Danielle Steel: The Promise

“You're not very talkative today, my love. Still thinking of the new project?”

She nodded with an embarrassed smile and then ran a delicate hand over the back of his neck. “Sometimes I wonder why you put up with me.”

“Because I'm lucky to have you. You're very special to me, Marie. I hope you truly know that.”

But why? Sometimes she wondered. Was she like the other woman he had loved? Had he made her that way? It was an eerie thought.

She settled back in her seat for a moment and closed her eyes, trying to relax, but they flew open again as she felt Peter swerve in the bulletlike little car. As she opened her eyes, all she could see was a sleek red Jaguar hurtling toward her side of the car, head on, as its driver swooped around a double-parked truck. For some reason the driver of the Jaguar had overshot his mark, and was well into the opposite lane, until he was almost nose to with Marie. She stared wide-eyed in horror, too terrified to make a sound. But in an instant, the incident was over. Peter had avoided the car, and the delinquent Jaguar had sped off in the opposite direction, running a red light. But Marie sat frozen and terrified in her seat, clutching the dashboard, her eyes staring straight ahead, her jaw trembling, her eyes filled with unshed tears, her mind rooted to something it had seen twenty-two months before. Peter realized instantly what was happening, stopped the car, and reached out to take her in his arms, but she was too stiff to move, and as he touched her, the car was suddenly filled with her screams. She howled from the very bottom of her soul, and he had to shake her and pull her into his arms to subdue her.

“Shhh … it's all right, darling. It's all right. Ssshhhh. It's all over now. Nothing like that will ever happen again. It's all over.” She subsided into terrified sobs, the tears streaming down her face, her whole body trembling as she let herself fall against him while he held her. It was almost half an hour before she stopped, and lay back exhausted in her seat. He watched her silently for a time, stroking her face and her hair, holding her hand and letting her feel that she was indeed safe. But he was deeply troubled by what he had seen. It proved what he had thought all along. When at last she had stopped shaking and she rested, quiet, next to him, he spoke to her softly but firmly and she closed her eyes. “You have to go back to Faye. It isn't over for you yet. And it won't be until you face it and heal it.”

But how much more could she face? And what was there to heal? Her love for Michael? How could she heal that? How could she tell Peter that she had spoken to him on the phone; and that it had made her want to hold him and kiss him and feel his hands on her again? How could she tell Peter that? Instead she looked at him with tired eyes and silently nodded.

“I'll give it some thought.”

“Good. Shall I take you home?” His voice was very soft, and she nodded. She didn't have the strength to go to the gallery now. And they didn't speak again until they reached her house. “Do you want me to take you up?” But she only shook her head and kissed him on the cheek.

The only words she said to him as she got out of the car were, “Thank you.” And she didn't look back when she got out. She slowly climbed up the stairs, the burden of twenty-two lonely months heavy on her shoulders. If only Michael had never called. It had brought back all the pain. And for what? What was the point? He probably didn't give a damn anyway. He just wanted her photographs. Well, let him buy someone else's work, the bastard. Why the hell couldn't he leave her alone?

She let herself into her apartment and went straight to the bed. Fred was leaping and jumping at her feet, and instantly joined her on the bed, but she wasn't in the mood. She pushed him to the floor, and lay there for a long time, staring at the ceiling, wondering if she should call Faye, or if there was any point in that either. She was just beginning to doze in fitful exhaustion when the phone rang and she jumped up with a start. She didn't really want to answer it, but it was probably Peter wanting to know if she was all right, and she didn't have the right to worry him anymore than she already had that afternoon. Slowly, she reached for the phone.

“Hello.” It was a soft broken word from her lips.

“Miss Adamson?” Oh Jesus, it wasn't Peter, it was …

She closed her eyes to fight back the tears as an endless sigh shook her entire body. “For God's sake, Michael, leave me alone.” She hung up the phone, and at the other end Michael stared at the receiver in total confusion. What the hell was this all about? And why had she called him Michael?

Chapter 27

Marie looked tired and drawn the next morning when she walked into the gallery with Fred. She was wearing a black pants suit with a brilliant green sweater that set off her coloring to perfection. But she looked unusually pale after a long, sleepless night, in which, at least ten thousand times, she had relived her last day with Michael and the accident that followed. She felt as though she would never get away from it if she lived to be a thousand years old. And she felt at least a hundred that morning.

“You look as though you've been working too hard, my love.” Jacques smiled at her from behind the desk in his office. He was wearing his standard uniform. Impeccably tailored French blue jeans grafted to his body, black turtleneck sweater, and suede St. Laurent jacket. On him the combination looked perfect “Or are you staying up too late with our favorite doctor?” He was an old friend of Peter's, and he had already grown fond of Marie.

She smiled in answer and sipped the coffee he had poured. It was strong and dark, a café filtre, the only kind he ever served. He brought it over from France, along with countless other precious items without which he could not survive. She loved to tease him about his chauvinism and his expensive tastes. She had bought him toilet paper imprinted with the Gucci logo for his birthday. That and a briefcase from Hermès, which was slightly more his style. But he had liked the joke, too.

“No, I haven't been partying. Maybe too much time in the darkroom.”

“Crazy girl. A woman like you should be out dancing.”

“Later. After I do some more work.” She started describing her new idea for a series on San Francisco street life, and he nodded in satisfaction.

“Ça me plait, Marie. I like it. Okay. Do it as soon as you can.” He was about to go into the details with her when there was a knock on his office door. It was his secretary, making hushing gestures. “Aha! Probably one of your girls.” Marie loved to tease him, and he grinned and shrugged “helplessly” as he walked around the desk to confer with the secretary just beyond the door. He listened to her whispered words, and then nodded, looking exceedingly pleased. He gave one final affirmative sign, and then walked back in and sat down, looking at Marie as though he were about to bestow a wonderful gift.

“I have a surprise for you, Marie.” And with that, she heard another knock on the door. “Someone very important is interested in your work.” The door swung open before she had time to fully understand the meaning of his words, or their implication, and suddenly she found herself turning around to face Michael. She almost gasped, and felt the cup of steaming dark coffee tremble in her hand. He was very handsome in a dark blue suit, white shirt, and dark tie, and he looked every bit the magnate he was.

Marie set down the coffee cup to take his out-stretched hand, and he was impressed with how poised she looked in Jacques's office. It hardly seemed possible that this was the girl who had answered the phone the night before, with agony in her voice, begging him to leave her alone. Maybe she had other problems, with men perhaps. Maybe she'd been drunk. You never knew with artists. But none of his thoughts showed on his face, nor did her discomfort show on hers.