Nine
January was a month of freezing wind, pelting snow and gray skies. Each day was as bitterly cold as the last, with tomorrow waiting frigidly in the wings. It was a month of frozen pipes, burst pipes, overworked furnaces and stalled engines. Pandora loved it. The frost built up on the windows of her shop, and the inside temperature always remained cool even with the heaters turned up. She worked until her fingers were numb and enjoyed every moment.
Throughout the month, the road to the Folley was often inaccessible. Pandora didn't mind not being able to get out. It meant no one could get in. The pantry and freezer were stocked, and there was over a cord of wood stacked beside the kitchen door. The way she looked at it, they had everything they needed. The days were short and productive, the nights long and relaxing. Since the incident of the champagne, it had been a quiet, uneventful winter.
Uneventful, Pandora mused, wasn't precisely the right term. With quick, careful strokes, she filed the edges of a thick copper bracelet. It certainly wasn't as though nothing had happened. There'd been no trouble from outside sources, but... Trouble, as she'd always known, was definitely one of Michael Donahue's greatest talents.
Just what was he trying to pull by leaving a bunch of violets on her pillow? She was certain a magic wand would have been needed to produce the little purple flowers in January. When she'd questioned him about them, he'd simply smiled and told her violets didn't have thorns. What kind of an answer was that? Pandora wondered, and examined the clasp of the bracelet through a magnifying glass. She was satisfied with the way she'd designed it to blend with the design.
Then, there'd been the time she'd come out of the bath to find the bedroom lit with a dozen candles. When she'd asked if there'd been a power failure, Michael had just laughed and pulled her into bed.
He did things like reaching for her hand at dinner and whispering in her ear just before dawn. Once he'd joined her in the shower uninvited and silenced her protests by washing every inch of her body himself. She'd been right. Michael Donahue didn't follow the rules. He'd been right. He was getting to her.
Pandora removed the bracelet from the vise, then absently began to polish it. She'd made a half a dozen others in the last two weeks. Big chunky bracelets, some had gaudy stones, some had ornate engraving. They suited her mood—daring, opinionated and a bit silly. She'd learned to trust her instincts, and her instincts told her they'd sell faster than she could possibly make them—and be copied just as quickly.
She didn't mind the imitations. After all, there was only one of each type that was truly a Pandora McVie. Copies would be recognized as copies because they lacked that something special, that individuality of the genuine.
Pleased, she turned the bracelet over in her hand. No one would mistake any of her work for an imitation. She might often use glass instead of precious or semiprecious stones because glass expressed her mood at the time. But each piece she created carried her mark, her opinion and her honesty. She never gave a thought to the price of a piece when she crafted it or its market value. She created what she needed to create first, then after it was done, her practical side calculated the profit margin. Her art varied from piece to piece, but it never lied.
Looking down at the bracelet, Pandora sighed. No, her art never lied, but did she? Could she be certain her emotions were as genuine as the jewelry she made? A feeling could be imitated. An emotion could be fraudulent. How many times in the past few weeks had she pretended? Not pretended to feel, Pandora thought, but pretended not to feel. She was a woman who'd always prided herself on her honesty. Truth and independence went hand in hand with Pandora's set of values. But she'd lied— over and over again—to herself, the worst form of deception.
It was time to stop, Pandora told herself. Time to face the truth of her feelings if only in the privacy of her own heart and mind.
How long had she been in love with Michael? She had to stand and move around the shop as the question formed in her mind. Weeks? Months? Years? It wasn't something she could answer because she would never be sure. But she was certain of the emotion. She loved. Pandora understood it because she loved only a few people, and when she did, she loved boundlessly. Perhaps that was the biggest problem. Wasn't it a sort of suicide to love Michael boundlessly?
Better to face it, she told herself. No problem resolved itself without being faced first and examined second. However much a fool it made her, she loved Michael. Pandora rubbed at the steam on the windows and looked out at the snow. Strange, she'd really believed once she accepted it she'd feel better. She didn't.
What options did she have? She could tell him. And have him gloat, Pandora thought with a scowl. He would, too, before he trotted off to his next conquest. She certainly wasn't fool enough to think he'd be interested in a long-term relationship. Of course, she wasn't interested in one either, Pandora told herself as she began to noisily pack her tools.
Another option was to cut and run. What the relatives hadn't been able to accomplish with their malice and mischief, her own heart would succeed in doing. She could get in the car, drive to the airport and fly to anywhere. Escape was the honest word. Then, she'd not only be a coward, she'd be a traitor. No, she wouldn't let Uncle Jolley down; she wouldn't run. That left her, as Pandora saw it, with one option.
She'd go on as she was. She'd stay with Michael, sleep with Michael, share with Michael— share with him everything but what was in her heart. She'd take the two months they had left together and prepare herself to walk away with no regrets.
He'd gotten to her, Pandora admitted. Gotten to her in places no other mart had touched. She loved him for it. She hated him for it. With her mood as turbulent as her thoughts, she locked the shop and stomped across the lawn.
"Here she comes now." With a new plan ready to spring, Sweeney turned away from the kitchen window and signaled to Charles.
"It's never going to work."
"Of course it is. We're going to push those children together for their own good. Any two people who spat as much as they do should be married."
"We're interfering where it's not our place."
"What malarkey!" Sweeney took her seat at the kitchen table. "Whose place is it to interfere if not ours, I'd like to know? Who'll be knocking around this big empty house if they go back to the city if not us? Now pick up that cloth and fan me. Stoop over a bit and look feeble,"
"I am feeble," Charles muttered, but picked up the cloth.
When Pandora walked into the kitchen she saw Sweeney sprawled back in a chair, eyes closed, with Charles standing over her waving a dishcloth at her face.
"God, what's wrong? Charles, did she faint?" Before he could answer, Pandora had dashed across the room. "Call Michael," she ordered. "Call Michael quickly." She brushed Charles away and crouched. "Sweeney, it's Pandora. Are you in pain?"
Barely suppressing a sigh of satisfaction, Sweeney let her eyes flutter open and hoped she looked pale. "Oh, missy, don't you worry now. Just one of my spells is all. Now and then my heart starts to flutter so that I feel it's coming right out of my head."
"I'm going to call the doctor." Pandora had taken only one step when her hand was caught in a surprisingly strong grip.
"No need for that." Sweeney made her voice thin and weary. "Saw him just a few months past and he told me I'd have to expect one of these now and again."
"I don't believe that," Pandora said fiercely. "You're just plain working too hard, and it's going to stop."
A little trickle of guilt worked its way in as Sweeney saw the concern. "Now, now, don't fret."
"What is it?" Michael swung through the kitchen door. "Sweeney?" He knelt down beside her and took her other hand.
"Now look at all this commotion." Mentally she leaped up and kicked her heels. "It's nothing but one of my little spells. The doctor said I'd have to watch for them. Just a nuisance, that's all." She looked hard at Charles when he came in. Eventually she looked hard enough so that he remembered his cue.
"And you know what he said."
"Now, Charles—"
"You're to have two or three days of bed rest."
Pleased that he'd remembered his lines, Sweeney pretended to huff. "Pack of nonsense. I'll be right as rain in a few minutes. I've dinner to cook."
''You won't be cooking anything." In a way Sweeney considered properly masterful, Michael picked her up. "Into bed with you."
"Just who'll take care of things?" Sweeney demanded. "I'll not have Charles spreading his germs around my kitchen."
Michael was nearly out of the room with Sweeney before Charles remembered the next step. He coughed into his hand, looked apologetic and coughed again,
"Listen to that!" Pleased, Sweeney let her head rest against Michael's shoulder. "I won't go to bed and let him infect my kitchen."
"How long have you had that cough?" Pandora demanded. When Charles began to mutter, she stood up. "That's enough. Both of you into bed. Michael and I will take care of everything." Taking Charles's arm, she began to lead him into the servant's wing. "Into bed and no nonsense. I'll make both of you some tea. Michael, see that Charles gets settled, I'll look after Sweeney."
Within a half hour, Sweeney had them both where she wanted them. Together.
"Well, they're all settled in and there's no fever." Satisfied, Pandora poured herself a cup of tea. "I suppose all they need is a few days' rest and some pampering. Tea?"
He made a face at the idea and switched on the coffee. "Since the days of house calls are over, I'd think they'd be better off here in bed than being dragged into town. We can take turns keeping an eye on them."
"Mmm-hmm." Pandora opened the refrigerator and studied. "What about meals? Can you cook?"
"Sure." Michael rattled cups in the cupboard.
"Badly, but I can cook. Meat loafs my specialty." When this was met with no enthusiasm, he turned his head. "Do you?"
"Cook?" Pandora lifted a plastic lid hopefully. "I can broil a steak and scramble eggs. Anything else is chancy."
"Life's nothing without a risk." Michael joined her in her rummage through the refrigerator. "Here's almost half an apple cobbler."
"That's hardly a meal." .....
"It'll do for me." He took it out and went for a spoon. Pandora watched as he sat down at the table and dug in. "Want some?"
She started to refuse on principle, then decided not to cut off her nose. Going to the cupboard, she found a bowl. "What about the bedridden?" she asked as she scooped out cobbler.
"Soup," Michael said between bites. "Nothing better than hot soup. Though I'd let them rest awhile first"
With a nod of agreement, she sat across from him. "Michael..." She trailed off as she played with her cobbler. The steam from her tea rose up between them. She'd been thinking about how to broach the subject for days. It seemed the time had come. "I've been thinking. In two months, the will should be final. When Fitzhugh wrote us last week, he said Uncle Carlson's lawyers were advising him to drop the probate."
"So?"
"The house, along with everything else, will be half yours, half mine."
"That's right."
She took a bite of cobbler, then set down her spoon. "What're you smiling at?"
"You're nice to look at. I find it relaxing to sit here alone in the kitchen, in the quiet, and look at you."
It was that sort of thing, just that sort of thing, that left her light-headed and foolish. She stared at him a moment, then dropped her gaze to her bowl. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that."
"No, you don't. So you've been thinking," he prompted.
"Yes." She gave herself a moment, carefully spooning out another bite of cobbler. "We'll have the house between us, but we won't be living here together any longer. Sweeney and Charles will be here alone. I've worried about that for a while. Now, after this, I'm more concerned than ever. They can't stay here alone."
"No, I think you're right. Ideas?"
"I mentioned before that I was considering moving here on a semi-permanent basis." She found she had no appetite after all and switched back to her tea. "I think I'm going to make it permanent all around."
He heard a trace of nervousness in her voice. "Because of Charles and Sweeney?"
"Only partly." She drank more tea, set the cup down and toyed with her cobbler again. She wasn't accustomed to discussing her decisions with anyone. Though she found it difficult, Pandora had already resolved that she had an obligation to do so. More, she'd realized she needed to talk to him, to be, as she couldn't be on other levels, honest. "I always felt the Folley was home, but I didn't realize just how much of a home. I need it, for myself. You see, I never had one." She lifted her gaze and met his. "Only here."
To say her words surprised him was to say too little. All his life he'd seen her as the pampered pet, the golden girl with every advantage. "But your parents—"
"Are wonderful," Pandora said quickly. "I adore them. There's nothing about them I'd change. But..." How could she explain? How could she not? "We never had a kitchen like this—a place you could come back to day after day and know it'd be the same. Even if you changed the wallpaper and the paint, it would be the same. It sounds silly." She shifted restlessly. "You wouldn't understand."
"Maybe I would." He caught her hand before she could rise. "Maybe I'd like to."
"I want a home," she said simply. "The Folley's been that to me. I want to stay here after the term's up."
He kept her hand in his, palm to palm. "Why are you telling me this, Pandora?"
Reasons. Too many reasons. She chose the only one she could give him safely. "In two months, the house belongs to you as much as to me. According to the terms of the will—"
He swore and released her hand. Rising, he stuck his hands in his back pockets and strode to the window. He'd thought for a moment, just for a moment, she'd been ready to give him more. By God, he'd waited long enough for only a few drops more. There'd been something in her voice, something soft and giving. Perhaps he'd just imagined it because he'd wanted to hear it. Terms of the will, he thought. It was so like her to see nothing else.
"What do you want, my permission?"
Disturbed, Pandora stayed at the table. "I suppose I wanted you to understand and agree."
"Fine."
"You needn't be so curt about it. After all, you haven't any plans to use the house on a regular basis."
"I haven't made any plans," he murmured. "Perhaps it's time I did."
"I didn't mean to annoy you."
He turned slowly, then just as slowly smiled. "No, I'm sure you didn't. There's never any doubt when you annoy me intentionally."
There was something wrong here, something she couldn't quite pinpoint. So she groped. "Would you mind so much if I were to live here?"
It surprised him when she rose to come to him, offering a hand. She didn't make such gestures often or casually. "No, why should it?"
"It would be half yours."
"We could draw a line down the middle."
"That might be awkward. I could buy you out."
"No."
He said it so fiercely, her brows shot up. "It was only an offer."
"Forget it." He turned to look for soup.
Pandora stood back a moment, watching his back, the tension in the muscles. "Michael,.." With a sigh, she wrapped her arms around his waist. She felt him stiffen, but didn't realize it was from surprise. "I seem to be saying all the wrong things. Maybe I have an easier time when we snap at each other than when I try to he considerate."
"Maybe we both do." He turned to frame her face with his hands. For a moment they looked tike friends, like lovers. "Pandora...." Could he tell her he found it impossible to think about leaving her or her leaving him? Would she understand if he told her he wanted to go on living with her, being with her? How could she possibly take in the fact that he'd been in love with her for years when he was just becoming able to accept it himself? Instead he kissed her forehead. "Let's make soup."
They couldn't work together without friction, but they discovered over the next few days that they could work together. They cooked meals, washed up, dusted furniture while the servants stayed in bed or sat, bundled up, on sofas drinking tea. True, there were times when Sweeney itched to get up and be about her business, or when Charles suffered pangs of conscience, but they were convinced they were doing their duty. Both servants felt justified when they heard laughter drift through the house.
Michael wasn't sure there had been another time in his life when he'd been so content. He was, in essence, playing house, something he'd never had the time or inclination for. He would write for hours, closed off in his office, wrapped up in plots and characters and what-ifs. Then he could break away and reality was the scent of cooking or furniture polish. He had a home, a woman, and was determined to keep them.
Late in the afternoon, he always laid a fire in the parlor. After dinner they had coffee there, sometimes quietly, sometimes during a hard-fought game of rummy. It seemed ordinary, Michael admitted. It was ordinary, unless you added Pandora. He was just setting fire to the kindling when Bruno raced into the room and upset a table. Knickknacks went flying.
"We're going to have to send you to charm school," Michael declared as he rose to deal with the rubble. Though it had been just over a month, Bruno had nearly doubled in size already. He was, without a doubt, going to grow into his paws. After righting the table, he saw the dog wiggling its way under a sofa. "What've you got there?"
Besides being large, Bruno had already earned a reputation as a clever thief. Just the day before, they'd lost a slab of pork chops. "All right, you devil, if that's tonight's chicken, you're going into solitary confinement in the garage." Getting down on all fours, Michael looked under the couch. It wasn't chicken the dog was gnawing noisily on, but Michael's shoe.
"Damn!" Michael made a grab but the dog backed out of reach and kept on chewing. "That shoe's worth five times what you are, you overgrown mutt. Give it here." Flattening, Michael scooted halfway under the sofa. Bruno merely dragged the shoe away again, enjoying the game.
"Oh, how sweet." Pandora walked into the parlor and eyed Michael from the waist down. He did, she decided, indeed have some redeeming qualities. "Are you playing with the dog, Michael, or dusting under the sofa?"
"I'm going to make a rug out of him."
"Dear, dear, we sound a little cross this evening. Bruno, here baby." Carrying the shoe like a trophy, Bruno squirmed out from under the couch and pranced over to her. "Is this what you were after?" Pandora held up the shoe while petting Bruno with her other hand. "How clever of you to teach Bruno to fetch."
Michael pulled himself up, then yanked the shoe out of her hand. It was unfortunately wet and covered with teeth marks. "That's the second shoe he's ruined. And he didn't even have the courtesy to take both from one pair."
She looked down at what had been creamy Italian leather. "You never wear anything but tennis shoes or boots anyway."
Michael slapped the shoe against his palm. Bruno, tongue lolling, grinned up at him. "Obedience school."
"Oh, Michael, we can't send our child away." She patted his cheek. "It's just a phase."
"This phase has cost me two pairs of shoes, my dinner and we never did find that sweater he dragged off."
"You shouldn't drop your clothes on the floor," Pandora said easily. "And that sweater was already ratty. I'm sure Bruno thought it was a rag."
"He never chews up anything of yours."
Pandora smiled. "No, he doesn't, does he?"
Michael gave her a long look. "Just what're you so happy about?"
"I had a phone call this afternoon."
Michael saw the excitement in her eyes and decided the issue of the shoe could wait. "And?"
"From Jacob Morison."
"The producer?"
"The producer," Pandora repeated. She'd promised herself she wouldn't overreact, but the excitement threatened to burst inside her. "He's going to be filming a new movie. Jessica Wainwright's starring."
Jessica Wainwright, Michael mused. Grande dame of the theater and the screen. Eccentric and brilliant, her career had spanned two generations. "She's retired. Wainwright hasn't made a film in five years,"
"She's making this one. Billy Mitchell's directing."
Michael tilted his head in consideration as he studied Pandora's face. It made him think of the cat and the canary. "Sounds like they're pulling out all the stops."
"She plays a half-mad reclusive countess who's dragged back to reality by a visit from her granddaughter. Cass Barkley's on the point of signing for the part of the granddaughter."
"Oscar material. Now, are you going to tell me why Morison called you?"
"Wainwright's an admirer of my work. She wants me to design all her jewelry for the movie. All!" After an attempt to sound businesslike, Pandora laughed and did a quick spin. "Morison said the only way he could talk her out of retirement was to promise her the best. She wants me."
Michael grabbed her close and spun her around. Bruno raced around the room barking and shaking tables. "We'll celebrate," he decided. "Champagne with our fried chicken."
Pandora held on tight. "I feel like an idiot."
"Why?"
"I've always thought I was, well, beyond star adoration. I'm a professional." Bubbling with excitement, she clung to Michael. "While I was talking to Morison I told myself it was a great career opportunity, a wonderful chance to express myself in a large way. Then I hung up and all I could think was Jessica Wainwright! A Morison production! I felt as silly as any bubble-headed fan."
"Proves you're not half the snob you think you are." Michael cut off her retort with a kiss. "I'm proud of you," he murmured.
That threw her off. All of her pleasure in the assignment was dwarfed by that one sentence. No one but Jolley had ever been proud of her. Her parents loved her, patted her head and told her to do what she wanted. Pride was a valued addition to affection. "Really?"
Surprised, Michael drew her back and kissed her again. "Of course I am."
"But you've never thought much of my work."
"No, that's not true. I've never understood why people feel the need to deck themselves out in bangles, or why you seemed content to design on such a small scale. But as far as your work goes I'm not blind, Pandora. Some of it's beautiful, some of it's extraordinary and some of it's incomprehensible. But it's all imaginative and expertly crafted."
"Well." She let out a long breath. "This is a red-letter day. I always thought you felt I was playing with beads because I didn't want to face a real job. You even said so once."
He grinned. "Only because it made you furious. You're spectacular to look at when you're furious."
She thought about it a moment, then let out a sigh. "I suppose this is the best time to tell you."
He tensed, but forced his voice to come calmly. "To tell me what?"
"I watch the Emmy Awards every time you're nominated."
Tension flowed out in a laugh. There'd been guilt in every syllable. "What?"
"Every time," Pandora repeated, amazed that her cheeks were warm. "It made me feel good to watch you win. And..." She paused to clear her throat. "I've watched a few episodes of Logan's Run."
Michael wondered if she realized she sounded as though she was confessing a major social flaw. "Why?"
"Uncle Jolley was always going on about it; I'd even hear it discussed at parties. So I thought I'd see for myself. Naturally, it was just a matter of intellectual curiosity."
"Naturally. And?"
She moved her shoulders. "Of its kind—"
He stopped that line of response by twisting her ear. "Some people only tell the truth under duress."
"All right." Half laughing, she reached to free herself. "It's good!" she shouted when he held on. "I liked it."
"Why?"
"Michael, that hurts!"
"We have ways of making you talk."
"I liked it because the characters are genuine, the plots are intelligent. And—" she had to swallow hard on this one "—it has style."
When he let go of her ear to kiss her soundly, she gave him a halfhearted shove. "If you repeat
that to
anyone, I'll deny it."
that to
anyone, I'll deny it."
"It'll be our little secret." He kissed her again, not so playfully.
Pandora was almost becoming used to the sensation of having her muscles loosen and feeling as if her bones were dissolving. She moved closer, delighting in the feeling of having her body mold against his. When his heart thudded, she felt the pulse inside herself. When his tiny moan escaped, she tasted it on her tongue. When the need leaped forward, she saw it in his eyes.
She pressed her mouth to his again and let her own hunger rule. There would be consequences. Hadn't she already accepted it? There would be pain. She was already braced for it. She couldn't stop what would happen in the weeks ahead, but she could direct what would happen tonight and perhaps tomorrow. It had to be enough. Everything she felt, wanted, feared, went into the kiss.
It left him reeling. She was often passionate, wildly so. She was often demanding, erotically so. But he'd never felt such pure emotion from her. There was a softness under the strength, a request under the urgency. He drew her closer, more gently than was his habit, and let her take what she wanted.
Her head tilted back, inviting, luring. His grip tightened. His fingers wound into her hair and were lost in the richness of it. He felt the need catapult through his body so that he was tense against her sudden, unexpected yielding. She never submitted, and until that moment he hadn't known how stirring it could be to have her do so. Without a thought to time and place, they lowered to the sofa.
Because she was pliant, he was tender. Because he was gentle, she was patient. In a way they'd never experienced, they made love without rush, without fire, without the whirlwind. Thoroughly, they gave to each other. A touch, a taste, a murmured request, a whispered answer. The fire sizzled gently behind them as night fell outside the windows. Fingers brushed, lips skimmed so that they learned the power of quiet arousal. Though they'd been lovers for weeks, they brought love to passion for the first time.
The room was quiet, the light dim. If she'd never looked for romance, it found her there, wrapped easily in Michael's arms. Closer they came, but comfortably. Deeper they dived, but lazily. As they came together, Pandora felt her firm line of independence crack to let him in. But the weakness she'd expected didn't follow. Only contentment.
It was contentment that followed her into that quick and final burst of pleasure.
They were still wrapped together, half dozing, when the phone rang. With a murmur of complaint, Michael reached over his head to the table and lifted the receiver.
"Hello."
"Michael Donahue, please."
"Yeah, this is Michael."
"Michael, it's Penny."
He rubbed a hand over his eyes as he tried to put a face with the name. Penny—the little blonde in the apartment next to his. Wanted to be a model. He remembered vaguely leaving her the number of the Folley in case something important was delivered to his apartment. "Hi." He watched Pandora's eyes flutter open.
"Michael, I hate to do this, but I had to call I've already phoned the police. They're on their way."
"Police?" He struggled into a half-sitting position. "What's going on?"
"You've been robbed."
"What?" He sat bolt upright, nearly dumping Pandora on the floor. "When?"
"I'm not sure. I got home a few minutes ago and noticed your door wasn't closed all the way. I thought maybe you'd come back so I knocked. Anyway, I pushed the door open a bit. The place was turned upside down. I came right over here and called the cops. They asked me to contact you and told me not to go back over."
"Thanks." Dozens of questions ran through his mind but there was no one to answer them. "Look, I'll try to come in tonight."
"Okay. Hey, Michael, I'm really sorry."
"Yeah. I'll see you."
"Michael?" Pandora grabbed his hand as soon as he hung up the receiver.
"Somebody broke into my apartment."
"Oh no." She'd known the peace couldn't last. "Do you think it was—"
"I don't know." He dragged a hand through his hair. "Maybe. Or maybe it was someone who noticed no one had been home for a while."
She felt the anger in him but knew she couldn't soothe it. "You've got to go."
Nodding, he took her hand. "Come with me."
"Michael, one of us has to be here with Sweeney and Charles."
"I'm not leaving you alone."
"You have to go," she repeated. "If it was one of the family, maybe you can find something to prove it. In any case, you have to see to this. I'll be fine."
"Just like the last time I was away."
Pandora lifted a brow, "I'm not incompetent, Michael."
"But you'll be alone."
"I have Bruno. Don't give me that look," she ordered. "He may not be ferocious, but he certainly knows how to bark. I'll lock every door and window."
He shook his head. "Not good enough."
"All right, we'll call the local police. They have Fitzhugh's report about trespassers. We'll explain that I'm going to be alone for the night and ask them to keep an eye on the place,"
"Better." But he rose to pace. "If this is a setup..."
"Then we're prepared for it this time."
Michael hesitated, thought it through, then nodded. "I'll call the police."