His reasoning was too sure, his words too close to her heart. If she listened any longer, she might well give in. Andthatshe could never do.In timehe might want children. Well, she reminded herself, there was to be one in six short months—not much time to work the bugs out of a new marriage. “I can’t,” she whispered in misery, scrambling from the bed and searching for her clothes. “You ask too much.”
Sloane said nothing, merely lay back on the bed and threw a strong forearm across his eyes. Justine’s heart ached in anguish, yet she knew what she must do. Dressing quickly, she dashed outside, fleeing the lair of the Silver Fox. As she sat on the dock, waiting for him to join her with their bags, the war raged on within herself, heart against mind, until her stomach churned. It was only a sharp pain in her side that gave her warning that, if she did not pull herself together, she might lose it all.
Sloane didn’t broach the topic again, yet it hung between them as an impenetrable wall. Conversation was light, nearly nonexistent, as the small float plane returned them to Fairbanks, where his private jet awaited them. The long flight to New York seemed even longer this time, though there were no diversionary lunches in Atlanta to slow them. It was only as they circled Kennedy International Airport that Sloane approached her. He looked strangely haggard, considering the pure relaxation they’d indulged in during the past few days. And the air of defeat about him carried only a hint of the pride she’d grown to love.
“I think that I’ve reached the end of my tether, Justine,” he began softly, sitting stiffly beside her in the empty aft cabin of the craft. “You know that I love you and that I want to marry you. If you still refuse me, I would rather we sever the entire relationship.”
Her heart lurched; her stomach turned. It was inevitable, yet no easier to accept. Eyes rounded in green-glazed apprehension, she listened.
“It might be better if you gave your notes, your proposals, to another member of the firm. I think that the work would be better accomplished without the tension that would exist between us.”
Tears blurred the image of her hands, knotting themselves in her lap. “So I’m to be fired?” she whispered, appalled at her resort to half humor.
“In a word, yes. Your work on this expedition has been exceptional. Let’s just call it … a difference of opinion. Irreconcilable differences. Is that better? A divorce before the marriage. That’s what you’ve assumed all along, isn’t it?”
Justine raised her head to argue, but Sloane’s back was to her, long strides taking him forward to the cockpit. Swallowing the knot in her throat, she was less successful with the tears. As the plane touched down on home turf, she knew it was over. Had she planned it all along? Was Sloane right? But she would never know. He had left her himself. It was too late. Placing dark glasses over her eyes, the same ones that had kept the glare of the arctic sun from scorching her, she gathered her things and left the plane, his love, and a future with Sloane—all behind.
Chapter 9
If only her own love, that abiding love she felt for Sloane, were as easily cast off. In the days that followed, Justine was haunted by it. It imprisoned her heart, suffusing her life’s blood with torment, loneliness, frustration. It permeated her every activity—followed her to work, then home, to dinner or lunch or sleep. Even the thought of the child she carried was no solace; for, to her surprise, there was still little sign of her pregnancy. She was as slim, perhaps slimmer, than ever; somehow, the pregnancy seemed unreal, a hoax.
The results of her weeks as a member of the CORE International team were dutifully passed on to Phillip Marsh, the lawyer designated as her replacement. Much as she knew that the transfer was for the best, the psychological separation was but one other thorn in her side. In the firm’s understanding, thanks to Sloane’s diplomacy, she had withdrawn from the case for valid logistical reasons, mostly pertaining to her own work and its demands. None of her colleagues knew the truth.
“Well, Justine,” John Doucette welcomed her back to the office when she finally showed up several days after the return from Alaska, “how did it go?”
“Not bad,” she murmured, barely looking up from the mountain of papers and messages that had accumulated in her absence.
“Was Sloane the perfect gentleman? A good boss?”
The mention of Sloane’s name sent a shaft of anguish into her. “We managed to get a lot done, if that’s what you’re asking. I believe that the project will make a solid impact on the problems that exist in the state.”
As John questioned her for details, she gave them without a fight, feeling too drained emotionally to muster either protest or banter. And, she forced herself to relax; as long as her colleague stuck to the legal issues involved, there was no problem. Unfortunately, he did not. After a few moments of relatively passive conversation, he eyed her speculatively.
“You sound different. As though you left some of that spirit back up there in Alaska.” Despite the sudden clenching of her fists, he persisted, voice lowered yet direct. “I did some checking on the arctic fox while you were gone. He’s adapted well to his environment, they say. Ears are shorter; less susceptible to frostbite—that type of thing.” Justine felt the churning in her stomach begin anew. “And, the arctic fox, it seems, is the mildest, most well behaved, most pleasant of all the wild dogs.”
“John”—she broke into his monologue with thick-tongued haste—“would you mind stopping that. It’s lost all its humor.”
His gaze took in her pallor, the slight quiver of her lips, the haunted cast to her dull emerald orbs. “So have you, Justine. Are you all right?”
Her breathing faltered with a deep inhalation. “I will be,” she spoke very softly, “once I get back to this work. The whole pile of it”—she gestured to the mess on her desk, clutching at the most logical change of subject—“has gotten me down.”
“If there’s anything I can do …” For the first time since she’d known him, John seemed truly sympathetic. His sincerity brought a faint smile to her lips.
“I doubt it, John. But … thanks for the offer. It’s nice to have … friends … to count on….” Quickly she lowered her eyes to her work, missing the subsequent look of puzzlement which flickered over the other lawyer’s features before he finally turned and left her office.
Gaze still downcast, she contemplated his newest gems.Mildest. Most well behaved. Most pleasant.All these things Sloane had been during their stay in Alaska. And adapted to the environment—that, too. Her memory groped eagerly at the image of his broad-shouldered frame chopping wood, carting pails of water from the lake, stoking the fire in the old wood stove. Then, with a lower slump of her shoulders, she realized that she would never know this magnificence again—and the familiar pall settled over her. The Silver Fox—how very much she missed him!
With Labor Day come and gone, Justine threw herself headlong into the many cases she’d taken on, the only antidote she could find for her rattled nerves. But what had always worked in the past was now less effective. The addiction had grown too strong, having been built slowly and with gathering strength during the Alaska trip; cold-turkey withdrawal took its toll. Instead of feeling diverted by her work, she merely felt tired. Instead of exhilaration, she knew exhaustion. Instead of gaining strength as the days passed, she grew weaker and less enthusiastic about the law in particular and life in general.
Ten days after her return, she saw her doctor for a regular checkup. Her hopes lay here, in the child within her, in the possibility of hearing a heartbeat, in the need for encouragement that the doctor might provide. The waiting room of the office was filled with other mothers-to-be, each one glowing, each one jubilant in comparison to the lethargy she felt. The doctor took one look at her and confirmed the worst of her fears.
“You look terrible, Justine!” In his early forties, he was a good friend of Susan’s from the hospital and the natural choice for Justine to see for the prenatal care of her child. “My God, aren’t you sleeping?”
“It’s been … harder lately….” She avoided direct touch with his gaze, knowing how transparent hers would be. His examination was intimate enough.
“Frankly, I’m concerned about you,” he began after his examination when she had dressed and returned to her chair. “You’re exhausted. Your blood pressure is low. You’ve lost weight.”
“The baby? Can you hear anything?” It was her only hope for salvation; desperately, she grasped at straws.
