Beyond Desire

She sniffed the air with pleasure as scents of the roasting herbed chicken, buttermilk biscuits and apple pie baking in the oven wafted up. She sat on a low hassock, and when the cool April breeze worried her bare toes, she pulled the burnt orange caftan that she wore down to cover them. She loved the color orange, because it flattered her smooth brown complexion. The wall supported her back, comforting her because it was familiar. And she needed, loved, to have familiar people, things and places around her. But for how long? The telephone ring broke into her thoughts, and her heart seemed to drop to her middle as it had with every ring since she’s encountered Marcus at the hospital cafeteria the previous week. She raced to her bedroom.

“Hello.” That nervous squeak couldn’t be her voice.

“Hello, Amanda. This is Marcus Hickson. If you’re not busy, I’d like to come over.” She felt shivers rush through her at the sound of his rich baritone.

“When?” she asked, nervous and excited.

“Now, Amanda. I’m at the hospital. How do I get to your place?”

She gave him her address and the directions. But Caution Point was a small enough town, just over fourteen thousand people, and everybody who lived there knew how to get around. Why did he need directions? She figured it would take him about forty minutes walking and took her time about dressing. When he rang the bell in less than ten minutes, she had no choice but to greet him as she was—thick hair billowing, feet bare and burnt orange caftan clinging.

Her impression of Marcus Hickson had been of a refined, sophisticated man, and she wondered why he seemed less poised.

“Hello, Amanda. I assume you’re Amanda.” He offered her what was barely a smile. “But this is certainly one hell of a metamorphosis.”

Amanda at home was very different from Amanda anywhere else. Gone were the severe suits, sensible shoes and the thick twist or braids in which she always wore her hair. In the evenings, her heavy black mane hung loosely down her back, kinky and wild; she wore floor-length, brightly colored caftans, and shoes never touched her feet.

Thinking that he was disappointed in the way she looked, she apologized. “I’m sorry. I thought you’d need more time getting here. I didn’t have time to get dressed.”

He looked down at her and gave his left shoulder a quick shrug. “God forbid you should make yourself less attractive on my account. I caught a ride. Mind if I come in?” She stepped back and let him pass as she mused over his cryptic remarks. Not an easy man to understand, she decided.

“Before we talk business, let me show you around.” She would be foolish if she didn’t do everything she could to make him decide in her favor, so she began the tour upstairs, showing him first the guest room and adjoining bath that would be his personal quarters.

“You could rearrange it to suit yourself,” she told him, “and I’d change the covers and curtains. You’d want something more masculine.” She walked on. “This is my sitting room.”

He nodded. “You’ve got a complete office up here,” he said of her sitting room.

“You’d be welcome to use it.” They walked out onto the porch.

“This is beautiful, Amanda. Idyllic. Don’t you get lonely here?”

She answered him truthfully. “Yes. But the result of my one experience at reaching out after my aunt died is the reason you’re here. Believe me, lonely is better.”

She’s rambling, because she’s scared and nervous, he thought, and told himself that he should put her at ease. But he didn’t; the little exercise was very revealing.

She took him through the living and dining rooms and, though she didn’t invite him to do so, he followed her through the breakfast room and into the kitchen. She took the pie out of the oven and turned the chicken. Her slight body with well-rounded, feminine hips silhouetted through the caftan sounded a warning to him as she bent to her task. This wasn’t going to work. She’d upped the ante. He refused to believe that she hadn’t presented herself as a little siren just to get him to agree to her mad scheme. He had been astonished when the door was opened not by the lackluster person he’d met previously, but by a lovely and charming woman. He let his gaze travel over her back. Yeah. A real sexy sister. The sensation he experienced was not one that he welcomed.

He brought his left hand up and brushed the back of it against the bottom of his chin. In all fairness, she was entitled to try and win her case, he acknowledged silently; she had plenty to lose. He told himself to lighten up.

“What kind of contract are you offering, Amanda?” The abruptness with which he opened the topic surprised her, but it relieved her, too. If he wanted to discuss it, he hadn’t ruled it out.

“Go on in the living room; I’ll get us some coffee. Sugar or cream?” He took both.

“The kitchen’s fine.” She felt oddly secure as she watched him settle his long frame into the straight-back chair.

“Well, I thought like this. You would have no financial responsibility for me or the baby. We’d stay married for one year, and then consider the future, though I expect you’ll want to end it. You’d live here. Any of your friends or family would be welcome anytime you wanted them to come, because this would be your home. We’d both have physical exams first and you’d get the certified check as soon as we married. We’d divorce after one year on grounds of irreconcilable differences, if that’s what either of us wanted. I would bear all household expenses during that time.”

He turned sharply and stared at her. “You’re proposing to take care of me for one year?” His discomfort with the idea was obvious and, for the first time, she resented what she regarded as his unnecessary defensiveness enough to bristle and show it.

“You’ve got a more reasonable suggestion? Maybe if I knew a little something about you, I’d manage not to insult you. For starters, why did you need directions to my house? Everybody in town knows this place.” She wondered why he seemed pleased at her sharp response. Maybe he preferred women with guts to shrinking violets.

“Amanda, I live in Portsmouth. I’d brought my daughter with me to watch the sailing competition on the Sound, and a building crane fell on our rented car and crushed her almost to death. I was practically unharmed. The emergency squad took her to Caution Point General, and it hasn’t been wise to move her. I could now, but she’s learned to like and trust the nurses and she’s getting the best of care. So I’m keeping her there.”

“You’ve commuted between Portsmouth and Caution Point daily for fourteen months?”

“Fourteen months and two weeks. Sometimes twice daily. I have a business in Portsmouth. I rebuild fine grand pianos, antique harpsichords and spinets. I’ll handle a console or a small string instrument, but only if it’s of superior quality. Right now, the banks own everything I have.”

She shook her head slowly, so slowly that he had to know exactly what she was feeling and that the sentiment was for him.

“Are we going to have a deal, Marcus?” She wanted his agreement, but not at the expense of appearing fragile and vulnerable. He must know that both her future and his child’s future were at stake. Her apparent calm as she waited for his answer was as good a piece of acting as she had ever pulled off, she thought proudly.

“It’s possible, but there’s still the matter of the child’s father.” She handed him a fax from Dexter and Strange, Inc., dated that day. He read it twice before giving it back to her.

“If you had told me his name, I could have saved you the price of those detectives’ fee. Still, it’s a good thing to have a copy of that death certificate. Pearce was always a daredevil and totally self-centered. I think I should warn you, though: you’ll be better off if Pearce, Sr., never learns about this child; he’d give you plenty of trouble.”

She gasped. “How could he? This child is mine.”

“Amanda, Pearce Lamont, Sr., is a rich man. He owns two newspapers, an FM radio station, a string of motels, and he doles out a lot of money to both political parties. He can swing any deal he wants to. He’s bought his son out of jail, out of parenthood…” Seeing her shocked, hurt reaction to that information, he toned it down. “There’ve been several paternity suits against Pearce, Jr., but, as far as I know, he and his family won all of them. We’ll never know what the truth is. Just pray that you’re carrying a girl. Lamont doesn’t have a grandson nor another son, and he’d bend rules and break laws now to get a male heir.”

The more he talked and the longer she shared his company, the more certain she was that she wanted him there. She felt more secure than ever in her life. “Marcus, you’re very big. How tall are you?”

He blinked, obviously surprised by the question. “I’m six feet, three and a half, and I weigh two hundred dripping.” She blanched as the image of a dripping Marcus filled her mind and, from his expression, she didn’t doubt that he knew her thoughts. “And I’m thirty-five years old,” he added gruffly.

“Nothing would frighten a person with you around.” She caught her breath when he threw her off balance with a genuine grin, his white teeth flashing and his enchanting, honey-brown eyes sparkling with deviltry.

“There’s not much to you, is there?” he teased.

“Well, I’m five-three, and it hasn’t hindered me so far.”

“You didn’t tell me what name you’ll put on the birth certificate as the father of your child, Amanda.” She was quiet for a long time before looking inquiringly at the man who sat before her, waiting patiently for this most important of answers. The answer that would determine her future. It was best to be honest.

“I want to put your name there, Marcus. Could you agree to that? It’s very important to me that my child be legitimate. When it’s old enough to understand, I’ll explain to her or him. But I won’t do it unless you agree.”

He studied her for a few seconds. She hadn’t made it a term of the contract, but had asked his permission. And instead of doing it surreptitiously, she had chosen to be open and honest about it. Marcus walked over to the window and stared out at the darkness. The eerie shapes of the big, stalwart pines barely moved in the gusty wind, but the little dogwoods—visible by their bright flowers—bowed low as though under a great burden. He couldn’t help likening the scene to his present dilemma. He had what he needed to withstand the rigors of life but, as small and vulnerable as she was, Amy could not protect herself. Only he could do that. What was one year of his life for the whole of Amy’s? He walked back to Amanda and extended his hand.

“All right, Amanda. If those are your terms, you’ve got a deal, and my name goes on the birth certificate. I don’t know how I’ll feel, though, knowing that there’s a child somewhere with my name and who thinks I’m its father, but to whom I give nothing. It’s never going to sit well with me, but I don’t suppose you’re crazy about the idea, either. Something for something, I suppose. But, honey, this is one tough bargain.” He’d have to tell her not to hope for more than a year; he didn’t see how he could push himself to accept it longer than that. Her face glowed with happiness, and he waved off her thanks. She had tried to make it as palatable as possible, he knew, but it still went against his grain and tied up his guts. Married! After all the promises he’d made to himself and God about tying himself to a woman. Still, it didn’t seem right to make her miserable just because he was. He tried to shake it off.

“Do I have the right to offer a little advice?” When she nodded, he continued. “For the sake of privacy, let’s see a lawyer in Elizabeth City. And I suggest that we get married there, too.” He looked at his watch. “Good Lord, I’ve got to go. I’m just about to miss the last train to Portsmouth.” Amanda glanced at her own watch.

“I don’t see how you can get to the station and on that train in eight minutes, not even if I drive you. So, suppose you stay over and try out your room tonight. Supper’s ready.”

“I hate to put you out, and I don’t want to eat up your meal.”

“Marcus, I’ve never eaten a whole chicken at one sitting in my life. There’s plenty. I made a fresh batch of buttermilk biscuits and there’s a pot of string beans.” It occurred to Marcus that he could stay with Jack and Myrna as he had done many times, but for reasons that he refused to examine, he dismissed the idea.

“What’s that over there?” He pointed to the pie.

“Apple pie.”