Within Reach (26 page)

Michael shot her an embarrassed glance. “Right. Well, anyway, she made the base and had it wired up for me. She sells her things to some of the local shops.” He paused. “You have one of them.”

“I do?”

“The ashtray in the den.”

Danica heard the quiet pride in his voice. “Your mother made that? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It was pleasure enough for me to know.”

“I love it!” She lowered her voice. “I keep paper clips in it, though. Do you think she’ll mind?”

He laughed and shook his head. “I keep telling her that she should try to sell in New York, but she claims she doesn’t have the time. She says she doesn’t want the pressure and that if she enjoys what she’s doing, that’s all that matters. I wish I could be as content. It’s not that I need adulation, but I’m not sure my work would mean much to me if people never read my books.”

“The situations are different, Michael. Your mother—”

“Call her Gena. She’ll want that.”

“…Gena is at a different stage in life, and in a sense she already has public exposure. Her four greatest works are out on the streets of the world—Brice, Corey, Cilla, and you.”

Michael grinned. “You two will get along fine. Just fine.”

But Danica was suffering momentary cold feet. “Does she know about me?”

“I’ve spoken of you as a friend.” He grew solemn. “I haven’t told her everything. Given her own experience in life, I’m not sure she’d appreciate the fact that I’m in love with a married woman.”

If Gena suspected anything, she kept it to herself. To Danica, she was warm and welcoming, to Michael openly adoring. Danica easily understood where Michael’s physicality came from. Gena, too, was a toucher.

She was slender, more petite than Cilla, and had an attractive crop of short silver hair. Michael had her brown eyes—or maybe it was the warmth in them which was familiar—but there the physical similarity ended.

As with Cilla, Danica found herself quickly drawn to this other woman in Michael’s life. Gena was interesting and nonconforming in a way Danica found thoroughly refreshing. Though Michael claimed that Cilla was like their father in terms of agressiveness, Danica could see where she got her impulsiveness. In the course of the day Gena excitedly dragged them to see the house she had just sold to a painter, corraled them into the local movie house to view a short foreign film she had heard was superb, scrambled on Michael’s shoulders to hang a bird feeder she thought was too low, and cooked the most delicious vegetarian dinner Danica had ever imagined could be made.

“Tired?” Michael asked as they drove back to Kennebunkport much later that night.

“Mmmm. But pleasantly so. She’s wonderful. How lucky you are to have a mother like that.”

Her tone held appreciation, perhaps a little envy, but no bitterness, and for that Michael was grateful. He hadn’t wanted to underscore Danica’s own problems by introducing her to Gena. Indeed he had spent hours worrying that that might happen. In the end, though, he had simply wanted these two women to meet. Danica’s reaction to the day had convinced him he’d been right. Moreover, he was thrilled with the genuine affection Gena had shown Danica. It pleased him to know that his mother saw the beauty in the woman he loved.

Cilla was surprised to look up from the jumble of notes on her desk to see Jeffrey approaching. She wasn’t sure what had alerted her to his arrival, certainly not his footsteps when the city room was filled with the steady click of computer keyboards. She broke into a smile, but waited for him to speak first.

“Hi,” he said quietly.

“Hi, yourself.”

“I was passing by and just thought I’d drop in. I wasn’t sure you’d be here. You’re usually out running around.”

There had been no censure in his voice to discourage her. “I don’t get any writing done when I’m out running around. For that matter, I don’t get much writing done here.” She gestured toward her cluttered desktop. “Look at this mess. I’m not terribly organized.”

“You manage to get the job done.” He slid into the chair adjacent to her desk. No one in the large room appeared to be paying him much heed. He was grateful to go unrecognized. “I read your piece on political corruption. It was good.”

“It said nothing you didn’t know before.”

“But it was well researched and presented several new angles. Have you gotten any response?”

“You mean, from official-type people, as in we-want-to-look-into-this? Not exactly. But then, I didn’t expect to. Official-type people work in strange ways. They keep things confidential until all of a sudden they’re knocking down your door screaming for your sources.”

“Come on, Cilla. I never did that.”

“You didn’t have to knock down my door. You were already inside,” she argued, then softened her tone and looked down. “But you’re right, Jeff. You never did that. Even though I was afraid you would.”

“You shouldn’t have been. I was the first one to realize that you couldn’t divulge a source.”

“Still, you always asked.”

“I was curious.” He leaned closer for privacy’s sake, as well as for the simple pleasure of being nearer Cilla. “
Personally
curious. Not professionally. Personally. One part of me wanted to know everything you were doing.” He lowered his voice all the more. “I suppose it was a kind of possessiveness, a male need.”

“Possessiveness isn’t limited to men. We feel it, too.”

“That’s the feminist in you talking, the woman who wants the upper hand.”

“It is not! I don’t need to have the upper hand all the time. Don’t impose your insecurities on me, Jeffrey Winston. It’s not fair.”

He was about to soundly refute her claim when he caught his breath, then slowly let it out. “You may be right.”

“I…what?”

His lips thinned. “Don’t make me say it again. It was hard enough the first time.”

“You acknowledge that you have insecurities?”

“I always did acknowledge it. Just not to you.”

“Well,” she sighed, “that’s something. I guess we both have them.”

Jeffrey wanted to talk more, but he knew there was a better time and place. He had come here to see if Cilla was truly as receptive as Michael suggested she might be. “So,” he began more casually, “anything juicy on the fire?” He had been trying to lighten things up but realized instantly that he had only opened another old wound. To his amazement, Cilla didn’t see it that way. She was frowning, studying the telephone that sat on the desk.

“I got the weirdest call this morning.”

“From whom?” He winced. “Chalk that. Is it anything you can talk about?”

She shot him a helpless glance, one he’d never seen before. “Sure. There’s nothing to it, really. Except that…instinct tells me…I can feel there’s something there, but he wouldn’t say much.”

Jeffrey waited patiently, telling himself that he would have to trust Cilla to speak if she wished. He was rewarded when she met his gaze. “It was a man. He wouldn’t identify himself. He mumbled something about sexual favors and power and lust. I don’t know. He may have been drunk, or stoned. But it was like he had second thoughts the minute he called. I can’t help but feel that he had something legitimate to say.” She paused. “He hung up before I could get anything concrete from him.”

“He’ll call back if he wants. He knows where to reach you.”

“Still, it’s frustrating. I keep thinking that he’s somewhere out there and that I can’t begin to imagine who or where he is.”

Jeffrey admired her dedication, which was as whole-hearted as ever. But there was something else, something that took the edge off. She seemed less confident, more vulnerable. He wondered if she was indeed mellowing as Michael had said.

“Uh, listen, Cilla. The reason I came by…well, I thought maybe we could have dinner together. I know you’re often out with the gang—” he tossed his head toward the others in the room “—and I realize that it’s important for you—”

“When?”

“Excuse me?”

Cilla had never been a shrinking pansy. She smiled. “When would you like to have dinner? I could make it Thursday night if you’re free.”

“Thursday night?” He somehow managed to master his surprise. He had fully expected she would make things challenging. But he was too old to play games; maybe she had outgrown them, too. Thursday was just two days off. He grinned, leaned forward and quickly kissed her cheek before he stood. “Thursday’s great. Should I pick you up?”

“You know where I’ll be,” she said in that same soft tone that had emerged from time to time.

Again he was surprised. He had half expected her to suggest they meet at a restaurant. Mellowing? Very definitely, and becomingly. With an unsteady breath, he grinned. “Right. See you around eight?”

“That’d be great.”

He nodded, then was off. Cilla stared after him, thinking that he had to be the most handsome man in the room. She felt satisfied, and excited. It occurred to her that she hadn’t felt that way in a long, long time.

Morgan Emery shifted to a more comfortable position in his place of concealment just beneath the deck of the elegant cabin cruiser he had rented. It had been four weeks since William Marshall had hired him, and he was beginning to wonder whether the money was worth it after all. He had hidden behind boulders, skulked in rural doorways, walked in and out of restaurants, seen more of the southern Maine coast than he had ever wanted to see, and he was getting nothing, at least nothing worth anything.

Oh, he had pictures, but not a one was truly compromising. He had shots of the two on the beach, shots of them in the car, shots of them riding bicycles, shots of them coming out of the local library, shots of them at one or the other’s front door. There would be a hand on a shoulder and he would hold his breath waiting to photograph a kiss, then nothing. There would be an arm around a waist, so close to a caress, then it would fall away. There would be a face before a face, a smile, then a backing off. Even now, as he trained the telescopic lens of his camera on Michael Buchanan’s deck, all he could see was two people, sitting in separate chairs, eating the steaks they had just grilled.

Emery’s mouth watered, but when he groped for the last ham and cheese sandwich he had brought, his appetite waned.

Surveillance. He hated it. Long hours sitting, waiting. What he loved was the action of the big city, where a private investigator could sink his teeth into something meaty. This? Hell, this was baby-sitting. High-paying, sure, but with little challenge.

Unfortunately, when a member of the United States Senate offered you a job, you didn’t turn it down. Personal pull was worth a mint, and William Marshall had pull. A good word from him might, just might, get Emery another stint working undercover with the Feds. Now,
that
had been a challenge, playing the part of a fence in a sting. He had had a good time. Maybe he should have been an actor. Hell, he had the looks…

At movement on the distant deck Emery grew alert, but it was another false alarm. They were carrying plates into the house. And there was the damned dog again. Oh, he had fantastic pictures of the dog. It was a beautiful beast, he had to admit. But Marshall didn’t want to see the dog.

What in the hell was the matter with them? Was Buchanan a eunuch? A beautiful woman…hours with her each day…and zilch.

With a snap, Morgan Emery tugged his equipment into the boat, then swiveled around and hoisted himself into the pilot’s seat. It was a magnificent craft, he mused, sliding his hands around the gleaming brass steering wheel. Marshall had given him carte blanche on expenses, and he had reasoned that he had to look properly posh on the water. Someday maybe he would own a boat like this himself. He deserved it. Hell, what he deserved was a pretty young thing from town and a night of hot sex. He would be impressive. And since he had the boat till morning…

With due care he resisted the urge to push the throttle all the way forward and take off in a wild spray of sea water. But the automatic pilot kept him cruising slowly, and he couldn’t accelerate without risk of drawing attention to himself.

One thing was for sure. He would be damned if he was going to sit around any longer. Marshall wanted pictures. He would give him pictures. If they were innocent, that was Marshall’s problem. His own job was done. Over. Fini.

Danica had just returned to the deck and was looking out to sea when Michael came from behind to slip his arms around her waist. She leaned back against him and covered his hands with her own.

“Pretty, isn’t it?” she breathed.

“The sunset or the boat?”

“Both. So very peaceful.” She tipped her head against his chest. “It must be even more so out there.”

“On the boat?”

“Mmmm. The waves aren’t too high. The breeze is light.” She took a slow breath. “It’d be nice to have a boat like that. I wonder whose it is.”

Michael squinted at the sleek cabin cruiser that was moving steadily away. “I can’t see the name. It may be out of Bar Harbor or Newport, or somewhere on Long Island.”

“Mmmm, dream material. I didn’t see anyone on deck. What do you think they’re doing? Maybe drinking champagne below or eating by candlelight?”

“Maybe bailing bilge water.”

She elbowed him and he chuckled. “You’re awful, Michael. Here I was, creating a beautifully romantic picture and you shatter it in one fell swoop.”

“I’m sorry. Go ahead. Create.”

She couldn’t resist the temptation, though her thoughts turned inward. “If I had a boat like that, I’d be free. Oh, not in the most real sense, but then, being on a boat like that would be a fantasy anyway. I’d just …take off. Cruise away. Separate myself from the land and its restraints.” She lowered her chin and gave a self-conscious laugh. “You must think I’m crazy.”

“Not at all.” He realized that Blake could buy her a boat like that in a minute. She could probably buy it for herself.
He
could buy it for her. So it wasn’t the dream of having the boat that was beyond reach, but rather the dream of freedom. Freedom. What he’d give for her to have it! “I hear what you’re saying. One summer, when I was in college, I crewed on a wind-jammer up here. It was hard work, but was it ever fun. We had passengers on for a week at a time, but the joy came on the days we were alone, when we could put up the sails, catch the wind and fly. We’d just lie out on the deck and relax. I felt like I owned the world then. All my worries were back on shore. I was free, for a little while at least.”