A Risky Affair (8 page)

“Solange. Solange Washington. She applied for the position of my personal assistant. I met her on Monday when she showed up for the interview.”

When Tessa raised her head to look at him, Crandall was surprised to see tears glistening in her eyes. “Does she know…did she know who you were?”

“No.” His mouth thinned to a grim line. “Or she pretended not to.”

“What do you mean?”

“Solange Washington was adopted as a small child and grew up in a town called Haskell. According to her, she doesn't remember much about her past.”

“I see.” Tessa's gaze bored into his. “And you don't believe her.”

Crandall brushed an invisible speck of lint off the knife-blade crease of his dark trousers. “What I find hard to believe,” he said mildly, “is that after twenty-six years, Solange Washington decided one day to pack up and leave her hometown and make San Antonio, of all places, her new home. I also find it hard to believe that of all the jobs she could have applied for, she applied for one of mine.”

“I'm not at all surprised that she applied for the position,” Tessa said with a hint of impatience. “You know very well any number of people would kill to work for you. Why should this girl be any different?”

“She didn't grow up in San Antonio, for starters.”

“That doesn't mean she's never heard of you before. Are you going to tell me you only received applications from people living in or near San Antonio?”

“Of course not,” Crandall said gruffly.

“My point exactly. Besides, she was new in town and needed a job. I imagine your ad, offering free room and board, must have sounded quite attractive to her.”

“There was no mention of free room and board in the ad. I did that on purpose.” Crandall frowned. “The point is, one way or another, whether or not she got the job, she was going to find a way to get to me.”

Tessa gave him a mocking look. “So you're convinced that the girl is after something. What is it this time? Your money? Or your soul?”

“Possibly both,” Crandall said, ignoring the biting sarcasm in her voice. “That's why I decided to hire her. If she's up to no good, I'd rather be able to keep a watchful eye on her.” This part, at least, was the truth.

A shadow of cynicism twisted Tessa's mouth. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, Crandall?”

“Damn right,” he snapped, unapologetic. Tessa could sit back in her ivory tower and judge him all she wanted, but if Solange ever learned the truth about who she was and decided to seek revenge, Tessa stood to lose just as much as he did. Her marriage had already suffered as a result of her infidelity and the birth of their illegitimate child. There was no telling how her husband, Hoyt, would react to the news that his wife's torrid love affair had not only produced a daughter, but a granddaughter as well. Talk about a gift that kept giving.

Tessa sifted through the photos, lingering over each one before shoving the pile back at Crandall. “So you're having her followed and investigated.”

“I had these photos taken for you. I knew you wouldn't believe me unless you saw her with your own two eyes.”

Tessa uncrossed and crossed her long, sleek legs. “We don't know for sure that she's Melanie's daughter.”

“The hell we don't,” Crandall growled. “We may be getting old, Tess, but we're not blind. That girl is the spitting image of you, and you know it. What
I
want to know is who sealed her birth records so tight my private investigator keeps running up against a brick wall.”

Tessa frowned in confusion. “I don't under—” As comprehension dawned, her eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Wait a minute. Are you suggesting that
I
sealed her birth records?”

“You or that conniving bastard you married,” Crandall bit off tersely, convincingly.

Tessa nearly leapt out of the seat. “How dare you! Do you even know what you're saying? If I had learned years ago that we had a granddaughter, do you honestly believe I would have kept something as important as that from you?”

“You might have done anything to keep the truth about Melanie from coming to light and jeopardizing your husband's political career,” Crandall said with calm, implacable resolve, ignoring a prick of guilt. “If memory serves me correctly, he was preparing to run for mayor around the time Solange Washington would have been born.”

“That's positively absurd!” Tessa exploded. “When Melanie came to my house that day, it was the first time since her birth I'd ever laid eyes on her or heard from her. If what you're suggesting was true, that would mean I'd secretly kept tabs on her all those years after she was adopted, and you know damn well I didn't!”

Crandall studied her lovely, outraged face, pretending to search for any signs of deceit. After all, this was the same woman who'd once declared her undying love to him just a week before announcing her engagement to another man.

When he made no reply, her expression turned to one of wounded disbelief. “My God,” she whispered brokenly. “You don't believe me, do you?”

Crandall clenched his jaw. “Talk to your husband when you get home. Ask him how far he was willing to go to make sure none of the skeletons in your closet surfaced during his precious campaign.”

“I'll do no such thing,” Tessa fumed. “If you refuse to believe what I'm telling you, that's your problem, not mine.” She glanced down at her diamond-encrusted wristwatch, then reached into her designer clutch purse and pulled out her cell phone. “I need to get back to the charity auction,” she told him. “It was only supposed to last for two hours. Please ask your driver to take me back to the mall so that I can catch a cab to the hotel.”

Crandall gave her a cold, narrow smile. “As you wish.”

They returned to the shopping mall without exchanging another word. Crandall, fully expecting Tessa to launch herself out of the limousine before it came to a complete stop, was understandably surprised when she made no move to leave.

Gazing at him, she asked quietly, “What if you're wrong about Solange?”

He arched a dubious brow. “About her being our granddaughter?”

“No. About her motives for entering your life.” Tessa smiled, a soft, wistful smile. “What if she genuinely has no idea who she is? Or what if she does know, but all she wants is to get to know you? Will you let her, Crandall? Will you let her into your heart?”

He hesitated. In all the years he had known of Solange's existence, he'd never allowed himself to contemplate the idea of having a relationship with her. Now that he'd met her in person, he understood why. She reminded him so much of Tessa, the woman who'd broken his heart and left him to pick up the shattered pieces, that it was easier for him to think of her as someone to keep at arm's length, someone who couldn't be trusted. Although he knew it was purely irrational, a part of him—a big part of him—feared that if he let down his guard with Solange, if he let her get too close to him, it was only a matter of time before she, too, broke his heart.

He couldn't let that happen.

He wouldn't.

As if she'd intercepted his thoughts, Tessa shook her head sadly at him. “I didn't think so.” She reached for the door handle, then paused. “If you do learn that she's our granddaughter, I want to meet her, Crandall.”

His eyes narrowed on her face. “I don't think that would go over too well with your husband,” he said caustically.

“Let me worry about that.” Her eyes turned softly imploring. “Will you keep me posted on the investigation?”

Crandall hesitated, then gave a short nod.

As he watched Tessa climb out of the limo and hurry to the waiting taxicab, a slow, triumphant smile crawled across his face.

And for the first time in over forty years, he allowed himself to anticipate the very real possibility that he would soon have Tessa back in his life—permanently.

L
ater that night, Solange sat cross-legged on her bedroom floor surrounded by half-opened cardboard boxes. After Dane left, Rita had taken her on a tour of the house before Solange returned to her bedroom to begin unpacking. A sedate fire crackled in the fireplace, warding off the evening chill. Rita had warned her the nights could get downright cold in the mountains, and she'd been right. A foray onto the terrace to gaze up at the glittering night sky had sent Solange scurrying back inside after a few minutes, rubbing her arms and shivering. Laughing, Rita had left the room and returned bearing a mug of freshly brewed hot chocolate from the kitchen.

Alone now, Solange sipped the sweet, obscenely rich drink while she debated what to unpack and what to stash in the storage closet Rita had shown her earlier. With the exception of her clothes and a few personal items, nothing she'd brought with her really needed to be unpacked. The spectacularly furnished suite contained everything she would ever want or need, from extra linens, blankets and towels to a full range of fragrant soaps, lotions and toiletries. Someone had even been considerate enough to stock the bathroom with feminine products.

In the end, Solange unpacked her clothes and decided to stow the rest of her belongings, which seemed shabby and out of place in her new lavish digs. But as she reached for a box labeled FRAGILE in black Magic Marker, she paused, then grabbed her box cutter and went to work.

Inside, covered carefully with bubble wrap, were several wood-framed family portraits, along with an old leather-bound photo album and Solange's high-school yearbook. Had these items been kept in the farmhouse, instead of a storage shed in the backyard, they would have been destroyed in the fire. But, ironically enough, her mother had always insisted on storing important documents and other family memorabilia inside that musty old shed, contending that too much clutter in a house created fire hazards.

She couldn't have imagined that a leaky gasoline generator, not clutter, would cause the fire that would someday claim her life.

Solange's throat tightened as she reached inside the box for a photograph. Slowly she removed the plastic wrapping and gazed at a faded photo of herself at age nine, nestled between her parents against an artificial woodsy background. George and Eleanor Washington, a handsome couple in their late forties, had donned their Sunday best, which meant a simple tweed suit for him and a thrift-shop dress for her.

With a stab of nostalgia, Solange recalled tugging at the itchy lace collar of her yellow summer dress and whining because she was missing the Dallas Cowboys in their season opener against the despised Washington Redskins. The year before, while hanging out with the Somerset brothers, she had discovered the novelty of professional football, and had been addicted ever since. While Eleanor threatened bodily harm to her squirming daughter, George merely gave her an empathetic smile. He, as it later turned out, was a devout Redskins fan who'd been in the closet for years, because in Haskell, it was downright sacrilegious to root for any other team but the Cowboys.

Solange smiled softly, flooded with memories of watching Sunday-afternoon football games with her father, talking trash and teasing him about his dirty little secret when none of his friends were around.

A movement out of the corner of her eye interrupted her musings and made her glance up sharply. She was surprised to find Crandall Thorne framed in the doorway, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his fine wool trousers as he watched her with an unreadable expression.

“Good evening, Miss Washington,” he said quietly.

Scraping tears from her eyes with the heel of her hand, Solange scrambled to her feet, feeling as if she'd been caught loafing on the job by her drill sergeant. If she hadn't been clutching the photo to her chest, she might even have saluted him. Tall and broad-shouldered, Crandall Thorne struck such a commanding figure he made Solange feel clumsy and unsure of herself.

“Mr. Thorne—”

“I didn't mean to startle you,” he said mildly. “I just got home and thought I'd come by to see how you were settling in. I trust you've found everything to your satisfaction?”

“Definitely,” Solange said with a vigorous nod. “This room is amazing, and Ms. Rita has been the most gracious hostess. And your chef makes the best lasagna I've ever had in my life.”

“I'm pleased to hear it.”

Solange smiled. “You have a very beautiful home, Mr. Thorne.”

He inclined his head. “I apologize for not being here to welcome you this afternoon, but I had some pressing matters to take care of in town. Rita tells me you had car trouble.”

Solange grimaced. “Yes, unfortunately. The engine died on me. Dane Roarke was kind enough to give me a ride.”

Crandall sent her a vaguely amused look. “I doubt kindness had much to do with Mr. Roarke's generosity,” he said sardonically, “but I'll be sure to thank him, anyway.”

Solange smiled. “And speaking of gratitude, Mr. Thorne, I wanted to thank you for giving me this job opportunity. I know you had misgivings about hiring an aspiring lawyer, so I appreciate your willingness to take a chance on me anyway.”

Crandall passed a slow, appraising look over her face. “Do you believe you were the best person for the job, Miss Washington?”

Solange grinned. “Absolutely.”

He stared at her a moment longer before nodding toward the framed photograph still clutched to her chest. “May I?”

She nodded.

When Crandall made no move to enter the room, she crossed the distance and handed the photo to him. He studied it for an impassive moment. “These are your parents?”

“Yes. George and Eleanor Washington.”

Crandall arched a brow. “Your father was named after the first president?”

Solange chuckled. “I know. I used to get teased all the time, and as you can imagine, I've heard every joke under the sun.”

“I can imagine.” His heavy, dark brows furrowed together in a slight frown. “They looked too old to be running after a small child.”

Solange bristled. Her chin went up a proud notch. “They were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Crandall lifted his head, giving her a swift, evaluative glance. “I never meant to imply otherwise, Miss Washington,” he said in a tone that made it clear he still believed her parents had been too old to raise her.

Solange dug her fingernails into her palms, resisting the urge to snatch the photograph out of his hand. Who the hell was he to pass judgment on her parents? What gave him the right? And would he have made the same comment if she hadn't told him she was adopted?

He examined the picture a moment longer, then passed it back to her, his eyes tracing her features. “You haven't changed much. You look the same.”

Solange forced a jaunty smile to her lips. “Considering I was nine years old at the time, I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Fair enough.” He dipped his hands back into his pockets. “Do you know how to ride a horse, Miss Washington?”

Solange chuckled dryly. “With all due respect, sir, that's like asking a fish if it knows how to swim. I grew up on a farm. Learning how to ride was a rite of passage.”

“Of course. I should have known.” A ghost of a smile played around the edges of his mouth. “If you'd like, you can go riding tomorrow. I have one or two steeds that should meet with your approval.”

This time, when Solange smiled, there was nothing forced about it. “I'd like that very much.”

He nodded shortly. “I'll let you finish unpacking. Have a good night, Miss Washington.”

“Thanks. You, too.”

As he turned to leave, he said, “Oh, and one more thing, Miss Washington.”

“Yes?”

“The next time someone asks you to participate in something unethical or illegal, such as, say, taking a lie-detector test, stick to your principles and refuse.” He paused, a hint of censure beneath the cool smile he gave her. “That's what any good lawyer would do.”

Solange swallowed, then nodded. “Yes, sir.”

After he left, she released a long, deep breath and returned to the box she'd been unpacking. As she unwrapped the remaining photographs, she reflected upon Crandall Thorne's parting words. She may have failed his first test, but her presence in his home that evening was proof that he, like Solange, believed she could do the job she'd been hired for. If he'd had any serious misgivings about her, he wouldn't have offered her the position. Contrary to what she'd told him, she wasn't arrogant enough to believe she was the most qualified applicant he'd come across during his search, especially if he'd received hundreds of résumés, as she suspected. Although she'd admitted to being an aspiring attorney and had ruined his nice shirt on her way out of the house, he'd still chosen her.

In that moment, Solange vowed to do everything in her power to make sure he never regretted his decision.

She finished unpacking, then went to take a shower in the large, luxurious bathroom adorned with custom ceramic tile, cultured marble counters and gleaming brass fixtures.

Feeling like a pampered guest at an exclusive resort, she dried off with a thick terry-cloth towel, smoothed scented lotion all over her body and slipped into a clean, oversize T-shirt. Grabbing the paperback mystery novel she'd bought while running errands that week, Solange padded barefoot into the separate seating area and stretched out on the chaise longue before the flickering fire. The logs made a soft hissing noise as they burned, sending up an occasional spray of bright embers.

Lulled by the sound, she soon found herself drifting off to sleep.

When her cell phone rang, it was as if she'd been doused with a bucket of ice water. She jerked upright, feeling disoriented, then scrambled off the chaise and hurried over to the bed, where she'd left her purse earlier.

She dug out her cell phone and answered without glancing at the caller ID, assuming it could only be one person. “Hey, girl.”

There was a startled pause on the other end. “Solange?” ventured a deep, all-too-familiar voice. A voice she'd never expected to hear again. “Solange, this is Lamar.”

The air stalled in her lungs. She lowered herself slowly onto the bed, holding the phone in a sudden death grip.

“Are you there?”

She swallowed hard, closing her eyes for a moment. “I'm here,” she murmured, striving for a calm she didn't feel. “What do you want, Lamar?”

“I, uh, wanted to see how you were doing. It's been a while.”

“Yes, it has.”

Lamar cleared his throat nervously. “I've been meaning to call you ever since I heard that you'd moved to San Antonio. I was going to call you earlier, but then I got sent to Washington, D.C., to take some classes. I just returned last week.”

Solange said nothing, letting the silence hang between them.
Let him squirm,
she thought peevishly. God knows he had that, and a helluva lot worse, coming to him.

After another moment, Lamar said brightly, “Did Jill tell you I saw her at the bank the other day?”

“She may have mentioned something about that.”

“She told me you'd landed a nice job with Crandall Thorne, that big-time defense attorney. I've heard he travels in the same social circles as judges, politicians, philanthropists and celebrities. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Solange murmured.

“I was really surprised to hear that you'd left home.”

“Why? Because all you've ever seen me as is a small-town girl with even smaller aspirations?”

“No! You know that's not what I meant. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. I've been all over the world, and you're still the most ambitious woman I've ever met, Solange.”

Something in his voice made Solange wonder whether she'd just been complimented or insulted. The fact that it mattered at all sent a stab of frustration slicing through her. Impatiently, she glanced up at the antique clock on the wall. “Look, it's getting late. I really need to—”

Without warning, Lamar let out a sharp, ragged breath. “How long are you going to blame me for what happened between us?”

Solange nearly dropped the phone.
“Excuse me?”

“You heard me. How long will you treat me like a leper for the way things ended between us?”

“In case you've forgotten,” Solange said, coolly succinct, “
you're
the one who broke up with me. At a New Year's Eve party, mind you, where you knew I wouldn't make a scene in front of all those people.”

“I know the timing was bad,” Lamar agreed grimly, “but believe me when I tell you I didn't plan it that way. It just—”

“Happened?” She gave a brittle, mirthless laugh. “How original. Do you realize that's the exact same thing Wyatt told Jill when she caught him in bed with another woman?”

“Damn it, Solange,” Lamar snapped. “I'm not Wyatt! I never cheated on you, and you know it!”