Susan Johnson - Hot Streak

Once, late that night, she sensed his shock, although his expression was hidden in the shadowed room.

“Where did you learn that?” he growled, territorial prerogatives obvious in the bite of his voice.

“I read,” Molly sweetly replied. “Everyone can't visit the plush red-light districts.”

“And if I don't believe you?”

“Can I help it if I'm a liberated woman?” she teased, savoring both his shock and possessiveness. It would never do to let a man like Carey Fersten take her for granted. She rather preferred keeping him on his toes.

“Not anymore,” he snapped.

“We'll see now, won't we?” she replied, moving beneath him in a unique and tantalizing way.

Absorbing the shimmering, exquisite sensations for long, distracted moments, Carey swallowed hard before he muttered, “Damn you.”

“And I love you, too,” Molly purred.

He demonstrated then, moody and fevered, who exactly could do what to whom, but the delirium encompassed them both and through the night they pledged themselves to each other in a flaming passion that had survived separation and loss, intact and whole and glorious.

L ater, twined in each other's arms amidst the shambles of the satin and velvet bedclothes, Molly smiled up at Carey. “You're marvelous at suppressing evening sickness,” she said.

“I'd be happy,” he murmured, a lazy smile on his face, “to serve all your medicinal needs. Consider me on twenty-four-hour call. And since I caused this nausea in the first place, it's only fair I do my duty to alleviate it.”

“I've never considered you as particularly dutiful,” Molly replied, her grin mischievous.

“Fatherhood has startled me into a reappraisal of priorities. Duty first from now on. I'm yours to command,” he finished facetiously.

“Don't go to Australia.”

His smile flickered for a moment, and then was placidly restored. “Let's talk about it later. I'm still basking in the pleasure of this prenuptial evening romp. The loss of several million dollars requires a discussion of some length, and I'm not up to the task at the moment. Hit me with something easier.”

“How much are you up to?” Molly queried, only half-teasing. Moving away, she sat up cross-legged, her back straight and her eyes intent.

Carey's hands went out to stop her. Then, changing his mind, he let his hands drop back onto the sheet. Reclining against the lace-trimmed pillows like a golden surfer, he said, “Anything under ten mil, I'm braced and ready.” His smile was the enchanting one he saved only for her.

“I don't want you to see Sylvie again.”

“I don't intend to.”

“You sound sure.”

“Sure as the sun comes up over the Leonidas mine and sets over the ballpark. For you, Honeybear.”

“That's pretty sure. How do you know she won't appear on our doorstep again? And she's still with Egon.”

“Wrong.”

“Oh?” It was a soft inquiry potent with ruffled feelings.

“I talked to Egon this afternoon. His surgery is scheduled for Monday, if all goes well… and the doctors are extremely optimistic. One hot-shot young turk is betting him he'll be skiing by Christmas. On that happy news, Sylvie excused herself from his bedside and flew back to Nice. It seems some gala in Monaco was determined to go on without her. I expect she's dancing under an enormous chandelier at this very moment, exchanging banalities with some man who's suggesting they share breakfast together.”

“How can you be so flip about her?” Molly still retained a modicum of suspicion after watching them at the Trauma Center. They'd been more than casual friends, and it showed.

“I'm not. It's the simple truth. La Dolce Vita, Monaco style. Sylvie thrives on it.”

“As you once did.”

“Did is the operative word, I believe,” Carey replied, his dark eyes grave.

“Did you ever love her?” Molly asked the old question answered so many times before, but never with the finality that would shut the door on that period in his life.

Carey gazed at her for a long moment, wishing he could find the words that would make her understand how little Sylvie meant to him. He shook his head, no, finally, and shrugged, remembering those years. “Sylvie felt it was time I got married,” he said, as if trying to find the answer himself. “I wasn't conscious of much of anything in those days, so I said, why not? A combination of circumstances which proved disastrous. It was a stupid mistake.”

When he saw the alarm on Molly's face, a terrible dawning of uncertainty and fear, he added in an even tone, “Don't be afraid. It's different with us. We're different. I didn't love Sylvie. You didn't love Bart.”

Molly's expression registered shock.

“You didn't love him,” Carey repeated. “You loved me.”

And she knew it had always been true, though she'd locked away the truth all those years ago. Locked it away behind the wedding arrangements and the impossibility of leaving Bart and their families and friends in limbo at the church. And then she'd thrown away the key when she discovered she was pregnant. One loved one's husband, that's the way things were. You especially loved your husband when you carried his child.

“I know,” she quietly said, pained and honest. “I always loved you, I never stopped loving you. I'm sorry.”

He understood her apology and all the sadness behind it. “Just never leave me again.”

He opened his arms, and she went to him.

A fter Pooh's return from Lucy's the next morning, when they told her they'd decided to get married soon, she scarcely changed expression. She was sitting on her old wooden rocking horse that still held its place of honor in the living room. Kicking it in a leisurely movement, she said, “I knew it. Mom's been moping all week. She runs for the phone every time it rings. We can't walk through the apartment without knocking over a basket of flowers-I see there's more.” She cast a random glance at the new baskets of white roses. “And Mom hasn't hollered at me once this week. I thought she was sick. Are we going to move?” she finished, as though her abrupt question was a perfectly logical conclusion to her statements.

“Ah…” Carey awkwardly began.

“Er…” Molly exhaled painfully.

“I want to be a flower girl,” Pooh declared, “with a long dreamy dress, flowers in my hair, and silver shoes.”

“Of course,” Carey quickly replied, relieved at the new direction of the conversation. “You and your Mom decide what color dress. Silver shoes?”

“Jennifer Porter thinks she's hot 'cuz she's got silver shoes.”

“Good enough reason for me,” Carey said with a grin.

And the difficult topic of moving was brushed aside in favor of a discussion of flower girl dresses.

Carey took them out for dinner that evening, and they celebrated their coming marriage in ten-course magnificent style. And much later Pooh was tucked into bed after an extemporaneous story of rabbits and enchanted forests.

Carey and Molly spent a blissful night in their own enchanted land, and when morning came their wedding date on the following weekend had been decided. The decision to tell Pooh about the coming baby had been made. The wrap-up schedule for the picture five days hence was decided. Even the honeymoon had been decided.

Southern France for all three-and-a-half of them.

Only the decision about their working lives hadn't been decided.

Cowardly, they'd avoided the subject.

W hen Carey arrived on location in the late morning, he immediately went to the trailer and rummaged through the file drawers. Five minutes later, he called in Allen from the final scenes being set up in the meadow near the lake.

After a brief exchange of amenities, Carey said, “I'm tossing another mess into your lap, Allen. Call and tell our lawyers they're going to be busy in the next few weeks. I just tore up my contract with Allied International to direct that film in Australia.”

Allen sat down hard, taking off his baseball cap in an unconscious gesture of shock. His horrified glance was no surprise to Carey. “You can't,” he exclaimed as vehemently as his breathless lungs would allow.

“I already did,” Carey replied with a much-too-cheerful demeanor for a man who may have committed financial suicide.

“You're ruining yourself,” Allen pronounced, his mind racing through the possible loss of income totaling millions, on top of Carey's determination to make this immigrant movie that may or may not make money, not to mention the losses suffered during the weeks he was gone on his murderous mission.

“Christ, Allen,” Carey responded, “I don't need all this. I lead a simple life. I know how to run my own camera.”

“Jesus, you're not some long-haired juvenile director with a creative dream, Carey, You're incorporated ten times over now.” And you don't lead a simple life, he thought, unless royal prerogatives had reached the masses when he wasn't looking. “You've a wife and daughter to think about, or soon will have,” he added in an attempt to reach the starry-eyed man he'd known as a hard-headed pragmatist for eight long years.

“And another child on the way.”

Allen's eyes bulged out. “That kid really is yours.”

It stopped Carey for a moment-Allen's inherent disbelief-even after all the weeks of legal maneuvering to put Pooh in his will. “Both kids are really mine,” he said very simply.

“Good God, then, Carey, think of them. If you renege on that contract-” Allen exhaled violently at the thought of all the dire consequences.

“I'm not exactly penniless, Allen. I think I'll survive. You're better off not going in for these big productions, anyway.”