Danielle Steel - Passion's Promise

She saw him watching her as she watched him. He held her long and hard in the grasp of his eyes, and then dropped her and let his glance move away. It had been a strange sensation, like being backed against the wall with a hand at your throat, and another stroking your hair; you wanted to cringe in fear, and melt with pleasure. She felt warm suddenly, in the room full of people, and quietly looked around, wondering why this man was taking so long. It was hardly an introduction. He had been speaking for almost half an hour. Almost as though he intended to upstage Lucas Johns. And then it dawned on her, and she had to fight not to laugh in the quiet room: this had never been an introduction. The man whose eyes had so briefly stroked hers was Johns.

Chapter 8

“Coffee?”

“Tea, if possible.” Kezia smiled up at Lucas Johns as he poured a cup of hot water, and then handed her a tea bag.

The suite showed signs of frequent guests—half-filled paper cups of coffee and tea, remains of crackers, ashtrays overflowing with peanut shells and stale cigarette butts, and a well-used bar in the corner. It was an unassuming hotel, and the suite was not large, but it was easy and comfortable. She wondered how long he had been there. It was impossible to tell if he’d made his home there for a year, or if he’d moved in that day. There was plenty to eat and drink, but nothing was personal, nothing seemed his, as though he owned the clothes on his back, the light in his eyes, the tea bag he had handed her, and nothing more.

“We’ll order breakfast from downstairs.”

She smiled again over her tea, and watched him quietly. “To tell you the truth, I’m not really very hungry. No rush. And by the way, I was very impressed by your speech last night. You seem so at ease on the stage. You have a nice knack for bringing a difficult subject down to human proportions without sounding self-righteous about what you know firsthand and your listeners haven’t experienced. That’s quite an art.”

“Thank you. That’s a nice thing to say. I guess it’s just a question of practice. I’ve been doing a lot of speaking to groups. Is the subject of prison reform new to you?”

“Not entirely. I did a couple of articles last year on riots in two Mississippi prisons. It was an ugly mess.”

“Yeah, I remember. The real point about the whole subject of “reform’ is not to reform. I think that abolition of prisons as we know them now is the only sensible solution. They don’t work like this anyway. I’m working on the moratorium on the construction of prisons right now, along with a lot of good people who organized it. I’ll be heading down to Washington next.”

“Have you lived in Chicago long?”

“Seven months, as a sort of central office. I work out of the hotel when I’m here, lining up speaking engagements, and some of the other stuff I do. I wrote my new book here, just holed up for a month and got down to work. After that, I lugged the manuscript around with me and wrote the rest on planes.”

“Do you travel a lot?”

“Most of the time. But I come back here when I can. I can dig my heels in and relax here.”

Nothing about him suggested that he did that very often. He didn’t seem the sort of man who would know how to stop, or when. For all the stillness, one sensed a driving force inside him. He had a very quiet way of just sitting, barely moving, his eyes watching the person he spoke to. But it was more like the cautious stance of an animal sniffing the air for signs of attack or approach, ready to spring in a moment. Kezia could sense too that he was wary of her, and not totally at ease. The humor she had seen in his eyes the night before was carefully screened now.

“You know, I’m surprised they sent a woman out to do the piece.”

“Chauvinism, Mr. Johns?” The idea amused her.

“No, just curiosity. You must be good or they wouldn’t have sent you.” There was the hint of arrogance she had sensed in his book.

“I think it’s mostly that they liked those two pieces I did for them last year. I suppose you could say I’ve skirted the subject of prisons before … if you’ll pardon the pun.”

He grinned and shook his head. “That’s a hell of a way to put it.”

“Then call it ‘a view from the sidelines.’”

“I’m not sure that’s an improvement. You can never see from the sidelines … or is it that you see more clearly? But with less life. To me, it always feels better to be right in the gut of things. You either get into it, or you don’t. The sidelines … that’s so safe, such a dead way to do anything.” His eyes sparkled and his mouth smiled, but it had been a heavy message. “Come to think of it, I’ve read some of your articles, I think … could it have been in Playboy? ” He was momentarily bewildered; she didn’t look the type for Playboy, not even in print, but he was sure he remembered an article not very long ago.

She nodded assent with a grin. “It was a piece on rape. In sympathy with the man’s side, for a change. Or rather on false accusations of rape, made by neurotic women who have nothing better to do except take a guy home and then chicken out, and later yell rape.”

“That’s right. That’s the piece I remember. I liked it.”

“Naturally.” She tried not to laugh.

“Now, now. It’s funny though, I thought a man had written it. Sounded like a man’s point of view. I guess that’s why I expected a man to do this interview. I’m not really the kind of guy they usually send women out to talk to.”

“Why not?”

“Because sometimes, dear lady, I behave like a shit.” He laughed a deep, mellow laugh, and she joined him.

“So that’s what you do, is it? Is it fun?”

He looked boyishly embarrassed suddenly and took a swallow of coffee. “Yeah, maybe. Sometimes anyway. Is writing fun?”

“Yes. I love it. But ‘fun’ makes it sound rather flimsy. Like something you do as a hobby. That’s not the way I see it. Writing is important to me. Very. It’s for real, more so than a lot of other things I know.” She felt strangely defensive before his silent gaze. It was as though he had quietly turned the tables on her, and was now interviewing her.

“What I do is important to me too. And real.”

“I could see that in your book.”

“You read it?” He seemed surprised, and she nodded.

“I liked it.”

“The new one is better.”

And so modest, Mr. Johns, so modest. He was a funny sort of man.

“This one is less emotional, and more professional. I dig that.”

“First books are always emotional.”

“You’ve written one?” The tables turned again.

“Not yet. Soon, I hope.” It irked her suddenly. She was the writer, had worked hard at her craft over the past seven years, and yet he had written not one but two books. She envied him. For that, and a lot of things. His style, his courage, his willingness to follow his guts and jump into what he believed in … but then again, he had nothing to lose. She remembered the dead wife and child then, and felt a tremor for something tender in him which must have been hidden somewhere, down deep.

“I have one more question, and then you can get into the piece. What’s the ‘K’ for? Somehow ‘K. S. Miller’ doesn’t sound like a name.”

She laughed at him, and for the briefest of moments was about to tell him the truth: Kezia. The “K” is for Kezia, and the Miller is a fake. He was the sort of man to whom you gave only the truth. You couldn’t get away with less, and you wouldn’t have wanted to. But she had to be sensible. It would be foolish to throw it all away for a moment of honesty. Kezia was an unusual name after all, and he might see a picture of her, somewhere, someday, and the next thing you’d know….