Danielle Steel - Passion's Promise

Kezia tried to lighten his mood by playing tourist.

“It looks rather like SoHo, only more funky somehow. You can tell it’s been around for a while.”

“Yeah, it has. It’s the old Italian neighborhood, and there are a lot of Chinese. And kids, and artists. It’s a good scene.” He bought her an ice cream cone, and they took a cab to the Ritz. It was four in the morning for Kezia by then, and in the arms of her lover she slept like a child. Something troubled her only faintly as she drifted off to sleep—something about police … and Luke … and spaghetti. They were trying to take away his spaghetti … or … she couldn’t figure it out. She was too tired. And much, much too happy.

She had fallen asleep as he watched her, a smile on his face as he stroked the long black hair that rippled past her naked shoulders and down her back. She looked so beautiful to him. And he was already so goddamn in love with her.

How was he ever going to tell her? He slipped quietly out of bed after she fell asleep, and went to look at the view. He had blown it, blown all his own rules. What a fucking stupid thing to do. He had no right to someone like Kezia. He had no right to anyone until he knew. But he had wanted her, had to have her—as an ego trip at first because of who she was. And now? Now it was all different. He needed her. He loved her. He wanted to give her something of himself … even if only the last golden hours before sunset. Moments like that don’t come every day, at most they come once in a lifetime. But now he knew he would have to tell her. The question was, how?

Chapter 18

“Lucas, you’re a beast!” She groaned as she turned over in bed. “For God’s sake, it’s still dark.”

“It’s not dark, it’s just foggy. And breakfast in this joint is at seven.”

“I’ll go without.”

“No, you won’t. We have things to do.”

“Lucas … please …” He watched her struggle out of sleep. His hair was combed, his teeth were brushed, his eyes were bright. He had been up since five. He had a lot on his mind.

“Kezia, if you don’t get off your ass, I’ll keep you on it all day. And then you’ll be sorry!” He ran his hand smoothly from her breast to her belly.

“Who says I’ll be sorry?”

“Don’t tempt me. But come on, babe. I want to show you the town.”

“In the middle of the night? Can’t it wait a few hours?”

“It’s seven-fifteen.”

“Oh God, I’m dying.”

And then, laughing at her, he picked her up out of bed, and deposited her in the bathtub of warm water he had run while she slept.

“I figured you wouldn’t be up to a shower this morning.”

“Lucas, I love you.” The hot water lulled her gently, as she lay looking sleepily into his eyes. “You spoil me. No wonder I love you.”

“I figured there had to be a reason. And don’t take too long. They close the kitchen at eight, and I want some food in my stomach before I drag you around town.”

“Drag me, eh?” She closed her eyes and sank deeper into the tub. It was an ancient bathtub that stood high off the floor on gold-leaf claw feet. It would have been large enough for both of them.

They breakfasted on pancakes and fried eggs and bacon. And for the first morning in years, Kezia didn’t even bother to read the paper. She was on holiday, and she didn’t give a damn what the world had to say. “The world” would only complain, and she was not in the mood for complaints. She felt too good to be bothered with that.

“So where are you taking me, Lucas?”

“Back to bed.”

“What? You got me up, just to go back to bed?” She looked incensed and he laughed.

“Later. Later. First, we take a look at the town.”

He drove her through Golden Gate Park and they walked around its lakes and kissed in hidden corners under still-flowering trees. Everything was still green and in bloom. The rusty look of the East in November was so different, and so much less romantic. They had tea in the Japanese Garden, and then drove out to the beach before driving back through the Presidio to look out over the bay. She was having a ball: Fisherman’s Wharf, Ghiradelli Square, The Cannery….

They ate fresh crab and shrimp at the stands at the wharf, and reveled in the noise of Italian vendors. They watched old men playing boccie in Aquatic Park, and she smiled watching one very old man teach his grandson how to play. Tradition. Luke smiled too, watching her. She had a way of seeing things that he had never thought of before. She always had a sense of history, of what had come before and what would come later. It was something to which he’d never given much thought. He lived with his feet firmly planted in now. It was an exchange they gave to each other. She gave him a sense of her past, and he taught her to live where she was.

As the fog lifted, they left their borrowed car down at the wharf, and took the cable car to Union Square. It made her laugh as they rolled down the hills. For the first time in her life she felt like a tourist. Usually she moved across a regulated map between familiar houses in cities she had known all her life, from the homes of old friends to the homes of other old friends, wherever she was, the world over. From one familiar world to another. But with Luke being a tourist was fun. Everything was. And he loved the way she enjoyed what he showed her. It was a fun town to show—pretty, and easy, and not too crowded at that time of year. The rugged natural beauty of the bay and the hills made a pleasing contrast to the architectural treasures of the town; skyscrapers all politely herded downtown, the gingerbread Victorians nestled in Pacific Heights, and the small colorful shops of Union Street.

They drove over the Golden Gate Bridge just because she wanted to see it “up close,” and she was enchanted.

“What a handsome piece of work, isn’t it, Luke?” Her eyes scanned far above to its spires piercing the fog.

“So are you.”

They dined that night at one of the Italian restaurants on Grant Avenue. A place with four tables for eight where you sat next to strangers, and made friends as you shared soup and broke bread. She talked to everyone at their table; this was new to her too. Luke grinned as he watched her. What would they have said if they had known she was Kezia Saint Martin? The idea made him laugh more. Because they wouldn’t have known. They were plumbers and students, bus drivers and their wives. Kezia Saint Who? She was safe. With him, and with them. That pleased him; he knew that she needed a place where she could play, without fear of reporters and gossip. She had blossomed in the brief time since she’d flown into town. She needed that kind of peace and release. He was glad it was something he could give her.

They stopped for a drink at a place called Perry’s on Union Street before going home. It reminded her a bit of P. J.’s in New York. And they decided to walk home from there. It was a pleasant walk over the hills, dotted with small parks along the way. The foghorns were bleating at the edge of the bay, and she kept stride beside him, holding his hand.

“God, Luke. I’d love to live here.”

“It’s a good place. And you don’t even know it yet.”

“Not even after today?”

“That’s just the tourist stuff. Tomorrow we see the real thing.”

They spent the next day driving north on the coast Sanson Beach, Inverness, Point Reyes. It was a rugged coastline that looked much like Big Sur farther south. Waves crashing against the cliffs, gulls and hawks soaring high, long expanses of hills, and sudden sweeps of beaches, unpopulated and seeming almost to be touched by the hand of God. Kezia knew what Luke had meant. This was a far cry from the wharf. This was real, and incredibly beautiful, not merely diverting.