The Silver Fox

Chapter 4

Fate, however, conspired to keep Sloane out of the state for nearly three weeks, giving Justine ample time for soul-searching. Where, precisely, was their apparently mutual attraction to lead? No man had ever inspired such thoughts in her; in the past, there had always been a definite cutoff point beyond which she had simply refused to go. As she had told Sloane, she set her terms and stood by them. Now, however, she found herself rethinking those terms. If she had been drawn inexorably toward Sloane in person, his magnetism in absentia was no less awesome. He was ever on her mind.

One by one she set up obstacles against the possibility of involvement with him; one by one they crumbled. He was a client and, as such, off limits romantically—yet he wasn’t her client, thereby lifting that professional restriction. He was a man of the world with, perhaps, a woman in every port—yet he was, by all indications, available and interested in Justine. He was a traveler by choice, off and away as he was right now—yet his home was New York, her own for the past eight years.

In the end one thing was crystal clear. Though the power he wielded over her senses threatened long-standing principles which had shaped her life, she could no more reject his suit, should he choose to pursue it, than she could deny the passion he had awakened within her. She was a woman. Never before had she realized that simple truth so clearly.

As the days passed and the rain-spattered streets of April dried beneath the warm May sun, she was mercifully busy. Her practice seemed to blossom in harmony with those other buds of spring—the lime-hued maples over-hanging Fifth Avenue, the pale pink dogwoods in Central Park, the red-knobbed geraniums in their streetside window boxes.

There were clients aplenty and their related court appearances. There were in-office conferences, on-location conferences, and conferences over lunch. There were lectures to plan, research, and deliver. And, there was a victory to celebrate.

“Congratulations, Justine!” exclaimed her friend and fellow law school graduate Sheila, hugging Justine warmly as she arrived, nearly breathless, at the Russian Tea Room for their monthly gastronomical adventure.

Tall and willowy Andrea joined in buoyantly, “We knew you could do it!”

“Another small step for womankind!” The last was from Liz, blond-haired, freckle-faced Liz, and was delivered with a clenched fist in the air, as the four young women settled down at their appointed table.

“That was quite an alimony award—based on back wages, no less!” Sheila bubbled. “The idea that a woman has a right to collect for services rendered over the years of marriage is brilliant—particularly in this case, where the husband was holding out on her all those years! Imagine—keeping his wife in the dark about a million dollars’ worth of investments—and splurging the profits behind her back! I’m green with envy at the ingenuity of your argument!”

Justine’s modesty brought a look of near guilt to her face. “Come on, Sheila. It was no more ingenious than some of those real estate contracts you’ve negotiated. Perhaps more dramatic—”

“What’s really amazing,” Liz interjected with obvious pleasure, “is that you’ve finally gone in for the dramatic at this late stage, Justine. When we were at Sarah Lawrence, you were the most conservative of the three of us!” She and Andrea laughed in easy conspiracy.

Justine had roomed with Liz and Andrea during her last two years of college; she had met Sheila at Columbia Law, where they had become close friends. The foursome met once a month to treat themselves to dinner at a preselected restaurant. Over the years they had sampled the exotic and the simple, the foreign and the American, the outstanding and the mediocre of New York’s myriad of offerings. Some, such as the Russian Tea Room, they returned to repeatedly.

“You’re right about that, Liz. I was pretty conservative,” Justine admitted with a smile. “As I recall, I studied all the time. Period. I must have been pret—ty bo—ring….” She drew the last words out in singsong fashion, evincing laughing agreement from the others.

It was Andrea, however innocently, who expressed the poignant truth. “Well, you’re certainly making up for it now!”

Indeed, she was making up for lost time, if all her wayward thoughts were to be counted. For Sloane had become a fixture in those thoughts, the symbol of a sensual excitement she had never known before. She thought of him constantly.

When at work in her office, one eye was alert to any movement at the door, half-expecting him to magically pop up there. When at home, she looked to the phone—hoping, waiting, suffering with each false alarm. The spring-bright streets of New York took on an even gayer glow through the rose-colored glasses of her mind’s romanticism. And, at night—at home, alone, tossing in bed, restless and strangely unfulfilled—she thought of him, wishing him back, imagining his presence, fantasizing with abandon and delight.

Given the prolonged length of his absence, Justine might very well have begun to suspect the excitement to be all in her own imagination—had it not been for intermittent reminders Sloane himself sent. At the end of the first week there was a bright red tin Band-Aid box, filled to the top with jelly beans and wrapped around with a gay red-and-white checked ribbon. It had been delivered to the office and bore a note that was short but sweet as were its contents.

“Cravings are something else entirely. Remember, one a day … Sloane.”

… Keeps the doctor away, she thought grinning, following his line of thought easily. But cravings … yes, they were another matter entirely. And though she would certainly enjoy every one of the jelly beans he sent, her immediate craving was not for sweets!

Then there was the bottle of vintage Chablis just before the start of the second weekend. “To share with Susan, and Susan only. My thoughts are with you. Sloane.” It was a lovely gesture, she mused, hugging the bottle to her. A sad substitute, however, for the real, live, tall and silver-haired man!

With no idea as to when he would return, Justine grew uneasy. Had her interest been misplaced? Then came the rose. A single, brandy-tinted blossom, its shade matched her hair to perfection. “A breath of springtime. Mine will have to wait until I see you again. Sloane.”

Mercifully, the flower had been delivered to her apartment. It was Sunday, more than two weeks since she’d seen him last. Tears welled in her eyes at the thought— his thought—and she made no effort to contain their flow. Since Susan knew about Sloane, there was nothing to hide. At work, however, tears might have been a distinct problem. There were clients to control and colleagues to confront. There was an image of distinction and efficiency to uphold. And, of course, there were the sharp, sharp eyes of one John Doucette to dodge.

“He’s on the prowl, moving in, isn’t he, Justine?” At that moment, John’s blue eyes focused on the tin of jelly beans atop her desk.

“He happens to be a very respectful man—and knows when to leave a woman alone. ” Her hint sailed right over the head of her persistent colleague, yet her smug smile was duly noted. From Justine’s point of view, it made no sense to continue to deny—either to herself or to others—the presence of a special kind of awareness between Sloane and herself. She volunteered no information, however, forcing John, in this case, to either ask his questions directly or draw his own conclusions.

“I checked in my little manual,” he began factually, “and discovered several interesting points.”

“What manual?” She looked up from her paperwork long enough to betray her interest.

“I was into hunting at one point there. Several of my friends and I used to spend weekends in season hunting upstate. The fox is an intriguing animal.”

Justine leaned back to listen with enjoyment to his latest. “Is that so?” she drawled comfortably.

“Uh-huh. For instance, he maintains territorial exclusivity; he claims an area as his own, then keeps all other foxes off the premises. However, he has been known to travel long distances in search of prey. Where did you say Sloane was?”

The aptness of John’s analogy brought a knowing grin to her lips. “I didn’t—but he is, I believe, in Arizona.”

“Yes, I would call that a long distance from here.”

“What else?” Despite her initial resistance, Justine now found great amusement in his chatter.

“Ah, let me see. His keenest sense is that of smell, and”—he feigned concentration—“the female fox is called his vixen.”

Vixen. Hadn’t Sloane himself called her that? Could it be that he was aware of the appellation which his thick, silver thatch inspired? Was he subtly mocking it—or her?

“Justine … Justine … are you still here?” John’s voice called her from her reverie.

“Y—yes. I was just … thinking about something else….” she fibbed, frowning, then forcing herself to brighten up once more. “Sorry, I just remembered a call I was supposed to make.”

This time John did take the hint, taking his leave of her with a salute. Alone once more she lapsed into deep thought on this most perplexing, most exhilarating topic. But her thoughts had nowhere else to go. If it was the nature of her relationship with Sloane Harper which puzzled her, only his return would straighten things out.

The fifteenth of May came and went with no sign of Sloane. It was four days after that, on Thursday morning, when she least expected it, that she finally saw him. Court had just adjourned for a lunch recess. Justine stood at the plaintiffs table, gathered her papers together, and deposited them in her briefcase, then lent a cursory glance toward her navy linen skirt and beige cotton blouse, both tailored to skim her slender lines and brought together as a set by the lightweight woven vest of blues, creams, and browns which swung freely to the top of her hips. She had chosen her outfit for the day with great care. This particular case, a custody hearing with the opposing attorney a distinctly macho man, called for a certain degree of femininity—enough to cleverly understate the force of the attorney-in-skirts, who might then be able to creep in even closer before lunging. Perhaps, she laughed to herself, there was a bit of the fox in everyone.

Turning, she made her way to the courtroom door then looked up and froze. Sloane stood there, tall and straight, striking in a dark gray suit and crisp white shirt, his silver hair falling gently across his forehead. His eyes sparkled, yet the lines around his mouth spoke of fatigue.

The last of the other people stepped past her and left the room before Justine could find the strength to speak. It had been a long three weeks of wild imaginings, all of which might very well be strewn to the winds of farce within the next few moments.

It was finally Sloane who moved, slowly approaching her as his eyes held hers with the command she remembered from that very first day. “Is there somewhere we can go for a minute?” he murmured softly, his expression held in taut and puzzling control.

Her heart hovered in her throat. “Uh, yes. A conference room. Down the hall.” Without further word she led him there, dying a bit with each footstep. The waiting had been frustrating but so lovely—thinking that the end would be pure rapture. Was this what it had come to? Strangers?

The room she led him to was small and drab, a far cry from the plush and spacious conference room at Ivy, Gates and Logan. Barred windows conspired to keep the beauty of springtime on the far outside. Even the spartan table and chairs held a somberness. As she turned to face him, Sloane closed the door. For a breath-stopping moment he studied her, searching her face for something known only to him. Then, he smiled in what she could only term sheer relief.

“Come over here.” He cocked his head jauntily and held out his arms. It was all the invitation she needed. Smooth steps brought her into the embrace which her own arms slid inside his jacket to complete. It was all here—the warmth and the caring she feared she might have imagined. Words were unnecessary. There was only the tightening of his arms as she was crushed fiercely against him, full witness to the thunderous beat of his heart.

She could have stood this way forever, had it not been for the flame of desire which would not stay banked for long. His hold of her slackened just enough to permit the upward tilt of her face. Then he kissed her. His lips closed hungrily over hers, satisfying that initial need before growing more measured. She welcomed his tongue with the seductive thrust of her own, abandoning herself to the spiraling rise of passion.

Totally breathless, she was finally released when Sloane held her back to bathe her features in the light of his gaze. “You look wonderful!” he exclaimed softly and with obvious bias.

A wavering line of worry broke beneath the copper curls on her forehead. “You look tired. Was it a bad trip?”

“It was much, much too long. Knowing you were here was as much an agony as it was a solace!”

She dropped her head into the fitted crook beneath his jaw, inhaling deeply of the scent that was uniquely male—uniquely Sloane. “It’s been such a long time,” she whispered, closing her eyes and savoring the moment with every bit of appreciation that the wait had inspired. “I missed you.”

A low groan slipped from Sloane’s lips the instant before he tightened his arms about her, pressing her closely against his length. “There was a problem in Atlanta,” he explained with sucked-in breath, as though he had to force himself to talk of business or lose total control of his senses. “I was in Arizona for no more than two hours when I had to turn around and fly back. Then, when I finally managed to examine the Tucson project, there were unexpected problems. At some points, I wondered just when I would be able to get back.”

“I received the gifts, Sloane”—she looked up at him—“the candy, the wine, and the rose. Thank you. They helped me along the way there.”

“They were the least I could do. I didn’t dare call …”

The reasoning behind that last seemed totally irrelevant now. Justine could only revel in the delight of his return. “Are you back for a while?”

“I hope so.” He nodded emphatically, his dark eyes searing her intently.

“Hey, what—oh, excuse me, Ms. O’Neill!” The voice at the door brought both faces around in a flash. Justine instantly recognized the court officer, who had unwittingly walked into her own private and uncharacteristically intimate conference. Sloane let her go, stepping back with amusement at her struggle to regain her composure.

“That’s—ah—perfectly all right.” She blushed, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt. “Was there some problem, Sergeant?”

“No, ma’am,” the short and stocky man replied with a wry smile. “Just wanted to find a free room for a meeting. I’ll keep looking—”

“Please, Sergeant,” Sloane spoke up deeply, “be our guest.” He gestured toward the table with his hand. “Ms. O’Neill and I have to be leaving.”

“Must you go?” she asked softly when they reached the hall. Sloane took her elbow and began to walk slowly.

“My plane landed just about an hour ago. I came straight from the airport. I still have to stop at the office—and face whatever goodies may have piled up there during my absence.” He paused, turning her toward him again. “Are you free for dinner?”

Justine grinned coyly. “I think I can manage to be.”

“Eight o’clock?”

“Fine.”

His soft-murmured “See you then” was punctuated by a firm squeeze of her arm an instant before he turned and walked down the hall, then rounded the corner toward the elevator. Had Justine not been in this place at this time for the very serious business of justice, she would have stood on the nearest bench, spread her arms wide and up, and let loose the most earth-shattering cry of exhilaration imaginable. Was this really the sedate and poised Justine O’Neill, who now battled to control such irresponsible impulses? A grin curved her lips as she hugged herself in excitement, then headed for the cafeteria and a lunch she somehow knew she would barely touch.

Her light-headedness carried her through the afternoon’s court session, back to the office, then home at last. She was ready and waiting when Sloane buzzed from the lobby. With a final glance at her flushed image in the mirror, she headed for the door. Her outfit was new, one she had bought on impulse the week before. The evening pants were of fine black silk, gathered in at the waist and ankle, fuller in between. She wore a white blouse of matching style, with a fullness at arms and bodice tucked in neatly at the wrists, neck, and waist. Her cummerbund was of pale pink, her shoes open sandals of black patent leather. For the sake of comfort, she had caught her curls up in bright gold clasps above either ear, leaving only a few wispy tendrils to brush her cheeks. And, recalling the fox’s keen sense of smell, she had quite deliberately dabbed her pulsepoints with Flora Danica.

Sloane was instantly appreciative of the pains she had taken to look her most attractive for him. His smile was white and gleaming, his eyes, devouring every one of her five feet eight inches before he finally breathed a husky “hello.” As ever, he was devastatingly handsome himself, dressed in an immaculately tailored linen suit of navy blue, a white shirt, and a dark maroon and navy rep tie.

“Hello, yourself.” She smiled self-consciously. Then, she caught a strange twinkle in his eye and frowned in puzzlement.

“Unfortunately … not exactly … myself,” he murmured with an air of mild guilt as he glanced down the hall. Leaning just beyond her threshold, Justine watched the approach of two other men, both tall as was Sloane, and each with a definite similarity of feature.

“Tom and Chad …” she whispered in a moment of intuitive realization.

Sloane had time only for a wry-spoken, “How could you guess,” before the others reached her door.

“Sorry, brother,” the darker of the two began, “but the doorman showed up sooner than we expected.”

It was the blond-haired one, the youngest of the three, who offered his hand in introduction. “I’m Chad, Justine. You have no idea what a pleasure it is to meet you!” Justine had taken several steps back into her apartment and the two followed her, leaving Sloane to watch with amusement from the door. “This is my brother, Tom.” Chad gestured toward the other. “And, you have met Sloane, I believe.”

Justine sent a helpless plea toward the door as she laughed spontaneously. “You believe correctly. I’m pleased to meet both of you. When did you arrive?”

“Didn’t Sloane tell you?” Tom asked, more soft-spoken and gentle by nature than the others. “We fixed it so that his plane returned from Tucson via Atlanta—we needed a lift, since he was the one who arranged this move in the first place.” To Justine’s relief there was no hint of resentment—only good-humored ribbing.

It was but a sampling of what she was in for for the evening. Sloane had declared that, in honor of his brothers’ arrival in New York, only the best would do. They dined in luxury at La C?te Basque, where she quickly learned that these were not two inexperienced young men seeing the big city for the first time. Both spoke fluent French, as they readily proceeded to demonstrate to the delight of the waiter and the ma?tre d’, and each had a thorough knowledge of fine wines and superb French dishes.

“We’ve all spent time abroad,” Sloane explained at a point when the brothers were engaged in intent discussion of the exquisite stretch of muraled wall. “My parents believed in every aspect of education—not only formal schooling but the less formal experiences of visiting different places, different countries, and living with different degrees of comfort. Our own home is on the near side of luxury, but we’ve each spent time roughing it in the wilds. I spent several summers as a canoe guide in upper Minnesota—it’s deserted country up there!”

“I believe it,” she answered with barely concealed admiration. “Obviously, your brothers have been to New York before.”

“Many times.” He grinned. “But this is the first time they’re attempting to live here.”

“Have you got an apartment?” she asked of Chad, whose attention had come back to rest with them.

The apologetic look this youngest brother cast toward Sloane did not escape her. “I’m afraid we’ll be shacking up with Sloane until we find something.”

“You’ve got the whole weekend to look,” Sloane informed him, indulgent yet firm, “and then I want you out! I’ve lived alone for too many years to be suddenly sharing a place with two guys. Besides”—he grinned at Tom—“you had no trouble arranging for that cute little BMW to be here waiting for you. An apartment shouldn’t be too difficult for you to manage.”

“Enough! Enough!” Tom’s mocking desperation stilled the humor-filled diatribe. “We get the point! So you’re really going to take off for the weekend … desert us in our hour of need?”

Justine looked from Tom to Sloane, holding the latter’s gaze questioningly. When a large hand sidled over hers beneath cover of the tablecloth and proceeded to squeeze it reassuringly, she understood that Sloane would explain later. When that same hand continued to hold hers, “later” took on other connotations, each of which sent ripples of excitement through her.

“Later” was, unfortunately, a relatively public affair—a few moments of slow dancing in the dim light of a lounge at the Plaza while Chad and Tom nursed nightcaps at the bar. “Sorry, Justine, but this is the best I could do for tonight,” he apologized softly, as he held her close and rocked her to the sweet sound of a melancholy keyboard. But the music was incidental to her enjoyment. What pleased her most was the strength of the long, lean body against which he held her firmly, the caressive warmth of his voice as he sought to explain.

“I had expected to have been back for at least a week before they arrived. With the delay between Atlanta and Tucson, things got pretty messed up. Mmmmmm, do you smell good!” he interrupted his thought endearingly, then went on. “My brothers can be overpowering when they get going as a twosome.”

“You’re all very close,” she commented appreciatively. “I envy you that.” His hand pressed hers against the lapel of his jacket, flattening it against his heart. His fresh-shaven cheek was smooth and snug by her temple.

“You have no sisters or brothers?”

It was no simple question. Tony was her half brother, born out of wedlock to her father’s mistress when Justine was six. As a child she had never even known of Tony’s existence. In a way, therefore, she spoke the truth. “I grew up an only child. One of a kind, so to speak,” she quipped, though she regretted the evasion. Once having discovered and accepted each other, Tony and she had grown close, in spite of the fact that she and her father had never been reconciled.

“One of a kind? I’ll second that! Listen, about this weekend …” She drew back to look at him, pulse racing wildly. “… Tomorrow I’ll be passing papers on a home in Westport. Would you like to take a ride up? It’s empty and unfurnished and I’ll have to pick up a few things to make it livable. But I do have a couple of sleeping bags … just in case it gets cool….”

As the darkness of his eyes reached out to swallow her up, Justine knew what her answer would be. It was in the smile which mirrored his, in the heart which thudded loudly, in the knees that threatened collapse, in the veins which pulsed desire. “I’d love that, Sloane,” she whispered softly, then felt him relax as he pulled her back against him.

“There seems to be so little time …”

Had he spoken, or had she imagined it? His words expressed the urgency that his leisurely dance belied. It was as though he knew something she did not … and it frightened her. Had she let herself in for more than she could handle? No, she decided with conviction. For the first time in her life she had found something worth the risk of entanglement, something powerful enough to merit splurging on. But her eyes were open. She knew what to expect. And she wanted more than anything to spend the weekend with Sloane Harper at his new home in West-port.