Danielle Steel: The Promise

He tried to brush it off, and Marie wanted to throw her coffee in his face. Son of a bitch. A minor accident. Thanks, baby. Now I know everything I need to know. She picked up her handbag, looked down at him icily for a moment, and held out her hand.

“Thanks for a lovely time, Mr. Hillyard. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“You're leaving? Did I say something wrong?” Jesus. She was impossible. What the hell was wrong with her now? What had he said? And then he found himself shocked at the look in her eyes.

“As a matter of fact, you did.” She in turn was shocked at her own words. “I read about that accident of yours, and I don't think it was what anyone would call minor. Those two friends of yours were pretty well banged up, from what I understand. Don't you give a damn about anything, Michael? Don't you care anymore about anything but your bloody business?”

“What the hell is wrong with you? And what business is it of yours?”

“I'm a human being, and you're not. That's what I hate about you.”

“You are crazy”.

“No, mister. Not anymore.” And with that, she turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Michael to stare at her. And then, as though pushed by an invisible force, he found himself on his feet and running after her. He had dropped a five-dollar bill on the little marble table and fled in her wake. He had to tell her. He had to … No, it hadn't been a minor accident. The woman he loved had been killed. But what right did she have to know that? He didn't get a chance to tell her, though, because when he reached the street, she had just slipped into a cab.

Chapter 28

She had just gotten to the beach and was setting up her tripod when she suddenly saw the figure approach. His determined step puzzled her until she realized who it was. Michael, damn it He walked down the beach and over the small dune, until he stood in front of her, blocking her view.

“I have something to say to you.”

“I don't want to hear it.”

“That's tough. Because I'm going to tell you anyway. You have no right to pry into my private life and tell me what kind of human being I am. You don't even know me.” Her words had tormented him all through the night. And he had found out from her answering service where she was. He wasn't even sure why he had come here, but he had known he had to. “What right do you have to make judgments about me, damn you?”

“None at all. But I don't like what I see.” She was cool and removed as she changed lenses.

“And just exactly what do you see?”

“An empty shell. A man who cares about nothing but his work. A man who cares about no one, loves nothing, gives nothing, is nothing.”

“You bitch, what the hell do you know about what I am and do and feel? What makes you think you're so almighty together?” She stepped around him and focused on the next dune. “Damn you, listen to me!” He reached for her camera and she dodged him, turning on him in fury.

“Why don't you get the hell out of my life?” Like you have for the last two years, you bastard…

“I'm not in your life. I'm trying to buy some work from you. That's all I want. I don't want your pronouncements about my personality, or my life, or anything else. I just want to buy some stinking photographs.” He was almost trembling, he was so angry, and all she did was walk past him to the portfolio that lay on a blanket on the beach. She unzipped it, looked into a file, and pulled out a photograph. Then she stood up and handed it to him.

“Here. It's yours. Do whatever the hell you want with it. Then leave me alone.”

Without saying a word he turned on his heel and walked back to the car he'd left parked in the road.

She never turned to look at him, but went back to work until the light began to dim and she could work no longer. Thai she drove back to her apartment, scrambled some eggs, heated some coffee, and headed for the dark room. She went to bed at two in the morning, and when the phone rang, she didn't answer it. Even if it was Peter, she didn't care. She didn't want to speak to anyone. And she was going back to the beach at nine the next morning. She set her alarm for eight and fell asleep the moment she hit the bed. She had freed herself of something back there on the beach. And she had to be honest with herself: even if she hated him, at least she had seen him. In an odd way, it was a relief.

She showered and dressed in less than half an hour the next morning. She was wearing well-worn work clothes, and she sipped her coffee as she read the paper. She left the apartment on schedule, a few minutes before nine, and she was already thinking of her work as she hurried down the steps with Fred. It was only when she reached the foot of the steps that she looked up and gasped. Across the street was an enormous billboard mounted on a truck, driven by Michael Hillyard. He was smiling as he watched her, and she sat down on the last step and started to laugh. He was really crazy. He had taken the photograph she had given him, had it blown up and mounted, and then driven it to her door. He was grinning as he left the truck and walked toward her. And she was still laughing when he sat down next to her on the step.

“How do you like it?”

“I think you're a scream.”

“Yeah, but doesn't it look good? Just think how your other stuff would look blown up and mounted in the medical center buildings. Wouldn't that be a thrill?” He was a thrill, but she couldn't tell him that. “Come on, let's go have breakfast and talk.” This morning he wasn't taking no for an answer. He had cleared his morning schedule just for her. And she found his determination touching as well as amusing. She just wasn't in the mood for another fight.

“I should say no, but I won't.”

“That's better. Can I give you a ride?”

“In that?” She pointed to the track and started laughing again.

“Sure. Why not?”

So they hopped into the cab of the truck and headed down to Fisherman's Wharf for breakfast. Trucks were a familiar sight there, and no one was going to walk off with a photograph that size.

Surprisingly, it was a very pleasant breakfast. They both put aside the war, at least until the coffee.

“Well, have I convinced you?” He looked very sure of himself as he smiled at her over his cup.

“No. But I've had a very nice time.”

“I suppose I should be grateful for small favors, but that's not my style.”

“What is your style? In your own words.”

“You mean you're giving me a chance to explain myself, instead of your telling me what I am?” He was teasing, but there was an edge to his voice. She had come too close to home with some of her comments the day before. “All right, I'll tell you. In some ways you're right. I live for my work.”

“Why? Don't you have anything else in your life?”

“Not really. Most successful people probably don't. There just isn't room.”

“That's stupid. You don't have to exchange your life for success. Some people have both.”

“Do you?”

“Not entirely. But maybe one day I will. I know it's possible anyway.”

“Maybe it is. Maybe my incentive isn't what it used to be.” Her eyes grew soft at the words. “My life has changed a great deal in the last few years. I didn't wind up doing any of the things I once planned to. But … I've had some damn nice compensations.” Like becoming president of Cotter-Hillyard, but he was embarrassed to say it.

“I see. I take it you're not married.”

“Nope. No time. No interest.” How lovely. Then it was probably just as well they hadn't married after all.

“You make it sound very cut-and-dried.”

“For the moment it is. And you?”

“I'm not married either.”