Authors: Nan Ryan
Kay, her lips slightly swollen from Sullivan’s heated kisses, her face still flushed, knees weak, said diplomatically, “It’s my fault we’re late, Janelle, really. I was in my costume…Sullivan gave me a hand.”
“I see.” Janelle’s gray eyes held a knowing look.
“Sure he didn’t give you a couple?” Jeff quipped.
“A couple of what?” Kay chewed her lip.
“Hands, darlin’,” Jeff kidded and lifted her up onto the high float where the rest of the Q102 air personalities were in position.
At a circular green-felt table, Dale Kitrell, Dallas Smith, Ace Black and one of the salespeople sat playing cards, stacks of colored chips in front of them, shot glasses filled with weak tea at their elbows. Sherry Jones, garbed in a long blue brocade dress, a black feather boa wrapped around her throat and falling to the floor down her back, was the dealer. Happy and laughing, her hair gleamed as she tossed her head around, enjoying immensely all the attention.
At a polished mahogany bar, the plump, muttonchopped bartender was Sam Shults. Smiling warmly at Kay, he wiped an already sparkling glass. Jeff lifted Kay atop the bar. “By the way,” Jeff said, close to her ear, “did Sullivan think to mention that he is supposed to ride by, rope you and—”
“No!” Kay hoped he was teasing.
“I’m getting worried about Ward. He’s mighty forgetful lately.” He tweaked his false mustache, patted her hand and added, “If you see him riding up, you’re to helpfully raise your arms above your head, okay?”
“But Jeff—” she gritted her teeth.
“Not my idea.” He shrugged merrily, snapped the arm garters around his elbows and took his seat at the old upright player piano.
Kay, her legs crossed, sat atop the bar and waved to the onlookers. Her daring outfit drew catcalls and whistles and she colored and wished for the second time this day that she’d dressed more modestly. The crowd fully approved of her glittering green garb and called her name and ran up to the slow traveling float to get her autograph, to touch her hand, to tell her how much they enjoyed the Sullivan and Kay morning show.
Gracious, she smiled and waved and posed prettily, and all the while she was thinking of what had happened just prior to the parade. It was all she could do to keep from lifting her fingers to touch her lips, as though the imprint of Sullivan’s masterful mouth would still be there. Invisible though it was, his brand was on her. It had been from the very first time he’d ever kissed her.
There’d been men in her life in California; some handsome, some charming and extremely entertaining. She’d shared kisses with a couple that had made her heart speed pleasantly, but Sullivan Ward was the only man for her. There’d never been another lover, never. That one passionate night together had meant too much, had been too beautiful. She’d been a virgin when Sullivan had so tenderly taken her on that never-to-be-forgotten night. With his intimate possession of her willing, innocent body, he’d become the holder of her heart.
Now he’d again aroused in her the raging passions he’d introduced all those years ago. There’d been times when she’d almost forgotten what it was like to be held by Sullivan, kissed by him. There in his office on this perfect fall day, he’d kissed her with that old urgent fire, looked at her with that dark smoldering gaze, pressed her to his hard male body and made her weak with love and wanting.
“Hey, Sullivan.” Someone shouting his name snapped Kay’s head around. “Why isn’t your partner riding with you?”
Kay’s eyes went to the commanding figure regally sitting on a huge black horse, as Sullivan advanced On the slow-moving float. Kay swallowed and clutched at the polished saloon bar, her wide eyes on dark horse and dark rider.
Hat tilted strategically low over one eye, white teeth flashing, Sullivan easily reined the prancing, silver-embellished black stallion along the slippery pavement, moving steadily closer. To the waving, admiring crowd, he shouted in that deep, melodious voice, “You know, I think my pretty partner should be with me at all times.” His eyes gleamed devilishly and Kay colored, reading a personal meaning into his careless words.
Sullivan pulled the horse up, draped a white-sleeved forearm over the saddle horn and with a slow turn of his head, directed his attention, and that of the crowd, to a nervous, smiling Kay.
When Sullivan winked and tipped his hat to the crowd, straightened in the saddle and unhooked a coiled lariat from its resting place, the crowd went wild.
Showboating grandly, Sullivan let the coiled rope slide down over a bent arm, drew a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it and exhaled. Kay, along with everyone else, had eyes only for the compelling man so easily, expertly playing his role.
“Yup,” he drawled dramatically, “I think that little filly belongs in the custody of the marshal, just for being so danged brazenly beautiful. Don’t ya’ll?”
Loud, urging applause and piercing whistles were his answer.
Clamping his cigarette firmly between his teeth, Sullivan nodded, wrapped the reins around the horn and knee-reined his big, well-trained stallion toward the Q102 float and Kay. He uncoiled the rope, made a large loop and began twirling it high over his head. All the while, he looked directly at Kay; cigarette smoke drifting up into his dark, squinting eyes.
Kay, as impressed with his performance as was the cheering crowd, completely forgot about lifting her arms over her head. Heart racing rapidly, she was torn between the urgent desire to be held close to Sullivan and the fear she had of horses. She sat frozen in place, green dress glittering, mesh-hosed legs crossed, silver hair shining in the unfiltered rays of the Colorado sun.
When a perfectly thrown rope fell over her head and tightened as soon as it reached her waist, Kay blinked and winced. Arms pinned to her sides, she felt as helpless as a trapped butterfly. Sullivan urged his horse closer, lithely stood in the saddle, and in one fast, fluid movement, plucked Kay from the saloon bar.
Someone softly screamed and Kay realized it must have been her when Sullivan, tossing his half-smoked cigarette away, gently pressed her back against his chest and said softly into her ear, “Don’t be afraid, Kay. I’d never let you fall.”
Sullivan didn’t let Kay fall, but he sure did let her down. The parade continued and she sat across the saddle in front of him. Kay was happy, hopeful, unafraid. Sullivan, after deftly removing the rope, held Kay in his arms while they rode the prancing horse down the street.
Kay forgot her fear of horses and waved gaily to the cheering crowd. How could she be frightened; the man she loved was holding her in his protective arms.
The dazzling smiles she gave the crowd reflected the bubbling happiness inside. Kay was sure that as soon as the parade ended, as soon as she and Sullivan could be alone…
Stomach fluttering, eyes sparkling, Kay, female that she was, mentally planned what she would wear on this evening of evenings. There was no doubt in her mind that Sullivan would want to take her out to dinner or to come to her place for a meal. Good Lord, she had nothing to feed him. Nothing. She’d have to run by the supermarket and choose a couple of rib eyes, some ingredients for the salad, potatoes for baking. Sullivan could bring the wine.
She could wear the new blue loose-knit sweater and suede skirt if they had dinner at her place; if he wanted to go out, she’d wear the daring netted V-backed black silk. It was sexy and elegant and Sullivan was sure to like it.
Heart full of love, head full of plans, Kay’s warm eyes left the spectators, lifting almost shyly to look at Sullivan. His gaze was resting on the red, blotchy flesh of her white shoulder and his jaw was set, though he wore a smile.
“Don’t worry about it,” she whispered gaily. “It’s only a small abrasion.”
His eyes flicked up to hers, but he said nothing. It was Kay’s first warning that things were not going to be as wonderful as she’d thought.
The parade came to its conclusion at the far end of Broadway. There, Janelle Davis, behind the wheel of Sullivan’s gray Mercedes, waited to drive Sullivan, Kay and Jeff back to the station.
Kay was stunned when Sullivan, after helping her down from the horse, turned the mount over to a waiting stable boy and walked to the car. Wordlessly, he climbed into the front passenger seat, leaving her standing.
A warm hand gripped her elbow and Jeff’s familiar voice said, “I see ole ‘strong and silent’ is cranky again.” He laughed, walked Kay to the Mercedes and handed her inside, following her.
Janelle, turning to smile and speak to Kay and Jeff, gasped and asked bluntly, “Kay. Your shoulder! It’s all pink and raw. What happened to you?”
Kay, her face turning as pink as the punished shoulder, said evenly, “I suppose it’s some sort of allergy.” Sullivan, his long arm draped along the car seat, gritted his teeth as his hand tightened on the plush upholstery.
Jeff hit Sullivan’s shoulder and said wickedly, “Yeah, she’s either allergic to horses or to Sullivan, and I’ve never seen a horse that…”
A dark head swung around and Sullivan fixed Jeff with a hard stare. “Your stale humor may go over with your listeners, but I find it offensive. I told you earlier, shut your damned mouth or I’ll do it for you.” Sullivan turned back around, moved his arm from the seat and lit a cigarette.
Unruffled, Jeff winked at Kay and laughed. Janelle, shaking her head, drove back to the radio station and Kay, confused, uneasy, thought that surely when they arrived, she’d get the chance to speak to Sullivan alone.
It was not to be.
To her shock, Sullivan slid under the wheel as soon as Janelle got out. “I’ll see you guys later,” he said, and before Kay, standing numbly beside the car, could speak, he’d driven away.
“There goes a real jerk,” Jeff said, laughing, and put his arms around Kay and Janelle. He added, “Let’s all go over to Leo’s and drown our troubles. What do you say?”
Both women declined.
By the time Kay had changed back into her jeans and was driving home to her apartment, the bright sunshine had departed. Ominous clouds now blanketed the city and the temperature was rapidly dropping. A cold winter rain was beginning when Kay pulled the red Porsche into the underground garage below her apartment building.
Kay stepped into her dim living room, tossed her bag and car keys on the marble-topped table in the entranceway and sighed. Not bothering to turn on any lamps, she went directly to the long white sofa and stretched out wearily, hands folded beneath her head.
She stayed there for the rest of the long, dreary afternoon. Hurt and disappointed, she felt lifeless, unable to move. She could only lie there, prone, puzzling over Sullivan’s mercurial moods. How could he be so passionate and loving one minute, so cold and uncaring the next?
All afternoon, Kay’s unhappy eyes kept going to the silent telephone. Why didn’t he call? Why didn’t he come over? Why did he torment her so?
It was dark, though Kay had no idea what time it was, when she went to her closet and pulled out a raincoat. The windshield wipers made an irritating sound as Kay drove across town. The swish-swish of the rubber-bladed wipers grated on already raw nerves.
Kay wheeled into the only space in front of the elegant Park Lane Towers, parked and jumped out of the car. Rain brushed her face as she ran up the steps to the opulent lobby. Kay put a charming smile on her face when the uniformed doorman saw her, and she pointed upward, then shrugged slender shoulders as though she’d lost her key.
The man nodded knowingly and threw open the heavy glass door. Kay rushed inside, relieved. If she’d had to ring the buzzer of Sullivan’s apartment, she was not at all sure he’d have let her in the front door. “So sorry,” Kay said to the doorman, “I was sure my key was in my handbag.” She hurried to the elevator before he could answer.
Kay stood, drenched, shaking and wondering what had possessed her. She was on the nineteenth floor, just outside the door of Sullivan’s penthouse apartment. She gulped for air, squared her shoulders and knocked decisively.
“Yeah, it’s open,” came the irascible male voice.
Kay cringed and thought of fleeing. Cold hand on the shiny brass knob, she turned, pushed in the heavy door and stepped inside. Slowly she closed it behind her.
It was dark in the big room. Only one light burned and it was an elbow lamp casting its concentrated circular disk of illumination on the glass-topped table where it rested. A half-f bottle of Scotch sat beneath the lamp. A glass of the amber liquid sat beside the bottle. A dark hand slowly moved from the darkness to curl its fingers around the glass.
A faceless voice from the shadows said coldly, “Is there something you need?”
“Yes,” Kay said resolutely, and shrugged out of her wet raincoat and hung it on a brass coat tree. She turned, pulled nervously at the bottom of her blue sweater, descended the three steps leading into the big pine-paneled room and walked toward the light.
Sullivan remained where he was, saying nothing, lifting the Scotch to his lips. He lounged lazily in a leather easy chair. One long leg was hooked over the chair’s arm, the other stretched in front of him, resting on a matching leather ottoman. He wore no shoes, no shirt.
Kay stood above him, straining to see. “Can I offer you a drink?” came the faceless voice. “There’s ice in the…”
“I don’t want a drink, Sullivan.” Kay warily took a seat on the big soft ottoman beside his bare foot. “And I wish that you wouldn’t drink, either.”
Sullivan leaned slowly up into the light. His hair was disheveled and his beard was beginning to grow. He looked menacing. Possessively clasping the bottle of Scotch, he warned, “If you’ve any foolish ideas about being some kind of junior Carrie Nation with breaking bottles of liquor in mind, forget it. This is the only bottle I have and I plan to drink it.”
“It’s not like you to drink, Sullivan.”
“How the hell do you know what’s like me?”
Kay looked into his angry dark eyes. Their gazes held for a minute; then Sullivan leaned back into the darkness once again. “You never used to drink, Sul.”
“My name is Sullivan. Stop calling me Sul.” He lifted the glass to his lips.