Chapter 9

 

Harry couldn’t look at the woman hunched in the rocking chair. He took a long, slow drag on his cigarette but nicotine gave no relief. Sweat prickled between his shoulder blades as he fought waves of memory that rose to batter him, remorseless and unstoppable as the incoming tide. Outside the cottage, the wind’s wild lament echoed the turmoil in his mind.

He threw back his head and howled, one long primal cry of anguish. Let his would-be counsellor make of that what she willed. Let her tremble at the depth of fury he’d soon turn her way.

Susan. Why did she have to be a Christian? So perfect, so inviting, then hitting him with God when his defences were down.

He’d been minding his own business when she walked into his life. She was fresh, pure, perfect. A sun goddess miraculously transplanted into the ice-bound citadel of dirty snow that was Toronto in January. She glowed that way now, in his mind.

No. He stabbed his cigarette into the heavy glass ashtray on the coffee table. He wouldn’t think of Susan, not now, not with another religious woman watching him.

If this one started preaching too, he’d go mad.

His breath came fast and ragged. Harry spun away from her, his legs suddenly rubbery as if he were in the final stage of a marathon. No matter how loudly he swore, he couldn’t drown out the soft words that welled in his memory.

Excuse me, I’m sorry to bother you...

Harry clamped his hands over his ears, fingers gouging into the sides of his head, but her voice came from the recesses of his own mind. He sank onto the couch, bracing his elbows on sagging knees to support the weight of his mental agony.

The rocking chair creaked. Harry’s head snapped up as his hostage eased herself to her feet.

“Sit still.”

She froze, the colour draining from her face. Without taking her eyes from his, she subsided into her chair.

Harry’s face dropped into the futile protection of his hands.

Excuse me... Susan’s voice echoed louder in his mind. Her words were iron chains, dragging him into the surge of memory. A shuddering sigh escaped the depths of his lungs as he sank.

~~~

He sat alone at a red metal table. The mall’s food court lay nearly deserted, giving him the rarity of solitude in a public venue. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a figure approaching. He stared into the glossy darkness of his coffee, hoping the uninvited visitor would take the hint.

After a moment, she spoke. Resigned to the inevitable, he looked up—and was lost. He felt the passion taking hold, burning her image into his brain. Soft, honey-blond hair flowed over the shoulders of her teal blue wool coat, rippling as she inclined her head toward him.

Her blue eyes, uncertain at first, filled with concern. “Are you all right?”

His mind fumbled to translate her voice into mortal English, and prodded him to reply. He cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice level.

“I’m fine. Just daydreaming.” He clenched the Styrofoam cup, his trembling hands sloshing hot liquid over the sides. Pain jolted his fingers, piercing the delicious sense of excitement that had blossomed inside of him.

For one wild moment he thought of fighting it. He could get up and walk away. She’d think he was rude, but she’d never know how narrowly she’d escaped. He braced one hand on the edge of the table, leg muscles tensing to rise.

“You are Harry Silver, aren’t you?”

The sweet softness of her voice dragged his unwilling gaze back to her face. A hint of doubt clouded her eyes as if she was afraid she’d mistaken his identity. The glimpse of vulnerability caught his breath and he sank back into his chair, defeated.

He flashed a grin, friendly and inviting. “That’s me. Sorry—I must have zoned out.” He pushed out the chair across from him with his foot. “Have a seat, and let’s start over. I’m in the game now.”

She stood undecided, one hand resting lightly on the back of the bright red chair. “I don’t want to intrude.”

Harry lifted his hands, palms up in surrender. Desire had full possession of him now. The tremors had passed. “My time is yours. I was getting lonely here with my thoughts.”

“Well, if you’re sure you don’t mind.” The girl sat on the edge of the chair.

Harry’s hands played idly with his bent cup. “Have a coffee?”

“No, thank you. I have to be at work soon.” She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Harry watched her, his muscles taut. She had no idea of the electricity sparking inside of him.

She leaned forward and the spell increased. “I feel really silly bothering you, but I know someone who’s been one of your fans since you started racing. He’d be thrilled to have your autograph.”

Harry kept a brittle smile in place to mask the sudden antagonism that flared toward her nameless male friend. She belonged to him now. There was no room for another man.

He kept his voice light. “Your boyfriend, I assume?”

A low chuckle escaped the soft curve of her lips. She shook her head, her long, golden hair cascading around her shoulders.

“My uncle, actually.”

Relief flooded him, as senseless as the flash of rage. Reaching out, he touched her forearm as it rested on the metal table between them. The thick wool coat yielded under his fingertips.

“Listen,” he said, as if struck by a sudden idea. “Your uncle would probably appreciate something better than my scrawl on a crumpled napkin from Sam’s Café.” His hand left her arm to prod the little square of paper on the table, one corner coffee-sodden from his spill.

“I’ve got some spare publicity photos in my apartment. How about I sign one for him, and you can meet me somewhere tomorrow to collect it?”

White, even teeth chewed delicately on her bottom lip. Her blue eyes looked doubtful. “I couldn’t put you to that much trouble.” She opened her tiny black purse. “I must have some paper in here, somewhere.”

He gave a slow wink, well-practiced charm filling his voice. “Nothing is too much trouble when it’s a beautiful woman who asks. I insist.”

Her hands stilled, then closed the little purse. Harry felt the barrier that rose against his words. Instantly realigning his approach, he held out one hand. “I’m sorry, Miss. That was a stupid thing to say.”

He offered a warm smile, hoping he sounded properly contrite. “Around the track, we all talk that way. I know it’s sexist, but it doesn’t mean anything. Most of the female fans I meet seem to expect it. They don’t take it seriously, but it gives them a bit of a thrill to flirt with the man under the crash helmet.”

Harry’s face was a careful picture of sincerity as he met her eyes. “Now I must get your uncle a picture, to apologize. Unless I’ve offended you too deeply?”

Sky blue eyes gazed back at him, accepting his words without inviting him closer. “No offense taken. You surprised me, that’s all.” She paused. “It must be a very different world.”

Harry shrugged. “It is. But I love it.”

He went on briskly. “Since I’m now honour-bound to bring you an autograph—and it really is no trouble—I need some information.”

The girl looked at her watch, and pushed back her chair. “I can’t miss my bus.” Her voice was apologetic. “His name is Tony. I appreciate this, Mr. Silver.”

Rising as well, he said, “Harry. I’m not big on formality.”

She shook his outstretched hand. “I’m Susan.”

Harry’s pulse jolted at her touch. Quickly releasing her hand, he asked, “Where and when shall I deliver Tony’s autograph? I could drop it off to you at work.” Where could he find her? He had to know.

Susan shook her head, her long blond hair rippling electric waves up his spine. “There are a lot of people. You might get stuck signing autographs for a long time.”

“After work, then? I’m a night owl.”

She laughed. “I get off at seven in the morning. Can I meet you here tomorrow a little earlier than this?”

Harry grimaced. “I much prefer my hours. Where do you work to pull a shift like that?”

Unsuspecting, she told him. He watched her hurry away, her parting thank you echoing in his ears.

Susan... Her name alone captivated him. She was so beautiful, so very alive. He would be at the hospital when her shift ended. This called for swift planning, but that part of his brain was already in full gear, eager to set the stage.

Harry had no way of knowing what Susan would do to his life. Even now, more than two years after he had killed her, he cursed the moment they met, dreaded the memory of her dying words.