Secrets (11 page)

He supposed that the real irony of it was that she was everything James had described. Not just blindingly beautiful, but a real lady, a lady from the top of her head to the tip of her toes, a lady from the elegant clothing she wore right down to the too-generous and forgiving tendencies of her heart. She was gracious and kind and good. He was not very familiar with those traits, but he could recognize them in her easily enough. Last night when he had confessed that he had been so near to acting out his fantasies, she had said it was actions that counted, not thoughts. He almost smiled, but couldn't. She was such a damn lady she had been trying to make him feel better, she had been trying to
relieve his guilt, when she was the one exhausted and suffering from amnesia, when she was the one who had been frightened enough to run away from him.

God, she would have been perfect for James. How they had suited each other. But she didn't suit him, Slade, not at all, and she never would.

He wasn't noble like James, and, as she had pointed out, he wasn't a gentleman. Even though he knew it, her subtle slander had hurt. He was so ungentlemanly he had nearly taken advantage of her last night, and the more they crossed paths, the harder it was going to be to resist her—to resist himself. He wanted to condemn her for her responsiveness to him, but he could not. It was the only earthy quality she had. Somehow, on her, it made her even more of a lady, perhaps because it was in such contrast to her obvious propriety. He could only regret it profusely, but for every sigh of regret, there was a competing and secret breath of elation.

He had been trying to push her away, hoping to push her away. If he was himself, he was sure she would be repulsed. But she refused to see him as a bastard, no matter what he did; she saw only her rescuer, and maybe even her hero. How could he fight her gratitude, coupled as it was with her incredible face and too-generous heart? How? He was trying so damn hard. But every time she looked at him with those big brown eyes it was all he could do not to haul her into his embrace.

Maybe the real problem was that the need to push her away was not as strong as the urge to protect her. She was an innocent young woman. It was so very obvious that she had led a proper, genteel, sheltered life, an easy life. Now her innocence and naiveté were compounded by her loss of memory. How could he not respond, how could he not feel compelled to look out for her? God knew, a woman like that had not the faintest idea how to look after herself outside of a gilded salon.

The noose was there around his neck. He was damned if she left and damned if she stayed even if for a while. He couldn't forget Miramar. Rick had said that if he
didn't marry the little heiress soon, Miramar was going to be taken from them. It was possible that Rick was exaggerating. The old man had been known to do that from time to time, especially when the stakes demanded it. In another minute he was going to go over the books himself.

And if she did stay, he was going to have to fight himself very hard in order not to betray James. And it wasn't just his fantasies or his damn body that he was thinking about. For he suspected there was a small part of him that refused to bend to his iron-clad will, that refused to accept the
fact
that she was off-limits, that might even
consider
the notion of marriage to her.

Slade was determined to do battle with himself until the end of time, if need be, but he was not touching her and he wasn't marrying her, and somehow, he would sort things out and save Miramar—if Rick were telling the truth.

He no longer considered leaving Miramar and returning to Charles Mann in San Francisco, where he was a crucial man in Charles's far-flung empire. He couldn't leave now, not when his home was in such financial jeopardy. Charles had told him to take as much time as he needed in order to be with his family, but Slade would have to send him some word soon about his plans. Of course, he was not staying forever and he was not taking James's place. He was not. But he could not abandon Miramar now. He would not leave until some kind of arrangement had been made with the bank, until Miramar was on less shaky footing. And, being home for this long, he couldn't escape the truth. Elizabeth aside, he was glad to be staying a little longer. Miramar was in his blood and always would be. It occurred to him suddenly that if James hadn't died, maybe he wouldn't leave Miramar at all.

Slade pushed such morose considerations aside. He strode toward Rick's office. He was aware that whatever Rick and Elizabeth had been discussing, the interview had ended some time ago. He hoped grimly that Rick hadn't convinced her to marry him. He had little doubt
that they had discussed that issue. Of course, it was crazy for her to agree to such an alliance, but then, it was crazy for her to look at him the way that she did, too. There was going to be one hell of a battle around here if Rick had managed to persuade her. And Slade was used to winning his wars.

But then, so was Rick.

His stomach clenched at the thought.

Rick's door was open. He saw Slade and smiled. Apparently he was in a fine mood. “C'mon in, boy. You ready to do some work?”

Slade ignored what he perceived to be a slight slur and entered his father's office, a place he hadn't entered in years. Memories swarmed over him. Memories of being outside this door, while James and Rick were on the inside. “You strike up a deal with her?”

Rick closed the door. “Not the kind of deal you're thinking of.”

“How in hell would you know what I'm thinking?” Slade asked.

“She's gonna stay a while,” Rick said, ignoring the bait. “And I'd appreciate it if you didn't run her off first chance you get.”

“I meant it when I said I'm not going to marry her.” If Rick even guessed he waged a private battle with himself over the woman, he would attack with every weapon he possessed. Slade knew it, so he spoke with nothing but conviction.

“You'll change your mind when you go over the books. When you see that we really are bankrupt. Then you'll agree to marry her and you'll agree to do it fast.”

Slade looked at his father. Rick believed what he said. And if Miramar were really bankrupt…He could almost feel the damn noose tightening. And he had started to sweat.

“Let me see the books,” he said abruptly. In that moment, he hated Rick, really hated him.

Rick smiled. “Better sit down. It'll take some time.”

Slade's jaw was tight. He walked over to the desk and sat down in Rick's oversized chair. He looked up. Rick
slapped three big thick ledger books in front of him. “You look like you belong there,” Rick said pointedly.

Slade ignored the remark. “How far back do these go?”

“Nine years. They go back to the last year we made a profit.”

“Tell Lucinda to bring me coffee and sandwiches,” Slade said, snapping on the desk lamp. “I can see I'm gonna be in here all afternoon.”

 

It was black outside. The sun had long since set, and Slade had been closeted in Rick's office since the early afternoon. He had just closed the last of the ledgers and he was in shock. Not only were they in debt, but they had been operating at a loss these past two years.
At a loss
. Even if they could make up the back payments on the mortgage, how in hell could they make future payments and operate the rancho? It was practically impossible.

Unless, of course, he married an heiress.

But she would have to be a mighty big heiress.

The noose was tight now. He could feel it. And he didn't think there was going to be a way out of this particular hanging.

He lunged abruptly to his feet and paced to the open doors of the balcony. The night was black but starry and bright. To his left the mountains were a darker, jagged shadow against the night sky. Ahead, if he looked hard enough, he could see the ocean glinting silver against the night. And if he strained hard enough he could hear the waves beating upon the shore with drumlike insistence. Usually he could be lulled into a momentary peace by the rhythmic throbbing of the surf against the sand, but not tonight.

He would have to make a choice.

He could continue in his refusal to marry Elizabeth Sinclair, which would be tantamount to turning his back on Miramar. And it would change everything. Because if he did so, Miramar would be taken away from Rick, from his family, from himself. The banks would take
it away, divide it up, sell it off in pieces and parcels. Miramar would go the way of almost all the other great ranchos in the area. It was unthinkable.

He knew that if he should choose to stay and take up his birthright, that alone would not be enough. Had Miramar not been in such a deep hole, it would be enough. But it was too late for that. If he stayed, if he took over Miramar, he needed money and he needed it soon. From the correspondence he had perused, he had learned that the bank had made it clear that they had ninety days to make up the back payments or Miramar would be foreclosed. The ninety-day notice had been given when the bank had been taken over by a New Yorker—two months ago exactly. Time was most definitely running out. Slade had thirty days to get his hands on the sum needed just to prevent foreclosure.

It occurred to him that he could borrow the thirteen thousand dollars they needed now from Charles Mann. Charles would gladly lend him the money, although Slade had never asked him for anything, and he dreaded the prospect. Yet that sum would not get them very far. It would not make next month's payment, or October's, or November's or December's. It would not give them the capital they needed to make the changes necessary to take Miramar into the future as a profitable enterprise. Slade had always been very good with numbers. In his head he could calculate the kind of cash and the kind of time necessary to turn the rancho around and have it operating in the black. Five years would be a realistic assessment of time, but the monetary figure was astronomical. Never could he ask his friend for such a sum.

And Rick, who despised Charles, would never bring him in as a partner. And Slade would never bring a third party who wasn't family in as a partner. The kind of money the partner would bring would mean he would have control—assuming such an investor could be found, which was probably unlikely. The options available were decreasing with every passing second. Especially as he dismissed the very notion of Edward
marrying Elizabeth. He would not even entertain the possibility.

Yet Rick was right. Miramar needed an heiress—now.

To even consider staying at Miramar—with Elizabeth—made him pause. Feelings long denied tumbled forth. He loved Miramar. He
loved
Miramar. This was his chance, his excuse, to stay. Even James would understand the necessity of his remaining. But marry her?

This was the excuse he needed to marry her. The perfect excuse. But would James understand that? Would James, if there were a heaven, look down on him and approve of him taking his woman as his wife?

“I don't want this,” Slade said desperately to the night. Or maybe he spoke to his brother's ghost. At that very moment, he could actually feel a presence, as if James were there with him in the night-darkened room. “I don't want to marry her. I don't.”

James was dead, but dead or alive, he would never share what was his. Not ever. Slade knew his brother well enough to know that.

He touched his neck, as if to loosen an actual hangman's knot. But his fingers merely brushed the sensitive skin of his throat. The noose, which seemed so real, was only a figment of his imagination.

Desperation washed over Slade. He didn't have a choice. He turned from the balcony, his eyes piercing the gloom. “I don't have a goddamn choice,” he gritted. He almost expected his brother to materialize out of the night, his finger pointed, accusatory.

His brother, he knew, would never forgive him his lewd fantasies—fantasies he'd had nonstop since he'd first met Elizabeth, fantasies that were thoroughly carnal—much less the fulfillment of those fantasies. Could dead men read live men's minds? Slade fervently hoped not. Some secrets were meant to be kept forever.

But James did not materialize. If he had been present—and Slade was torn between hope and dismay—he wasn't any longer. There was no one in the ink-black office except for Slade himself.

The solution washed over Slade with stunning swiftness. It was so obvious—and so impossible—that he laughed with absolutely no mirth whatsoever. He could marry her and get her money, save Miramar. But it would be a marriage in name only. And everybody who counted would be satisfied: the bank, Rick, James. Even Elizabeth would be satisfied, being the lady that she was. Everybody would be satisfied—everybody except himself.

He knew he was a bastard. He had been told he was a bastard by his father more than a few times, and the few women who had slipped through his life had also been quick to malign him. Even his own mother had found him somehow lacking and had abandoned him as an infant. His revulsion with the solution to this dilemma proved they were all right. But for once he would be honorable. For once he would be selfless. He would marry her, providing her with his home and his name and the protection she so obviously needed. It would be a marriage in name only. To the union she would bring her inheritance, and Miramar would be saved.

A marriage in name only
.

He wondered if he could really do it.

S
lade left the office. He didn't bother to turn on the lights in the hallway for he could make his way through the entire house blindfolded. In the den he poured himself a hefty glass of tequila and sipped it, all the while staring sightlessly at the wall. In his mind he kept seeing Elizabeth, and because the solution was a marriage in name only, it was in a way he didn't want to see her, in a way he had no right to see her—in a way he would never actually see her.

The light snapped on.

Slade scowled. “Thanks.”

“Knew it was you,” Rick said. “We celebratin'?”

“Celebrating?” Slade smiled coldly. “
You're
celebrating, old man. I'm just drinking.”

“You're gonna do it.”

“Did you have any doubt?”

“Not really.”

Slade tossed off the last of his drink and poured himself another one.

Rick came to stand beside him. “Pour me one, too.”

Slade obeyed.

“Don't look so happy,” Rick said. “Jesus! I see the way you look at her, like a goddamn tom that's been locked
in an attic for a month! What in hell is so god-awful about marrying that pretty little gal?”

“Nothing,” Slade said tightly. Rick was right on the mark. He felt exactly like the tomcat his father had described, although it had been at least three months since he'd had a woman, not one. “Nothing at all.”

“You just hate doing anything that might make me happy. That's it, isn't it?”

“Believe it or not,” Slade said slowly, “you really have nothing to do with my decision. I'm doing this for Miramar.”

Rick winced. “You have a way with words, don't you? As long as you're being honest with me, why don't you try out some of that honesty on yourself?”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we both know you love Miramar and we both know that being my heir is no hardship. We both know you're being a stubborn fool just to fight me.”

“You really flatter yourself, Pop. The problem here has nothing to do with you, except that it's your damn idea for me to marry Elizabeth. Has it ever occurred to you that I might not like the idea of marrying James's woman?”

Rick looked at him, frowning slightly. “James is dead.”

Slade was furious. “Damn right. And that makes me the oldest,” he said very tightly. “And after the wedding, we do things my way or not at all.”

Rick had always known when to back off, and he backed off now. “Well, that's good enough for me,” he said. “Look, don't go getting riled. We both know you were loyal to James when he was alive.”

“And we both know if he was still alive this conversation wouldn't be taking place.” Slade stared at his father. “None of this would be taking place.”

“But he's not alive,” Rick said abruptly. He turned his back on his son, refilling his own glass. When he faced him again, he was smiling. “Of course, now you got your work cut out for you.”

Slade regarded his father over the rim of his glass.
“How come I get the feeling I'm not going to like this very much?”

Rick grinned. “You probably won't. Edward would see it as a challenge, but not you.”

“Edward would see what as a challenge?”

“Courting.”

“Forget it.” He slammed his glass down on the sideboard.

Rick leaned close, dropping his voice to a whisper. “We need cash and we need it fast. We don't have time for a prolonged engagement. I think you had better set a date for next week. And in order to do that, you got to get the little girl to agree.”

“Next week?” Slade was shocked. But at the same time, he knew Rick was right. The sooner the better.
But next week?

“Put on your courtin' clothes,” Rick said, trying not to laugh. “And maybe a courtin' face, too.”

Slade stared.

Rick said encouragingly, “I know you can turn her head if you try.”

Slade said nothing. It was then and there that he realized that his agreeing to marry Elizabeth Sinclair solved nothing. Somehow, he was going to have to propose to her. Vaguely the fairy-tale image of a knight in shining armor, down on one knee, before a woman clad in what might be medieval dress, came to mind. The woman looked suspiciously like Elizabeth, the knight resembled James. He grew even grimmer. He shoved such ludicrous thoughts from his mind. He had not the faintest idea how he should propose—or even approach her. And Rick was right. What if she rejected him?

A feeling very much like dread swamped him. Of course she would reject him. Every woman he had ever spent a few nights with had rejected him. His mother had rejected him. And not one of those women had been ladies by any stretch of the imagination—and that included his mother, who had run off to live with a man other than Rick. But Elizabeth was a lady. She was not going to accept his proposal unless that knock on the
head had made her insane. Regardless of the attraction between them.

“You're thinking, what if she says no, right?” Rick was asking. “You can't just go up to her and ask her. She's not stupid. You better put on some courtin' manners, boy.”

Slade barely heard. Now that the decision was made, he felt a touch of panic. He gripped his glass tightly. He did not think he would be able to take rejection from Elizabeth Sinclair lightly.

“You can't take no for an answer,” Rick continued. “You seduce her if you have to.”

“I am having difficulty even believing this conversation,” Slade said, setting his glass down very carefully. “I am not seducing her. Keep your advice to yourself. You're the last person I'd listen to anyway when it comes to the subject of courtship and marriage.” Slade pushed past his father, heading for the courtyard.

“Then maybe you'd better get some advice from Edward. God knows you need it from somebody!”

Slade wasn't listening. Outside, the air was cool and sweet with the scent of the orange roses that budded against the thick adobe courtyard walls. In the center, the fountain had been turned off, but the water bubbled up against the sides of the pool. His gaze drifted past, and settled abruptly on the doors of her room. They were closed.

Seduction was out of the question. Rick didn't know that it would be a marriage in name only. Slade wasn't about to tell him. It wasn't his business, and he knew his father's response would be ridicule. Rick was too much like him. He wasn't noble, either.

He stared again at her doors. Closed against the night, or against somebody like him. Anger suddenly washed over him. If she hadn't been engaged to James, he wouldn't be going through this. He wouldn't be staring at her room and, despite his best intentions, he wouldn't be beginning to tremble. The solitude and the silence of the night were his undoing, allowing him to become aware of his body and his most basic, primal
urges. Need he hadn't felt since his brother's death had hit him hard the moment he'd seen her, and it had been growing uncontrollably ever since. If she weren't James's woman, maybe he'd have seduced her long before now, even though unmarried ladies were outside of the boundaries he'd set for himself. If she weren't James's woman, he could walk into her room and take her, right now, instead of staring at her doors and feeling as if he might explode right out of his own skin.

If she weren't James's woman, it wouldn't have to be a marriage in name only
. He was aghast when he realized how enticing the idea of a real marriage could be. But she was James's woman, and if he could get her to accept him, it would never be such a union. Which brought him back to the starting gate. How in hell could he persuade her to agree to a marriage? Because he could not take no for an answer.

Clearly, this time Rick was right. He would have to forget his pride and do the unthinkable, he would have to court her. But the problem was, he didn't have the slightest idea how a man went courting. While she, undoubtedly, had been courted very thoroughly by his brother just last summer.

 

Regina found that walking was much easier the next morning. A full day of bed rest had done wonders for her entire body, for that matter. And she had purposefully spent the day in her room, not wanting to confront any of the family, not wanting to confront Slade, in order to attain the rest and serenity she so badly needed.

Her mind felt much clearer today, too. The cobwebs of confusion and indecision were gone. She had made the decision to stay at Miramar, come what may. And she had done so with Rick's encouragement and blessing. Now that her departure from Miramar did not loom anywhere on the horizon, she was actually cheerful. She told herself it was because she had nowhere else to go, and would not analyze her emotions any further.

Her current state of amnesia no longer dismayed her. In fact, remembering might bring more problems into her life than it would solve. She certainly did not want to regain her memory to find that she had loved James madly, not when she could not keep her mind from wandering to Slade. Nor did she want to remember the trauma of the train robbery. She felt strong enough now to accept her amnesia for as long as necessary—forever, if need be.

And she blithely refused to think of where she might be heading—of the destiny that awaited her if she did not leave Miramar.

At mid-morning she entered the dining room and though it was empty, one place was set there, undoubtedly for her. Regina moved to take her seat. She had just sunk down into it and was about to ring the small silver bell to alert the servants to her presence when a rustling movement caught her attention. She had thought she was alone, but Slade stood in the shadows at the far side of the room, which, being windowless, was cloaked in darkness. He was watching her. At the sight of him she became still and strangely expectant.

He came forward, leaving the gloom behind. She wondered if he had been waiting for her. She regarded him intently, searching anxiously for a clue to his disposition. Yesterday he had wanted her to leave and he had not been happy that she had stayed. Today his face was impassive.

“Good morning,” he said. He wasn't smiling. His tone was as guardedly neutral as his expression. He slipped into the chair opposite hers.

“Good morning.” She noticed that his hair appeared to be finger-combed. And he had left the first three buttons of his faded red shirt open, exposing a swath of swarthy skin on his chest. The skin there was moist—it was already a warm day. Then she realized that he was inspecting her precisely the same way that she was inspecting him. She lifted her glance quickly, as quickly as her heart now beat.

He shifted. “Feeling better today?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“You look…” he hesitated. “You look better.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You look better,” he repeated. “A good night's rest…” His words trailed off. He flushed.

Regina straightened and very cautiously said, “I did have a good night's rest. Thank you.” What was going on? Clearly he had been waiting for her. But why was he attempting to make polite conversation with her? She expected an attack for staying, if anything. This sort of interaction was out of character; if she didn't know better, she would think that he was trying to flatter her.

A dull-red color was definitely creeping up his cheekbones. “You look good today, Elizabeth.”

She could not have heard his low, muttered words correctly. “Excuse me?”

His eyes finally found hers. They were bright. “You look good today. You look…very pretty.” His tone had become intense, intimate.

Regina had picked up her napkin and now it fell from her numb fingers and fluttered to the floor. Slade looked away. He was a brilliant shade of red. She realized he had just given her a compliment. A very sincere compliment. Pleasure flooded her. Her own cheeks flushed brightly pink.

At that moment a plate of food was plunked down on the table in front of Regina. She started. Her glance quickly met Lucinda's. The maid's eyes were dark. Comprehension rose quickly. The poor girl had some kind of
tendre
for Slade. Regina felt sorry for her, because no matter how casual the situation might appear at Miramar, Slade was the son and heir, and men of his station did not condescend to notice serving girls.

“Please bring me some coffee,” Slade said to her.

“Maybe you should get it yourself,” Lucinda retorted.

All the sympathy that Regina had felt for her fled abruptly. She was shocked.

Slade looked up at Lucinda sharply.

Lucinda turned on her heel and left the room. Regina stared after her.

Slade was grim. “She was born in Paso Robles and has worked here her entire life, like her parents before her. In a way she's a part of this family—but that doesn't give her special rights.”

“No, it certainly does not,” Regina agreed. “I think—I think she's taken with you.”

“Yeah, well, she's no more taken with me than she is with any other young, strong male around here.” Slade looked her directly in the eye. “Eat your pancakes before they get cold,” he instructed.

Their gazes met again and held. Regina did not pick up her fork. She no longer thought about the maid. Slade's glance was so intense it was practically unnerving. He wanted something from her, desperately, but she did not know what.

“Eat,” he said again. Then he smiled slightly. “Jojo makes the best flapjacks between here and the Big Sur. Believe me, I know.” His tone was affectionate.

She heard the fondness in his voice and wondered at it. She had met the warm, friendly housekeeper yesterday. But how could she eat now? Slade had purposefully joined her at the table, he had sought her out. And he had not attacked her for staying, nor was he being cool, indifferent, or mocking. To the contrary, he was being pleasant, and, as unpracticed at it as he was, he had complimented her. She was certain his compliments to ladies were rare, making his even more precious. “You call Josephine ‘Jojo'?”