left, and that with it she had built a cold wall to contain her fear and worry. She could say that scorn was more bearable than pity, and easier to deflect. She could say that her own hurt was nothing compared to the pain of others.
But she didn’t say any of that. She couldn’t, not to him. So she simply ignored the question.
“I meant what I said. This can’t happen again.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You wanted me just as much, Catherine. Even here and now.”
She felt her lips curve in a terrible smile. “Yes.”
He made a rough sound. “God, don’t look like that! You can’t hate it that much, what I make you feel. You can’t hate it that much, Catherine!”
She couldn’t answer, couldn’t tell him he was wrong. Because then the next question would come, and she couldn't answer it either. Then why did you look like that? “I want your word this won’t happen again,” she said softly.
His eyes were restless, and a muscle leapt in his jaw. ‘‘You’ll meet me tomorrow?”
Catherine felt a quiver deep inside her. Meet him. Like a moth to the flame, bent on destruction. “Yes. I’ll meet you. Give me your word this won’t happen again, Tyrone.”
“All right.” He sighed. “You have my word.”
A breath she hadn’t been conscious of holding escaped in a soft rush. “Thank you,” she said. She moved toward the locked door, wondering suddenly how long they had been absent from the party. It felt like hours, but she knew it hadn’t been nearly that long. And before she could say anything, Tyrone spoke flatly.
“I know. We leave the room separately. But, Catherine—don't ignore me again. Don’t do that to me.” She half nodded, then quickly unlocked the door and slipped out into the hall. Hoping desperately that Tyrone had been wrong in saying her mask was gone, she composed her features into cool remoteness and moved steadily down the hall and back to the drawing room.
No one seemed to notice her reappearance. Or even to have noticed she had been gone. The talk and laughter was still loud and cheerful. Smoothly she merged with the crowd and searched until she found her father. He was talking to George Symington, as cheerful as the rest. His eyes were clear, and there was no flush on his face. Catherine relaxed and moved away. All right, then. Everything was all right.
She found her abandoned drink just where she’d left it, and stood sipping it. She was glancing toward the doorway a few moments later and saw Tyrone stroll in lazily, looking as if he’d just stepped out for a breath of air.
With veiled eyes she studied him. A big man, powerful and graceful. His face was handsome in a somewhat cold manner; a smile made his face warm and charming. There was no sign in him now of urgent passion in a locked room, of questions, of intensity. He moved with deliberation, with muscles under unthinking control. He was, somehow, innately dangerous.
And she loved him.
Catherine felt the shock as the realization dropped gently into her mind. No. Oh, dear God, no. She tore her gaze away to stare down at her glass, breathing fast, shaken to her soul.
The noise of the room faded away, distant and unimportant. She felt cold, hot, terrified. No! When had it happened? Ten minutes ago? Yesterday? Or nearly two years ago? When had he gotten inside the walls she had built, and done it so effortlessly that she hadn't even noticed? Her mind flashed back unexpectedly almost two years, to a sudden encounter by the tiny inland stream.
Cool gray eyes abruptly warming, going intent. “You're beautiful, you know,” he had said, and she had shaken her head, queerly disturbed. “No. I'm not.” He had smiled, nodded with certainty. “You hide it behind a mask. I know all about masks.” She had been silent, and melting inside, because it had taken no more than that. He had walked steadily to her as if he saw, as if he knew. He had taken her into his arms and kissed her as a lover would, with hunger.
But she didn’t say any of that. She couldn’t, not to him. So she simply ignored the question.
“I meant what I said. This can’t happen again.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You wanted me just as much, Catherine. Even here and now.”
She felt her lips curve in a terrible smile. “Yes.”
He made a rough sound. “God, don’t look like that! You can’t hate it that much, what I make you feel. You can’t hate it that much, Catherine!”
She couldn’t answer, couldn’t tell him he was wrong. Because then the next question would come, and she couldn't answer it either. Then why did you look like that? “I want your word this won’t happen again,” she said softly.
His eyes were restless, and a muscle leapt in his jaw. ‘‘You’ll meet me tomorrow?”
Catherine felt a quiver deep inside her. Meet him. Like a moth to the flame, bent on destruction. “Yes. I’ll meet you. Give me your word this won’t happen again, Tyrone.”
“All right.” He sighed. “You have my word.”
A breath she hadn’t been conscious of holding escaped in a soft rush. “Thank you,” she said. She moved toward the locked door, wondering suddenly how long they had been absent from the party. It felt like hours, but she knew it hadn’t been nearly that long. And before she could say anything, Tyrone spoke flatly.
“I know. We leave the room separately. But, Catherine—don't ignore me again. Don’t do that to me.” She half nodded, then quickly unlocked the door and slipped out into the hall. Hoping desperately that Tyrone had been wrong in saying her mask was gone, she composed her features into cool remoteness and moved steadily down the hall and back to the drawing room.
No one seemed to notice her reappearance. Or even to have noticed she had been gone. The talk and laughter was still loud and cheerful. Smoothly she merged with the crowd and searched until she found her father. He was talking to George Symington, as cheerful as the rest. His eyes were clear, and there was no flush on his face. Catherine relaxed and moved away. All right, then. Everything was all right.
She found her abandoned drink just where she’d left it, and stood sipping it. She was glancing toward the doorway a few moments later and saw Tyrone stroll in lazily, looking as if he’d just stepped out for a breath of air.
With veiled eyes she studied him. A big man, powerful and graceful. His face was handsome in a somewhat cold manner; a smile made his face warm and charming. There was no sign in him now of urgent passion in a locked room, of questions, of intensity. He moved with deliberation, with muscles under unthinking control. He was, somehow, innately dangerous.
And she loved him.
Catherine felt the shock as the realization dropped gently into her mind. No. Oh, dear God, no. She tore her gaze away to stare down at her glass, breathing fast, shaken to her soul.
The noise of the room faded away, distant and unimportant. She felt cold, hot, terrified. No! When had it happened? Ten minutes ago? Yesterday? Or nearly two years ago? When had he gotten inside the walls she had built, and done it so effortlessly that she hadn't even noticed? Her mind flashed back unexpectedly almost two years, to a sudden encounter by the tiny inland stream.
Cool gray eyes abruptly warming, going intent. “You're beautiful, you know,” he had said, and she had shaken her head, queerly disturbed. “No. I'm not.” He had smiled, nodded with certainty. “You hide it behind a mask. I know all about masks.” She had been silent, and melting inside, because it had taken no more than that. He had walked steadily to her as if he saw, as if he knew. He had taken her into his arms and kissed her as a lover would, with hunger.
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