Aftershocks Read online

  Elliot pulled off his goggles, stunned at the insult. He gritted his teeth. "Excuse me, " he said finally, and kicked off without putting on his goggles again.

  "Even now you're veering into my lane," she yelled after him.

  Elliot heard her. Without pause, he whipped around in the water and swam in quick angry strokes back to the obnoxious woman.

  "Now look here," he began. His tongue stuck in his throat when the woman pulled off her goggles, and he found himself staring at Georgina Hathaway.

  "You look quite ridiculous," George said on a laugh. "Close your mouth." Her arms shot out to his shoulders and she shoved him underwater.

  George knew she shouldn't have done it in the middle of the deep end, but she couldn't help herself. She felt his hands on her waist, and in the next instant she was flailing underwater. He brought her up, his hands still about her waist.

  "Hi," George said cheerfully, wiping her eyes. "What are you doing here?"

  Elliot eyed her suspiciously. "I suspect," he said, "that you knew I was here. Couldn't you just have said hello instead of attacking me?"

  "You were very polite. It took that last insult to bring you back." She cocked her head to one side, very aware that he was still holding her, treading water for the both of them. "What were you going to say?"

  "I haven't the faintest notion. Doubtless I would have thought of something appropriate to say to an obnoxious female."

  "Well, even though you really weren't pigging my lane, you were swimming dreadfully slow. A Mack truck in neutral could have passed you. I could probably beat you with one leg."

  "If I engage in a race with you, Miss Hathaway, will you knock off my goggles?"

  "No, it won't be necessary. Now you know, from painful experience, that I'm not to be trifled with."

  He grinned at her. "Come along then. How many laps would you like to try?"

  She dog-paddled next to him toward the shallow end. She was not a good swimmer; it was one of the few sports she hadn't grown up with. "How about ten laps?" She had never even done ten laps. By six, her arms were like dead sticks of wood.

  "Ten it is," said Elliot. "Would you like to dive to begin?"

  "Certainly. This is a professional competition, at least my half is."

  He watched her pull herself from the pool in a quick graceful motion. He found himself staring at her when she stood. A racing swimsuit on a woman was usually the most sexless garment imaginable. It fit like a second skin, flattening a woman's breasts and molding , quite clearly every extra pound she carried. On George, the second skin revealed perfection. He felt his body respond, and tensed. He dragged his eyes away from her nipples, puckered against the suit, only to let them fall to her narrow waist and flat stomach. He quickly looked away, so as to be able to get out of the pool without embarrassing himself.

  He joined her at the edge of the pool, seeing her long, beautiful legs bent, ready to dive.

  "You look very sexy in that swimsuit," she said in a throaty voice, her eyes sweeping over him. At his sharp intake of breath, she shouted, "Go!"

  Elliot watched her dive, and smiled at her clean, perfect form. He shook his head and dived in after her. He caught her on the second lap. Instead of passing, he slowed and kept pace with her. Her strokes were becoming more and more labored.

  "I've never raced a snail before,'' he said.

  "Snake," she said breathlessly. "Would you just go along and get it over with?"

  "Not on your life. If I finish the ten laps, you'll be able to stop. I want to see if you can even make eight."

  He thought she said "Jerk," but he couldn't be certain. She did make seven, but when she turned to begin the eighth, he pulled at her arm.

  "I just wanted to humiliate you, not kill you," he said.

  "I'm humiliated, and half-dead." She lowered her head, concentrating on breathing normally again. They were standing in the shallow end, and she was looking, mesmerized, at the black hair on his chest.

  "When did you start swimming?"

  "Last month."

  "Why?"

  "I always start something new in August."

  "Why didn't you call me?"

  She didn't pretend to misunderstand. "I did."

  "No, you called my secretary."

  "I was in New York."

  "This is the first time I've seen you here."

  "I know. Usually I swim in the morning. I was.. .surprised to see you here."

  A black brow arched upward. "Were you now? I wonder."

  "Your conceit, as well as a lot more, is showing."

  "Only to my waist," he murmured, grinning at her wickedly. To his further amusement, she blushed. "Would you like to sit out for a while before we finish your humiliation?"

  She cupped a handful of water, tossed it into his face and pulled herself out of the pool.

  "Thank you for the sunglasses," he said, once he had joined her.

  "You like them? I thought they looked classy."

  "Quite classy and quite expensive, much more so than the ones you wrecked."

  She smiled. "Well, Randy told me how important you are. Can't have you looking like a punk rocker."

  Elliot looked out over the pool for a moment. "I would say they'd be quite an extravagant purchase on a student's budget, Miss Hathaway."

  "I'm not a student, and please call me George. Everyone does."

  "How did you ever get tangled up with a name like that? The San Francisco influence?"

  "Oh no. I have three older brothers, and they think of me as their little brother."

  "So that's why you're a jock."

  "They just refined my jockdom. I was born with it."

  "Except for swimming."

  "Alas, you're right. I probably won't be able to beat you until Christmas."

  "We'll see about that.. .George. Why aren't you in school?"

  She smiled at him, but didn't immediately answer him. She pulled off her swim cap. Tendrils of wet hair fell about her face from the thick knot of honey-colored hair on top of her head. "I dropped out at the end of the first semester of my freshman year. I was bored, and studying the life cycle of frogs seemed a total waste."

  Elliot looked at her hair for a moment; then his eyes fell to her face. She wore no makeup. He decided that with her delicate bones, she would be beautiful when she was eighty.

  "You're thinking about all the years you spent in the academic grind," she teased him.

  "Not exactly," he said. "What do you do with your time?"

  George shrugged, a tiny smile playing about her lips. "Oh, a bit of this and that."

  "I'm sorry we didn't make the A's game. I was looking forward to it."

  She glanced at him through her thick lashes. "Are you putting me on?"

  He raised a muscled arm and made the sign of an X over his chest. "Nope. I was in a foul mood for the rest of the day." He paused a moment, a smile widening his mouth. "I think I scared the hell out of Dr. Hansen when he told me he didn't have your phone number."

  "Yes," she said, "you did. He bitched at me for a week."

  "Why is you number unlisted?"

  "I.. .enjoy my privacy."

  "I see." But he didn't. "What were you doing in New York?"

  Again he saw the teasing smile about her mouth.

  "Ah, more of this and that?"

  "That's it exactly," she said. "I am sorry about our aborted outing. I wanted to take you, but Randy, well, he burned my ears all the way back to San Francisco after the picnic."

  Elliot arched a thick black brow in question.

  She made a small gesture with her hand. "You're a very important man, Dr. Mallory," she said, mimicking Randy. "And you really didn't want to go, but were too polite to tell me to buzz off."

  "I wouldn't count on that, George."

  "Count on what?"

  "On my being polite. Do you think you can get hold of another couple of tickets?"

  She turned a happy smile on him and he blinked. "Isn't there anything ug
ly about you?" he asked. "A disfiguring mole somewhere or something?"

  George gave a gurgling laugh. "I could ask you the same question, you know. It's my stock in trade, but for you it's a bonus."

  "Did your brothers teach you to say things like that to strange men?"

  She looked away from him, and he could see her slender shoulders stiffen. "Randy said that you wouldn't understand. I'm sorry."

  "Dr. Hansen is a fool. Now, how about an A's game and a disfiguring mole?"

  "How about Thursday and I don't have one."

  "Thursday it is and I'm not sure I believe you. No woman should look like you do. It's unhealthy."

  "Well," George said, untangling herself and standing over him, presenting him with the length of her endless legs, "I will pick you up on Thursday at seven. And I'll paint on a mole if you like."

  "I'd prefer finding it for myself, thank you."

  Her eyes, the oddest shade of blue, almost violet, widened. He wondered if he embarrassed her, but that hardly seemed likely. She seemed so sure of herself, so very sophisticated. And now she was looking at him uncertainly. Was she already regretting chasing him down?

  "Do you know where I live?"

  "Yes. You're in the book. I've got to go now. Goodbye."

  "See you Thursday," he called after her. He watched her walk over to where Tim was standing, that young man looking anything but bored as he watched her approach. Elliot slipped back into the pool to continue his laps.

  During the next two days, he found himself wondering if she would show up on Thursday. He had responded to her unabashed flirting in kind. At least he thought she'd been flirting with him. She certainly said anything she wanted to. She was very young, he thought. If and when he did see her again, he would take great pains not to scare her off. And what, he kept wondering, did she mean about this and that?

  Elliot heard the doorbell ring at precisely seven o'clock. Somehow, he had expected her to be punctual. He galloped down the stairs and opened the door.

  "Hi," George said.

  "Hello," Elliot said. "You look very nice." Actually he would like to have told her that she looked good enough to eat, but wisely swallowed the words. She was wearing a light-blue silk blouse and tan slacks, and her hair was drawn away from her face with combs. He realized he was staring at her and said quickly, "Would you like to come in for a drink?"

  "No," George replied. "It's a forty-minute drive to the stadium. I don't want to be late."

  He pulled the door closed and followed her down the steps. He came to a surprised halt at the sight of a black Porsche parked in the driveway. It was a classic 911, about ten years old, in perfect condition. He smiled as she opened the door on the passenger's side for him. "Nice car," he said, eyeing the black-leather interior.

  George didn't reply until she slipped into the driver's seat. "Yes," she said proudly. "Her name is Esmerelda."

  "Is the hunchback of Notre Dame in the back seat?"

  "I told him I only had two tickets. He has to wait for another night." She revved the engine and expertly shoved the gear stick into reverse.

  "How long have you had her?"

  "I bought her in February."

  How the hell, he wondered, could a girl her age, who did this and that, afford a car that must have cost at least twenty thousand dollars? He fastened his seat belt and watched her take the hills in Pacific Heights. She stopped behind a car on a steep incline, and he found himself stiffening. Driving a stick shift in San Francisco required guts and skill. She certainly had the latter, he thought, expelling his breath as she expertly shifted the Porsche into first and smoothly eased forward.

  "I won't wreck you," George said dryly. "Women are much maligned about their driving."

  "I was too busy wondering where I had put my will to malign you."

  She laughed and shot him an impish look. "Just wait until we get to a flat stretch. I'll have Esmerelda do her stuff."

  She negotiated the freeway traffic like a pro, and they were soon on the Bay Bridge. "What kind of car do you drive?" she asked. She quickly raised a slender hand. "No, let me guess. A Continental? A Cadiliac Seville?"

  "Wrong. A silver Jaguar, and yes, my mechanic is a very good friend."

  "A stick shift?"

  "Yes, but I must admit to stalling him on hills occasionally."

  "I'm sure you do very well.. .for a man."

  "I didn't have the benefit of having three sisters."

  She giggled. "You are funny. I thought you would be. Are you a native Californian?"

  "There are so few, I wish I could claim to be one, but I'm not. I was born and grew up in Connecticut."

  "I have a friend in Stamford. Near there?"

  "In the east, everything is close to everything else. New Milford, and in answer to your next question, I went to Yale."

  "Actually, I was hoping you would say Harvard. Harvard is more snooty, isn't it?"

  "Any Harvard alumnus would agree, I'm sure. How 'bout you, George?"

  "My folks live in Flint, Michigan. My aborted semester of college was at the University of Michigan."

  "What did you do after that? You were all of eighteen, right?"

  "Yes. I lived in New York, then came out here. I've lived in San Francisco for about two years now."

  "If I recall right, Dr. Hansen went to Columbia. You met him in New York?"

  "Yes," she said shortly. "We're almost there, Dr. Mallory. I do hope you like baseball."

  "You may be certain I like hot dogs and peanuts."

  "I know the vendor. You'll put on a couple of pounds tonight."

  "I'll swim it off with you tomorrow."

  She shot him a questioning look, but was soon concentrating on entering the parking lot. Instead of parking in the public area, she drove to the reserved section very close to the entrance. All the places were taken except for one. She pulled smoothly in and turned off the motor.

  As if in answer to his unasked question, she smiled and said only, "Since I'm bringing such an important man, you get only the best."

  She led him briskly to the ticket counter.

  "Hi, George."

  "Hi, Dave. Here's the tickets."

  "What happened to the other fellow, George?"

  "Dr. Hansen is only a resident. This fellow is far more important. He runs the whole show."

  The older man grinned widely at her, showing a wide space between his front teeth. "Only the best, huh, George?"

  Elliot wasn't at all surprised when she led him directly behind home plate to some of the best seats in the stadium.

  "A pretty good turnout," George said with satisfaction, glancing around the stadium. "We'll kill the Yankees, maybe."

  Nor was he particularly surprised when a boy, a tray of hot dogs strapped to his shoulders, hailed her like a long-lost friend. He listened with half an ear to their conversation, only paying full attention when he said, "Tod's in good shape, isn't he, George?"

  "Perfect shape," George said firmly, taking two hot dogs from him. "And he's raring to go tonight."

  Elliot was pulling out his wallet to pay for the hot dogs when the boy waved him down. "No, sir. George gets anything she wants."

  George grinned at him. "You, Dr. Mallory, are the power at the hospital. I am the power at the stadium."

  "So I see," Elliot said dryly. "Do you own part of the A's?"

  She seemed to consider his question seriously. "Not yet. Perhaps in a couple of years. We'll see."

  "George,'' he began, a definite edge to his voice.

  "Shh, the national anthem."

  When the A's pitcher took the mound, Elliot sat back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest, and prepared to be bored. He was not a baseball fan. He was bored until the pitcher looked straight at them and waved.

  "Go get 'em, Tod!" George yelled, and the pitcher gave her a victory sign.

  "There's both a Tod and a Ben?" Elliot growled.

  George turned to him, her head cocked to one side. Her lovel
y hair fell forward over her shoulder.

  "How do you know about Ben?"

  "I heard you mention him to Dr. Hansen."

  "Oh. Yes, there's both a Tod and a Ben. Do you know that Tod's fastball has been clocked at over ninety-five miles an hour?"

  Before he could answer, George was on her feet, cheering a strike.

  Elliot took a vicious bite of his hot dog.

  "All right," George said finally, taking pity on him, "I've been putting you on. If you were a baseball fan, which I gather you're most definitely not, you would

  know that the pitcher is Tod Hathaway. He's my brother."

  Elliot stared at her, then leaned back and laughed. His first thought was that that left only Ben. "How are you at wrestling?" he asked pleasantly.

  "I'm better at judo," George said. "If you're thinking about beating me up, you'd best think again."

  "Where the hell did you learn judo?"

  "You forget, I have —"

  "Yes, I know. You have three brothers. Now we've accounted for one of them. Are the others boxers or football players?"

  "Alas no. But I still love them. Derek, the oldest, is a businessman, and Jason is a computer expert. Tod, however, is the star of the family."

  "What about you, George?"

  "Me? I'm still a faint light on the horizon."

  "You have a lovely home," George said as she pulled into his driveway.

  "Thank you. Would you like to see the inside?"

  "I'd like to, but I have to get home to bed. I've got a hard day tomorrow."

  "Where do you live?"

  She gave him a twinkling smile. "About a mile from you, on Broadway. It's not a beautiful Victorian like yours, but it's mine."

  "You own your own home?"

  "A condo. Three bedrooms, and quite sufficient for me."

  "George, how old are you? "

  "Twenty-three. Why?"

  "When I was twenty-three, I lived in a hole in the wall and ate beans for supper. And I owned an old Chevy Impala."

  "Yes, but you were busy educating yourself for the future, I, on the other hand, am still quite ignorant. I hope you enjoyed the game, even though Tod lost."

  "Yes, I did," he said, accepting her change of subject philosophically. "Will you come to the pool tomorrow?"

  "I'll be free by then, hopefully. Thanks a lot for coming with me."