Honeymoon For Three. Sandra Field
want to get involved any more than you do.”
“Then we won’t get involved,” she said. “It’s simple.”
He wasn’t sure that anything about Cory Haines—or his reaction to her—was simple. He passed her the cream for her coffee, and with a huge attempt at normality said, “You’re thirty-one years old and your company’s only been in existence for five years—what did you do before that, Cory?”
She ate a mouthful of pie and rolled her eyes in ecstasy. “Luscious,” she said, and in her mind quickly rehearsed an edited version of her working life that would reveal nothing she didn’t want it to; her answer would have the added advantage of masking with words that devastating moment of intimacy.
“I took a course in business administration and went to work for a travel agency when I was nineteen.” The same year she met Rick. “More or less by chance I started specializing in making the arrangements for women traveling alone, and tapped into a market that eventually led me to manage the agency, and then buy it out.
“I ran it for three years and at first it was enormous fun—I got to go to all kinds of interesting and exciting places. But one day I realized I was spending far too much time in the office staring at a computer screen and dealing with accountants.” She grinned. “So I sold it. At a substantial profit, I might add.”
“You’re not the type to be cooped up in an office.”
“Definitely not.” She took another mouthful of pie. “That summer I worked as a naturalist in a privately owned resort on the west coast. While I was there, I began to understand that the wilderness is beautiful on its own. Effortlessly. It’s the cities that need help. Lots of help. So I took a course in horticultural design and set up my own business here on the east coast.” As far from Rick as she could get. “It took a while to get known, but I’m doing fine now.”
“So what’s next, Cory?”
She laughed and said with the eagerness he’d come to expect, “I’d like to branch out into supplying unusual bulbs and perennials—ones that can survive our maritime climate. A lot of the catalogues are from the west coast and the fruit belt in Ontario—the Atlantic region’s been neglected. I’d enjoy doing that.”
“I’m sure you’ll succeed ... Do you want some more coffee? Or a liqueur?”
“No, thanks. I should probably head home; I have an eight-thirty appointment tomorrow morning. Let’s split the bill, shall we?”
“Why not?” he said agreeably. “Shall we share a cab too?”
“I brought the truck. The passenger seat is full of soil samples I’ve got to send off to be analyzed—sorry about that.”
She wasn’t really sorry at all, thought Cory. It was bad enough that she’d asked him to father a child. She wasn’t going to crown the evening by inviting him in for a nightcap.
The sooner she got rid of him the better.
They dealt with the bill and the tip, then Cory led the way into the foyer. When she had her coat on, Slade said, “I’ll walk you to your vehicle before I call a cab.”
Suddenly aware that she was exhausted, Cory also realized there was no point in arguing with him. She walked out into the dark street, pulling her coat closer. “Is it ever going to warm up? I’m only a couple of blocks away.”
Slade took her by the elbow. Music drifted from a jazz bar; traffic lights blinked red and green, and a crowd of teenagers jostled them on the sidewalk. Cory walked fast, her heels tapping on the concrete, her one desire to be alone in her little house. She’d made a fool of herself tonight. An utter fool.
When they reached the truck, she turned to face Slade. “I don’t expect we’ll see each other again,” she said. “Thanks so much for all your help with the land, Slade. And good luck with all your other projects.”
The wind was playing with her hair; she looked as remote as a statue. He had nothing to lose. Nothing. He cupped her face in his hand, kissed her parted lips and stepped back. “Goodbye, Cory,” he said, and to his considerable satisfaction saw that she no longer remotely resembled a statue. Rather, she looked as if she’d like to run him over with her truck. He added blandly, “I’ll wait here until you’ve driven off.”
With uncharacteristic clumsiness she unlocked the truck and climbed in. Then she slammed the door, and with a roar of the accelerator drove away down the street.
Slade headed up the hill, his hands in the pockets of his raincoat. He’d eaten too much; it would do him good to walk back to his hotel. Besides, he was too riled up to sleep.
Cory Haines wasn’t any more indifferent to him than he was to her.
Not that it mattered. Because he was going to put her right out of his mind.
Two days passed. Slade met with the mayor and the city council, pushed through his plans for the waterfront, inspected several sites on the Bedford Basin, and was approached about a lucrative contract in Montreal. But all his spare moments were spent thinking about Cory. Cory and her idea that he father a child.
Why didn’t she want to get married? Was she widowed or divorced? Why had she been so rigid in his arms on the dance floor, so resentful of his kiss by the truck? And why had she chosen him as the sole recipient of her idea?
It was an atrocious idea. So why the devil was he thinking about it night and day?
He knew why. For one thing, if he agreed to it, it would mean he’d be able to make love to her. Assuage the gnawing hunger for her body that had been with him ever since he’d first met her. Maybe then he’d be able to forget her, and she’d stop figuring in his dreams every time he laid his head on the pillow.
The other reason was one he had difficulty bringing himself to acknowledge even in the privacy of his own thoughts. If Cory got pregnant, then a child of his would be alive in the world. His own flesh and blood. Alive. Living and growing and learning.
Cory would be a good mother; he’d stake everything he owned on that. But he, Slade, would be an absentee father, his sole act that of procreation. He wouldn’t love the child. He wouldn’t even see it.
He’d be uninvolved. Safe.
His thoughts went round and round in his head, like hamsters on a treadmill. But, unlike the hamsters, he couldn’t get off the treadmill. Let alone out of the cage.
He spent the weekend with his mother, hanging pictures, carrying boxes up from the basement and painting the smaller of the two bedrooms; on Sunday they drove to Mahone Bay, where she bought herself a lovely antique armoire that he lugged into the newly decorated room and polished with lemon oil.
He planned to go back to Toronto before the end of the week. On Tuesday evening, irritable and out of sorts, he walked to the squash club. He’d booked a court for an hour, which should be long enough to wear himself out; Tom had promised to meet him there. At least when he was playing squash there wasn’t time to think about Cory. Nor was he worried about meeting her there; she and Joe always booked for early in the morning.
He played like a man demented, fighting for points he wouldn’t ordinarily have contested, risking shots that more often than not paid off, to his surprise and Tom’s chagrin. Because he was totally focused on the game, he didn’t notice the small crowd of onlookers in the gallery above his head, their heads swiveling to follow the shots. He certainly didn’t see Cory among them.
She was standing well back, clutching her racquet to her chest. For a big man Slade moved like greased lightning, his sneakers squeaking on the floor, his racquet digging the ball out of impossible situations; he was constantly on the attack, only rarely allowing himself to be caught defensively. A lot could be learned about someone by watching him play a game. He was, she thought fancifully, playing as though demons sat on his shoulder.
Ten minutes before she was due for her own game, she edged free