Private Scandals Read online

  I’ll call you.”

  She didn’t expect the explanation to be easy. But she hadn’t known she would find herself sitting in the driveway beside Finn’s beautiful old house, fighting for the courage to walk up and knock on the door.

  She sat watching the bare limbs of the spreading maples tremble in the high March wind. She wanted to watch the strong, white sunlight flash and gleam off the tall, graceful windows, and glint off the tiny flecks of mica in the weathered stone.

  Such a sturdy old house, she thought, with its curving gables and arrow-straight chimneys. It looked like a dependable place, a haven against storms and wind. She wondered if he’d chosen to give himself some personal calm away from the chaos of his work.

  She wondered if it would offer her any.

  Bracing herself, she stepped from the car, walked along the walkway of stones and stepped up onto the covered porch he’d had painted a deep, glossy blue.

  There was a brass knocker in the shape of an Irish harp. She stared at it a long time before she knocked.

  “Deanna.” He smiled, holding out a hand in welcome. “It’s a little early for dinner, but I can fix you a late lunch.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “So you said.” He let his hand drop when she didn’t take it, then closed the door. “You look pale.” Hell, he thought, she looked as fragile as glass. “Why don’t you sit down?”

  “I’d like to sit.” She followed him into the first room off the hallway.

  Her first distracted glimpse of the room simply registered man. No frills, no flounces, just sturdy, dignified old pieces that murmured of easy wealth and masculine taste. She chose a high-backed chair in front of the fire that burned low. The warmth was comforting.

  Without asking, he walked to a curved cabinet and chose a decanter of brandy. Whatever was preying on her mind went deep enough to make her withdraw.

  “Drink this first, then tell me what’s on your mind.”

  She sipped, then started to speak.

  “Finish it,” he interrupted impatiently. “I’ve seen wounded soldiers with more color than you have right now.”

  She sipped again, more deeply, and felt the heat fight with the ice shivering in her stomach. “There’s something I want to show you.” She opened her bag, took out the paper. “You should read this first.”

  He glanced down. “I’ve already seen it.” In a gesture of disdain, he tossed it aside. “You’ve got more sense than to let that kind of tripe get to you.”

  “Did you read it?”

  “I stopped reading poorly written fiction when I was ten.”

  “Read it now,” Deanna insisted. “Please.”

  He studied her another minute, concerned and confused. “All right.”

  She couldn’t sit after all. While he read, Deanna got up to wander around the room, her hands reaching nervously for mementos and knickknacks. She heard the paper rattle in his hands, heard him swear quietly, viciously under his breath, but she didn’t look back.

  “You know,” Finn said at length, “at least they could hire people who can write a decent sentence.” A glance at her rigid back made him sigh. He tossed the paper aside again. He rose, crossing to lay his hands on her shoulders. “Deanna—”

  “Don’t.” She stepped away quickly, shaking her head.

  “For Christ’s sake, you’ve got too much sense to let some sloppy journalism turn you inside out.” He couldn’t stem the impatience, or the vague disappointment in her reaction. “You’re in the spotlight. You chose to be. Toughen up, Kansas, or go back and stick with the noon news.”

  “Did you believe it?” She whirled around, her arms folded tight across her chest.

  For the life of him he couldn’t figure out how to handle her. He tried for mild amusement. “That you were some sort of nubile nymphomaniac? If you were, how could you have resisted me for so long?”

  He was hoping for a laugh, and would have settled for an angry retort. He got nothing but frozen silence. “It’s not all a lie,” she said at length.

  “You mean you actually went to a couple of parties in college? You popped the top on a few beers and had a fling with a jock?” He shook his head. “Well, I’m shocked and disillusioned. I’m glad I found this out before I asked you to marry me and have my children.”

  Again, his joke didn’t make her laugh. Her eyes went from blank to devastated. And she burst into terrible tears.

  “Oh, Christ. Don’t, baby. Come on, Deanna, don’t do this.” Nothing could have unmanned him more. Awkward, cursing himself, he gathered her close, determined to hold her tight, even when she resisted. “I’m sorry.” For what, he couldn’t say. “I’m sorry, baby.”

  “He raped me!” she shouted, jerking away when his arms went limp. “He raped me,” she repeated, covering her face with her hands as the tears fell hot and burning. “And I didn’t do anything about it. I won’t do anything now. Because it hurts.” Her voice broke on a sob as she rocked back and forth. “It never, never stops hurting.”

  He couldn’t have been more shocked, more horrified. For a moment, everything in him froze and he could only stand and stare as she wept uncontrollably into her hands with the sun at her back and the fire crackling cheerfully beside her.

  Then the ice inside him broke, exploded with a burst of fury so ripe, so raw that his vision hazed. His hands curled into fists, as if there were something tangible he could pummel.

  But there was nothing but Deanna, weeping.

  His arms dropped to his sides again, leaving him feeling helpless and miserable. Relying on instinct, he scooped her up, carried her to the couch, where he could sit, cradled her in his lap until the worst of the tears were spent.

  “I was going to tell you,” she managed. “I spent last night thinking about it. I wanted you to know before we tried—to be together.”

  He had to get past the anger, somehow. But his jaw was clenched and his words sharp. “Did you think it would change anything I feel for you?”

  “I don’t know. But I know it scars you, and no matter how many ways you’re able to go on with your life, it’s always in there. Since it happened . . .” She took the handkerchief he offered and mopped at her face. “I haven’t been able to put it aside far enough, or deep enough, to feel able to make love with a man.”

  The hand that was stroking her hair faltered only a moment. He remembered vividly the way he had plunged in the night before. And the way he would have initiated the physical end of their relationship if something hadn’t restrained him.

  “I’m not cold,” she said in a tight, bitter voice. “I’m not.”

  “Deanna.” He eased her head back so that she would meet his eyes. “You’re the warmest woman I know.”

  “Last night there was nothing there but you; I had no time to think. This morning it didn’t seem fair for you not to know first. Because if things didn’t work, physically, it would be my fault. Not yours.”

  “I think that’s the first really stupid thing I’ve ever heard you say. But we’ll put it aside for now. If you want to talk this through, I’ll listen.”

  “I do.” But she shifted away so that she could sit on her own. “Everyone on campus knew Jamie Thomas. He was a year ahead of me, and like most of the other women in college, I had a crush on him. So when he made a move in my direction at the beginning of my junior year, I was flattered and dazzled. He was a football star, and a track star, and he had a three-point-oh average. I admired that, and his plans to go into the family firm. He had brains and ambition, a good sense of humor. Everybody liked him. So did I.”

  She took a steadying breath, let herself remember. “We saw a lot of each other during the first couple months of that semester. We studied together, and went for long walks and had all those deep, philosophical discussions college students can be so smug about. I sat in the stands at football games and cheered him on.”

  She paused. “We went to a party after the biggest game of the season. He’d had a te
rrific game. Everybody was celebrating, and we got a little drunk. We went back to the field, just he and I, and he started to run through all these football moves. Clowning around. Then he stopped clowning, and he was on top of me. It seemed all right at first. But he got really rough, and he frightened me. I told him to stop. But he wouldn’t stop.”

  Cut the act, Dee. You know you want it. You’ve been begging for it all night.

  She shuddered, gripping her hands tight. “And I started crying, begging him. And he was so strong, and I couldn’t get away. He was tearing my clothes. He was hurting me.”

  Goddamn tease.

  “I called for help, but there was no one. I screamed. He put his hand over my mouth when I screamed. He had big hands. And I could only see his face.”

  You’re going to love it, babe.

  “His eyes were glazed—like glass. And he was inside me. It hurt so much I thought he would kill me. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop until he’d finished. After a while—it seemed like such a long time—he rolled off me, and he laughed.”

  Come on, Dee, you know you had fun. Ask around. Nobody makes the women happy like good old Jamie.

  “Then he stopped laughing, and he got angry because I was crying. I couldn’t stop crying.”

  Don’t pull that shit with me. We both wanted it. You say anything different and half the football team will say you made it with them, right here, Right on the fucking fifty-yard line.

  “He yanked me up, stuck his face in mine. And he warned me that if I tried to pretend I hadn’t been willing, no one would believe me. Because he was Jamie Thomas. And everyone liked Jamie. So he left me there, and I didn’t do anything. Because I was ashamed.”

  The grainy newspaper photo swam into Finn’s mind, and he struggled against the violence that rose in him. But he kept his tone even. “Didn’t you have anyone to go to?”

  “I told Fran.” Her nails were biting into her palm and slowly, deliberately she relaxed her hand. “After a couple of weeks, I couldn’t hide it from her. She wanted to go to the dean, but I wouldn’t.” She stared down at her own hands and felt the hot shame wash over her again. “She finally bullied me into counseling. After a while, I got over the worst of it. I don’t want it to control my life, Finn.” She looked at him then, eyes swollen and full of grief. “I don’t want it to spoil what we may be able to have.”

  He was afraid any words he tried might be the wrong ones. “Deanna, I can’t tell you it doesn’t matter, because it does.” When she dropped her gaze, he touched her cheek, urging her eyes back up to his. “Because I can’t stand the thought of you being hurt that way. And because you may not be able to trust me.”

  “It isn’t that,” she said quickly. “It’s me.”

  “Then let me do something for you.” Gently, he kissed her forehead. “Come to the cabin with me. Now. Today. Just a weekend alone where we can relax.”

  “Finn, I don’t know if I can give you what you want.”

  “I don’t care about what you can give me. I’m more interested in what we can give each other.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  She supposed he called the place a cabin because it was built of wood. Far from the primitive box she’d imagined, the trim, two-story structure had upper and lower covered decks joined by open stairs. Outside, the cedar shingles had silvered with weather and time and were accented by deep blue shutters. Tall, spreading yews tucked the house into its own private reserve.

  Instead of a lawn, rocks, low evergreens, flowering bushes, herbs and hardy perennials covered the ground. A few brave crocuses were already peeking through.

  “You garden. How did you learn?”

  “I read a lot of books.” Finn hauled their suitcases from the trunk while Deanna stood at the head of the gravel drive and looked around. “I never know how long I’ll be away, so grass wasn’t practical. I didn’t like the idea of hiring a lawn service. It’s mine.” Faintly embarrassed by the statement, he shrugged. “So I spent a few weeks putting in stuff that wouldn’t need a lot of attention.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  He’d wanted her to think so, he realized. “It’ll look better in another month or two. Let’s go inside. I’ll start a fire, then show you around.”

  She followed him up to the porch, ran her hand along the arm of a rocking chair. “It’s hard to picture you sitting here, looking out over a rockery and doing nothing.”

  “It’ll get easier,” he promised, and led her inside.

  The cabin opened up into a large room, topped by a loft and a quartet of skylights. One wall was dominated by a fireplace fashioned of river rock; another was crowded with books on built-in shelves. The paneling was the color of honey, as was the flooring, over which he’d scattered rugs—Orientals, French, English, Indian. And, incredibly, the lush black sheen of a bear rug, complete with snarling head and claws.

  Catching her eye, Finn grinned. “It was a gift—some of the guys from the station.”

  “Is it real?”

  “Afraid so.” He crossed to the hearth, where the bear spread like a wide black pool. “I call him Bruno. Since I’m not the one who shot him, we get along pretty well.”

  “I guess he’s . . . good company.”

  “And he doesn’t eat much.” He sensed her nerves, shivering along the chilled air. And he understood them. He’d rushed her out of Chicago before she’d been able to think things through. Now she was alone with him. “Colder in here than it is outside.”

  “Yes.” She rubbed her hands as she wandered to one of the windows to study his view. There was no other house to disturb the panorama, only those lush yews and trees not yet greening. “It doesn’t seem that we could be only an hour or so out of the city.”

  “I wanted somewhere I could get away.” He built a fire competently, quickly. “And where I could get back quickly if a story broke. There’s a TV, radio and fax machine in the other room.”

  “Oh, I see. You can take the boy out of the newsroom . . . That’s nice,” she said, and walked over to where the wood was beginning to crackle and spark.

  “There’s another fireplace upstairs.” He took her bag and gestured toward the steps that led to the loft.

  The second floor held one large bedroom that echoed the simple furnishings of the main room. A sitting area in front of a window contained a love seat in deep hunter green, another rocker, a low pine table and a three-footed stool. The gleaming brass bed was covered with burgundy corduroy and faced a small stone fireplace. There was a pine dresser and a roomy armoire.

  “Bath’s through there.” Finn indicated the door with a nod of his head as he crouched to set the fire.

  Curious, Deanna nudged the door open. Staring, she stood on the threshold unsure whether to laugh or applaud. Although the rest of the cabin might have reflected rustic elegance, in the bathroom, Finn had gone for dramatic.

  The ebony, oversized tub was fitted with jets and surrounded by a ledge that snugged against a wide window. The separate shower was constructed of glass block and white tile. The wall over the sink was mirrored and hugged by a long counter of black-and-white tiles, as neat as a chessboard. A portable television sat on it, facing the tub.

  “Some bathroom.”

  “If you’re going to relax,” Finn commented as he rose, “you might as well relax.”

  “No TV in the bedroom?”

  Finn opened one door of the armoire. There, atop a trio of drawers, was the blank eye of a television screen. “There’s a shortwave in the drawer of the nightstand.” When she laughed, he held out a hand. “Come down and keep me company while I cook dinner.”

  “You, ah, didn’t bring your bags up,” she said as they started down.

  “There’s another bedroom downstairs.”

  “Oh.” She felt the tension dissolve, even as she was pricked by regret.

  He stopped at the base of the steps, turned, put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her lightly. “Okay?”

  She rested h
er brow against his a moment. “Yes,” she said. “Okay.”

  And it was, sitting at the breakfast bar putting a salad together while Finn sliced potatoes into thin strips for frying, listening to the high March wind blow through the evergreens and tap at the windows. It was easy, relaxing in the country kitchen while potatoes fried and chicken grilled and laughing at his stories of adventures in the marketplaces in Casablanca.

  All the while the kitchen TV murmured, keeping the world in the background, and somehow making the atmosphere they shared more intimate.

  The room was warm and cozy, with dark curtaining the windows and candles flickering on the kitchen table. “It’s wonderful,” she told him after another bite of chicken. “You’re as good as Bobby Marks.”