes over his large frame, a tiny smile of amusement curving her lips. "A man with a logical mind," she murmured. "How can you stand it? It would drive me crazy."
"Would you like to know what drives me crazy?" he muttered through clenched teeth.
"Okay, okay," she said, laughing at his frustrated expression. "From the beginning." She finished the last of her wine, then said, "The beginning for me was yesterday afternoon. I woke up in a depressingly dirty little room. I had no idea where I was or who I was, but I knew I definitely didn't want to be there. The door was locked so I left by the window."
She knew she was being less than honest in her recounting of the events of the day before, but there was so much to tell. Her physical and mental state when she had awakened alone in that creepy little room. The problems she had encountered in trying to leave. But for now, until she could better judge this man's reaction to her unusual predicament, she would simply relay the basic facts to him.
"Since then," she continued, "I've been walking, mostly. When I decided to get in touch with a private investigator, I looked in a phone book and found—with the help of an adorable little German lady—the one closest to the phone booth. Which led me to you," she finished with a shrug, then stared at him with interest for a moment. "And you still don't believe a word of it . . . right?"
He rubbed his strong jaw thoughtfully. "Why a private investigator?" he asked instead of answering her question. "Why not the police? They might have a missing person's report on you right now. And even if they don't, they have resources that would make the search easier. If nothing else, they could take your story to the newspapers and television."
She leaned forward to plant her elbows on the table. "I considered the police. In fact, I think I covered all the possibilities." She grinned. "I've had a lot of free time for thinking of late." Her eyes dropped to his untouched lunch. "Aren't you going to eat that?" Then, when he gave a snort of surprised laughter and switched plates with her, she continued to explain between bites.
"Suppose I don't belong to anyone? What would the police do with me then?"
"What do you mean, what would they do with you? You sound like you think they would throw you out with the trash."
"That would be better. No, they would send me to a psychiatrist."
"So? A psychiatrist might be able to help you remember." He paused and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Unless you're afraid he'll find out you're lying."
She shook her head in regret. "It's very hard for you to accept something on faith alone, isn't it? What on earth could I gain by lying?" She frowned thoughtfully. "No, that's not the reason I'm afraid to go to the police."
"Afraid?"
"Yes, afraid. Consider the facts. One of the most horrifying things that can happen to a person is the loss of self. I didn't even know what city I was in until I saw Houston on the cover of the telephone book. I should be terrified. I should have a dark cloud of emptiness hanging over my head." Finishing the last bite of linguini, she leaned back with a sigh of repletion. "Do I look terrified?" she asked quizzically.
"No," he replied, chuckling softly. "I can't really say that you do."
"Right. I'm not. I'm having a ball." Her eyes sparkled as she remembered how she had spent the first part of her day. "Do you know what I did this morning? I played chess with a very dapper old man in the park and then repaired the kite of a chubby little boy with a lisp."
She leaned forward to whisper confidingly, "I'm crazy, you see. That's why I can't go to the police. If I don't belong to anyone, they would lock me up. I've thought it over very carefully and I decided that if this is crazy, I can live with it. So no police."
Ben's shoulders shook with silent laughter at her unorthodox, but strangely logical thinking. He doubted very much that she was insane, but he wasn't at all sure the authorities would agree with him. What on earth had he stumbled across? She was like no one he had ever met before. And she thought he was fighting against believing her. The truth was that he accepted every word that crossed her beautiful lips, and it was this—his uncharacteristic receptiveness—that made him wary. Something inside his brain was warning him not to be so fascinated, so mesmerized by the uniqueness of her personality, the open joy in her face. He had learned the hard way that every bit of joy that came in this world was followed sooner or later by disillusionment.
He wanted to tell her why it was so difficult to accept what he was feeling, to warn her against being so open to life, but as he looked into her brilliant blue eyes, he found he couldn't be the one to take away the joy.
Reaching across the table, he picked up the small hand of this tantalizing bit of sunshine and gave it a comforting squeeze. "You're not crazy. Unconventional, unexpected, and even a little kookie," he said, smiling, "but not crazy. And it's extremely unlikely that you don't have relatives of some kind."
"That's why I decided to try a private investigator. Then I wouldn't lose anything if it turns out that nobody wants me." She paused, glancing down at the tabletop, as though she were not quite sure how to continue. "Um . . . the only thing is ... I don't have any money . . . but you've probably already guessed that." Lifting her eyes, she gazed at him earnestly. "If it turns out that I don't have anyone, it may be a while before I can pay you.
But if I do, I promise I'll pay you immediately. Do you think you could find out before dinner?" she asked hopefully.
He chuckled again, shaking his head in wonder. He hadn't laughed so much in months—no, years. It had been years since he had felt this happy, this light-hearted.
"I'm afraid I can't promise that," he said, smiling ruefully. He really would have to tell her the truth soon. Charlie would take her case—Ben would make sure of that—but how could he tell her of his deception without losing her trust? Then again, did he really deserve her trust? She had a very real problem that needed solving and he was playing games with her—because when he looked at her, the doubts and fears that had been his uncomfortable companions for months slid into the background for a while. He was trying to leech her vitality and freshness in an underhanded way that suddenly shamed him. And it was going to stop right now, he decided.
"Look, Sunshine—there are a lot of things we need to cover. Labels in your clothing. Finding the place where you woke up yesterday. But before we go any further, there's something I need to tell you. When you came to the office—"
A loud crash interrupted him and all eyes in the cafe jerked around to watch the man with the daisies apologize profusely to the harassed waitress as he helped her pick up the load of empty dishes that were scattered on the floor.
Ben looked away from the scene, exasperated at the interruption, and returned his gaze to the woman across from him. He opened his mouth to continue, then stopped abruptly. She had turned sideways in her chair to see what had happened and the huge trench coat had slipped down slightly on her shoulder, her bare shoulder. His eyes followed the hardly visible line of smooth, creamy skin down to the tops of small, round—but equally bare—breasts and his breath caught roughly in his throat. As he felt the muscles in his loins tighten in reaction, he thought in a strangely objective way that once again she had called forth feelings in him that had been absent for months.
"Sunshine," he had christened her. The name pleased her. As she turned back to the table, she wondered what this large, tough-looking man really thought of her. He watched every small move she made with a curious intensity. Maybe he thinks I'm going to start raving any minute, she thought, grinning as she raised her eyes to his. Then her grin faded as she took in the look in his shocked gray eyes. She glanced down to find her borrowed coat had slipped down just enough to expose her bare shoulder.
"We obviously can't check the labels in your clothes," he muttered, his voice gruff as he watched her rearrange the beige trench coat. Clearing his throat loudly, he added, "Was there something you forgot to tell me?"
She couldn't hold back a giggle at the wariness in his voice. "I guess I did hold back a few of the minor details," she said. "I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't turn me over to the guys with the butterfly nets. You won't, will you?"
"You have my word. Now tell me the . . . minor details." He paused. "I suppose I'm right in assuming you're not wearing anything under that coat?"
"Not a stitch," she replied with cheerful unconcern. "I couldn't find any clothes when I woke up yesterday—except for an extremely disreputable-looking shirt—and since I stole this coat, the label in it wouldn't help." She paused as a shout of laughter behind them distracted her. "Shouldn't we go back to your office to discuss this?"
A strange look crossed his face before he said hastily, "No, this is fine. I don't want to lose any more time before you give me all the facts."
Shrugging, she continued. "As I said, I woke up in an ugly little room—a hotel room I think, but it certainly wasn't a suite at the Hilton. Just the bedroom and a bathroom straight out of a horror movie. I was lying on the bed with a sheet covering me . . . and I was completely nude."
She hesitated, unwillingly remembering how she had felt a moment of overwhelming anxiety when she had first opened her eyes in that depressing little room. But as she had gradually awakened enough to be aware of her loss of memory, she had come to view her situation as a challenge rather than a tragedy—which helped to convince her that she couldn't possibly be in full possession of her mental faculties.
Smiling wryly, she lifted her gaze from the table to continue, but stopped abruptly when she found he was not staring impatiently at her face as she had expected. In fact, he wasn't looking at her face at all. His eyes were trained on the beige coat, and a steel gray fire was blazing in them.
She raised a hand to her throat, suddenly feeling less complacent about her lack of clothing. It felt as though he were looking straight through the coat to her body underneath, and—not for the first time since she had encountered this man— she felt a strange fluttering sensation in the pit of her stomach.
When he raised his eyes at last, she saw that— unbelievable as it seemed—he was as confused as she was. The knowledge gave her the strength to ignore the strange sensations and continue.
"When I tried the door it was locked from the outside. Every time I pounded on the door, someone would either shout obscenities at me or laugh." She glanced at him ruefully. "I decided real quick that I didn't really want whoever was staying in the other rooms to help me." She sighed and leaned back. "So when I found a disgustingly dirty shirt under the bed, I put it on and climbed out the window."
She chuckled suddenly. "There was an old man sitting in the alley. You should have seen the look on his face when I climbed down that fire escape. He kept watching the window to see what else would come out."
"I can imagine," he murmured under his breath, his eyes flaring once again before sparkling with humor. "How did you acquire the trench coat?"
"It was surprisingly easy," she said. "I saw a delivery man going in a door off the alley, so I peeked in. It was some sort of storage room and the coat and shoes"—she lifted her foot to show him a battered sneaker—"were lying on a table. The shoes are a little large, but I didn't think I should wait around to ask if they had anything smaller. At least they were clean. It was a relief to get out of that filthy shirt." She paused thoughtfully. "It was really kind of fun." Her eyes brightened as she was struck by a new thought. "Do you suppose I was a thief in my other life? I don't feel the least bit guilty for having taken things that didn't belong to me."
"Somehow I doubt it." He chuckled.
"Oh," she said, almost disappointed. "Well, anyway, after that I started walking . . . and thinking. At first I was determined not to try to find out who I was. I wanted—"
"Why?" he interrupted. "That should have been your first impulse. Everything else—food, clothes, and so forth—would have been taken care of when you found your identity."
"You're right, of course. And I did think about it for a while." She leaned closer, speaking earnestly. "But you see, I felt no pressing need to find out about myself. And that very fact started me wondering why. Why wasn't it urgent that I discover my family and background? Amnesia is really pretty rare, isn't it?"
At his confirming nod, she continued. "At most it's usually a blank space that covers a short time after an accident. What I'm experiencing doesn't resemble that in the least, except for the possibility of an accident. I do have a bump on my head." She pushed back her thick hair to expose a discolored lump high on her forehead. "But I don't have any memory of the past at all. At least about me. I know how to speak and that George Washington was the first president, and I remembered how to play chess."
"And that you like Italian food," he added, smiling.
"Yes, well, I have a confession to make about that," she admitted sheepishly. "You could have asked me how I like warthog flambe and gotten the same response. I was starving."
"I noticed that."
She couldn't help laughing at his dry expression. "Anyway, since my loss of memory is more extensive than the usual kind, I figured there must be something else involved. Maybe there's a reason I can't remember."
"You mean something in your past you don't want to know about?" he asked, gazing at her thoughtfully. "You could be right. The mind is the most powerful unexplored mystery that's left to man. What you're talking about happens to all of us to a certain degree. We tend to block out events that are painful to remember."
His face changed as he spoke, growing tense and hard as though he were recalling events and referring to them obliquely. This was the man she had seen earlier through a dirty glass panel. The man she had turned away from. She couldn't suppress a shiver as she stared at the harsh lines of his face, the cold steel in his eyes. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the mood left and he was once more the laughing man in the elevator.
"Or at least we try to," he continued. "And there are times that we may have an exceptionally clear picture of something in our past, only to find that our recollection is entirely false—that we have remembered what we wanted to remember."
"Exactly," she said fervently. "And since I can't remember anything, my whole life must have been a mess. So why should I be in any hurry to get back to a mess?"
"I see what you mean," he said, laughing silently. "But you changed your mind."
"I had to. I thought maybe I could get some kind of assistance from one of the government agencies—just a loan so I could buy some clothes and look for a job—but you wouldn't believe what happened," she said indignantly. "You have to have numbers! I don't have numbers therefore I don't exist which means I couldn't possibly be hungry!" She gave him a disgusted look. "I mean, people who don't exist don't have to worry about eating, do they? And you can stop laughing. How many more nonexistent people do you suppose starve to death each year?"
"I'm sorry," he said, controlling his laughter with difficulty. "Don't you think they had a right to be a little suspicious? If you were completely on the up and up, you would have had your Social Security card. If they handed money out to everyone who asked, a lot of unscrupulous people would take advantage of it."
"I suppose so," she admitted grudgingly. "But after that I was afraid to go to the Salvation Army for clothes. I was afraid they would ask for more numbers. So I was forced to accept the fact that I have to find out who I am."
"And that's when you went to a phone booth and looked for a private investigator?"
"No . . . not exactly." She smiled at him, recalling how she had found a dozen excuses to put off the inevitable. "I decided it could wait a little while longer. I wasn't hungry then, you see. But after last night I came to the conclusion that even if I managed to find food, I would still need a place to stay."
He gave her a startled look, as though something had just occurred to him. "Where did you sleep last night?"
"I didn't actually do a lot of sleeping," she admitted. "I found a little combination convenience store and bus station." She showed him the direction with a wave of her hand. "It's about four blocks that way."
Closing his eyes, he said tightly, "You spent the night in that . . . rat hole?"
"Uh-huh," she confirmed blithely. "I told them I was waiting for someone to come in on a bus, and no one bothered me—well, almost no one."
"Why do I know already that I'm not going to like the rest of this story?" he muttered to himself. "Continue please."
"It was nothing really. Around midnight a man sat down beside me on the bench. He asked me if I wanted to . . ." She paused, trying to remember. "I can't recall the exact word he used—it was a new one for me—but I got his meaning." She chuckled and the sound almost covered his low groan. "It was the most astounding thing. I felt like a anthropologist observing the mating habits of some little-known tribe. With no preface or introduction, he just asked me outright."
"You're right," he said through clenched teeth. "You are unequivocally, basket-weaving, crayon-toting bananas!" His voice grew louder as he spoke, drawing the attention of the people immediately around them. "How can you be so calm about it? The man insulted you. Doesn't that make you angry? Weren't you in the least bit afraid? Or do you honestly have cotton candy where your brain is supposed to be?"
She stared at him curiously, aware of his anger, but unable to understand the cause. It was strange, but his explosive mood didn't upset her, not the way the cold mask had earlier. "I don't think he meant it as an insult," she said quietly. "I suppose, in his own mind, it was even a kind of compliment."
Taking several deep breaths, he remained silent until the red blotches left his face. "And then?" he asked calmly.
"Well, after I got rid of him, I simply waited for daylight so I could leave."
"And just how did you go about getting rid of him—say a polite 'No, thank you'?" he asked sarcastically, picking up his wineglass.
"I considered that," she admitted, biting her lip to keep from laughing at his expression. "But he looked as though he could be persistent, so I told him yes."
She realized when she heard his gasp that she should have waited until he had finished his wine before telling him. She moved quickly to pat him on the back, but he waved her aside.
"I'm fine," he said hoarsely. "You—you just continue with what you were saying. You told him yes and then what happened?"
"Actually, what I told him was that it should be all right because I didn't think I was still contagious." She gave him an ingenuous grin.
After a moment of silence, a low, reluctant chuckle began deep in his throat, growing in force until once again their neighbors were staring in curiosity. When it quieted down, he gave her what was probably meant to be a stern look, but somehow missed. "I suppose you know there are some men who wouldn't have cared if you had had the black plague."
"Yes, I know, but I also knew he wasn't one of them. If he had been, I would have screamed and the attendant would have helped me." She gave him a mischievous look. "Cotton candy or no, I'm not entirely witless; but I have to admit that kind of thing does tend to hamper one's ability to sleep, so I'd rather not have to do it again. I'm depending on you to find out who I belong to." She paused thoughtfully. "It's funny, but I don't feel like I belong to anyone. You'd think that there would be some small indication—emotionally—if there were really someone waiting for me."
"Oh, there's someone waiting all right," he said quietly, picking up her left hand.
"Why do you say that?" she asked, puzzled by the sudden solemn look on his face. Then she followed his gaze to her hand. There on her third finger was a very definite strip of untanned flesh.
Now, why didn't I see that before? she wondered in confusion. It was apparent that until recently she had been wearing a ring on that finger. Third finger, left hand. The wedding ring finger.
Married! The thought settled heavily on her brain like a dark, ominous cloud and suddenly, for the first time, she was frightened.
She didn't want to be married. Ever since she had come fully awake yesterday she had been filled with the most delicious sense of freedom. She felt alive and open . . . and free. She didn't want to give that up. The thought of being tied to—of being controlled by—some faceless man from the darkness of her past was untenable.
Her chaotic thoughts didn't allow for her possibility that she could have cared for the unknown man. She only knew that she had enjoyed the experiences of her last two days, that they were the only past she cared to remember. She had no wish to trade the instability of her known world for whatever beckoned to her from the threshold of yesterday.
Staring down at her finger, she saw that the strip of flesh was lighter in color—as though the missing ring had been a part of her for a long time.
She rubbed at the spot, reluctantly at first, then with a growing urgency, as if she could wipe out the disturbing evidence somehow.
Lifting her head slowly, she stared at the man seated across from her, her eyes wide. "No," she whispered. Then, raising her chin belligerently, she quickly placed her napkin on the table and stood up.
"I've changed my mind. I don't want you to find out who I am." Smiling politely, she took the remaining breadsticks and shoved them into her pocket, then murmured, "Thank you for the lunch and your time," as she passed him on her way out of the cafe.
Three
For one stunned moment, Ben simply sat and watched her walk away. Then he forced his limbs into action, swearing violently under his breath when he saw the line in front of the cash register. Reaching impatiently around a startled young couple, he thrust a bill into the cashier's hand, then moved quickly out of the cafe.
Glancing up and down the street, he searched the sidewalks and felt the muscles in his throat constrict unexpectedly when he saw no sign of the beige trench coat. Then suddenly, at the end of the block, a group of teenagers moved away from the display window of a small pawnshop. He felt the emptiness that had been settling on him lift as he spotted the unmistakable coat and the glint of sunshine on her golden hair.
"Sunshine!" he called when she began to walk away. "Sunny, wait!"
Running to catch up with her, he watched as she bent to pick up something from the sidewalk, then turned back to the pawnshop.
"Wait," he said again as he reached her, almost breathless.
God, he thought in disgust, I've got to get more exercise. Six months ago the short sprint wouldn't have taken anything out of him. He leaned against the brick wall beside her until the stitch in his side eased, watching her watch him.
"What in hell do you think you're doing?" he said finally, annoyed at the reminder that he was out of shape, annoyed at the way he had reacted to the thought of losing her, and—unreasonably— annoyed that he was thirty-nine and she was twenty-five at most. "Do you think you can spend the rest of your life sleeping in bus stations and depending on strangers to feed you?"
"I'll think of something," she said, glancing away from him to stare curiously at the pawnshop window. "Like I said before—I no longer require the services of a private investigator."
"That's good because I'm not." He held himself stiff, waiting silently for her to react to his blunt admission, but for a moment she didn't seem to take the words in.
She studied the window in front of her intently, then glanced up at him absentmindedly. "I beg your pardon? You're not what?"
"A private investigator," he said, irritated by the way her thoughts seemed to be wandering away from him.
"Oh, really?" Her eyes sparkled with amusement as she looked up at him through ridiculously long lashes, focusing her full attention on him at last. "Did I uncover something devious?" She spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. "Are you practicing without a license?"
He wanted to grab her thin shoulders and give her a hard shake—or a hard kiss, he couldn't decide which. "I'm not Charles Bradberry," he stated. "I was simply waiting for him to return to his office."
She leaned against the wall beside him, interest growing in her blue eyes. "Why do you need a private investigator?"
"I don't need an investigator," he said in exasperation. "I need a drink." He reached out and grasped her arm, feeling the small bones through the bulky coat. Suddenly the muscles in his groin tightened as he remembered her state of undress beneath the coat and he dropped her arm like a hot rock.
"Look, he's a personal friend," he said, running through his hair a hand that—to his consternation—shook slightly. "Now, will you forget about that! Are you going to be reasonable and admit that you need help? If not Charlie's, then mine."
"No—" She stopped suddenly. "What's your name?"
"Ben. Ben Garrison."
"No, Ben," she said, enthusiasm filling her voice. "I think I've figured out what to do."
"Oh God," he groaned. "Tell me. I'm strong, I can take it."
Drawing her hand out of her pocket, she showed him a four-inch fragment of brick. She started tossing it casually in the air, then glanced pointedly down to the corner where a uniformed policeman was talking to the teenagers who had stood beside her earlier. When she was sure he had followed her gaze, she shifted her devilish eyes back to the window beside them, still playfully tossing the piece of brick.
"Do you remember that O. Henry story, 'The Cop and the Anthem'?" she asked in a stage whisper.
"Oh no you don't," he said emphatically, grabbing her hand to remove the brick as her meaning became frighteningly clear. "And if you'll recall, breaking the window didn't land him in jail as he had planned."
"Whatcha wanna bet it would work for me?" she said cockily.
"Forget it," he insisted. "I don't know what fairy tale you've concocted in that marvelous brain of yours, but believe me, you wouldn't like jail."
"But they would feed me regularly and I would have a place to sleep. They might even try to rehabilitate me and give me some clothes and—" her beautiful lips twisted and her next words came out through her teeth in an outrageously bad imitation of James Cagney—"if those dirty rats try to grill me, I won't tell them anything." She fluttered her gold lashes at him artlessly. "Because I don't know anything."
As he stared down at her impudent face, his irritable mood vanished without a trace and suddenly the whole thing was hilariously funny. His lip twitched irrepressibly as he met the twinkle in her blue eyes and before he knew what was happening, they were standing there in the bright sunshine, ignoring the stares of the passing people as they leaned against the old building, their entwined bodies shaking with helpless laughter.
Gradually he became aware of the pawnshop owner watching with narrow-eyed suspicion through the plate glass window. Ben nudged Sunny to share the sight with her and the man's eagle-eyed stare caused a fresh eruption of laughter. Grabbing her hand, he began to run down the street. But as they approached the policeman— now standing alone—their steps slowed with simultaneous, comic wariness and Ben casually dropped the telltale piece of brick. The officer eyed them sharply as they passed him, strolling arm in arm, whistling tonelessly under their breaths. When he dismissed them as unimportant and turned his attention elsewhere, they broke into a run and quickly swung around the corner, pressing themselves against the wall as they regained their breaths between spurts of laughter.
"Are you sure I wasn't a thief?" she giggled helplessly, her forehead resting weakly on his chest.
"I'm positive. You're much too obvious," he gasped, resting his back against the wall to pull her closer.
His large hands lay loosely on her hips and, as his mind slid with unfaltering determination back to the thought of her slim body under the bulky coat, he found his hands were doing a little sliding of their own. Pulling them away from the rounded buttocks, he swore viciously under his breath. She was lost, alone, and needed his help— and all he could think about was that line of white flesh he had seen earlier.
Tilting her head up, he stared down into her laughing face, his eyes sober. "Sunny, I'm completely ignorant as far as amnesia is concerned, but how can you remember O. Henry and James Cagney without remembering when you learned of them. At the very least, you should recall your reactions to them." He paused reflectively, unaware of the way her face changed as he spoke. "Take O. Henry. How did you feel when you read the story of the tramp who thought of jail as a winter resort?"
For a moment she was perfectly still, then she pulled out of his arms, shoving her hands into the deep pockets of the coat as she turned to walk away from him.
"Hey," he said in surprise, moving to keep in step with her. "Where are you going?"
She shrugged her shoulders in answer, then glanced sideways at him. "I don't want you to probe. Why can't you just leave it alone?"
He had to lean closer to hear the softly spoken words. "It's all going to come back whether you want it to or not," he said quietly. "You can't hide from yourself."
"I can try," she said stubbornly. "And if it comes back, then it will come back in its own time."
Walking beside her, he stared down at her firmly set jaw and thought about what she had said, about everything that had happened since he had first seen her standing in the hall. The thing that stood out with sharp clarity was her attitude toward her unusual situation. She seemed perfectly content with her loss of memory. Content, hell—in her own words, she was having a ball. There had to be a reason for that, maybe the husband she didn't want to know about.
As an uncomfortable tightness gripped his chest, he realized she wasn't the only one who didn't want to know about the missing husband.
He wouldn't try to force her to remember. Carefully blocking out his own feelings, he told himself that the brain was an extremely intricate instrument. It was probably giving her time to regain her strength from some type of trauma before making her face the truth. And in her own stubborn way, she recognized that. Unconsciously she knew there was something in her past that she was not yet capable of handling. And she was right. It had to come in its own time.
"Ben."
The softly spoken word startled him and he glanced down at her solemn face with its huge, anxious eyes.
"I did try to remember my reactions to O. Henry," she said hesitantly. "But I can only tell you how I feel about the story now. I don't know if it's the same way I felt then."
Good Lord, he thought, closing his eyes in consternation, she thinks she's hurt my feelings. She's trying to soothe my ego.
Opening his eyes, he pulled her close in a brief, hard hug. "Don't worry about it." He smiled at her. "You're right. You'll remember when it's time." He glanced up and found they were almost even with the car he had parked on the street two hours earlier. Stepping in front of her, he opened the passenger door and waited for her to slide in.
"Where are we going?" She didn't sound reluctant, merely curious.
"To my place. It's not much, I'm afraid, but it beats the bus station hands down."
Sliding into the car, she looked up at him as he closed the door behind her. "Why are we going to your place?"
"Where else would we go?" he said, then walked around the front of the car to fold his large frame behind the wheel. "It'll give you a chance to relax and think everything over without having to worry about things like food and clothing."
She stared at him for a moment, then said slowly, "In other words, you want me to live with you until I remember?" She fell silent again, then suddenly she began to laugh.
"You find the oddest things funny," he muttered, turning his head slightly to watch her face. "What on earth set you off this time?"
"I started to say I don't do that kind of stuff," she said, chuckling. "Then it suddenly occurred to me that I don't know. I may do that kind of stuff on a regular basis." She paused, her eyes growing reflective. "Do you suppose—"
"No," he interrupted firmly. "If by 'that kind of stuff you mean what I think you mean, then no, you weren't a loose woman in your other life." Reaching down, he started the car and pulled away from the curb.
"How do you know? I could have been more than a loose woman. I could have been a hooker."
Smiling grimly, he said, "If you had been that kind of woman, you wouldn't have put that creep off last night. You would have charged him for your services and had money for food and a room."
She sat silently for a moment, then turned to him with a strange expression on her face—as though she had bitten into a rotten apple. "Yuck," she said. "You're right. I don't think I could have done it. Which is a shame really. It's a job opportunity I hadn't considered. The pay is good and I bet the customers never even ask for a Social Security card. I wouldn't even have to have new clothes for the job. What I'm wearing would be perfect."
Lord, he moaned silently. He wished she hadn't mentioned that again. It was difficult enough keeping his mind off it. Especially since the coat had slipped again and was now exposing a not indecent but thoroughly provocative bit of thigh.
"Stop worrying about a job," he said gruffly, keeping his eyes firmly front and center. "I don't exactly live in the lap of luxury, but I think I can manage to feed you."
"But why should you?"
"What else am I supposed to do with you?" That was a stupid way to put it, you fool. "Look, if you're really afraid I might have dark designs on your body, you can forget it. I don't have anything like that in mind." Liar, he accused silently, still avoiding looking in her direction. If it weren't for that mark on her finger, you would have made a move already. He could feel her staring at him and her voice, when it came, was low and whimsical.
"It may sound weird—in fact, it sounds weird to me—but I'm not worried about that," she said slowly. "But I still want to know why you should take me in. I don't want to seem rude, but your car doesn't exactly indicate a wealthy eccentric who goes around helping people in need."
She shifted her position on the seat and he remembered the spring that was sticking through the upholstery on the passenger side.
"So why should you put yourself out to help me?" she continued. "Or is it simply the No man is an island' thing?"
"I guess you could put it that way," he murmured. "But it's not putting me out to help you. Worrying about your being out on the streets alone would disrupt my life more. So you could say that I'm taking the course that's easiest for me." There was no need for her to know the black emptiness that he had felt descend on him when he lost sight of her on the street ... no need at all.
"You mean you're doing this for you instead of for me?" she said slowly, making no effort to hide the amusement and disbelief in her voice.
"Exactly," he confirmed stubbornly. "And I don't imagine it will be all that long before everything comes back to you. So you can just relax and enjoy my hospitality."
Sunny followed Ben up the narrow staircase. The large stone mansion they had entered moments earlier must have been, at one time, a scene of nineteenth-century gracious living. Now, however, it was reduced to apartment for rent status and had not accepted the change gracefully. The patchwork division of living space sat uneasily amidst the ornate crown molding and once beautiful ceiling medallions.
At the top of the three flights of stairs, Ben inserted a key into the door while Sunny looked around her curiously. Across the hall a door squeaked slowly open and two eyes appeared on a level with her shoulders. As Ben opened his door, she wiggled her fingers in greeting to the eyes that disappeared magically when she smiled and winked.
"Well, such as it is, welcome to my castle," Ben said as he moved aside and waved her in.
The large room was saved from being dreary by huge windows, and the splashes of color, in the form of paintings and throw pillows, that had been added to the walls and furniture.
"I like it," she said, moving toward a Thomas Eakins print that hung beside one window. "It's nice."
"As compared to what—the city sewers?" he retorted.
She turned to look at him over her shoulder and grinned. "As compared to the bus station."
"Point taken," he said, answering her grin as he watched her walk around the room.
When she came to the sturdy oak desk, she paused. She studied the portable typewriter, then the crumpled paper in the wastebasket.
"Are you a writer?" she asked, intrigued at the thought of finding another flaw in the president-of-the-bank image he exuded.
"Right now I'm a hack," he said. "Someday I hope to be a writer."
"A hack?"
He sat down on the faded green sofa and indicated that she should be seated also. "I write articles for magazines that have a combined circulation of about twenty. I write about the danger of hand guns and the danger of letting the government control our lives. I write about the inadequacy of our government and the beauty of the democratic system. About how unions are upholding workers' rights and how they are ruining free enterprise. In other words, I'm a whore. They pay the money and they call the shots."
Staring at the deep lines of bitterness in his strong face, she said, "You sound very . . . disillusioned. Have you been doing this long?"
"Five months, two weeks, and three days," he said wearily, raising a hand to massage his neck. "I left the nine-to-five job, the cocktail lunches, and the neckties behind and set out to prove something to myself. I proved something all right, but it wasn't exactly what I had expected."
"What did you set out to prove?"
"A lot of things. Some of them really too nebulous to put into words. But the main thing was that I could make a living at writing."
"And are you?"
"Sure. If you can call this living."
She laughed softly at the disgust in his voice. "What's wrong with it? Are you hankering after the nice suburban house and Cadillac that went with the nine-to-five? What is it that you're lacking, except pots of money which you apparently didn't mind giving up?"
"Integrity," he said quietly. "It's what I didn't have before and what I had hoped to gain by what I'm doing. Truth was what I was looking for . . . and maybe self-worth."
"I take it the job you had before was not fulfilling. " She paused as a new thought struck her. "Did a wife and the two-point-five kids go with the neckties?"
"No," he said, smiling. "But I came too close for comfort. In fact that's one of the reasons I dropped out of the whole thing. I had a wife once, about ten years ago. But when she could scarcely remember my name to introduce me to her date at a party, we decided to call it quits. Then six months ago I found that almost without my knowledge the same thing was happening all over again. I was engaged to a woman who suddenly looked like my ex-wife's clone. I'm not ashamed to say it scared the hell out of me. I could see myself bumping into her at a party ten years from now and trying to remember her name. So I chucked it all. The job, the house, the cars—everything. I wanted no reminders to detract me from the goal I had set for myself."
"And that was?"
"The usual one. To write the Great American Novel. To make what I consider an honest living, without any double-dealing or having to compromise my principles." He muttered a low, unrepeatable expletive under his breath. "God, what a laugh. I'm still compromising my principles, only now I'm doing it for substandard wages."
Sunny didn't speak for a moment. She stared across the room, thinking about what he had said. Even when he tried to be casual and blase about what had happened and was happening to him now, it was clear that he was hiding a wealth of pain. Two men seemed to be struggling for control of his mind—the man whose every movement and thought was precise and economical, and the man whose hair was a little too long and who hurt because he overlooked the daisies.
"Are you a good writer?" she asked quietly.
He stared at her for a moment. "Yes," then more emphatically, "Yes, I am. I'm a damn good writer."
"Are you writing lies?"
He gave her a quizzical look. "No, not lies exactly. There are always two sides to everything. I may believe one particular way, but that doesn't mean I can't see the opposite side. I give the truth that exists on whatever side I happen to be writing about."
"So you aren't really compromising your principles," she said. "You're simply a purveyor of facts. What's so despicable about that? The Encyclopedia Britannica does it all the time. That's not exactly shabby company to be in."
"Okay, I get your point," he said, walking across the room to the window. "But I want to do more than inform. I want to stir emotions, to sway opinions with my writing."
"You want too much, too fast," she said earnestly. "If you are truly a good writer, then all that will come. Nothing will be able to hold it back. But what makes you think you don't have to serve an apprenticeship first just like everyone else? If it were all handed to you on a platter, would it be worth very much to you? Think of the sense of accomplishment you'll feel when you reach your goal at last. Think of—I beg your pardon? Did you say something?"
"I said Sunny is the wrong name. I should have named you Pollyanna."
She laughed in delight at the wariness in his voice. "Okay. If you get your kicks out of being the world-weary cynic, don't let me stop you. I just can't see the point in saying, 'Oh, my. Oh, my. The world is going to hell in a handbasket.' There's too much in the world—in your life—that's positive to dwell on the negative." She paused, then added softly, "Remember the daisies, Ben."
As she finished speaking the same look of painful longing appeared in his gray eyes. He stared at her for a moment, then turned abruptly away to face the window. Suddenly she regretted having mentioned the incident in the cafe. She felt as though she were callously invading private territory.
His broad back was stiff and straight as the silence grew. Then, without warning, he began to laugh. The sound wasn't a hesitant chuckle, but a shout of genuinely amused laughter.
Swinging around, he took in the bewilderment on her face and spoke, his eyes sparkling. "It just hit me what's happening here. You don't know who you are or where you came from . . . and what's more, you don't care. You considered going to jail as a possible solution to your problem. You're walking around in a trench coat that's three sizes too big for you. And you're giving me advice!"
The laughter threatened to spill over again and his eyes were wide with astonishment. "I'm being psychoanalyzed by a—a loony-bird!"
Sunny began to chuckle as the truth of what he was saying sank in; then her laughter gained momentum as a new thought struck her. She leaned her head back against the sofa and wiped the tears from her cheeks. "Don't you see what that means?" she gasped, holding her sides. "You're crazier than I am because"—she paused to catch her breath —"because you listened to me!"
In three strides he was standing beside her, pulling her to her feet. "Lord, what a pair we are. A will-o'-the-wisp who's trapped in the twilight zone and an overgrown fool with delusions of grandeur." He placed a companionable arm across her shoulders. "But I guess we're stuck with each other. Now, I think it's time you got some rest. You said didn't sleep much last night."
"That sounds lovely, but do you think I could have a bath first?"
"Sure. I'm afraid the shower is one of those horror-movie props you referred to, but there is usually enough hot water."
She laughed. "Actually, hot water is the last thing I need right now. Or haven't you noticed the steam rising from me?"
He gave her a contrite look. "Lord, you must be boiling in that coat. I'm sorry, Sunny. I just didn't think."
"Don't worry about it. I think I'm getting used to it," she said, smiling wryly. "Except the sweat tickles a little when it runs down my ribs."
"Come on," he said, laughing at her rueful expression. "I'll show you where everything is and make sure you have clean towels."
The bedroom was a small echo of the living room, filled with furniture that was old and of no recognizable style. Here, too, colorful paintings had been added to the walls, and resting incongruously on the nondescript bed was a turquoise satin comforter.
Crossing the room, Ben opened the door to the bathroom. He had exaggerated the horrors of the small, utilitarian room. Although it was plain and old—like the rest of the apartment—it was also clean and well-lit.
After laying out a clean bath towel for her, he closed the door behind him. Sunny lost no time in shedding her beige torture chamber. She had fibbed when she said the coat didn't bother her. It was unbearable, and she would consider herself lucky if she hadn't contracted terminal heat rash.
Turning the cold water on full force, she stepped under the delicious spray with a moan of pleasure. It would take hours to cool her overheated body.
"Oh, well," she said with a sigh. "I have nowhere else to go."
As she turned her back to the water she realized with a sudden shock that she had known Ben for less than four hours. How odd that seemed. She felt she had known him all her life. Yet the life she could remember was only two days old, so maybe it wasn't so strange after all.
But that didn't explain the way he accepted her as naturally as she accepted him. The way they argued and laughed together was unusual to say the least. And there were times she felt as though they were reading each other's thoughts.
There had to be a logical reason for their instant rapport. It wasn't only that she had found Ben at the exact moment she had needed him most. In some incomprehensible way he seemed to need her just as much. They had made contact at a crucial point in both their lives.
Or maybe it was much simpler than that. Perhaps the fact that she was a stranger to him—a stranger with no past, no prejudices, no judgments to make—allowed him to open up to her. And the same could be true of her. She trusted him, was totally at ease with him, because there was nothing in her memory that would cause her to put up walls around her emotions.
Reaching through the curtain of water, she twisted the knob to "off and began to laugh at her thoughts. Now the loony-bird was trying to analyze the loony-bird.
She vigorously rubbed herself dry, then stood for a moment in front of the peeling full-length mirror nailed to the bathroom door. She had seen her face in the mirrors of the park restrooms, but this was the first time she had seen herself full-length.
"Not bad," she murmured, staring critically at  her slim figure. "A little runty, but not bad."
The flesh of her high, rounded breasts and gently curved hips was firm and smooth. She wondered— not for the first time—how old she was. She didn't appear old, but then again she didn't feel very young.
"Sunny?"
Ben's voice came through the closed door and she raised the towel to dry her hair as she answered. "Yes?"
"I don't wear pajamas, but I found a shirt I think will be soft enough for you to sleep in. I'll put it on the bed for you."
His thoughtfulness touched her and she realized again how lucky she had been in meeting him today. It was wonderful to have the certainty of Ben's caring when the rest of her life was so uncertain.
Wrapping the towel around her body sarong-style, she walked into the bedroom. "Ben," she said thoughtfully. "How old do you think I am?"
He swung around at the sound of her voice and opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. As he stood there staring silently at her, the strange feeling in her stomach returned and the room suddenly seemed to be filled with electricity.
At first his gaze slid over her towel-wrapped body restlessly, never staying on one spot long before moving away. Then gradually the stunned look left his eyes and they were filled with an urgency—a growing flame of raw need.
This time his examination was a slow, sensual review. He began with her face, inspecting every minute detail, his eyes lingering in fascination on the tiny mole beside her mouth. Her lips began to tingle wildly as he prolonged the invisible caress.
When his gray gaze slid down at last, she breathed a silent sigh of relief, then caught her breath sharply as his eyes found the pulse point in her neck and she felt her blood jerk crazily in her veins, as though he had commanded her response with the white-heat of his stare.
She felt the searing heat slide lower, lingering on her delicate collarbone, then coming to rest at last on the rounded tops of the breasts that strained for freedom beneath the thick yellow towel.
Suddenly she was lost in an incredibly sweet fantasy. A ghost lover with Ben's face caressed her. She felt his spectral hands slide through the thickness of the towel to cup her swelling breasts and surround them with his illusory warmth.
As she stared from beneath weighted lids, his eyes descended and she felt the strong hand of the phantom glide over her stomach, exploring its softness thoroughly before moving down. The magical warmth came to rest on the hidden seat of her womanhood and lingered there, growing more and more powerful with each passing second, spreading a throbbing ache outward from the vulnerable spot between her thighs.
Her body began to quiver in spontaneous reaction as she tried feverishly to assimilate the unbelievable sensations that were flooding her body. She was being ravaged—and neither of them had moved a muscle. She could see the desperate, aching need in his face; she could hear his ragged breathing. And she knew she wasn't in her fantasy alone. Something powerful and unexpected was happening to both of them.
Suddenly he brought his gaze back to her lips, and with his gaze came every nerve in her body, tingling and aching in the soft flesh of her lips. The ache grew steadily, until she felt that if she couldn't have the relief of his lips on hers soon, she would die of want.
At last, when the throbbing need had reached unbearable proportions, he lifted an unsteady hand and, with the dazed look of a sleepwalker, extended his index finger to touch her trembling mouth.
She couldn't hold back a soft moan of pleasure as he slowly outlined her mouth. His finger lingered on her lower lip, pulling down on the sensitive flesh. She opened her mouth slightly to touch the tip of his finger with her tongue, tasting the salty roughness before nipping at it gently with her teeth.
His breath sounded labored and painful as he drew his finger away and brought it slowly toward his lips.
Then suddenly all motion stopped as a groan caught in his throat and he closed his eyes tightly as though he were in pain. A violent shudder shook his large frame and she could almost feel all his muscles tighten in reaction.
When he opened his eyes again they were glazed with shock. Then, without a word, he turned and walked out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Four
Sunny stared at the door in stunned silence. Her eyelids drifted down weakly as she wrapped her arms around her waist in an unconscious attempt to halt the quakes of reaction that shook her body.
"So that's what it was," she said in a dazed whisper.
At last she knew what the peculiar feeling in her stomach meant. A mind-boggling, strength-sapping attraction for the man in the next room, that's what it meant.
She gave a short, confused laugh, covering the sound with a trembling hand. She wanted Ben! What an extraordinary thing to have happen. And judging by the breath-stealing mime that had just taken place, the feeling was mutual.
Walking to the bed in a daze, she sat down abruptly. What on earth was she going to do now? The strength of the emotions that had just surfaced had been so overwhelming—almost frightening in their depth—that her first reaction was to run from the intensity of her feelings. To pretend the dazzling scene hadn't happened, because a confrontation with that kind of reality might prove more than she was able to handle.
But that was wrong, she thought, running a distracted hand through her damp curls. She was already running from the past. She couldn't run from the present, too. Besides, Ben was the only friend she had. She would not risk losing his friendship simply because she couldn't face up to the facts. She would have to clear the air now, before embarrassment and tension had a chance to grow.
Moving quickly, without giving herself a chance to succumb to the temptation of hiding beneath the turquoise comforter, she walked toward the door, then paused, biting her lip as she glanced down at the towel that barely covered her body. It was her careless attitude about the way she was dressed that had caused the problem in the first place. She couldn't make the same mistake twice.
Grabbing the navy blue terrycloth robe that lay on the bed beside the shirt, she wrapped it tightly around her slight form, then moved again toward the bedroom door.
Stopping abruptly, she felt her pulse quicken when the door swung open before she could reach it and without warning, she was staring at Ben.
For a moment the air sizzled between them as their eyes locked and memory of their encounter of moments before held them frozen in time. Then Sunny recognized emotions in his strong face that had been absent before. Lines of concern and self-blame were etched deeply into his brow and bracketed his stiffly held lips.
Shaking free of the sensual threads, she gave a small smile and murmured weakly, "Well, this is another fine mess you've gotten me into."
For a moment he stared at her in uncomprehending silence; then amusement and relief drove the harshness from his face. The happiness that flooded her at the change in him astounded her. How could a virtual stranger's peace of mind mean so much to her?
"Sunny—"
"Ben—"
"You first," she said, laughing with him as they moved to sit on the couch.
"That was an asinine thing for me to do," he said bluntly. "I can't understand how it happened, but you've got to believe that I didn't plan it." He smiled ruefully. "I won't lie and say I haven't been attracted to you from the very first."
He stopped and watched her with an exasperated expression on his tanned face. "Would you stop looking so pleased? I only mentioned it because I want you to know that you have no reason to be afraid of staying here with me. I didn't intend for you to know how I felt."
Such a nice man, she thought, observing the sincerity in his gray eyes. Perhaps she shouldn't be pleased by his confession. Perhaps she should be nervous or shy or something other than thrilled to her toes. But she wasn't and she couldn't pretend to be.
"Ben," she said as she gazed across the room at the delicate lines of a watercolor hanging on the wall directly opposite her. "Do I look frightened?" She smiled. "And did it seem to you that what happened in the bedroom was all one-sided?" She swung her eyes back to him. "I thought I was being disgustingly obvious."
Standing abruptly, he walked to the window. "I've been trying not to think about that," he muttered over his shoulder. "Because that only makes things more complicated."
"Why? I should think that makes everything simpler. I like you and you like me," she said in confusion. She hadn't consciously thought of having a close relationship with Ben, but now that he had vetoed the idea, she knew that something inside her would have welcomed it. "I can't see the problem."
Walking back to the couch, he leaned down to pick up her left hand. "Now can you see the problem?"
She followed his gaze to the pale strip of flesh on her left hand. "Oh . . . that," she muttered disagreeably. "I thought we agreed not to talk about that?"
"We didn't agree to anything. You refused to discuss it or even think about it. But dammit, Sunny, that doesn't make it go away. And it doesn't change the fact that you are in all likelihood one very married lady."
"Don't say that!" she gasped. Jumping up, she brushed by him, wrapping her arms around her waist as her eyes darted around the room in nervous agitation. "You have no way of knowing that. People do wear rings other than wedding rings on that finger," she added hopefully.
"Yes, you're right," he conceded, his quiet voice soothing to her fragile nerves. "But there is always a chance that you are"—he paused when she glared at him—"that you have someone waiting for you. And as long as there is a chance, then we have to ignore what happened in the bedroom."
"Nothing happened," she said, her jaw set in stubborn lines. "So there's really no need for all this fuss."
"You know better than that," he chided softly. "Like you said, it wasn't a unilateral thing."
"I didn't say that," she replied irritably. "I didn't say unilateral. In fact, I bet I never say unilateral. It's a pompous word. A bank-president word."
He simply gazed at her, smiling without comment until she had to shake her head and laugh.
"Okay. You win. I still don't believe I'm married, but I agree it would be thoughtless to ignore the possibility. So if we're not going to have an affair, how do we handle the situation?" She curled a lock of her hair around her index finger, glancing at him from beneath her lashes. "It could get ve-ry sticky around here."
Closing his eyes, he drew in a deep breath and she watched in fascination as his chest expanded beneath the blue shirt, subtly outlining taut muscles. Then, slowly and noisily, he exhaled and opened his eyes to stare at her in frustration.
"The first thing you've got to do is learn to curb your tongue," he said drily. "Since—as you so aptly put it—things could get sticky, don't make it worse by being provocative."
She batted her lashes at him. "Is that what I'm doing?"
"Don't give me that innocent look," he said, chuckling. "You know damn well what you're doing." Easing his large frame down onto the couch, he stared at her with solemn eyes. "Can we talk seriously now?"
She turned away from him and shrugged in casual unconcern. "Sure. Why not?"
"Sunny, I'm going to need your help if we're going to make this work," he said softly, his voice almost pleading.
What was she doing? Why was she trying to make things more difficult for him? "I'm sorry." She turned back and sat down beside him. "I'm a thankless wretch, aren't I? Why are you bothering with me? You should chuck me out on the street and say good riddance."
"Yes, I should." He laughed. "But since I rarely do what I should, I guess I'll keep you. Now, are you ready to discuss some rules?"
"Rules?" she asked, her brow wrinkling in bewilderment. "What kind of rules?"
"Oh, things like remaining clothed at all times. No, don't interrupt," he said as she opened her mouth to protest. "I don't mean when you bathe so don't you dare say anything."
"I wasn't going to say that. I probably would have if I'd thought of it, but it didn't occur to me," she added with an honest grin. "I was going to say I don't have anything except that coat." She gave him a skeptical look. "I'll wear it if you want me to, but it's not going to be easy."
"I didn't mean that. I'll take care of rounding up some clothes for you," he said, his face looking comical, like it couldn't decide whether to fall into lines of amusement or impatience. "The next rule is to respect each other's territory. You take the bedroom and I'll have the living room."
"But you can't sleep on this couch," she protested. "It's just barely long enough for me. You take the bed and let me have the couch."
"It folds out to make a bed. And I'm inclined to use the desk at odd hours, so this room would be more convenient for me. Obviously, I'll have to go through the bedroom to get to the bathroom and you're free to use the living room any time you want to—except at night—but I think we can work around those things. Now, any questions?"
The bank president was back with a vengeance. A place for everything and everything in its place. Maybe I should salute, she thought, hiding her smile.
"No, sir. No questions," she replied briskly.
He grinned, his expression looking remarkably boyish as he acknowledged the thrust. Pushing her in the direction of the bedroom, he said, "Go to bed. If you'll pull the drapes, it will be cooler in there."
"I'll be fine," she said, smiling back at him. Then her face grew solemn. "Ben, thank you . . . for everything."
As the door closed behind her, she walked to the bed and picked up the cream-colored shirt he had left there for her. Silk. Soft, fine silk. He had obviously not left everything behind in the suburban house.
What a curious man he was. A curious man and a curious situation. Two survivors with disparate personalities forced to share the same life raft. As she pulled on the shirt, she wondered wistfully what would happen to them before they reached the end of their precarious voyage.
"Don't think about the end," she murmured as she pulled back the comforter. Now was what was important. Every day was an adventure, and she had a friend to share those adventures with her. A little hesitantly, to be sure, but still he was there to share them.
Would he have been a friend in her former life? Was he the kind of man she had once been attracted to? Married to?
Lying on the bed, she curled up in a ball as she fought the idea of being married. She didn't want even to consider the possibility. She would not allow herself to be married. She was new clay, and being married wasn't part of the image of Sunny that was beginning to take shape. The vague lines showing were fluid and free. Sunny was open and unrestrained. Kind to old people and children. Friend to rebelling executives. Sunny was . . .
She paused in her reflections when a yawn took her by surprise. Sunny was exhausted.
Ben silently let himself into the apartment and stood for a moment listening, then breathed a raspy sigh of relief. She was still there. Not that there was any obvious indication of her presence. No sound of her, no forgotten scarf or comb to point out the fact that she had appeared in his life. But just the same there was something there. Or was it only in his imagination that the air seemed to vibrate, alive with the knowledge that in the short space of an afternoon his whole life had changed?
Dropping the packages he carried onto the couch, he walked to the bedroom door and silently eased it open. He stood there for a while, peering through the shadows to watch her sleep.
She lay on her back, her golden hair making a bright splash of color on the white pillowcase. Her face in sleep was just as enchanting, the vibrancy and life not absent, merely resting for the challenge of a new day.
Watching her should not feel this right. He should feel that he was invading her privacy—like a voyeur, perhaps—but he didn't. He was responsible for her welfare. He felt somehow entitled to the pleasure of watching her.
Dangerous thinking, he warned himself silently. She was a woman, not a puppy who had followed him home. He couldn't put her in a box and take her out to pet her when it pleased him. He didn't own her—had not even the smallest right over her, in fact.
Pulling the door shut behind him, he walked back to the couch and began pulling his purchases from the large sack. The jeans and shirts he had bought for her had been simple to buy, but the underwear . . . God, the underwear had been another matter entirely.
He laughed mockingly at himself as he remembered how he had left the apartment in self-defense, to escape his own thoughts as he tried not to listen for the rustling of the covers in the next room. First, he had made a half-hearted attempt at writing; then, when he recalled that Sunny had eaten his lunch, he had spent an enthusiastic thirty minutes concocting a monumental sandwich, which he had then left half-eaten.
So the shopping trip had been more for his peace of mind than out of necessity. He had lingered as long as he dared over the choosing of her outerwear, but eventually he had been forced to consider the delicate, frothy pieces of lace that women wear beneath their clothing.
It had proven impossible to choose them without imagining Sunny wearing them. A vivid imagination was a curse to a man in his condition, for it had been beyond his scope to pick out the skimpy underthings without picturing how they would look next to her ivory skin.
You're crazy. You know that, don't you? Going on middle-aged crazy. About-to-reach-forty crazy. And he was finally facing up to the most damning symptom of all: being captivated by a woman more than a decade younger than he.
He sat heavily in the shabby armchair, relaxing a little as he watched the shadows slowly stretch across the room. They grew larger and longer as the day wore on, finally merging to engulf him and the room, dulling the sharp edges of the day, giving the apartment and its furnishings a soft, homey look it lacked in the harsh reality of full sunlight.
Heaving a deep, ragged sigh, he felt he was at last seeing things in their proper perspective. She had appeared to him at a time when he was at his most vulnerable. Since his parents were dead, his work had been his only family. And without that he had nothing to tie him to the world. In giving up his old way of life, he had been left a man without a home.
Although he knew he had made the right decision, he had felt alone in a way he couldn't have imagined a year ago. The writing was important to him, but how long could a man live inside his own head? The balloon had to land sometime and when it did, who would care? Who would be there to greet him?
He knew now that he had been looking for that someone. And, unwilling to accept a substitute, his search had been hopeless from the beginning ... until he had stumbled across Sunny. In her, he sensed he had found the innocent, new world he had been seeking. In her, he had seen all the virtues he had hoped existed somewhere on this earth.
But now that he was thinking logically he realized that none of those things existed outside his mind. Sunny was a figment of his own fertile imagination.
The overwhelming, instantaneous attraction he felt was not a magical, mystical thing. It was a combination of his own barely acknowledged longings and good, old-fashioned lust. Her personality and her circumstances were the stuff of fairy tales, but she, herself, was still a real live, flesh-and-blood woman, and all the imagination in the world wouldn't change her into Guinevere. Once he came to grips with that, although the attraction would probably remain—how could it not?—the fascination he felt for her would, of necessity, have to dim.
A faint sound from the bedroom pulled him out of his deep reverie. Ben realized suddenly that he was sitting in total darkness. As he switched on the lamp beside him, he heard the sound again and walked to the bedroom door, opening it silently.
The drapes she had pulled against the heat blocked out the moonlight and the light from the open door didn't quite reach the bed. He could hear her shifting restlessly on the bed, then as he hesitated in the doorway, he heard her groan, "No," and walked instinctively toward the sound.
Crouching beside her, he touched her shoulder, not sure if he should wake her, but unable to stand by and do nothing.
"Sunny," he whispered gently, trying not to give her a shock by waking her too abruptly.
But she didn't hear him and the groan that escaped her as she lay sleeping reminded him of the cry of a small, trapped animal. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he pulled her fragile body into his arms in an instinctive move of protection.
Her head rolled back against his arm and, as the sound of his voice echoed in the silent room, she began to struggle wildly, fighting his attempts to soothe her. His eyes were gradually becoming accustomed to the dark and suddenly he could see her face clearly. The agony he saw mirrored on her expressive features ripped at him. That kind of thing would have been difficult to witness in anyone. But this was Sunny. Bright and beautiful and carefree. Seeing it in her rocked the foundations of his strength.
"Oh, God."
It hurt so bad. And there was no escape. The face hung there, accusing her, piercing her heart. Why wouldn't it go away? Why didn't it leave her alone? She couldn't help him now. Couldn't he understand that?
"No—please—no," she begged in a ragged whisper.
"Sunny."
The deep voice in her ear barely penetrated her terror. She was too much in the grip of the spell cast by the handsome, pleading face that filled her dreams.
"Please, baby, wake up."
The desperate plea came closer to her consciousness, but her fevered mind couldn't seem to interpret its meaning. She might have stayed longer in her dark nether world if she had not heard the anxious reality in the husky voice.
Using a strength that would have surprised her if she had been aware enough to comprehend it, she pulled away from the dream to find herself being rocked in Ben's arms.
"Ben?" she rasped, gripping his shirt with frantic fingers. Then as his features became clear, she pressed her face into his broad chest, holding tightly to his blessedly familiar form.
But when she closed her eyes in relief, the spectral face of her dreams loomed in the darkness of her mind. "No," she moaned.
"It was just a dream, baby."
His deep, soothing voice sent the vision fleeing and she stared up at him with confused, frightened eyes.
"It was only a dream," he repeated, his strong face lined with concern. He smiled in reassurance as though he recognized the sanity in her eyes and was relieved by it. "You don't have to be afraid."
"Ben," she whispered hoarsely, then paused to allow her heartbeat and breathing to return to normal before continuing. "It was so real—so terrifyingly believable."
"What was it, baby? What scared you?"
She pressed her face against him, resisting the question for a moment, then shuddered convulsively and murmured, "It was a face. A man's face."
"And it frightened you? Do you know who he was?"
"Yes ... no ... oh, I don't know. I knew him, but I don't remember him. I can't explain it." She paused, taking a deep, shaky breath. "He had red hair and—and he seemed so terribly vulnerable.  His turquoise eyes were so sad and hurt ..." She closed her eyes tightly as she once again saw the face, then continued in a low, intense whisper. "And Ben—I loved him. I know I did, I could feel it."
Sunny came slowly away from the painful recollection when she felt Ben stiffen. Gazing up at him, she saw that his eyes were trained on the long finger of light that crept across the shadowy ceiling.
"If you love him, why were you afraid?" he asked in a low, faraway voice.
"It was his eyes—those odd, sad eyes. They pleaded with me. They accused me." She swallowed a painful lump in her throat. "I'm afraid, Ben," she whispered. "I must have done something terrible to him."
"You can't know that," he said quietly. "But if you feel that strongly about it, why don't you let me see if I can find out who you are?"
"No!" she gasped. Then, biting her lip, she said more calmly, "No, I don't want you to do that. I don't want to know what I did to make him look at me like that."
"Sunny, that's ridiculous." He moved away from her and began to stand up.
"No!" She grabbed anxiously at his sleeve. "Don't leave me. Not yet . . . please."
"Shhh," he soothed, taking her back into his arms. "I'm not going anywhere. I just can't understand why you won't let me do something. You say you saw a man in your dreams, a man that you love, but you won't let me try to find him. That doesn't make sense."
"Maybe not to you, because you're logical and practical and . . . and mentally neat. To me it makes perfectly good sense. I am—for all intents and purposes—mentally incompetent. If a dream affects me like this, how do you suppose I'll react to the real thing?"
"Are you honestly worried about being crazy?"
"Yes, I'm honestly worried about being crazy." She gave a shaky laugh. "Well, maybe not worried, but I consider it a definite possibility," she amended. "However, crazy doesn't bother me. Terror does."
She paused for a moment, thinking objectively about the dream for the first time. "No, not terror. I wasn't afraid of the face. I loved it. I wanted to reach out and touch it. It was something else. Something dark and . . . debilitating. Something inside me, not in the face."
For a moment he sat beside her in silence, then began to speak softly. "Sunny, I can't feel the way you felt, but I can understand wanting to avoid a confrontation with the darkness that you're afraid exists inside you. I think all of us have fears about the contents of our own souls. But there's something you haven't considered. When you woke up yesterday, you were in a locked room. Your clothes had been removed as though someone wanted to keep you there. There may be nothing to it. I mean, it could be something as innocent as a quarrel with a jealous lover. But it could be something more serious—there's still the matter of the bump on your head. If someone was trying to harm you, we need to know about it. We need to find out who it was and do something about it." He paused as though giving her a chance to think about what he said. "Don't you see?"
Sunny shifted uncomfortably. Why did he have to make so much sense? Every word he spoke was logical and reasonable, but Sunny wasn't in the mood for logic. Her brain wasn't working reasonably tonight. She couldn't—didn't want to—think about the past or the future or anything else that required a decision.
"Can I think about it a while before I make up my mind?" she asked wearily. She felt his hand on her neck; then he tilted her chin with his thumb.
"You're tired," he said gently. "Of course, you can decide later. We couldn't do anything tonight anyway. You go back to sleep and we can discuss it tomorrow." He chuckled suddenly, a low, rumbling sound that soothed her. "It has been a truly amazing day. I don't know if this much excitement is good for me."
Relaxing under the spell of his teasing voice, she snuggled closer to his chest, joining him in laughter. "I know what you mean." Rubbing her face against his throat like a contented cat, she added, "But it's been fun, hasn't it?"
When he didn't answer right away, she lifted her gaze to his face and found the curiously baffled look she had seen before once more in evidence. His eyes were sliding restlessly over the silk shirt that stopped high on her thighs, lingering on the bare length of her legs.
"Ben, wasn't it?" she repeated, her voice growing strangely hoarse.
"Huh? Oh, yes . . . fun," he said distractedly, then hurriedly switched his eyes to the ceiling without removing his arms from their comfortable hold on her body. He cleared his throat vigorously. "Sunny?"
"Yes?" Her gaze lifted to the ceiling to join his, her cheek now lay pressed to his.
"I—I should probably go back to the living room now, don't you think?"
She felt his cheek move as he spoke and his chest surge beneath her as he breathed, but neither of them made a move to break the embrace.
"I—" She swallowed and began again. "I think that would probably be the smart thing to do."
"Yes, definitely the ..." He took a deep breath and she rode the wave of his chest. "The smart thing," he finished in a gust, his head moving in an almost imperceptible nod.
"Yes," she whispered in affirmation, then fell silent and continued to watch the ceiling.
The silence lengthened, but Sunny was too busy concentrating on the feel of his rough face next to hers and the way his hand rested on her waist. The sound of his voice when it came made her jump skittishly.
"Sunny?"
"Urn?" she murmured faintly.
"I think this is one of those sticky situations we were planning to avoid," he whispered back.
She swallowed nervously. "Why, yes . . . now that you mention it." She paused to inhale deeply and finished with a sigh, "I believe it is."
"Yes, well, I guess I'd better leave and let you get some sleep," he said, the reluctance in his voice obvious as he began to slowly untangle their entwined arms, breaking the spell that had so warmly held her in its grip.
With a sigh of regret she watched him rise. Sleep was the last thing on her mind at the moment.
"You've got a lot of strength of character and— and resolve, Ben. I admire that," she said, hoping she sounded admiring and not as disappointed as she felt.
After their somewhat distracted goodnights, she lay awake for quite a while, staring into the shadows, listening to him mutter softly in the next room. But the only word she heard clearly was "Resolve?" followed by abrupt laughter and a string of curses that piqued her imagination by their variety and endurance.
Five
Sunny rose slowly from her cross-legged position on the floor and switched off the television, then stood listening with her head cocked to the growing sound of silence. It had been three hours since Ben had left reluctantly for a meeting with his friend Charlie, and she felt strangely disoriented in his absence. She had tried reading and now television, but neither had held her interest for long. She wanted to discuss what she was learning with Ben.
"Maybe I should start keeping a diary," she said to a rudely disinterested lamp. "What I Learned About Myself Today."
So very much to learn, she thought with a gusty sigh as she wandered restlessly around the room. Not about the woman who lived in her mysterious past, but the person living inside her who didn't need a memory to exist. Was she intelligent? Sensitive? Did she have good taste? No taste?
She wanted to know what she believed in, what was important to her.
It seemed that her unraveling personality was in some way irrevocably tied to Ben's. As she discovered her hidden self, she also discovered his. Only a few minutes ago, when she had examined the paintings on his walls, she had found to her surprise that they weren't reproductions at all. Although they weren't exactly Old Masters, Ben nevertheless had a small fortune hanging on his walls.
She had thought, when he had told her about his past, that he had been like so many other middle-class executives—living beyond, or at least up to, his means. And when his income stopped, he had had to sell everything to settle his debts. But this new development put a different light on the matter. He could have sold a few of his paintings and lived for an extended period of time on the profits. Why hadn't he?
She halted her restless movements to lean against the wall, staring out at the world beyond the window. That was a question that would never be spoken aloud. He had a right to his privacy. At least now she knew she wasn't the only one avoiding probing questions. They were both running from the past.
The past. Even as the word entered her mind, the face with the pleading eyes swam before her and she grew tense, her mood swinging in a way she didn't like.
In frustration, she turned her back on the view. Who was he, this man who accused her? Why did he have to intrude on her new life, invade her new joy? And, dear Lord, what had she done to him to make him haunt her so unmercifully?
She couldn't dwell on the face. She had made her decision last night after Ben left her, and nothing, not even impatient gray eyes staring at her across the breakfast table, would sway her. The past was dead as far as she was concerned. If it wanted to pursue her, then by God, she would give it a run for its money.
She had to admit, though, to a twinge of guilt at going against Ben's wishes. He had been so kind to her. She hadn't realized how kind until she had awakened that morning to find the clothes he had bought for her lying on a chair beside the bed.
She chuckled in remembered amusement at the way he had tucked the dainty underthings out of sight beneath the jeans. The staid bank-president image had evidently been having a tussle with the man who knew exactly the right size to choose. Perhaps she should reassess her impression of him. A man as attractive as Ben would naturally have a colorful past as far as women were concerned.
Past, Sunny? Why did she relegate women to Ben's past? As far as she knew, he could be keeping a dozen women happy in the present. Turning back to the window, she refused to think about why that possibility brought a scowl to her face and a sick feeling to the pit of her stomach.
Boredom, she decided suddenly. That's what's wrong with me. A brand new day was happening outside and she was fidgeting around the apartment, rudely keeping it waiting.
She felt her spirits rise and her heartbeat quicken in excitement as she searched for the extra key Ben said he kept on his desk. After locating it in a scarlet vase, she scribbled a note and left it propped against his typewriter before leaving the apartment.
Making a point of waving to the eyes that once again appeared across the hall, she bounced down the first flight of stairs. Gradually, however, her steps slowed as the concealed and steadily dying flavor of the house began to beckon her imagination.
"You're very much like me, aren't you?" she whispered, stopping to caress the banister railing. "Under all those coats of paint and hideously cute wallpaper, you've lost your identity." Only, unlike Sunny, the house was saddened by the loss. It almost seemed to plead to be rediscovered.
"No, that's wrong," she murmured as she considered the analogy. "We're really opposites." The wallpaper that the years had laid on Sunny had been stripped away by her amnesia, leaving her with a simplicity and lack of artifice that she reveled in.
As she walked out the front door of the sad, old house, she made a wish over her shoulder that it might someday find an echo of her own good luck; then with renewed eagerness she turned to face the world before her.
After three blocks of converted mansions, she encountered the beginnings of a business district. The buildings were square and old, melting into each other in a blur of brown and beige, but the people captured her imagination immediately.
She stood staring for a while at her petite figure in the dusty window of a variety store, taking in the slim, new jeans and the scoop-necked yellow T-shirt unconsciously as she consciously watched pedestrians moving behind her.
The variety of nationalities mingling on one small Texas street amazed her. In the space of twenty short minutes she felt she had traveled around the world. And, to her delight, the people were open and friendly, seeming more than happy to pause for a while to answer the questions she posed merely to hear them speak.
The English they spoke was a curious mixture of their country of origin and a lazy Texas drawl. She had to smother a giggle of delight when an elderly Russian man told her he had only come out in the heat of the day to "git" some take-out borscht from a local cafe.
They were beautiful. The world was beautiful, she thought as she turned the corner onto yet another street of small businesses.
It was then that she noticed the red sports car driving slowly down the street she had just left. Strange. She was sure she had seen the same car twice while she was standing in front of the variety store.
The blond man behind the wheel was young and not at all outstanding—except for the curiously tense way he swung his head from side to side as though he were searching irritably for a certain building or street.
As Sunny watched in idle curiosity, his gaze slid in her direction and their eyes locked, his widening in surprise, then narrowing suddenly in what seemed to be anger, hers stunned at the intensity of the emotion contained in his unfamiliar face.
It was the first contact she had had in her new life with a violent emotion and for a moment she stood frozen, a shiver of apprehension vibrating up her spine.
"Don't be silly," she chided, forcing herself to turn away from the stranger's anger. "Why should his irritation at not being able to find an address scare me?"
The logical argument made sense, extremely good sense. So why had her joy in the day dissolved into the humid air? Why, suddenly, did she want to be home, in the safety of familiar surroundings, in the security of Ben's protection?
Walking to the end of the block, she turned north, her steps quickening as she headed in the direction of the apartment. Two more turns and she was once more in a neighborhood she recognized.
It was only when her heart slowed to its normal rate that she realized how fast it had been pounding in her chest. Surely that was a curious reaction? Had she been so cosseted in her other life that she couldn't face the grimmer side of reality? People lost their tempers every day. It had nothing to do with her. So why had she reacted so acutely?
As she drew near the old house, she greeted its shabby facade with an affectionate smile. Entering, she flew up the three flights of stairs, happy to be inside even though Ben's car was still not in the driveway.
Pulling the key from the pocket of her jeans, she hesitated when she felt the eyes from across the hall staring at her back.
"The riddle of the Sphinx?" she murmured with a grin. Without turning around, she said in a louder voice, "It sure gets lonely around here with no one to talk to. Why don't you come and have a cup of coffee with me?"
She gave a low chuckle when she heard the gasp behind her, then a door slammed shut. Leaving the front door ajar, she passed through the living room and went into the kitchen to prepare the coffee.
Five minutes later, when she reentered the living room, the front door was closed and on the couch sat the most extraordinary child she had ever seen.
She looked to be about twelve, that awkward age when her body couldn't make up its mind whether to stay in childhood or push on to the unknown territory of womanhood. And to make matters worse, the child was plain. No, plain was too bland. She was singularly unattractive, a fact the scowl on her face only served to emphasize.
Her thick black hair hung in an untidy mass to her shoulders, the blunt fringe across her forehead dipping down and almost hiding her hazel, bespectacled eyes. The brown-rimmed glasses resting on her nose were of a style too mature for her and gave her the look of a disagreeable matron, while the faded blue dress that snugly covered her budding figure was completely wrong for her coloring, its girlish style emphasizing her stocky build.
During Sunny's examination the girl had been giving her back stare for stare. Now she threw her arm to the back of the couch and lifted her chin belligerently.
"Are you from Mars or what?" the girl said, her deep, gruff voice taking Sunny by surprise. "Can't you even talk? I thought you offered me coffee!"
Sunny didn't even try to hide her laughter at the stream of words that came from the girl. Here was no shrinking violet, but a pint-size Dillinger if she had ever seen one.
"Can I change that to a soft drink?" she asked, laughing. "It's a little warm for coffee."
"Don't put yourself out on my account," the girl said as she glanced around the room. "But if you're going to get something cold, I'll have a beer."
Sunny swallowed loudly. "I see," she murmured. Don't let yourself be intimidated. She's only a child. "I'm afraid we don't have any beer," she lied, sounding thoroughly intimidated. "Would orange soda do?"
The girl peered at her suspiciously through the thick lenses of her glasses as though trying to detect any hint of patronizing. Shrugging at last, she answered sarcastically, "Well, I guess it will have to, won't it?"
At this point Sunny might have become impatient with her high-handed attitude if she had not seen a flicker, barely detectable, of relief in the girl's eyes. She turned away, hiding her smile.
"What's your name?" the girl threw at her retreating back.
"Sunny," she replied, pulling two bottles of orange soda from the refrigerator. "What's yours?"
"Mary Louise Choate. C..h..o..a..t..e," came the faint, almost belligerent response from the living room. "I thought my name was dumb, but Sunny's worse. It's as bad as Misty or Raine."
I beg your pardon. Sunny thought wryly as she finished filling two glasses with ice. "I like it—" she began, turning around with the drinks, then clutched the glasses tightly to keep from dropping them when she found Mary Louise standing directly behind her.
"What's the riddle of the Sphinx?" the girl demanded.
"I think I'm going to have to put a bell on you, Mary Louise," Sunny muttered under her breath, then, "Do you know what the Sphinx was?"
"I'm not stupid," she growled. "Everyone knows that. It's that thing in the desert with no nose."
Sunny moved past her and spoke over her shoulder on her way to the living room. "That's the Egyptian Sphinx. The one I was talking about was a Greek Sphinx."
Placing the drinks on the coffee table, she indicated that her visitor should be seated. "She stopped anyone who passed her and asked them a riddle."
"So?" the girl prompted impatiently as she flopped down on the couch.
"So if they didn't answer it right, she killed them."
"Nice broad," came the gruff response. "What did she look like?"
"She had the face of a woman, the body of a lion, and wings."
The girl looked down at her chunky body, then said, "That's not too far off, but no wings."
"I wasn't referring to the way you look," Sunny said, chuckling at the girl's wry expression. "I meant you seemed to be guarding the hall."
"Just checking," she explained casually. "A person can't be too careful. Especially not in this neighborhood," she added. "So what was the riddle?"
"What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three in the evening?"
Mary Louise was silent for a moment, then prompted impatiently, "Well, what is it?"
"A man," Sunny said, feeling somehow that her new friend was not going to be thrilled with the answer. "He crawls as a baby, walks upright as an adult, and uses a cane in his later years."
Sunny was right. After rolling her eyes dramatically, Mary Louise gave her opinion. "That's dumb—it's worse than dumb; it's not funny."
"I don't think it was meant to be," Sunny said apologetically. "I don't think humor had been invented when Sophocles wrote about the Sphinx. Although, come to think of it, you might call Oedipus Rex the original black comedy," she added.
"Ed who?"
"Never mind," Sunny said, chuckling. "It wasn't important."
Evidently her visitor agreed with her, for she stood and began making a tour of the room, throwing questions over her shoulder at Sunny as she investigated the bric-a-brac and paintings.
"Is Sunny your real name or one of those cutesy things pretty girls usually have? I haven't seen you around here before. Are you married to Ben or did he pick you up on a street corner?"
"Hold on," Sunny said with a laugh, holding up her hand to halt the interrogation. "If you'll sit down I'll tell you all about it." She waited until Mary Louise was sitting on the couch, then spoke. "To answer your first question, I don't know if Sunny is my real name. Probably not. And as for the second and third: no, I'm not married to Ben and yes, he picked me up on a street corner—but, not like you're talking about."
Mary Louise gave her a penetrating glance. "You don't know what your name is? What's Ben running here, a halfway house or something? Or is your mental state a touchy subject?" she added sarcastically.
"No, I admit I'm not all there," Sunny said pleasantly. "Does it bother you?"
"Lady, I've met so many people around here whose elevators don't quite reach the top floor that I'm starting to wonder what in hell normal is."
"Then you've reached a point that takes most people a lifetime to reach," Sunny said. "And don't swear. It's very unattractive in a child."
"You've got to be kidding," Mary Louise scoffed. "You can look at this body and this face and tell me that what comes out of my mouth is going to make it worse? Nothing can do that, lady."
"You're simply at an awkward age," Sunny said, feeling that an outright lie would be met with contempt. "And my name is Sunny. Don't call me lady."
"And I told you Sunny is a dumb name." She paused and stared at her hostess reflectively. "You sure put a lot of restrictions on a conversation. 'Don't swear. Don't call me lady,' " she mimicked. "Would you rather I called you broad?"
"No, I don't think so," Sunny said, laughing in delight at her pugnacious new friend. "But if you want to talk about restrictions—do you always make people change their names just to suit you?"
Mary Louise gave a reluctant grin. "Okay, let's call it a tie. You don't tell me how to talk and I'll ignore the fact that you have a dumb name."
"That's big of you," Sunny muttered.
"If you're not married to Ben, then you must be sleeping with him," the brusque woman-child said casually. "I don't blame you. He's totally awesome."
With that pronouncement, she stood up and began to wander around the room again, apparently not noticing the way Sunny had dropped back in her chair, fanning her face furiously with a magazine.
"I gotta say though," she continued, "you don't look like the usual type of Ready Betty that sleeps over in this neighborhood."
"What type is that?" Sunny choked out weakly.
"Around here?" the girl asked, looking back over her shoulder. "They usually wear three pounds of makeup and have dirty fingernails—and they always smell like a weird mixture of perfume and bubblegum."
"You make them sound awful." Had she seen them here, with Ben? It was really none of Sunny's business and of course, she couldn't ask this child about Ben's personal life, but—
"They're not bad," she said shrugging. "Some of them are pretty nice. They just never stay long. One day you'll see them with a black eye or they sober up and then they're gone." She ran curious eyes over Sunny. "I shoulda' known if Ben ever brought one home, she would be different. He's— well, he's not ordinary like everyone else around here."
Sunny didn't give herself a chance to analyze the relief she felt at hearing that Ben didn't make a practice of bringing women to his apartment. She was too absorbed in the sympathy she felt for Mary Louise.
Lord, what a life for a child, she thought, keeping her expression carefully blank. No wonder she sounded so old. Where were her parents? How could they leave her alone to witness such things?
"But you know," Mary Louise continued thoughtfully, "it's usually the ones who are a little off . . . up here"—she pointed to her head—"who are the nicest ones."
"Does that mean you think I'm nice?"
"What difference does it make?" she asked, sounding suddenly suspicious. "I mean—I'm sure it'll just break your heart if I don't like you."
"Everyone wants to be liked, Mary Louise," Sunny said quietly.
"Oh, yeah? Not me. Why should I care what a bunch of drunks and fruitcakes think about me?"
Sunny smiled wistfully. Another hard-headed realist who refused to see beyond the obvious. "They were people a long time before they became drunks and fruitcakes."
"Well, that's not my problem, is it?" she asked shortly as she perched on Ben's desk and picked up the rose-colored paperweight.
"If everyone thought like that then I wouldn't be here. Ben had never even seen me before yesterday. He thought I was a fruitcake, but he didn't leave me to stay on the street and starve."
That was her Ben. Not the efficient organizer, but the other Ben, the one who had comforted her through her nightmare the night before.
Mary Louise gave her a look that was at once cynical, old, and very, very sad. "And you really think he did it out of the goodness of his heart? Ben's an all right guy—but he lives in this neighborhood, too." She paused, staring down at the paperweight, then glanced up with narrowed eyes. "How long did it take him to get you in bed?"
Sunny caught her breath at the blunt question. "You're wrong. He hasn't laid a finger on me and he won't." She paused, looking closely at this strange child she was already beginning to think of as a friend. "And I think you made that crude suggestion because you're a little girl who's seen too much and missed out on too much love in your life."
Red, blotchy patches appeared on Mary Louise's face at Sunny's words. "And I think you're a know-it-all bitch!" she shouted.
Sunny sat quietly for a moment, considering her angry statement. Then she gave her young friend a surprised look and said, "You know, I think you're right. And I thank you sincerely for pointing it out to me."
The girl stared at her strangely for a moment, then began to laugh. "You really are a cuckoo, aren't you?"
"I thought we had already established that."
Sunny relaxed in her chair, relieved to have reached a calm in their stormy relationship, but she found out a few minutes later that she had relaxed too soon. A seemingly innocent question about Mary Louise's parents had sent her stamping out the door, vowing never to return.
"Well," she said, slumping back in the chair as she heard the door across the hall slam. "You blew that one, you—you cuckoo."
Ben let himself into the apartment, his eyes roaming restlessly around the living room with an anxiety he knew was unwarranted. He hadn't wanted to leave her today, but Charlie wouldn't have understood his reasons for avoiding him.
And you do, I suppose? he asked himself derisively. Why hadn't he told Charlie about Sunny? It wouldn't have been necessary that he mention her amnesia, but why hadn't he at least admitted to her presence in his life?
That's easy. Because you don't want to share her even in a conversation. Right?
After last night she seemed more than ever to belong to him. And all those logical conclusions he had reached before her nightmare seemed a fragile defense against their need for one another.
Walking toward the bedroom door, he hesitated, remembering the rules; then an aroma coming from the kitchen assailed his nostrils and he turned to follow his nose.
He stood silently in the doorway, smiling in pleasure at the picture she made as she sat at the small wooden table. Her head was bent over one of his spiral notebooks, her hair falling down to partially cover her face.
"Are you writing your own cookbook?"
"Ben!" she said, jumping up to greet him.
A feeling so acute it was almost painful gripped him when he saw her eyes light up at the sight of him, and he had to restrain himself from grabbing her and pulling her into his arms. Well, so much for the fascination dimming, he thought in resignation.
"It's definitely not a cookbook," she said, laughing wryly. "It's a diary."
He let the door swing shut behind him and moved into the kitchen. "A diary?"
"Uh-huh. I decided that even though I don't want to know about my past"—she hesitated slightly, avoiding his eyes as she spoke—"I do want to know about the kind of person I am now. I didn't even know whether or not I could cook. So, I've been listing the things that have happened to me in the last three days; and then I analyze my reactions to them."
Pulling a can of beer from the refrigerator, he popped the top, took a swallow, then said, "Sounds awfully deep. Did you learn anything?"
"You wouldn't believe how much," she said, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "From the people I met yesterday and today, I know that I like children and old people. Don't you think that's a good sign? I mean, when you hear that someone is nice to kids and old people you almost automatically like them because you know those two groups have the least pull—you know, like money or power. So you wouldn't be nice to them for what you could get out of it. Right?"
He nodded in amused agreement as he sat on the counter. "Very perspicacious of you," he said, keeping his face sober.
"Well, I think so," she admitted. "And right now I'm evaluating the other things I learned while you were gone today."
"Such as?"
"So many things. I read for quite a while today— just browsing through your books, you understand, and in one of them I found out that according to Einstein 'now' depends on where you happen to be standing at the time," she said vaguely, then continued with more enthusiasm: "But that's not important. What's important is what it means to me, and it means nothing to me. So I guess I don't have a giant brain." She stated her opinion casually as if it really made no difference. "I mean, now is now even if it does take three light years to get here. Understand?"
He started to nod, then switched in midstream to a negative sideways movement. "Not a word, but don't let that stop you."
She laughed gaily at his dazed expression, then continued to relate what she had learned from the various books and magazines he kept in the apartment.
There was such enthusiasm in her face. She was so breathtakingly alive. Would he never tire of watching her? Her words were lost as he concentrated on the tiny mole beside her mobile mouth. Did it feel as velvety soft as it looked? How would she react if he reached out—
"What?" he asked in confusion, coming out of his dream with a jerk of his head. "Back up a minute. What did you just say?"
"I said he had a nose and penis that were both eight fingers long," Sunny repeated patiently, staring as he began to choke on the beer.
"Who?" he managed to rasp out when the coughing spasm subsided. "Who had—all that?"
"That Irish demigod," she said. "Weren't you listening?"
"Never mind. What does this demigod have to do with anything?" he asked in exasperation. "What could you possibly learn about yourself from that?"
"I found there is a total lack of delicacy in my makeup because"—she paused, grinning suddenly—"I would love to see that man. How do you suppose he walked or rode a horse?"
Pulling himself together with a visible effort, Ben muttered drily, "In those days they not only had armor, they also had cast iron jockstraps . . . How should I know?" he added irritably. "Anything else?"
"Lots, but are you sure you want to hear it?" she asked cautiously. "I don't want to annoy you."
"I'm not annoyed," he said, clenching his teeth. "What makes you think I'm annoyed?"
"The beer running down your hand," she said quietly, biting her lip that was twitching strangely.
He glared at the crushed can in his hand, then back at Sunny. This young lady got entirely too much pleasure from teasing him.
"Are you going to tell me or not?"
"Yes, sir," she said, laughing openly at him now. "After I read the thing about the saber-toothed possums, I decided to put the books away."
"Oh God, do I really want to ask this question?" he said under his breath, then with narrowed eyes, "Saber-toothed what?"
"Possums. You know, those things that hang by their tails and—"
"I know what possums are," he said weakly, feeling sanity slowly slipping away. "But there is no such thing as a saber-toothed possum."
"Well, of course not." She laughed. "Not now. They lived millions of years ago, when North and South America were separated by water. The magazine stated clearly that there were saber-toothed marsupials living in South America back then. Possums are marsupials," she added as though that cleared everything up.
He silently watched her stand and walk to the refrigerator, then pull lettuce and tomatoes from the vegetable bin. He took a slow, deep breath and said quietly, "So are kangaroos."
She glanced at him over her shoulder. "Sabertoothed kangaroos? Don't be silly, Ben."
"I should have known, somehow I should have known," he mumbled.
Holding a knife in one hand and a tomato in the other, she turned back to Ben, apparently unaware of his frustration. "There's something else I thought of today. It wasn't anything I learned in your books—I beg your pardon? Did you say something?"
"I merely said 'That's a relief.' Now what were you saying?"
"Well, when you made breakfast this morning, it didn't occur to me to offer to help. What do you think that means? Do I seem thoughtless or lazy to you?"
"Of course not. It probably means you haven't ever had to worry about cooking your own meals."
She cocked her head in inquiry. "You mean someone else did it for me? Servants?"
"It could be. Or your mother. But at your age— which I judge to be about twenty-five—you probably wouldn't still be living at home."
She turned away and began to cut the tomato silently. After a moment, she said over her shoulder, "Well, I don't suppose it really matters. How was your lunch with Charlie?"
"Boring," he said succinctly. "Is that all you did today—read?"
"No, I watched television for a while and from that I learned quite a bit." She gave him a devilish smile; then, when he refused to take the bait, she shrugged and continued anyway, "I found out that if I get depressed because my floors have a waxy, yellow build-up, I should overcome my depression by having an affair with the plumber who in reality is my long-lost sister who had a sex-change operation after her chromosomes were affected by an explosion in a deodorant factory."
"Did you really see all that on television?" he asked, laughing as he reached around her to take a piece of tomato.
"No," she admitted with a grin. "But it was almost that bad, and I only watched for fifteen minutes. After that, I switched to Tom Terrific and Mighty Manfred the WonderDog, which made a lot more sense."
She paused for a moment, focusing silently on the cabinet in front of her, then turned around to face him with a strange look on her face. "Ben, do I seem like a nervous sort of person? You know, the kind who jumps at her own shadow?"
He stared at her face, trying to interpret her strange mood. "No, why?"
Giving a hesitant laugh, she turned back to the vegetables. "Oh, it was nothing really. Just something that happened when I went for a walk today. I saw a man who was angry because he was lost or traffic was slow or something silly like that and I went all to pieces. Why should a stranger's anger affect me like that?"
Ben's heart began to pound violently as he listened to her quiet voice. "You went out while I was gone?"
"Yes, I wanted—"
"Sunny," he said tightly. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to go out?"
"I didn't know." She sounded confused and a little hurt by his intensity. "What difference does it make?"
He took several deep breaths, slowly forcing himself to stay calm, then sat down at the table and looked up at her. "I talked to you about this last night, but I guess I didn't make it clear. Until we find out for sure what happened to you, we have to go on the assumption that someone wants to harm you. I don't want you to go out alone until you get your memory back."
"You can't be serious!" she gasped.
"It won't be that bad," he soothed. "I'll be here most of the time and if you want to go out, I'll go with you."
"No!" she said, then more calmly, "No. I know you're only trying to do what you think is best for me and I appreciate it. But Ben, I can't live with those restrictions. If anybody had wanted to harm me, they had plenty of opportunity while I was still in that room unconscious." She paused. "I know it sounds strange, but the thought of living with those restrictions somehow frightens me more than anything that could happen outside here."
"Sunny, you don't know what you're saying," he said, speaking slowly and patiently. "You're confused."
"Don't patronize me, Ben," she said firmly, then grinned. "I may be crazy, but I'm not stupid."
Reluctantly he began to chuckle. He felt—deep inside him—that what she was asking was wrong. He felt he had to protect her from whatever might be out there to harm her. But he also knew that she wasn't lying about fearing the restrictions he mentioned. Ben could see it in her face.
He leaned back in the chair and watched her work, finding pleasure in her movements. Don't get used to it, he warned himself silently. This was only a temporary thing. She could wake up tomorrow knowing exactly who she was—and who she belonged to. Then the fantasy would be over and he could go back to the real world that had existed for him before her appearance.
She turned then and smiled at him, unaware that a painful tightness was gripping his throat and chest when he thought of a bleak reality. No sunshine ... no daisies.
Sunny, my sweet illusion, he thought, smiling back with an effort as a new and uncomfortable helplessness overcame him, what kind of fool am I becoming?
Six
During the days that followed, Ben shoved reality into a hidden corner of his mind, and watched his bright illusion watch the world. The small, dreary neighborhood he had believed was so familiar to him suddenly became a fairy-tale world brimming over with miracles.
After being forced into innumerable conversations with odd-looking characters in the park or on the street, it gradually dawned on him that his introversion had not been only self-indulgent, but it had robbed him of the chance to get a close-up look at mankind—the good, the bad, and the indifferent.
Never had his brain been forced to work so keenly. Never had he found such a wealth of material as when he walked with her and observed the world and its inhabitants through her eyes.
She was attuned to the beauty that lay hidden beneath the surface all around them. She dismissed the rain and saw the rainbow, found character and worldliness in the scruffy features of a mongrel dog. She listened avidly to the precious memories of an old woman's long-ago suitor.
And through her Ben saw and heard and felt with an openness he hadn't possessed even in childhood. He gave up trying to fight his fascination for her. The end would come in its own time and, like Sunny, he was more than willing to wait for reality to find him. He wouldn't go looking for it.
Now, a mere five days after he had encountered her outside Charlie's office, he was hurrying home after a fifteen minute trip to the grocery store as though he had been away for days.
"Well?" she said expectantly, waving her hands in his face as he walked in the door. "How do you like them? Mary Louise painted them for me while you were at the store."
She held her hand against her throat, the bright polish contrasting sharply with the creamy flesh of her neck. "She says the color is blood red and she rolls the l, making it sound deliciously gruesome."
He laughed and picked up one of her hands, knowing he was taking an inordinate amount of time to examine the garish nails, but unable to resist the temptation to touch her.
"Very vampirish," he said in a suitably admiring tone, then gave her a look of inquiry. "How is it that I never see Mary Louise? You've been telling me for days that she's there, but all I've ever seen are eyes staring a hole in me when I go in or out."
"She's a very cautious bird, our Mary Louise," Sunny said, chuckling. "Not that she doesn't like you. She, in her own words, thinks you're a 'hunk.' But, after all, 'a person can't be too careful.' '
He grinned in appreciation of her imitation of her gruff young friend. "She sounds like a sensible young lady. I hope you listen to what she tells you."
"Faithfully," she said, her face solemn, but her eyes twinkling in merriment. "For instance, did you know that every time you paint your nails, you get an itch or someone comes to the door." She laid her hand on his bare arm and leaned toward him, lowering her voice confidentially. "Mary Louise says it's a law. In the same category with the one that says bread has to land on the floor jelly side down."
"I may change my mind about Mary Louise," he muttered, then fell silent as his gaze dropped to where her hand lay on his forearm. The skin was bare there and as he felt the warmth of her smooth palm, the devils that had become so familiar in the past few days rose up to haunt him, turning a casual touch into a sensual caress.
Sunny was a person who liked to touch. She hugged when she was excited and kissed when she was pleased. She had a habit of stroking his arm or shoulder when she talked. Oh, it was all unconscious contact, of course . . . nothing devious or covert. And he was sure she had nothing sexual in mind when she touched him. It was all a part of her open nature. All perfectly innocent— and it was driving him crazy as surely as if he were undergoing Chinese water torture.
Surely she could feel the way he tensed when she touched him casually, as she was now. It seemed so obvious to him. How could she go on talking and smiling as though he weren't in incredible pain?
A fine layer of perspiration broke out on his forehead as he forced himself to tune out the screaming frustration his body was experiencing and tune in to what she was saying.
"But even after we had gone to so much trouble, she actually had to teach me to use a curling iron," she said in a wry aside, "and you can imagine what she had to say about my mental state when she found out I didn't know how to use one. Anyway, after we went to all that trouble, it looked simply awful. It was as bad as the ruffles on her dresses."
She paused for a moment and leaned against him, her brow wrinkling in thought. "Isn't it strange that I can remember about Sophocles and not about curling irons? Maybe only one side of my brain was affected." She grinned up at him. "Which side do you suppose—" Suddenly her eyes went a stormy blue, the pupils dilating with some intense emotion and the rest of her sentence was a barely heard whisper: "—deals with curling irons?"
He couldn't keep his gaze from slipping to her mouth, focusing with fascinated intensity on the quivering lower lip and the velvet brown beauty mark that guarded the treasure. The air between them grew thick, almost seeming to join their bodies with a heavy, vibrating sensuality that grew stronger with each passing second.
His mouth grew dry, his breath coming in harsh, fiery gusts as his eyes slid feverishly over the places that were forbidden his hands. The beckoning curve of her hips. The high, rounded breasts with nipples that pressed firmly against the knit fabric of her blouse and seemed to beg for a more substantial caress. The delicately molded shoulders and the smooth, ivory flesh of her throat. The lip whose quiver he wanted desperately to still with his kiss.
He had to stop this. His need for her was getting out of hand. He felt her pull twenty-four hours a day. Even in sleep the need pursued him, sending erotic dreams that should have shamed him, but merely served to spur the need to new and desperate heights.
Pulling his gaze away, he drew a deep, shuddering breath, mentally subduing the tortured throbbing of his body. When he heard her move, he glanced warily in her direction.
Clearing her throat nervously, she said, "I . . . uh . . . guess I'll get back to my room." She smiled weakly, then as she backed slowly toward the bedroom, added, "There's an article I want to finish reading."
He silently watched as she turned and entered the bedroom, then, with a pent-up frustration that was ready to burst at the seams, kicked a footstool across the room.
Sunny leaned heavily against the bedroom door, flinching when she heard the crash from the next room.
Pushing away from the door, she began to pace in agitation. How stupid can you get? she thought in disgust. An article I want to read, for heaven's sake!
Every time she was in his company for five minutes, the thoughts started whirling in her head. There was no way to stop them. She had tried—of course she had tried, but it was no use. She couldn't keep from touching him. She couldn't keep her mind off the nearness of him, the sight and sound and feel of him.
"What kind of woman am I?" she muttered angrily. He had made it perfectly clear that he didn't intend to let anything happen between them. Which meant that either he didn't feel the aching need that plagued her or his strength was beyond her comprehension.
Either way, it added up to the same thing— frustration. And fighting it was getting more and more difficult each day. She was beginning to think that the only way to combat it was to stay out of his way completely.
But where could she go? She couldn't stay cooped up in her room all day. If only she could get a job. It would solve so many problems. Not only would it get her away from the growing attraction, it would give her a chance to pay him back for his kindness in taking her in.
She sat slowly on the bed, staring straight ahead as the thought became stronger. As far as she could see, her only other alternative was allowing him to find out who she was, and that she wouldn't even consider. Although her reasons had changed, she was still as determined as ever to prevent the past from finding her.
She jerked her head sideways when she heard a tapping on the window and saw Mary Louise's face pressed against the pane. Sunny really couldn't say whether their friendship was progressing, but the girl visited her regularly now, sometimes managing to stay a whole hour before walking out in a huff. She was still wary of Ben, and when he was home, refused to come in the ordinary way, instead edged her way across from her apartment on the parapet below the window.
"What's up?" her brusque visitor asked as she climbed clumsily through the window.
Sunny stared at her in amused resignation. "You know, Mary Louise, as much as I enjoy the intrigue and originality of your entrances, it's really not necessary. Ben wouldn't bite your head off if you came through the door."
"Did I say anything about Ben?" she asked huffily. "It just so happens that I need the fresh air—if you can call that gray stuff out there fresh." She stared at Sunny with narrow-eyed intensity. "Has he got you locked in here?"
"Of course not." Sunny laughed at her friend's suspicious expression. "I just wanted to—well, the fact is I feel like I'm in his way. He doesn't seem to be able to relax when I'm in the room." And neither can you, she added silently.
"You sure can't spend all your time in here. You'll end up loonier than you already are."
"Thanks," Sunny said drily. "What do you suggest I do?"
"Why don't you get a job? Then you'll not only be getting out of here, but you'll be able to pay him room and board." She lowered her voice to an ominous whisper and leaned closer. "Then he can't say you owe him anything."
"Trusting soul, aren't you?" Sunny said, chuckling. "He doesn't think I owe him anything, you goose. I think I owe him something—everything in fact. But I can't get a job without a Social Security card."
Mary Louise pushed her glasses back on her nose thoughtfully, then glanced hesitantly at Sunny. "I know a place that would take you. It wouldn't matter that you're crazy," she said, casually passing over Sunny's mental state. "Or that you don't have a card. In fact it wouldn't matter if you were a schizophrenic gorilla as long as you do what he tells you, but I have to tell you, the man you would be working for is a prize pig. He'll work you till you drop."
"I don't mind hard work," Sunny said, her eyes beginning to glow with excitement. Then suddenly the glow dimmed somewhat. "He wouldn't ask me to do anything . . . disgusting, would he?"
"Depends on what you call disgusting," the woman-child said, shrugging. "If you mean would there be any funny business, then no. That's what we're trying to get you away from."
"That's what you're trying to get me away from," Sunny murmured wryly under her breath, then, "And you really think he'll hire me?"
"Sure. I'll take you there tomorrow and get it fixed up," she promised, moving back toward the window. She paused in her exit to straddle the sill as she looked back at Sunny. "Are you going to tell Ben?"
Sunny hadn't thought of that. Somehow she didn't think Ben would care for the idea. "I think maybe I'll just leave him a note tomorrow. There'll be enough time to discuss it with him when I know for sure that I have the job."
But, as it turned out, Sunny had badly miscalculated. There hadn't been time. There had scarcely been time for breathing and none at all for resting, much less discussing her plan with him. She had barely entered the little cafe before she had been put to work. And now, ten hours later, she felt she would be lucky if she made it home. She hadn't the strength to worry about the coming confrontation.
On her one brief break, she called the apartment to let him know she was all right and the resulting conversation had effectively warned her what was in store for her when she got home.
As soon as she had identified herself, Ben had begun to question her with a fury that made her pull the phone away from her ear. Oddly enough, his first question, after assuring himself of her safety, was to ask in a strange, stiff voice if she had remembered who she was.
The information that she had found a job, but refused to tell him where, provoked another storm and she was almost grateful when the cook indicated to her that her break was over.
Now as she breathed deeply of the heavy, evening air, she decided to deal with Ben's anger when she got home—if she got home. She kept a steady pace, knowing that if she ever slowed down, she would probably drop. Her back ached in places she hadn't known existed and her feet seemed to be made of thousands of tiny, burning muscles, making every step torture.
"Now I know how the little mermaid felt," she murmured as she walked. "This is the price I pay for giving up my tail."
She felt somehow that Hans Christian Anderson's heroine had gotten the better deal. She at least had suffered the pain for the love of a prince. Sunny had done it for an amount of money that wouldn't have kept a vegetarian alive.
Leaning against a lamp post, she raised each foot in turn to flex the aching insteps.
So that was work. At least now she knew she wasn't a slow study. It hadn't taken her long to find out beyond a doubt that she wasn't fond of the backbreaking labor that went with her new job as waitress-busboy-dishwasher. And she had been equally unfond of the dirt that seemed to be the cafe's only claim to atmosphere. And most of all she had detested the large blond man who had hired her. She shuddered now, remembering the way he had grinned slyly when she had lied about losing her Social Security card.
After what seemed like eons, she reached the house that contained the dearest things in the world—a bath, a bed, and Ben. Her steps quickened as she opened the front door, then she gave a groan of pain and weariness when she stared up the three, long flights of stairs.
There was no help for it. The stairs would not go away no matter how long she stood and stared at them. So, leaning heavily on the banister, she began the slow ascent, silently urging on legs that frequently refused to move. With brief pauses on each landing, she arrived at last at Ben's front door.
Leaning against the wall, she closed her eyes and began searching for any remaining strength to help her through what she knew was coming when she opened the door. Although she heard Mary Louise's door open, she couldn't seem to lift her eyelids to acknowledge the girl's presence. Then she heard an eerie, gruff voice echo through the hall.
"What's long and yellow and seldom rings?"
Sunny chuckled weakly at her friend's attempted improvement on the riddle of the Sphinx. Suddenly the chain rattled and the door squeaked open wider.
"Jeez, you look awful," Mary Louise said slowly, but strangely she didn't sound amused as Sunny had expected.
"I feel awful. That man could have made a fortune hiring himself out during the Spanish Inquisition."
"Didn't I tell you he was a horror?"
"Yes, you told me," she murmured, her voice faint from exhaustion. "But you didn't do him justice. He would have made Ivan the Terrible look like a sweet guy in comparison."
"Ivan who?"
"He was a sixteenth-century punk rock star," Sunny muttered, then opened her eyes and shoved her body away from the wall. There was no sense in postponing the inevitable.
After looking at her suspiciously for a moment, Mary Louise shrugged and said in her gruff voice, "Ben's been acting real weird. Every once in a while he opens the door and looks around, then goes back in looking like he's ready to explode. And it sounds like he's been fighting with the furniture."
"Uh-oh," Sunny said apprehensively, staring at the closed door. Then she sighed in resignation. "I guess I might as well get it over with. Wish me luck." She paused. "By the way, what is long and yellow and seldom rings?"
The girl grinned. "An unlisted banana."
Sunny laughed as she turned away, then groaned when the sudden movement sent a pain shooting down her back. Raising her chin bravely, she reached for the knob.
Ben turned away from the window in exasperation, kicking a chair out of his way as he began to pace again. Why wasn't she there? This day had been three weeks long. When had his life started to revolve around a woman who was as solid as Alice in Wonderland? He knew without a doubt that any minute she would dissolve in a mist, leaving not even a Cheshire smile behind. So why had he—rational, logical, sane man that he was—come to depend on her for his peace of mind?
Yesterday he had pretended not to see her trying to stay out of his way, as though she thought that would please him, when all he really wanted was to be near her, to watch her vital animation, to feel the electricity of her presence.
Who do you think you're kidding? Running his hand through hair that was disheveled from a hundred identical gestures, he admitted scornfully that he wanted much more than that from her. The days were bad enough, but the nights, God, the nights were pure hell.
Ben had never had to practice self-control as far as his sex life was concerned. He hadn't made love to a woman in over six months, but that had been a matter of choice. He hadn't felt the need. Before, when he had felt the biological urge, it hadn't been difficult to find a willing partner.
The thought that he could find one just as easily now didn't occur to him as he paced in frustration. His mind had been taken over by a fantasy, a woman of no substance, who would disappear at any moment.
Where had she been today? He walked back to the window and looked toward the city that loomed large beyond his small neighborhood. Who could she have been with? She knew no one—did she?
Before he could explore that particular unwelcome thought, Ben heard a noise behind him and swung on his heel, the veins in his temples beginning to throb as anger surged through him. He wanted to shout at her in a fury that was directed more toward his weakness for her than at Sunny herself, but the powerful emotions made speech impossible.
Then he looked at her closely and the red mist filling his head dissolved.
"Sunny!"
Striding across the floor, he scooped her up in his arms and carried her to the couch. "What happened?" he asked softly, knowing he should let her go, but unable to keep from holding her in his arms for just a little while. "What happened to you?" he repeated.
"I believe they call it honest labor," she said, her voice low, but holding the amusement that never seemed entirely absent. "And a very much overrated institution it is, too."
"You were working?" he asked in disbelief, anger of a different kind filling him now. "Why, in God's name?"
"Why do people usually work? To make money."
He took a deep breath, trying to hold back an explosion. "If you needed money, why didn't you tell me?" He paused a moment, his nostrils twitching, then dipped his head to bury his face in her hair. "What on earth is that smell?"
"Grease, smoke, enchiladas, and chicken fried steak," she said slowly, her eyes drifting shut. "Interesting combination, don't you think? I'm thinking of taking out a patent on it. I'll call it Eau de Truck Stop."
"You were working in a cafe? Doing what?"
"You name it, I did it," she murmured. "I washed dishes. I swept and mopped. I waited tables and cleaned tables. I did everything but wipe the customers' mouths when they got through eating."
"Why, Sunny?" he asked, his voice gruff with confusion and concern. "Why couldn't you come to me for money if you needed it that badly?"
She shifted in his lap, snuggling closer, and her voice when it came was so faint he had to bend to hear her.
"Now, that would be real nice, wouldn't it? Borrowing money from you to pay you for my room and board."
She gave a soft laugh. Then as silence filled the room, she opened her eyes. Looking quickly away, he avoided her eyes, but he could feel her staring at his face.
"Ben," she said, giving a laugh that this time sounded nervous and unsure. "Are you going to cry?"
"I may," he muttered hoarsely, closing his eyes. "I haven't decided yet." He swallowed hard, then opened his eyes to look at her. "You put yourself through this to pay me for staying here?"
"It wasn't that bad. I can't say I care for Mr. Delaney, but the customers were nice and the cook—"
"Delaney?" He stared at her, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Did you say Delaney?"
When he saw her hesitant nod, the explosion could be held back no longer. "Damnation!" he said, pushing her aside to jump to his feet lest he strangle her. "You actually went to work for that scum!"
She watched him warily as he walked the well-worn path around the furniture in the living room. He knew he had to control his anger before he explained to her. It wasn't her fault and he didn't want to frighten her. She didn't know. She couldn't know who she had been dealing with.
"Sunny," he said at last, his voice reasonably calm. "That man is a leech. He's humanity in its lowest form. He uses people's misfortune to make money."
Watching her face, he could see that she didn't understand. How could she? He was being anything but clear. "Babe, he's bad news," he tried again. "The man wouldn't know a daisy even if he did manage to see it. He hires illegal aliens to work for him and uses them in a terrible way. He works them until they drop and never pays a cent of overtime. He either pays them substandard wages or refuses to pay them at all. And they have no recourse. Because they're here illegally, they can't contact the police or the labor department."
Sitting beside her, he held both her hands. "Don't you see? He sucks them dry. And, Sunny, he enjoys it. That's the worst part. Their misery pleases him."
"Why doesn't someone do something?" she asked, her voice shocked. "If his practices are known, why doesn't someone stop him?"
"The authorities can't touch him," Ben said in disgust. "Oh, they make periodic raids and arrest the people working for him, then send them home. But all he has to do is say he didn't know they were illegal and he goes scot-free."
"That stinks!"
"Honey, there are a lot of things in the world that stink and it seems that all we can do is not contribute to the smell."
"That's not right, Ben. When you see evil, there should be some way to stop it."
She shivered suddenly and Ben knew that reaction to her hard day was beginning to set in.
"Forget about it tonight. You need to get to bed before you make yourself ill."
"I'm not that fragile," she said, laughing weakly. "But I must admit that a bath and bed sound sinfully delicious right now."
Against her protests, he carried her to the bathroom and deposited her inside, then stood outside until he heard the water running. Walking to the bed, he turned back the cover, then removed his shirt from the bureau drawer and hung it on the knob of the bathroom door.
His hand lingered for a moment on the creamy silk. He should have bought her a gown when he bought her other clothes. He had considered it, but the thought of his shirt resting against her body at night while she slept was somehow a consolation.
Dangerous thinking, Ben, he cautioned himself silently. Those kinds of thoughts are best forgotten. Or if not forgotten, at least not indulged.
When he could no longer hear the shower running, he walked closer to the door. "My shirt's hanging on the doorknob."
"Thank you, Ben."
Evidently the shower had revived her, for her voice seemed stronger now. He drew the drapes, then sat on the bed waiting for her to reenter the room. When she appeared, her hair was wet and hung straight down to below her shoulders, tiny curls already beginning to form on her forehead. She had wrapped a towel around her body and, when she reached for the shirt, it slipped off the knob and fell to the floor.
As he watched, she bent to pick it up and he heard her gasp in pain. He jumped up and strode across to her, lifting her in his arms to carry her to the bed. Laying her down gently, he said, his voice almost harsh, "Forget the shirt for now. Where does it hurt?"
"It would be easier to tell you where it doesn't hurt," she said, softly chuckling. "I think I was allergic to their dishwashing liquid. My hands itch all the way up to the elbows."
"Just relax and I'll see what I can do about it."
When he returned from the bathroom, he picked up one hand and began to rub some soothing cream into the reddened flesh. It seemed he had been waiting forever to touch her, but he never dreamed the first time would be in order to ease her pain.
"Your feet look swollen," he murmured, spreading the cream up her forearm, feeling the bones that seemed too fragile to support her.
"Oh, are they still there? That's a comfort. I thought I had worn them away."
He laughed shortly, unable to grasp the way she laughed at her own pain. She was so soft. He knew he was taking too much pleasure in touching her, but there was no way on earth he could be objective. His hands had a will of their own as they discovered the smoothness of her palms, the length of her fingers, then slid up her arms, not stopping at the reddened forearms, but needing to feel the softness of the whole length.
"Turn over and I'll see what I can do for your feet," he ordered hoarsely, feeling the need to break the hypnotic spell stroking her arms had cast on his good sense.
He moved to the end of the bed as she rolled silently onto her stomach and picked up one injured foot.
She should stop him. She knew she should. He wasn't her servant nor was he responsible for her. There was no need for him to go to all this trouble for her . . . oh, but it felt so good.
Groaning, Sunny arched her foot into his large hand, then sighed as he rotated the slender ankle, his thumb firmly massaging the tender instep.
"There's something mesmeric about having your feet massaged," she murmured drowsily as a warm lassitude invaded her limbs. "I mean, it's almost, ummmm"—she paused when he switched to the other foot, then continued in a sigh—"erotic."
"Do you think so?"
His voice was husky and faraway. Thick and slow, as thick and slow as the blood flowing sluggishly through her veins, a voice seeming somehow an extension of herself ... a harsh echo of senses yielding gratefully to the Circean lethargy.
Resting her feet on his chest, he slid his hands down to rub the taut muscles of her calves, coaxing them to release the soreness and tension with firm, soothing strokes. Then as he moved to her thighs, she felt the bed sink and suddenly he was straddling her calves, moving the flesh of her thighs, rearranging it to a less painful distribution of muscles.
After the first few moments, she stopped counting the muscles in her legs; then, almost magically, she no longer felt the soreness, her thoughts taken over by the feel of his rough jeans on her bare skin, the hard muscles of his thighs beneath the fabric.
This is not supposed to be happening, she thought lazily, unable to fight the feelings she had been suppressing for days. This is supposed to be therapeutic. The massage was supposed to decrease the ache in her legs, not increase the ache in an altogether different spot.
"Is that better?" he asked gruffly, his hands running up and down her thighs, sliding to the outside, then dipping to the inside.
"What?" she gasped weakly. "Oh. Yes . . . yes, it is."
Stop stuttering, you fool or he'll know just exactly what's happening to you.
"I'm going to lower the towel just a little, Sunny, so that I can get at your lower back."
"Okay." Her voice was now a thin, reedy whisper.
With a hand to each side of her waist, he began digging his thumbs into the small of her back, pushing in and up with each stroke. Slowly following the line of her spine, he paused for long moments with his fingers resting beneath her arms, massaging the base of each delicate shoulder blade with his mobile, mesmerizing thumbs.
After a moment the fingers began to move restlessly, smoothing the skin, and she held her breath as they came closer and closer to the rounded flesh of her breasts, which were pressed outward by her own weight. She swallowed a moan when the tormenting fingers moved on to her shoulders.
Brushing the still damp hair from her neck, he shifted his position to straddle her waist, keeping his legs stiff to avoid putting pressure on her body, and let the heels of his hands rest on her shoulders, his fingers laying lightly on her collar bones. His thumbs moved up her neck, at first massaging as they had before. Then, gradually, the stroking movement turned into a seeking caress and his fingers began to explore the sides of her neck, the sensitive area around her ears.
His head was bent close, for she could hear the harsh sound of his breath, feel the moist heat on her neck. Guided by an instinct older than time, she turned her head, opening her eyes to plead with him silently.
His mouth was only a breath away when she whispered, "Please," and then, as though it were the signal he had been waiting for, he closed the gap, capturing her lips with a burning urgency that matched her own.
For the following moments, time was suspended as she became lost in the consuming pleasure of the kiss. They were joined at last, each seeming to try to make up for lost time as tongue caressed tongue and heated lips pressed closer and ever closer.
The clocks began ticking again only when he pulled away a fraction of an inch to frame her face with his hands and stare at her with an open, deep hunger. Somehow, in the moments before, he had slid down beside her so that they now lay facing each other with only his clothing separating their bodies.
"Do you know how long I've been waiting to do that?" he asked in a harsh, hurried whisper. "Centuries." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes as though in pain. "Eons."
"Do you know how long I've been waiting for you to do that?" she responded softly. "Since the first minute I set eyes on you. You looked so proper sitting behind that desk and I was sure you would be irritated by my strange problem. Then you put your hand to the back of your neck and I noticed you needed a haircut and there was a look in your eyes . . . almost vulnerable. That's when I wanted to kiss you and make it all better."
"Was that an all-better kiss?" he asked as though he didn't like the idea.
"Oh, no." She laughed softly. "That wasn't for you. That was strictly for me. That was what I've been lying awake nights thinking about."
He groaned hoarsely as his head descended and he began an assault on her neck, nipping and tasting the warm flesh. He lowered his hands to her back, pulling her close to his lower body and she could feel the depth of his arousal as he pressed against her, urging her to enter a world of pure sensation.
Her hands began to move restlessly across his shoulders to his throat, dipping inside his shirt to touch the hard, hair-roughened expanse of chest. With fingers that trembled, she unfastened the buttons and pushed the shirt out of the way.
He was still suddenly, drawing in a deep breath as she moved her upper body slowly forward, watching in fascination as the tips of her breasts grazed the hair on his chest.
A cry of pleasure came from her lips without her knowledge as she felt the incredible sensation shiver through her body. This is what she had been waiting for, aching for. But never would she have believed the feeling could be so intense, so breathtakingly wonderful.
Her pleasure intensified immeasurably when she heard him groan—a deep, incredibly erotic sound— before pulling her to him fiercely, wrapping his arms around her to clasp her buttocks with both hands and urge her forward as he arched into her.
"Babe, how can it be even more beautiful than I dreamed?" he gasped, moving his body against hers frantically. "This isn't possible."
"It is. It's incredible, but it's real." She caressed his face with feverish strokes, learning the lines around his eyes, letting her fingers discover the pleasure of the cleft in his chin, the intricate secrets contained in the grooves of his ears.
She was on fire. And only Ben could put out the flames. She burned for him with every nerve in her body, every inch of flesh. She felt she would explode if the sensations increased. That is, until he reached down and cupped one breast in his large, warm hand. Then she knew she would take all he could give and, if she died from the intensity, she would have died in ecstasy.
"Now, Ben," she gasped frantically. "We've wasted so much time, and there was no need for it—but we can make up for it now. Now, Ben."
"No need," he murmured, lifting her hand to his mouth to explore its contours. Then, as he circled one slender finger with his warm, moist tongue, he repeated slowly, his voice sounding dazed, "No need?"
Releasing her abruptly, he rolled onto his back, his eyes closing tightly as he inhaled deeply. Then a harsh shudder shook his body.
"Ben?"
Suddenly she was frightened. Why had he left her? What had she done to cause that reaction in him?
"Ben, please, I'm scared."
"No, baby. Shhhh," he soothed, pulling her close so that she lay with her head resting on his shoulder. He pushed her disheveled hair away from her face and looked deep into her eyes.
"Baby, we can't do this," he said quietly. "We forgot about the face, the place on your finger. Sunny, we have no right to do this."
"But that's not fair!" she exclaimed. Biting her lip to force a calmness that she didn't feel, she added, "It felt right, Ben. It wouldn't have felt right if it were wrong."
"That's not a reliable test, babe. I don't care if you were a nun, having you in my arms would have felt right. But that doesn't change the fact that it would be wrong."
"If I were a nun, then my being a nun would be wrong," she said stubbornly. "And if I'm married, then that's wrong."
Slowly, firmly, he moved her away from him and began to rise. "You can't make that kind of judgment now. Not until you know all the facts," he said, then added harshly, "and I should have my butt kicked for provoking this kind of thing when you're so vulnerable."
"You didn't start it, I did," she said tightly, then moved her head to stare at him fiercely. "And I'm glad. Do you hear? I'm glad. So don't try to make it seem wrong, because it wasn't."
He greeted her declaration with silence and as Sunny continued to stare at him, she suddenly felt ashamed. Not of her actions before, but of her actions now. He was a man with extremely strong principles and she was trying to undermine those principles.
"Ben, I'm sorry," she said contritely. "You're right. Now is not the time to make that kind of a decision. Please, forgive me."
He laughed shortly and turned away. "You make it sound like you tried to seduce me. Believe me, there is nothing on this earth that could have stopped me from touching you tonight." He shrugged his shoulders stiffly. "Now, it's time you got some sleep. I'll see you in the morning."
She watched him move through the door and close it behind him, then said softly, "Goodnight, Ben."
Moments later, she whispered, "I love you," and the lonely sound echoed wistfully through the empty room.
Long after Ben heard Sunny stop tossing in her bed, he lay awake, staring at the dark ceiling. "It's going to be a long night, old man," he said to the shadows around him.
Rising stiffly, he walked to his desk to pull out a half-empty package of cigarettes. He had given up smoking along with his old way of life, but lately his nerves had needed all the help they could get. And tonight—hell, tonight it would take more than nicotine to calm his frazzled nerves.
He should have expected this to happen. It had been clear from the moment she moved in that this was the only possible conclusion to their association. And all his good intentions, his marvelous scruples hadn't been worth a damn when put to the test. If he hadn't been afraid of harming Sunny emotionally, it wouldn't have mattered if she had ten husbands.
Lord, she was receptive. He groaned in frustration when he thought of how eagerly she had responded to his touch. It seemed that she had no hesitation about letting him make love to her. Which meant that all that stood between him and heaven was the gossamer fine line of his integrity. And here in the dark, with an aching need gripping his body and twisting his mind, integrity seemed to be just a word. A useless, painful word.
Glancing at his watch, he stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette and walked back to his converted bed. Twelve o'clock. Only four hours since he had left her. It seemed more like four days. Four lonely, frustrating days.
Resigning himself to the fact that there would be no sleep for him any time soon, he folded his hands behind his head and lay back against the pillow. As he lay there, one question pursued him long into the night.
"How long can I take this?" he whispered hoarsely to the uncaring shadows. "How long?"
Seven
"Ben, this is ridiculous!"
Sunny pulled the pillow over her head sleepily as the noise that had been disturbing her beautiful dream got louder. She had been dreaming of Ben. In her dream, they were lying in a field of daisies, gentle spring sunshine bathing them in a radiant warmth. There was no past to think about, no future, only the Tightness and the beauty of being in each other's arms at that particular moment. Ben was staring down at her with love in his eyes and—
"You can't honestly believe Daddy knew anything about that?" a woman's voice said in disbelief.
Sunny put both her hands on top of the pillow to hold it tighter to her ears. Someone was determined to bring her back to reality when she had wanted to linger forever in the light of love she saw in Ben's eyes.
"And even if he did, don't you think you're being a little unrealistic? You didn't exactly unearth a scandal. This is a legitimate practice, used by all the major corporations."
"I don't care if the pope himself does it," Ben said, his voice cold and stiff. "It's wrong."
Sunny's dream was gone now, dissolved into nothing by the insistent voices in the living room. She sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees as she listened to Ben talk to the woman in the next room.
"I don't really know what you're upset about, Georgia. I'm not trying to harm your father's company. I can't stop what's going on there, but I don't have to be associated with it."
"You know why I'm upset, darling," the woman he called Georgia said softly. "Why do we have to let this tear us apart? Am I my father's keeper?" she added in a whimsical voice.
Sunny slowly rose from the bed, her breathing suddenly restricted. This woman really cared for Ben. She could hear it in her voice. And Ben? How did he feel? Did he return her feelings?
As unpleasant as the thought was, Sunny had to consider the possibility. He was certainly running away from something in his past. This woman perhaps?
"I told you when we said goodbye that it wasn't the reason," Ben said, his deathly quiet voice coming through the closed door with a frightening clarity. "Finding out how your father runs his business was merely a catalyst. It opened my mind to what was happening to me. I left a way of life that was wrong for me. And you just happened to be included in the things that were wrong," he added callously, his voice cynically amused.
This wasn't Ben. This cold stranger couldn't be the same man who had almost cried because Sunny had worked to repay him for his kindness.
There was something very wrong about the scene in the next room. Something that frightened her. She had to stop what was happening in there. She had to bring back her Ben. But how?
It was several minutes before the woman spoke again. And when she did, her voice was filled with anger. "And this is right? Do you really think you're achieving nobility by living in this filthy hole like some—some over-the-hill hippie!" she spat out. Then seconds later she gave a contemptuous laugh. "I'm surprised you don't have some hot little thing living with you. That would complete the scenario in the expected way."
"Unless I'm very much mistaken," Sunny murmured in the next room, "that's my cue."
Drawing in a deep breath for courage, she walked to the door and threw it open. She leaned against the door frame and closed her eyes as she stretched her arms above her head in a sleepy yawn, letting the silk shirt rise high on her thighs.
"Ben!" Georgia gasped.
Sunny allowed her eyes to open wide in surprise and stared at the woman. She was tall and slender, her raven hair pulled into a sleek, sophisticated knot at the base of her neck, matching the expensive lines of her tailored burgundy suit. She didn't look like a wicked witch who could cast a spell of coldness over Ben. She looked like a beautiful, but ordinary woman.
But when Sunny glanced at Ben from the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of the stern stranger whose voice she had heard through the door. He was sitting in an armchair facing the standing woman. Although the couch was now a couch rather than his bed, she had evidently caught him off guard, for he wore only his faded jeans. Suddenly Sunny resented the fact that he was sitting there half-naked before this woman.
"Ben," Georgia repeated. "Who is this?"
"Oh!" Sunny said quickly before Ben could reply. "I didn't know we had company. I overslept," she added apologetically. "We don't have guests very often." She walked forward, extending her hand, her hips swinging in time with her words. "My last roommate called me"—she hesitated, searching wildly for a name to suit her new image— "Ready Betty," she finished triumphantly.
When the woman stared at her hand with horror, Sunny turned to walk to Ben. "But Ben calls me Sunny," she said, sliding across the arm of the chair to sit in his lap. "Don't you, Benjy?"
She could feel his body shaking with laughter beneath her, and as she looked into his eyes, the sparkle of life that she was used to seeing there had returned.
When she lifted her head to give him a smacking kiss on the mouth, she heard him choke out in comical horror, "Benjy?" and she had to tighten her lips to keep from laughing aloud.
Turning her head back to the woman standing across the room, Sunny broke contact with the undermining twinkle in Ben's eyes. "Are you a relative of Ben's?" she asked innocently. "We don't get out very often and I haven't met any of his family."
She watched in curiosity as the woman's breathing gradually returned to normal and she said tightly, "I am not related to Ben. I'm his fiancee."
"His fiancee?" She glanced back at Ben, raising an eyebrow in amused inquiry, then smiled beatifically at his 'fiancee.' "Then you can understand why we don't get out much. I mean, don't you think he's—uh—like totally awesome?"
"Ben! Who is she? And what's this all about?" Georgia asked angrily. Then, after a moment, her eyelids drooped and her voice grew soft. "Darling, you're too intelligent to fall into this kind of common trap."
She made the words sound vulgar and Sunny bristled, making a monumental effort to control her features before she spoke again. "He is awfully smart, isn't he? I mean, have you seen his books? Physics and history and archeology. Even psychology. I tried to read them, but I'm not very bright," she said cheerfully. Then her lips pouted as she wrinkled her brow in thought. "They all seemed to talk an awful lot about phallic symbols." She ignored Georgia's choked exclamation and Ben's shaking body as she switched off the pensive mood and began to giggle. "I had to look it up in the dictionary and you wouldn't believe what it means. It means—"
"Sunny!" Ben said, pulling a lock of her hair in warning.
"What?" she said, looking up at him innocently. "Oh . . . not in mixed company, right? Well, I'll tell you what it means later." She glanced apologetically at Georgia. "I'm afraid you'll have to look it up for yourself."
Somehow Georgia didn't look quite as beautiful with red splotches on her face. She seemed to be having an attack of some kind as she leaned heavily against the end of the couch, her eyes closed tightly. After a moment her heightened color subsided. Slowly she opened her eyes and smiled, first at Sunny, then at Ben.
"Ben." Her voice was no longer scornful, merely carefully polite. "I don't suppose you'd like to go somewhere more private to discuss this?"
Ben tightened his arms where they lay around Sunny's waist, lifted her so he could stand up, and then replaced her in the chair. "No, Georgia. I don't think that would be a good idea," he said apologetically, his voice missing the hardness that had frightened Sunny before. "I'm sorry, but we really don't have anything to talk about."
For a moment it looked as though she wanted to argue with him; then she seemed to see something that intrigued her in his eyes. She stared at him with curiosity, then shrugged slowly. "No, I guess we don't. And I'm sorry, too. I don't think you know how sorry."
Turning to Sunny, she smiled ruefully and said, "You don't make a very convincing dumb blonde, Miss . . . Sunny." She sighed, "But whatever you are, it seems to be what he wants."
Sunny could almost hear her making a mental insertion about the quality of Ben's taste, but this time when she extended her hand, it was accepted, albeit reluctantly, and she suddenly felt sorry for the woman she had done her best to undermine. Sunny didn't like the feeling. It was much more comfortable to dislike her.
When the door closed behind his visitor, Sunny looked up at Ben. "I almost liked her," Sunny said slowly. 
"You needn't sound so guilty about it," Ben said, laughing. "We weren't right for each other and, deep down, Georgia knew that. She just didn't want to admit it."
Lowering his large frame to the couch, he stretched his legs out before him and pinned Sunny with his gray gaze. "Now, what was all that about?" He paused and, before she could answer, gave a shout of laughter. "Ready Betty? Where on earth did you hear that?"
"It's what Mary Louise calls the—uh—ladies who drop in occasionally on the men in the building."
"Mary Louise sees too much for her own good." His eyes narrowed sternly. "What made you decide I needed a Ready Betty at that point? I take it you were listening at the door."
"You make it sound like I was eavesdropping," she said indignantly. When she saw his raised brows, she added, "You were talking very loud. I was simply—overlistening. And the reason I came in was because you sounded like the Ben you've been running away from. You don't like that Ben, I know you don't." She bit her lip when she saw him stiffen. "I owe you whether you want to admit it or not. For taking me in. For being so kind." She shrugged helplessly. "So I came in to chase him away." She looked up at him beneath her lashes. "Well, it worked, didn't it?"
As she watched surreptitiously, the stiffness left his face and his eyes began to twinkle. "You're something else," he said softly. "And sometimes I think I'm better off not knowing just exactly what it is you are."
"You're not really mad, are you?" she asked, knowing the answer, but needing the reassurance.
"No, I'm not mad. But, Sunny ..." He stared down at his hands. "What did you mean when you said I don't like 'that Ben'?"
"I just have a feeling . . . Maybe I'm wrong, but it seems sometimes that you think this thing you were trying to hide from was really inside you, that you're afraid you won't be able to run away from it because it's not in the world, but in you. I assumed what I saw and heard today was that other Ben, the one you don't like."
He remained thoughtfully silent for a moment, then said slowly, "You see too damn much, too." He leaned his head back against the couch in a weary gesture. "I told you that everyone is afraid to face what's really in his soul. Maybe it's not everyone, but only me. . . . Whoever me is," he added wryly. "I seem to be one person when I'm around people like Georgia and her father, and someone else entirely when I'm with you." He gave a short, self-deprecating laugh. "Somehow that makes me sound unstable and . . . weak."
"That makes you sound very human," she corrected softly.
"And which do you suppose is really me?"
"Both," she said softly, wanting so badly to go to him and comfort him. "When you're with people who only understand power, then you're strong and shrewd. But when you're with people who appreciate the softness and the beauty in the world, then you can let your gentleness show through. If you did it the other way around, then you really would have problems because the people who worship power would laugh at the softness and the gentle people would shrink from the display of strength."
Suddenly she started to chuckle softly when she saw his stunned expression. "I'm doing it again, aren't I? I'm sorry."
"No, don't be," he said, shaking his head. "It just threw me for a minute. I don't know why I always expect you to say something naive and unrealistic. You know, 'Hey guys, let's put on a show' like in all the old Andy Hardy movies." He laughed suddenly when he heard her quip. "Andy who?", then picked up his train of thought. "Then you come up with something like that. It makes a lot of sense. At least, I don't sound so bad when you put it that way."
He remained silent for a moment, staring at his hands as he held them together in a peak before him. Then he looked up at her. "You mentioned Georgia's father. How much of that did you hear?"
"Quite a lot, actually."
"And you're not curious?" He gave her an amused look.
"I'm dying to know all about it," she admitted. "I have been for days. How could I not be with the paintings and other expensive things you have around here that you could have pawned?" She gave a martyred sigh. "But since I refused to let you probe into my past, I felt it was only fair to extend you the same courtesy."
"You poor thing." He laughed. "As a matter of fact, I think I'd like to talk to you about it." He stood and walked to the window, glancing at her over his shoulder. "But first I would appreciate it if you would go and get dressed."
Lowering her eyes to her body, she discovered that when she had drawn her feet up beside her, the shirt had slid high on her thighs, the side slits exposing peach-colored panties. "Oh . . . Yes, you're right. I'm sorry," she stuttered, feeling the color rise in her face.
Ten minutes later, when she was dressed and her color had subsided, she sat once more on the armchair, staring at the perfectly molded muscles and smooth dark skin of his bare back.
"You'll need a little background first," he said, gazing out the window. "I was what's commonly called a 'bright young man.' Lord, how I hate that phrase. It makes me sound like a light bulb. Georgia's father's company was my playground. My future was all mapped out. I ate, drank, and slept the company. And in a few years, I would have had the presidency." He glanced at her over his shoulder. "I had no doubt of that. I knew what Mr. Sellers had planned for me and I went along with it. Being president of a large corporation seemed a step in the right direction."
He wandered over to his desk and leaned against it, resting one thigh on the scarred surface. "A pleasant little side-benefit was Georgia. She's a sharp lady. She saw which way the wind was blowing. She recognized the ambition in me and made sure she attached herself to whom she thought would be the winner."
Sunny made no comment, but she could have told him that Georgia's motives for attaching herself to Ben were not that clear-cut. She may have, as he said, recognized him as a winner, but that was not her main reason. Ben could have been an ordinary pencil pusher and still would have attracted the attentions of women like Georgia.
"Then the snake entered the Garden of Eden and my first bite of the apple was decidedly rotten." He grinned suddenly. "Which is a silly way of saying I found out the company had been using underhanded and, to my way of thinking, unforgivable practices for years."
He paused. This part was difficult for him. She could see it in his face. "You know that there are certain substances that are illegal to use in the United States?" She nodded. "It's not uncommon for companies to sell those products to third world countries. I knew those things were happening and, like every other average citizen, it made me a little sick to think money was more important than people." His voice became low and intense. "But I had never looked closely enough at my own company to find that they were doing the same damn thing."
For a moment he stared silently down at his clenched fists. When he spoke at last, his voice was harsh. "All those years I spent there and I hadn't even bothered to find out what was going on."
It hurt so badly to see him condemning himself, but she was helpless to do anything about it. She knew this was something he had to resolve by himself. "What did you do?" she asked quietly.
"I went to Mr. Sellers. It was just possible that he didn't know either. Things like that happen. In a company that big, sometimes the right hand doesn't know what the left is doing. But he knew all right. He knew and even when I asked him about the people whose health was being affected at that very moment, he shrugged it off. His only excuse was 'Everyone does it' and he proceeded to name the companies—companies bigger and more respected than his—that do the same thing."
He laughed bitterly. "I wasn't naive. I knew about the things that went on privately in the business world. Hell, I've used some of those dirty tricks myself. You have to be ruthless when you're dealing with that amount of money and power. But this wasn't a business opponent we were talking about. This was the lives of people who had nothing to do with the business world. These people never know from day to day where their next meals are coming from. They don't deserve that kind of treatment," he ground out with dark intensity.
"So I left. I gave up everything that had to do with that kind of life. Except my paintings. The money that came from the sale of my house and the rest, went into more paintings. I had never collected with an eye to their possible increase in value. I bought what pleased me. It sounds silly now, but the beauty of those paintings seemed to be a hope that I could hang onto, an indication that there was something pure and good somewhere in the world."
"And you've found nothing else in the world with that same purity and goodness?" she asked slowly. It seemed so strange to her that she could look around from any point in the world and see so much to please her—so much that was good, when he could see so little.
"Sometimes. Sometimes I think I have, but then I realize it's only an illusion and has no basis in reality."
"I wonder if you know how sad that is," she murmured.
"Are you going to analyze me again?" he asked warily.
She laughed. "No, I'm not. I have faith in you. I know that eventually you'll work it out. And when you do, you'll see that the good outweighs the evil. If for no other reason than that, selfishly, people want to be surrounded by what pleases them. And goodness is more pleasing than evil."
"You have everything all worked out, don't you?" He was staring at her curiously.
"Not everything," she murmured, running her eyes wistfully over the bare flesh of his upper torso. Then she grinned when she saw him watching her. "I still don't understand the theory of relativity."
He seemed suddenly to realize that he was only half-dressed, for he rose abruptly from the desk and ran a hand distractedly through his thick, brown hair as he muttered, "Yes, well, I guess I'd better get dressed."
He darted a glance at her, his eyes narrowing in exasperation when he saw the amused twinkle in her eyes. "I have to go to the post office," he explained belligerently.
She watched silently as he picked up his shirt and headed for the bathroom. With every minute that passed they came closer and closer to the final step in their relationship. It seemed incomprehensible to her that she could leave him without knowing him completely. It had to happen. This thing between them was too strong to ignore. The question was—when?
Ben held his packages between the wall and his chest while he fished the key out of the pocket of his jeans. In his haste, he almost dropped both it and a small heavy sack that began sliding precariously downward as he struggled to maintain his balance.
At last the apartment door swung open. "Nice to see you again, Mary Louise," he called cheerfully over his shoulder to the eyes across the hall, grinning when he heard the door slam shut.
"Sunny!" Dropping the packages on the couch, he walked toward the bedroom. "Sunny, where are you?"
"Ben?"
He stopped when he saw her appear in the open kitchen door and with swift strides crossed to her, grabbing her to spin her around in a circle. The surprise on her face brought a shout of spontaneous laughter from him.
"Drop everything. We're celebrating." He gave her a breath-stealing hug, unable to contain his excitement. "Come see what I bought."
"Ben, what's going on?" Sunny sputtered, dropping a dish towel onto the counter before following him into the living room. "What happened? You've been gone for hours." She paused, her brow wrinkling with thought. "The post office," she murmured, then her eyes widened. "You went to the post office! Ben, you've sold something important!"
She clasped his right hand in both of hers. "You have, haven't you?" she said, laughing in excitement. "Oh, tell me before I hit you."
He watched the delight in her face and felt a warmth flood through his body. She was pleased. Genuinely pleased for him. Pulling the letter from his pocket, he silently handed it to her.
She quickly scanned the page, then squealed in excitement. "They loved it! They really, really loved it. And a check enclosed! Ben, you're rich!"
"Well, not exactly rich," he said, chuckling. "Just a little less poor. But that's not the important part. Didn't you see who the letter was from?"
She glanced at the letter again. " 'Family of Man'? Is that good?"
"Good? It's only the most prestigious magazine in the country—no, not the country," he amended, flopping down on the couch with a stunned laugh, "the world." He pulled her down on the couch, clasping her by the shoulders as he stared at her in amazement. "In the world, Sunny!"
"Oh, Ben," she said with a sigh. "That's wonderful." She gave him a mock-stern look. "Didn't I tell you? Didn't I say all you needed was patience?"
"Yes, Miss-Know-it-All, you did," he admitted. "Now, open the packages and see what I bought you."
"Me? Ben, you shouldn't have bought anything for me," she said quietly, then her eyes began to sparkle with mischief and excitement. "What is it? What did you buy?"
"Here." He laughed in delight as he handed her a large box. "Open this one first."
Accepting the box, she glanced up at him, her eyes glowing with a deep warmth that made him catch his breath. Pulling her eyes slowly away she began to tear away the wrappings. Then suddenly her movements stilled. "Ben," she said in a reverent whisper, rising to her feet. "A dress."
She held the soft, green fabric to her and twirled around before him. "Ben, a dress. It's absolutely gorgeous."
"Now open this." He handed her a smaller package.
"More? Ben, this is too much," she protested, sinking back to the couch as she fumbled with the bright plastic bag. "Oh," she whispered. "Ben . . . shoes . . . and pantyhose ..." She paused as she lifted the last item from the bag, cradling it gently.
"A lipstick," she breathed, then scrambled to her knees, holding his face between her hands as she kissed him gently on the lips. "Ben, lipstick."
"Yes, I know." He laughed through the constriction in his throat. "Lipstick. I should have thought of it before. To tell you the truth, I wouldn't have thought of it today if the saleslady hadn't suggested it."
"No!" she protested. "You've been very thoughtful. You've given me everything I need. But—well, lipstick is a little like sexy underwear. No one really notices, but it makes you feel so much better . . . more feminine."
If you look any more feminine, I'm going to be in big trouble, he thought warily, but said aloud, "Go try them on, for heaven's sake, so I can see if I got my moneys worth." As if he hadn't gotten more than he had hoped for in her reaction to his gifts. "I'll put the champagne on ice and we can celebrate in style."
"Champagne?" she murmured, raising an eyebrow in inquiry. "Are we changing our lifestyle?"
He chuckled and gave her a push toward the bedroom. "Definitely. Now we can have jelly with our toast. Now go change. You can't have even cheap champagne in jeans."
Sunny dropped the packages on the bed, hugging herself as she twirled around in pure pleasure. This love she had for Ben, although its lifespan could be measured in mere hours, was a solid, true thing, and seeing him so happy sent her emotions soaring.
Stripping quickly, she pulled the dress from the box and slipped it over her head. It fit perfectly, as she knew it would. It seemed almost to be an arrangement of sheer scarves as it fell from connecting points at each shoulder in erratic, but very feminine, lines to end in an indefinite hemline around her calves.
She eagerly pulled on the pantyhose and the strappy sandals, then stood before the spotted dresser mirror. It was a dress for a fairy queen, she thought. Then, gazing critically at her figure in the mirror, she began to frown. Her hair was wrong. It was much too casual to match the dress.
She turned and quickly rummaged through the wrappings on the bed until she found what she was seeking—the gold ribbon that had tied the dress box.
After ten minutes of fighting her curls, she managed to subdue them long enough to tie her hair on top of her head with the gold ribbon. Backing away from the mirror, she nodded as she viewed the completed picture. Much better, she thought as she applied the peach-colored lipstick.
"Now," she murmured, turning away from the mirror, "for the unveiling."
After opening the door, she languished regally against the frame, her arm raised and the back of her hand pressed elegantly to her forehead.
She watched him anxiously beneath lowered lids as he caught his breath and started abruptly toward her. As he drew closer, she extended a limp hand.
Laughing huskily, he knelt before her and raised her hand to kiss it. She felt his warm lips on the back of her hand, then slowly he turned it over and pressed a kiss deeply into her palm. Oh, how she loved this man. She wanted so badly to reach out and pull him to her.
She shook her head, willing strength into her legs to keep them from folding beneath her, then laughed and raised her nose haughtily. "Rise, varlet."
"Am I allowed to speak?" he asked soberly.
"Of course," she said, nodding with royal condescension. "You may say all you like about how lovely . . . exquisite . . . breathtaking I look." Then she looked down and added hastily, "But don't let me put words in your mouth. Anything in that vein will do nicely."
"Actually," he began, his lip twitching in amusement, "I was going to say I smell something burning."
"Dinner!" she gasped. Running to the kitchen, she grabbed two pot holders and threw open the oven door. She fanned frantically at the smoke, then pulled the charred remains from the rack to lay it on the top of the stove.
"What is it?"
She whirled around to find him looking skeptically at the black lump. "It's a roast," she replied indignantly.
"Uh-uh." He shook his head in a wry sideways motion. "Maybe it used to be a roast, but now it's definitely an ex-roast." He nodded wisely. "Yes, that is most certainly a late roast. A once was, a former, a defunct . . . roast."
"Very funny." She had the feeling she should be irritated with him, but her heart swelled at seeing him so carefree. "You can joke all you want, but what are we going to do about dinner?"
"Details," he said airily. "You bother me with details. We have champagne—which should by now be an exquisite lukewarm. What more do we need?"
"Food," she muttered.
"Then make hors d'oeuvres. Something simple— Beluga caviar or pate de foie gras will do," he threw over his shoulder as he returned to the living room.
She heard him twirling the champagne bottle in a bucket of ice and smiled lovingly. Moments later when she carried the glasses and a tray into the living room, he was leaning back on the couch, his hands joined behind his head and a contented smile spreading his firm lips.
When she sat the platter on the coffee table, he glanced down at it suspiciously, then at her. "What are they?"
"Hors d'oeuvres."
He leaned closer. "They look like vanilla wafers."
She gazed at him disapprovingly. "You're a writer, use your imagination. Besides, they're perfect for dunking. If you tried to dunk caviar, the roe would slide off your cracker into the champagne."
He thought for a moment. "You're right. I never thought of it before, but what could be more disgusting than fish eggs in the bubbly?" He picked up a glass, ignoring her laughter, and filled it.
When they both had their glasses, he raised his high. "To the exceptionally good taste and amazing perception of the editor at 'Family of Man.' "
"Hear, hear." She raised the glass to her lips, then put a slim finger under her nose as the bubbles began to tickle. "Wait—I've got one. ... To the giant—and unheralded—talent of a man we all know and love." Before he could complete his "amen," she added, "Truman Capote."
His laugh caught him in the middle of a bottoms-up gesture, and he threw her an indignant look as he began coughing. "I'll get you for that," he muttered, then poured more champagne into both glasses and said, "To the post office, and may they continue to bring such delightful offerings."
"To the vanilla wafers!" she exclaimed exuberantly. When he looked at her doubtfully, she shrugged. "I ran out of toasts."
As she picked up one of the small cookies, he leaned back with a sigh and sipped his champagne. "This is the beginning, Sunny. It's finally the beginning. If this story is well received, I'm on my way. I can do the stories I want to do."
"What do you mean 'if.' " She dipped the wafer into the champagne in her glass. "Of course, it will be well received. You wrote it, didn't you?"
He smiled indulgently. "Have you ever read any of my work?"
"No ..." she admitted slowly. "But you told me it was good and you're a man of your word."
He glanced down as she dunked another cookie. "Are you really eating that?"
"It's delicious," she said enthusiastically. "Here, try one."
"Cookies with champagne seems somehow . . . perverted," he murmured as she dipped a wafer in his glass and raised it to his lips.
Chuckling, he opened his mouth to receive her offering. Suddenly his lips grazed her fingers, bringing an electric jolt of awareness. His laughter faded as their eyes met and held. And before she could prepare herself, the sensuous threads of the night before picked up the erotic pattern, weaving it stronger and with greater intricacy.
Slowly, he picked up a wafer and dipped it into her glass before extending it to her parted lips. "Why can't I touch you?" he whispered huskily. "I want so badly to pleasure you, to find my pleasure in you. I want to repay you for showing me the world outside this room by showing you a secret world."
His finger lingered on her bottom lip and he gently followed its shape. "There would be only the two of us in the secret world. No past, no future. No one to tell us it was wrong for me to touch you—to love you."
His low, husky voice carried her without effort into his dream world as he spoke. She could feel a fine, sensuous mist surrounding them as the erotic images cut off reality.
"I didn't even have a chance to tell you last night how unbelievably lovely you are." His finger slid to the mole beside her mouth, his breathing sounded strangely harsh as he continued to speak in an urgent whisper. "Did you realize last night that I was afraid? Afraid to touch you for fear you might slip away from me. You're so small, so perfectly formed. I felt like an animal for wanting to touch you, to devour you. I had your body beneath my hands at last and they trembled as though I were a boy on his first date."
Sliding his finger to her chin, he drew her closer as his head began to descend. Things seemed to be happening in slow motion and an enormous urgency built inside her. Then, when his lips were only a breath away and her eyelids were drifting down in anticipation, something began to penetrate her consciousness.
Stiffening, she turned her head toward the bedroom. Then, recognizing the familiar tapping sound, she moaned in frustration. Halting a shiver of disappointment, she stood up with a sigh.
"Where are you going?" he asked in surprise, his voice still holding traces of the sensuous huskiness.
"To answer the window," came the disgruntled reply as she disappeared into the bedroom.
She walked to the window and pulled it open. "Hello, Mary Louise," she said in resignation as the girl crawled through the window.
"I just wanted to warn you," the girl said as she pushed her glasses back on her nose. "One of those packages Ben brought home had a bottle in it. I figure he's going to get you drunk so you'll give in to him."
"I was giving it the old college try," Sunny muttered under her breath.
"I got here as soon as I could to warn—" Suddenly she stopped and stared at Sunny. "Sunny, you're gorgeous," she breathed in awe.
"Thank you. Do you like my dress? Ben bought it for me and yes, he bought a bottle of champagne, but he's not trying to get me drunk," she said without pausing, then inhaled and added, "Was there anything else you wanted?"
Mary Louise turned and looked at the two of them in the mirror. "Who do you suppose decided I should be fat and ugly and that you should be thin and gorgeous?"
"You're not fat and ugly. A different hairstyle would do wonders for your face, and instead of those ruffles you need to dress to suit your looks."
"Like what—a dog collar?"
Sunny laughed and put an arm around her shoulder. "Stop putting yourself down. You're funny and intelligent beyond your years. And with the right clothes, you'll also be very attractive."
"Sure," the girl said doubtfully. "Brooke Shields, watch out." Then she stared up at Sunny. "I've got some babysitting money. I told Daddy he could have it, but he told me to spend it on something for myself. Could we go tomorrow and pick out some clothes?"
Mary Louise rarely spoke of her father, and when she did it was always with a worried, wistful expression on her face. "I don't see why not," Sunny replied. She stared at her young, grumpy friend thoughtfully. "You love your father very much, don't you?"
For a moment she didn't think Mary Louise was going to answer. Then she said in a rush, "He needs me to take care of him. He works so hard." She sighed. "He blames himself because my mother left us for someone who had more money. But she was stupid. Nobody with money could be better than Daddy."
"I'm sure you're right," Sunny murmured, aching for the girl's loss. It explained so much of her belligerent attitude.
Sunny silently watched Mary Louise climb out the window, vowing to do all she could to help her, then turned back toward the living room, crossing her fingers in the hope that the spell had not been broken.
But she had hoped in vain. When she walked into the next room, she found it empty, and heard the rattle of dishes in the kitchen. She walked slowly to the coffee table, sighing as she picked up a vanilla wafer, and dipped it wistfully into one of the glasses that sat abandoned on the table. She stood there for a regretful moment, then moved toward the kitchen to help Ben with dinner.
Eight
"How about this one?"
Sunny stopped flipping through the rack to turn and look at the T-shirt Mary Louise was holding up. The deathless words so's your aunt minnie were emblazoned in scarlet across the front of a short-sleeved pink top.
"Do they have it in any other colors?" Sunny asked, holding the shirt to her young friend's shoulders. "Green would bring out your eyes."
"I like my eyes just where they are, thank you," Mary Louise replied, giving her a cocky grin as she laid the shirt back on the sale table.
Sunny stared in exaggerated surprise. "Mary Louise, you made a joke! Maybe there's hope for you yet. I was sure you would end up an insurance salesman or something equally sober."
Mary Louise stuck her tongue out impishly and went back to digging through the shirts. They had already picked out a pair of jeans and an A-line skirt and were now looking for blouses to round off her new wardrobe.
After they finished their shopping, the two were planning a session with the scissors. A shorter, neater cut would make all the difference in the world to the girl's appearance, softening the lines of her face. Sunny only hoped she wouldn't make a mess of her stint as a hair stylist.
The search for a T-shirt that didn't carry a provocative message lasted another thirty minutes. Then, after paying for their purchases, they reluctantly abandoned the air-conditioned comfort of the small department store for the humid heat of the midday street.
As they began their walk home, Mary Louise chattered in a light-hearted way that was becoming more and more the norm in her conversations with Sunny. Suddenly she stopped, grabbing her blonde friend by the arm to pull her against the wall.
"It's Mr. Armquist!" she whispered urgently. "When he asks if you want to see his magazines, say no."
Sunny looked down at her suspiciously. "What kind of magazines?"
"Science magazines," she replied in a horrified whisper.
"How disgusting," Sunny gasped. "Trying to pervert young minds with science. He should be ashamed of himself."
"You wouldn't think it was so funny, if he tried to corner you every time you left the house," her friend said with a sorrowful groan, urging her with a firm hand to duck into an entryway until the danger of being accosted by the sly Mr. Armquist had passed.
Sunny listened in amused silence as Mary Louise expounded with gruesomely minute detail on the punishment that should be dealt people who force others to listen to talk of science, politics, and gall bladder operations. By the time she got around to her opinion on the state of the world in general, they were approaching the end of the business district with the row of neglected mansions in sight.
Sunny's thoughts were drifting back to Ben when they were brought up short by the squeal of brakes, then the heart-stopping crunch of metal against metal. By the time they turned around to see what had happened, a crowd was already beginning to gather around the two cars involved. Thankfully, it wasn't a serious accident, for Sunny could see what appeared to be the drivers standing beside one of the cars. She was turning away when, as if on cue, the crowd parted, giving her a clear view of the unlucky vehicles.
The drivers were standing almost chin to chin, shouting and gesturing angrily. But it wasn't either of these two men who held her frozen to the sidewalk. Behind them, leaning casually against one of the cars, was the man she had seen, days earlier, driving a red sports car.
She could have pinpointed the exact second he spotted her. One moment he was watching the drivers, an amused expression on his angular face—and the next he had straightened away from the car, his eyes widening as he stared across to where she stood.
Her heart began to pound in frantic, panicky beats that caused a deafening buzz in her ears, and for endless moments she stood paralyzed by the intensity of his gaze. Then, when she saw him turn and grasp one of the drivers by the arm, lowering his head to speak to him, the spell that held her mesmerized lost its frightening grip. Swinging around, she began to stride urgently in the direction of the apartment, pulling a baffled Mary Louise along behind her.
"Hey! What's going on?" her friend protested gruffly.
"It's—" Sunny paused. How could she explain when she didn't know herself? How could she say that she had seen a stranger and was scared stiff? "It's nothing," she lied. "I just want to get home and see how your new clothes look on you."
"They won't look like much if I'm missing one arm when we get there," Mary Louise predicted under her breath.
Giving a short, semi-hysterical laugh, Sunny stepped up her pace, and it was only when they walked into the dark foyer of the old mansion that she relaxed her grip on her friend's arm.
She could feel the young girl staring at her as they walked up the three flights. When she had inserted the key in the apartment door, Mary Louise grabbed her arm, halting her movements, and said irritably, "Are you going to tell me what that was all about?"
Just as Sunny took a deep breath to offer an excuse—any excuse—the phone in Mary Louise's apartment began to ring.
"You go answer the phone," Sunny said hurriedly. "Then come over and try on the clothes. And I'll try to tell you what happened," she added reluctantly.
For a moment Sunny was afraid her friend would not be put off, but as the phone continued to ring, Mary Louise muttered, "Okay. But it better be good."
Entering the apartment, Sunny locked the door behind her, knowing the fact that this was the first time she had remembered to do so was significant. Walking to the armchair, she slumped into it, closing her eyes wearily. Then she jerked them open as the man with the tormented eyes— the face of her dreams—swam before her.
"Leave me alone," she groaned.
It seemed that the face was always there, in the dark regions of her mind, but never as strong as now. She needed Ben. Where was he? Why wasn't he there to chase away the vision like he had done so many times before?
She brushed the hair roughly from her forehead, then sighed in relief when she heard a knock at the door. "Mary Louise," she murmured with a smile as her tension eased perceptibly. But when she opened the door, her smile froze, becoming a silent study in fear.
It wasn't Mary Louise. Standing there, leaning casually against the doorjamb, was a man she had seen only twice before. The man in the red sports car.
It didn't occur to her to ask what he wanted. She was working on pure instinct when she tried to slam the door in his face, only to have it shoved against her chest as he pushed his way into the room. Jerking the door from her grasping hands, he closed it behind him with a smile. For a moment neither spoke as they stood and stared at each other.
His blond hair was neatly trimmed and his face could only be described as ordinary. Nothing there to cause her heart to pound in her chest—nothing except his intrusion into a place that stood for safety and warmth . . . and love.
"That really wasn't very nice of you to run out on us like that," he said. "Now, was it?"
The sound of his voice—smooth and pleasant— sent chills of terror shivering down her spine. His smile widened suddenly, as though he recognized her reaction and found pleasure in it.
"Glenn's feelings are hurt," he whispered. "But you can make it up to him now." He stared at her, his head cocked in inquiry. "You are ready to go, aren't you?"
She began to shake her head slowly, then faster in desperation. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for an avenue of escape. In simultaneous movements, she stepped backward and his hand snaked out to catch her wrist with a bruising grip.
"Now, that's not a hospitable way to act, is it?" he said, sneering. "Weren't we good to you? I even kept Glenn off you when you were unconscious— and so very naked."
Sunny felt the bile rise in her throat at the thought of this man seeing her body. Leaning back, she tried frantically to free her arm, but he merely pulled her closer with seemingly effortless movements.
"Let me go!" she hissed, kicking out at him with vicious intent.
Throwing back his head, he gave a shout of laughter. "So you can still talk after all."
His smile faded abruptly and he gave her arm a painful jerk, twisting her around, and suddenly he was behind her with one arm thrown across her chest, the other still clamped on her wrist.
"Now," he said pleasantly. "Whether you like it or not, we're going to go downstairs and outside where Glenn is waiting with the car. We're going to get quietly into the car and then we're going to finish what we started before your . . . little attack of nerves." He let go of her wrist to grasp her chin, turning her head toward him, then smiled again. "Understand?"
As though coming out of a spell, she felt adrenaline flowing through her veins, and suddenly she was wonderfully, gloriously angry. The hell you say, she thought in fury. He might drag her down the stairs. He might even succeed in getting her into the car, but, by heaven, he wouldn't do it without a fight. She was not going to make it easy for him.
Without warning, she let her body go limp. Then, when he was trying to deal with her dead weight, she twisted free. Moving on wings of fear, she turned toward the bedroom with some vague idea of locking the door and escaping through the window, but before she had covered half the length of the room, she heard another knock on the door.
Oh, God, Mary Louise! She had forgotten about her completely. She had to warn her. She had to keep her away from this man.
"Mary Louise!" she shouted frantically. "Go—"
She got no further in her warning because her unwanted guest flew at her suddenly, hitting her in the midriff with his shoulder, and she fell to the floor beneath his weight. Pinning her down, he covered her mouth with his hand.
But she couldn't feel his weight on top of her and didn't notice his hand on her face or the taste of blood from her split lip. He needn't have worried about her shouting again. She couldn't have made a sound if her life depended on it, for Sunny was in a place where he could no longer touch her. The only thing that managed to penetrate her consciousness was the faint, faraway pounding on the door.
Ben stepped out of the car and walked briskly to the front of the old mansion. Sunny should be back from her shopping trip by now, he thought as he walked up the front steps. He chuckled suddenly, remembering how she had looked when she told him that she was going to try and release the butterfly in Mary Louise's soul. No one but Sunny could have seen a butterfly in that grumpy little Napoleon.
But that was Sunny. The world through her eyes was a wondrous, magical place, a place that was sometimes bewildering and even uncomfortable to a practical man. He wanted very badly to see that world. Sometimes he even managed to catch a glimpse, but—
His train of thought was jarringly interrupted when he walked in the front door. Above him he could hear pounding, and someone was screaming Sunny's name.
Taking the steps three at a time, he covered the stairs in record time, sliding to a halt outside his apartment door where Mary Louise was beating on it with her fists.
She turned to him, her plain face pale with fright. "She screamed, Ben," she said, her voice shaking. "Something's awfully wrong."
Gently but with terrified urgency, he pushed her aside and inserted his key in the door with a hand he would not allow to tremble. He was frantic to be inside, but in the back of his mind he dreaded it too. The thought of something happening to Sunny brought a pain like none he had ever felt before.
As he opened the door, his eyes shot around the room. A window was open and the curtains were blowing, but there was no sign of Sunny. He started toward the bedroom, then stopped abruptly.
Her golden hair covered her face as she lay still and silent on the floor, hidden from view by the couch.
His steps seemed to be in slow motion. With Mary Louise a step behind, he walked to where Sunny lay. As he knelt beside her, his heart pounded with such ferocity, it felt as though his chest would burst and he could feel the blood drain from his face. He lifted her head and placed it on his lap, lowering his face to hers to search for a sign that she was still breathing.
Where was his mind? His reason? What had happened to the order? The sanity? He should be doing something. Something other than giving in to the fear that was ripping at his insides.
He glanced up at the girl, forcing a calm he didn't feel into his voice. "Call the doctor, Mary Louise. His number is beside the telephone. Dr. Chandler."
Turning back to Sunny, he felt weak with relief as he saw her chest rise with her inhaled breath. "Sunny," he whispered hoarsely. "Babe, please— where does it hurt? Who did this to you? Please, Sunny, you've got to wake up and talk to me— you've got to." He kissed her gently on the forehead, then more urgently on her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, whispering in an incoherent frenzy, "It's not fair. People shouldn't, they shouldn't hurt the gentle ones. It's not supposed to happen." Every muscle in his body was clenched in the effort to keep from screaming in anger and fear. "I should have been here!" he ground out harshly. "God damn whoever did this! I'll find them, babe. They won't ever hurt anyone again, I promise." He framed her face with his hands, feeling clumsy and overgrown beside her delicacy. "Do you hear me, Sunny? Do you—"
Suddenly he felt a tug on his shirt and he turned to see Mary Louise, terror etched deeply into her face. "Is she dead?" she whispered.
"No!" he spat out, then more calmly, "No, of course not. She'll be fine." He had to gain control of himself. For Sunny. For Mary Louise. For himself.
Lifting her gently, he laid her on the couch, sitting beside her as he turned back to the girl. "Call the doctor now, Mary Louise. She'll be fine as soon—" He stopped suddenly, his words hanging in his throat when he felt her hand clasping his.
"Sunny?" He leaned toward her and saw her eyelids flutter open.
"No," she whispered, her voice sounding painfully hoarse. "I don't need a doctor ... It was just—just ..."
"Sunny, you're hurt. A doctor can tell us what's wrong."
"No, honest, Ben." Her voice sounded stronger now and she gave a shaky smile. "He just knocked the wind out of me. I'll be fine. Really."
"Who?" Ben asked, his voice raspy with anger, the lingering taste of fear bitter in his mouth. "Who did this?"
A strange look passed fleetingly across her expressive features. "It was that man I told you about," she said hesitantly. "The one I saw on my walk, whose anger frightened me."
Ben closed his eyes and said stiffly, "How did he get in, Sunny?"
"I let him in."
The words came out in a thin, defeated whisper that sent a violent anger surging through his veins. Grasping her face between his hands, he held her firmly and leaned close, staring into her wide-open eyes. "You can't do things like that," he said, his voice low and deliberate, his breathing sounding harsh and labored to his own ears. "I may not be able to see the daisies, but God Almighty, Sunny, you can't see beyond them." His hands trembled from the effort he was making to stay calm. "There is evil out there. It exists. And if you can't see it, you're only fooling yourself."
His head swung around sharply as a gasp from beside him reminded him of the little girl's presence. "Mary Louise," he said, running a distracted hand through his hair. "I want to thank you. Your pounding on the door probably scared him off."
Pushing her glasses farther back on her nose with her index finger, Mary Louise glanced anxiously from Sunny to Ben. "Sunny?" she said in a nervous whisper.
"I'll be all right, Mary Louise," Sunny said, smiling reassuringly. "You'd better go now. Your father will be home any minute and hell worry about you."
After throwing Ben a ferocious glance, Mary Louise turned and left the apartment. As soon as the door closed behind her, Ben turned back to Sunny, pulling her urgently up into his arms.
"I thought ... I didn't know ..." He couldn't seem to get the words out as he rocked her back and forth, his face pressed against her soft, warm neck.
"I know," she murmured, stroking his face. "I know, darling. It's all right now."
He gave a short, derisive laugh. "I'm worse than useless. You were attacked and all 1 can do is yell at you. And on top of that I should be comforting you, not the other way around."
She shifted her head to stare down into his eyes. "You gave me everything I needed, when I needed it. Don't you think I know what the anger was all about?"
She did understand. He could see it in her eyes. "Sunny, we've got to talk about this," he said, drawing back slightly. "You know what we've got to do now, don't you?"
"No," she gasped. "No, Ben—please. I'll stay in the apartment, I promise. You won't have any reason to worry about me from now on. I'll—"
"Sunny," he said, halting the frantic stream of words. "We've got to. I know you're afraid of what's in your past, but we can't avoid it any longer. I'm afraid it's caught up with us."
"It's not that." She buried her face in his throat, locking her arms around his neck. "I'm not afraid of that any more. Oh, maybe a little. But I think I could handle it now."
"Then what is it? Why don't you want to find out who you are?"
It was a few moments before she spoke, then she took a deep breath and began hesitantly. "Ben, I told you I understood why you were mad at me and I did. You did it because—because you care."
Ben almost laughed at the understatement, but he didn't. He held his silence and listened as she continued in a low voice.
"But you care for Sunny, Ben," she whispered, lifting her gaze to stare into his eyes. "What if you don't care for the person I turn out to be? What if I'm not Sunny any more?"
Closing his eyes weakly, it was a moment before he could find the voice to answer her. "Babe," he said, his voice gruff with emotion. "I don't care if you're Sleepy, Grumpy, or Doc. It won't change the way I feel about you." He lifted his hand to gently touch her face. "Don't you think I'm worried about the same thing? What if, when you remember, you find that you don't feel the same way about me? We've both tiptoed around our feelings because we had to. But now that it's out in the open, we've got to face an unpleasant fact. Even if you're not married, there is a man out there somewhere that you love. You said so yourself. When you remember who you are, you'll remember him, too. And where will that leave me?"
She opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her with a finger to her lips. "Don't say anything. You can't know now how you'll feel then. I just wanted you to know the fear I'm dealing with. But I can't let that stop me. We can never build a future until we take care of the past. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes," she said reluctantly. "But can I say one thing about the face in my dreams?"
"It won't change my mind."
"Maybe not, but I want you to know anyway." She dropped her gaze and began smoothing the fabric of his shirt across his shoulder. "I said I loved him—and I do. But it's not the same as what I feel for you." She glanced up at him and then away. "I don't want him," she whispered.
Ben's chest heaved as he drew in a deep, ragged breath. Lord, how was he going to let her go without making love to her? Now that they had made a decision to find out about her past, he wanted desperately to back out. He wanted to keep her with him forever and not give the world a chance to separate them.
"I'm glad," he said simply. "But that can't make any difference. We still have to find out."
"Yes, I know," she murmured, moving closer as though the words sounded as lonely and final to her as they did to him.
Ben's feet felt like lead weights as he walked up the last flight of stairs. It had been surprisingly easy finding out about her. Too easy. Why hadn't some benevolent fate stepped in and made the job more difficult, letting him keep her just a little while longer?
Chelsea Barron. Even the name had a moneyed ring. The Barron heiress, socialite . . . Twenty-eight and sophisticated, not twenty-five and naive. Already he could feel Sunny slipping away from him, and the hole she would leave behind gaped painfully.
He had been so afraid he would find that she was married. God, what a laugh. Married would have been better. He could have fought a man for her. But he couldn't compete with a lifestyle, a heritage. She represented everything he had left behind, only in gigantic proportions.
When her memory returned, there was no way she would stay. What did he have to offer her that could compare with what she already had? An uncertain future with a man who hadn't even decided what he wanted out of life? Not much to offer an heiress.                                                      
He paused outside the apartment door, postponing seeing her for as long as possible. He knew he couldn't keep her here now. Not after learning what he had today. People frantic with worry were searching for her.
His shoulders drooped in defeat as he considered what her leaving would mean. How could he let her go? Life had allowed her into his world for such a brief, beautiful time. What kind of lousy fate would tempt him with heaven, only to jerk it away before he could grasp it?
Suddenly his lips thinned and his gray eyes flashed tempered steel as his chin came up in determination. Why should he let her go without keeping a part of her for himself? He had as much right to her as anyone in her world. He had found her, named her, loved her.
No, he corrected silently. He loved an illusion. An illusion he called Sunny. Maybe Chelsea Barron wouldn't want a dreamer like him, but Sunny did. And he had the right to keep the illusion as his own. Right or wrong, when she left, he would have a part of her that could never be taken from him.
His face set in harsh, immovable lines, he unlocked the door and walked in.
Sunny stared out the bedroom window at the overgrown garden below. The past two days had seemed an eternity. Ben had not changed his mind about finding out who she was and he had worked at it with the grim determination of a bulldog. She screamed silently as she felt her world crumbling around her and was powerless to stop it. Letting the curtain fall, she turned away from the window. She walked restlessly toward the living room, then paused when she heard the front door close.
He was back. Already she could feel his presence in the apartment and her steps quickened, a smile of greeting curving her lips. But when she entered the room and saw him standing stiffly in the middle of the room, her smile faded.
He knew. Her eyes ran frantically over the harsh lines of his face, the thoughts careening wildly in her brain. How could it have happened so fast? It had been only two days. It should have taken longer.
Her gaze slipped away from him, darting around the room in panic. She had to stop it. She couldn't allow it to happen. Some way there had to be an escape from what she saw in his eyes.
A muffled sound made her jerk her gaze forward, and she watched warily as he walked steadily toward her. When he was standing directly in front of her, the harsh lines in his face suddenly faded, to be replaced by a painful vulnerability. He needed her. The desperation in his tense body reached out to her, pulling her toward him.
He lifted a hand to touch her face, a gentle, hesitant caress that tore at her heart. Suddenly his hand fell to his side and his eyes closed, but not before she had seen the stark, ugly pain that filled them. Turning away abruptly, he strode across the room to the window, pulling back the curtain with a hand that shook.
She wouldn't let him run away from it this time. Not when he needed her so badly. Not when she needed him with the same desperation. She moved swiftly to stand behind him at the window, reaching out to touch his arm.
The touch was a catalyst, loosing a storm that shook them both as he dragged her into his arms and buried his face in her neck. She felt the trembling need in his body as he held her close. Then he raised his hands to thread his fingers through her hair, bringing her lips to his and holding her fast.
In that moment two civilized people disappeared and in their places stood a man and a woman. Basic, beautiful, natural, their bodies fashioned to fit together in exquisite pleasure.
"We won't stop this time." The words she murmured against his lips weren't a question, but a prayer of thanks.
"No. We won't stop." Bending down, he picked her up and carried her into the bedroom, his movements never faltering as he placed her gently on the bed.
Kneeling beside her, he stared into her eyes, and somehow she felt as though he were trying to reach down into her soul. "It's what you want, isn't it?"
She reached up to touch his face, absorbing the warmth through her fingertips. Her next words came out in a hoarse whisper. "More than anything on earth."
Exhaling a deep, shuddering breath, he reached down and began to ease the top button of her blouse open. Hands that shook didn't impede his progress, and when the last button was free, he spread the fabric slowly, with exquisite care.
From that moment on, Sunny felt she was seeing their loving through special eyes. Each movement, each caress was being etched indelibly into her brain. She eagerly helped him remove her clothes, and held close to her the hunger in his face. She felt his touch run through her like an electric shock, and the secret eye recorded the beauty of his dark hand cupping her pale breast. She felt his tongue swirl around the dark, erect nipple, and she filed away the concave shape of his cheeks as he sucked it deep into his mouth.
And when he stood to remove his clothes, she felt the heat and need vibrating between them, but her mind kept the image of his rough, masculine beauty—the broad chest with its thick mat of curling hair that narrowed to a thin line on slim hips before spreading again between hard, muscular thighs.
And taking up the better part of the file being built by her secret eye was the intensity, the deep pleasure etched on his face when he saw the effect his touch and his presence had on her. When she reached out to stroke the places her eyes had already found, he gave a harsh animal cry and clasped her close, bringing the full length of her naked body to his.
This was it. The reason for her existence, the reason they had found each other after stumbling around in the dark. It was for this, because they were meant to be one.
Running frantic hands over his hard, male body, she sought to imprint the essence of his being on her soul. It didn't matter what happened tomorrow. Now and forever they were inescapably bound.
Ben couldn't prevent a groan of near pain from escaping when she wrapped her slender legs around him. Dear Lord, what had he ever done to deserve such a miracle of pleasure? She gave so freely. She needed and hungrily accepted what he had to give.
Please God, don't let me hurt her. Let me give her as much pleasure as she's giving me.
Slowly he drew back, hesitating for the first time. Then what he saw in her face wiped out his doubts. She was waiting for him. Her need was as great as his.
Grasping her buttocks with his hands, he raised her and with luxuriously slow movements eased his pulsating shaft inside her warmth. He stopped before penetrating fully and, holding her firmly, began short, teasing strokes.
He felt her nails digging into his shoulders, heard her wild little animal cries, and joy exploded inside his chest. Never before had he been more concerned with a woman's pleasure than his own. He could feel the rippling sensations quiver through her and it fed his hunger, making him ache to give her more.
"Please, Ben—now!" she gasped and the words struck a place deep in the heart of him.
"Yes—" Was that hoarse croak his? "Now!"
He thrust deep and hard, feeling the intensity build to incredible dimensions as her moist warmth surrounded him. He drove faster and faster as his actions were taken out of his control and he moved to the command of a need that was basic and older than memory.
Then the miracle happened. He heard her cry out his name and felt violent shudders ripping through her body, vibrating down his heated length. As though they were bound soul to soul, her pleasure triggered his own, and he felt the chaotic explosion of senses in his body before her release had barely begun.
When finally he eased out of the euphoric mists, he lay beside her, pulling her slick, heated body to his, his heart swelling when he felt her nestle closer and bury her face in his neck.
Together they lay on the disheveled bed, watching the afternoon turn into evening, the evening into night. With each spell of loving, after each sensuous storm, they thought surely now they would have their fill. And each time they found their hunger for each other growing. On into the night they loved, each pushing aside the knowledge that this one night might have to last them forever, but each sharing the secrets of their bodies and their minds, holding nothing back, making each moment count, because they knew the night would inevitably bring tomorrow.
Nine
Sunny tried again to open her eyes, but the lids were too heavy to obey the weak commands her brain was sending. Something was nagging at the edges of her mind. There was something she needed to do, something she wanted to remember.
Suddenly a rush of warmth flooded her body as memories of the night before rushed to the surface. Ben, loving her, pleasing her, bringing sensations that even now she found hard to believe. He had hidden nothing from her, had allowed her to hide nothing from him. He had shown tenderness and hunger, vulnerability and strength. He had given her new dimensions of himself to love.
She rolled sideways, needing to renew the promises she had made with her body last night, to feel the loving warmth of him again, but her arms met emptiness. Forcing her eyes open, she gazed for a moment at the indentation in the pillow beside her, then buried her face in it, inhaling the scent of him that still lingered there.
Stretching her arms above her head, she came fully awake. "If the mountain won't come to Mohammed, Mohammed will go to the mountain," she murmured, smiling as she rose from the bed and walked toward the living room.
She had reached the middle of the room when he walked in. Halting abruptly, he stood paralyzed as though the sight of her were unexpected. Then a steely flame kindled in his eyes as he slid his gaze over her naked body. He started toward her, only to stop again, shaking his head sharply as if he needed to clear it.
Turning away from her, he said, "We need to talk as soon as you're dressed."
His stiff, toneless voice trailed behind him as he left the room, and suddenly the memories of the night in his arms faded, to be replaced by other less beautiful memories. He knew who she was.
The soaring happiness she had felt on awakening drained away in a weakening rush, leaving her pale and shaken. Turning away from the open door, she pulled on her clothes with jerky, mechanical movements, then walked slowly into the next room. He was standing at his usual place in front of the window as though something out there would provide answers he couldn't find anywhere else.
Apparently, he heard her footsteps, for he said in a quiet voice, "Sit down, Sun—" He stopped abruptly and she saw his fingers tighten their hold on the curtain. "Sit down."
She sat down on the couch, waiting. Slow, silent moments passed before he spoke again, and when he did the lack of emotion in his voice frightened her.
"Your name is Chelsea Barron. You're twenty-eight years old. You live with your father, R. L.  Barron, on the outskirts of Houston, and you were kidnapped two days before you—the day before you awoke in that room."
"Kidnapped?" she whispered. Why would anyone want to kidnap her? The facts were coming too fast. "R. L. Barron?" The name told her nothing about the man who was supposed to be her father.
"I take it the name means nothing to you?" He turned and walked to the chair behind the desk.
She shook her head in a mute, negative gesture. It was all too much. How was she supposed to react? Surely he didn't expect her to be pleased?
"R. L. Barron is one of the San Francisco Barrons. You are one of the San Francisco Barrons." When she stared at him blankly, he continued impatiently, "Money . . . power . . . you name it, the Barrons have it. Old money. Inherited power. You're one of the beautiful people, Sun—Chelsea."
"Don't call me that," she gasped. "I'm not Chelsea. I'm Sunny."
"For now. But as soon as you remember, you'll be Chelsea again." He laughed harshly. "You just took a little vacation away from her."
The bitterness in his voice tore at her. He didn't like Chelsea Barron. Suddenly something about the name struck her. "Barron? Then I'm not married?" Relief quivered through her body, then she raised her head and saw a new element in his eyes that chased away the relief.
"No, you're not married. Apparently you don't believe in it. Just in engagements."
What had happened to the man who had held her in his arms last night and told her things he said he had never told anyone else? When had the other Ben taken over? "Tell me, please," she said in a choked whisper.
For a moment it seemed that her Ben was back. She saw a flash of deep pain in his eyes, but only for a second. Then it was gone and she saw only cold steel.
"Last night—" He stopped and looked down at his tightly clenched fists. "Last night I made a decision. Maybe it was the wrong one, but I don't regret it. I knew Sunny wanted to give what I was so desperate to take. And I knew Chelsea wouldn't miss it."
She laid a hand to her throat as the tightness threatened to choke her. "Just tell me." Don't punish me any more, she begged silently. "Please, just tell me."
She stared across the room at him and suddenly, as though it were written on the wall behind him, she knew. He wasn't punishing her. He was punishing himself. He was frightened and it was an emotion he had never learned to handle. He was punishing himself for being afraid.
He lifted his head and their eyes clashed. They stared at each other silently for a moment, then, with what seemed like a great effort, he pulled away from her gaze. "That part doesn't matter," he said huskily. "What matters is that your father is going crazy trying to find you."
"If he's so rich, why didn't the newspapers carry the story of my abduction?" she asked, praying there had been a mistake. "That was part of the reason I felt 1 didn't belong to anyone."
"The kidnappers threatened to kill you if your father contacted the police. He got in touch with the authorities immediately, but kept it under wraps. If he had let the newspapers get hold of the story, the kidnappers would have known he had broken his word."
He certainly seemed to have all the facts. "How did you find out about all this? Did you get in touch with the police?"
"No, I was going to let Charlie handle that for me, but as soon as I gave him your description of the man who attacked you, he recognized him. Apparently the man has been in and out of trouble for years. We found him and—" He paused and his face twisted in remembered fury. "We found him and he told us what we wanted to know." He stared past her as though viewing something she couldn't see. "He won't hurt anyone else," he finished in a voice that sent shivers down her spine.
She didn't want to know what had happened to the man with the blond hair. She didn't think she could handle that on top of everything else. She sat unmoving, concentrating fiercely on what he had told her. Then it occurred to her that he hadn't touched on the one thing that had haunted her so unflaggingly.
"The man, Ben. The one in my dreams. Did you find out who he is—and what I did to him?"
Strangely, the question seemed to disconcert him, as though he had forgotten about the dream. "No." He stood and walked around the desk to lean against it. "To tell you the truth, I just assumed he was . . . one of your fiances."
"Fiances? How many did I have?" she choked out in astonishment.
Suddenly, miraculously, his eyes sparkled with amusement. "Apparently even when you're Chelsea, you don't do the expected. In the last four years you've had six fiances."
"Six!" She jumped to her feet, swinging around in agitation. "No one has six fiances."
"You did." He chuckled. "Two of them lasted less than a week. None of them held on for more than three months."
"That's—that's depraved!" she sputtered, turning to face him. She started to say more, then realized she was losing the opportunity to talk to her Ben. She had to make him open up to her before he disappeared again.
"Ben." She moved closer to him, searching her mind for the right thing to say. "Chelsea doesn't have a fiance right now, does she?"
He watched her warily. "No . . . According to the old newspapers I went through, you broke your latest engagement a week before you were kidnapped."
"Then there's really nothing that can change what"—she swallowed nervously—"what we have."
"Nothing but a dream and a name," he said stiffly. "Even if you weren't engaged to the man in your dreams, you love him. You said so yourself." He took a deep breath. "And if he didn't exist, there's still the matter of who you are."
"I'm Sunny." She stared at him stubbornly, daring him to deny it.
"You were born Chelsea and you'll go back to Chelsea."
Closing her eyes, she let the quiet determination in his voice sway her. Could he be right? "I don't want to go back to Chelsea," she whispered.
"You have no choice." He moved away from the desk and turned his back on her. "I've called your father. I told him you would come home this morning. He wasn't too happy with me for not telling him where you were, but I thought you would like to go on your own."
"I don't want to go at all!"
"I phoned for a cab and I've already given them the address." It was as though she hadn't spoken. "It will be here in half an hour."
She turned away, wrapping her arms around her waist. "Last night you said you loved me."
He didn't speak for a moment, but she could hear his harshly drawn-in breath. "Last night I gave in to a fantasy. Today I'm facing reality."
"Is that all we had? A fantasy?"
"That's it." His voice had the hard ring of finality. "An illusion created by the warped mind of a man who makes Don Quixote look like a model of reason."
She moved her hands to her chest as the pain became unbearable. "And when I remember everything, when I'm what you consider real, you won't want me?" With angry movements, she brushed her fists across her cheeks to wipe away the tears that were streaming down her face.
She waited—and waited. It seemed that she waited forever. Then she knew his silence was her answer.
Turning around, she saw him through the blur of tears. She tried to shape her lips into a smile, but couldn't seem to control their trembling. "I think I'll wait downstairs for the cab."
His head jerked up. "That's not necessary," he said, his voice harsh.
"Yes—" She gave a choked laugh. "Yes, it's necessary," she whispered urgently, then walked out of the room.
Sunny covered the three flights of stairs in a daze and it was only as she reached the main floor that she slowed and gave the banister a last, lingering caress before walking out the front door.
Lowering herself wearily to sit on the stoop, she wrapped her arms around her knees and laid her head against her arms, waiting for the arrival of a cab that would take her away from everything that was dear in life.
It was several moments before she felt a touch on her elbow and opened her eyes to see Mary Louise sitting beside her.
"I saw you leave and called you, but you didn't hear," she said, her voice seeming even more gruff than usual.
Sunny raised her head and smiled. "Mary Louise, how would you like to have a rich friend?"
The girl looked at her thoughtfully. "I have a friend," she said at last.
Sunny ran her eyes over the girl. "You look good in jeans. I'm sorry we didn't get around to cutting your hair." She sighed in regret. "Now, I want to rephrase that question. Would I still be your friend if my name were different and I had pots of money?"
Suddenly Sunny saw fear in her eyes, quickly hidden by accusation and anger. "You're leaving!" she shouted. "You're leaving and you won't be back."
"Mary Louise," she began, laying a hand on the girl's arm. "We can still be friends. You can—"
"Who are you trying to kid?" she sneered. "If you're rich, why should you have anything to do with people like Ben and me? And what makes you think we'd want you to?" she added for good measure. Jumping up, she ran back into the house, her plump body moving clumsily in anger.
Sunny watched her in silence, then dropped her head back to her knees. Fear again. Would it never end? It was ruling them all, controlling their every action.
As she sat waiting, counting the minutes that ticked swiftly by, she could feel all the emotion drain from her. When at last the cab pulled up before her, she rose and walked to it, numb to all feeling.
It was almost a relief to be able to view the passing scenery without emotion, without feeling the pain of knowing the car was taking her farther and farther away from Ben.
Through the dusty glass panes that framed the huge wooden front door, Ben watched the cab pull away, then turned and walked slowly up the stairs.
Outside his apartment, he hesitated, reluctant to enter the empty rooms. After a moment, he drew a deep, raspy breath and pushed open the door, leaving it ajar behind him to escape the claustrophobic loneliness. She was gone. The vital essence of her had disappeared, leaving sad, old furniture in sad, old rooms.
Dropping onto a chair, he bent forward as his trembling hands came up to cover his face.
Sometime in the next half hour he became aware of a nervous little tug on his sleeve. Glancing up wearily, he found Mary Louise standing beside him, her plain, square face made plainer by grief. Pulling her into his lap, he rocked her silently, and they sat together as the morning passed, each finding comfort in sharing the pain of loving.
Sunny saw the house long before the cab reached it. The street entered the property from the rear and swung around in a wide circle to reach the front entrance. There was nothing modern or streamlined about the house. It was old and dignified. Standing haughtily on a rise, it overlooked manicured lawns and a silver blue lake. As Sunny stared silently, she could almost see ladies in wide skirts carrying parasols as they strolled, while violins played "Humoresque" in the background.
When the cab stopped in front of the wide-columned portico, she sat still, oblivious to the expectant stares of the driver. Then suddenly, the double front doors opened and a man strode out, his steps urgent, only to hesitate as he reached the top step.
Was this her father? He wasn't tall as she had somehow imagined him to be. He was below average height, not stout, but solidly built, and his face had the comfortable wrinkles of age, his hair an attractive salt and pepper. Opening the door, she stepped out and walked slowly up the wide stone stairs. When she stood on the step below the man, she murmured, "The cab ... I don't have any—"
Before she could finish her sentence, he pulled her into his arms and held her tightly. "Chelsea . . . Chelsea," he murmured over and over. After a moment he seemed to gain control over his emotions and inhaled deeply before turning to look over his shoulder. "Henry, give the man his money, please."
Sunny turned her startled glance to find another man on the steps between them and the front door. He was tall and gray-haired and wore a white jacket. As he moved toward the waiting cab, the man who was her father added, "And give him a tip—a large tip, Henry."
"Who's he?" she whispered in awe.
He laughed—a deep, rumbling sound—and placed an arm across her shoulders, urging her into the house. "He's the butler," he whispered back. "But don't let him intimidate you. He's really a bowl of mush underneath all that spit and polish." He paused, turning to stare down at her. "He missed you—he missed you so much." His voice had an intense, pained quality to it.
She felt at a loss for words. This man needed something from her, something she didn't know if she could give him.
"Ben—" Saying the name brought a shaft of pain to her heart and it was a moment before she could continue. "Ben told you that I don't remember anything?"
"Yes, he told me." He ushered her into a large sitting room. "It will take time, sweetheart, but it will all come back to you. You'll see." He pulled her down to sit beside him on the sofa. "I know it's going to take time for you to adjust, but we'll just have to be patient. That's why I wouldn't let the police come to question you today." At her questioning look, he said, "Your friend didn't tell you about it?"
She shook her head. Ben had told her too much and nothing.
"Well, in his words, his friend Charlie was 'sitting on' the man who attacked you until Ben could get you home. I imagine the police have him by now and they'll need you to identify him." He stopped her when she started to protest. "Not for the kidnapping. I've explained that you don't remember that, but they can charge him with assault until they get more evidence." He patted her cold hand. "Don't worry about it. If you don't feel up to it by. tomorrow, then we'll work something else out." He paused and stared at her curiously. "Your friend Ben seems very capable."
She pressed her lips together tightly to keep them from trembling and said nothing.
"Maybe someday you'd like to tell me about it?" he said gently.
She closed her eyes, nodding slowly. "Maybe someday." Blinking her eyes to clear them, she glanced up and saw compassion etched in his face. "Were we . . . close before?"
Leaning back, he sighed heavily. "I wish I could say yes, but it would be a lie. No, we weren't close, and I'm using the past tense, Chelsea, because that's going to change. This time will be different."
"Yes," she said, feeling sympathy, but nothing else for him. "I'm sure it will be." Standing to fill an uncomfortable silence, she walked to the windows that covered one side of the room. "Do all the windows and doors go clear up to the ceiling?"
He laughed. "Only downstairs. Upstairs we have normal size doors. These are to impress guests."
She stood, silently staring out the window. Then she heard him clear his throat nervously. "Chelsea, I'm afraid we're going to have a visitor you're not quite ready to receive. Max called and insisted on coming over."
"Max?"
"Your last fiance," he explained. "I thought he was an ex, but he tells me you were reconciled."
"Oh ..." She swung around suddenly. "Father— did I call you Father?"
"I have a feeling you called me unrepeatable names more often than not, but to my face you usually called me Dad."
She nodded, absorbing the information. "Dad's much nicer, but it doesn't seem to go with the house," she said wryly. "Dad, was there any particular reason why I felt it necessary to have six fiances?"
"A very good reason," he said. "You were bored stiff."
"Bored? But I'm never bored."
He laughed. "I gather your life has been pretty exciting recently."
Exciting? In a way, but a better description would be breathtakingly beautiful. She turned back to the window as the memory of Ben filled her mind. What was he doing now? Did he miss her as much as she missed him? Did he miss her at all?
She jumped nervously when she heard the crash of the heavy brass knocker striking the front door, then the sound of voices in the hall. This must be the ex-fiance who was so insistent. She stiffened her back. Was this the man who haunted her dreams? Would she see the accusation, the pain in the eyes of a flesh-and-blood man?
"Hello, Max," she heard her father say. "As you can see, Chelsea is home."
Ben, where are you? I need you now. Drawing in a shaky breath, she turned to face her nightmare.
Only it wasn't him. This man was dark and slim and—blessedly—a stranger. She let out a sigh of relief and gave the two men a dazzling smile of relief. "You must be Max," she said, walking forward to extend her hand. "Dad tells me we renewed our engagement before—before my accident."
"Yes, that's right." He held her hand and stood staring at her with a curious, narrow-eyed intensity. "It was all just a silly misunderstanding."
He was lying. The lie was clear in his eyes, but Sunny said nothing. She merely smiled. "I'm sure it was," she said affably. "But I know you'll understand if I ask that we shelve our engagement until my memory returns."
"But—" he began to protest.
"Dad, I think I'd like to go to my room now. I'm a little tired."
She saw the concern in her father's eyes and, for a moment, was ashamed of herself for lying, but she needed to get away, to think.
"Of course, sweetheart. I'll—"
"I'll take her up, Ray," Max said. "After all, I know the way well enough."
The insinuation was clear and again she felt it was a lie. Please God, let it be a lie. To have slept with this man would be a sacrilege after her night with Ben.
"No, Max," her father said firmly. "I'll take her up. There are some things I need to talk to Chelsea about." He extended his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "It was nice of you to drop by."
Before Max could protest further, her father put his arm protectively around her shoulder and began walking toward the door that led into the hall.
"Henry," he said as they passed the somber man in the hall. "Show Mr. Shielding out."
"What did you want to talk to me about?" she asked as they walked up the curved staircase.
"I wanted to tell you that the geraniums are doing nicely this year," he said, his face straight, but his eyes twinkling.
"Why, you're nice," she said in surprise. She had been so busy fighting against the return, she had completely missed the fact that he was a very likeable man. "He was lying, you know," she said softly.
"You remember?"
"No." She glanced at him. "I just know."
"I'm glad," he murmured huskily. "And I'm glad you think I'm nice. I hope you continue to think so." He closed his eyes briefly. "Because I won't make the same mistake twice." For a moment she saw grief clouding his brown eyes; then he shook it away and opened a door for her.
"This is your room."
She looked around at the expensive, feminine room. It was beautiful. Everything a woman could want, she told herself. Then why did she wish it were old and shabby and filled with tacky furniture? Her eyes slid around the elegance, then suddenly stopped, becoming fixed on a portrait that hung opposite the bed.
It was the face of the man in her dreams.
Ten
Ben swung his car through the opening in the brick wall and almost immediately felt the cooling breeze off the lake that sparkled in the distance. It seemed that the very wealthy of the world could even buy the weather. The rest of Houston was sweltering under a late heat wave, but here, behind the high wall, it was cool and green.
The house, situated as it was on a low, sloping hill, didn't intimidate him as it should have. It merely made him more determined. A man could act like a stupid fool for only so long before coming to his senses. And three days was long enough. Three days was an eternity.
Pulling up in front of the imposing front entrance, he switched off the engine; then, when it refused to die, he shoved it into drive and turned the key again. This time it fell gratifyingly silent. He stepped out of the car, wiping perspiring hands on the back of his faded jeans.
He hesitated for only a fraction of a second, then squared his shoulders and swung up the steps to the huge double doors. Glancing at the duo of gleaming brass lions' heads, he bypassed them to knock on the door in the conventional way, then shoved his hands in his back pockets while he waited.
The man who opened the door was tall and slender, his gray hair and white coat giving him a distant, old-world dignity. He stood regally silent, apparently waiting for Ben to state the purpose of his visit.
"Obstacle number one," Ben muttered under, his breath, then said firmly, "I've come to see Miss Barron."
"Is Miss Chelsea expecting you, sir?"
Ben's eyes narrowed warily, his lips thinning. This man knew perfectly well Sunny wasn't expecting him. It was obvious in his attitude. But Ben hadn't come this far to give up so easily.
"She'll see me." He looked the man squarely in the eye, daring him to disprove his confident statement.
"And whom shall I say is calling?"
Ben had had enough. He would allow this superior guard dog one more question, then he would find her on his own. "You can tell her—"
"Ben!"
Sunny's cry pierced the air and Ben looked up to see her flying down the curving stairs toward him. Pushing the man aside with unintentional rudeness, he stepped into the huge entry hall just in time to catch her in his arms.
For a seemingly endless moment, no words were necessary. A world of need was transmitted between them in the urgency of their embrace. Ben held her in a crushing grip, letting the reality of her presence permeate his body. He could feel the emptiness of the past three days vanish into a painful memory as she locked her hands behind his neck and pressed into him with an equally desperate need.
"You changed your mind," she whispered at last, the words muffled against his chest.
"What mind?" Lifting his hands to frame her small face, he stared into clear blue eyes. "Sunny, I don't know if I was crazy to force you to leave or if I'm crazy to beg you to come back. I only know that it's been hell without you." He drew in a deep breath to steady his voice. "And so—will you come home, babe?"
She blinked her eyes rapidly to hold back the sudden rush of tears and said in a choked voice, "Yes . . . please."
He leaned his head down to rest his forehead against hers as he went weak with relief. It shouldn't have been this easy. He deserved more punishment for being so stupid. He deserved it, but by God, he was glad he didn't have to take any more.
"You must be Ben."
Ben jerked his head up, then turned in the direction of the voice. He found himself being examined by the inquisitive eyes of a man who, given the strong resemblance, could only be Sunny's father.
Turning to face him, Ben kept a possessive arm around Sunny's waist as he threw an equally inquisitive glance at the man who could turn out to be either friend or foe. "Yes, I am," he said, his voice firm. He couldn't afford to show deference, even to the man's age. Not until he knew how this man would react. "I've come to take your daughter home with me."
"Is that right?" Her father frowned as he considered the couple before him.
"Yes. I'm sorry if that upsets you—"
"Upset? My dear young man, you have my ever-lasting gratitude," he said, winking at Sunny. "I was beginning to think I was never going to get her off my hands. Such boring conversation—you can't imagine. I believe she has only one thought in her head."
Ben glanced at Sunny, to find her smiling in agreement. "I can't believe that, sir. I never found her boring."
"That's because when I was with you, I didn't have to talk about you," she murmured softly.
As he stared into her eyes, reading the desire and love that were plain to anyone but a blind fool, he leaned closer, drawn irresistibly toward her. It had been so long since he had touched her, tasted her . . .
Suddenly a slight shuffling noise reminded him of the presence of her father. Ben cleared his throat and smiled at her. "Hadn't you better go pack?"
Answering his smile, she nodded in the direction of the staircase. He followed her gesture with his eyes, then jerked them back to her in bewilderment when he saw three suitcases resting at the bottom of the stairs.
"I was coming back to convince you that you couldn't do without me."
Her voice was a husky whisper that made him wish desperately that they were alone. Tightening his hand on her waist, he fought the impulse to press her body to his. When he glanced away to try to bring his emotions under control, he found Mr. Barron watching with a strange mixture of sadness and delight.
Ben moved forward, extending his hand. "I guess we'll be going now, sir. It was nice meeting you."
"Call me Ray." He clasped Ben's hand firmly. "I hope you won't forget to invite me to the wedding. We were just getting to know each other and I don't want to lose touch." He paused and glanced at Sunny. "I find I like my new daughter very much."
"Wedding? But Dad, we haven't—" Sunny began.
"Of course, you're invited," Ben said, interrupting her. "We wouldn't think of leaving you out." He glanced down at Sunny, hiding a triumphant smile. "I'll take your bags to the car while you say goodbye."
The two of them spoke softly as Ben moved toward the suitcases. But before he could lift the first one, the still somber servant appeared magically to help. Minutes later Ben leaned against the car, waiting for Sunny to join him. When she and her father walked onto the porch, he tactfully glanced away as she touched her father's face gently. There were tears in her eyes when she finally joined him, waving goodbye to the two men who stood watching as they drove away.
There was something in her silence that he didn't understand, and as they left the walled estate behind Ben glanced at her, searching her face for an explanation. "You can see him often— after all, he's in the same city." Not the same world, he added silently, but the same city.
"Yes, I know," she murmured. "I'm just afraid he'll be lonely. He's grown very dear to me in the last three days." She paused, looking out the window as though she wanted to avoid his eyes, then said quietly, "Ben, why did you change your mind?"
Something was different. In the short time they had been in the car a mood had fallen upon her that worried him. Did she regret coming with him already?
He stared straight ahead, fighting the tightness that was beginning to grow in his chest. When the silence drew out, he swallowed his fear and smiled as he shot a glance in her direction. "After you left, I sat down and took a good look at myself.  I began to ask a few objective questions. Could a beautiful young woman care for a man who has a very muddled past and no clear future, who has a definite problem seeing the good and beautiful things in the world, and who can't bring himself to believe in them even when he does manage to see? Could a woman of taste and intelligence love a man like that?"
"And what was your answer?"
She was smiling now and the tension in his body eased. He shrugged in answer to her question. "My answer was—what's not to love?"
When she threw back her head and laughed, the sparkle returned to her eyes and for a moment he relaxed. Maybe it was going to be all right. Maybe they would make it.
Pulling over to the side of the road, he turned her toward him and hungrily examined her face. "It's daylight and I'm not weakened by having you in my bed. I want to say it now so you'll believe me." He stroked her cheek, feeling the silken warmth under his rough hand. "I love you, Sunny."
Her eyelids drifted down, but not before he had seen the quick sheen of tears. "Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I know."
She knew, but evidently the knowledge didn't make her happy. It had been tears of sadness and—incredibly—pain that he had seen in her beautiful eyes. Dear Lord, she couldn't pity him? Please God, not that.
He had only wanted a chance. A chance to give her something that could compete with the past when she remembered it. That was the decision he had reached during those three miserable days. Once he had gotten past pain, anger, and self-pity, determination had taken over. He would make her feel so loved, so needed that nothing in her past could compare. He intended to become a habit that she couldn't break. And if the man in her dreams still loved her, he would have to fend for himself. Before she regained her memory, Sunny would be well and truly Ben's.
Sunny waited silently for Ben to unlock the apartment door. She stood inhaling the familiar smell, allowing the feel of the place to seep into her pores. She was home. Perhaps not forever, but for now, to be here was enough. To be with Ben was enough.
She glanced across the hall at the closed door. Mary Louise had obviously deserted her post. Sunny would have to seek her out later and hope the girl hadn't retreated too far into herself.
As she preceded him into the apartment, she felt the need that had tormented her in the past three days rise up to engulf her. Slowly she walked around the room, drifting a loving hand across the desk, the worn arm of the couch. Then she turned and met Ben's eyes. She took in the quickly shuttered insecurity, the hunger that flared out of control, and she flew across the room into his waiting arms. The past could wait. The future could wait. The loving couldn't.
Sunny tiptoed into the bedroom and stopped beside the bed to stare down at the man sleeping there. She had made her peace with Mary Louise. Now she wanted to do the same with Ben.
She loved this man so deeply. She wanted to reach out and brush the hair from his forehead, to caress his strong face, but held herself back. He had probably gotten as little sleep as she had in their time apart.
Her eyes drifted shut momentarily as she thought of what had taken place on this bed earlier. The desperation that had marked their first night together had been present in both of them again today. Although she hadn't planned on bringing everything out in the open so soon, she knew now it was necessary. If either of them were to have any peace, they had to know where they stood.
She became instantly alert as he rolled over, stretching his arm across the bed. Suddenly his fist clenched on the sheet and his head jerked around, his eyes wide open. When he saw her standing beside the bed, his head sank back on the pillow and the back of his hand came up to cover his eyes.
After a moment, he moved his hand away from his face to reach out and catch her arm, pulling her down to sit on the bed beside him as he smiled contentedly. "What was so important that you had to leave me alone?"
"I needed to straighten things out with Mary Louise," she replied softly. "It'll take a while, but I think she's going to forgive me for leaving."
"She'll forgive you." He urged her down with a hand on her back until she lay resting on his chest, their faces inches apart. "She loves you. The whole thing was just too reminiscent of what she went through with her mother."
"She talked to you about that?" Sunny asked in astonishment.
He laughed. "Mary Louise and I got to be pretty good friends after you left—the only good thing that came of your leaving." His hands slid past her waist to her buttocks and he settled her closer against him. "Haven't you got too many clothes on?" he asked, cocking an eyebrow at her.
"Yes, probably," she murmured, distracted from her thoughts by his hands on her body. "But, Ben—"
"Ah love," he sighed, closing his eyes. "I'm so glad you're back. I've never spent three more miserable days. Wondering what was happening to you, what you were feeling. Wondering if you had remembered your past and forgotten me." He tightened his hold painfully and, in a choked whisper, said, "I hope you never remember. I may be damned for wishing that for you, but I do."
"Ben—" she began, biting her lip to still the trembling.
"Yes, I know." He opened his eyes to stare at her, his face solemn. "It's selfish of me. I never considered myself a selfish man, but where your love is concerned, babe, I am. Totally, completely selfish."
"Ben," she repeated, more insistently, gazing at him in a silent plea. "About my amnesia—" She couldn't continue. Fear was nagging at her, halting her words as her head sagged to his chest.
She could feel the tension in his body, hear his shallow breathing as the silence drew out. Then he gripped her chin and jerked her head up.
"Who are you?" His voice was a harsh whisper, his eyes blazing steel.
"Chelsea ..." she began, closing her eyes in resignation. She rolled away from him, wishing she could lie, but knowing their love had to be based on the truth. ". . . and Sunny," she continued. "And as much as I want to for you, I can't separate the two."
She glanced at him beneath her lashes. He lay beside her, his eyes closed now, his body stiff, his face carved in stone.
"I'm sorry." She tried unsuccessfully to keep the desperation out of her voice. "I couldn't stop the past from coming back."
He turned his head to stare at her with penetrating gray eyes as though he were searching for something. Something not visible on the surface, but deep inside her soul. Then he shook his head slowly. "You've remembered." His strangled voice sounded stunned. "You've remembered everything and it didn't make any difference."
It wasn't a question. It was a statement that contained shock and relief and an incredulous joy. He must have found what he was looking for in her eyes. Pulling her back into his arms, he began rocking her back and forth as he ran urgent hands over her body.
"I've been waiting for the damned ax to fall ever since that first day. And now that it has it doesn't matter." He gave a choked laugh in disbelief. "I can't tell you what that means. It's like the weight of the world has been lifted. I was so damned afraid Chelsea wouldn't want me."
She pressed her hand to her trembling lips as she began to laugh and cry at the same time. "And I was afraid you wouldn't want Chelsea. I knew you loved Sunny, but you seemed so desperate to keep Chelsea away." She paused, remembering the moment she walked into her bedroom and saw the portrait on the wall. "But she was determined to come back."
"I should have been there with you," he whispered harshly. "Was it bad for you—remembering?"
She touched his face lovingly, then sighed and pulled away from him to sit up and wrap her arms around her knees. "It was . . . strange. Enlightening, surely—a lot of pieces fell into place— but mostly it was sad. And painful. Remembering things from the past was almost like having them happen all over again."
"Tell me, babe," he begged gently as he rose to sit beside her, clasping one of her hands between his. "Let me share it with you now."
She sat silently for a moment, then drew in a deep, steadying breath. "It all started so many years ago, so many years." She shook her head, then rested her chin on her knees. "When I was a little girl, I can remember how happy we were.
Mother was so alive and vital—she was the center of our family. Then when we were five she died, and overnight it seemed that everything had changed."
His hands tightened on hers. "We?"
"Bryan and I were twins." Her voice was a dull whisper, and she could tell Ben had picked up on her use of the past tense by his quickly indrawn breath.
"What did he look like, Sunny?"
Lord, he was sharp, she thought as she raised her eyes to his. "He had red hair and turquoise eyes."
"The man in your dreams." His words were almost a groan as he pulled her into his arms, trying to absorb some of her pain.
She nodded against his shoulder. "After Mother died, it seemed that we were all we had." She glanced up at him. "You saw the way my father was today? That's new. The easygoing attitude, the warm acceptance. Those things haven't always been there. I don't mean he didn't love us," she added hastily. "He did. But after Mother died he seemed to squeeze us out of his life. Oh, he was always there, but only physically. The only time we got his undivided attention was when we got into trouble. We were supposed to do the correct thing, be seen with the correct people."
She let the warmth of Ben's body keep the past at a safe distance as she continued. "You remember the way I reacted when you wanted me to stay inside the apartment?" She felt rather than saw his nod. "The reason it frightened me is that my whole life had been like that. Dad wanted us to live in luxurious, insulated boredom, separated from the real world by an invisible wall. We were allowed no contact with real people, only those who met with his approval. That's why I found such pleasure in meeting the people around here.
They were from another world. Does it surprise you that I felt such a wonderful sense of freedom? I don't think my father even knew what he was doing. It was partly the fear that every wealthy man lives with—the fear that his children will be kidnapped or harmed. And it was partly tenth-generation snobbery. We were Barrons. We had to set standards. The world was always watching." She paused. "Dad and I talked, really talked for the first time in years during the three days I spent with him. Bryan's death hit him hard. Then, when I disappeared, he started to think about all those wasted years. I never want to feel the regret that he's feeling now."
She lifted her head. "And you know something, Ben? He's a nice man, and really very funny. I've never laughed with my father until now. All those years the servants were the only contact we had with the outside world, and we spent every minute we could with them. Henry—the stone-faced creature who opened the front door for you—is an absolute doll. He was really the guiding force in our lives. He soothed our hurts and kept us out of trouble. But, as we grew older, we needed more."
She sighed in regret. "Anyone who was watching could have seen what was coming. Bryan couldn't stand the restrictions. Maybe because he was a man, Dad came down harder on him than he did on me. Or maybe because he was a man, he came down harder on himself." She shook her head. "Six months ago he came to me and told me he was leaving. He said he was twenty-eight years old and it was time he grew up. He was tired of doing busy work at one of Dad's companies. He needed to find out what he wanted in his life."
"That sounds like a reasonable decision." Ben's gentle voice pulled her back from the past. "Or maybe it sounds reasonable since it's something like what happened to me."
She nodded, pressing her trembling lips together, then took a deep breath to continue. "Bryan died in an automobile accident about a month ago."
"Was that why it hurt so to see his face in your dream? Because he was dead and you were alive?"
That and so much more, she thought. It hurt to think about it. Almost as much as it had at the time. But now the pain was untainted by guilt. The last three days with her father had accomplished that. She had come to see that guilt was a part of grief and that her father was trying to cope with the same thing.
"Bryan wanted me to go with him," she whispered. "It had always been the two of us. Any decision had been a joint one. But not this time. I refused." She pushed the hair out of her eyes and gave a choked laugh. "We were always together. When I got stuck in the tree, he was there to pull me out. And when I broke the vase, he took the punishment instead of me." She closed her eyes tightly. "But I refused to go with him."
"Sunny," Ben murmured, pressing her closer. "Don't punish yourself. You must have had good reasons for refusing."
"I told myself I did. I wanted us to get an apartment together. To make the break and build our lives cleanly. But he wanted more. He wanted to hurt Dad by moving in with a crowd he knew our father wouldn't approve of. But all that doesn't change the fact that when he needed me, I let him down. That when it came to the crunch, I chose security instead of him. I was afraid, you see," she whispered, trying to smile. "I was afraid I couldn't make it in the real world. I thought I needed my father's money and name to pave my way through life. I didn't believe in myself as a person. I thought I could only exist as a Barron in the Barron world. And Bryan died before I could tell him that I had changed my mind." She was silent for a moment. "But you know, somehow, I feel he knows. I feel closer to him now than I have since he died."
She had tried so hard to feel close to Bryan in the days following his death. Tried and failed.
"When the police came to tell us," she continued. "I felt as though I weren't complete anymore—sort of other-worldish, as though I weren't quite real. So after the funeral I went to the place where he had been staying to see if the feel of him, the essence of him, was still there. He had been rooming with two other men and, Ben, they were awful. I didn't need to talk to them. I could see in their faces that they had never been friends to Bryan and I would find nothing of him there. Dad told me later that he had been on his way home when he died. He must have eventually felt the same thing I did when I walked into that apartment."
Ben grew tense and still. "What did you do?" he prompted.
"They tried to talk me into staying. They said I owed it to Bryan. That since I hadn't stood by him while he was alive, I should do it then by staying with them and demanding money from my father."
Ben spat out a vicious expletive, his eyes growing cold and hard.
This must be the Ben who had forced her attacker to talk, Sunny thought. Suddenly she was very glad she saw only the gentle man and not this fierce giant.
"I refused, of course," she went on. "But when I tried to leave, one of them grabbed me. I fell and hit my head on a table. It must have been then that they got in touch with my father."
"I should have broken more than his nose when I had the chance," Ben said with tight anger.
"Ben!"
"No one will get the chance to hurt you again."
His voice was husky with emotion as he held her tighter. "I promise you that."
Didn't he know that the only person who could truly hurt her was Ben himself? She looked into the eyes that shone down at her with love, the deep, lasting love she had seen before in a dream. She felt happiness flood her body, wiping out the pain of the past.
Drawing back so he could see her face, he said softly, "Will you marry me, Chelsea? I railroaded Sunny into it, but I have a feeling you won't take so easily to railroading."
She laughed. "You can railroad both of us any time you like." She ran a hand down his face. "Yes. Yes from Chelsea. Yes from Sunny. Or whatever else you want to call me."
"My love," he murmured, "that's what I'll always call you." He swung her over on top of him, then continued the roll until he was lying over her, his happiness evident in his face and his exuberant actions. "We'll be married right away. No engagement," he added sternly. "Your record isn't too good on engagements."
"Seven has always been my lucky number," she said demurely, then, "Ben, about those engagements—"
"That's not important," he interrupted. "I know you. You're good and true. Whatever happened in your past is not important."
She stared at him for a moment, then began to run her fingers through the curls on the back of his neck, avoiding his eyes. "It's very broad-minded of you not to hold against me the fact that I've slept with six men besides you," she said with admiring innocence.
"Do we have to talk about it?" Suddenly he didn't sound broad-minded; he sounded thoroughly grumpy. "There's no need for you to show me a scorecard."
Laughing delightedly, she pulled his head down to kiss his slightly stiff lips. "You idiot, I didn't sleep with them. After one regrettable experiment when I was seventeen, I decided sex wasn't for me." She grinned up at him. "I thought I was frigid."
He gave a shout of laughter at her pronouncement, unable to hide the relief that flavored the rich sound. "You were just waiting for me. Everything you've ever done has been leading you to me." Suddenly his face grew solemn. "I mean it, Sunny. That's the way I feel. As though everything in our lives was preparing us for the day we met. We were meant to love. I know that."
She stared at him, concentrating on his words. "It has to be that way. I woke up in that little hotel room, not knowing who I was or where I was. I could have gone anywhere, but I didn't. I just started walking in one direction, wondering what was in store for me and then—"
He captured her lips in a searing kiss that told her what he remembered about the next part of her memory. "Then," he whispered against her bruised lips, "then God, in his infinite wisdom, decided to let a poor, blind fool get a glimpse of the daisies."
Eleven
Sunny stepped through the door and eyed her adversary warily. There was no way out of it. She had put it off as long as she dared. Already Ben was beginning to regard her with suspicion when she pulled out one of her lame excuses. With her past record it was only a matter of time before he put two and two together.
She stepped slowly into the kitchen, wiping her hands nervously on her shorts, and said a quick prayer before stopping in front of the gleaming ivory monster.
"I'm not afraid of you," she muttered. "Millions of women all over the world are using dishwashers." She reached out and bravely pulled back the concealed lever the way she had seen Ben do soon after he had bought the baffling machine.
A surprise, he had said. Surprise was hardly the word for it. Although she had been thrilled with the gift that was supposed to make things easier for her, she had panicked at the thought of facing yet another example of her incompetence in dealing with the ordinary things in life.
Even though she—with the passage of half a year—still awoke each day in a kind of euphoric wonder, the mundane details of life had to be faced with alarming regularity. Mary Louise had been a godsend in helping her deal with these things. And Sunny was not too proud to ask for her help with even the smallest task. Of course, it meant she had to listen to her caustic comments when the girl found out Sunny didn't know what happened to clothes once they were thrown into a hamper. Or that she didn't know which cleaning tool was used for what.
Sunny had made enormous progress in learning how people other than the Barrons lived. But as far as the dishwasher was concerned, she seemed to be facing some kind of cultural lag. Mary Louise had never used a dishwasher either, leaving Sunny very much on her own.
She knew she could have gone to Ben for instruction, but two things held her back. The first was the desire to show him that, besides fitting into his world emotionally, she could cope in the practical sense. The second was less worthy. Ben had a tendency to go into gales of laughter when he learned of the small mistakes she made.
She grinned suddenly as she thought of some of the "small" mistakes. No, she would not give him a chance to tease her about this, too.
Opening the door, she regarded the interior suspiciously, running her hand over the covered wire racks, then leaning in close for a better look as she completed her inventory.
"Uh-huh," she murmured, nodding her head knowingly. "Just as I thought"—leaning against the cabinet, she closed her eyes—"I'm sunk."
After considering alternate ideas—like hiring a hit man to get rid of the cunning machine—she thought again of Ben, helpless with laughter. Minutes later she was pulling clean dishes from the cabinet to stack them in the sliding shelves.
"The water comes from there," she murmured, eyeing the rotating arm at the bottom. "So the glasses have to go in upside down."
That bit of deductive reasoning boosted her spirits to such a degree that she began to whistle as she continued loading. Except for a minor altercation between the forks and the silverware basket, she managed to finish with what she considered remarkable panache.
Bending over the open door, she ran through the list of instructions printed there. "Number one: Fill both cups with detergent and close door of right hand cup." She smiled confidently. "Simple."
She had it licked now. Ben wouldn't get the chance to tease her about this. Reaching beneath the cabinet, she began to pull out the large box of laundry detergent, then stopped.
"Oh, no," she chuckled. "You won't hang me up on a technicality. Not laundry detergent—dishwashing detergent."
Mentally patting herself on the back, she reached behind the box and pulled out the plastic squeeze bottle of green liquid.
Ben walked mechanically up the last flight of stairs. He still couldn't believe it. As he gained the landing, he reached inside his pocket and pulled out the letter. It was real. He hadn't dreamed it.
Unlocking the door, he walked inside, his mind filled with boomeranging thoughts. Then everything receded into the background when he saw Sunny standing in front of the closed kitchen door. Would he ever stop feeling that wild burst of joy at the sight of her? Had it really been over six months since they had found each other?
Leaning against the front door he eyed her curiously, feeling the sensual jolt that always accompanied the emotional one. "Well," he said slowly. "Is the honeymoon finally over? Why are you over there when I'm over here?"
The words were barely out of his mouth before she was in his arms. Her lips were as eager as always, her arms as possessively hungry. But there was a minute difference that had him pulling away to examine her face.
"What's up?"
The smile she showed him was a little forced, her eyes just a bit wary. "Nothing," she denied guilelessly. "What makes you ask that?"
He chuckled. "You had the same look on your face when you glued your hand to the kitchen cabinet, and when you tried to hide my bright pink Fruit of the Looms, and when—"
Her muttered "All right, all right" caused his chuckle to grow into full-fledged laughter. He knew he shouldn't tease her, but the strange gaps in her education were a delight to him. She was remarkably intelligent and didn't hesitate to tackle any job, no matter how large or complicated, but the small, everyday things that most people took for granted absolutely mystified her.
Muffling his laughter against her neck, he pulled her closer for a moment, then released her after lovingly fondling her derriere. She would tell him what was bothering her in her own time. Probably after he had made a mistake she could tease him about.
"Where are you going?" she said as he walked across the living room, her voice showing faint signs of panic.
"To get something to eat. I'm starving." He threw the words over his shoulder as he walked. "Then I have a surprise for—"
"You're going into the kitchen?" she interrupted, rushing after him.
"Isn't that where we keep the food?" He hesitated for a moment, then shook his head, placing his hand against the door.
"No, Ben, don't!"
But it was too late. As the strangled words left her lips, already suds were oozing over the tops of his shoes and beginning to cling to his faded jeans while he watched in stunned silence.
At first, watching him leaning against the door, doubled over with laughter, Sunny's thoughts ran to revenge—like putting slivers of bamboo under his fingernails. Then her lip began to twitch, and soon a very unladylike snort escaped her as she tried to stifle her amusement.
It was some time before they had overcome the gales of laughter that accompanied the cleaning-up process, bursting out anew each time small clouds of suds landed on various fixtures in the kitchen, including, at times, Sunny and Ben.
It was only when the last snowy drift had been scooped away that she remembered the surprise he had mentioned. As she pulled the makings for a salad out of the refrigerator, she glanced back over her shoulder.
"Where's my surprise? Have you decided I don't deserve it?"
"Surprise?" His brow wrinkled in thought, then his eyes opened wide in astonishment. "Good Lord, I forgot!" He gave her a warm look. "You see what you do to me?"
"The surprise?" she repeated impatiently.
"I'll get there," he teased. "Just give me time." Stealing a carrot from the chopping board, he slid onto the cabinet beside her. "You remember I wrote to Jim about my idea for a novel."
She nodded. Jim Banning was the senior editor at "Family of Man" and, although they had never met, he and Ben had hit it off from their first telephone conversation, corresponding in a somewhat haphazard manner ever since.
"Well," he drawled, flipping his carrot casually in the air as he drew out the suspense. "With all the good intentions of an inveterate busybody, he took my proposal and copies of my work to a luncheon he was attending."
Catching the carrot on the descent, she shoved it forcefully to his throat. "If you value your life, you'll get on with it. And I warn you, death by carrot is not a pretty thing."
He laughed and pulled her between his thighs, fitting her snugly against him. "You're so sexy when you get vicious," he said, nuzzling her neck.
"Ben, tell me!"
"Yes, ma'am." He locked his arms around her waist, allowing her to lean back without their lower bodies losing contact. "Attending the aforementioned luncheon were several other editors. Editors from major. . .publishing. . .companies." He drew the words out, emphasizing each one.
She drew in her breath sharply, digging her nails into his shoulders. "Ben?" she whispered.
Pulling an envelope from his pocket, he handed it to her, grinning broadly. Her hands trembled with excitement as she withdrew the single sheet of paper from the envelope and shook it out.
Seconds later she raised her head slowly, then glanced back at the letter. "Do they really pay that much for a book that hasn't even been written?" she murmured in disbelief.
"Don't you think I'm worth it?" he laughed, obviously pleased by her surprise.
"More," she said emphatically. "Much, much more. But I still can't believe it. I didn't know it could happen so fast." She closed her eyes, then opened them to stare at him with loving warmth. "I'm so proud of you. I thought I would have your genius all to myself for a while yet." She paused as she was struck by a sudden thought. "Ben! We can recover the furniture and—and get a mattress with no lumps." She glanced at him in amazement. "And new seats for the car!"
"Now, that's the problem with people who are not used to having money," he chided. "You think small. Forget recovering and redoing. We can buy our own house." He leaned thoughtfully back against the cabinet door. "We could get out of the city. There's a nice area to the east of here that would be just right for raising a family." He grinned and leaned closer. "And as for a car, we can junk that heap and buy a new one."
For a moment she enjoyed his pleasure in planning their future. Then, as what he was saying sank in, she started to chuckle. She leaned her head against his chest as the laughter spilled out of her spontaneously.
"Sunny?"
The confusion in his voice threatened to set her off again and she pressed her hand to her mouth as she looked up at him. "Will it be a Cadillac?" she gasped, then as he continued to stare in bafflement, "This new car—will it be a Cadillac?"
"What are you—" he began before pulling himself up abruptly to mutter, "Oh my God. A Cadillac. A house in the suburbs, no less." He gave a shout of laughter. "Put a little money in my hands and I'm right back where I started." He leaned his head on hers and sighed. "Should I chuck it out the window?"
"Don't you dare! No, a house is a good idea, but why not this house? You said yourself the owner wanted to sell it." Her eyes sparkled as the idea took hold. "Ben, it could be a beautiful place."
"Yes," he murmured, running his hands down her back to cup her buttocks and press her closer. "But with you there, so would the house in the suburbs. As long as we're together, babe,"—he drew an exultant breath—"as long as we're together, the rest of our lives will be a beautiful place."
And, as he had predicted, it was.