Danielle Steel - Passion's Promise

“Expecting someone, or just nervous?”

She shook her head. “Neither. Just stunned, I guess. A few hours ago we had dinner in Washington, said goodbye at the airport, and now here you are. It’s a bit of a shock.” But a pleasant one.

“Too much of a shock, Kate?” Maybe he had gone too far, but at least she didn’t look angry.

“No.” She was careful with the word. “What do you want to do now?”

“How about taking a walk?”

“That’s funny, I thought of that on the plane. I wanted to go for a walk along the East River. I do that once in a while, late at night. It’s a nice way to think.”

“And get killed. Is that what you’re trying to do?” The idea of her walking along the river unprotected unnerved him.

“Don’t be so silly, Lucas. You shouldn’t believe all the myths you hear about this town. It’s as safe as any other.” He glowered and finished his beer.

They began to walk slowly up Third Avenue, past restaurants and bars, and the clatter of occasional late-night traffic on Fifty-seventh Street. New York was not in any way like any other town. Not like any American city. Like a giant Rome maybe, with its thirst for life after dark. But this was bigger, more, wilder, crueler, and far less romantic. New York had its own romance, its own fire. Like a bridled volcano, waiting for its chance to erupt. They both felt the vibes of the town as they wandered its streets, out of step with its mood, refusing to feel pushed or shoved; they felt oddly at peace. They passed little groups of people, and male streetwalkers carrying pug dogs and French poodles, and wearing tight sweaters and crotch-clutching jeans. Women walked lap dogs, and men lurched drunkenly toward cabs. It was a city that stayed alive round-the-clock.

They cut east on Fifty-eighth Street, and walked through the slumbering elegance of Sutton Place, sitting like a dowager next to the river. Kezia wondered for a moment if they would meet Whit, leaving his lover’s apartment—if he still left it.

“What are you thinking about, Kate? You look all dreamy.”

She looked up at him and smiled. “I guess I am. I was just letting my mind wander … thinking about some people I know … you … nothing much really” He took her hand and they walked quietly next to the river, making their way slowly north, until a question interrupted her thoughts. “I just thought of something. Where are you going to sleep tonight?”

“I’ll work it out. Don’t worry about it. I’m used to arriving in cities in the middle of the night.” He looked unconcerned.

“You could sleep on my couch. You’re a bit tall for it, but it’s comfortable. I’ve slept there myself.”

“That sounds fine to me.” Better than fine, but he couldn’t let her see how happy he was, or how surprised. It was all so much easier than even his wildest dreams.

They exchanged another smile and kept walking. She felt comfortable with him, and hadn’t felt this peaceful in years. It didn’t matter if she let him sleep on her couch. So what if he knew where she lived? In the end, what did it really matter? How long could she hide—from him, from herself, from strangers and friends? The precautions were becoming an unbearable burden. At least for one night, she wanted to set the burden aside. Luke was her friend; he wouldn’t harm her, even if he knew her address.

“Do you want to go home now?” They were at Seventy-second and York.

“Do you live near here?” The neighborhood surprised him. It was middle-class ugly.

“Not too far from here. A few blocks over and a couple more blocks up.” They headed west on Seventy-second Street, and the neighborhood began to improve.

“Tired, Kate?”

“I must be, but I don’t feel it.”

“You’re probably still numb from the drunk you tied on last night.” He grinned.

“What a rotten thing to bring up! Just because I get drunk once a year …”

“Is that all?”

“It certainly is!”

He pulled one of the pigtails and they crossed the deserted street. Downtown, traffic would still be blaring, but here there was no one in sight. They had reached Park Avenue now, divided by neat flower beds and hedges.

“I wouldn’t say you live in the slums, Katie Miller.” For a while, as they had strolled along York, he wondered if she’d take him to a different apartment to keep secret the place where she lived. Thank God, she wasn’t as frightened as that. “You must do well with your articles.” A look of open teasing passed between them, and they both started to laugh.

“I can’t really complain.”

She was playing it right till the end. She wasn’t going to cop to a thing. It amazed him. So secretive, and what in hell for? He pitied her for the agonies of her double life. Or maybe she didn’t spend enough time on his side of the tracks to make it a strain. But there was SoHo, the place she went to “get away.” From what? Herself? Her friends? He knew her parents were dead. What could she have to get away from? Surely not the guy he’d seen with her in the paper.

They turned a corner onto a tree-lined street, and she paused with a smile at the first door. An awning, a doorman, an impressive address.

“This is it.” She pressed the bell, and the doorman fought with the lock. He looked sleepy and his hat was tilted back on his head. It was a relief man, she observed, and all he ventured was a vague, “Good evening.” Providentially, he couldn’t remember her name.

Luke smiled to himself in the elevator. She turned the key to her apartment and pushed open the door. There was mail neatly stacked on the hall table, the cleaning woman had been there, and the place looked impeccably neat and smelled of fresh wax.

“Can I offer you some wine?”

“Champagne, I presume.”

She turned to look at him, and he was smiling gently at her, mischief in his eyes. “It’s quite a pad, baby. Class, by the barrel.” But he didn’t say it cruelly; it was more like a question.

“I could tell you it’s the home of my parents … but I wouldn’t want to do that.”

“Is it … or was it?”

She raised an eyebrow. “Nope, it’s mine. I’m old enough to put together something like this for myself now.”

“As I said, you must do well with your work.”

She shrugged and smiled. She wanted to make no excuse. “What about that wine? It’s pretty lousy actually. Would you rather have a beer?”

“Yes. Or a cup of coffee. I think I’d rather have that.” She left him to put on the kettle, and he ambled after her, his voice reaching her from the doorway as she clattered cups in the kitchen. “Hey, do you have a roomie?”

“A what?” She wasn’t paying attention; she would have grown pale if she had.

“A roommate. Do you have one?”

“No. Why? Do you take cream and sugar?”

“No, thanks. Black. No roommate?”

“Nope. What makes you ask?”

“Your mail.” She paused with the kettle in her hand, and looked around at him.

“What about my mail?” She hadn’t thought of that.

“It’s addressed to a Miss Kezia Saint Martin.” Time seemed to stand still between them. Neither moved.

“Yes. I know.”

“Anyone you know?”

“Yeah.” The weight of the world seemed to fall from her shoulders with one word. “Me.”

“Huh?”

“I’m Kezia Saint Martin.” She attempted a smile but looked almost stricken, and he tried to feign shock. Had she known him a little bit better she’d have laughed at the look in his eyes.

“You mean you’re not Kate S. Miller?”

“Yeah, I’m K. S. Miller too. When I write.”

“Your pen name. I see.”

“One of many. Martin Hallam is another.”

“You collect aliases, my love?” He walked slowly toward her.