Hot Streak

CHAPTER 44

W hen Carey stopped by Molly's shortly before noon, his daughter answered the door. “Dad,” she squealed and launched herself at him like a catapult.

Scooping her up in his arms, he hugged her close, and thought: Now I know I'm truly home and safe. But she squirmed a moment later, and he realized he was holding her too tightly. Setting her back on her feet with a brushing kiss on her cheek, he said, “I thought you were going to camp.”

“Not me, Dad. I can get eaten alive by mosquitoes in the park across the street.”

“Your Mom said you were going to camp.”

“Not me,” she cheerfully repeated. “I hate camp. You have to see me ride, Dad. Grandpa said I'll be as good as you someday-maybe as good as him,” she added with a grin.

And Carey's uncharitable thoughts about the deception of camp were distracted at the word, Grandpa-a pleasant, warm-sounding word, redolent with granddaughterly affection. “You must be hot,” Carey said, ruffling her pale, silky hair, “'cuz Papa still holds some racing records from the thirties.”

“Good gene pool, hey?”

His daughter's maturity always surprised him. “Must be, Pooh,” he agreed with a grin, “because after only a week on a horse, it sure isn't the training.”

“I have to meet Lucy halfway; she's coming over, so I'll see you later,” she declared with childlike obliviousness to the fact he'd risked his life twice in the last few days for her sake. “Mom's downstairs talking to Theresa about everything she missed. She'll be thrrrrrilled to see you,” Carrie teased.

His welcome was considerably less than thrilling, however, when he walked into Molly's office. It was, in fact, cooler than he'd anticipated. He sat for twenty minutes waiting while Molly and Theresa went over the outgoing invoices. And if they hadn't been interrupted by the lunch hour, his wait would have been longer.

“I'd like some time to myself,” Molly blurted out the second the door closed on Theresa. She had to express herself before Carey's charm and beguiling tongue could change her mind. And she stayed at her desk as if she could barricade herself from his persuasive allure.

“No,” he said, expecting dissent, but not like this. His dark eyes glittered dangerously beneath his black, scowling brows. He was too tired to deal dispassionately with their differences, but he had to take it slow or risk worse disagreements. So he steeled himself to calmness.

“I'm afraid it's not open to discussion.” Molly kept her voice as moderate as possible. She was trying to be sensible about her feelings, not adversarial. She understood that Carey didn't have misgivings-he never did it seemed-and she wondered whether she'd not traveled as far as she thought from the young girl she'd once been. But maybe that was the essential difference underneath all the superficiality of Carey's wealth and glamour. Maybe they had fundamental differences in personality. She was never adamantly certain like Carey. Molly had always been prone to intellectualize and rationalize every emotional crisis. She was probably doing that again, but she'd feel more secure in her final decision if she gave herself time to examine her feelings beyond the overpowering passion she felt for Carey. Was passion enough? Would it sustain the good times and the bad times? Would it even endure? Or was passion, desire, lust, and love all one? Was she killing their relationship by dissecting it to death?

“Everything is open to discussion,” Carey emphatically replied, his scowl unaltered, his voice a low rumble.

“Everything?” Molly retorted, taking issue with the unspoken demand in his tone. “Like Sylvie's clinging presence in Miami? I don't recall discussing the situation.”

“It was an emergency.” His voice was strained.

“So is this-so I don't make another mistake.”

“Don't compare me to Bart,” he snapped. Then his voice changed, and he quietly said, “Let's talk about this.”

“I don't want to now.”

“I'm sorry about Sylvie.”

How many others would he be sorry about-later-someday-two years from now? Although he said he loved her, it seemed from her vantage point, his love was flexible. “I am, too,” she quietly said. “Sorry about the killings and about Egon. How often do you think we're going to be sorry about things if we get married?”

“We can work it out.”

“I have to work it out for myself first before I can begin the cooperative working out.”

“Jesus, Molly, I'm sorry as hell Egon got mixed up with Rifat, but I couldn't leave him out there.”

“I know. I know.” She wasn't unfeeling. “That's not the point.”

“So hit me with the point,” he said, unmoving in his chair, his face expressionless.

“The point is,” she slowly replied, “whether I want, whether I want my daughter-”

“Our daughter,” he tersely interjected.

“-to enter a lifestyle,” she went on, ignoring his challenging interjection, “so far removed from what we're familiar with.”

His eyes closed and he suddenly felt his aching weariness. “Dear Christ,” he said softly, and when he opened his eyes his gaze was moody. “We've been over this a dozen times.” He sighed. “I'm truly apologetic for all my goddamn money, and I suppose the title, too-although you know as well as I do that I don't even use the damn thing. I'm penitent as hell I ever slept with a female other than you in my entire life. What else?” he said sarcastically. “Oh shit-the guns, of course. I can't help it. I can't walk away from my past, although I would if I could for you.” He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed again. “Do you know how unimportant all this is?”

“In your opinion,” Molly said in a prim voice he'd never heard before, and he scrutinized her quickly at the unfamiliar sound. “I'd like a week or so to myself.”

“Don't say you need breathing space or I'll puke.”

“No, I won't.”

“What if I say make up your mind right now or fuck it?”

She only gazed at him without answering, and if she'd been less involved in her own disordered emotions, she would have noticed how tired he looked.

He hadn't slept well in days, and wasn't currently equipped to deal with Molly's uncertainties. “Just remember,” he said, rising in a swift movement as his temper surged. “Pooh's my daughter, too and if your decision should be negative to my interests, I'll fight you for custody.” He was near the door when he finished and, despite his anger, an overwhelming sadness struck him suddenly like a blow. “I don't want to fight,” he said quietly.

“I'm sorry,” Molly whispered.

His expression was searching and critical for a moment, then calm. “So am I,” he said crisply, and left.