A Risky Affair (7 page)

“Men,” Solange pronounced in mock disgust.

“Hey!” Dane protested, feigning insult as he glowered at each woman in turn. When they merely laughed, he shook his head and turned toward the Durango to open the trunk, grumbling over his shoulder, “Why don't you two head on inside while us ‘men folk' unload the truck?”

“Thank you, Dane,” Solange said sweetly, to which he muttered something unintelligible that made Rita cackle with amusement.

Inside the spacious foyer of the house, a giant cornucopia overflowing with silk flowers, pinecones and a lovely assortment of fruit adorned the glossy mahogany sideboard. Rita made a right turn and guided Solange past a curving staircase that swept upward to the second floor. They passed a large great room, a cheerful sunroom and continued down a wide expanse of corridor that eventually led to the guest wing of the house.

The moment Solange crossed the threshold of the bedroom suite, an audible gasp escaped her lips. The room was exquisitely furnished with a Chippendale armoire, dresser and desk carved in cherry. The antique four-poster bed sat high off the floor and was covered with a thick satin duvet that promised a heavenly night's sleep. The walls were a soft, muted shade of honey that beautifully complemented the ceramic-tile floors. In a separate seating area, a suede chair, sofa and chaise longue in cream and rust were arranged around a wood-burning fireplace that added a cozy, inviting warmth to the room. Little touches of holiday cheer were interspersed throughout—a bowl of Georgian silver filled with pinecones and flanked by white candles, and poinsettias in a pair of gilt-trimmed pots perched at opposite ends of the window seat.

The pièce de résistance was a private terrace that boasted a stunning view of the lush green valley below. With a soft cry, Solange hurried toward the tall French doors and flung them open, unable to resist the lure of that view.

Behind her, Rita Owens took in her reaction with a quiet, knowing smile. “Well? Think we can convince you to hang around for a while?”

Solange laughed, the buoyant sound carrying on the cool breeze that caressed her upturned face. “I definitely think that's a safe assumption, Ms. Rita.”

Rita chuckled warmly. “Glad to hear it.”

Solange breathed deeply, filling her lungs with the scent of pine and earth from the distant mountains.
I can get very used to this,
she thought. Thankfully, she had no other choice.

Smiling, she turned and stepped back into the room as Dane entered and carried her two suitcases over to the bed. As he set them down on the floor and straightened, he swept an appraising glance around and grinned. “I recognize Daniela's handiwork.”

Rita nodded, beaming with pleasure. “I was just about to tell Solange that your cousin graciously volunteered to redecorate the room in anticipation of her arrival. This used to be where Caleb Thorne stayed whenever he visited his father,” she explained to Solange. “Now that Caleb is married, he and his wife, Daniela, sleep in one of the second-floor bedrooms whenever they come for a visit. You'll meet them both soon enough.”

Solange nodded, grinning easily. “I'm looking forward to that. If Daniela's anywhere near as wonderful as her decorating skills, I'm going to love her.”

Dane turned from studying a gilt-framed oil-on-canvas painting that captured a stunning West African sunset, to gaze at Solange. “I think the feeling will be mutual,” he said softly.

Solange gave him the shy smile of a teenager who'd just received an unexpected compliment from her secret crush. “Thanks, Dane.”

He inclined his head, then turned and started toward the door. Solange watched him leave, admiring once again the way he walked—shoulders and back straight, long legs moving in those relaxed, powerful strides.

Unbeknownst to her, Rita had followed the entire exchange with a speculative gleam in her dark eyes, which slid away when Solange finally looked at her. A hint of a smile curved the woman's mouth. “I'm going to check on dinner,” she announced. “There's a private bathroom straight through that door, in case you want to freshen up. Make yourself at home.”

“Thank you, Ms. Rita.”

After her hostess left, Solange took another slow turn around the room, lightly running her fingertips across the glossy surface of a side table, bending to sniff an assortment of fresh-cut flowers arranged in a crystal vase. The contrast between this elegant suite and the drab accommodations she'd called home for the past week was as dramatic as the difference between night and day. She also realized that this room, with its priceless antiques and original oil paintings, was nothing like the small, simply furnished bedroom she had grown up in. George and Eleanor Washington had worked hard to keep a roof over her head and food on the table, but their modest income hadn't allowed for much else. Their livelihood had depended on the land yielding a large crop every season, and when that didn't happen, money could be very tight. Solange had learned from an early age how to be frugal and stretch a dollar—valuable lessons that enabled her to save money from part-time jobs and put herself through community college before earning a scholarship to attend the local university. Even then, she'd commuted from home to save on the cost of campus housing and to continue helping out around the farm.

As a little girl, she'd never dreamed about sleeping in a frilly canopy bed or having a collection of beautiful dolls to play with. And she'd certainly never imagined that she would someday live in a place like this.

She paused, thinking about her parents and wondering what they would say if they could see her now. They'd always wanted her to have the best of everything, even if they couldn't give it to her themselves.

“But you gave me the most important thing of all,” Solange whispered into the stillness of the room. “Your unconditional love.”

Blinking back tears, she took a moment to send up a prayer of thanksgiving to God, then left to help Dane retrieve the rest of her belongings.

C
randall Thorne reclined in the luxurious backseat of his Rolls Royce limousine with a glass of brandy in one hand, a copy of this week's
San Antonio Business Journal
in the other. Nothing about his relaxed demeanor and bland expression betrayed the way his nerves tightened and his pulse quickened as the back door opened and one long, curvaceous leg appeared, followed by another, as Tessa Philbin lowered herself into the limo.

Even after all these years and after all they'd been through, Crandall marveled that she could still have such an effect on him. As a man whose reputation as a shrewd, formidable businessman was as much a part of his legacy as his renowned charm and virility, it galled him to realize that one woman could have such a stranglehold on him. When it came to his feelings for Tessa Philbin, he was as powerless as a mom-and-pop store facing a hostile takeover by a major conglomerate.

That morning, Tessa was cool and effortlessly elegant in a silk wrap that subtly accentuated her trim figure and the shapeliness of her crossed legs. She wore one of those classic millinery-inspired hats that slanted over her eyes, but he didn't need to see her entire face to remember how beautiful she was, to note how smooth and supple her golden-brown skin remained, even at the age of sixty-six. Wearing a pair of Versace pumps and a diamond bracelet and earrings that had probably cost more than the salary of his highest-paid employee—which was substantial—she was the epitome of a pampered society wife.

Irrationally, Crandall felt a stir of resentment. There was a time he'd wanted to give this woman the world on a silver platter. It hurt like hell that someone else had beaten him to it. Especially someone as undeserving as Hoyt Philbin, the former mayor of San Antonio.

As the limo glided away from the curb, Crandall set aside his drink and the newspaper he'd been trying unsuccessfully to read since leaving the ranch an hour ago. “Hello, Tessa,” he murmured, giving her a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. “You're looking well.”

She inclined her head coolly. “Same to you. And how's your health?”

“Never been better,” he drawled. “Nothing like a case of acute renal failure to challenge a man's will to live.”

Her ruby lips curved in the barest hint of a smile. “Yes, well, you have plenty to live for. I understand congratulations are in order. Caleb and his wife are expecting their first child?”

“That's right. Daniela's due at the end of February.”

“Congratulations. You must be so thrilled. This will be your first grandchild.”

“Perhaps.” At the nonplussed look Tessa gave him, he settled more comfortably against the butter-soft leather seat, regarded her across the aisle that separated them and prepared to give a performance that would put Sidney Poitier to shame. “Thank you for agreeing to see me this morning.”

She pursed her lips. “You told me it was important. Knowing what a tremendous risk we're taking by sneaking off together like this, I don't think you would have called me unless it was absolutely necessary.”

Her cool voice held an undertone that warned him whatever he had to share with her had better be worth the trouble she'd gone to that morning to meet him. After telling her husband she would be attending a charity function and getting her chauffeur to drop her off at the venue, she'd then caught a cab to a shopping mall fifteen minutes away, where Crandall had picked her up. They'd figured that outside a crowded mall bustling with Christmas shoppers, no one would notice the wife of a former mayor climbing into the limousine of an unidentified man.

All the plotting and subterfuge had reminded Crandall of the days of their brief, ill-fated affair.

After years of not seeing or speaking to each other, they'd suddenly found themselves face-to-face at the same social function. It hadn't taken them long to realize the attraction they'd once shared as high school sweethearts had not diminished with time; if anything, it had grown stronger. Desperate to be together, they'd lied to their spouses and arranged clandestine meetings in restaurants, hotels and B and Bs, until the unthinkable happened—Tessa got pregnant.

Crandall would never forget the sheer agony of that day, a day that would alter the course of their lives forever, when Tessa came to him with the news that she was carrying his child—their love child.

Stricken, he'd demanded, “Are you sure it's mine?”

“Yes!” she'd cried, tears streaming down her beautiful face. “Hoyt and I haven't been together in weeks. He's been too busy studying for the bar exam!”

The birth of their daughter, Melanie, eight months later had confirmed that the child did, indeed, belong to Crandall. Even if he could have rationalized the baby's dark skin—when Tessa's husband was white—there was no denying the prominent features of a Thorne.

The agony Crandall had felt then was surpassed only by the anguish he would suffer nineteen years later when the girl showed up on his doorstep, demanding the truth about why she'd been given up for adoption.

Crandall would carry the terrible burden of what happened next to his grave.

Rousing himself from the painful reverie, he found Tessa watching him warily. “What is it?” she asked in the strained voice of someone bracing herself to receive bad news. Lord knows they'd both had enough practice.

Crandall fixed her with a level gaze. “I think we may have a granddaughter.”

Tessa's whole body jerked. Beneath the brim of her hat, her eyes widened with shock. “W-what did you just say?”

“I have reason to believe our daughter may have had a child before she died.”

Tessa sputtered, “But she was only a child herself!”

“She was nineteen,” Crandall tersely reminded her. “We both know she'd had a hard life, practically growing up on the streets. There's no telling how promiscuous she may have been by the time—”

“Stop!” Tessa cried, raising a trembling hand.

“Tess—”

“You're talking about that child as if she were a common prostitute you'd pass by on the street! She was a child,
our
child, and we abandoned her and left her to be raised by strangers!”

Crandall's temper flared. Leaning forward in the seat, he said scathingly, “I remember what happened. But I also recall, darling Tessa, that it was you and your
husband
who made the decision not to raise the child as your own. And it was
you
who begged me not to tell anyone the truth about us, even though our spouses eventually found out, anyway.”

“You wouldn't have fought for Melanie, anyway!” Tessa cried, those dark, magnificent eyes flashing with fury and grief. “All you ever cared about was yourself and protecting your own hide! You knew damn well your
wife
wouldn't have welcomed your bastard child into her home, so you didn't even bother trying to seek custody of her!”

It was true, and Crandall knew it. Snapping his mouth shut, he sank back heavily against the seat cushions and closed his eyes, struggling to bring his blood pressure under control. He'd been warned by his doctors and his private nurse to avoid situations that would overly agitate him. If this situation didn't qualify as “agitating,” he didn't know what did. But he'd summoned Tessa there for a purpose, and he wasn't letting her go until he'd fulfilled that purpose.

As he worked to regain his composure, he mentally reviewed his plan. Although it would have made more sense to tell Tessa the whole truth, he knew that was out of the question. If he told her the truth—that he'd learned about Solange twenty-four years ago and had kept the knowledge from Tessa all this time—she would never forgive him. Even if he told her he'd only recently made the discovery, she would still blame him for not coming to her sooner. Making her privy to his so-called suspicions early in the game absolved him of any wrongdoing.

There was another advantage to confiding in Tessa at this point. It would bring them closer together while they waited to learn whether or not they really had a grandchild. Tessa would want to be involved in the investigation every step of the way, which would give Crandall the perfect excuse to see her, a privilege heretofore denied him. The last time he'd been alone with her was following his wife's funeral twenty-four years ago. Tessa, who'd attended the service without her husband, had sought him out at the repast to offer her condolences. Crandall had been inconsolable, racked with grief and guilt for still desiring another woman hours after leaving the cemetery where his wife and the mother of the only child he claimed would be laid to rest.

As he and Tessa had stood on the terrace, where he'd retreated to escape the houseful of mourners, she'd reached up and placed a gentle hand upon his cheek. The gesture was meant to comfort, to let him know she was there for him in his time of sorrow, but he'd wanted so much more. He'd wanted to crush her in his arms and kiss her the way he'd longed to for years, pouring all his grief, loneliness, disillusionment and pent-up rage into the kiss. He'd wanted to drag her upstairs and make love to her in the bed he'd shared with his late wife, and when Tessa closed her eyes and leaned into him, he knew she wouldn't have stopped him. To this day, he was haunted by what would have happened if his fourteen-year-old son Caleb had not suddenly appeared on the terrace, staring at them with dark, wounded eyes.

Crandall had spent long, torturous years trying to atone for the fact that he'd never loved the boy's mother the way she'd loved him. To honor her memory, and to keep peace between himself and Caleb, he'd kept his distance from Tessa, throwing himself into work like never before, using his career to make him forget the one thing he truly wanted, but could never have.

Now that he and Caleb had reached an understanding about the past, and now that his son was happily married and on the verge of becoming a father himself, Crandall decided he'd done enough penance. He was sixty-six years old, alone and battling a failing kidney. Time was no longer on his side. The clock was ticking, and if he wanted to reclaim the only woman he'd ever loved, he had to act fast. But now that he'd devised a plan to lure her away from her no-good husband, Crandall realized he didn't want Tessa back in his life solely because they shared a granddaughter. He wanted her back because she still loved him and regretted choosing another man over him all those years ago. And he was willing to do whatever it took to help bring her to that realization, even if it meant lying, cheating and stealing.

If he'd had even the slightest inkling that she really loved Hoyt Philbin, he would have given up on winning her back a long time ago. But he knew the truth, that she was trapped in a loveless sham of a marriage bound by the dictates of their elite social circle. As the wife of a mayor, Tessa had spent years making the right connections and cultivating the proper image. Leaving her husband for another man would not only shatter that image, it would force her to admit she'd made a terrible mistake in choosing Hoyt over Crandall, a decision she'd stubbornly defended for more than forty years, though anyone who knew her as well as Crandall could see that she was miserable.

Opening his eyes, he saw that she had turned her head to stare out the tinted window, giving him her proud, delicate profile. It was so strikingly similar to Solange Washington's that his breath snagged in his throat.

Beneath the silk wrap she wore, Tessa's chest rose and fell rapidly with the effort to control her ragged breathing. Her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap, the fine bones protruded.

Without turning her head to look at him, she said in a low voice, “What makes you think we have a granddaughter?”

Crandall hesitated an appropriate beat, then reached for a manila folder on the seat beside him. He opened it and removed several photos of Solange Washington taken over the past two days by a freelance photographer he'd hired. Wordlessly he passed the pictures to Tessa, who accepted them as reluctantly as if he were offering her a poisonous snake poised to strike.

The moment her eyes landed on the first image, she gasped and nearly dropped the stack of photos.

Crandall felt inordinately vindicated by her reaction. It was the same way he'd felt when Solange Washington had stepped through the door of his library on Monday afternoon, looking so much like a younger version of Tessa he half believed he'd stumbled upon a time warp that had sent him back thirty-five years. With her chestnut-brown hair, high cheekbones, slim nose, slanted dark eyes and full lips, Solange was a dead ringer for the woman who'd stolen Crandall's heart so long ago. Even her complexion—that unusual brown brushed with gold—was the same. Twenty-four years of knowing about her existence had not prepared him for the shock of actually coming face-to-face with her.

The photographer had captured her as she was running errands yesterday. In each photo, she wore a white peasant blouse with billowy sleeves and a long, red gypsy skirt, similar to an outfit Tessa had worn in an old photograph Crandall still had in his possession. Every once in a while—glutton for punishment that he was—he'd pull out the picture and stare at Tessa's brightly smiling face, wondering what had gone so terribly wrong between them.

As he watched, Tessa slowly lifted her hand and traced trembling fingertips over Solange Washington's hauntingly familiar image. “What's her name?” she whispered.