The Silver Fox

Chapter 6

Stunned, she caught her breath … then waited … listened … wondered whether she had heard correctly … feared she had … yet prayed she’d only imagined it. Her heart told her she had not, even before the voice, deeper now and with conviction, came again.

“Will you marry me, Justine?”

His arms slipped in their hold to let her step back, though his palms snugly cupped her wet shoulders. She clung to his dripping features, adoring them with a sadness in her gaze, before averting her eyes to the blue and white tiling of the shower, still glistening with moisture. “It’s a shame to have used it,” she mumbled pathetically, “after you spent so long polishing—”

“Justine, did you hear what I said?” The fingers tightening on her flesh drew her attention back to Sloane’s face. “That was a proposal. I just asked you to marry me. Will you?” His eyes were black as coal, yet soft, infinitely soft. For the first time in the whirlwind evolution of their relationship, she sensed a power that she, herself, held over this commanding and compelling man. It gave her no pleasure, only pain. To hurt him—to fail to give him anything, everything, he wanted—to deny him—was agony in itself.

“I … this is so … sudden …” she stammered, slipping easily from his wet grasp and stepping from the shower. She had wrapped her body in a bath sheet by the time his corded arm reached by her for the other that hung folded on the rack, the “his” to her “hers.”

“There’s nothing whatsoever sudden about it,” he spoke softly, the frown which her fleeting glance detected his only outward symptom of disturbance. “After waiting thirty-nine years to find you, I would say that “sudden” is the last word I’d use to describe the situation.”

“Precipitant, then. Impulsive …” She hung her head, groping defensively, blindly.

“When you gave yourself to me on Friday—when you surrendered that virginity you’ve held for twenty-nine years, was that on impulse? ”

Her brows knit; she simply couldn’t he. “No,” she whispered.

“What was it then?”

Silence hung heavy in the sultry air. “… Desire …”

“Was that all?”

Again, she hesitated, sensing that she was slowly and inexorably being forced into a corner. Hunted. Captured. Pinioned. The image of the fox penetrated her consciousness with a force made awesome by the firm set of his jaw, the acute sharpness of his dark eyes, the full-headed lushness of his glistening silver hair. The Silver Fox. He would have to know it all … soon.

“I love you,” she quietly voiced the depth of her feeling.

“Then marry me, Justine! You have no excuse not to!”

Whirling on her heel, she faced him. His towel was doubled up and low-slung across his hips. Hands on the damp flesh just above, he stared at her, looming tall, much taller than he normally seemed to be. Intimidating at mildest, his physical presence threatened to wilt her. Quickly she fought to hold her head high.

“I can’t. I won’t, Sloane.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she inhaled deeply, “I don’t believe in marriage.”

“Ah,” he sighed and looked at the ceiling for a minute. “I remember you told me that once before. I let it pass then, but I will not now. What is so terrible about marriage?”

“It brings nothing but misery.”

“That’s not true—”

“It is, Sloane!” she interrupted forcefully. “I see it constantly in my work. Marriage seems to turn people hard and vindictive! It’s marriage that—”

It was Sloane’s turn to interrupt. “Not marriage, Justine. Love. Love … and the lack of it. If a marriage is built on love—as ours would be—the chances of success are high.”

She shook her head sadly. “You don’t understand.

“I understand that you’re afraid. You’re afraid to make a commitment to another person.”

“That’s ridiculous! I make commitments to people every day! When I take on a case, I make a commitment to that particular client.”

The bridge of his nose drew taut with tension as he struggled for control. “There are many different kinds of commitment. I’m talking about the family kind … a husband … children—”

“No!” she shrieked unthinkingly, then quickly quieted. “I don’t want to get married.”

Sloane’s patience seemed fast dwindling, as his rising voice implied. “Then what do you want? You say you love me, and you know that I love you. Where do we go from here, if not into marriage?”

Perspiration beaded thinly above her upper lip, born of nerves rather than the small room’s slowly dissipating heat. This was the question she had refused to face as yet. Sloane was forcing the issue. “I don’t know,” she finally murmured in defeat.

“Well, that’s just fine!” He raised his hands, then let them fall limp by his sides. “Would you suggest we just say ‘good-bye’ and go our separate ways—after this, this weekend?”

“No.” The moist green pools of her eyes pleaded with him for some miraculous solution to the quandary.

“Then, what?” he prodded relentlessly, deep grooves carved by his mouth. “Should we just continue to have … an affair? Would you like to be my mistress … no further strings attached? Is that what would please you?”

“I—I don’t know.” Her voice was barely audible.

“Perhaps we should simply pass on the streets, in the corridors of your precious firm, and be good friends.” His eyes suddenly took on a deeper tinge in passion’s wake. “That would never work, Justine. I cannot see you”—he stepped closer—“without wanting to touch you”—he did—“to hold you”—he did—“to make love to you—”

She tore herself from his arms and fled to the bedroom, scooping up her clothes as she went. Sloane was close on her heels. “Running away from it won’t do any good!” he roared. But, if he was nearing the end of his taut cord of control, Justine was no less so. Her body shook with tremors of emotion as she started to dress. His bellow shook her even more. “I love you, you fool! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“It’s not enough!” she yelled, an equal partner now in the shouting match. “The odds are still against us!”

Suddenly, he grew more calm. “But aren’t they worth risking? Isn’t the end result worth taking the chance?” It was his quiet pleading that finally broke her.

“I can’t,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes and tightening her throat. As her cheeks grew wet, she turned away from him, hugging her stomach protectively. In the silence that followed, she wondered if he had given up. She flinched when he stepped around in front of her, clad only in his jeans, his feet and upper torso bare.

“There’s something else, isn’t there? Something you haven’t told me.” He paused, calculating her air of dejection, sensing confirmation of his suspicion in her lack of denial. “What is it, Justine? It has to do with … your family, doesn’t it?”

When she tried to turn from him, he held her, his strong hands gentle but firm on her arms. Head bent, she shook it, refusing to confront that old pain. But Sloane was persistent. “I have a right to know, Justine. I love you. I want you to be my family, to help me make my family. You are a seeker of the truth, aren’t you? Then respect my need for it, too. If you’re asking me to settle for something less than what my heart wants, you owe me this much.”

She could fight him no longer. Inching away from him, she moved the short distance to the wall, propped her back against it, and slid down until she sat at its base, knees bent up, arms clamped tightly around them. “My parents fought from the earliest time I could remember,” she began, releasing the hold on her mind, letting it make the agonizing journey back over the years. “My father was a businessman, trying to get started. Money was a constant issue between them. My mother had patience for neither my father nor me.” She looked up sadly at Sloane. “I took after him—the hair coloring and all.” That very coloring, vivid now in hair dried freely and with benefit of neither comb nor brush, gave her a frail, waiflike air. She felt, indeed, small and vulnerable.

“They separated when I was eight, divorced when I was nine. In the meantime, I was shuttled back and forth between neighbors and relatives, never quite knowing where I would be spending the next week, month, or year. I …” She faltered, recalling those years of insecurity so sharply. “I withdrew into myself … buried myself in fantasy as much as was possible. It was a difficult situation, you see. My father wanted me, but it was my mother who had the money—her family’s money—to raise me in the style she felt I should be raised. My mother didn’t want me ; she simply didn’t want my father to have me! So I was bounced around for a while.”

Breathing deeply, she forced herself to retain some measure of composure. The tears had dried, yet she felt on edge. Sloane had not said a word; his tall form was ramrod straight, his hands thrust in the pockets of his jeans, their balled fists clearly marked. The muscle of his jaw moved once, then again. “Go on.” His traditional command, she mused somberly, recalling other times when he had used it. As in those cases, she acquiesced.

“It finally went to court. I was the star witness. What was it like living at home? they asked me. Were my parents good to me? Could I talk with my mother? With my father? Whom did I feel most comfortable with? Had anyone ever struck me? Did he read me good-night stories? Did she sit down at night and comb my hair?” Closing her eyes, she pictured that nightmare, reliving it and its pain once more. “They kept repeating that everyone should remember that I was only nine years old. What did I know about things? they implied. Well”—she turned her gaze, strong and venom-filled, at Sloane—“I knew plenty! I knew the guilt of having to testify in favor of, then against, a parent. I knew the confusion of being pulled from both ends. I knew the fear of punishment, of reprisal. I was terrified!”

Her eyes, in all their emerald sharpness, reflected that terror, bringing Sloane down to kneel before her and stroke her cheek. “I’m sorry, Justine. I didn’t know—”

“There’s more!” she exclaimed, suddenly angry at having been forced into the declaration. “You wanted to hear? Well, there’s more. You see, not only did I hear my parents’ arguments, but I heard the gossip of the neighbors. My mother was a selfish witch, they said, who only wanted to cover her own mistake—the mistake being marrying my father in the first place. I was the major pawn; she also wanted to recover the money her family had invested in his business. Make him suffer. After all, they said, he was out having a good time. The ‘Red Rover,’ they called him on occasion. Fast and wild with the women, they said. A rogue … a dandy … you name it. I heard it all, but somewhere, deep inside, I knew that he loved me.”

Suddenly, she was crying again. Soft sobs escaped her lips as she buried her face against her knees. Sloane’s hand massaged her neck, his fingers working on the tautness there.

“I’m sure he did, Justine,” he crooned gently. “What finally happened? I want to hear it all.”

“My mother was given custody, at which point she handed me over to whoever was willing to keep an eye on me for a year or two. Aunts, cousins—I finally spent most of my teenage years with a great-aunt. Then, I came east to college and … you know the rest.”

Haying bared herself of the sordid story, she felt relieved. Her body yielded as Sloane drew her closer against him, and she succumbed to his comforting warmth. “Did you see your father much?”

“Never. She saw to that! Even though she didn’t care to spend much time with me herself, she was determined that he should never see me. When I was a child, I was too young to know any better. I didn’t fight the edict. As I grew older, I always wondered about him but … I was … I still am … frightened. There’s always that chance that he didn’t really want me either—that I reminded him of her —that he wanted me simply because she said she did!” She shook her head against his chest. “It’s all very ugly.”

“So you’ve made it your life’s work to help people—children—who are put in similar positions?”

His perceptivity stunned her. She hadn’t quite expected him to make the connection as quickly as he had. “Yes. I have.”

“And in the process,” his voice hardened noticeably, “you see only the negative in marriage. You’ve surrounded yourself with failures. You refuse to look at the others—the successes.”

“No, it’s not that at all—”

“Isn’t it?” he growled dangerously, holding her back and spearing her with his daggered look. “It’s self-reinforcing—your work. What we have here is a self-fulfilling prophesy once removed. You see failure after failure and are now totally convinced that that’s all there is.” Justine could only stare in shock at Sloane’s rising anger. They had come full circle; was it possible he could not understand what she was trying to say? His next words were in apparent proof of this. “You are afraid, Justine. I’ve heard your story and, as painful as it must have been, the living of it is only an excuse. The fact that you remained a virgin for twenty-nine years then gave that virginity to me should tell you something….” He stood tall now, drawn high in conviction. “But you’re afraid to take the greater chance. Evidently you don’t love me enough!” With a final glower of dismissal, he stalked from the room, his bare feet echoing on the flooring in ever-fading pads.

At that instant something within Justine shriveled and died. It was as though she were a balloon, inflated, inflated, inflated, with each breath a bit of the fullness Sloane brought to her life—then suddenly, the air sputtered madly out, leaving her hopelessly empty, totally drained. Happiness burst before Sloane’s dark accusation. She didn’t love him enough? Was that why the pain inside grew ever larger, to replace that awesome void?

A month passed with no word from Sloane. It was, for Justine, a month as tedious as any she had ever spent. For her life was strangely dichotomized, with gross distinctions between the lawyer Justine and the woman Justine, and an ongoing war, albeit cold, between the two. There was the Justine O’Neill who entered, with determination, the domain of Ivy, Gates and Logan every morning, who conducted her meetings with clients and attorneys in her usually efficient and humanistic way, who operated in the courtroom with the same aplomb for which she had become known. Then, however, there was the Justine O’Neill who returned home alone at night tired, discouraged, lonely, restless, and seemingly unable to rally her private wits about her.

Over and over she relived the weekend in Westport, its love, its passion, and, finally, its grief. Sloane would simply not compromise, it appeared, if the month’s silence was any indication of his intent. Either she would marry him … or their relationship was at an end. Such seemed the ultimatum he had wordlessly given her. Though her heart ached inconsolably, she was unable to give in. There had been too much anguish in her past; she saw too much of it in her present. She wanted freedom from that particular torment. Unfortunately, in choosing that freedom she had unknowingly opted for a different brand of torment, one that came from deep within and robbed her of the ability to smile.

“You’re looking very sober lately, Justine.” John stood at the door of her office late one afternoon, when most of the firm had left for the night. “Overworked?”

“No more so than usual.” Her hand continued to move across the page, her pen making notes for a speech she was scheduled to deliver the following morning.

“Then you aren’t getting enough sleep. You look tired.” Having invited himself in, he now sat leisurely in the chair before her desk.

“Anything else you’d like to tell me?” She glanced up quickly, her sarcasm coated with fatigue. “I love it when you say such nice things.”

“I wasn’t trying to be ‘nice.’ You do look tired. Man troubles?”

“No.”

“Too fast.” He caught her. “That came out a bit too fast. Is it Sloane?”

“I haven’t seen Sloane in weeks.” Her pen bore the brunt of the teeth she sank into its tip.

John’s blue eyes harrowed in hint of amusement. “So that’s the trouble.”

“John,” she sighed wearily, putting the pen down with a snap, “I’m really not in the mood for discussing this. It’s been a very bad day. Please—” Her throat felt suddenly strained, and, for a horrifying moment, she thought she would cry. Tears had been all too common in her private hours; up until now she had mercifully managed to keep them private. With every bit of her willpower, she swallowed convulsively, ordering herself to maintain composure. It worked, though her struggle did not go unnoticed by her colleague.

“He may just be playing it cool, you know. Men do that sometimes. And the fox—the fox is an expert at avoiding the trap.”

Justine’s sharp laugh was a surprise to even her. Though it was devoid of humor, it was the first such sound she’d made in days. Avoiding the trap, she mused—he was the trap!

Misinterpreting her response as a sign of encouragement, a hint of her opening up on the matter, John continued. “The fox has unique methods of breaking the line of scent, of misleading and confounding all those after him.” She lifted a shaped eyebrow in curiosity, unconsciously egging him on. “Sure. He stops in his tracks, turns around, retraces them for a while, turns front again and moves ahead just a fraction of that distance—then suddenly bounds sideways, off the track, preferably into a stream or onto the top of a fence, and runs off.”

“Fascinating,” she grumbled facetiously, wondering just how she had managed to find this wildlife expert—or he, her.

“He even manages to hop onto the back of a sheep once in a while, to hook a free ride, track free, then jump off when the coast is clear. Very clever, if I don’t say so myself.” He smiled, so caught up with his discourse that her frown was ignored.

That frown, however, was becoming a semipermanent fixture on Justine’s face. It was particularly noticeable at home, where she had usually been so relaxed. Susan was concerned.

“Are you feeling okay?” she asked one Sunday morning in good nursely fashion when she tired of watching Justine roam idly around the apartment in uncharacteristic avoidance of the mouth-watering Sunday edition of The New York Times. Usually there was good-humored rivalry about who read which section first. On this particular morning Susan had the paper all to herself. “You’re not getting sick, are you?”

“No, Sue. I’m fine. Really.” Her eyes were glued to the street below, seeing nothing, yet mesmerized by the occasional movement of life there.

“Things been tough at the office?”

“Mmmmm.”

And, after a pause—“No word from Sloane?”

Justine shuddered lightly before recovering herself. “No.”

“Look, Justine. Maybe you should get away for a while. It’s nearly the end of June. You were planning on taking a few weeks in August anyway. Why not move them up?”

Vacation? What good would vacation do, if the demon was within? Was there any escape? “No, Susan. It’s probably better if I work. I’m just tired now. The Fourth is coming up—I’ll have a short vacation then.”

How easy it was, she mused, to give pat answers to questions whose crux was much deeper! How simple it was to put off the expressions of concern—to keep friends and colleagues on the outside, at a safe distance from her turmoil. Only Sloane had penetrated her thick-skinned veneer; only he had stolen into her heart. In hindsight, she marveled at his cunning, yes, his cunning in captivating her. Their explosive physical attraction had been mutual; that had helped his cause. But he had stalked her with such brilliance, such laid-back persistence, that she couldn’t have recognized her growing love if it had been waved before her clear, emerald eyes.

Her love for Sloane was a fact, but a sadly deficient one. As Sloane himself had said that last day in Westport, she must not love him enough if she still refused to marry him. Perhaps he was right. But, she asked herself poignantly, what about his love for her? What was its nature, that he could sever all contact with her of his own free will? Was this, as John had consolingly suggested, a tactic? Was he merely exercising the sharp-honed intelligence for which the fox was known? His parting words to her that fateful Sunday afternoon when he pulled to a brusque stop outside her apartment building had been a curt “I’ll contact you,” but they had been his only words of that seemingly endless drive from Westport to Manhattan and had been delivered with an undertone of pure business. Had he something in mind?

Indeed, he did. The Silver Fox was not to be underestimated. “Justine”—Daniel Logan’s summons vibrated firmly over the intra-office line—“I’ve got Sloane Harper in here. Could you join us for a moment?”

Any other member of the firm she might have been able to put off; Dan Logan she could not. Surely Sloane Harper would have known that! And surely, she simmered in frustration, he would have to know how potentially uncomfortable a public confrontation would be for her—recalling in vivid detail how intimate their last confrontation had been.

Standing weakly, she tugged at her skirt and smoothed down the soft folds of her blouse. The early summer’s heat seemed to have suddenly penetrated even the air-conditioned confines of the office, choking her at the throat, the wrist, the waist—at every spot where her clothes touched her body. But the inevitable had to be faced. Mustering the shreds of a nearly nonexistent self-possession, she walked the route to the senior partner’s office—wondering all the while what nature of weapon the firing squad would use.

“Excuse me?” she heard herself say moments later as she sat straight-backed in Dan’s office. Sloane was far to her right, nearly behind her, standing, watching, alert. Other than a perfunctory word of greeting upon her arrival, he had not spoken.

“That’s right, Justine,” Dan repeated patiently. “We would like you to accompany Sloane to Alaska for the preliminary work on his project.”

Eyes paler green in disbelief, Justine looked from Dan to Sloane, then over to Charlie Stockburne. “I don’t—I don’t understand. What use would I be to Sloane in Alaska? I don’t know anything about the corporate end of the law. Certainly it would be more appropriate if one of the others went.” Pulse racing, she focused her attention on Dan, excluding Sloane’s stern expression as much as possible. Having known his warmth, his tenderness, his love, this near formality was a torture.

“Perhaps you’ve misunderstood me, Justine.” Dan eyed her sharply, his gaze, in its reproof, saying far more than his words. “Sloane proposes to use you as a consultant on the project he is planning. You won’t be actually acting as his lawyer on behalf of the corporation, but rather—”

“—as an employee of the corporation—” she interrupted on a soft note of dismay at the gist of the suggestion.

“‘Consultant’ is a more dignified word, Justine.” Sloane finally entered the ring, throwing down the gauntlet with his unique air of majesty. Slowly and with characteristic dignity, he approached her. “I feel that, with your background in family law, you might be of help. Are you at all familiar with the situation of economics in Alaska?”

Helpless as the walls began to close in around her, Justine shook her head. So this would be her punishment for refusing to marry him—a sentence of subservience as his underling? To be near, yet just beyond reach—was this what he had in mind? Fighting to quell the churning within, she willed her attention to what Sloane was saying.

“Since the advent of the oil pipeline, Alaska has, to state it simply, come into a lot of money. The question is how to most suitably spend it—or invest it—such that the people of the state receive the greatest long-range benefit.”

“And your job?” she probed, interested despite herself.

“CORE International has been retained by the state of Alaska to determine the areas of greatest need. It will be our job to canvas the state, identify what we believe to be the most serious deficiencies in social, educational, custodial services, then make proposals for a course of action to remedy them.”

“Very impressive,” she murmured, “and exciting”—then quickly remembered herself—“but I still feel that any one of the men would be more suited to accompany you than I would be. And, frankly, I don’t see how I could fit this into my schedule.”

Dan eyed her reproachfully. “On the contrary. Many of the courts are closed during the summer months. And you’ll have enough time to rearrange your speaking engagements, alert clients, redirect appointments. There are plenty of people here who can cover for you. And, I believe”—he challenged her to deny his claim—“you were planning to take several weeks off in August anyway. Am I wrong?”

“August?” Was that when this fiasco was scheduled to take place? “Ah, no, you aren’t wrong. I was planning to take off time then.” She punctuated her emphasis on the past tense with a pointed glance Sloane’s way. “When is this Alaska trip scheduled?”

It was the tall, silver-haired keeper of her heart who answered in a clear, deep tone. “We are planning to spend the entire month up there. Any problem?” A manly brow arched into lines on his forehead, lines she had never noticed before. In fact, as she stared closely now, there were other lines she hadn’t noticed. He looked wan, tired—as she felt.

“A month?” Her heart fell another notch. “Four weeks? I don’t know”—her strawberry-blond curls jiggled with her tentative headshake—“that’s a stretch. To be gone from the office for that length of time—”

“Justine”—her attention flew to Dan—“this matter is not exactly up for your debate.” He seemed to be more ruffled, less patient. Was he, too, uncomfortable with the proposal? If so, he was equally as uncomfortable with her hesitancy. “As a member of this firm, it is in your best interest to make whatever arrangements are necessary to prepare for the trip. Sloane will fill you in on the details. There will be several briefings beforehand. I believe he can tell you what clothing would be appropriate for summer in Alaska—I certainly can’t!” He chuckled wryly.

Justine found no humor in his quip. “Then I have no choice? This is an order? It’s either go … or …” she gestured toward the door with her thumb, her eyes flaring in anger and disbelief, “… leave?”

The only comfort came from Charlie, who had moved up from behind and propped himself on the arm of her chair. She watched as Sloane moved away, then looked up at the lawyer. “It’s not as ominous as you make it sound, Justine,” he began soothingly. “You are a partner in the firm. Obviously, you have a say. What Dan is saying, I think”—he glanced quickly at the other for support,—“is that, of the partners, we feel you to be the best qualified to accompany Sloane.” Her peripheral vision caught the client in question Standing, back to her, facing the window. Charlie continued. “If making the trip is going to cause a major upheaval to your schedule, we can reconsider. It is your choice.”

A bit of the fox in everyone, she had reflected once. Here was a perfect example; Charles Stockburne had slyly presented his case. Indeed, it was her decision to make—whether she should make the trip to Alaska with Sloane. But what really was her choice? Dan Logan was still the undisputed power in the firm, and he obviously had determined that she go. If she balked? Would her own place in the firm then be endangered? Was it a chance she should take?

And if she went—her eyes flew to the broad back across the room—what might that mean? It would mean, she realized with bristling annoyance, that Sloane had succeeded in manipulating her once more. What would he expect of her en route? What would she, perhaps, want? In the worst of her worries, she might well betray herself, knowing how deeply his presence affected her. Even now, as she stared, he turned slowly, a sterling icon of virility, and sent a shuddering message to and through her.

“Perhaps,” she began unsurely, clearing her throat, and tearing her gaze from his to face the others, “perhaps I might speak with Sloane more in detail. I have quite a few questions, many of which might bore you two.”

The senior partner, sensing her indecision, knowing that Sloane was, in the end, his own best advocate, acceded to her request. “Of course, Justine. That sounds like a fine idea. Would you like to use this office?”

“No”—she jumped quickly to her feet, then regretted it instantly as her knees silently rebelled—“my own office would be better, I think. That way I can take notes … check my calendar … that kind of thing …” On her home turf she would feel safer. The important thing, she mused, was to get away from these two other men and isolate Sloane. Much as she questioned the wisdom of being alone with him, there were too many personal issues involved to remain here. Mustering her strength, she nodded to Dan and Charlie, then led the way back down that long, long hall.

Sloane Harper was beside her every step of the way, his lithe, lean frame slowing his strides to match her shorter ones. His personal aura surrounded her, crisping her senses, giving her second thoughts as to what in the world she was doing, daring her heart to stand up against him. Relieving unsteady legs of their meager burden, she settled into the chair behind her desk, then watched as Sloane shut the door and lounged back against it, hands thrust casually in his pockets, a distinctly smug grin on his face. He was handsome, every whimsical sense screamed within her, at war with those instincts of reason which stiffened her back.

“What are you grinning at?” she snapped testily. “I don’t think I dropped anything this time—and I didn’t trip over myself. What else could possibly be funny?” Other than the fact, she acknowledged with silent reluctance, that you have planned this farce as a demonstration of your power! Were you that injured at my refusal to marry you, she wondered, that your need for revenge has come to … this? “What is it you want, Sloane?”

His smile was undaunted by her attempted freeze. “How have you been, Justine?”

“Fine.” She held his gaze unwaveringly, gaining strength in her anger, power in her hurt.

“You look tired.”

“I am. And, so do you—look tired—by the way.”

“I am—too.”

Was it to be a battle of words as well? With a sigh, she took the offensive. “Then, let’s make this brief. What do you really want? This trip and all—what does it mean?”

“I want your legal expertise, Justine. Nothing more.” The cooling of his own tone did not go unnoticed, nor did the straightening of his body.

“Come on,” she goaded him. “It can’t be just that. Any other lawyer would have served as well. Why me?”

Despite his alertness, he was the picture of innocence. His face was devoid now of smugness, his eyes of sensuality. For a minute she wanted to believe him. “I think you may be the best in this field,” he announced simply. “You know your law and you’re creative in applying it. In my work I go for the cream of the crop. You already know that. What more would you have me say?”

Her eyes narrowed in lingering skepticism. “I want to know what’s going on in that crafty mind of yours—below the surface. You haven’t called me in a month. Now, you pop right in and deftly maneuver my exile for a month. This is my life, Sloane. You can’t just—” Suddenly, in a flash of realization, she understood. A slow simmer lowered her voice dangerously. “That’s it, isn’t it? You want me away. Away from this—my work—the dealing with divorce every day.” Recollection of their last, prolonged discussion was instantly fresh; “You consider this to be an unhealthy atmosphere for me. Is that it?” Tapered fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her palm; with deliberation, she unclenched her fist and laid her hands flat on her desk.

Sloane, on the other hand, was maddeningly calm. Several fluid steps brought him from the door. “And what if it is true? Would it make much difference? After all, we’re only talking about a month.”

“A month of my very personal time!” she cried out in frustration, realizing that he had, with characteristic cunning, avoided a direct confession.

He grew more sober. “I’m sure you’ll be able to take your vacation later—”

“That’s not the point!” She paused, catching her breath, suddenly overcome by fatigue and courting the germs of a headache. With merciful diversion, the telephone console flickered. “Yes, Angie? … No, I’d rather not take any—who? … Yes, put him on.”

Swiveling her chair such that its back was to Sloane, she spoke softly into the receiver. “Hi, Tony! … Not bad…. Yes, I heard…. I’m glad…. Tonight? … No, uh, yes, I’d like that…. I am, but I’ll be fine…. Good…. See you later.” The conversation had been quiet, its end in a near whisper. For long moments after Tony hung up, Justine held the phone against her. There was that special bond between them, and she badly needed someone to talk to. Perhaps he might be able to help her sort things out; if all else failed, his would be a welcome shoulder to cry on.

Swiveling back front, Justine caught the dark look on Sloane’s face moments before his voice grated across the short distance. “Who is Tony?”

“Tony is a very special friend.” Fresh upon what she felt to be Sloane’s betrayal of her, she had no intention of spelling out the true nature of the relationship. Half in spite, she added a pointed “I’m having dinner with him tonight.”

“So I gathered.” He hardened then, growing all business. “Look, there will be a meeting the week after next at my headquarters. You’ll be able to meet the others then—” He caught her surprise. “—Yes, there will be others along on the trip.” A wry smile thinned his lips. “Two others on this initial team. I’ll have more details at that meeting. Can you make it?”

Pouting seemed inappropriate. “I suppose so,” she stated calmly.

“Good.” He turned to leave. “I’ll have some preliminary materials sent over for you to examine. And … Justine …”—it was the first true note of gentleness she had heard and she subconsciously perked up—“… try to get some rest.”

“You, too,” she called flippantly, then, when he was no longer in sight, whispered more softly, “You, too.”

Tony was, indeed, a good listener, though he was far from sympathetic on all scores. Justine had already told him about Sloane, so the fact that she had fallen in love was no surprise to him. For the first time, however, she related Sloane’s proposal of marriage and her subsequent refusal. That drew out the brotherly instinct.

“Are you sure you’ve made the right decision, Justine?” he asked. “I mean”—his eyes fell for a moment of hesitancy—“we haven’t ever really gone into all that, but I know how badly you were hurt by Dad and your mother. I’m not quite sure, though, that you should let that one instance sour your feelings forever.”

To the best of her ability she argued her case, talking of her work and its lessons. And, though Tony did not broach the matter of the ugly experience of her childhood again, neither was he convinced of the justification for her beliefs. On the issue of Alaska he pointed out the positive, exuding excitement at the prospect of such a trip, such an experience. His mood was contagious; by the time he had kissed her good-bye at her apartment door, pleading an excess of coffee and an early appointment the next morning, she felt buoyed. Once again, however, the bubble burst as soon as she was left to her own psychological devices. Where the heart was concerned, she was fast discovering, reason was irrevocably altered.

As she approached the law so she approached her dilemma. The facts, as she saw them, were easily laid out. There was the fact that she loved Sloane and he loved her; their weekend in Westport had proven that decisively. There was the fact of his marriage proposal and her refusal; again, these were absolute. There was the fact of the CORE International project in Alaska and her own abduction into its realm. But there the facts ended.

From there things grew muddled. Fine lines blended together, confusing issues, complicating others. What were the offshoots of these facts? Would their love lead them to a viable compromise? Could Sloane discover that he might temporarily abandon the thought of marriage if being with her meant enough to him? Would this trip to Alaska be the deciding force for or against their future? What was that future to hold?

Above it all Justine only knew that Sloane’s appearance in her life had brought with it the kind of upheaval she had never, in her well-paced designs, envisioned. To her chagrin she was ill prepared for it. Her emotional keel wavered left to right, high to low. There seemed no stable force to cling to. Until that day, a mere one before the meeting at Sloane’s office, when she found that force around which to rally.

On that day, in early July, she discovered she was pregnant.