Only This Night (Silhouette Reissued) Read online

  “You’ve Turned into

  One Hell of a Gutsy Lady,

  Brenna Richards.”

  His head went back and he laughed, a laugh that clearly said he was enjoying himself. “I like that I can remember a time when you wouldn’t have had the nerve to look me in the eye.” His smile slowly faded to a frown as he folded his arms across his chest. “You never quite approved of me, though, did you, Brenna?”

  “You know as well as I do that you never gave a damn whether anyone approved of you or not. You didn’t then and I don’t believe you do now.” Her retort was sharp, but her eyes sparkled with humor. “You always were incorrigible, Garrett, and something tells me that hasn’t changed.”

  Only This Night

  by

  Suzanne Simms

  Copyright © 1984 by Suzanne Guntrum, All rights reserved.

  Dedicated to Maureen Walters, who started out as a good agent and ended up as a great friend. Hugs and kisses from “Rugged.”

  Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  About the Author

  1

  Good Gawd!” the woman exclaimed, her gaze riveted to the entrance of the country club. “Do you suppose that could really be Brenna?”

  The man beside her turned and looked over his shoulder. “Brenna Phillips?” He saw the tall, stunning brunette standing in the doorway. “If it is, she sure has changed since the last time I saw her,” he murmured appreciatively.

  With one glossy pink nail Marla Bennett tapped a finger against her bottom lip. “Well, it has been a long time,” she pointed out. “As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve seen Brenna since the summer after we were all graduated.”

  A frown creased the man’s forehead. “Come to think of it, I haven’t either. I guess we’ve all changed over the years. Probably more than we care to admit.” He openly studied the slender figure standing in the entrance. “Of course, in some cases I’d have to say there has been a definite improvement God, but she is beautiful!” The last was quietly murmured under his breath.

  “You didn’t always think so, Lance.” As his wife’s best friend, Marla felt it was her duty to remind him of that fact.

  “No, I didn’t,” he admitted with a somewhat sheepish grin, “but then, Brenna Phillips wasn’t always beautiful.”

  Marla Bennett allowed herself one small, exasperated sigh. When it came right down to it, men were such simpleminded creatures. They really did most of their thinking by the seat of their pants—or in that general vicinity, anyway. In her opinion it was only natural, since that was where their brains seemed to be.

  “I don’t think she’s Brenna Phillips anymore,” she speculated aloud. “I seem to recall reading on those bio sheets everyone sent in to the reunion committee that her name is Richards now.” Her voice took on a brittle and slightly waspish tone. “And if the diamond on her left hand is any indication, I would say that Mrs. Richards has done very well for herself.”

  The remark seemed unnecessarily catty to the man standing beside her; but on occasions like this, who knew what old insecurities and imagined grievances came floating to the surface like so much excess ballast jettisoned from a sinking ship.

  Lance Clarke continued gazing across the room at the woman he had once known. Funny how some women seemed to actually improve with age. It didn’t take a second glance to determine that Brenna was one of that rare breed. Gone was the short, mouse-colored hair. In its stead was a swath of long, dark, lustrous hair that flirted with her shoulders all the while that it literally cried out for a man to run his hands through its silken strands.

  And, God knew, he’d have to be blind not to notice her figure. She was certainly no longer the awkward, overweight schoolgirl he remembered. Tall and lithe, she had a graceful way of carrying herself that was at once proud and perfectly natural. And those eyes! They’d always been her best feature, but now they were devastating. She was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women he had ever laid eyes on.

  Then there were those women who simply grew older, gracefully or otherwise. Marla Bennett was a perfect example. Marla, the eternal cheerleader—as Lance thought of her in his more cynical moods. She’d been damned cute in high school, with her blond hair and perky little figure; but now she was one hundred percent polyester compared to Brenna’s pure satin and silk. It was the old story of the ugly duckling who became the beautiful swan, he decided. Brenna appeared to be totally at ease as she stood there quietly looking out over the crowd. In marked contrast, Marla’s habitual, incessant chatter was beginning to wear a little thin.

  Even so, cattiness wasn’t something he’d expected from Marla. Perhaps she was beginning to wonder what the future held for her beyond a comfortable husband and two “adorable” children, as she always referred to her offspring. It was possible things weren’t going quite so well at the Bennett household as she would like everyone to think. Hell, it was no skin off his back if Marla Bennett was thirty-three years old and bored.

  As president of his graduating class, it had been his responsibility to organize this weekend. Lance had also organized their tenth reunion and it had been a ball; but they were all over thirty now, and it wasn’t just a few wrinkles that were beginning to show.

  The man visibly started when he realized he was still staring at the woman poised at the entrance of the country club. Jeez, Brenna had turned out different than any of them would have imagined. This was the first time she’d returned for one of their reunions, and Lance Aaron Clarke, for one, couldn’t help but wonder why she’d decided to come back now.

  As she stood there looking out over the crowded room, Brenna Richards was asking herself the same question. What in the world had possessed her to come back to Mansfield for her fifteenth class reunion?

  She distinctly recalled the day the letter arrived in the mail. With a quick glance at the schedule of events, she had dismissed the reunion from her mind as effortlessly as she’d tossed the letter aside on her desk. She’d had no intention of attending until she received the telephone call several weeks later from one of the committee members. Admittedly, the caller had been persuasive, but that was hardly enough reason to return after fifteen years.

  Perhaps it was impulse, pure and simple, that had finally prompted her to attend But Brenna acknowledged that it was partly curiosity as well. She had come a long way from Mansfield, Indiana. Far enough that she knew she could at last come back. Who had said you can’t go home again? Thomas Wolfe? Perhaps Thomas Wolfe had been right; perhaps not.

  But then Mansfield was no longer her home. In fact, she hadn’t thought of it as home for a very long time now. Home was Chicago. Home was the lovely house that she and Daniel had moved into just after they were married.

  Daniel… God, it had been months since she had foolishly, futilely, longed for Daniel to be at her side, knowing full well he would never be there again. It had taken no small amount of courage for her to decide to attend this reunion weekend. But then, she had learned something of courage in the past two years; and she had to admit she was getting used to doing things on her own again.

  She should be, Brenna reminded herself. After all, she’d been on her own for the greater part of the last fifteen years. Daniel had been but a brief interlude in her life. Brief, but oh so lovely …

  Spotting a familiar face in the crowd, she suddenly found herself indebted to the committee member who had insisted on issuing everyone a name tag. Her own read “Br
enna Phillips Richards” in bold, black print. Amusement tugged at the corners of her generous mouth. Without some form of identification, she was quite certain no one would know who she was. She certainly had no idea as to the identity of the woman coming toward her, a drink precariously balanced in her hand.

  “Brenna?” The woman came a step closer, a hesitant smile on her face. “Is it really Brenna Phillips?” She glanced down at the name tag fastened to the front of Brenna’s silk dress and corrected herself. “I see I should say ‘Brenna Richards’ now. You do realize it’s going to be like this the entire weekend.” She laughed, apparently undaunted by the prospect.

  “Susan?” Brenna managed that much without having to resort to the woman’s name tag. Good Lord, could this short, slightly stout woman be the pretty girl she had once sat behind in American history?

  “Yes, it’s Susan!” The woman held her drink to one side as she gave Brenna a warm hug. “It’s Susan Whitfield now, of course. I married Robert a year after we were graduated.”

  “You two always were inseparable,” Brenna remarked with a nostalgic smile. She was surprised to find that her memory provided her with a clear picture of the lanky, brown-haired, brown-eyed boy she had known as Robert Whitfield. So, Susan and Robert had gotten married after all, and apparently still were.

  “It’s been ages since any of us have seen you,” her former classmate blurted out with typical midwestern candor. “To be perfectly honest, I wasn’t sure it was you.”

  Brenna found herself genuinely amused by the woman’s frankness. “It’s been almost fifteen years, and I suppose I have changed.” She wasn’t the only one who had changed in the intervening years. Not by a long shot Could that be Lance Clarke standing there staring at her from across the room, his mustachioed mouth hanging wide open? Brenna felt a little tingle of pleasure; then at once berated herself for it. “Is that who I think it is?” she asked, dropping her voice to a near whisper.

  Susan nonchalantly glanced over her shoulder before turning around to meet her companion’s inquiring gaze. “Yes,” she said, chuckling, “it’s Lance, all right For your information, the man hasn’t taken his eyes off you since you walked through the door. I… ah … seem to recall you had quite a crush on Lance Clarke back in the old days.” Apparently Susan took delight in reminding Brenna of that bit of ancient history.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it was a clear-cut case of unrequited love. On my part, not his,” she confessed with an exaggerated sigh that quickly had them both laughing. “It was a very long time ago, as you said, Susan.”

  Still, wasn’t there always that one boy, that one man, in every woman’s past? Well, Lance Clarke had been that boy in her past. To think that fifteen years ago she would have been willing to sell her soul for just one date with him! Oh, how sad and how silly one could be at seventeen. Brenna could almost feel the butterflies doing wild cabrioles in her stomach as they had the night of the spring dance. It had been a ladies’ choice, and with every bit of courage she could muster, she had asked Lance to dance with her. She knew even then that he accepted simply because he was too polite to refuse her. She was so young, so vulnerable in those days. Thank God, she could look back now and smile a sad little smile for that girl. Lance Clarke hadn’t been worth a moment of heartache, but no one could have convinced her of that as a girl.

  “I’m sorry, Susan. What were you saying?” She suddenly realized the other woman was madly chatting away.

  “I was just wondering if your husband was able to come with you to the reunion,” Susan repeated, obviously curious about the elusive Mr. Richards.

  It was moments like this that Brenna still dreaded. She’d had to come to grips with losing Daniel a long time ago, but death was difficult for most people to handle. They never seemed to know what to say; and yet it was so natural, so right, to simply say they were sorry.

  Brenna took a steadying breath and gently placed a hand on the other woman’s arm. “My husband isn’t with me, Susan. I’m a widow,” she said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  Even under the soft influence of the room’s lighting, she could see the color drain from Susan Whitfield’s face. “Oh, Brenna, I am sorry,” she stammered, as if she could have kicked herself for asking in the first place.

  “It’s all right. Honestly, it is,” Brenna hastened to reassure her. “My husband has been dead for several years now.”

  That was one of the ironies of being a widow. She found herself offering consolation as often as she received it. So few people could talk about death and dying; yet, sooner or later it inevitably touched everyone. The last thing she wished to elicit from Susan or anyone else at this reunion was sympathy. Her friends and associates in Chicago were well aware of her past, but here no one knew. It was one of the reasons she’d been reluctant to come. For how could she possibly explain that the two years she’d spent with Daniel had been worth all the resulting pain? It had been a long time since Brenna Richards had felt the necessity of explaining herself to anyone. And she’d be damned if she would start again now!

  “Susan, listen to the music they’re playing!” she exclaimed as the small combo at the front of the room launched into a tune she recognized from their high school days. “Now, that’s one golden oldie I haven’t heard in years. I wish I could remember who sang it.”

  Susan seemed only too willing to follow her lead in changing the subject. “It was the Four Tops,” she piped up. “They had quite a few hit records back in the sixties.”

  “That’s right, you were something of a trivia buff, weren’t you? I should have realized that if anyone would know, it would be you,” Brenna remarked, her voice like a fine crystal bell.

  The woman simply stood there staring at Brenna, the drink in her hand all but forgotten. “I just can’t get over the change in you!” she finally burst out in an impetuous rush. “I mean, you were always a nice girl back in high school, but you were a bit plump….” Then she blushed. It was a hot, unstoppable blush, a rash of color that quickly spread from ear to ear.

  “Let’s face it, I was twenty-five pounds overweight, and what I did have wasn’t in any of the right places,” Brenna replied, laughing outright.

  Her laughter seemed to reassure Susan that the subject was no longer taboo. “But it’s so much more than that—” The words ground to a halt. It was more than the obvious weight loss. The Brenna she had known was a quiet, sensitive, unassuming girl with a definite intellectual bent. It was difficult, if not downright impossible, to reconcile the image in her mind with the confident, easygoing and exquisitely beautiful woman standing beside her now. “You seem so different,” Susan murmured, shaking her head.

  “Perhaps in some ways I am, but in other ways I’m the same girl I always was,” Brenna admitted with a touch of wistfulness. “I still get all weepy when I read Edna St Vincent Millay. And I still love opera and orange soda pop and cheap detective novels.”

  “That’s right!” Susan gave a soft cry of recollection. “I remember you used to read those cheap paperback novels at lunchtime. The covers were absolutely lurid.”

  “Far more lurid than anything between the covers, I assure you.” Brenna chuckled.

  Susan Whitfield raised one brow in a questioning arch. “So, what are you doing now? Are you a model or something?” she asked, taking a sip of her drink.

  At that, Brenna laughed again. “I’m not a model, so I guess that makes me an ‘or something.’ Actually, I’m a businesswoman,” she stated without going into an explanation of the subject.

  “A businesswoman? Really?”

  The expression on Susan’s face told her she might as well have said she was a geophysicist or something equally unusual. “Yes, I have a chain of health spas in the Chicago area,” Brenna went on to explain.

  “Well, I must say you have to be the best advertisement for a health spa I’ve ever seen,” Susan commented. “Is that how you manage to stay in such good shape?”

  “I work out three mornings a week. But I h
ave to confess it gets harder and harder the older I get,” Brenna quickly assured her.

  “Tell me about it,” the woman laughed, patting her ample middle. “I’m a prime candidate to be one of your customers, myself. But enough! We’re here to enjoy ourselves. Let’s start by getting you a drink. You do drink, don’t you?”

  Brenna smiled. “I’ve been known to on special occasions.”

  “Well, this certainly qualifies as a special occasion in my book,” her former classmate declared gaily.

  “And in mine,” Brenna agreed after a brief pause.

  With her classmate in tow, Brenna made her way across the room to the nearest bar, ordering a gin and tonic for herself—it seemed the kind of thing one should drink on a summer night—and another frozen daiquiri for Susan. There had been nearly one hundred members in their graduating class, and from all appearances there were half again that many people in the country club tonight—most of them gathered at one of the bars set up for the occasion.

  “I wonder how many of our class are here for the reunion?” Brenna remarked during a momentary lull in their conversation.

  “I heard Marla Bennett mention that something like eighty graduates responded they were coming for at least part of the weekend. Add to that husbands and wives and a few assorted guests, and there must be a hundred and fifty people here. Oh, there’s Robert! He’ll get the biggest kick out of seeing you again. Wait here and I’ll go get him.” With that, Susan took off through the crowd.

  Brenna stood to one side of the bar, absently nursing her gin and tonic, telling herself she didn’t feel like a fifth wheel no matter how it might appear to anyone else. She’d recognized a long time ago that the world essentially went two by two. A single woman in her thirties had to learn to live with that fact. At least being single no longer carried the stigma it once had. Not in a city like Chicago, anyway. She wasn’t so sure about a town the size of Mansfield….