A Risky Affair (9 page)

“Sometimes I wish you had!” she cried. “God knows that would have been a whole lot easier to explain than the vague reason you gave me! You told me you needed space in the same breath you assured me I wasn't smothering you. What was I supposed to think, Lamar?”

“Solange—”

She drew a deep, steadying breath. “It doesn't matter anymore. That was nearly a year ago. So much has happened since then. So much has changed.”

“Not my feelings for you,” Lamar said fervently. “I still love you, Solange. I never stopped, and I probably never will.”

Solange grew very still, her heart hammering inside her chest. Jill's voice echoed through her mind, clear as a church bell.
When I saw him at the bank today, I realized he still loves you. He never stopped.

Could her best friend have been right? Did she dare believe what Lamar was telling her?

In a carefully measured voice, Solange said, “If that's true, if you still have feelings for me, then why did you break up with me?”

Lamar sighed harshly. “Because I was a damn fool,” he said, full of self-deprecation. “When I told you I needed space, it was because I lacked the courage to tell you what I really wanted, what I
really
needed.”

She frowned. “I don't understand.”

“When I broke up with you, Solange, I never imagined you'd let me go so easily.”

Solange arched a brow. “You expected me to
beg
you to come back?”

Lamar gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Of course not. I know what a proud, stubborn woman you've always been. I had no illusions about you
begging
for anything. What I expected—what I hoped—was that you'd realize how much you missed me, how much you needed me, how right we were for each other.” He paused for a moment. “I was hoping you would finally decide you wanted to marry me.”

Solange made a soft, strangled sound. “W-what did you say?”

Lamar heaved a deep, resigned breath. “I'm not getting any younger, Solange. I'll be forty next year. I'm tired of being a bachelor. I haven't enjoyed that status since the day I laid eyes on you at that county fair, looking like an African princess banished to the life of a dairy maid in your checkered red-and-white shirt and cutoff shorts. I think I was a goner even before I tasted your canned strawberry preserves.”

An errant chuckle escaped before Solange could stop herself. “Lamar—”

“It was love at first sight for me, and I thought you felt the same way, but every time I even
hinted
at marriage, you clammed up on me or changed the subject.”

“That's not true.” Even as the vehement denial left her mouth, Solange remembered her response to Dane Roarke's question about her marital status.
God, no,
she'd said without hesitation, as if she were appalled by the mere idea. Had she always reacted that way—or had her response been tainted by bitterness over her breakup with Lamar?

“I don't remember any discussions of marriage,” she hedged.

“We never actually progressed to the ‘discussion' phase,” Lamar said wryly. “Like I said, every time I broached the subject, you got that deer-in-the-headlights look and carefully steered the conversation in another direction. After a while, I realized that as good as our relationship was, we wanted different things out of life. You wanted to attend law school and become a family-law attorney. I simply wanted to settle down
with
a family.”

“Oh, Lamar.” Solange closed her eyes, stretching out on the queen-size bed. “I wish you'd shared these things with me before.”

“I probably should have. In fact, I
know
I should have. But would it have made a difference?”

“What do you mean?”

Lamar fell silent for so long she wondered if he'd been dropped from the call. But a quick glance at her cell phone confirmed they were still connected.

Finally he spoke. “If I'd asked you that night to marry me,” he said quietly, “would you have agreed?”

Solange's heart thudded. Sweat dampened her palms. “I—I don't know,” she croaked out. “That was almost a year ago. Like I said, so much has changed.”

“Including your heart?”

“Lamar—”

“Do you still love me?”

Fresh anger and resentment swept through her. She sat up quickly. “Wait a minute! Let's not get ahead of ourselves.
You
broke up with me, remember? For several weeks you did your level best to alienate me, ignoring my phone calls and making up excuses not to see me. And whenever you
did
give me the time of day, you were cold and distant, practically a stranger. You let me think you'd grown tired of me! You have
no
right to come barging back into my life, after all this time, demanding to know how I feel about you!”

“You're right,” Lamar said solemnly. “I'm sorry for hurting you, and for not being there for you after your parents died. Staying away from you was the hardest thing I've ever done in my life. I thought you hated me and wanted nothing to do with me.”

“I
did
hate you,” Solange growled, “and I
didn't
want anything to do with you.”

“What about now? Now that you know what was going through my head at the time, does it change anything?”

He sounded so hopeful she almost felt sorry for him. Almost.

Pinching the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, she said wearily, “I don't know what you want from me, Lamar.”

“I want a second chance,” he said urgently. “I want to be with you again. Come home, Solange. You don't belong in San Antonio—”

“Where I belong,” she interrupted through gritted teeth, “is no longer your concern.”

“Damn it, Solange! Don't be like that. I love you, and unless my instincts are wrong, you still love me, too.”

Solange said nothing, neither denying nor confirming his assertion. She knew a part of her would always love him. But was that enough to justify taking him back after the way he'd hurt her? Could she trust him with her heart again?

Was it too late for them?

Sensing her indecision, Lamar persisted. “I've tried dating other women, but it's no use. You're the only woman I want, the only woman I'll
ever
want. If you agree to marry me, I promise to devote the rest of my life to making you happy.” His voice lowered to a soft, beseeching caress. “You know I could take good care of you. I earn more than enough for both of us, and next year I'm up for another promotion. You wouldn't even have to work. You could stay home or go to law school—whatever you want. All I'm asking is to be part of the equation.”

Solange frowned, staring up at the ceiling. It was tempting, so damned tempting, to accept what he was offering—love, stability, an escape from the loneliness she'd felt ever since her parents had died. If she married Lamar, she wouldn't be alone in the world anymore. She'd belong to a family again; she'd belong to him, and he to her. And her parents would have approved. They'd adored Lamar, and had hinted more than once that they wouldn't mind having him as a son-in-law.

“Solange?” Lamar gently prodded. “I love you. Please say yes. Please say you'll marry me.”

“I—I need time, Lamar. This…this is a lot to digest at once.”

“I know.”

“I'm not ready to move back home. To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I ever will be. I came here to start over. I need to be able to do that.”

“I understand. I don't want to push you. But before you hang up the phone, Solange, I think you should know that I'm very determined to get you back in my life. I'm fully prepared to put in a request to be reassigned to Fort Sam Houston, one of the military bases there in San Antonio.”

Solange couldn't suppress an impatient groan. “Lamar—”

“Don't bother trying to talk me out of it,” he said firmly. “I let you go once before, and it was the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life. Don't expect me to let you go a second time, not without putting up a fight.”

Solange closed her eyes, too mentally drained to argue. “Good night, Lamar.”

“Good night, princess. Sleep well.”

Sleep well?
Solange thought sarcastically as she returned the cell phone to her purse and switched off the bedside lamp, leaving only the soft glow of firelight to illuminate the room.

She'd be lucky if she slept a wink that night. Thanks to Lamar Rogers, it was going to be one of the longest nights of her life, second only to the night her parents died.

D
ane knew the moment he arrived at the ranch the next morning and took one look at Solange's face that something had changed.

Seated alone at the round oak table in the sunny breakfast nook, Solange looked up as Rita escorted Dane into the room. When their eyes met, the smile she gave him was brief, almost perfunctory, before she quickly glanced away.

What was
that
about?

“You're just in time for breakfast,” Rita cheerfully informed Dane as she set a large, steaming bowl of grits on the table, which was already covered with mounds of food—blueberry pancakes, thick, crispy slices of bacon, home fries, scrambled eggs, assorted fruit. Even as he surveyed the appetizing spread, his stomach growled, reminding him that the last time he'd eaten was around 3 p.m. yesterday, during his previous trip to the ranch.

“Don't just stand there gawking,” Rita laughingly admonished him. She pointed to an empty chair at the table across from Solange. “Have a seat, baby.”

Remembering his promise not to argue with the woman, Dane slid into the proffered chair and accepted a plate laden with food. But his gaze was on Solange, who looked fresh and exquisitely wholesome in a yellow peasant blouse and snug-fitting jeans. Her hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail with the long bangs swept to one side, emphasizing her dark, exotic eyes. Upon closer examination, Dane noticed faint dark circles beneath her eyes, which told him she hadn't slept very well. He wondered what, or who, was to blame.

“Morning,” he murmured.

She met his eyes over the rim of her coffee cup. “Good morning, Dane.”

No other woman had ever made his plain, monosyllabic name sound so special, so unique. He could only imagine the way it would sound on her lips as he made love to her, as her slick, beautiful body shuddered in the throes of an orgasm.

He watched, with wicked amusement, as her eyes widened a fraction, as if she'd read his mind. Her hand trembled a little as she replaced her cup in the saucer.

“How did you enjoy your first night at Casa Thorne?” Dane asked lazily, determined to engage her in conversation, no matter how reluctant she seemed.

Before she could respond, however, Crandall chose that moment to enter the room. He took one look at Dane and scowled. “What the hell are you doing at my breakfast table, Roarke?” he demanded.

Rita, returning from the kitchen with a pitcher of orange juice, sputtered with indignation. “Crandall Thorne! Is that any way to treat a guest? I swear you wake up on the wrong side of the bed every morning! Just sit yourself down so I can fix you a plate. Ornery as the devil, that's what you are. Lord have mercy. And for your information, I invited Dane over this morning. Gloria baked one of her raspberry truffle cakes for him to take to his aunt's house this afternoon for Sunday brunch.”

Crandall claimed a chair at the table, grumbling, “I'm sure you didn't tell him to be here
this
early.”

Dane shrugged, unperturbed by the old man's rancor. “What can I say? It's Sunday. There was no traffic.”

“And you didn't anticipate this?”

Dane's expression was one of wide-eyed innocence. “I'm from Houston, sir. There's
always
traffic in Houston.”

A muffled sound across the table drew his attention to Solange, who looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh, though the twinkling mirth in her dark eyes gave her away. Dane winked at her, and was rewarded by the flush that spread high across her cheekbones.

Crandall, watching the exchange over the rim of his glasses, grunted and reached for the folded newspaper Rita had placed on the table beside him.

“It's such a glorious day outside,” Rita remarked once the meal was under way. While she, Solange and Dane enjoyed a lavish country breakfast, Crandall, for health reasons, had to content himself with a bowl of oatmeal, a serving of fresh fruit and a slice of dry wheat toast.

In retaliation for the old man's earlier rudeness, Dane asked Rita to pass him the plate of fragrant buttermilk biscuits, then took perverse pleasure in watching as Crandall's hungry gaze followed the plate across the table. When Dane made an exaggerated show of biting into a hot, flaky roll, Crandall's eyes narrowed on his face in a manner that promised swift retribution.

Very deliberately, Crandall picked up his glass of orange juice, then paused, his head tipped thoughtfully to one side. “Speaking of beauty, how's that young lady you've been seeing for the past month, Roarke? The dental hygienist?”

Dane nearly choked on his food.

“What was her name again?” Crandall pondered aloud. “Allison, Cynthia, Rachel—”

“Renee,” Dane supplied hoarsely. “Her name is Renee. And, uh, we're not dating anymore.”

“Aw, that's too bad. She seemed like such a nice girl, much classier than that exotic dancer you were seeing last month. As if there's anything remotely ‘exotic' about what those girls do for a living.” With a lamentable shake of his head, Crandall smiled wryly at Solange. “Dane here is quite the ladies' man. If you're not careful, my dear, you might be next on his Rolodex. He seems to be working in alphabetical order these days. Renee, Solange—”

“Oh, hush!” Rita scolded. “Can't you see you're embarrassing the poor boy?”

Crandall chuckled good-naturedly. “Nonsense, woman. It takes a lot more than that to embarrass Dane Roarke, isn't that right, son?”

Dane inclined his head, conceding the match point to Thorne, whose answering smile whispered of triumph. Dane made a mental note to remind his cousin Daniela not to discuss his love life with others—least of all a ruthless old man who had the keen memory of an elephant.

When Dane finally chanced a look at Solange, she was frowning slightly, studying him through cool, narrowed eyes. If he could've strangled Thorne and gotten away with it, he would have.

Rita reached over and gave his hand a gentle, conciliatory pat. “I meant to ask you yesterday, Dane. How are your parents doing?”

Reluctantly pulling his gaze away from Solange, Dane answered, “They're doing well, Ms. Rita. Dad's finally scaling back at the shop and letting my brother Derrick take more of an active role in running the business.”

“Well, it's about time,” Rita said approvingly. “Your mother must be thrilled. I know she's been pleading with him for years to cut back on his workload and spend more time at home with her.”

“Yes, ma'am, she has been.” Dane grinned. “Last week she even convinced him to take pottery classes with her.”

Rita whooped with delight. “Good for her! I don't know how she managed that feat, but I'm glad she did.”

“Me, too. Taking a class together will be good for both of them.”

“Mmm, hmm. I know what
else
will be good for them. That cruise they're going on next month.” Smiling broadly, Rita turned to Solange. “Dane is sending his parents on a Caribbean cruise for their fortieth wedding anniversary. Isn't that awfully sweet of him?”

Solange looked at Dane, a faint smile flitting around the corners of her mouth. “Yes, it is.”

Dane shrugged dispassionately. “It's no big deal. They've never been on a cruise before—they were long overdue.”

Rita guffawed. “Pay him no mind,” she told Solange. “He's being far too modest. His mama tells me he's always done thoughtful things for her, ever since he was a little boy. Whenever she had to work nights cleaning office buildings, and she would drag her tired self home in the mornings after his father had already left for the shop, she said Dane would always be waiting for her with a hot bowl of lumpy oatmeal or a plate of runny eggs and burnt bacon.” Rita laughed. “She told me those were some of the best meals she'd ever eaten.”

Dane couldn't help but chuckle at Rita's not-so-subtle attempt to undo the damage caused by Crandall's underhanded revelation that Dane had an active love life. He was a little embarrassed by all the attention—until he glanced over at Solange and saw a new softness in her eyes as she looked at him.

He wasn't the only one who noticed. Scowling at Rita, Crandall grumbled, “For someone who plans to make a trip to the market before noon, you sure aren't moving very fast, woman.”

“Don't you worry about me,” Rita said sweetly. “I still have plenty of time to get there before it closes.” When Crandall grunted and returned his attention to the newspaper he'd been reading, she winked conspiratorially at Dane. He grinned and forked up a bite of pancake.

Rita turned to Solange with a mildly inquisitive smile. “What do your parents do for a living, Solange?”

Dane glanced up from his plate in time to see a shadow cross Solange's face. “My parents passed away in January,” she said quietly.

“Oh, no,” Rita said sympathetically. “I'm so sorry, baby. I had no idea.”

“That's all right. You had no way of knowing.” Solange offered a tremulous smile. “To answer your question, they were farmers.”

“You grew up on a farm?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“So you know what it's like to wake up at the crack of dawn to milk a cow, feed a coop full of noisy chickens, bale hay and muck out horse stalls—
before
going to school?”

Solange grinned. “That about sums it up. Did you grow up on a farm, too, Ms. Rita?”

“You bet I did,” Rita said proudly. “I was raised on a small farm right outside San Antonio. Lived there until I was thirty, when my folks sold the property to some land developers. Saddest day of my life, having to walk away from the only home I'd ever known.”

“I would have felt the same way,” Solange ruefully admitted. “I once threatened to run away from home if my parents even
thought
about selling the farm.”

Laughing, Rita reached over and squeezed Solange's hand. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, child. I told Crandall he was doing the right thing by hiring you. No one understands the meaning of hard work better than a girl who was raised on a farm.”

“Not that I've ever needed to consult you on my hiring decisions,” Crandall intoned dryly from behind the newspaper he was reading. “But if it makes you feel more important, then by all means, take credit for my decision to hire Miss Washington.”

Rita rolled her eyes, drawing low chuckles from Solange and Dane. Their gazes met and held across the table before Solange quickly glanced away, busying herself with pouring syrup over the remainder of her pancakes.

Rita divided a speculative look between them. After another moment, she smiled and clapped her hands together. “I have a wonderful idea! Dane, why don't you join Solange when she goes horseback riding this morning?”

Solange's head snapped up so fast it was a wonder she didn't give herself whiplash. “Wha—?”

“Dane has been to the ranch several times but has never gone riding,” Rita told her. “Today is a perfect opportunity to rectify that, since you're already going. You two can keep each other company.”

Solange's eyes darted wildly from Rita to Dane. She looked like she'd rather be trapped in a very dark room with Jeffrey Dahmer than be forced to endure another minute of Dane's company. He didn't know whether to be amused or offended.

Crandall was glaring balefully at Rita over the top of his newspaper. “Mr. Roarke isn't here to go horseback riding,” he snapped.

“I don't see why not,” Rita said pragmatically, as if the matter were as simple as flipping on a light switch. “He has to wait until Gloria arrives with the cake, anyway, which won't be until she gets out of church. What better way to pass the time than to go horseback riding with Solange? I'm sure she wouldn't mind his company, would you, baby?”

Solange looked like she minded very much, but was too polite to say so. “Um…no, not at all,” she mumbled.

Rita gave a satisfied nod. “Good. Then it's all settled,” she said briskly, confirming Dane's long-held suspicion that it was she, not Crandall, who ran things at Casa Thorne.

Lifting the porcelain carafe, Rita glanced innocently around the table. “More coffee anyone?”