Lonely Millionaire (19 page)

"There's no point in discussing this any further," Mandy said, brushing the crumbs off her lap. Laurie was just too perceptive. "Because Adam has gone back to the Yukon for good and Jack has gone off to find someone to marry. So it’s all over, finished and done with."

Mandy stared out the window at the rain clouds hovering over the ocean. It was hard enough to get her mind off Adam without Laurie's penetrating questions. She had a permanent ache in the vicinity of her heart every time she thought about Adam leaving without saying goodbye. She'd heard their voices like a low rumble in the living room that night, but she hadn't been able to make out a single word.

In the morning Adam had been gone and Jack had asked her to reconsider his offer. But she hadn't needed to. She knew Jack wasn't the man for her. Even after all those wonderful letters. She went to the sink to soak the empty muffin pans and blink back the tears that sprang to her eyes. She didn't know what she'd do without her sister there to keep up a brave front for. If it weren't for Laurie and the constant stream of guests, Mandy would probably sit in front of the fire and wallow in self-pity all day long.

After Laurie left for the airport that afternoon, and the rain pelted her windows, Mandy reached into her closet and pulled out a stack of letters tied with a ribbon. There on the couch with a fire crackling in the fireplace she was determined to put an end to self-pity and unrealistic dreams once and for all.

Today she would burn all of Jack's letters and start a new life. A life without Adam or Jack. Because Laurie was right, she'd gone off the deep end over Adam. And yet she hardly knew him. It wasn't as if she'd corresponded with him for six months. He came, they met, and she lost her head. Her heart, too. But it wasn't love. It couldn't be love. It had to be lust. And she could get over lust. Just as soon as she got rid of those letters.

If it hadn't been for Adam, she might have considered Jack, but now she couldn't. She wanted it all, love and lust and laughter, the whole thing.

She tucked her legs underneath her, leaned back against the cushions, and started at the beginning with Jack's first letter. It took all afternoon, but she reread every letter. She laughed and cried as she read about Jack's experiences digging for oil, about the people he met and his thoughts on everything under the sun.

Toward the end, his letters got personal, telling her how much he wanted to meet her in person, his plans and hopes for the future. How he wanted to leave the Yukon, settle down and get married. Her tears flowed freely now, blotting the words and smudging the paper. Mandy blew her nose carefully and put the letters back in a neat stack. She stood in front of the fire, but she couldn't do it. She couldn't throw them into the flames.

She wasn't strong enough. Not yet. She was still a sentimental idiot, daydreaming about someone who didn't exist except in her imagination.

She was putting the letters back in the closet when the telephone rang. "Miramar Inn," she said as cheerfully as she could, given her state of mind.

"Oh, that's not necessary. Couldn't we just say goodbye on the phone?" she asked desperately. That was all she needed was to see Adam again, to hear how excited he was to be leaving, how much he was looking forward to his new life while she pretended to wish him well. No, she couldn't do it.

"Not really. I'm...I'm going to be out, gathering mussels on the beach." There, it was believable and it was true. It was mussel season and he knew it.

Adam hung up before she could think of another reason to stop him. He didn't blame her for not wanting to see him, and this was not an encounter he was looking forward to. But he'd promised Jack and he'd promised himself. He found a bucket in Gene's basement and called himself every kind of coward for not telling her before. And for not getting rid of her letters.

He'd never get over her until he got rid of them. But instead, he read them over and over, reliving the excitement he'd felt when they'd come in the mail. Reading them, he felt as if he'd known her forever, loved her even longer. He dropped his bucket on the cement floor. He'd fallen in love with Mandy by mail and he'd never known it until now. Not that it mattered. Not that it changed anything. It just made it more imperative that he get out of there so she could find someone better, someone who wouldn't love her and leave her.

Jack was right. Mandy had so much to give. She was warm, sensuous and understanding. She understood why he had to work on a drilling platform. She might even understand why he'd lied to her, why he'd pretended to be someone he wasn't. She might, but he doubted it

He clomped up the basement stairs in his high-top boots and took off on the road to the coast and Mandy. An hour later he was peering into the house through the front window, but there were no lights on, and only embers in the fireplace. Still the room reflected Mandy's warmth and charm, with its hand-woven rug on the floor and the candles on the mantel.

It was a house that welcomed weary travelers, whether they came from the other side of the bay or the other side of the world. It was a house that said, "Let me be your home away from home, or if you have no home, I'll take you in." He'd never forget the first day he'd rung the bell and she had come to the door covered with wallpaper paste, her arms outstretched so wide he'd almost walked into them.

If he'd known then what he knew now, what would he have done? Turned around and walked away before it was too late? It wasn't too late now. He could leave a note telling her he was sorry. But that wouldn't do. He had to tell her in person.

He made his way to the back of the house to the wooden steps that led to the beach, swinging his bucket in his hand. The rain had let up, but the fog was so thick at ground level, he couldn't see the bottom of the steps. He shouted her name, but his voice was swallowed up in the damp grayness.

What if he never found her? What if she'd been swept out to sea? At the bottom of the steps he dropped his bucket and ran down the beach, yelling her name. But his cries blended with the cries of the gulls overhead. He spun around and retraced his steps and crashed into her, sending her bucket of mussels flying across the sand.

He grabbed her by the arms and crushed her to him, shiny slicker, hat and all. She smelled like sea salt and brine and her soap, the essence of summer berries.

She nodded in the direction of a large rock jutting out behind than. He wedged himself against the rock, feeling the dampness creep in through his denim jeans. For the life of him, he couldn't think of how to begin. Not with her leaning on the rock next to him, staring straight ahead.

"Fine. He said to tell you hello. Actually, he said he was nothing but a hound dog. Bet you didn't know that." Out of the corner of his eye he studied her face, her cheeks turned ruddy from the cold, her hair in a mass of tight curb from the damp air. He wished he could bury his face in her soft ringlets, sweep her off her feet and carry her to her house. Her warm, welcoming house that beckoned to him, that seemed more like home than any home he'd ever had.

"We were talking about you and he mentioned it. He seems like a good guy. He's got money and no obligations. I remember all the good things you said about him before he got here. What happened?"

She didn't say anything.

"There's no one else, is there?" he prodded.

She nudged her half-full bucket with the toe of her boot. "No, no one else. Does there have to be? Can't someone turn someone down just because?"

"Don't you want to get married?" he asked.

"No, I don't. I've got everything I need. A thriving business and complete freedom to do whatever I want when I want to. You of all people should understand that. Imagine how you'd feel if you had a wife to whom you needed to explain why you were going off to work on a drilling platform. You'd feel guilty, and she'd feel lonely."

"And she'd leave," he said.

She put her hand on his arm and he drew back. He didn't want her sympathy, not now.

"Mandy," he said abruptly. "Jack and I are old friends. We've worked together in the Yukon for years drilling for oil."

"I wrote the letters. Not all of than. But most of them. He couldn't keep up. I wanted to help him." Oh, God, his excuses sounded so lame in his ears, so inexcusable.

"Why?" He gazed out at the waves that crashed against the shore. It was time to be honest with her and with himself. "Because I liked the way you sounded. I liked what you said about yourself. You interested me. You intrigued me. I wanted to hear more about you."

"I know that now." He looked longingly up at the cliff above them, wondering if he should have thrown himself off it. Then at least she'd have happy memories of him. Now she'd have nothing but bitterness every time she thought of him. If she ever thought of him. The cold crept into his leather jacket, and through his sweater and into his bones. Mandy's profile was so white and so still it might have been carved out of marble. With every word he spoke, he felt as if he was driving a stake into her heart.

"Obviously you decided I wasn't." A wave of helpless fury engulfed her. She squeezed her hands into fists and beat against his chest.

"It doesn't matter," Mandy said wearily, dropping her arms to her sides. All the fight and the fury had gone out of her, leaving her feeling dead and cold inside. Nothing mattered except that she'd been set up and had fallen like a log for Adam. All that agonizing and worrying for nothing.