Low Pressure

Steven related the latest about Howard’s condition. “That’s bad, but there’s more. Denton Carter has now entered the picture.” William knew the history, so there was no need to explain or elaborate on why that was disturbing. “At Bellamy’s invitation, no less.”

Steven told him how the reunion had come about. William shook his head in disbelief. “Why on earth would she contact him now? Since leaving New York and returning to Texas, she’s suspended all the publicity for her book and virtually disappeared from the public eye. Why is she stirring things up again?”

“For the life of me, I don’t know.”

Concerned, William asked, “What are you going to do?”

“What I’ve been doing most all my life.” Steven tossed back the remainder of his drink. “Damage control.”

Bellamy guessed Dent had been watching for the limo from inside the building. Even before the car glided to a halt, he was there, beating the chauffeur to open the rear door. As soon as she alighted, he brandished the copy of Low Pressure in her face.

“I want to know why in the name of God you wrote this damn thing.”

She wondered if his bristling anger was a good sign, or bad. Good, she supposed, because it indicated that he’d told her the truth when he claimed not to know anything about her novel, which made it unlikely that he was the one who’d sent her a rat wrapped in silver tissue paper.

But he was irate, and she needed to defuse him before attention was drawn to them and someone recognized her. She’d returned to Texas to get out of the spotlight. So far she’d succeeded.

She walked around him and entered the terminal. “I apologize for not calling you as I left the hospital. It slipped my mind.” Noticing the tables near the snack bar, she said, “I’ll wait over there while you do whatever it is you have to do before takeoff. Let me know when you’re ready.”

She started in that direction, but this time he sidestepped, blocking her path. “Don’t brush me off. I want to know why you wrote this.”

She glanced around self-consciously. “Will you please lower your voice?”

“To make money? Daddy’s fortune isn’t enough for you? Or did your husband blow through your inheritance?”

“I’m not going to talk to you about this, not in a public place, and not with you yelling in my face.”

“I want to know—”

“Now isn’t the time, Dent.”

Maybe it was her raised voice and sharp tone, or perhaps the use of his name, or he could have seen the tears start in her eyes and that made him realize that she was upset and had returned alone.

He backed away, shot a glance out the window toward the departing limo, then came back to her and stated the obvious. “Your parents aren’t with you.”

“Daddy was checked into the hospital. Olivia stayed with him.” He said nothing to that and she took advantage of his momentary calm. “I’ll be waiting over there.”

She went around him and didn’t even look back to see if he was following. Angry as he was, he might take off without her, leaving her stranded and forced to return to Austin on a commercial flight. That would be all right, too. In fact, it would probably be best.

As Olivia had remarked several times throughout the day, reconnecting with him after all these years had been a mistake. Bellamy had thought it necessary to her peace of mind, but now she regretted not having taken Olivia’s advice to leave well enough alone. She’d made another enemy.

At the dispensing machines, she filled a paper cup with ice and Diet Coke and sat down at one of the tables, relieved that no one else was currently in the snack bar area. The day had been emotionally draining. Her nerves and emotions were raw. She needed a few moments of quiet in order to reinforce herself before the inevitable clash with Dent.

Through the large windows, she watched as he went through his preflight check wi

th her book tucked under his arm. She knew nothing about airplanes, but his was white with blue trim and had two engines, one on each wing. He oversaw the fueling of it and checked something on the left wing. He squatted down to inspect the tires and landing gear. Standing, he dusted off his hands and walked around the wing to the tail section. All his motions were practiced and efficient.

How old was he now? Thirty-six? Thirty-seven?

Two years older than Susan would have been.

Bellamy had been curious to see how the years had treated him, if he had developed a paunch, if he’d gone bald, if he was letting himself settle comfortably into middle age. But he bore no drastic signs of aging.

His light brown hair was still thick and unruly. At the corners of his eyes were squint lines from staring into the sun through cockpit windshields for the better part of his life. Maturity—and no doubt years of hard living and late hours—had made his face thinner and more angular. But he was no less attractive now than he’d been at eighteen, when he’d made her tongue-tied and self-conscious of her acne and braces.

Check complete, he gave the ground crew a thumbs-up, then, in a long and purposeful stride, walked toward the building. A gust of wind accompanied him inside, causing the young women behind the reception counter to stop what they were doing and watch appreciatively as he impatiently jerked his necktie back into place and smoothed it down over a torso that was still trim and flat. He removed his sunglasses, carelessly raked his fingers through his windblown hair, then made his way over to where Bellamy was waiting.

He got himself a cup of coffee and brought it with him to the table. As he sat down across from her, he dropped the book onto the table. It had the heft of an anvil when it landed.