Читать книгу: «Dedicated To Deirdre»

One

“Lee! Don’t pull—”

Too late. Deirdre Patten’s oldest son used every ounce of his wiry five-year-old strength to tug a box of sugared cereal from the very bottom of an enormous stack of the breakfast foods in the grocery store. With an experienced eye born of many brushes with disaster, she instantly calculated that she was too far away to grab her son. Her heart lurched as the entire stack tilted and began to slide slowly forward. Visions of the grievous injury a huge stack of boxes could do to a little boy flashed across her mind as she dashed forward, and in the same instant, the entire array of cereal boxes crashed to the floor right in front of her.

“Lee! Honey, where are you?” Frantically she kicked aside boxes, then dropped to her knees looking for a little arm or leg beneath the avalanche. “Lee? Lee!”

“Hi, Mommy!”

Her heart began to beat again when she heard the chirpy little voice. She paused in the middle of her frantic shoveling and looked around. On the other side of the aisle, Lee was waving to her. He stood beside a stranger, a man with dark chestnut hair, a man who had Lee’s wrist in a firm grasp.

“Baby, are you all right?” She leaped over the boxes and knelt beside her son, running her hands over him. Nothing looked broken. “How many times have I told you—”

“The man saved me, Mom.” Lee was pointing up, and she realized the man who had released her son’s wrist must have pulled him out of the way of the boxes.

She sat back on her heels with a weary smile. “Thank you so much. This one and his little brother keep me...on my...toes.” Her voice drained away to nothing as she recognized the man looking down at her.

“Hello...Mrs. Patten, I believe?”

The voice was the same, deep and slightly rough, with a lazy drawl to the words that made a woman’s toes curl. She’d noticed that the night of the office Christmas party in Baltimore, Maryland, three years ago even though she’d been so upset with her husband she could barely see straight.

Slowly she got to her feet, keeping her hands on her son’s shoulders in front of her. “Hello.”

He extended a large, tanned hand. “Ronan Sullivan. We’ve met before.”

She flushed, a nod her only acknowledgment as she reached out to shake his hand. “Deirdre is my first name, but my friends call me Dee. This is Lee and my other son, in the cart, is Tommy.” She barely touched his fingers before drawing back quickly. His hand was warm and firm, and the brief moment when her hand was in his produced an unsettling instant of awareness that she forced herself to ignore. “Thank you for your quick thinking. Lee could have been badly hurt.”

“You’re welcome. No problem.” He grazed his knuckles across the top of Lee’s closely shaved head of black fuzz. “I saw it coming, so I was ready for a quick rescue.”

“Ah, well, thank you again.” She cast a glance at her cart to make sure Tommy hadn’t strayed from his seat in the front. A store employee had come running and was restacking the boxes.

“You’re welcome again.” He hesitated for a bare instant. “Is your husband still with Bethlehem Steel?”

“Yes,” she said, though why he would mention her husband after the last time they’d met was beyond her. She’d hoped that perhaps he’d forgotten some of the more humiliating details of that evening.

“Long commute from out here. Do you live in the area?”

She hesitated, then decided there was no reason to keep her situation a secret. Sooner or later she had to begin to tell people. “I’m divorced now. I have a farm halfway between Butler and Frizzelburg.”

His eyes warmed, though he didn’t smile. “My grandparents had a farm down in Virginia. Do you work it?”

She shook her head. “I lease most of the land to the man who has the place next to ours. I have a small business that keeps me pretty busy.”

“What do you do?”

She twisted her fingers together, then caught herself and flattened her palms against her sides. “It’s nothing, really. I design and make a line of doll clothes.”

“Hmm.”

She couldn’t tell what that meant, but she felt defensiveness rising around her like a growing field of corn. “It allows me to make enough to live on and still be home with the boys.”

“That’s important.”

“It is to me.” She glanced over at Tommy, who was showing signs of restlessness, a prelude, she knew, to a leap from the cart. “Well, I must be going. It was nice to see you again.” A blatant lie. Seeing Ronan Sullivan stirred up all kinds of memories of her old life, memories she was determined to forget.

“Before you go,” he said. “Would you know of anyone with a place to rent in the area? I’m looking for—”

“Mom!” Lee clutched at her hand. “Maybe he’s the one! Ask him.”

“No.” She loved her sons but there were times when she thought seriously of locking them away for a day or ten. “I’m sure Mr.—”

“Ronan,” he reminded her.

“Ronan,” she repeated dutifully, “wouldn’t be interested in the apartment.”

“What apartment?” He was looking at her for an answer, eyes the color of tigereye topaz suddenly alive with interest

“It’s nothing great,” she said quickly. “I’m looking for a tenant to rent the apartment over the stable. It’s very small and extremely rustic. I’m sure it wouldn’t suit you.”

“You never know. Would you mind if I looked at it?”

Yes, I mind! But she felt trapped by the little voice inside—a little voice that sounded strangely like her mother’s—that reminded her that it would be rude to refuse.

Really, there was no reason for her to worry. She’d envisioned renting to a woman, but why should a man be any different? A civilized man. He’s not Nelson, she told herself firmly. One bad apple doesn’t spoil the whole barrel. Making up her mind, she said, “All right,” before she could think too much more about it. “But don’t expect too much. It’s primitive.”

He nodded. “I’d still like to look at it. Is tomorrow convenient?”

Tomorrow! “Tomorrow would be fine. Around eleven?” Maybe he would be working; she could always say evenings didn’t suit, just stall until—

“Eleven it is.”

Driving home through the quiet Butler County countryside a few minutes later, she was a mass of churning anxiety inside. Why was she letting him look at the apartment? She didn’t want a man hanging around her home, good apples in the barrel or not. She didn’t want to talk with a man, didn’t want to look at a man, didn’t even want to think about one. She had a few exceptions—her brothers, her friend Frannie’s husband, but she had grown up with Jack so he didn’t really count...but other than that, she deliberately avoided even making eye contact with the opposite sex. The thought of so much as a casual date left a very bad taste in her mouth.

She’d planned to fix up the apartment, rent it to a career woman who wouldn’t be home much. Still, maybe a male tenant wouldn’t be such a bad thing. She wouldn’t have to see much of him, would hardly know he was there.

Without warning, the memory of his big hand taking hers returned. The man felt like a big heater, radiating warmth. And she hadn’t been warm in a very long time.

It was perfect, Ronan thought as his white pickup truck crested the hill on the rutted lane that led to Deirdre Patten’s place. A perfect place to write. Not a reporter or a determined fan in sight, and none likely to find him easily.

And to make it even better, he had his research right under his nose. Fields on his right, forest on his left. The fields sloped gently down to a wide, flat valley through which a little stream meandered. A stone farmhouse—an old stone farmhouse, from the look of it—was surrounded by a neat square of yard, and across the gravel driveway, an equally ancient barn loomed. Beside the barn was what looked like a chicken house, a pig sty and finally a smaller, and much newer, stable painted a traditional barn red with white crossbars. Green fields, interspersed with stands of tall trees and fencerows overgrown with climbing vines, spread out in every direction.

It looked like a picture on a postcard titled, “America, Circa 1950.” And it was right off the highway, though no one would ever guess it was there.

Taking his foot off the brake, he let the truck coast down the lane, trying in vain to avoid the worst ruts. He’d probably have to have the wheels aligned every couple of months if he stayed here.

Halfway down the lane, he slammed on the brakes abruptly. The wheels skidded in the loose stone, then caught and held as he pumped the pedal. What the hell—?

Dead smack in the middle of the lane were the two little Patten boys, Lee of the cereal box slide and his little brother—had Deirdre said his name was Tommy? They were hunched over something on the ground, something that made a heck of a lot of dust. One had a handful of leaves he was cautiously stuffing into whatever it was. They were so absorbed in what they were doing that neither one of them even heard the truck.

He considered blowing the horn, but he didn’t want to scare the little fellas, so he opened his door and swung out of the truck, intending to call to them to move out of the road.

That’s when he saw the flames.

“Hey!” That wasn’t dust; it was fire! He didn’t have much experience with kids, but he knew nobody in their right mind would allow boys this small to mess around with fire.

As he started forward, the oldest child looked up. A broad smile split his face and he hollered, “Hi-ya, Mr. Sullivan, it works! Come see our fire!”

Since he planned on doing exactly that, he walked up and hunkered down beside the smaller boy. The flames were still a tiny blaze, hungrily licking at the leaves. “What are you doing?”

Tommy held up a magnifying glass. “On TV Yogi an’ Boo-Boo started a fire wif a mag-i, man-i—”

“Magnifying glass,” supplied his brother. “And so did we!”

“Umm, that’s interesting.” Ronan took the magnifying glass and pretended to examine it while he eyed the little blaze. “But you don’t want that fire to get very big.”

“No,” agreed the littlest boy. He stood and pulled something out of one pocket of the sturdy, very grubby jeans he wore. “We’re gonna put it out.”

Glancing down at the small hand thrust under his nose, Ronan couldn’t help but grin. The little guy had a yellow plastic water pistol, primed with enough water to douse a match—maybe. “Good idea,” he told the child solemnly, pressing his lips together to prevent the chuckle that was trying to escape. “But I know another way to put out a small fire like this. Want me to show you?”

“Okay!” Both little boys stepped back as he stood.

“Fire needs air to breathe, just like you do,” he explained. “I’m going to step on it, keep it from getting any air, until it dies.”

“Can we help?”

“Sure.” Anything to get that fire out before it realized how much prime fuel surrounded it. “One, two, three, stomp!” And as he did, he slipped the magnifying glass into his pocket. Where in the heck was their mother, and what was she thinking, to be letting them try a dangerous stunt like this?

It didn’t take much convincing to get the boys interested in a ride in the truck—another issue he’d mention to their mother. He boosted them in and drove on down the lane to the house, parking in the graveled area next to the old barn. As he lifted each child from the truck, a battered green Bronco came jouncing across the pasture farthest from him. As it neared, he saw Deirdre was driving. She looked scared and upset—until she saw the children. Then her expression changed to pure fury.

She was out of the Bronco almost before it slid to a stop. “Where were you?” she demanded. “I specifically told you to stay in the yard.” Her pretty, heart-shaped face was stern, and she tapped her foot as she waited for an answer.

Ronan was fascinated. He’d thought the phrase, “Vibrated with anger,” was a figurative description until now.

“But the yawd bums,” Tommy offered.

“Yeah, we didn’t want to start a big fire,” said Lee.

“A fire?” Her green eyes grew round. “Where did you get matches? What did you set fire to? Is it still burning?”

Ronan cleared his throat as he reached into his pocket, offering her the magnifying lens. “The intrepid scouts here didn’t need matches. I helped them put it out.”

“You’re kidding.” She took the item from him as if it might bite. “You actually started a fire with this?” she said to the boys.

“Yep!” Tommy, less experienced at reading his mother’s ire, swelled with pride.

She didn’t miss a beat. “And is it okay to play with fire?”

Both children visibly sagged. Small voices muttered, “No.”

“That’s right,” she said. “And what’s the rule about fire?”

“There has to be a grown-up with us.” The older boy looked chastened—but not exactly sorry.

“And what happens when you don’t follow the rules?”

As one, two little faces fell, and they turned toward the house. “Go to our rooms,” they said in mournful unison.

“I’ll let you know when you can come out,” she called after them. Then she turned to Ronan. “Mr. Sullivan, I don’t know what to say, except thank you again.” She sighed, looking at the magnifying glass and shaking her head. “They can find things to get into that I’ve never even thought of.”

He couldn’t suppress his grin any longer. “They were pretty proud of that trick.”

She shuddered. “Thank God you came along when you did. I went the other way to look for them because that creek is like a magnet. I was sure they were down there.” She slipped the lens into her own pocket. “You know, if you decide to stay here, you’ll have to put up with them.”

He chuckled. “They aren’t so bad. Just lively.”

“You can say that again.” She shook her head in exasperation and blew out a breath as she shoved stray black curls out of her peripheral vision. Pointing to the stable as she began to walk, she indicated that he should follow her. “I’m sure you’ll think twice about this apartment when you see it. I’ve been planning to fix it up, but I just haven’t gotten around to it yet. As I said, it needs a lot of work.”

“I don’t mind work,” he said mildly.

“And Butler County isn’t exactly a hotbed of social events. You’ll have to drive back into Baltimore for any kind of nightlife.”

“Definitely not high on my list.” The thought of social events led like an electrical current through a chain of thought that halted at the first time he’d ever met this woman. As he followed her into the barn and up a flight of stairs, he could almost see her sitting in a pool of candlelight, a strained, obviously false smile pasted on her pretty face.

The social event had been the annual Christmas party for the office employees of Bethlehem Steel. His cousin Arden, being between boyfriends, had invited him. He hadn’t had any plans, so he’d agreed to go. They were seated at dinner by name cards, eight to a table. He and Arden had been paired with one of the company vice presidents and his wife, the vice president’s executive secretary and her husband, and Deirdre and Nelson Patten, who was another top executive.

Drink had flowed freely during dinner, too freely, and Patten had gotten slurring and stupid, well before the end of the meal. His wife had sat in embarrassed silence, eyes on her plate unless someone spoke directly to her.

He’d been struck by her unusual beauty, unable to keep his eyes off her—and the first time she’d risen to visit the ladies’ room, he’d realized that she was heavily pregnant. He’d never thought pregnant women were particularly sexy, but his body seemed to forget that when he looked at Deirdre Patten.

Even obviously unhappy, she was strikingly pretty, with soft roses blooming under the fair skin along her high cheekbones and big, long-lashed green eyes beneath strongly defined, arched brows. Her black hair was pulled back into a classic twist, but strands of it escaped to form a halo of curl around her head.

The gown she wore was basic black, plain in contrast to some of the sequined atrocities that decorated some of the other party goers. But in his memory, the color had been the only thing basic about it. The dress had only two teeny, tiny straps, baring her creamy shoulders, showing off her delicate collarbones and her long, pale neck before molding itself to her breasts and falling over her belly nearly to the floor. It had a sort of stole around it that clipped in the front, right at her breasts, and though she was certainly far better covered than many, he could see that she was generously proportioned in that department. Most generously proportioned. At the time he’d wondered if that was due to her pregnancy, but now he plainly could see that she was still well endowed.

The dancing had begun after dinner. He’d taken Arden onto the floor, and promptly lost her to the attentions of a young man. As he returned to his seat, he’d noticed Patten had taken to the dance floor, too. But instead of holding his lovely wife in his arms, he was wrapped in an indecently close embrace with the executive secretary, whose husband was nowhere to be seen. Deirdre sat alone at their table, a small, forced smile pinned into place, her head high.

A real lady, he remembered thinking. He also remembered thinking that if she were his, the last place he’d be was in the arms of some other woman. Especially when she was pregnant. Any idiot knew women needed reassuring when their bodies were stretched out of shape and their waists were nothing but a memory. No, he’d have to take that back. Her idiot husband obviously didn’t know it.

Ronan had taken the seat next to her, but he’d never been good at small talk. Why was it that he could think up dozens of glib lines for his characters to utter, and when he needed them, words always seemed to have dried up? Deirdre had sat beside him in silence, trying gamely to ignore her husband practically having sex with the woman on the dance floor.

Around eleven o’clock the pair had disappeared altogether for a time. Arden had come floating by, whispering in his ear that this might just be The One, and would he mind very much if the fellow took her home, at which he’d laughed and told her to call him in a few days.

He could have left then, but no power on earth would have dislodged him from that table while Deirdre Patten sat there all alone. Finally, when midnight came and her husband was still nowhere in sight, he’d said, “I’d be happy to see you home, Mrs. Patten.”

She’d looked at him then, and he had the feeling she was really seeing him for the first time.

“Thank you, but I can call a cab. I’m used to it,” she’d said. She’d risen then, and so had he “Good evening.”

There was no reason for him to stay longer, so he’d followed her out of the ballroom. He had no idea when her baby was due but she looked like she couldn’t be far away from delivering. God forbid she should fall. Catching up to her in the hallway, he’d offered her his arm at the top of the steps. She’d hesitated, whispered, “Thank you,” and slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.

Outside the front of the lavish hotel in which the party had been held, the doorman hailed a cab at Ronan’s signal and he helped her into the back seat. And as the cab drove her away, he’d thought it was a damn shame for a woman like that to be wasted on a jerk like Patten.

Now he waited, a step below her as she unlocked the door to the rooms above the stable. Dressed in a butter yellow tank top tucked neatly into a pair of belted khaki shorts, she didn’t resemble the elegant woman from that Christmas party. But as he eyed the neat hourglass figure, the curve of her buttocks beneath the shorts and the thick ponytail that confined most of her black curls, he decided she was equally attractive like this.

He’d fantasized about her for months after the party, picturing her with him, how he’d handle her like spun glass, how she would respond.... It had been a harmless fantasy; he’d never expected to see her again, though he’d wondered if her baby had been a girl or a boy. And, if he was honest, what she’d look like when she wasn’t pregnant.

Now he knew. She looked damn good. No, she looked fantastic. Running into her at that store had given him a jolt because she’d looked incredibly close to the way he’d recreated an unpregnant Deirdre Patten in his agile mind.

Immediately, he began hoping that he would see her again and her children...but not because he wanted to get to know her. Although she’d been a pleasant, harmless fantasy, he wasn’t looking for romantic entanglements. That was the absolute last thing on his mind, of course. No, he was interested in her sons. His knowledge of kids was limited. Being around her children would be exactly what he needed to give life to his current novel. True, the boys were a little younger than the kids he’d first envisioned in the plot he was working on, but it actually would make the story even more compelling if the children were preschoolers.

Her rental property was a stroke of incredible luck. And it wasn’t a lie—he was looking for a place to live. Bolton Hill, right in the center of downtown Baltimore, was an enclave of wealth a few blocks wide. But it was surrounded by crime and squalor, and shrinking every year. And while he loved the area, he had found it getting more and more difficult to write in that setting.

He needed space; space to walk and think without the constant vigilance of warding off muggers, to sleep without gunfire and sirens, to work without well-meaning neighbors constantly interrupting his work hours to prove to their friends that a bestselling author really did live next door.

He craved anonymity. He craved the simple ability to walk out of his home without being recognized, a respite from the women who constantly planted themselves at his elbow, hoping for a relationship or even a night with him.

And after the experiences he’d had recently, being hard to locate was highly desirable.

“I warned you.” Deirdre stepped aside to let him enter the first room.

She wasn’t kidding when she said it needed work, was his first thought. The main room was a large one, with an old wall-mounted sink and an ancient refrigerator at one end—presumably what passed for the kitchen-living area. The floors were unfinished lumber, the walls unpainted. But two skylights as well as a wide window at the near end gave the room a light and airy feel. Through a door at the far end, he discovered a smaller room—a bedroom?—and a bathroom. A real bathroom, with a claw-footed tub and white porcelain fixtures. This room also boasted a large window at its end, though it had no skylights.

Rustic, definitely. But with a few modifications, he could make it work.

“It really is awful,” she said from behind him. “I need to fix it up a little before I rent it. It was built more recently than the rest of the buildings here, about sixty years ago when the owner had racehorses. His head groom lived here.”

Sixty years ago. Recent, by the standards of the house and the big barn, both of which had to be well over a century old.

Nodding his head, he walked around the empty space. He already knew he was going to take it but he didn’t want to appear too eager. Finally he said, “I think it will do if I work on it, add paint and paper, maybe sand the floor.”

“You want it?” She eyed him as if he weren’t quite sane.

He laughed. “It’s solid, looks well insulated. The rest is cosmetic. Would you mind if I fix it up a little?”

“You can do whatever you like with it,” she said. “I would offer to reimburse you for any expenses, but—” she swallowed and looked him straight in the eye “—my finances are a bit too strained.”

He nodded. “I can understand that.”

“You can?” Her expression warmed, and the beginnings of a tentative smile appeared.

“Umm-hmm.”

“Money.” She sighed. “Life would be so much easier if we didn’t have to worry about it.”

“Umm-hmm.” This was dangerous ground, considering the staggering sum of his last royalty statement.

“Where do you work, Mr.—Ronan?”

Out of habit he searched for an evasion; admitting to being a bestselling suspense novelist had caused him more grief in the past than he could recall. He’d become even more cautious since a fan had been apprehended and eventually convicted of stalking him a year ago. And being anonymous had the added attraction of keeping fortune hunters and celebrity hounds at bay. No, he never told people who he was anymore. It was safer, and less complicated in the long run. And Sullivan was a common enough name that the association didn’t come up.

“I’m, uh, sort of a freelance journalist.” Well, it wasn’t a lie. He’d started out writing articles to support himself while he worked on his first novel.

She nodded, comprehension flooding her expression. “Not exactly a profession you’ll get rich at.” Then, to his relief, she changed tack. “Cleaning service is included in the rental.”

“Uh, that’s not necessary. I can clean it myself.” If she saw what he already was planning to do to the interior, she’d know for certain he wasn’t a struggling writer. He knew that eventually he’d have to tell her the truth, but he hoped the renovated apartment would compensate for his harmless deception. She wouldn’t have any trouble renting it after he left.

“Oh, no, I insist—”

“No, I insist.” He injected a, “case closed,” note into his voice. “You have a business to run and I wouldn’t think of letting you waste time on cleaning this place. It’s so small I’ll have no trouble.”

Her brow was furrowed, her eyes troubled. “All right, if you’re sure. But if you ever need a hand, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“I promise.” He held up a hand like a Boy Scout. “Now, how much is the rent?”

Three days later he moved in. Deirdre had told him she was going to be away for the day, taking her sons to a family reunion up in Pennsylvania. She wouldn’t be back until well after dark, probably close to midnight, she said. “So don’t be alarmed when you hear my Bronco coming down the lane.”

The timing couldn’t have been better. She left at seven in the morning. As soon as her vehicle was over the ridge, he used his cell phone to call the team he’d hired. Speed was of the essence, he’d stipulated when he’d called the renovation firm. And he didn’t mind paying extra for it. When the guy heard that he planned to pay the full amount in cash, he couldn’t get the details fast enough.

The paneling came first. He’d chosen a light blond oak because drywall would have to dry before it could be painted or papered; this had to be done in one day. The panels went right over the rough wooden walls, the studs in the original walls providing plenty of support.