Buch lesen: «Love Me Tonight»
LOVE ME TONIGHT
Love Me Tonight
The Harringtons
Gwynne Forster
MILLS & BOON
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Dear Reader,
Since so many of you have written to me over the past several years asking if I would write another book about the Harrington brothers, my editor agreed that it was time to revisit that charming family. As you may know, there were only three Harrington brothers—Telford, Russ and Drake—and each had his own story. However, in my treasure trove of ideas, I discovered that the Harrington family is larger than I initially thought. As such, it gives me great pleasure to bring you this story of the sometimes sizzling, sometimes rocky relationship between another Harrington man and the woman he loves.
If you enjoy this story—and I sincerely hope that you do—you will be happy to learn that a character introduced in this novel, Love Me Tonight, continues the Harrington family series in his own story, A Compromising Affair, which will be published by Arabesque in 2011.
In case you missed the previous award-winning Harrington novels, Once in a Lifetime, After the Loving and Love Me or Leave Me, Arabesque is reissuing them, beginning with Once in a Lifetime in November 2010. I hope you have an opportunity to read them.
I enjoy receiving mail, so please e-mail me at GwynneF@aol.com. If you write by postal mail, reach me at P.O. Box 45, New York, NY 10044, and if you would like a reply, please enclose a self-addressed, stamped envelope. For more information, please contact my agent, Pattie Steel-Perkins, Steel-Perkins Literary Agency, e-mail MYAGENTSPLA@aol.com.
Warmest regards,
Gwynne Forster
Acknowledgments
To my husband and my stepson, whose love, affection and unfailing support are always with me and for which I thank God every day of my life.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 1
Judson Philips sat on his back porch looking at the sunset. He appreciated the longer days and shorter nights of mid-March, for time seemed to pass more swiftly than during the dreariness of winter. He needed the healing that the passage of time would bring.
Rick, his big German shepherd, sat beside him, occasionally rubbing against his leg. “Come on, boy, no use procrastinating. It has to be done, so let’s do it.” He patted Rick on the head, got up and went inside. He’d never realized how big that house was or how lonely he could be in it. With Rick beside him, he ran up the stairs and opened the door to his parents’ bedroom.
For the first time in his life, he was alone in every sense of the word. Being adopted and an only child, he’d been the apple of his parents’ eyes. They doted on him so much that, until he finished high school, achieving his independence had been one long struggle. When he was seven or eight years old, he had often fantasized about leaving Baltimore and becoming a saxophone player with a jazz band and traveling around the world.
He opened several chests of drawers in his parents’ bedroom and found nothing of particular interest. He wasn’t sure what to look for but decided to search in the bottom of his mother’s closet. He found a two-foot square cardboard box with four drawers tucked away. He sat with it on his parents’ bed and opened a drawer.
The sight of his father’s passport gave him cause for hope. The phone rang, breaking the silence and startling him, much like a child caught in mischief.
“Hello,” he said, expecting to hear the voice of one of his mother’s friends calling to console him.
“How’s it going, man?”
“Scott! Not so good,” he began to unburden himself. “You know I loved my parents, and they certainly loved me. But I never got the courage to ask them about my birth parents, because I didn’t want them to think I was unhappy or that they didn’t do enough for me even though I never stopped wanting to know where I came from. Now they’re both gone, and I’ll probably never know. I feel…I don’t know…but it’s as if I have no ties. I don’t belong with…hell! You know what I mean. I’ve just begun looking through my folks’ papers.”
“You gonna try and find your birth parents?”
Judson squeezed his eyes shut. “I have to,” he said.
“I understand. I’m with you, man. You know that.”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“I almost forgot why I called you. I know it’s early after what you’ve just been through with Aunt Bev, Judson, but I thought it would do you good to get out. Tomorrow’s my birthday. And my folks are giving me a party at the Hilton. Remember? What do you say?”
“Uh…all right. I’ll…I’ll be there.” He’d forgotten about Scott’s birthday. “Thanks for reminding me. I’ve…had a lot on my mind.”
“I know that, buddy. I’m glad you’ll come.”
Judson hung up. Scott Galloway had been his close friend since kindergarten, and he couldn’t think of anyone more reliable as a friend. He opened a second drawer and discovered a stack of papers, brown and dry with age. His heartbeat accelerated when he found an old newspaper clipping of a birth announcement. He discovered whoever it was about was born in Hagerstown, Maryland.
“Hmm.” Why would his parents keep the newspaper clipping?
The next morning, Friday, Judson bought Scott a digital camera to replace one he’d lost, had it wrapped and delivered by messenger. He arrived at the party a few minutes after nine that evening, and Scott met him at the entrance to the ballroom.
“Judson,” Scott greeted him. “Thanks for that terrific camera.” He took it from his pocket. “Just what I needed. Uh…I have someone I want you to meet. Marks has been stalking her for the last hour.”
Judson seemed indifferent. He tried not to let his frustration show, but he certainly felt like it. “Happy birthday, Scott. Sorry, but I do not want to meet another one of your cute buddies.”
“This one isn’t a buddy and you’d better not call her cute. She’s a coworker and a friend, and you definitely want to meet her.” He tapped Judson’s shoulder. “Trust me.”
Scott took Judson’s arm and pushed him through the throng of birthday well-wishers, but suddenly stopped. “Judson Philips, this is Curtis Heywood.”
“Judson Philips? Well, how do you do? You’re precisely the man I need to see.”
“How’s that?” Judson asked.
“I’ve got a malpractice suit, and I had planned to call you, but meeting you through a mutual friend suits me better.”
Judson handed Curtis Heywood his card. “Thank you. I’ll be in my law office Monday morning.” He couldn’t spend more time with the man because Scott nudged him on.
He saw her from a distance. If she wasn’t the woman Scott intended to introduce him to, too bad. The closer he got to her, the more certain he was that he wanted to meet her. But with her looks, he couldn’t see how she would be unattached.
When he and Scott were about ten feet from the woman, Judson drew in a deep breath. For the first time since his college days at Harvard, he felt himself vulnerable to a woman. She turned in his direction and glanced directly at him. Her large brown eyes, shaded by long, silky lashes that fanned against her cheeks, seemed to calculate everything about him in that brief look. She focused quickly on the two men who had been standing in front of her.
Scott tapped his hand on the woman’s shoulder and said to the two men with whom she’d been talking, “Excuse me, Pat, Orson,” and stood between them and the woman. “Heather, I want you to meet my very best and oldest friend, Judson Philips. Judson, this is Heather Tatum, one of my colleagues. Heather is a lawyer, the same as you, Judson, except that she’s also a special envoy with the State Department.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Ms. Tatum,” he said, letting charm supersede his nervousness. “Scott hasn’t told me any more about you than what he just said, and I suspect there’s much more. Would you explain for me what a roving ambassador does?”
“I’m glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Philips. Scott hasn’t told me anything about you either, but I read the papers. I’ve also seen you on television.” A smile softened her dazzling features and seemed to make her flawless dark brown skin glow. “As for being a roving diplomat, that only means that I do odd jobs in foreign countries at the behest of the president and the secretary of state. My father calls me a diplomatic gofer.” The latter brought laughter from the three of them.
“I had to drag Judson out here,” Scott said. “He lost his mother very recently, and he isn’t crazy about big social gatherings anyway, so I’m flattered that he’s here.”
“I’m sorry about your mother, Mr. Philips. How recently did she pass?”
“Eleven days ago. Thanks for your kindness.” He didn’t want to stand there staring at her like a love-struck school boy. He looked at Scott, who seemed overly satisfied with himself. “What time is your dad supposed to make that champagne toast?”
“Probably as soon as Mom is sure everybody has seen her dress.”
Heather looked at Judson. “Do you think he’s serious?”
“I certainly hope not. Aunt Ada is what you’d call a woman of substance. She is by no means frivolous.”
“Excuse me a minute,” Scott said and disappeared.
“Scott got me by the arm and told me he wanted me to meet a colleague,” Judson said to Heather. “I saw you before we got to the middle of the room, and I decided that if he wasn’t going to introduce me to you, I didn’t want to meet whoever else he had in mind.”
“Thank you. Where did you go to law school?” she asked him, changing the subject. “Harvard.”
Her grin and the wicked glint in her eyes gave him cause to exercise self-control. “What’s amusing?” he asked her.
“We could never enjoy a Harvard-Yale game together.”
“Say no more.”
“You bet,” she said, still grinning. “We lead 62–58. The eight ties don’t count. I assume you played quarterback.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Why do you assume that?”
“Because you look like one. Quarterbacks lead the team, and most of them are type-A personalities.”
“I’m not sure I should thank you,” he teased.
Their repartee ended when Scott’s father stood and gave the toast. After the toast Scott rejoined them. “Being the oldest of three and the only boy carries much responsibility,” Scott explained sarcastically. “At least that’s what my parents have been trying to make me believe for thirty years. You’re lucky that you were an only child,” Scott said to Judson.
“I was lucky to be anybody’s child,” he said, but Heather’s puzzled expression made him wish he hadn’t uttered the thought aloud.
As the evening wound down, Heather seemed ready to leave.
“May I take you home?” Judson asked, anticipating her mood.
“Thank you,” she said, “but I’m leaving tomorrow for Egypt, and I don’t have much time. I’ve enjoyed meeting you. Good night.”
Judson was admittedly a bit stunned. Wealthy, successful, handsome and a heart-stopper at thirty-four years of age, he was unaccustomed to rejection by anyone.
He stared at Heather’s departing back. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Scott rushed up to Judson. “What happened? Aren’t you taking her home?”
“It appears she’s very busy.”
Scott’s face contorted into a frown. “Didn’t you two get along?”
“I thought we did, but she blew me off.” He lifted first one shoulder and then the other in a shrug. “Looks like I’m losing my edge.”
Judson allowed himself a rueful smile. “Not to worry, buddy. She made a dent, not a chasm.”
Scott looked into the distance. He’d known Judson since they were five years old. “Yeah,” he said, mostly to himself. “If you say so.”
Heather Tatum forced herself to walk out of the Americana Ballroom without looking back. She was not immune to Judson Philips’s charm. Quite the contrary. But she had her own agenda, and he was not part of it. After years of study and long hours of work at the State Department, she had just begun to reach her goal of rising in the foreign service to become an ambassador, and she did not intend to be sidetracked by a charismatic, handsome, perfect specimen of a man.
Lord, but he’s gorgeous, she thought to herself as she got into the waiting limousine, one of the few perks that came with her job. The evening had been fun. Indeed, Scott Galloway knew how to give a party. She’d liked his friend. Judson Philips had a masculine aura that set him apart. He knew who he was and exuded confidence.
“I’m going home, Garth,” she said to the driver, leaned back in the soft leather seat and told herself to get her mind on something other than Philips.
She took out her cell phone and telephoned the woman who cared for her father at the family home in Hagerstown, Maryland. “How’s he doing, Annie?” she asked the housekeeper who doubled as her father’s caretaker. “He didn’t seem to be in a good mood when I talked to him this afternoon.”
“He’s in a better mood. He even watched the baseball game until the Red Sox started knocking home runs. Don’t you worry, Heather. You know I take good care of your father.”
Heather smiled to herself. Annie had worked for the Tatum family since Heather was ten years old and had remained with them after Heather’s mother had run off. She’d often wished her father would have married Annie, who clearly adored him.
“I know you do,” she said. “I have a morning flight to Cairo, but I’ll see you when I get back.”
“I’ll be here.”
She hung up and began mentally sorting out last-minute details for her trip. She didn’t believe in leaving anything to chance.
Heather walked into her room at the Ramses Hilton Hotel in Cairo shortly after noon that Sunday and looked around. As she always did, she tested the hotel bed for firmness. Satisfied, she went to the window and looked out. In the distance, she could see the great Giza pyramids west of the Nile and what looked like miles of sand. What a different world from Baltimore.
As she began to unpack, she glimpsed a large bouquet of calla lilies in a vase painted with the likeness of Queen Nefertiti. She adored calla lilies and had decided that if she married, she would carry them as her wedding bouquet. She made a note to thank the hotel management. She used the phone in her room to check in with the U.S. embassy in Cairo. Then she hung up her clothes and took a shower. From the time she departed from the Baltimore-Washington Thurgood Marshall International Airport until she walked into her room at the Hilton, eighteen tiring hours had elapsed. She ordered a sandwich and a pot of tea from room service and turned on the television.
When her sandwich arrived, she tipped the waiter, then got in bed and watched the news while she ate and drank her tea. Weariness caught up with her. She turned off the television, and when she put her head on the pillow, she noticed a note against the side of the vase and jumped out of bed to open it. She read:
Dear Heather,
I wish you a safe, pleasant and fruitful mission.
Judson Philips
How on earth? What a resourceful man. And what a thoughtful one. She must have made an impact on him, as well. She smiled as she happily fell asleep.
She arose early the next morning, refreshed and ready for work. As she always did when in an Islamic country, she wore a white pantsuit—white was inoffensive and was appropriate for every occasion—with a pale yellow, sleeveless blouse and white shoes. She deferred to local customs to the extent that she could without compromising her values, but she refused to cover her hair or give up her three-inch heels. If anybody objected to her height, it was their problem. She loved her five-foot-eight-and-a-half-inch height, and she loved high heels.
Having made certain that she got to the conference room in time to check out the seating arrangements and have them changed if they didn’t follow protocol, she sat in the place assigned to her and took out her notes and tape recorder. She wondered how many of those present truly cared about the suffering of children in Sudan, which was the subject of the conference.
The discussions got off to a slow start, and shortly after the coffee break, she felt a hand on her thigh. Shocked, she turned around to look at the man.
“Your husband is a fool to let you out of his sight,” he said with a practiced smile, looking certain that he’d complimented her.
She stared at him. “How do you think these delegates will react when I slap your face?”
“Surely, you don’t mean that,” he said, his smile still in place. “Your country and mine are on good terms.”
Her expression didn’t waver. “Remove your hand. One…two…”
He removed his hand. “I don’t know how the American men call themselves men.”
Heather ignored the taunt, for she was accustomed to the attitudes of men from certain developing countries. At five minutes past twelve, she got her chance to address the group, and at the end of her prepared statement, she added her views on the way in which some delegates wasted opportunities to make a difference in the lives of disadvantaged children.
Later, after congratulations on her talk, Mr. Taliah, one of the delegates, asked, “Would you join my wife and me for dinner in our suite this evening? My wife doesn’t go out because she isn’t in purdah. She’s a modern woman and she hates the snide remarks that she gets.” Heather agreed; she knew Mr. Taliah and knew he was married.
However, the minute Heather walked into the room that night, she knew the man had lied. It wasn’t a suite, but a room like her own. She realized the delegate intended a seduction. Without a word, she whirled around and walked out.
Back in her room, she had to admit that the calla lilies lifted her spirits, reminding her Judson Philips admired her as a person.
I must remember to send him a note of thanks, she thought to herself. He went to a lot of trouble and great expense to send me these flowers. They’re still so beautiful. She threw her briefcase on the bed and heaved a long and heavy sigh. She lived a life that most people would not consider normal. At times, neither did she. In her mind she saw Judson Philips’s handsome face, remembered his gracious manner and wondered if he could fill the awful void in her life. But after what she’d seen of her parents’ bitter and loveless marriage, she doubted the wisdom of letting herself care for any man.
“Would you like me to request an apology from Mr. Taliah?” the chief of protocol asked her the next morning when she related the incident from the previous night as she was required to do.
“Of course not,” she said. “It goes with the job.”
She’d made light of it, but she would be glad to set foot in Baltimore that Tuesday afternoon. She liked Egypt, especially the Egyptians—who welcomed her as a sister—but she had little use for pompous diplomats who went to these conferences merely to exploit their status.
Her mission finished, she took one last whiff of the calla lilies in her room and—a smile on her face—made her way to the airport, home and dreams of Judson Philips.
She walked into her office Wednesday morning, locked her briefcase in her desk drawer and went to Scott’s office. “Hi,” he said when she walked in after one knock. “How’d it go?”
“Same old, same old. Great ideas, an excellent report that will be widely circulated and nothing substantial will change,” she complained.
“Good grief, Heather. You’re becoming so cynical.”
“Not really. But I see the same guys at every one of these meetings, and it seems they get less courteous every time. Now, you! How did Judson Philips know I was at the Hilton in Cairo?”
“I know both of you, and I wouldn’t introduce either of you to just anybody. What happened? Didn’t you like him? He needs some cheering up, and so do you.”
“He sent me two dozen of the most beautiful calla lilies I ever saw. How would he know that calla lilies are my favorite flower? You don’t even know that.”
Scott leaned back in his swivel desk chair and rocked. “I said, didn’t you like him?”
“Don’t ask stupid questions. Why wouldn’t I?”
“That is not the answer to my question,” he continued.
“I liked him, Scott,” Heather admitted. “But don’t try to start anything between us. My life isn’t an easy one. My dad isn’t getting any better, and I want to spend all the free time I can muster with him. And you know I’m being considered for an ambassador post. I have to focus on that as much as I can.”
“The two of you have so much in common, Heather. Why don’t you give it a chance? You owe it to yourself.”
“I’m sorry. It’s the wrong time, Scott. He’s…well, he’s nice. I’ll let it go at that. How can I get in touch with him? I want to thank him for those flowers.”
He wrote a number on a notepad and handed it to her. “You can phone him.”
“Thanks, but I want to write him a note.”
“Yeah. You want to be formal. After the trouble he went to, he deserves better.” Scott wrote the address of Judson’s law firm and handed it to Heather. “Too bad. He liked you a lot.”
Judson looked at the letter and wondered at the precise, forward-slanting handwriting. It had no return address. The sender had marked it personal, and he expected it was probably one more invitation to another stuffy affair. He opened it and sat up when he saw the handwritten note.
Dear Judson,
Thank you for the most beautiful calla lilies I ever saw. Two dozen in about five different colors. Calla lilies are my favorite flower, and you couldn’t have known that. They were still in bloom when I left, and I hated that. But as you know, I wouldn’t have been allowed to bring them into the country. Thank you so much for your thoughtfulness.
Yours truly,
Heather
“That’s something,” he said. He folded the note and put it in his pocket. She was an intriguing woman. Several different scenarios flitted through his mind. Did he really want a serious involvement with a roving ambassador? Maybe something casual was what he needed. He leaned back in the chair and made a pyramid of his fingers.
He phoned Scott. “Want to meet for lunch? I have to check on a few things not far from your office.”
“Sure you wouldn’t rather be lunching with Heather?”
“If that were the case, friend, I would have called her.”
“Meet you at The Crab Shack.”
They reached The Crab Shack at almost the same time, and sat at their favorite table. “Your usual, gentlemen?” the waiter asked.
“Right,” they said in unison.
“We have a president who’s pushing education,” Judson said to Scott. “I’m planning to start a boys’ study group. And instead of sports, the focus will be academics. Why don’t you start a girls’ group, and we can have competitions that will keep them focused and interested?”
“Me start a girls’ group? Why don’t you rope Heather into it?”
“I don’t want to involve her in this. You get a boys’ group, then. It won’t work unless they have competition.”
“Okay. You do South Baltimore, and I’ll form one in the Reisterstown area,” Scott decided. “Have you made any further progress on your mother’s estate?”
Judson shook his head. “I’ve had too many distractions. I’m going to look into it again tonight, see what I can find. You’d think my parents would have told me or at least left me some explanation. Suppose I need a bone-marrow transplant. Where would I turn?”
“You won’t, and don’t worry. You’ll find what you’re looking for. They didn’t destroy papers that they could some day need.”
“I sure hope you’re right.”
“This isn’t good,” Heather said to herself when she awakened that morning. It isn’t cold, so why do I feel chilly? She got out of bed and padded to the bathroom. Maybe if she drank some coffee, she could pull herself together. She managed to make the coffee, but took a cupful back to her bedroom, put the cup on her nightstand and crawled back into bed. She didn’t get sick. Never. So what was wrong with her?
She couldn’t afford to get sick. She had to take care of her father and be ready for a permanent diplomatic post. If she wasn’t up to it, someone else might get the assignment.
She fell asleep lying across the bed and awakened at a quarter of ten with a full-blown cold. After admitting to herself that she really was sick she phoned Scott. “Hi, this is Heather. I’m home, and I’m feeling rotten.”
“You’ve got a cold. I can hear it in your voice.”
“Looks like it. Could you please ask my secretary to print out that report I was working on and leave it with my doorman when you leave work this afternoon?”
“Sure. But why would you try to work? You’re sick.”
“I know, but it’s due the day after tomorrow, and this is not a good time to start coming up short.”
“All right. I’ll deliver it. Do you have any food—juice, soup or something—for your cold in the house?”
“Scott, you’re such a darling. Why didn’t you and I fall in love? I need some milk, grapefruit juice and eggs. I have coffee and tea.”
“You got it. You and I would never fall in love because both of us need the same thing—someone who’s laid-back. Two type-A personalities would kill each other. Now, take Judson—”
“All right. I got the message,” she said sleepily.
“Go to sleep. See you later.” He hung up, and she managed to do the same. She knew she should eat, but she didn’t have the strength to cook.
The intercom buzzed, awakening her. “Hello.”
“Ms. Tatum. A man is here with some things for you. Shall I send him up?’
“Thanks,” she said and dosed off again.
“Philips speaking.”
“This is Curtis Heywood.”
“Yes. I’ve been expecting your call.”
“I believe I have a good lawsuit against a medical diagnostic group, and I’d like you to take the case.”
Judson listened while Curtis described the complaint. “Have you omitted anything that you might have done that could weaken your case? I need to know that up front.”
“I’m certain that I’m not at fault in any way.”
It sounded like a good case, but he wouldn’t be certain until he dug into it himself. “Can you be here tomorrow morning at nine and bring your papers and any evidence?”
“I’ll be there. Thanks for your time.”
“You’re welcome. See you tomorrow.”
Judson hung up, saw the caller ID on his private line and lifted the receiver, smiling at the sound of his friend’s voice. “What’s up, Scott?”
“I need you to do me a favor—and hear me out before you get your back up. I promised Heather that I’d bring a report and some groceries to her today after work because she’s sick at home. The thing is I can’t, because I have to stay in D.C. and deal with an issue that just came in. Working in D.C. and living in Baltimore has advantages, but right now, friend, it’s a disadvantage. As a favor would you please take the report and the care package to her on your way home? You can leave it with her doorman, if you don’t want to see her.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“Maybe a cold. She sounded really sick.”
Judson wondered if it was one of Scott’s tricks to try to get him to see Heather. “If she’s sick, and you can’t go, of course I’ll do it. But if I find out that you’re up to your old shenanigans—”
“Judson, if you’d rather not, I’ll see if I can get somebody else to do it.”
“I’ll be at your office for that report around four o’clock. Did she say what she needs?”
“She said bread, milk, grapefruit juice and maybe some eggs. I guess she hasn’t had time to do any shopping since she got back.”
“Maybe. See you at four.” There was something special about Heather Tatum, and he wanted to know what it was.
Later, he stopped by Scott’s office at the State Department in D.C., collected the report and headed up I-95. Once in Baltimore, he went to a supermarket, where he bought bread, milk, eggs, grapefruit juice and butter. On an whim, he parked at a specialty restaurant on Calvert Street and bought a large container of chicken soup. If she’s got a cold, maybe I ought to get something for that, he thought to himself. He stopped at a drugstore and bought some over-the-counter cold medicine.
“I have some things to deliver to Ms. Tatum,” Judson announced to the doorman, careful not to identify himself. The doorman rang Heather’s apartment.
“There’s a man here to deliver some things to you. Shall I send him up?” He looked at Judson. “She said you can go up. Apartment 34–F.”
Relief spread over his face when she hadn’t asked who it was. He got off the elevator at the thirty-fourth floor, turned in the direction of apartment F, rang the doorbell and waited.
The door opened, and she stared up at him, blinking so that she could be certain to trust her eyes. “Judson? What—”
From her appearance, she’d just crawled out of bed, wrapped herself in a robe and made it to the door.
“Hi. Scott couldn’t make it, so I brought your report and some groceries,” Judson said, in a chirpy voice.
She stood facing him and staring at him. He grinned, hoping to put her off balance, and it must have worked since she smiled. “Why don’t I put this stuff in the refrigerator for you?” he said, suddenly feeling less vulnerable. “And maybe you ought to go back to bed.”
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