I'll Be Watching You Part 17

"What?" It took a moment for the basis of Reed's concern to register. Then Taylor shook her head.

"No. Nothing like that. It's not me." She could feel herself shaking, but couldn't seem to make it stop. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to barge into your office. It was rude and unprofessional."

"You didn't barge in. I told you to come."

"I didn't think. I just called, heard your voice, and flew over. I can't go through it alone again. I don't have the emotional strength."

"Taylor, you're scaring the h.e.l.l out of me. What happened? What is it you can't go through?"

She raised her face and stared at him through pained eyes. "Losing someone I care about."

Reed went very still. "Who did you lose?"

"Rick Sh.o.r.e. My audio engineer. We've worked together at WVNY since I started. He's like a big brother, always looking out for me, worrying when I'm stressed. When Steph died, he stuck by me like a mother hen, making sure I was holding up, taking over some of my program responsibilities. And then the other day, when I told him about that crank call I got and about the person watching me at the cemetery, he was up in arms. He was going through his own personal h.e.l.l, but he still had enough caring left over for me. That was Rick. Always there for a friend. And now he's dead." Taylor's eyes were dry, but her voice was hollow.

"Was he ill?"

"No. He was killed in a horrible accident. It was early this morning. He was alive one minute and dead the next. Just like Steph. And, just like Steph, his death was violent, gruesome. He was on his way home. He took the subway. He changed cars. He fell under the train. He was mangled to death."

"My G.o.d." Reed grimaced, instinctively drawing Taylor against him, trying to s.h.i.+eld her, knowing full well he couldn't. "I heard something on the news about an unidentified man being killed in the subway.

It never occurred to me that it was someone from WVNY. I'm terribly sorry," he murmured, stroking her hair.

She nodded against his s.h.i.+rt.

"Come here and sit down." He drew her over to the settee under the panorama of windows. "Do you want a drink?"

"Just some water."

Reed poured her a gla.s.s and brought it over, sitting down beside her. "Were there witnesses?"

"Not from what I understand. The train was probably empty. It was three-something in the morning." Quietly, Taylor filled Reed in on the details, including Rick's late-night visit to her apartment and the reason for it.

Steepling his fingers together, Reed processed all Taylor had said. Then he asked the obvious. "Given Rick's state of mind, is there any chance this was suicide?"

Taylor had thought of that possibility. It was part of the reason she felt so guilty. Still, hearing the words spoken aloud made her wince.

"I'm not trying to upset you," Reed said quickly. "I'm just offering a viable theory. I'm doing so for two reasons. One, because the police will be asking you questions about his state of mind, and two, because--if for any reason there's merit to it--I don't want you heaping additional blame on yourself. You're already doing one h.e.l.l of a job on that score." He hesitated, then went full speed ahead, blurting out a truth he wasn't sure she was ready to hear. "Look, Taylor, you're not in charge of the world.

You're human. You can only do so much. You can advise people, even get in their faces to convince them to make the right choices. But you can't live their lives. That's their job. Everyone is ultimately responsible for himself or herself. That applied to Rick." Another heartbeat of a pause. "It also applied to Steph."

Without replying, Taylor took a sip of water.

"You're angry," Reed concluded flatly. "I overstepped my bounds."

Taylor inclined her head in his direction, a strained, bittersweet smile touching her lips. "I'm not angry.

I appreciate your a.s.sessment. Not only is it true, it's exactly what I needed to hear. I just didn't realize it until you said it." She set down her gla.s.s. "As for your question about Rick, I've already considered the possibility of suicide. Were the signs there? Yes, I suppose they were. Depression. Hopelessness. Exhaustion. The need to escape. Even loneliness and abandonment. But there's one thing that negates it all, and makes me absolutely sure Rick's death was an accident."

"His kids."

"Exactly. Reed, you have no idea how much he loved them. True, he was terrified of losing custody.

But deep down, he knew that wouldn't happen. It rarely does these days. I just don't buy it."

Reed nodded. "I see your point."

"The fact is, he was drunk. His faculties were impaired. He was also despondent. When Rick was down, he had a tendency to pace around like a caged lion. My guess is he couldn't sit still. He must have walked-- or weaved--from car to car, trying to get himself together."

"He'd certainly have no problems making his way from one end of the train to the other," Reed added. "Not at three a.m. on a weeknight. He'd be virtually alone. At most, there'd be a couple of other pa.s.sengers. So if Rick started teetering around on one of the platforms between subway cars, or if he leaned over the gate and lost his balance, no one would be there to stop him, or even to see him."

Taylor shuddered. "I can't let myself visualize it. I just can't."

"Then don't." Reed smoothed her hair off her face. "What now?"

"I have to call Marilyn. I want to check on her and the kids, and see if there's anything I can do."

Another nod. "You're not doing your radio show tonight, are you?"

"No. Jack's subst.i.tuting one of my pretaped shows and having a production intern sit in for Kevin." Taylor ma.s.saged her temples. "Thank goodness for that. I couldn't have pulled off the show, not tonight. I doubt Kevin could have either. Jack's a good man. He sent us both home."

"Home. Is that really where you want to go?"

Taylor understood Reed's question. "The truth? No. It's been hard enough living in that place since Steph died. It's filled with memories of her, and of what happened with Gordon that night..." Her voice trailed off. "Anyway, suffice it to say, I can't wait to move. I'm counting the days till I'm out of there. Plus, tonight--to be honest, I don't really want to be alone with my thoughts."

"Fair enough." Reed stood. "Then here's how the evening will play out. It's already almost five. I'll finish up my work. You call Marilyn. Counsel her for as long as you need to. When you're ready, we'll head out. We'll stop by your apartment, pack up an overnight bag, then go to my place. We'll order in Chinese and watch a DVD. We can talk, or not talk. Whatever you want." He studied the glazed expression on Taylor's face, and clarified his intentions--just in case she felt awkward. "My guest room's made up. It has to be. With a big family like mine, there's always someone dropping in without warning. I've got to be on my toes."

Taylor understood. "I doubt I'll be able to sleep. But thank you. Your plan sounds wonderful. Another gallant Reed Weston rescue."

He took her hand and drew her to her feet, bringing her palm to his lips. "Everything will be all right, Taylor. You'll make sure of it. And so will I."

She released her breath on a weary sigh. "I hate relying on anyone."

"No kidding. You've only mentioned that a dozen times. Just like you've mentioned that you hate being easily read. Well, tough. Get used to both. Now that I think about it, there's a long list of things you'd better get used to. Tell you what. I'll draw up a list and give it to you for easy reference. But don't bother critiquing it. It's nonnegotiable."

For the first time in hours, Taylor's laugh came spontaneously. "Thanks for the warning."

11:45 P.M.

EAST SIXTY-EIGHTH STREET.

Taylor lay quietly in the guest-room bed in Reed's apartment, staring at the ceiling and listening to the scream of a pa.s.sing fire engine.

She was emotionally wiped out, after a wrenching, forty-five-minute conversation with Marilyn, during which they'd talked mostly about the kids and how Marilyn was going to break the news to them. The poor woman was still in shock herself, and fighting valiantly to be strong for what lay ahead. Her sister was there, staying with her, and her parents were flying in from Arizona tomorrow. Still, she'd gratefully taken the name and number of the grief counselor Taylor recommended. She'd also clung to Taylor's insistence that she not let guilt intrude on her emotional crisis. Rick's death was an accident. Period. No matter what direction the police's questions took, she was not responsible. Life dealt cruel blows. This was one of them. An impending divorce didn't negate years of caring. Marilyn had to remember that.

And Taylor insisted that Marilyn pick up the phone and call Taylor to be reminded anytime she felt herself slipping.

Marilyn had thanked her profusely, then hung up to deal with a h.e.l.l that no amount of counseling could erase.

Taylor had made one more call, to Kevin. She wanted to see how he was holding up and to let him know that if he needed to reach her tonight, he should do so on her cell phone, since she wouldn't be home.

He sounded numb. His girlfriend was there, making him something to eat and offering him whatever support she could. He was relieved to hear that Taylor wasn't alone either. Neither of them mentioned Rick. They weren't ready, not tonight. There'd be plenty of time for reality tomorrow.

Right after hanging up with Kevin, Taylor came to the decision that even though Jack would be issuing an official WVNY statement, she wanted to give a personal acknowledgment of Rick on her show tomorrow night. How she'd do so without breaking down, she wasn't sure. But she'd find a way. Rick had been a close member of their production family. He deserved a tribute. And she intended to give him one.

She drafted a few words while Reed was finis.h.i.+ng up his work. She stopped when she couldn't take any more. It was too soon, and she was too drained. She'd either write it tomorrow or wing it and speak from the heart. Maybe she'd run the two options by Dr. Phillips at tomorrow's session. The psychiatrist always had valuable insights, especially when Taylor's own perspective was clouded by emotion. Besides, she needed this session. She needed to vent, to talk about what she was going through.

She'd been more than ready to head out when Reed shut down his computer and called it a day.

The rest of the evening had been just what she needed.

Reed had been incredible. He'd driven her to her apartment, waited while she packed an overnight case, then driven her here. His Upper East Side apartment was lovely and s.p.a.cious, oozing warm, masculine comfort. They'd settled themselves on the cozy living-room sofa and followed Reed's plan to a tee: ordering up Chinese food, watching a DVD--a mindless comedy, which was all Taylor could handle--and talking.

They hadn't talked about Rick. They'd talked about themselves.

Reed had told her about his family get-togethers, the antics of his nieces and nephews, and the pandemonium that ensued when the entire Weston clan exploded into his parents' New England farmhouse. Thank heavens it was made of stone, he'd declared. Otherwise, it would have blown apart a long time ago.

In return, Taylor had divulged more of herself, sharing more of her life and her thoughts than she ever had in the past.

She'd spoken about her own family, which was clearly the utter ant.i.thesis of his. She'd described her stuffy, isolated, Central Park West upbringing, and the unique bond that had subsequently formed between her and Steph. She talked about boarding school, about how responsible she'd felt for Steph, and about how, beneath her cousin's spellbinding beauty and magnetic effervescence, there lay an insecure little girl, who often made the wrong decisions for the right reasons.

"And you were there for her; her constant," Reed noted. "Also, her adviser, her conscience, and her strength."

"Don't make me sound so n.o.ble. I had my own issues to deal with. I still do. Believe me, I know. I'm a psychologist. I'm well aware of how and why I wound up with my particular emotional baggage.

That doesn't mean I can make it go away."

"Emotional baggage. You mean like always needing to be in control, like lack of trust, and like going it alone."

"Yup. That's the list."

"What about men?"

"What about them?"

"Where did they factor into your life up until now? Your cousin was obviously a social b.u.t.terfly. What about you? Issues or not, you're a beautiful, intelligent, pa.s.sionate woman. There must have been men."

"Not men. Just moments." Taylor had shrugged, answering this question as frankly as she'd answered the others. "I didn't do relations.h.i.+ps. Those involve relinquis.h.i.+ng control and independence. They also require trust."

"Ah. All your no-nos wrapped in one."

"Right. On the other hand, I wasn't into random hookups. I tried pus.h.i.+ng myself in that direction when I got to college. It just didn't work for me--too empty, too demeaning. So I opted for moments."

Reed had eyed her thoughtfully. "Do you mind if I ask what a moment is?"

"It's a for-now. Not a random hookup, and not a relations.h.i.+p. Sometimes it's nothing more than a flirtation; sometimes it's a little more involved. It's a balancing act. But it's honest. And it eases loneliness without sacrificing pride or self-sufficiency."

"And s.e.x? Where does that fit into a moment?" Reed's lips had twitched. "Because, in my experience, s.e.x takes a lot longer than a moment, even when it's only mediocre."

"True. Which is why it seldom factored in, not after my experimentation stage. It didn't take me long to realize I couldn't seem to separate physical and emotional intimacy. So, for the most part, s.e.x got shelved."

He hadn't responded. He'd just stared straight ahead, clearly pondering her words.

Not long after, they'd said their good-nights.

Now Taylor wondered if that segment of the conversation had been a mistake. Reed was already taking things slow between them. Had he inferred from her comment that she was putting on the brakes? If so, he was dead wrong. In fact, she was starting to go crazy from the s.e.xual tension that burned between them, and which they'd barely begun to explore. She wanted to take that next step, to let the inevitable happen--even though she had a pretty good idea what was at risk.

Risk. It seemed like an absurd concept after a day like today.

A close friend was dead. Life was short, and terrifyingly unpredictable. Self-protection might be safe, but it was also lonely. And, in some cases, the trade-off just wasn't worth it.

Restlessly, Taylor rolled onto her side. She wondered if Reed was asleep and, if not, what he was thinking. Was he asking himself the same questions she was? Was he wrestling with whether the timing was wrong?

There was only one way to find out.

Flinging back the covers, Taylor got out of bed and marched out of the guest room. Reed's bedroom door was ajar, and a reading light burned inside. She headed straight for the door and, with one perfunctory knock, pushed it open and hovered on the threshold.

Reed had been lying on his back in bed--not reading, as she'd surmised--but staring at the ceiling, arms folded beneath his head, in much the same fas.h.i.+on as she'd been a few minutes earlier. He started when she burst in, then rolled onto his side to face her, propping himself on one elbow. "Are you okay?"

"No." Taylor walked over to the bed, stopping only when her legs b.u.mped up against the mattress. Her heart was pounding, and she couldn't believe she was actually doing this. But she wasn't going to chicken out now. Not when she was a fraction away from where she wanted to be. Not even if she ended up an emotional basket case.

It occurred to her that all she wearing was a thin cotton nights.h.i.+rt-- one that was practically transparent, thanks to the light thrown off by Reed's lamp. Instinctively, she reached up to cross her arms over her chest, then realized how counterproductive that was.

She let her arms fall to her sides.

Standing absolutely still, she gave Reed an unimpeded view and loads of time to look his fill.

She wasn't disappointed with his reaction. His features tightened, and his gaze raked over every inch of her, lingering on all the right spots until Taylor's entire body grew warm.

"No," she repeated in a low, heated whisper. "I'm not okay. Are you?"

"No." He reached up, seizing her arm and toppling her onto the bed, on top of him, with only the down comforter separating them. He clasped the back of her neck, bringing her mouth down to his. "I'm definitely not okay. But I'm about to change that."

"Good."

They kissed, hot and hungry. Taylor could actually feel vibrations darting between them, comforter or no comforter. Her nights.h.i.+rt had ridden up to her hips, and Reed's erection throbbed against her, hardening as she pressed closer, parting her thighs so she could cradle him.

A harsh groan ripped from his chest and, with a herculean effort, he dragged his mouth away, his breath coming hard and fast as he stared up at her, flames burning in his eyes. "This isn't slow."

That was the understatement of the century. "No," Taylor managed, barely able to speak. "It's not.

And I don't want it to be." She moved sensuously against him.

"Taylor." He sounded like he was drowning. His fingers tangled in her hair, trembling as they tried to hold her away rather than haul her against him. "I know you want this. G.o.d knows, I want this."

A shaky laugh. "h.e.l.l, I think I'll explode if I don't get inside you."

"So?"