Bravo Unwrapped (20 page)

“I hate that name.”

He laid her hand on his chest again and petted her fingers, until she loosened her fist and laid it flat against his heart. “I kind of like it,” he dared to whisper. Her hand snapped tight again. He stroked it, slow and steady, until she let it relax once more. Then he suggested, “And it
is
your name.”

“No, it's not.”

“Yeah. It is. It's part of you. Maybe not a big part, but it's the name your mother gave you.”

She lifted her head to look at him. Whatever she saw in his beat-up face must have soothed her, because she laid her head back down and snuggled in against his shoulder. “I don't even remember her….”

“Not at all?”

“Uh-uh. Not really. I have some old photos. And the stories L.T. tells, about what a wonderful woman she was. I think that she was…loving, you know? I have a sense of her, I guess you could say. A sense of being held in gentle arms, of her voice, singing me a lullaby. And then…” The words trailed off.

He nuzzled her hair. “And then, what?”

She sighed. “Oh, I don't know. A huge emptiness. A gaping hole of loss, right in the center of my toddler self…”

He wrapped his other arm around her and gathered her in, pressing his lips to her temple, against her cheek, in her hair. “But you came through okay, now, didn't you? You came through just fine.”

“Sometimes I wonder…”

“Don't wonder. Ever. You're one damn fine woman. Take it from the man who knows.”

She laughed, then, an easy laugh. “Okay. Bitsy. Now and then, but just between us.”

 

They lit a second lantern when they sat down to share a late dinner. And then it was time for him to finish paying for the privilege of knowing her given name.

They stripped the bed, except for the bottom sheet, and Buck stretched out on it, naked as the day he was born, arms and legs spread wide. She tied his wrists to the wrought-iron headboard and his ankles to the legs of the bed.

“You're pretty good with those knots, you know that, Bits?”

“I'm a woman of many talents.”

“No argument there.”

Having secured the final knot, she began nibbling her way up his right shinbone. It was good—the feel of her teeth, nipping, the sexy swipe of her clever tongue.

But still, he found himself thinking of a certain Stephen King novel. He lifted his head off the mattress and asked, “You ever read
Gerald's Game?
”

She looked up from licking his kneecap. “Stephen King, am I right?”

He nodded. “Husband—Gerald, get it?—ties his wife to the bed for a little edgy love-play.”

She sat back on her excellent haunches with a sigh. “Why do I get the feeling you're about to ruin the mood?”

He put on his most innocent expression—no mean feat, spread-eagled and butt naked as he happened to be. “Okay. Never mind.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, if you insist. After all, there is the fact that your every wish is my command…”

“Just get it over with.”

“Okay, okay. Gerald's wife is tied to the bed. Did I mention they're in an isolated cabin?”

“I think you might require a spanking.”

“Uh-uh. Not part of the deal. You'll have to tell me more than your real name to get me to agree to any slapping or paddling. Got any more secrets to share?” He almost dared to hope that she'd give it up about the baby.

No such luck. “You're tied up. I can do what I want with you.”

“That wouldn't be nice—not to mention, fair.”

She scowled at him. “Continue.”

“With the story?”

“What else?”

“Well, it's right at the crucial moment…and Gerald has a heart attack. Dies right there, on the floor of the cabin.”

“And?”

“Isn't that enough? Gerald's dead and our heroine is tied up and can't get free. No one to help her. I think there's a starving dog in there somewhere, and the dog eats Gerald's—”

“Stop.”

“Let me just say, it's a grisly little story.”

“I'll bet. Thank you so much for sharing.”

“Hey. Anytime.”

She shook a finger at him. “You never did care much for bondage or restraint.”

“Oops. Nailed me.”

She raked that silky hair back from her face, plowing her fingers through the thick strands. He watched her breasts rise with the movement. His gaze wandered lower, to the gorgeous curves of her belly, the glint of her navel ring—and lower still, to the soft, sleekly trimmed hair between her firm thighs…

He never had been able to resist the sight of her naked.

She grinned. “Now we're getting somewhere.” And she got up on her hands and knees, bent over his growing erection—and licked it.

That did it. He couldn't hold back a groan.

She looked up his body and into his eyes. “Oh, Buck…” Her voice was sweet and slow as molasses.

“You know, Bits, on second thought, maybe I can get into this scene after all.”

 

It snowed all the next day, which was Wednesday. Buck loved every minute of being locked in a one-room cabin with B.J. In the evening, over dinner, they talked about how they might not get out tomorrow, either.

B.J. said she wondered if Buck had planned things this way.

He admitted, “I wanted this time with you. And when I saw my chance, I took it.”

She seemed to have grown surprisingly philosophical about their dilemma. “What can I do? If we're stuck here, we're stuck.”

“I promise to make being stranded with me as bearable as possible.”

She grinned then. “So far, you're doing a bang-up job.”

Late that night, in bed, she confessed that she'd always tried to be the son L.T. never had. It wasn't working. It never had. “Lately, I find myself thinking that the only thing for me to do is quit the magazine. L.T.'s always stepping in and I think he always will.

He never lets me take complete charge of my own job.”

He said, “I understand your frustration. After all, I know L. T. Carlyle. But I also know that you're the best at what you do, that L.T. counts on you more than he realizes.”

She made a low, scoffing sound. “Or wants to admit.”

“So then, maybe you
should
quit. Give the old tyrant a chance to learn the hard way how much
Alpha
needs you…”

She never said right out that she
would
quit. He found himself wondering if she
could
quit.
Alpha,
after all, was the center of the world as she'd always known it.

Thursday dawned. The snow had stopped falling, but it lay, white and sparkling, two feet deep, outside the cabin door. The day was cloudy, but noticeably warmer. The slow melt began in a steady, drip-drip-dripping off the eaves.

They shoveled a path to the mine entrance and Buck took her inside the main tunnel. She admired the rusted ore cart a few feet beyond the cave's mouth, and he gave her a quick rundown on the concept of hard-rock mining, and on the various milling procedures for separating veins of gold from quartz rock.

All day, he waited for her to tell him about the baby.

She never did.

 

They went to sleep that night to the sound of water dripping from the cabin's tin roof. When they woke in the morning, a glance out the single window over the sink showed the two feet of snow had melted down to patches on the ground.

They ate a quick breakfast, got dressed and went outside to check things out. It was an easy stroll across the clearing to where the steep road cut down the mountain. The road was muddy, but clear. In the trees around them, birds trilled out giddy tunes, as if in sheer delight at the sight of a sunny day.

Buck turned to her. “Well. I'd say we're free to head out of here.”

B.J. looked in his eyes and thought of the magical time they'd just shared.

She didn't want to go. She could have stayed there forever, just the two of them, hanging out in the cabin, making love, talking all night…

And really, what could it hurt to stay a day or two more?

L.T. would be furious. But so what? He'd get over it. And so far, Giles had been managing just fine without her. He could manage a little longer.

“Buck, I was thinking…” It was as far as she got.

They both heard the sound at the same time. A vehicle was laboring toward them up the hill. It turned the corner on the last switchback below and came into view: a battered blue pickup.

Buck said, “That's Ma's pickup…”

They waited as the old truck toiled upward, spraying mud, bouncing over rocks and potholes. As
it neared, B.J. could see Chastity in the passenger seat, a grim expression on her lived-in face. Bowie, his face as battered as Buck's, had the wheel.

At last, the pickup crested the hill, gears grinding for that final push. It was still rolling to a stop when Chastity shoved open her door and jumped down. She came straight for B.J.

“What?” B.J. didn't like the look on Chastity's face.

Chastity took her hand. “Come here. Come with me….”

Buck demanded, “Ma. What's up?”

But Chastity ignored him. She led B.J. into the cabin and over to the rough pine table. “Here,” she said. “Sit down.”

B.J., bewildered, watched as Buck and Bowie entered. Bowie looked bleak.

Buck said, “All right, Ma. Out with it. What the hell's going on?”

Chastity, who had never let go of B.J.'s hand, knelt right there in front of her.

A shiver slid down B.J.'s spine. “Chastity. You're scaring me…”

“It's your father—” Chastity said, and hastily added “—he's alive, don't worry.”

B.J. couldn't breathe. Her stomach rolled. Somehow, she managed to ask, “What happened?”

And at last, Chastity told her, “He's had a heart attack.”

T
hey raced down the mountain behind the old blue pickup, bumping over ruts and potholes with no concern at all for the undercarriage of the SUV. At the Sierra Star, B.J. only had time to throw her clothes in her suitcases and hug Chastity and Glory goodbye, promising both of them that she wouldn't lose touch.

She scribbled her home address and phone number onto a business card and pressed it into Glory's hand. “Any time you need me, I'm there.”

Glory gave her a brave smile. “And I'm here for you. Always….”

Even the surly Bowie shook B.J.'s hand and said he hoped her dad would be okay.

The jet was waiting for them in Reno. While it was being cleared for takeoff, B.J. called the Castle. She got a first-hand report from Roderick. In his dry, matter-of-fact way, L.T.'s ever-loyal retainer assured her that
her father had received the best care available, including the new, less-invasive non-bypass surgery, which meant a smaller incision in his chest and a series of high-tech clamps to keep certain areas of his heart still while the surgeon grafted on veins L.T.'s calf and chest.

Roderick admitted that it had been a close call. Wednesday, L.T. had complained of acid indigestion—as he'd been doing on and off of late. The supposed indigestion had grown worse.

B.J. asked bleakly, “Heartburn, you mean?”

“Yes, Ms. B.J. Heartburn. That's right.”

She heard her father's rough voice in her head, last week, on the phone:
You're giving me serious heartburn here, you know that? My chest is on fire.

She'd told him to take a Rolaids. Never for a second had she imagined there might be something to his complaint….

“Ms. B.J.? Are you still there?”

“Yes, Roderick. Go on.”

“There's not much more to tell. Your father retreated to his study, where Ms. Jessica found him—on the floor, clutching his chest. We had him raced to Mount Sinai. They have a top cardiac unit there. And now he is doing well, recovering more rapidly than he would have after traditional surgery. His surgeon has said he may be allowed to come home tomorrow, or perhaps Sunday.”

B.J. felt numb. L. T. Carlyle: mortal, after all? It couldn't be….

Roderick added, “Ms. Jessica says he's been asking for you.”

B.J. doubted that
asking
was the right word, as L.T. never
asked
for anything or anyone. He blustered and commanded.

And she had little doubt he was nothing short of livid that she'd been unreachable on the day he'd come so close to meeting his maker.

She felt pretty bad about that, herself. Beneath the shock and numbness, she recognized a definite and distinctly unpleasant sensation: guilt. She
should
have been at the Sierra Star when Jessica called to tell her what had happened.

If she hadn't been snowbound with Buck, having the best time of her life, she'd be at her father's side right now….

They left the ground at a little past two in the afternoon. The flight took five hours and fifteen minutes, but they lost three hours to changes in time zones. It was after ten at night when they landed at Teterboro.

Roderick had seen to it that one of L.T.'s limousines was waiting when they touched down. The driver loaded their bags in the back, and they headed for Manhattan and Mount Sinai Hospital.

When they arrived at the hospital, Buck insisted on going in with her. She tried to tell him that it wasn't necessary.

But he shook his head and took firm hold of her hand. “Yeah. I think it is.”

“He'll probably be sleeping. They might not even let me in to see him….”

“So let's find out.”

Inside, they were directed to the Guggenheim Pavilion, where an aide, a redheaded woman with a pleasant smile, took them in tow and explained regretfully that L.T. was sleeping and visiting hours had ended at nine. The aide made reassuring noises. “Your father is doing very well, Ms. Carlyle. Chances are he'll be released in the next couple of days.”

“I just…I've been away,” B.J. said, as if that explained anything. “If I could just
see
him. I promise not to wake him up….”

The aide agreed, finally, with the stipulation that she do her best not to disturb the patient. “Your father's friend, Jessica, is already in the room with him.” The woman turned her pleasant smile on Buck. “Family and household members only. Are you a relative?” B.J., not really wanting Buck to go in with her, opened her mouth to say no.

But Buck was quicker. “Just call me Cousin Buck.”

The aide shrugged. “Well, then. This way…”

They turned for the wide doors that led to the patient area. The doors whooshed open and shut behind them and all at once, B.J. realized that she was glad, after all, for the warmth and strength of Buck's hand in hers.

The aide stopped at the door to one of the rooms. “Here we are.” She signaled them in ahead.

B.J. cautiously pushed open the door. The sweet, humid scent of too many flowers enveloped her. Even in the dim light, B.J. could see that every available surface had a flower arrangement on it.

For a moment, the shadowy sight of all those flowers baffled her. But then again…

Of course. People would have sent flowers.

L.T. was widely admired as a man to be emulated: a great hunter, a lover of beautiful women, a success in the truest sense of that very American word. Flowers might not be L.T.'s thing—far from it. But news of his heart attack had made
The Times,
a column on the fifth page. B.J. had read it for herself during the plane ride home. Millions of others would have read it by now, as well. Flowers would definitely have been sent—a lot of them.

Jessica, in an armchair at L.T.'s side, jumped lightly to her feet and came straight to B.J., holding out her slender arms. “I'm so glad you're here,” her father's girlfriend whispered in her ear.

For the first time, as she hugged Jessica, B.J. felt what might be called affection for L.T.'s latest
Alpha
Girl. The past few days must have been hell, but Jessica had stuck by her man—was still sticking by him, though it seemed the worst danger was past and no one would have faulted her if she'd chosen to spend tonight at the Castle in L.T.'s luxurious king-sized bed.

The aide had already gone. Jessica pantomimed drinking coffee and mouthed, “I'll be right back.” B.J. gave her a nod. With a bright smile for Buck, who had moved back near the room's wide picture window, Jessica left them, bracing the door halfway open on her way out, so they'd have enough light to see by.

B.J. turned to her father. L.T., snoring steadily, lay face-up on the bed. They had him hooked to an IV drip and also to a couple of monitors that made slow beeping sounds.

B.J. approached the bed. Up close, she could see the bruises of stress and pain beneath her father's eyes. His skin had a grayish pallor and seemed loose on the bones of his face.

Smaller, she thought. He looked smaller, somehow—less vital. As if he'd somehow shrunk inside his skin.

His left arm, the one with the IV in it and the monitors attached, lay along his side. His right was bent, the hand resting on his chest. B.J. looked at that hand and considered laying her own on top of it.

She didn't do it. Partly because she didn't want to wake him—and partly because there'd never been a lot of touching between them, not since she was six, when
he'd told her that she couldn't sit on his lap anymore. He wasn't raising any daddy's girl, he'd growled at her. He wanted her to grow up to be strong and self-sufficient, a woman who stood proudly on her own two feet….

And what to do now? Okay, she'd seen him. He was alive. Should she sink into the chair Jessica had vacated?

Or was it better that she and Buck just go ahead and leave. She could return in the morning, maybe….

She ought to be better at this, she really should.

But all she kept thinking was that she wished he were wide awake and mean as ever. She wished he would open his eyes and yell at her.

And right then, as her wish took form, he granted it—more or less.

His snoring snorted to a stop. His eyes drifted open, unfocused at first. But then he spotted her. He actually managed a scowl.

“It's about damn time you showed up.” His voice was raspy. He couldn't quite deliver his usual ear-grating shout.

“Hi, L.T.”

“Where in hell have you been?”

“It's a long story.”

He grunted. “Fine. Spare me the details. I want you at work first thing tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow's Saturday.”

“So? That never stopped you from working before.”

“You're right. I'll check in at the office in the morning.”

“Harumph. Good.” His scowl deepened. “Where's Jessica?”

“She went to get coffee, I think. She said she'd be right back.”

“It stinks to high heaven in here. Smells like a damn greenhouse. Tell her I want all these flowers out.
I
told her. But since I've been in a weakened condition, she had them all brought in anyway.”

“I'll tell her, L.T.”

“And get me a cigar.”

“To that I would have to say…ask the nurse.”

“The nurse?” he sneered. “What's the nurse going to say but no?”

“‘No' works for me. You've had a heart attack, remember?”

“As if I could forget.”

“I'm guessing—though I'm no expert—that you'll be giving up cigars.”

“Who asked you?—and you're guessing wrong.”

She decided not to argue the point. There had never been much of a percentage in arguing with L.T.

He lifted his head off the pillow and squinted toward the window, where Buck's shadowed shape was visible. “Who's that? Buck?”

Buck spoke up. “L.T. Good to see you.”

“No, it's not. I look like holy hell—and let me make this perfectly clear. Whatever's up between you and B.J., keep it in Manhattan from now on.”

“However you want it, L.T.”

A rattling laugh escaped her father. He groaned and pressed his hand to his chest. “Uh. Hurts. They cut me open, sliced me right down the center. Me. L. T. Carlyle. Never thought I'd see the day.” L.T. narrowed his eyes at B.J. again. “And you. I ought to fire your ass.”

First rule of dealing with her father: never let him see he's hit the mark. “Go for it.”

He let his head drop back to the pillow. “You watch yourself from here on in—or I just might.”