Free Thorns of Truth by Eileen Goudge Page B

panic.
    “Did he leave a number?” Unconsciously, she’d brought a hand to her throat, where a pulse leaped. Rose quickly dropped her hand into her lap.
    “He said he’d call back.”
    “Next time, be sure and get his name.” Better not to arouse her secretary’s suspicion, Rose thought.
    The intercom clicked off.
    Rose returned to the paperwork on her desk, but found she couldn’t concentrate. Even the simple task of flipping through her Rolodex—looking for a name she couldn’t find at first, because she couldn’t remember if the “P”s came before the “R”s—left her feeling muddled and irritable.
    She stared at the framed portrait on the wall above the ecru sofa, a charcoal sketch of Max done by a sidewalk artist. Not particularly skillful, but somehow it captured his essence. That hint of irony in his crinkled eyes, and the angle of his head—chin tucked low, as if he were a boxer squaring off for a punch.
    She thought of Max in bed; his hands, which had known her body so well, all the places she liked to be touched. The rhythms of their lovemaking like a familiar song she never got tired of hearing. How, even after they’d both come, he’d stay inside her another minute or so, not moving … as if withdrawing would shatter something precious.
    Now, in her head, she could hear him, as if he were whispering in her ear. I know you loved me, Rosie. Don’t you realize that nothing could ever cancel that out?
    Mentally, yes. But her heart … ah, that was a different matter. It was made of more resistant stuff. Probably she was capable of sleeping with another man, but Rose couldn’t imagine sharing a bathroom sink with anyone other than Max. Or a closet. Or in airports, on long layovers between flights, falling asleep with her head nestled in a lap that wasn’t his …
    She was halfway through the pile on her desk when the intercom buzzed once more. “It’s him again, and this time I got his name,” a conspiratorial voice announced. Another thing that annoyed Rose about her secretary—Mallory’s assumption that, like herself, every single woman over the age of thirty was at all times actively seeking a husband. “Eric Sandstrom. Line two.”
    Rose, suddenly furious that she’d been placed in this position, punched the blinking button. “Rose Griffin,” she announced crisply.
    “Am I catching you at a bad time?”
    Eric’s voice, like no other—faintly husky and at the same time resonant—caused her face and scalp to prickle, and the skin on the back of her neck to grow tight. Well, of course, she thought, feeling impatient with herself. Didn’t he make a living as a host on the radio?
    “I have a meeting in half an hour, so I am a little rushed,” she told him.
    “This will only take a minute.”
    “What can I help you with?”
    There was a pause, and she heard the bemusement in Eric’s voice when he said, “You sounded so businesslike just then.”
    “This is my office,” she reminded him.
    “Well, I won’t keep you then.” He became suddenly businesslike himself, leaving her feeling the tiniest bit guilty. “I need a legal expert for a show I’m doing next week. You interested?”
    Rose immediately felt foolish. What could she have been thinking? That any guy over forty would succumb to the charms of a middle-aged woman with two grown boys, and more gray hairs than there were papers on her desk?
    “Depends. What’s the topic?” she asked, more brusquely than she might have had her heart not been pounding.
    “Domestic violence. My main guest is a former battered wife, who just published a book about her experience. I’ve lined up the director of a local shelter, too, along with one of the residents.”
    “Sounds interesting, but I’m afraid it’s not up my alley,” she told him. “Why don’t I have my stepdaughter give you a call? She specializes in family law.”
    “I don’t need an expert witness—nobody is on trial here.” He chuckled. “You ever done any