Wednesday's Child Page 5

  She’d have gone to bed with him in a minute, but that wasn’t what Kyle wanted. “My God, what a gentleman he was,” she murmured. She propped her elbows on the glass top of her dressing table and rested her chin on her hands, and remembered one of the arguments they’d had about it.

  They’d been sitting in Kyle’s Jeep, parked in a secluded lovers’ retreat that Layne, in her innocence, would have never known about. And after a particularly long and passionate kiss, Kyle said, his voice husky, “Has anyone ever told you, young lady, that you could set a snowball on fire?”

  Layne shook her head and snuggled close to him.

  But he pushed her gently away. “It’s time to take you home,” he said.

  “Why? It’s early.”

  “Because I’ve reached my limit, that’s why. You don’t understand what your innocent little kitten tricks do to me, and I can’t be around you for two minutes without wanting to make love to you.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay, what?”

  “I want to make love to you, too, Kyle.” She had almost whispered it.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about. And that’s exactly why I’m not going to let you tempt me,” he told her firmly. “Your father would kill me. And even more important, you’re a virgin, Layne.”

  “So is everybody, to start with,” she told him dryly. “It’s no sin.”

  “But it would be a sin if your first experience was in a Jeep, for God’s sake—hurrying so we can get you home on time and with one eye out for anyone who might interrupt and ask inconvenient questions.” He shook his head.

  “Then what about a motel?” she asked shyly.

  He put a finger across her lips. “No. That would make it feel cheap. The first time I make love to you, we will have all the time in the world. We’ll be in our own room, in our own bed.

  On our wedding night.”

  Layne laughed with sheer delight. It was the first time either of them had mentioned

  marriage.

  “You think it’s funny that I want to marry you?” he asked.

  “No, I think it’s wonderful.”

  “All right. I’ll talk to your father tomorrow.”

  Her eyes widened. “Kyle, he won’t let us. He thinks I’m still a baby.”

  “And so you are, at seventeen. But he’ll agree to let us get married, I promise.”

  It was their first quarrel, and it lasted for an hour, with Layne trying to convince him that the only sensible solution was to elope, and Kyle holding out for a church wedding with the approval of not only her father but his.

  Finally he took her home. He kissed her good night, hard, and said, “All right. If my way doesn’t work, then we’ll elope.”

  Layne clung to him, desolate. “If your way doesn’t work, I’ll be locked up in a tower like Rapunzel. Let’s run away tonight!”

  But he had just laughed and told her not to cut her hair till she heard from him. And the next day he bought Lucky a beer after work, and the two of them came home arm in arm to plan the most lavish wedding ever. She hadn’t even set her own wedding date; Kyle and Lucky had already chosen it.

  She hadn’t known then that her father was dying of a particularly virulent cancer. But Lucky knew, and Kyle’s proposal must have seemed providential to him. Married into the Emerson family, Layne would be forever free of financial worries.

  “Well, Dad, I’m sure it looked that way from where you stood,” Layne mused. “It wasn’t your fault that it didn’t work out.”

  She started to apply eye shadow; it was getting late and she would have to hurry. But the spell of the past was strong, and her tiny brush slowed as she thought about her wedding day.

  She had not even had a nervous tremor that day; her bridesmaids refused to believe that a bride could be so calm. But how could any girl who was marrying Kyle Emerson have a doubt in her mind, Layne wondered.

  Six bridesmaids had accompanied her down the aisle, walking stiffly to a Bach air; Kyle had chosen the music, Layne the bridesmaids. It had been just about the only thing she had planned about her wedding, she reflected, that and her dress.

  The dress was a Southern belle’s dream, cut so low in the bodice that Lucky had protested, with puffy short sleeves that left her shoulders bare. The skirt was layers and layers of chiffon edged in ruffles and worn over a hoop, and her veil was a wisp of illusion drifting down from a wide-brimmed hat. Lucky had protested about the price, too, but one look at his daughter’s vibrant face under that outrageous hat and he had surrendered.

  “So much fuss about a dress,” Layne told her mirror image, a dress that she had left behind without a thought when she ran from Wheatlands just three months later. She wondered idly what had happened to it. Had Kyle left it tucked in a corner of Wheatlands’ attic, as a relic of a mistake? Or had he given it away?

  It hurt to think that somewhere another girl might have worn her dress, without her

  knowledge. “I hope, if that’s what happened, that her marriage was happier than mine,” she said aloud, without bitterness.

  It had started off well enough. Their wedding night had been all that Kyle had promised.

  He had been so gentle and careful with her initiation that her first fleeting pain was overwhelmed, never to be remembered, by a wave of ecstasy.

  She blushed a little even now at the abandon she remembered displaying and the way he

  had laughed at her eagerness. Of course he had laughed, she realized. There must have been many women who had wanted Kyle as she had. The only thing that had been different about Layne was that she was Lucky Baxter’s heir.

  Layne opened the bottom drawer of her dressing table and pulled out the framed picture of her father. It was the only thing of value she had taken with her when she left Wheatlands.

  She stared at it and remembered how Lucky had cried without shame when they reached

  the altar and he put her hand into Kyle’s, how he had watched with fond pride as her new husband led her on to the dance floor. But the effort had drained his strength, and the cancer flashed out again. Three weeks later he was dead.

  Layne had gone into shock. Lucky had been the only constant in her life, and since she didn’t remember her mother, she had never suffered a death so close to her. For the next two months she spoke only when spoken to, ate what she was told to, wore whatever was nearest to her when she opened the closet door. She asked once what kind of estate Lucky had left, and Kyle assured her that he would take care of everything. Layne was grateful for his gentle concern, so she stopped thinking about it.

  And sometime during those two months, Kyle started seeing Jessica Tate again.

  Layne had always known about Jessica; she and Kyle had grown up together. But Jessica

  had married a wealthy old lawyer, a friend of her father’s, and in her innocence Layne believed the blonde beauty was no threat to her. Until that dreadful day when Jessica had ripped away the abstracted cloud in which Layne lived and forced her to face reality.

  Layne had been staring out of the library window when the maid showed Jessica in. A flash of feminine feeling was coming back to her; she wasn’t going out of her way to look nicer, but she was at least aware of when she looked bad. And that day she looked awful in faded jeans and an old shirt of Kyle’s, and a two-months-old haircut.

  Jessica, of course, looked like every cent of a million dollars. The little dress was Paris-cut, and her makeup was flawless. She drank her first cup of tea in silence while they waited for Kyle to come home, and Jessica eyed Layne like a cat about to pounce on a parakeet. When the second cup was poured and Kyle hadn’t come, Jessica had stirred in a lump of sugar and said, “I hoped that you could take a hint, Layne, but since you obviously can’t...”

  “A hint about what?”

  Jessica eyed her sorrowfully. “You innocent little fool. Don’t you know why Kyle married you? Haven’t you even read your father’s will?”

  “No. Why should I? Kyle’s the execu
tor.”

  Jessica looked pathetically surprised. “I am sorry for you, Layne. It must be very difficult, young as you are, to be caught in the middle this way.”

  Looking back, Layne knew that Jessica’s campaign had been carefully planned, but at

  seventeen she had known only that she had to find out what the woman meant. So she pried until Jessica told her.

  The will, Jessica said, had surprised Kyle. He had expected that Layne would inherit the business that had been her father’s. But instead, Lucky had played games with his estate, and Baxter Construction would be left in trust for ten years. If there were children born of Layne’s marriage in that time, it would belong to them, and remain in Kyle’s control, since he was the main trustee. If there were no children, the company would be sold, and the proceeds would go to Lucky’s favorite charity.

  “Kyle will be a good trustee, of course,” Jessica said airily. “And I’m sure you understand now why he refuses to spend a night away from you. If he’d known you weren’t going to inherit the business, he’d never have married you at all.”

  Layne’s head was spinning.

  Jessica picked up her teacup with delicate grace. “Now that he’s gone so far, he hates to give up. But he’s hoping that he won’t have to wait long for you to produce an heir so this nonsensical marriage can end.”

  “What is his hurry?” Layne asked dully.

  Jessica looked surprised. “So we can be together, of course. Really, Layne, are you that dumb?”

  “You’re married,” Layne managed to croak.

  Jessica smiled. “Of course I am, dear. As soon as Kyle is free, I’ll get my divorce. I never planned to spend my whole life with Hal; surely you understood that?”

  “Why are you telling me all this, Jessica?”

  “Because I don’t care whether Kyle gets that business or not. I just want him, and I am not going to wait around for you to have a baby.” She set her cup down. “Tell Kyle I’m sorry to have missed him. I’ll be seeing you, Layne.”

  The will was in his desk. She hated herself for doubting him, hated herself for needing to check on what Jessica had said. But it was all there, detail by detail. If there was a child, Kyle’s grip on the company was assured. Baxter Construction would be his then, whether the marriage lasted or not. He would be free to discard Layne and marry Jessica, as soon as their child was born. All he had to do was keep the child.

  So Layne packed the few sentimental things she had brought to Wheatlands with her, and left, without a word or a note.

  For the one thing Jessica didn’t know had made it impossible for her to stay. Jessica didn’t know that Layne’s doctor had confirmed that very morning that she was pregnant.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Lacey wouldn’t have heard the Mercedes whisper into the drive at precisely seven o’clock, but Robbie had been sitting on the front steps watching for more than an hour, and before the car had come to a halt he was standing beside it, waiting for the door to open.

  Clare was at the front window. “He’s here,” she said.

  Layne drew a long breath. Somewhere deep inside her there had been a spark of hope that perhaps Kyle hadn’t meant it, that perhaps he would not show up.

  “You’ll be all right,” Clare told her. “Just think before you say anything. Try not to make him angry. Now stand up and let me look you over.”

  Layne obediently stood up and turned a full circle for Clare’s inspection. The dark orange dress was like a flame against the peach of her skin, bringing out the gleam of dark brown hair and making the sparkle of tears in the big eyes look mysterious.

  “It sounds like you’re talking to Robbie,” Layne said.

  “Well, some days it feels as if you’re about the same age. You can do it, Layne.”

  “Just what magic am I supposed to be able to perform?” Layne asked. “I feel like David going up against Goliath. Except somebody stole my rock.”

  “Dad’s here!” Robbie announced from the door. The grin on his face was the biggest Layne had ever seen. Kyle was beside him, one hand resting lightly on Robbie’s shoulder as if to convince himself that the child was real. His eyes swept over Layne.

  “I see you’re ready to go,” he said.

  Layne shrugged. “You didn’t leave me much of a choice.”

  Clare’s hand clamped down on Layne’s wrist. It was all the message she needed to give.

  Layne bit her tongue. What a way to start if she intended to try to placate the man!

  But Kyle apparently hadn’t noticed. “Shall we go?” he asked.

  Layne reached for the silk shawl that matched the dress. Instantly he was beside her,

  draping it with exaggerated care across her shoulders. His fingertips brushed across her bare back, and chills straightened Layne’s spine.

  He felt her shiver beneath his hand, and for an instant they both stood frozen, as if

  wondering what came next.

  Robbie broke the standstill. “Why can’t I come?” he asked plaintively. “If you came to see me, Dad, why are you taking Mom out? And why can’t I come too?”

  “Because you weren’t invited,” Kyle said easily. “And because your mother and I have a lot of things to talk about. But there will be the rest of the summer for us to be together, Robbie.”

  He tucked Layne’s hand into his elbow. “Ready?”

  Robbie trailed them to the car. As Kyle opened the passenger door, Robbie started to

  protest again, and Layne put a finger across his lips. “Robert,” she warned.

  “I was only going to tell you that Mr. Hamburg is here,” he argued.

  “Oh, damn.” She looked towards the street and saw that Robbie was right.

  “Who is this?” Kyle asked. He put her into the car.

  “One of my clients.”

  Kyle’s eyebrows raised. “Just what sort of business do you run here, Layne?” He closed her door and walked around the car.

  “A typing business,” she hissed furiously a he slid into the driver’s seat. “And though I may not like the man much, he eventually pays his bills.” She opened the car door again. “Hello, Mr.

  Hamburg. How are you tonight?”

  “I don’t suppose you have my last chapters done?” His voice was high-pitched and a bit squeaky.

  “Well, no. You did say you were in no hurry, and I have been waiting for your check to arrive before I started on the new section.”

  “Hasn’t it come? It must be lost in the mail.”

  Kyle shifted impatiently in his seat. His fingers hovered over the ignition key. Layne impulsively put her hand over his, trying to still his impatience. The sudden contact was like an electric shock. With an effort she dragged her hand away and focused her attention on Mr.

  Hamburg again.

  “I brought that material more than a week ago, Mrs. Emerson. However, I suppose it really doesn’t matter to you if this book is done on schedule or not, though it most certainly matters to me. There are three publishers waiting to see it.”

  “I will certainly try to have it done tomorrow.” But Robbie goes into the hospital tomorrow, the back half of her brain reminded. Well, Mr. Hamburg would just have to wait.

  “What is really bothering me is that there are three typing errors in the section you gave me last week. Three!” He waved an envelope accusingly at her.

  And almost a hundred pages, Layne thought rebelliously. “If you’ll give the manuscript to Robbie, Mr. Hamburg, I’ll be happy to correct the errors tomorrow. Be a pet and put it on my desk, would you, Rob?”

  Mr. Hamburg was adamant. “I’ll wait, Mrs. Emerson. It will take you just a few minutes. I am, after all, paying for professional service, and you assure me that you are a professional.”

  Kyle leaned forward. “I’m sure it has escaped your notice that the lady is going out for the evening,” he said politely.

  Mr. Hamburg shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s not my problem.”

  “It certainly isn’t
,” Kyle agreed grimly, and turned the ignition key. The Mercedes’s engine purred. “As soon as your check gets itself un-lost in the mail, I’m sure Mrs. Emerson will do the fastest typing job you’ve ever seen. So if you want your manuscript, you might start by making sure the money arrives. Personal delivery usually works best.” He put the car into gear.

  Layne didn’t know whether to thank him or hit him. The stunned look on Mr. Hamburg”s

  face as they drove off was worth a lot; he had bullied her for three months over his manuscript and if she hadn’t desperately needed the money she would have cheerfully given the whole mess back with an honest appraisal of its chances of publication. Slim to none, Layne thought. But it was money. What difference did it make to her if she typed trash or literature?

  Kyle darted a look at her. “Are you trying to decide whether I did you a good turn or a bad one?”

  “Something like that,” she said finally. “You’ve probably lost my steadiest customer for me.”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” Kyle said cynically. “You still have a section of his manuscript.

  He’ll be around.”

  Layne didn’t answer. She put her head back against the dark blue leather seat and looked out at Kansas City speeding silently by.

  “Why do you work for him, anyway?” The Mercedes slowed and turned on to a freeway

  ramp.

  We must be going over into Kansas for dinner, Layne thought. I hope he isn’t taking me to Wheatlands... “I work for him because I need the money,” she said finally. “Now isn’t that complicated? And don’t tell me you didn’t have it figured out. I’m sure you know enough about me to fill the Yellow Pages.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go quite that far. What does he write? Porno thrillers? Somehow he looks the type.”

  “No. It’s his autobiography, actually. He seems to have been the Don Juan of central

  Europe during the war.”

  “Which war?” Kyle asked. “Franco-Prussian? World War One?”

  Layne sat up. “Why don’t we get to the point of this conversation, Kyle, and quit wasting time? It might even save you the price of dinner because we can probably settle it in five minutes.”