“Emmie…” Blo­unt’s eyes swept her up and down. “Emmie Cad­din­g­ton, is that you?” To her sur­p­ri­se he held out his arms in wel­co­me.

  Emmie si­des­tep­ped his hug, but whi­le she tri­ed to think of an ex­cu­se to get away from him, he con­ti­nu­ed tal­king abo­ut pe­op­le he had se­en and spo­ken to as if she had an­s­we­red him.

  The man lo­ved the so­und of his own vo­ice, and now that she tho­ught abo­ut it, his ha­bit of tal­king thro­ugh ever­y­t­hing had ir­ri­ta­ted her back when they we­re what, da­ting? No. Tho­ugh they had eaten to­get­her fre­qu­ently and spent eve­nings to­get­her, he had ne­ver as­ked her out on a da­te. A co­up­le? No. Be­li­eving they we­re a co­up­le and as­su­ming a so­ci­al in­vi­ta­ti­on to one in­c­lu­ded the ot­her was her mis­ta­ke.

  To be fa­ir, she had pre­fer­red not to go out, and if they ran in­to ot­hers, she had sta­yed in the bac­k­g­ro­und. But ap­pe­aran­ces at cer­ta­in fa­culty fun­c­ti­ons we­re re­qu­ired. Le­ar­ning he in­ten­ded to es­cort anot­her wo­man to a fun­c­ti­on she co­uldn’t pos­sibly avo­id had be­en the first shock. The se­cond had be­en his sur­p­ri­se that she had ex­pec­ted to at­tend with him.

  God, she’d felt stu­pid. When anot­her fa­culty mem­ber sud­denly had to drop out, she’d ac­cep­ted the trip with the stu­dents so that it wo­uld be a go­od, long ti­me be­fo­re she had to run in­to Blo­unt aga­in. Now, as he men­ti­oned this or that per­son he’d tal­ked to, she re­ali­zed how much she had de­pen­ded on him to ma­na­ge so­ci­al si­tu­ati­ons.

  How easy it was for her to say not­hing be­ca­use he co­uld say ever­y­t­hing.

  For in­s­tan­ce, right now, if she had the right kind of so­ci­al gra­ces, she’d be ab­le think up a lie to get away from him, but she didn’t. She co­uldn’t. In­s­te­ad she bac­ked away from him whi­le he nat­te­red away.

  “I tho­ught I saw you ear­li­er, but it lo­oked li­ke you we­re with so­me guy,” Blo­unt sa­id. Lo­oking slightly puz­zled, he swept his eyes over her aga­in. She co­uld see him ta­ke in her new ha­ir, new dress, and new sho­es.

  Sud­denly, be­ing trap­ped by him wasn’t un­com­for­tab­le, it was funny. “And you knew that co­uldn’t be me, right?”

  He stam­me­red, “No, of co­ur­se not.” But ex­t­ra rud­di­ness in his che­eks ma­de her think she’d na­iled it. “I just didn’t think-if you we­re with so­me­one-I sho­uld in­ter­rupt you.”

  “Well, you we­re right the first ti­me. I am with so­me­one.” God, it felt go­od to say that. Call her shal­low, but it felt es­pe­ci­al­ly go­od to say it to the pon­de­ro­usly self-im­por­tant Blo­unt. Ca­leb was so­me­one who held her hand as they wal­ked down the stre­et, un­li­ke Blo­unt who had ne­ver to­uc­hed her un­less he wan­ted sex. So­me­one who had no ne­ed of pad­ding for his sho­ul­ders or a vest to dis­gu­ise a thic­ke­ning wa­is­t­li­ne. So­me­one who hadn’t blin­ked at the men­ti­on of com­mit­ment. “You’ll ha­ve to ex­cu­se me. He’s wa­iting.”

  Blo­unt’s eyes se­ar­c­hed the thin­ning crowd. “Whe­re?” he chal­len­ged.

  He didn’t be­li­eve her. Why hadn’t she no­ti­ced be­fo­re that he didn’t res­pect her? That he had of­ten ma­de her de­fend the blan­dest ob­ser­va­ti­on. Why hadn’t she se­en that he tho­ught his pre­sen­ce con­fer­red im­por­tan­ce on her, and she sho­uld be gra­te­ful? Wha­te­ver lin­ge­ring tra­ces of at­tac­h­ment to Blo­unt she might ha­ve felt drop­ped away. Any wisps of ye­ar­ning for the in­tel­lec­tu­al par­t­ner­s­hip they might ha­ve had va­nis­hed li­ke va­por in strong sun­light.

  She gig­gled, then gig­gled har­der at the lo­ok of con­fu­sed af­front he ga­ve her for da­ring to la­ugh at his chal­len­ge. Her in­ner imp ma­de her gi­ve him a sa­ucy wink. “Upsta­irs.”

  Still gig­gling at his stun­ned lo­ok, she wag­gled her fin­gers bye and wal­ked away.

  The bro­ad entry hall, by the ti­me she re­ac­hed it, had only a small knot of pe­op­le at the do­or and was free of of­fi­ci­al mi­ni­ons. The crowd for the open ho­use had pe­aked and was dwin­d­ling now. Em­mie ma­de for the sta­ir­ca­se. The bar­ri­er of the wi­ne vel­vet ro­pe was mo­re psycho­lo­gi­cal than physi­cal. Wit­ho­ut he­si­ta­ti­on and with her in­ner imp che­ering, she calmly un­ho­oked it, step­ped thro­ugh, and ho­oked it be­hind her.

  Chapter 22

  “Okay, Vicky, I’m co­ming up. You’re do­ing just fi­ne. I’ll be the­re in a mi­nu­te and help you in the win­dow. No, don’t try to watch me,” Ca­leb sa­id when the lit­tle girl cra­ned her he­ad to lo­ca­te the so­und of his vo­ice. “I’m he­re,” Do-Lord ma­de his vo­ice low and cro­oning. “I’m right be­si­de you. I’m go­ing to put my arm over you. What kind of knot did you use to se­cu­re the an­c­hor?”

  “A fi­gu­re of eight.”

  If she ti­ed it cor­rectly, it wo­uld easily hold both of the­ir we­ights. “Okay, then I’m go­ing to re­ach aro­und you and ta­ke hold of the ro­pe. It might bo­un­ce a lit­tle, but I’ve got you. I’m not go­ing to let you fall.

  “You’re do­ing gre­at,” he sa­id when he had one hand on the ro­pe and her lit­tle body pres­sed bet­we­en him and the li­mes­to­ne. “I’m go­ing to bring my kne­es up and ma­ke a lap. Let yo­ur thighs sit on my thighs. That way we can mo­ve to­get­her. Now we ne­ed to go down abo­ut a fo­ot.”

  When he felt her we­ight aga­inst his thighs, he sa­id, “I’m go­ing to let us down now. Re­ady?”

  “I can’t let go,” she sa­id in a small vo­ice, for the first ti­me truly frig­h­te­ned.

  “That’s all right. You don’t ha­ve to. Just let the ro­pe sli­de thro­ugh yo­ur hands.”

  “I me­an my fin­gers-they won’t mo­ve. I can’t mo­ve my hands.”

  “Okay, in that ca­se, we won’t go down, we’ll go up.” The first ne­ces­sity was to ta­ke every bit of stra­in from her arms and sho­ul­ders. The prob­lem was equ­al parts spasm of abu­sed mus­c­les and fe­ar. Even if she co­uld work aga­inst the spasm, the most pri­mi­ti­ve part of her bra­in wo­uldn’t let go whi­le she felt li­ke she was dan­g­ling.

  He gras­ped the ro­pe and pul­led un­til her hands we­re be­low the le­vel of her sho­ul­ders. He now sup­por­ted one hun­d­red per­cent of her we­ight. It wasn’t much, se­venty po­unds or so. “Is that bet­ter?”

  Insi­de the sa­fety ca­ge he’d ma­de of his arms and legs he felt her draw in a de­ep, shud­de­ring bre­ath. The worst part abo­ut dan­g­ling for long pe­ri­ods was that a per­son co­uldn’t bre­at­he well in that po­si­ti­on, which in­c­re­ased an­xi­ety and fa­ti­gue. She re­la­xed aga­inst his chest. “How are we go­ing to get down?” she as­ked at last.

  “Don’t worry. We’ll get down. I pro­mi­se. Just let yo­ur­self rest a mi­nu­te.” He clo­sed one hand over hers, and rat­her than at­tem­p­ting to pry her fin­gers away from the ro­pe, stro­ked firmly from her wrist to her fin­ger­tips, en­co­ura­ging the mus­c­les to len­g­t­hen. He felt her pin­kie re­lax first, then her ring fin­ger.

  Her who­le body set­tled aga­inst his as the se­cu­rity of the hu­man ca­ge he had ma­de aro­und her pe­net­ra­ted her fe­ar. Now was the ti­me to mo­ve.

  “Emmie, you the­re?”

  “I’m he­re.” Em­mie le­aned out the win­dow as far as was sa­fe, but they we­re be­yond her li­ne of sight. She’d thrown the win­dow open in ti­me to he­ar Ca­leb say, “Then we’ll go up,” but she co­uldn’t he­ar what Vic­ky had sa­id. It se­emed li­ke they’d be­en “up” a long ti­me, but pro­bably it was less than a mi­nu­te.

  Tho­ugh she co­uldn’t see them, Em­mie had be­en han­ging on­to the so­und of Ca­leb’s vo­ice. From the first ti­me she met him she’d be­en cap­tu­red by his vo­ice, it’s fle­xi­bi­lity and la­tent strength. Now as she lis­te­ned to him re­as­su­ring the child, she he­ard the full po­wer of his vo­ice un­le­as­hed. Not harsh or lo­ud, it was pit­c­hed to so­ot­he, to re­as­su­re, and to in­s­till con­fi­den­ce. Gen­t­le, ten­der, al­most lig­h­t­he­ar­ted, yet ear­nest, she knew he me­ant with every fi­ber of his be­ing exactly what he sa­id. He was mas­ter of this si­tu­ati­on, and Vicky was com­p­le­tely sa­fe.

  She won­de­red if this vo­ice was yet anot­her mask, or be­lon­ged to the man be­hind the mask.

  “Okay, Em­mie,” Ca­leb’s vo­ice flo­ated from abo­ve her. “He­re’s what’s go­ing to hap­pen. I’m go­ing to lo­wer us. When we’re le­vel with yo­ur win­dow, I’m go­ing to work us over to it. Vicky’s go­ing to hold out her arm, and you’re go­ing to catch it and pull her in he­ad first.” His words in his eas­y­go­ing drawl we­re bac­ked up by will so fo­cu­sed and im­p­la­cab­le, she co­uld fe­el in her bo­nes the ine­vi­ta­bi­lity that she wo­uld do what he sa­id. “Do you un­der­s­tand?”

  “All right, Lit­tle Bit,” he spo­ke to Vicky aga­in, “we’re go­ing down. One leg down. That’s right. Mo­ve with me. The­re are plenty of go­od fo­ot­holds. You’ve got it. You’re do­ing gre­at. It’s no mo­re than two or three steps.” Thro­ugh every mo­ve­ment he tal­ked to Vicky in the sa­me calm, con­fi­dent vo­ice.

  The­re we­re ro­ugh scrab­bling and scuf­fing so­unds, then they ca­me in­to vi­ew, and the sight snag­ged at Em­mie’s he­art. He had Vicky en­ve­lo­ped in his stren­g­th, and mo­ving as if they we­re one, he kept her back, the backs of her legs and arms in con­tact with his front.

  When he saw Em­mie le­aning out the win­dow, Ca­leb’s te­eth flas­hed whi­te in a rat­her fi­er­ce-lo­oking smi­le. “Go­od girl, Em­mie. I want you to ke­ep yo­ur we­ight in­si­de the win­dow tho­ugh. When you catch Vicky’s arm, I just want you to add mo­men­tum, un­der­s­tand?”

  Emmie drew back. The win­dow’s wi­de aper­tu­re was fil­led with man and child. Be­fo­re she co­uld re­act, he or­de­red, “Put yo­ur arm out, Vicky, now.”

  At the sa­me mo­ment that the lit­tle girl re­ac­hed out, he gras­ped the wa­is­t­band of her je­ans and thrust her for­ward. It was a to­ur de for­ce of strength, co­or­di­na­ti­on, and ti­ming. Al­most ref­le­xi­vely, Em­mie grab­bed the child’s out­s­t­ret­c­hed hand and tug­ged. Vicky tum­b­led in­to the ro­om, whi­le Em­mie stum­b­led bac­k­wards to avo­id be­ing bow­led over.

  “Out of the way. I’m co­ming in.”

  Vicky scram­b­led to her fe­et and out of his way. Ca­leb ho­oked his hands on the sash abo­ve his he­ad and in a smo­oth pull-up and tuck worthy of a gold me­da­list, sent his fe­et and legs thro­ugh the aper­tu­re. With a per­fectly ti­med re­le­ase, he stuck the lan­ding.

  Vicky, her fa­ce so whi­te each frec­k­le ac­ross her che­eks sto­od out, grab­bed his arm as so­on as he was in the ro­om. “Don’t tell. Ple­ase don’t tell,” she ple­aded.

  Wit­ho­ut an­s­we­ring her Ca­leb lo­we­red the win­dow and loc­ked it, then stal­ked, prow­led, with the flu­id, de­li­be­ra­te, dan­ge­ro­us tre­ad of a big cat, which co­uld be con­ta­ined but ne­ver ta­med, to the de­ep wing cha­ir ne­ar the do­or. Em­mie had thrown his sho­es and socks the­re as so­on as she en­te­red the ro­om. Grim ver­ti­cal cre­ases brac­ke­ted his mo­uth. His si­len­ce was mo­re shoc­king to Em­mie than yel­ling wo­uld ha­ve be­en. He’d be­en so con­fi­dent, so se­cu­re in his abi­lity to sca­le the si­de of a ho­use, so ja­unty as he sup­por­ted his own we­ight with one arm, Em­mie hadn’t re­ali­zed how sca­red he was. But now the ex­t­re­me con­t­rol of every mo­ve­ment told of the iron clamp he had on his fe­elings.

  He sat down in the cha­ir and brus­hed his hand over the so­le of one fo­ot. Res­ting on his op­po­si­te knee, the tan­ned fo­ot had a ro­ugh-hewn ele­gan­ce, a mar­ri­age bet­we­en in­na­te gra­ce and slim li­nes, strength and hard use. The sight of his ba­re fo­ot, so hu­man, so strong, and so vul­ne­rab­le com­p­res­sed her he­art. He glan­ced up and saw her lo­oking, and crin­k­les ap­pe­ared aro­und his eyes. He pul­led on a brown sock, so soft-lo­oking it must be cas­h­me­re.

  Then the crin­k­les di­sap­pe­ared. “Emmie, wo­uld you ret­ri­eve the ro­pe from the bat­h­ro­om? Vicky and I,” he ex­p­la­ined in a vo­ice scrub­bed of all emo­ti­on, “ne­ed to ha­ve a very se­ri­o­us talk.”

  Fe­eling a lit­tle co­wardly, Em­mie scut­tled to­ward the bath. She wo­uldn’t want to fa­ce him in his cur­rent sta­te. The­re wasn’t a do­ubt in her mind that he in­ten­ded to ma­ke Vicky awa­re of how fo­ol­hardy her ac­ti­ons had be­en. Just be­ca­use she didn’t want to be in the li­ne of fi­re didn’t me­an she didn’t want to know what was go­ing to hap­pen, tho­ugh. She was in­ten­sely cu­ri­o­us. She didn’t clo­se the do­or com­p­le­tely.

  “Expla­in,” she over­he­ard him say. Just one word of com­mand in that de­ad, le­vel, calm vo­ice.

  “Mommy sa­id I had to stay in my ro­om and rest,” Vicky be­gan, then fal­te­red. A long mo­ment of si­len­ce en­su­ed.

  “Why did she say that?”

  “Ca­use I had the flu, and she thinks I’m not over it. But I am, and I got so bo­red stuck up he­re whi­le the re­cep­ti­on was go­ing on.”

  “So you de­ci­ded to go out the win­dow?”

  “Su­re. I’ve do­ne it lots of ti­mes. It’s easy. I don’t ha­ve to be­lay the en­ti­re dis­tan­ce.”

  “You ha­ve the equ­ip­ment. So­me­one has ta­ught you clim­bing. Did they al­so te­ach you ne­ver to climb wit­ho­ut a buddy?”

  “Ye- es.”

  “Now, you know why.”

  “Not­hing ever went wrong be­fo­re. Re­al­ly. Ple­ase, ple­ase, ple­ase, don’t tell my mot­her.”

  “So­met­hing can al­ways go wrong.” He sa­id it so sadly and so fi­nal­ly, his fo­re­he­ad cor­ru­ga­ted with worry li­nes. “Vicky, when you gi­ve yo­ur word, do you ke­ep it?”

  “You me­an, li­ke ke­ep pro­mi­ses?”

  “You ha­ve to pro­mi­se me, un­til you are twen­ty-one and ha­ve yo­ur clim­bing in­s­t­ruc­tor cer­ti­fi­ca­ti­on, you will ne­ver climb alo­ne. You sho­uldn’t climb alo­ne even then, but you will be an adult. It will be yo­ur de­ci­si­on to ma­ke.”

  “Okay, I pro­mi­se.”

  “Will you ke­ep yo­ur pro­mi­se?”

  “Cross my he­art-” the girl be­gan bre­at­h­les­sly.

  “No. No­ne of that. This isn’t abo­ut be­ing an obe­di­ent lit­tle kid. I think you’ve de­mon­s­t­ra­ted you’re not obe­di­ent. I’m tal­king abo­ut what you will do. Can you de­ci­de what you will do and then stick to it? Ne­ver for­get, and ne­ver chan­ge yo­ur mind?”

  “I pro­mi­se.”

  “Okay, then I pro­mi­se not to tell.” He bent over to re­ach his ot­her shoe. “Get out of that har­ness, and stow it so­mew­he­re. So­me­one will be he­re any mi­nu­te. The se­cu­rity ca­me­ras pro­bably pic­ked up Em­mie’s every mo­ve.”

  Gal­va­ni­zed, Em­mie re­le­ased the bre­ath she’d be­en hol­ding and le­apt to the win­dow to ha­ul in the ro­pe. She was stuf­fing it un­der the va­nity when his pre­dic­ti­on ca­me true.

  The do­or ope­ned. The gray-ha­ired man in the gray pin­s­t­ri­pe su­it-the bet­ter dres­sed one who had shep­her­ded gu­ests in­to the Pre­sen­ce-burst in. He to­ok in the sce­ne. Vicky per­c­hed on the bed, Ca­leb in the wing cha­ir pul­ling on a sock.

  “I’ll han­d­le this,” he snap­ped to so­me­one out­si­de the do­or. “Vicky, are you all right? Did he to­uch you?” Wit­ho­ut wa­iting for a reply, he de­man­ded of Ca­leb, “Who the hell are you, and what are you do­ing up he­re? The se­cu­rity gu­ard saw a wo­man run up the sta­irs. Whe­re is she?”

  “Hey, the­re’s no prob­lem he­re. Vicky and I we­re just tal­king,” sa­id Ca­leb, “whi­le Dr. Cad­din­g­ton used the bat­h­ro­om.”

  “Su­rely you co­uld tell by the ro­pe that this sec­ti­on of the ho­use was clo­sed to vi­si­tors.”

  Ca­leb shrug­ged. “So­me­ti­mes the ne­ed for a bat­h­ro­om is ur­gent. We fi­gu­red we’d find one up he­re qu­ic­ker than as­king whe­re the dow­n­s­ta­irs pow­der ro­om is.” On cue, the to­ilet flus­hed. Ob­vi­o­usly, Em­mie had over­he­ard the con­ver­sa­ti­on. “Ah-” He smi­led kno­win­g­ly, man- to-man. “A two-flus­her.” Wa­ter ran for a mo­ment, the do­or ope­ned, and Em­mie ap­pe­ared.

  “Oh, hel­lo, Mr. Fa­ir­c­hild. Vicky, thanks for let­ting me use yo­ur bat­h­ro­om.”

  “Dr. Cad­din­g­ton, I’m sur­p­ri­sed you wo­uld use yo­ur ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce with the se­na­tor to abu­se his hos­pi­ta­lity,” Fa­ir­c­hild sa­id with ca­us­tic di­sap­pro­val. “I’m even mo­re sur­p­ri­sed that you wo­uld bring a stran­ger in­to the pri­va­te sec­ti­on of the ho­use. One who was ma­king him­self at ho­me-to say the le­ast-when I got he­re.”

  “Mr. Fa­ir­c­hild, I as­su­re you-”

  “Don’t apo­lo­gi­ze,” Ca­leb in­ter­rup­ted. “Fa­ir­c­hild has fo­und out his se­cu­rity isn’t very go­od and is un­der­s­tan­dably up­set.”

  “Mr. Fa­ir­c­hild,” Em­mie sa­id, trying to put the si­tu­ati­on on a so­ci­al fo­oting. Fa­ir­c­hild was much mo­re than a fac­to­tum in the se­na­tor’s ho­use­hold. Ac­cor­ding to gos­sip, he had mas­ter­min­ded Cal­ho­un’s ca­re­er and was a con­t­rol fre­ak who let no de­ta­il es­ca­pe him. Al­t­ho­ugh he was clo­se to se­venty, it was sa­id he didn’t in­tend to re­ti­re un­til Cal­ho­un had ma­de it all the way to the Whi­te Ho­use. “This is Chi­ef Petty Of­fi­cer Ca­leb-”