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He lay still, eyes wide-open, one hand absently stroking her hair; in the turmoil of emotion that had him in its grip, a sense of rightness was predominant.
She belonged to him.
The words repeated themselves in his head. Katrin belongs to me. What was he thinking of? They were a lie, of course. Katrin didn’t belong to him. She didn’t want to. So how could he account for this deep current of possessive-ness, the need to imprint himself on her so that she’d never go elsewhere?
Atavism, he told himself forcibly. The caveman asserting himself over all the constraints of a so-called civilized man. That’s all it was.
He’d lost control. Totally. She’d seen to that.
Briefly he closed his eyes, suffused by a longing to simply go to sleep. To wake in her arms and make love again. To spend the day reading in her sunlit kitchen, waiting for her to come home from work; and then to go to bed with her once more. If his world had shifted in the last couple of hours, what would happen in two days? Two weeks?
Very carefully Luke shifted Katrin’s sleeping body back onto the mattress. She stirred, her lashes fluttering; then she slipped back into sleep, her cheek buried in the pillow. His heart clenched. Defenseless, passionate, generous, fiery-tempered: what other facets of her personality had he not yet plumbed?
Would never plumb.
Because he was leaving. Now. He wasn’t going to risk another of those cataclysmic matings.
He got out of bed with infinite care not to disturb her; and it was then that he saw the second foil packet on the table. He’d forgotten all about it; he’d never done that before.
She could be pregnant.
He wasn’t going to follow that thought; the mere possibility was too overwhelming. All his movements clumsy, Luke got dressed in the semidarkness. Without a backward look he left the room, went down the hall and out to the kitchen. The side door creaked as he pulled it open. He froze, waiting for Katrin to call his name, wondering what he’d say if she did. But the house was encased in silence. He stepped outside, snipped the latch, got in his car and backed out of the driveway.
Because he lived in a city, he’d forgotten how completely dark the countryside could be. The vast panoply of stars was starkly lonely; it was a relief to see the lights of the resort through the trees. At the desk, not caring what the clerk thought, he checked out. Then he went upstairs, packed in a matter of minutes and left the room. Five minutes later, on the road that would eventually take him to the airport, Luke drove past Katrin’s house in the village. But he saw no lights. No signs of life.
No indication that his own life had turned upside down in that little house on the shore of a vast lake.
He was running away. No question of it.
Two weeks later Luke and Ramon were seated in an oyster bar on Fisherman’s Wharf. Through the open window they could see the crowded boardwalk, filled with tourists in bright clothes, with jugglers and musicians; and beyond them, the colorful prows of fishing boats. Everyone was having a good time, Luke thought sourly. Except for him.
Ramon raised his glass of beer. “Cheers, amigo. I’m glad you were free at such short notice.” As they clinked glasses, he added, “Although you look like a man on death row.”
“Thanks a lot,” Luke said. When they’d played their regular tennis game last week, he’d been ignominiously defeated. He was sleeping lousily, Katrin haunted his thoughts night and day, and he bitterly regretted his impulsive trip to the resort. Other than that, he was fine.
Ramon said, “I have news for you. About the Staines murder case.”
Luke plunked his glass down so hard that beer sloshed onto the table. “News?” he rapped.
“So you are still interested…I thought you might be.”
“Give, Ramon.”
“We’ve had a confession. And the DNA matches up. The case is solved, Luke. I know Katrin Staines was legally cleared at the trial…but a lot of people still thought she had something to do with it. Now we can prove she was completely innocent.”
Luke sat back in his chair. The mellow strains of a jazz trumpet floated into the restaurant; a breeze ruffled the striped awnings. He pushed his dark glasses further up his forehead. “You’re sure? About the confession, I mean?”
“It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow morning. I wanted you to hear it from me first.”
Luke said awkwardly, “You’re a good friend.”
“But not so good that you’ll tell me what hold this Katrin has over you.”
“If I ever figure it out, you’ll be the first to know,” Luke said with suppressed violence.
“I won’t hold my breath,” Ramon remarked. “The man who confessed, Edmond Langille, was a business associate of Donald’s, who’d had a meeting with Donald earlier on the evening of the murder. Not one of the servants, of course, had seen him enter the house…where are witnesses when you need them? Nor did they see him leave, because he didn’t. He overheard the row between Katrin and Donald and took full advantage of it instead.”
“So why’s he confessing now?”
“He’s dying,” Ramon said bluntly. “Cancer. Wants his conscience clear before he meets his Maker.” Appreciatively Ramon chewed on his garlic bread, then forked a broiled oyster. “Katrin knew Edmond, although not well. So she’ll have to come here for questioning.”
“Not another trial?” Luke said, horrified.
“No, no. A formality, merely. I’ll be phoning her this afternoon to make the arrangements.”
Ramon then engrossed himself in his oysters, letting the silence hang. Luke said rapidly, “I went to Manitoba after you told me about her. We made love on the understanding we’d never see each other again.”
Ramon said with an indifference that grated on Luke’s nerves, “San Francisco’s a big city. You don’t have to see her…I can’t imagine she’ll stay long.”
“I like my life the way it is!” Luke said violently.
“Then you are a fortunate man,” Ramon said with a faint smile. “Eat your oysters before they get cold.”
Paying very little attention to an excellent lunch, Luke cleared his plate, talking nonstop about the Democratic convention, the latest African coup and the price of gold. But as he and Ramon parted company on the boardwalk, Ramon said calmly, “Rosita would kill me for interfering—but Katrin’s an exceptional woman, Luke. She could be the making of you. If you let her.” He grinned. “See you at the courts next Tuesday. Try and have your mind on the game, sí?”
He walked away before Luke could reply, a big man easy in his own skin. Luke watched him go.
Katrin would be here in San Francisco. Soon. He’d have to phone her this evening.
He had to. He had no choice.
Luke phoned Katrin at ten-thirty her time. The phone rang six times; he was about to disconnect when she picked up the receiver. “Hello?” she said warily.
“Katrin, it’s Luke.” Now what was he supposed to say? How are you? “I hear you’ll be coming to San Francisco.”
“How did you know that?” she demanded.
“The police chief who’s in command of the case is a good friend of mine. Ramon Torres.”
“Just my luck that he’d be your friend.”
“Ramon’s a good man!”
“I couldn’t agree more—even though he’s a policeman, he was the one bright spot in the whole investigation,” she said without a trace of emotion in her voice.
Silence hummed along the line. Wishing he could see her face, Luke said, “Are you there? Katrin?”
“I can’t bear the thought of it all opening up again,” she said raggedly. “I just can’t bear it.”
“But this will totally clear your name.”
“I don’t care anymore!”
He gripped the receiver tighter. “Are you crying?”
“No! I never cry…well, hardly ever.”
“I want you to stay with me,” he said.
“I’ve booked a hotel room.”
“The media are going to be out in full force,” Luke said, ruthlessly using the only weapon he could think of. “At my place you’ll be protected from all that.”
“It was over two years ago,” Katrin cried, “what possible interest could they have in me now?”
“You’re young, blond and beautiful. And you inherited a fortune.”
“I gave it all away,” she announced with defiant emphasis.
More than once he’d wondered why a rich woman like Katrin would be working as a waitress. Now he knew. He felt laughter rise in his chest. “Who to?”
“Shelters for the homeless. Soup kitchens. Overseas aid. You name it.”
“No wonder the media are after you,” Luke said. “That’s not exactly standard behavior when someone inherits a whole wad of money.”
“What was I supposed to do? Stay in a house I loathed, living off the shady dealings of a man I didn’t love or respect? I don’t think so.”
Katrin would never be after his money, thought Luke. Not that he’d ever really thought she would be. “Have you booked your flight? I’ll meet you at the airport and we’ll go straight to my place.”
“Luke,” she said in a clipped voice, “I will not sleep with you.”
“I haven’t asked you to. Give me your flight times.”
She made an indecipherable noise expressive of frustration and fury. Then he heard her shuffling papers. She read the information tonelessly, finishing, “I’ll see you tomorrow. If you’re not at the airport, I’ll assume you’ve changed your mind.”
“I won’t change my mind. Goodbye, Katrin.” Very quietly Luke replaced the receiver.
She didn’t want to share his bed; she was sticking to the deal they’d made in the kitchen of her house. One night together and no more. All he had to do was stick to it, too.
And why wouldn’t he? Hadn’t he run away from all the implications of that passionate lovemaking in her little house beside the lake?
CHAPTER TWELVE
AT THE airport, Luke saw Katrin before she saw him. She was among the many deplaning passengers, searching for him in the crowd at the arrivals area. She was wearing a tailored lime-green suit, the jacket hip-length, fastened all the way to her throat with big gold buttons; the skirt was narrow-fitting, skimming her knees. Her hair was loose, straight, smooth and shiny. On her head she’d perched a lime-green straw hat, tilted at an audacious angle. She looked both sophisticated and unapproachable.
Not like the naked woman who’d twined herself around him just two weeks ago.
As Luke moved forward, Katrin caught sight of him. Briefly she faltered. But the other passengers carried her with them; seconds later, she was standing in front of him. Luke kissed her lightly on both cheeks. “You look very elegant.”
“I’m a wreck.”
“Then you’re doing a wonderful job of hiding it. Let’s get your luggage.”
Her eyes kept flicking over the crowds; she was fiddling with the strap of her shoulder bag. Normally she wasn’t a restless woman. As Luke took her by the arm, he discovered her muscles were as unyielding as a chunk of wood. He led the way to the carousel, where her one suitcase soon arrived. He picked it up. “I’m in the parking lot…let’s go.”
But as they emerged onto the sidewalk and the heat of a California afternoon, a crowd of reporters who had been waiting outdoors rushed toward them, mobbing them. A camera was thrust in Katrin’s face, the bulb flashing with blinding rapidity. A barrage of questions was flung at her, microphones assaulting her on all sides. “Mrs. Staines, how does it feel to be back in San Francisco? What do you think about this latest development in the murder case? Did you ever suspect Edmond Langille was the murderer? Sir, your name, please?”
Luke said curtly, “Hang on, Katrin.” Using her suitcase to shield her, his other arm tight around her shoulders, he pushed through the crowd with brute strength. But his strong-arm tactics only prolonged the interrogation; the reporters pursued them into the parking lot, their ceaseless questions shredding his self-control. “Is this man your lover, Mrs. Staines? Will you remarry now that you’re proved innocent? Would you ever move back to San Francisco?”
His car was in one of the first rows. Luke dropped Katrin’s case, unlocked the passenger door and pushed her down onto the seat, slamming the door in one man’s face. He dumped her case in the trunk and went around to his side of the car. But before he got in, he said furiously, “What Mrs. Staines does with her life is none of your goddamned business—why don’t you just leave her alone? You’re a flock of vultures, and yes, you can quote me on that.”
A flashbulb popped in his face. Ignoring it, he got in the car, put it in reverse, and accelerated backward. To his considerable satisfaction the reporters scattered like startled hens. He said tightly, “My God, I’m naive…I was expecting a couple of local journalists, but nothing like that. I don’t know how they tracked you down. It sure wasn’t anything I said.”
He swung out of the lot, his anger still very close to the surface. Aware that Katrin had yet to say a word, he glanced over at her. Her head was bent, her hands clenched in her lap. Even as he watched, a tear plopped onto the back of her left hand.
Swiftly Luke checked his rearview mirror to make sure none of the reporters was pursuing them. Then he pulled over into a business complex grouped with palm trees, and parked in the shade. “Katrin,” he said urgently, “don’t cry. They’re not worth it.”
Her knuckles tightened until the skin was white. Another tear splashed on her hand. As Luke put his arm around her and pulled her to his chest, her hat fell to the floor. He cradled her head to his shoulder, wishing with all his heart that he could protect her from the next couple of days.
But he couldn’t.
He didn’t like feeling so helpless. So inept.
Despite the heat, she was shivering; her tears soaked through his cotton shirt. He stroked her hair, murmuring her name, trying his best to comfort her. Then he heard her mutter, “I have to blow my nose.”
He reached into the back of his car, grabbed the box of tissues and pulled out several, passing them to her. She blew her nose and wiped her tearstained cheeks. Her makeup was no longer impeccable; the tip of her nose was pink. Filled with a ridiculous tenderness, Luke said roughly, “I should have driven over the whole crew of them. Cameras and all.”
With a shaky laugh, she said, “You’d have been put on trial for murder. It’s not worth it, trust me.”
That she could joke when she was so clearly upset brought on another of those irrational surges of tenderness. “I couldn’t even protect you from them,” Luke said in frustration.
Katrin looked right at him. “You did your best, and a very impressive display it was. But the odds were something like twenty-five to one, Luke—give yourself a break.”
“Yeah…” Very gently he reached over and dabbed at a tear on her jawline. “You never cry. So you said.”
“Those reporters brought it all back,” she said unevenly. “On and on it went, day after day, until I thought I’d have hysterics, or else collapse in a puddle on the floor…I never did cry in front of them, though.”
“It’s okay to cry in front of me,” Luke said clumsily.
She shot him an unreadable glance, sat up straighter and said with attempted lightness, “Fancy car.”
He’d said something wrong, although he had no idea what. But two could play that game. As he turned back on the road, Luke said, “I always wanted a silver sportscar that could go from zero to sixty in less than five seconds. Is your hat okay?”
She bent to pick it up, then rolled the window partway down, leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. She murmured, “Wake me when we get there.”
Luke took the 101 and gunned the engine. He needed a respite; there’d been altogether too much emotion in the last half hour. But before he was quite ready for it, he was turning into his driveway in Pacific Heights. Katrin stirred, opening her eyes. “This is your house?”
He nodded. “The owner before me didn’t like Georgian brick. So he tore down the original house and built this instead.”
