The Saint

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God, if he only knew! Nothing was okay.

For one insane minute, Eddie thought he was going to blurt out the whole sleazy truth. Thought he might say that he was selling his soul for a chance to get into Binky Potter’s pants. That he had finally found a way to run with the big boys, and it was damn near killing him. That he was tired and trapped and sick of the whole thing.

But how could Coach help? Coach had been born one of the big boys. He practically owned Heyday, as his father had before him. He had no idea what it felt like to be on the outside, straining to get in.

Besides, he was so damn straitlaced. Everyone around here called him the Saint. He’d never allow the paper-selling thing to go on—and he’d never let Eddie get away unpunished.

“Eddie?”

Eddie hesitated, still unsure. Yes, telling Coach would be suicide, but at least it would be over. The temptation was almost irresistible. It would be a relief if someone like Coach could just force him to stop, since he didn’t seem to be able to stop himself.

But in the end he didn’t have the courage. He didn’t have the nerve to see Coach’s face when he realized Eddie was a scumball. He didn’t want Coach to withdraw his offer to bring Eddie onto the team.

And he definitely didn’t have the guts to give up the hope that someday Binky Potter would say yes. Maybe even tonight. They had a movie date at eight, and if he didn’t get started mowing those lawns soon he’d be late. When they went to the movies, she liked to tease him, sucking slick popcorn butter from his fingers one by one till he nearly died.

No way could he give that up.

“Eddie?” Coach’s voice was tighter now. Really concerned. “You can tell me. What’s wrong?”

“Wrong? What could be wrong?” Eddie stood up again and tossed Coach a smile as fake as anything Cullen Overton had ever produced. “Life’s sweet, man. Sweet.”

KIERAN WAS DOG TIRED, and he would have given anything he owned to be able to take a long hot shower, order a sloppy pizza, open a freezing cold beer and spend the evening in front of the TV.

Instead, he had to dress up in a penguin suit and go next door to Aurora York’s house, where he would spend three hours pretending he gave a damn who was elected Heyday’s next parade Ringmaster and Ringmistress. Even worse, he might well be nominated himself, which would mean he’d have to pretend to be delighted.

Frankly, he wasn’t sure he had “delighted” left in his bag of tricks tonight. It had been a very long day.

He did take the shower. That wasn’t optional, not after standing in the sun all morning helping teenagers wash cars. And he got the beer, too. That wasn’t optional, either, not after having spent the entire afternoon listening to the Heyday Historical Society bitch about Larry Millegrew, a newly arrived artist who had dared to paint his house orange.

Kieran didn’t know how he’d stopped himself from laughing. When had this town become so darn snooty? Pretty ironic for a town that got its jump-start because of a drunken circus animal trainer to begin having apoplexy at the sight of an orange house. “Gray and white,” Dolly Jenkins had kept repeating at today’s meeting, sounding weak with shock. “Gray and white. Anything else is just vulgar!”

But what did they want Kieran to do about it, anyhow? He had inherited a lot of the property around here, but his dad’s estate wasn’t even probated yet, and besides, this wasn’t feudal England. He couldn’t exactly throw Mr. Millegrew in the dungeon and commandeer his absurd orange house.

Kieran tossed his towel on the bed and, still yearning for the pizza he couldn’t have, he reluctantly began to assemble his tux. He hated parties. This must be one of the ways in which he took after his mother, who everyone said had been a quiet, unassuming woman. She’d died when Kieran was born, so he knew her only as a wispy, smiling face in a small watercolor painting on the living-room wall.

He certainly didn’t take after his dad, who even at seventy had been all strong, primary colors, all great bold strokes in oil, like the portrait of him that hung above the fireplace mantel.

His dad could have handled Dolly Jenkins and Larry Millegrew with one hand, then tossed off tonight’s party like an after-dinner cognac. Old Anderson McClintock had loved people. He’d loved parties. He’d loved power games. And, as he had every day since his father died, Kieran wished the old devil were still alive to play them.

Kieran knew he was dragging his feet and probably running late, so he wasn’t surprised when the doorbell rang.

It was probably Aurora. She had asked him to come over early to help with the lights. She’d be mad as hell to discover he wasn’t even dressed.

“Coming,” he called as he trotted down the stairs with his dress shirt still half in, half out of his trousers. His black tie dangled between his teeth as he tried to insert his cuff links.

“Sorry, Aurora,” he mumbled as he swung open the door. “But you’re just in time to tie my—”

But it wasn’t Aurora, who at seventy-five was still an imposing old lady. She would have stood about five-eleven, higher if you counted her heels and the feather plume she invariably wore in her hat.

This was someone younger, smaller—someone who stood back, out of the glare of the porch lamp, clearly far less sure of her welcome than Aurora had ever been in her life.

But who…?

The woman moved awkwardly, and the creamy light washed over her.

Kieran dropped his cuff link. It was Claire Strickland.

The little ebony square clattered out onto the porch, and Claire stooped stiffly to pick it up. Watching her, Kieran pulled his tie slowly from between his teeth. He tried to gather his thoughts, which were about as disorganized as darting minnows. But it was just such a shock. What was Claire Strickland doing showing up here, unannounced, on his doorstep?

The last time he had seen her was that strange, unforgettable night in Richmond. He’d thought of her—and of the sex, of course—almost every day since. But he hadn’t called. After they’d awakened in the echoing, predawn hours, she had asked him to leave. And she’d made it clear she did not want to hear from him ever again.

In the distance, he could hear the sounds of the party tuning up. Laughter, the strum of an electrified cello, the distant thud of car doors.

But here on the porch everything was silent. He felt a sudden flash of anxiety. Was she all right? He knew she wouldn’t have come here without a very serious reason, not after the way she had told him goodbye….

And why was she dressed in black, her face as somber as if she had just been to a funeral? Good God, had someone else in her life died? He hadn’t thought she had anyone else.

“Kieran, I’m… May I come in?”

“God, yes, of course. I’m sorry.” He backed away from the door and let her enter. She stood there in the foyer, glancing around as if she’d never seen the inside of his house before. Which, he realized with surprise, she actually hadn’t. Their relationship—or whatever embryonic version of a relationship they’d been trying to develop when Steve’s death had shattered it to bits—had never progressed far enough for him to bring her here.

As she took it all in, her gaze held a strange combination of curiosity and apathy. It was as if she knew she should care what his house looked like, but she just didn’t.

He tried for a second to see it through her eyes. The big, classical Georgian mansion was pristine, thanks to his housekeeper. The only item out of place was his half-empty beer bottle. He didn’t have anything to feel ashamed about.

And yet, oddly, he did.

Perhaps it was just that the place was so ridiculously big. That he had so much when she had always had so little. He remembered the simple house she and Steve had shared. And that half-empty tomb she called home in Richmond.

“Claire, is everything all right? Why have you come? Do you need anything?”

She looked up at him. Her eyes were bottomless, and circled with thin, blue-shadowed skin. Her cheeks were pale, and for a moment he thought he saw her shudder. He put out his arm to steady her, but she backed away.

“Claire, what’s wrong? Are you ill?”

“No,” she said. “I’m pregnant.”

CHAPTER FIVE

SHE HAD KNOWN, OF COURSE, that he’d be stunned—and upset, too, especially when he realized what she wanted to do about the pregnancy. She wasn’t a fool. She certainly hadn’t been expecting him to hug her and start passing out cigars.

But she could never have imagined the look of pure, unadulterated horror that fell over his features. It was as if someone had announced the end of the world.

Strange how painful it was to see. Her face burned as if she’d been slapped.

However, she had to pull herself together. She had intended to be strong and businesslike, presenting her facts and her demands unemotionally. She was furious with herself for suddenly coming across all weak and weepy. It must be the hormone fluctuations the doctor had warned her about.

And maybe it was also the confusion of entering this house, which had always been the symbol of unassailable power in Heyday. She’d felt uncomfortable even ringing the bell, like some unfortunate chambermaid come to tell the lord of the manor he’d done her wrong.

She’d always known Kieran was rich and important. Everyone in Heyday knew that. But knowing an abstract fact and seeing him here, dressed in a tuxedo, his handsome face and imposing physique so at home against the marble and the tapestries and the sheer impressive magnitude of his mansion, were two very different things.

She straightened her shoulders. Damn it, she wasn’t the chambermaid. And he wasn’t a lord. He wasn’t even the Saint everyone had always called him. He was just a guy who’d slept around once too often and gotten himself caught.

“I’m sorry,” she said, keeping her voice cool. “Maybe I shouldn’t have been so blunt. I know it’s a shock, but—”

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”

“It was for me, as well. But it’s true.” She let her fingers rest against the black purse that hung at her side. She realized they were trembling. “I brought documentation from the gynecologist, in case you—”

He squinted and put out his hand, as if to stop her, though he didn’t actually touch her arm. “For God’s sake, Claire. I don’t think you’re lying.”

“Okay. Well, then, I assume you’ll want some proof of paternity. I haven’t looked into that yet. I thought it likely you’d rather work with doctors, or laboratories, of your own choosing, to ensure an unbiased—”

He shook his head tightly. “If you say it’s mine, I believe you. It’s just that I had thought that we— I mean I did—”

“Yes, you did. But we both know that’s not exactly a one-hundred-percent guarantee. Again, if you have any uncertainty, I’m perfectly willing to let you establish—”

“No.” He was still holding his cuff link. He was opening and closing his fist over the thing compulsively. Other than that, he was so motionless he might have been one of the sculptures that stood at intervals along the walls of this formal foyer. “I told you, if you say this is my problem, I’ll accept that.”

Heat flashed through her. “You must have misunderstood me. I didn’t say this was your problem. I said this was your child.”

He flushed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s just that—I need a little time to absorb…”

He raked his fingers through his hair, which seemed to be damp. He must have showered recently. And the tuxedo. Suddenly she realized she had interrupted preparations for something.

When she arrived, she had only half registered the men and women milling about next door, in front of Aurora York’s house. Now she could put two and two together. He was on his way to a party. She was probably making him late.

Well, too bad. She hardened her heart against his obvious bewildered distress. The arrival of a baby was going to change a lot of plans, for both of them. They were just going to have to get used to it.

And if he’d been planning to meet some woman over there, some glamorous Heyday socialite who was even now impatiently awaiting his arrival… Well, it was better that he learn about the baby before he let the dancing and the drinking and the flirting go too far.

“Yes, it might be good to take a little time to think,” she said. “Anyway, I can see that you’re busy. I’m staying in town, at the hotel, and we can talk more tomorrow. I just thought it was important to let you know as soon as possible.”

Before she lost her nerve and ran back to Richmond.

“But—are you all right?” He seemed to be waking up a bit. He looked at her with clear eyes for the first time since her announcement. He frowned, as if what he saw worried him. “You look tired. Are you well?”

“I’m fine. I have a little nausea sometimes, but that’s normal.”

“What about money? Do you need money?” He touched his shirt, then seemed to realize he wasn’t completely dressed. “My wallet is upstairs, but if you’ll—”

She lifted her chin. Money! Of course that was what he would think. People who owned things were always convinced the rest of the world wanted to take those things away.

“It’s not about money,” she said. “Don’t insult me, Kieran.”

He made a small sound and came toward her, holding out his hand. Then, for the first time since she’d arrived, he touched her. It wasn’t much, just his palm on her shoulder, but it sent waves of weakness through her torso, and it almost loosened the emotional dam she used to hold back her tears.

“Claire—”

She backed off. What was wrong with her? Why did the slightest touch turn her steel will to mush? She had reacted the same way when the gynecologist had patted her arm and told her everything was going to be fine.

Except for the night she and Kieran had made love, she had barely touched another human being in two years. She had thought she didn’t need it, thought she was too strong to need it. Obviously she’d been wrong. Apparently she was starving for it, as weak as a baby herself.

“I don’t want your money,” she repeated. “You can relax. I’m not here either as a beggar or a blackmailer.”

“God, of course you’re not,” he said roughly. “Damn it, Claire, the thought never crossed my mind. But it’s just that—if you won’t let me help you financially…”

She looked at him. This had seemed much easier when she rehearsed it in the car on the way here. It had seemed so simple, like a business deal where everyone paid a fair price for what they got. Crime and punishment, sin and penance, equally balanced. She had even imagined that he might suggest the obvious answer himself.

But now she saw how thoroughly she had deluded herself. St. Kieran McClintock was genuinely horrified, completely bewildered and had no idea what she wanted.

She took a deep breath.

“I want you to marry me,” she said.

He recoiled. There was no other word for it. He even took a step backward, as if she’d hit him.

“Marry you?”

“Yes. You don’t need to look so stunned. That’s frequently what people do in situations like this.”

“But—” He undid the top button of his suit, as though he suddenly weren’t able to get enough air into his lungs. “Those people are usually—they have relationships. Most people who end up in this situation know each other well, have a history, have plans for a future. They’re usually in—”

“In love.” Her voice cracked on the word, and she tightened her throat to avoid breaking down. “I know. It’s awkward. I wish being in love were a requirement for making babies, but apparently it isn’t. Apparently even people who have an utterly meaningless one-night encounter can still end up pregnant.”

“I—I put that wrong. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that we are going to have a child. A real, living, breathing person is going to enter this world. I don’t want any stigma attached to his name. I want him to have a name.”

“Stigma?” He frowned. “That’s pretty old-fashioned thinking, isn’t it? I mean, in this day and age, do people really—”

“Yes. People really do.” She thought of Mrs. Straine, who everyone whispered had bought her own wedding ring and sent herself flowers on an imaginary anniversary. She thought of her own mother, who had invented a marriage, then invented a divorce and cried into her pillow at night.

“I work at a very old-fashioned parochial school. I teach middle-school girls, who are becoming sexually aware themselves. I’m already on probation there for the sin of teaching them Hamlet. That’s how repressed the environment is. Believe me, my principal would never allow an unmarried mother to be their teacher.”