Ross looked at her and then down at the carpet between his feet, and she recognized something she hadn’t expected to see: uncertainty. She might almost have called it vulnerability. But the moment passed quickly, and when he spoke again, it was without any trace of hesitation.
“I want to see more of my son,” he said.
CHAPTER THREE
PANIC SWELLED in Gillian’s throat, but she fought it down. She needed to use reason now, not emotion. Unless Ross had lost the basic decency that had been such a fundamental part of the boy she had known, he would listen to a sensible argument.
“Please be seated,” she asked.
He regarded her as warily as if she’d asked him to jump out the window, but he acceded to her request. He selected one of the deep armchairs, and she took a seat on the sofa, holding herself still and erect.
“I understand,” she began, “that you are curious about Toby. That’s only to be expected. I can see that you are also concerned about his welfare.” She paused, trying to collect her thoughts. “Since you lack experience with children, you may not realize…how impressionable a young boy can be.”
“Impressionable.” Ross got up abruptly, went to the illegally stocked sideboard where Hugh had left his bottle of brandy and poured himself a glass. “You mean he might be susceptible to bad influences.”
How easily he twisted her words. “He may be entering the transition at any time. Additional distractions will only serve to confuse him and make him unhappy at such a crucial juncture in his life.”
Ross emptied the glass. “You think I’ll confuse him?” he asked. “You think he’ll lose his ability to Change just by being around me?”
Gillian flinched. “I implied no such thing,” she said stiffly.
“But you’re worried about it, aren’t you? He’s my son, and that means…” He paused to pour himself another glass and inspected it critically. “What else are you worried about, Mrs. Delvaux? Afraid I’ll give Toby a yen to be a cop like his old dad?”
Gillian pushed her anger back into the little hollow deep inside her chest. “You can only hurt him if you give him reason to believe…if you allow him to form an attachment to you which cannot last.”
“Hurt him?” Ross quickly swallowed the second drink and set it down so hard that Gillian expected the glass to shatter. “Is that what you think I’m trying to do?”
“No, of course not. But Toby’s future is in England, and you surely would not wish him to be torn—”
“Between you and me?” He pushed the half-empty brandy bottle aside with a sweep of his hand. “Do you think I could take him away from you?”
Ice water rolled through Gillian’s veins. “Is that what you intend to do?”
Ross dragged his palm over his face and returned to the chair. “No.” He met her gaze with an earnestness that battered at her defenses more surely than a barrage of curses. “I don’t steal kids from their mothers. But he’s blood of my blood. You can’t make that fact disappear, no matter how much you want to.”
“I have no wish to deny it.”
He gave her cynical smile. “Yeah. I guess it’s a little too late for that.” He sobered. “All I’m asking is a few days. Just a few days, Jill.”
Gillian swallowed and looked away. “Jill” had been Ross’s pet name for her; she still remembered when he’d told her, with a teasing sort of tenderness in his eyes, that “Gillian” was too “highfalutin” for everyday use. She’d thought that it was his way of bridging the gap of wealth and class that lay between them, differences she had been just as ready to set aside.
Until he’d tried to make their affair more than it could ever be.
She rested her hands in her lap, deliberately relaxing her fingers and letting all emotion drain away. “I know you have no reason to trust me,” she said, “but I must ask you to believe that I know what is best for our…for Toby. He has romantic notions that may perhaps have led him to believe that he will find something—something mysterious and wonderful—here with you that he hasn’t found at home. He has an idealized image of the father he never knew.”
Ross dropped his hands between his knees. “I never claimed to be anyone’s ideal. I won’t lie to the kid.” His voice grew husky. “Am I asking so much, Jill? A few days out of a lifetime?”
His question hung between them, so saturated with unspoken feeling that Gillian felt worse than if he’d shouted and raged. The gentleness of his voice didn’t change the circumstances in the least, but her mouth simply refused to speak the words that necessity should have made so simple.
He was asking her to trust him. Trust him with the most important thing in her life, when he had every reason to resent her. She had known from childhood that emotions could change in an instant, that one could never rely on anyone else’s behavior, only one’s own. His motives were still a mystery to her; it wasn’t as if he knew more than a trifle about Toby or could even begin to understand him.
But what other purpose could he have? If he were planning some sort of retaliation for the assaults on his pride, surely he wouldn’t be here in her hotel room bargaining with her.
The brash young doughboy she’d known in London would never have sought revenge. Such dark emotions had been alien to him, even after he’d faced death on the battlefield. That was only one reason she’d found it so easy to believe, however briefly, that she loved him.
“I shall consider everything you’ve suggested,” she said. “Will it be acceptable if I telephone you tomorrow?”
He pushed his hands into his trouser pockets, a gesture she remembered all too well. “I guess it’ll have to be.” He glanced toward the door to the bedrooms. “Do you mind if I look in on him before I go?”
The wolf in Gillian wanted nothing more than to rush across the room and block the door with her body. The woman was nearly paralyzed and hated herself for it.
“Of course,” she said. “But please don’t wake him.”
“He won’t even know I’m there.” Ross picked up his hat and headed unerringly for the room where Toby was sleeping. He made no sound at all when he stepped into the bedroom. Gillian paused in the doorway as he went to the bed and looked down at the boy sprawled beneath the covers.
There should have been nothing remarkable in the sight of a father watching his son while he slept. It happened all over the world every day. But Gillian could hardly breathe as Ross knelt beside the bed, reached out with one big hand and touched Toby’s hair with such gentleness that Toby didn’t so much as stir the tip of one little finger.
The moment lasted for a dozen heartbeats, and then Ross withdrew. He met Gillian’s gaze, and the gentle wonder that lingered in his face warmed her like a fire in winter.
“Thanks,” he said simply, and slipped out of the room. Her skin hummed beneath the sleeve of the blouse he had brushed in passing. She compelled her feet to follow him to the outer door, astonished at how difficult it was to regain control of her own body.
Ross opened the door to the hall and turned to face her, his expression unreadable once again. “I’ll be expecting your call,” he said.
“Ross—”
“Good night, Gillian.” He placed his hat on his head, nodded briefly and walked away.
Gillian leaned heavily against the doorjamb, watching him until he reached the elevator and stepped inside. She felt nervous, a little sick to her stomach and oddly exhilarated.
The first two symptoms she understood well enough. But the third…that