The Silver Fox

Chapter 9

If only her own love, that abiding love she felt for Sloane, were as easily cast off. In the days that followed, Justine was haunted by it. It imprisoned her heart, suffusing her life’s blood with torment, loneliness, frustration. It permeated her every activity—followed her to work, then home, to dinner or lunch or sleep. Even the thought of the child she carried was no solace; for, to her surprise, there was still little sign of her pregnancy. She was as slim, perhaps slimmer, than ever; somehow, the pregnancy seemed unreal, a hoax.

The results of her weeks as a member of the CORE International team were dutifully passed on to Phillip Marsh, the lawyer designated as her replacement. Much as she knew that the transfer was for the best, the psychological separation was but one other thorn in her side. In the firm’s understanding, thanks to Sloane’s diplomacy, she had withdrawn from the case for valid logistical reasons, mostly pertaining to her own work and its demands. None of her colleagues knew the truth.

“Well, Justine,” John Doucette welcomed her back to the office when she finally showed up several days after the return from Alaska, “how did it go?”

“Not bad,” she murmured, barely looking up from the mountain of papers and messages that had accumulated in her absence.

“Was Sloane the perfect gentleman? A good boss?”

The mention of Sloane’s name sent a shaft of anguish into her. “We managed to get a lot done, if that’s what you’re asking. I believe that the project will make a solid impact on the problems that exist in the state.”

As John questioned her for details, she gave them without a fight, feeling too drained emotionally to muster either protest or banter. And, she forced herself to relax; as long as her colleague stuck to the legal issues involved, there was no problem. Unfortunately, he did not. After a few moments of relatively passive conversation, he eyed her speculatively.

“You sound different. As though you left some of that spirit back up there in Alaska.” Despite the sudden clenching of her fists, he persisted, voice lowered yet direct. “I did some checking on the arctic fox while you were gone. He’s adapted well to his environment, they say. Ears are shorter; less susceptible to frostbite—that type of thing.” Justine felt the churning in her stomach begin anew. “And, the arctic fox, it seems, is the mildest, most well behaved, most pleasant of all the wild dogs.”

“John”—she broke into his monologue with thick-tongued haste—“would you mind stopping that. It’s lost all its humor.”

His gaze took in her pallor, the slight quiver of her lips, the haunted cast to her dull emerald orbs. “So have you, Justine. Are you all right?”

Her breathing faltered with a deep inhalation. “I will be,” she spoke very softly, “once I get back to this work. The whole pile of it”—she gestured to the mess on her desk, clutching at the most logical change of subject—“has gotten me down.”

“If there’s anything I can do …” For the first time since she’d known him, John seemed truly sympathetic. His sincerity brought a faint smile to her lips.

“I doubt it, John. But … thanks for the offer. It’s nice to have … friends … to count on….” Quickly she lowered her eyes to her work, missing the subsequent look of puzzlement which flickered over the other lawyer’s features before he finally turned and left her office.

Gaze still downcast, she contemplated his newest gems. Mildest. Most well behaved. Most pleasant. All these things Sloane had been during their stay in Alaska. And adapted to the environment—that, too. Her memory groped eagerly at the image of his broad-shouldered frame chopping wood, carting pails of water from the lake, stoking the fire in the old wood stove. Then, with a lower slump of her shoulders, she realized that she would never know this magnificence again—and the familiar pall settled over her. The Silver Fox—how very much she missed him!

With Labor Day come and gone, Justine threw herself headlong into the many cases she’d taken on, the only antidote she could find for her rattled nerves. But what had always worked in the past was now less effective. The addiction had grown too strong, having been built slowly and with gathering strength during the Alaska trip; cold-turkey withdrawal took its toll. Instead of feeling diverted by her work, she merely felt tired. Instead of exhilaration, she knew exhaustion. Instead of gaining strength as the days passed, she grew weaker and less enthusiastic about the law in particular and life in general.

Ten days after her return, she saw her doctor for a regular checkup. Her hopes lay here, in the child within her, in the possibility of hearing a heartbeat, in the need for encouragement that the doctor might provide. The waiting room of the office was filled with other mothers-to-be, each one glowing, each one jubilant in comparison to the lethargy she felt. The doctor took one look at her and confirmed the worst of her fears.

“You look terrible, Justine!” In his early forties, he was a good friend of Susan’s from the hospital and the natural choice for Justine to see for the prenatal care of her child. “My God, aren’t you sleeping?”

“It’s been … harder lately….” She avoided direct touch with his gaze, knowing how transparent hers would be. His examination was intimate enough.

“Frankly, I’m concerned about you,” he began after his examination when she had dressed and returned to her chair. “You’re exhausted. Your blood pressure is low. You’ve lost weight.”

“The baby? Can you hear anything?” It was her only hope for salvation; desperately, she grasped at straws.

“Not yet. And it’s not that unusual. If the baby is small, we may not hear any heartbeat for another few weeks. But Justine”—he leaned forward to stress the urgency of his advice—“you’ve got to take better care of yourself—for the sake of the child, if nothing else. You’re taking the vitamins?” She nodded. “Good. Now, I want you to get rest—bed rest—for the next two days.”

“But I have to go to work—”

“The work will wait! Someone will have to cover for you. You need to be off your feet. You need to sleep.”

A sense of defeat crept through her. Now, she mused, she was to be deprived of even her onetime means of escape. “Shouldn’t I be … getting … fat?” she asked timidly.

“Plump,” the doctor corrected gently. “You will. But you have to eat properly. And, I want to see you next week.”

“Next week? So soon?” The sharp loden tinge of her eyes mirrored her alarm.

“It’s all right, Justine,” he quickly soothed her. “I just want to make sure you’re following my instructions. And, maybe then we’ll hear that heartbeat you’ve been waiting for.” His smile was meant by way of encouragement, hiding a deeper concern. He followed her departing form before lifting the phone.

Justine’s return home was met by a very solicitous and particularly officious Susan, who hustled her instantly to bed before setting off for work herself. “Now, I expect to find you here when I get back in the morning,” she instructed firmly, disturbed herself by her roommate’s lack of resistance. “See you later!”

The patient stayed in bed that night and the whole of the following day, insisting on communicating with the office by phone, dozing only occasionally between calls. Her mind was in a strange void, as though waiting for something to happen. It did. That night. While Susan was at work.

It began slowly, gently at first, with a dull ache in her back. The pains were nothing more than a cramp, and she promptly ignored them. There was, she reasoned irrationally, no way there could be anything wrong with her baby. After all, it was all she had left.

Through the night she refused to admit a problem. By morning, however, the matter was taken out of her hands. “Justine! My God! You’re positively ashen!” Susan’s trained eye took in her friend’s tucked-up position on the couch, the hand that lay weakly on her abdomen. “What is it? Cramps?”

Justine sighed and lay her head back against the upholstery. “It’s nothing, Sue. Really. A twinge now and then. I’m sure it’s perfectly normal.”

But Susan had heard enough. Her hand went instantly to the phone; her voice carried moments later in disjointed phrases to Justine. “Sure, Tom. We’ll be there in about … twenty minutes.” The receiver hit its cradle as the nurse whirled into action. “Come on, hun. We’re meeting Tom at the hospital. He’s going to take a look at you.”

Justine sat up quickly, feeling suddenly faint. “But there’s nothing wrong. Honestly. I’m fine.”

“You may be a great lawyer”—the determined Susan had disappeared into Justine’s room for her clothes—“but you’re no doctor and a very lousy patient!” Having returned, she stood before Justine. “Now, will you come willingly, or do I call an ambulance?”

Strangely frightened, Justine allowed herself to be led through the motions of dressing, then found herself in a cab with Susan, and, moments later, at the emergency room of the hospital, where they were met by a somberfaced Tom, who whisked Justine off.

For Justine, the world and its happenings took on unreal distortion. It was as though, having admitted to herself the possibility of a problem with the baby, she released a floodgate of activity about her. Nurses and technicians came and went; her doctor stayed with her, examining, probing, questioning. The sedative he administered gave further chimerical quality to the happenings. Few things retained meaning; most shimmered above and beyond her. At the mention of Sloane’s name, however, her senses cleared.

“Should I call him, hun?” Susan asked gently as Justine was wheeled toward the elevator that would take her into the deeper womb of the hospital. “He should be here—”

“No!” Her voice seemed distant, foreign. “No! Not Sloane!”

“Is there anyone you want me to call?” The elevator door was about to close as Susan bent over her friend for a last moment.

Justine’s whisper was barely audible. “Tony. Tell Tony I’m here.”

Tony was beside her, sitting on the edge of her bed when she awoke from a doze that evening. His eyes were warm, despite their concern. “How do you feel?” he murmured softly. The lights in the room, a private one, were dim, creating the restful atmosphere the doctor ordered.

Reorientation was something that had taken Justine time during the late afternoon hours as the anesthesia had worn off. Now she struggled to surface again. “Kind of numb. Empty.” Her hand reached out for his, and he offered it, his grip strong and supportive.

“Why didn’t you tell me before, Justine? You should have shared this with someone.”

The lump in her throat made speaking difficult. After a few minutes’ wait, it eased. “Susan knew. I … didn’t want to … burden anyone else.”

“Burden? Justine, I’m your brother! If you can’t rely on me, who can you rely on?”

At that instant Justine knew something she had avoided facing for countless years. Blood did flow thicker than water—an old adage, but very true. In the moment of recognition, her eyes filled with tears. “Thanks for … being here, Tony.” Her voice broke. “I need …”

Gently, Tony gathered her into his arms, rocking her trembling form as she wept against him. “I’m here, Justine. I’ll always be here.” His mind was on another man, as was hers. Through her tears she saw him standing there at the door, tall, straight, silver-haired, and debonair in his finely tailored suit with a trenchcoat thrown over his elbow. But when she blinked, he was gone, a fleeting figment of her strained imagination.

“I wanted the baby so, Tony. You have no idea.” With the quieting of her body came the need for release. Her eyes glistened a deep emerald as she unloaded her heart to this person closest, now, to her. “I never thought—or planned—to have children.” Her breath hiccuped between words. “But, once it happened, it was as though there was no other way to live.” Again, she thought of Sloane, of his child she would never have. “I feel so … alone …” Her eyes filled again; Tony let her cry freely.

A counselor by profession, he knew of her need for self-expurgation. “Tell me about the trip,” he asked, watching her face light slowly in memory. As her body rested back against the pillows, she talked quietly, telling him everything that had happened since she had seen him last, before her departure for Alaska. Details of the last three days of the trip were unnecessary; the glow in her eyes, suddenly clear and sharp and vital amid the pallor of her skin, elaborated fully. Tony knew enough, however, not to venture into a deeper discussion of Sloane, considering Justine’s shaky emotional state. To his dismay the life that had crept into her features during her discourse faded instantly at its end. There was a finality to her silence, a strong depression hovering about her.

“The doctor says you can leave in the morning.” He finally urged her to face the future. “I’m going to pick you up at around ten, then I’ll take you home and nurse you for the day.”

The suggestion brought an unbidden smile to her sober face. “You don’t have to do that—”

“I know. But I want to. It’s nice to have someone … special … to take care of.”

She clasped his hand as tightly as her siphoned strength would allow. “What you need, my brother, is a wife and children.”

“I’ve got time,” he retorted with a mischievous smile. “After all, I’m not quite as old as you.”

His words were meant in jest, yet she looked up with pitiful sorrow at him. “I’m feeling very old right now. I know it’s ridiculous—I’m only twenty-nine. But I’m not sure what I want anymore. And it’s very disconcerting.”

“It’s been a bad day for you. Get some sleep,” he urged softly, leaning forward to kiss her strawberry-blond crown, “and we’ll talk more about it tomorrow.”

True to his word, Tony had cleared his day of all commitments, and after seeing Justine comfortably settled and covered on the couch in her living room, he brewed some hot tea and joined her, folding his ample build into the armchair opposite. “There,” he declared with satisfaction, combing his fingers through the auburn hair that had fallen across his forehead in the course of his ministrations, “you look better now. Comfortable?”

“Comfortable.” Her hand was steadier as she sipped her tea, then looked across at the young man whose features were so very similar to those she had looked at every morning of her life. The comfort of his presence was new to her; instinctively, she wondered about his feelings on the matter. “What are you thinking?” His frown was enigmatic.

“I was thinking how much I would like to see you smile. You look as though you have nothing in life to look forward to … and I know for a fact that that isn’t true.”

The smile she tried to produce was meek. Her night had been filled with thoughts of loneliness and desolation, of remorse and self-doubt, of Sloane and the child she’d lost. “Things look very bleak right about now,” she murmured, looking down at the whiteness of her hands against the hunter green of her quilt. “I suppose … in time …”

“You have to do it yourself, Justine. For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve never been one to sit back and wait for things to happen. You have to decide what you want … then go after it.” He hesitated, calculating her strength, then made his judgment. “What about Sloane?”

Nonchalance was impossible; her head shot up. “What about him?”

“Do you still love him?”

“Yes.”

“Then he should be here with you, not me. Why didn’t you have Susan call him from the hospital?”

“He never knew about the baby. I saw no point …” Her voice died off as she sought diversion. But it wouldn’t come. All thoughts led to Sloane.

“He loves you?” She nodded. “He wants to marry you?”

“He did,” she whispered, her gaze searching the room, seeing nothing at all. “I believe he’s given up on me now.” Tears pricked her lids. “It’s for the best. I could never marry him.”

“I’ve asked you this before, Justine,” he began, leaning forward in earnestness, “and I’m going to ask you again. Why not?”

“Because … it wouldn’t work. Marriage doesn’t work. If I am temporarily unhappy now, it would be that much worse … once the honeymoon was over. It would be like … jumping from the frying pan into the fire.”

Tony shook his head vigorously. “You’re all wrong. You’ve decided beforehand what it might be like—you’ve decided beforehand what life, for that matter, is going to be like. You see what you want, Justine. You have selected for viewing only that which reinforces your own beliefs. And you’re dead wrong!”

He had her undivided attention, was the recipient of the stunned gaze she held on him. “How can you say that, Tony? You, of all people? Weren’t you at all affected by your own childhood experience?”

“You know very little about that, Justine.” With utter solemnity he sat back in his chair, his eyes never leaving hers. “You know, since the first time we met, when my father told me to look you up—remember? You were a junior at Sarah Lawrence; I was a lowly high school sophomore visiting the east for the first time.” He smiled wanly at the memory. “From that first time you never asked me about details. I always wondered why.”

Sensing that he was on the verge of the truth, she offered her own explanation. “It was none of my business. It wasn’t my place to question you.”

“No, no, Justine. That was an excuse. You must have wondered. It would have been only natural. Well”—he softened his tone to allow for compassion—“I think you were always afraid to learn that I may have had a very pleasant childhood.” He held a hand out to stem her protest. “I don’t mean criticism, Justine. I would have done the same myself. It would have been easier to believe that your father—our father—was a bastard.”

Her breath came more quickly as Justine listened. She knew it all had to come out, and she hadn’t the strength to resist Tony’s stark determination. Apprehension held her speechless; unbidden curiosity held her captive of his every word.

“Well, he wasn’t. He was—is—a very wonderful person.”

“You’re prejudiced.”

“Yes.” He nodded, and she wondered whether Tony was a younger version of that very man under discussion. “But the fact remains that he is a warm and generous and loving man.”

“Is that why”—her deep-seated bitterness made an impromptu appearance—“he never contacted me after he and my mother were divorced? Is that why he left me alone, to be shuttled back and forth to the least fortunate relative? Is that why I’ve been totally on my own since I was eighteen?”

“He was hurt—” Tony began in explanation, only to be interrupted by her cutting cry.

“So was I! Where was he then?” Drained by her outburst, she collapsed against the couch and laid her head back, eyes closed. But she listened; she listened as, with quiet insistence, Tony told the story she had avoided hearing for so long.

“Timothy O’Neill is a very proud man. He had nothing when he met your mother. They talked of things they could build together—with his mind and her money. They never talked of love; it seemed secondary to them. When they married, it was a merger, with each party contributing his share in hopes of a great success. Unfortunately, there was a personality clash early on. Though they lived together as man and wife for a time, they never felt any warmth for each other. You were the only worthwhile product of the union.”

“How do you know all this? Did my—did he tell you?”

“Bit by bit. It was hard for him to talk about it.”

“If there were no feelings of love between him and my mother, why was he so disturbed?” she asked skeptically.

Tony’s expression was one of reproach. “There was you. The marriage itself meant nothing to him. But he did love you.”

“Yet he gave me up—lock, stock, and barrel?”

“He had no choice. Your mother saw to that. Look”—he quickly qualified his statement—“I have nothing to say against your mother. It was a mistake they both made. And he has had nothing bad to say about your mother … ever. Perhaps that was why he waited so long to even discuss it; perhaps he had to understand it himself.” He paused, took a deep breath, then continued. “At any rate, the terms of the divorce were that she had sole custody. Your mother left with you and forbid him to come near.”

The lawyer in Justine broke forth. “How could any court abide by that kind of decision? He could have sued for visitation rights.”

Tony shook his head sadly. “I’m sure you recall how messy the trial itself was. And”—his voice lowered—“the fact that your father had a woman he declared himself in love with and … an illegitimate son … didn’t help his cause. That’s adultery, among other things.”

For the first time Justine thought of the discomfort Tony would be feeling in this retelling of the events of so long ago. With this realization came a gentling of her voice. “Tell me about your childhood. Was it a happy one, Tony?”

His smile was nearly apologetic. “Yes. It was. Very happy. I had two parents, each of whom loved me and adored each other. Oh, there were the same minor traumas that all families live with—small illnesses, dubious school grades, inflation. Though we weren’t what I would call wealthy, we lived very comfortably. Despite his differences with your mother, Timothy O’Neill was a solid, dependable man.”

For long moments of silence Justine ingested his words. If she had feared them, she wasn’t now sure why. The picture Tony had painted of his parents and home was a lovely one, a comforting one. Yet, she had never been able to face this possibility before. Why?

“He thought of you often, Justine. Every year, come April second, he would go into his den and sit, alone, thinking.”

Justine gasped, her eyes widening and flooding. “My birthday …”

“That’s right. Your birthday. He was afraid, though. Justine, you have to understand that he was human. And he was afraid. He was afraid that you wouldn’t want to see him, after everything that had happened. That was why he sent me.” He smiled in remembrance. “When I first saw you, I knew you immediately. Then, I went home. Dad questioned me for hours about you. He wanted to know everything.” He sobered once more. “I won’t say that he has pined away his life, Justine. That wouldn’t be true. He is determined to live life to its fullest—isn’t that what we all share?” She nodded as he went on. “But you were never far from his thoughts. You were his own private child. He was—he is very proud of you.”

It was all so difficult for her to absorb that Justine found her cheeks damp once more. For years she had hated her father, had pictured him an ogre for not claiming her. For years she had generalized from her experience to others, refusing to hear, to listen, to stories similar to the one Tony had just told. Confusion was compounded as the intensely caring man across the room spoke again.

“And that’s why you are wrong to shut yourself off from Sloane. It’s obvious how much you love him, Justine, and, from what you describe of his attempts to keep you near him, he must return that feeling. Your parents were not the norm; there was never any love there, not even at the start. With you and Sloane, it is different. You would be basing your future on a very strong love and you would have a solid frame on which to work. Oh, I’m not saying,” he continued gently, “that there wouldn’t be problems. No two people can live, day in, day out with each other without minor differences of opinion. That’s what being an individual is all about. But the coming together—it would be there for you and Sloane. You simply have to want it enough. You have to be willing to fight for it —if it means enough to you.”

Fight for it. His words echoed through her mind in endless reverberation over the next few days. Hadn’t she been a fighter—when it came to her education, to her right to go to law school, to her equal opportunity as a lawyer? In those cases she had known the cause for which she fought. But what did she want now? What was she to fight for?

There was no child to fight for; the sinking in of that knowledge left her half-whole and deeply sorrowed. Yet, had she wanted the child for itself or as a mind-link to Sloane? Much as she wanted to believe that the former was true, in good faith she could not. Oh, yes, she had wanted Sloane’s child with all her heart; but it was Sloane’s she wanted, only Sloane’s.

Days and nights of soul-searching brought things into sharper focus. Analytically she examined what she had. There was her career, on hold now, but waiting impatiently for her return. There were her friends, ever solicitous about her “illness” and a diversionary comfort. There was a future of more work, new friends, perhaps travel—yet it all lacked one essential ingredient.

With the return of her physical strength came the strength to admit that she had been wrong. In all her life’s plans, she had never allowed for love. It had taken her by storm. Sloane himself had taken her by storm. Now, the presence of love shaded every other aspect of her life. In the time she had known him, in the times they had spent together, in the very depth of love they had shared, she had known a completeness of her character, a true and utter contentment. Only now that she’d seen what love could do did she see what she had missed before. Only in hindsight did she know the meaning of love. And—in foresight—what then?

Could she agree to marry Sloane and risk an even greater pain than that of going through life without him? As she asked herself this very question, she knew its answer. Its answer was in the ache in her heart, the emptiness in her womb, the deep, deep yearning in the dark-hidden core that cried out for him. For the first time she knew that the pain of facing life without Sloane would be infinitely greater than any other possible source of pain. Therein, her decision was made.

It was nearly three weeks following her miscarriage, an early Wednesday evening. Her time was chosen well, calculating as she had that Sloane would be staying in the city at his penthouse, rather than driving out to Westport.

As she carefully dressed, she felt a spark of life she hadn’t felt since before her return from Alaska. It was mid-October now. New York was embroiled in an Indian summer such as it hadn’t known in years. Temperatures had hovered in the high eighties for two days; on this evening it was warm but comfortable. Though she had put on several pounds during the past weeks, Justine was aware of the loose fit of her sand-hued gabardine slacks, grateful for the pleats in front and the belt at the waist that, cinched in, gave the fitted look she wanted. Her blouse was of soft brown silk, draped easily over her arms, falling softly from her shoulders and breasts to disappear into her pants. Rest had erased the dark smudges from beneath her eyes, as it had eased the lines of tension which had been present when he had last seen her.

Lightly applying dabs of mascara and blusher, she glossed her lips, fluffed her hair, then stood back, eyeing the woman in the mirror with intent scrutiny. Attractive, yes. Stunning, no. Vulnerable, yes. Confident, no. And very, very apprehensive, without a doubt.

With momentary determination, she cleared her mind of the situations she might face when she finally saw Sloane. She wouldn’t take it that far. Every instinct told her that to see him, to talk with him, was imperative, yet what she would say or do was still a mystery to her. Unseen forces drove her on, bidding her gather her purse and keys, take the elevator to the lobby, and slide into the cab which the doorman summoned. It was her voice that issued the address, her hand that fumbled with her wallet as she arrived at her destination, her eyes that spoke of uncertainty as she entered the stately high rise and encountered its security guard.

“Sloane Harper, please,” she said, willing calm.

“Is he expecting you?”

“N—no.”

“Your name?”

“Justine O’Neill.”

With an odd look, the properly attired guard studied her as he mumbled into the mouthpiece of his phone. His expression was hard and impersonal when he faced her directly. “Go on up, Ms. O’Neill. The penthouse.”

“I—I know.” Lowering her eyes, she moved past him to the elevator, doubt growing with every footfall, every step bringing second thoughts. What was she doing here? Should she turn back? What could she say? Perhaps she should run …

Fears nagged at her, confusion assailed her. The elevator skyrocketed her smoothly to the penthouse as her self-possession bottomed out. The door slid open and held for several moments. It had begun its automatic close when she finally stayed it with the touch of her hand. Timidly, she stepped out.

There was one door at the far end of the corridor—a heavy oak-grained door. It was open. Heart lurching, she began the long walk. Slowly, the doorway came ever closer. In the dimness of the inner hallway she could see nothing. It was as though she were being drawn inexorably to the spot, to the man—as it had always been for her with Sloane.

Reaching the door, she stopped. Was it too late to turn? What would he say? Perhaps he would turn her away. Perhaps he would tell her his love had died. Perhaps he would … be … with another woman …

Gathering herself, Justine fought the demon of fear within her. She knew that she wanted Sloane. Yes, she wanted him in every way imaginable. She wanted him as lover, friend, and—yes—husband. And she was prepared to fight!

All was quiet within. Stepping over the threshold, she closed the door behind her. From the small central hallway her eye gravitated to the large living room beyond. It was decorated handsomely with dark Spanish pieces covered in browns, oranges, and creams. Masculinity was all about, yet there was nothing harsh about the room. Its floors bore a thick patterned carpet; its walls offered paintings and prints of the European theme. The far wall was a floor-to-ceiling window. And before it stood Sloane, his back to her, his hands thrust into the pockets of his tailored slacks.

For a brief instant every doubt, every question, converged on Justine, rendering her knees weak, her limbs trembling. But only for an instant. Then something else took over. A surge of strength, born of determination, surged through her. If she had been thought to be effective in the courtroom, this would be her greatest trial. Whether the conversation now proved to be an opening statement or a closing one would depend, in large part, on how she expressed herself in the next few moments. Fists white-knuckled, she took a step forward, then stopped. For Sloane turned around and speared her with a look meant to injure.

“What do you want?” he growled malevolently, eyes narrowed, body in a state of coiled readiness. He was the Silver Fox, ready to attack his wounded prey for the final time.