Crossings by Danielle Steel Page A

Nick. The sables were, the mink, the chinchilla coat she was leaving behind, but the fox was an enigma, more or less, although he assumed it was from Ryan Halloway, the son of a bitch.
    “What are you staring at?” Without intending them to, his eyes had strayed to the fox. They had fought about it several times before, and he did not intend to discuss it with her again. “Don't start that. I don't have to go to Paris, you know.”
    Oh, Christ, he thought to himself, not that. It had been such a long day, and he was so hot. He didn't want to fight with her today. “Do we really have to go through all this, Hil?”
    “No, we don't. We could stay here, you know.”
    “No, we couldn't. I want to run my Paris office for the next year. I have important contracts over there, and you know it. So we're all going. Somehow, I've never thought of Paris as a rough place to live.” But she did. For some reason, she was bound and determined to stay in New York. “Come on, Hil, you've always loved it over there.”
    “Sure, for a few weeks. Why the hell can't you fly back and forth?”
    “Because I'll wind up never seeing you or John. For crissake.” He stood up all at once, and the maid scurried out of the room. She knew the pattern of their fights. Eventually he blew his top and began to shout, and more often than not she threw something at him. “Can't we just let this thing lie? Can't you just accept that we're going? For chrissake, the ship is sailing in two days.”
    “So let it, or go by yourself.” Her voice was like ice as she sat down on the bed, stroking the silver fox and looking up at him. “You don't need me over there.”
    “Is that right? Or is it that you'd like to get rid of me for a year, then you could run back and forth to Boston to visit that little son of a bitch.” He knew how promiscuous she was, he had known for years. But he believed in preserving his marriage, for John's sake, for his own. His own parents had been divorced, and he had led a lonely, unhappy life as a child and had vowed never to do that to his own son. All he wanted was to be married and to stay that way, and he would, no matter what, no matter what Hillary did. But still the angry words slipped out more often than he wanted them to. “Aren't you ever afraid you'll get pregnant, Hil?” They both knew he meant by someone else.
    “Apparently you've never heard of abortion … if what you say is true, of course, that I play around, which I do not. But babies are not exactly my thing, dear Nick, or don't you recall?” They always aimed their blows below the belt. They had for years.
    “Oh, yes, I do.” The muscles in his jaw tensed as he clenched one hand, but his voice was oddly soft. She had never forgiven him for what had happened nine years before. She had been the most beautiful debutante in Boston. He remembered well her raven hair in sharp contrast to the white gowns her parents had had sent from Paris. There were many men who wanted her. Her father was in his fifties when she was born, her mother thirty-nine, and they had long since given up hope of having a baby, when suddenly Hillary appeared. She had been spoiled from the beginning, adored by her father, pampered by her mother, grandparents, and nurse. She had had everything she wanted, and she intended to go on living that way forever, until suddenly, on the night of her debut, she saw Nick. He was tall, blond, and handsome, with one of Boston's prettiest girls on his arm. And everyone had whispered from the moment he walked in … Nick Burnham … Nick Burnham … a fortune in steel … sole heir of his father … At twenty-nine, he was one of the richest young men on Wall Street, handsome as hell, and single. Hillary had almost floated out of the arms of the man she was dancing with, and had gone to meet Nick. They were introduced by one of her father's friends, and she had done everything she could to sweep him off his feet. And with surprisingly little effort, she