Susan Amarillas (10 page)

He took another step in her direction, but she refused to be intimidated by him, not this time.

“I was not suiting my fancy, as you put it. I went by the police station, and then I had a meeting.” He stood so close she could see the steady rise and fall of his chest. “It was important.”

“More important than me?” The instant the words were out, she regretted them, regretted even more that after seven years, his leaving still affected her. He was too disturbing to her senses. Too dangerous to her plans. She squared her shoulders and steadied herself. “I
mean
—” she dragged out the last word “—your meeting was more important than
helping
me?”

His gaze sought hers, and as quick as that, his mood changed, softened. She could see it in his eyes. The man was more quixotic than anyone she’d ever known. Maybe that was why she was more intrigued than angry.

“Nothing—” he let the word linger between them before he finished “—is more important than you.”

“Than
helping
me, you mean.”

His mouth curved up in a lazy sort of smile that pushed her heart rate up about three levels.

“Whatever you say.”

There was something in the huskiness of his tone that made her nervous, kind of skittish, like a sparrow eye to eye with the hawk. Feeling cornered and not liking the feeling, she skirted around him and strolled to the window. The wood made a scraping sound as she lifted the sash. The air was fresh and clean. The distinctive sound of a ship’s bell carried up from the harbor.

“Now what were you asking when you barged in here...uninvited?” She never looked at him, only stared out the window as she struggled to maintain an aloofness she didn’t feel. “I asked,” Luke repeated in a much gentler tone, “why you didn’t tell me you owned the
Times.
”

She was quite breathtaking, Luke thought, watching the way the sunlight caught her upswept hair, the way her silhouette was outlined by the light. Yes, very, very beautiful. And he wanted her.

“I already told you that I don’t answer to you. A great many things can change in nearly eight years. I can hardly tell you everything.”

Luke dropped down in her swivel desk chair, making its gears squeak. He glanced at the papers on her desk. “Much as I’d like to know
everything,
let’s stay with this, shall we?”

She spared him a look, seeing his hand resting lightly on the column she’d been working on, or at least trying to when she wasn’t thinking about Andrew or Luke. “It’s my next article on city corruption.”

“I figured as much. Why?”

“Why what?”

He shook his head resolutely. “Why would you go stir up a mess like this? Why didn’t you take it to the authorities? You had to know there’d be retaliation.”

She turned sharply on her heel and walked to the desk. Her hands curved, white-knuckle tight, over the edge. “What do you mean, retaliation? There’s no retaliation, and there weren’t any authorities to take it to. None that I could trust, anyway. Besides, I put two years of my life into this paper. Do you think I’d give away a story this big? Circulation is up twenty percent.”

“What’s the big deal? Didn’t you inherit the paper?”

“Of course,” she returned, with a negligent wave of her hand. “But it was small, operating in the red, and about to close. Nathan had gotten it as part of a larger business deal. He was never interested in it, and just let it be. After he died, I decided to keep it, to see if I could make it into something.”

“Why, for heaven’s sake? You certainly don’t need the money. Couldn’t you have sold it?” He was astonished that she’d take on a job like this.

“I could have. As a matter of fact, I have an offer on my desk right now.” She was thoughtful for a moment. “Why should I discuss this with you?”

“Why not? Is it a secret?”

“I have no secrets,” she snapped, then abruptly walked over to the bookcase and scanned the shelves, apparently looking for something.

“Come on, Becky. I honestly want to know. Why would you want to run a newspaper?”

She glanced back, as though considering his question, then said softly, “Because it was mine. For the first time in my life, I had something that was all mine, with which to succeed or fail.” She closed the book and returned it to the shelf. Surely you must understand the feeling of taking on a task, a seemingly insurmountable task, and succeeding.”

“Well, sure. But I’m a man, and—”

Impatience flashed in her eyes. “And I’m every bit as smart and capable as you.”

“No one said you weren’t,” he said sincerely, knowing it was true. He had great respect for any woman who could run a home and family single-handedly, and add to that a complicated business like a newspaper... “But men don’t have choices about these things. We’re expected to...”

“To what?”

“I was going to say that men are expected to provide, to take care of our families.”

“And I,” she returned, speaking slowly, as if to make certain he understood, “I am taking care of myself and providing for my child.”

“You mean you
have
to work?”

“I mean, I like it. No, I love it—every decision, every obstacle, every failure, every success. It doesn’t matter. It’s mine. Someday it will be Andrew’s.”

He didn’t miss the possessiveness in her voice. And then he understood. It was her pride, her self-respect, that she’d built. He couldn’t fault her for that. Wasn’t that exactly what he’d spent his life doing?

“And I gather the paper is making an impact?” He already knew the answer, if the governor’s reaction to her articles was any indication.

“Yes.” She favored him with a smug smile. “And two months ago we moved into the black.”

Luke knew pride was all well and good, but sometimes there was such a thing as discretion. “It seems that while you were building this newspaper, you managed to stir up no small amount of trouble.”

Rebecca shook her head and sighed. “It’s the primary function of a newspaper to inform the public. If there’s trouble, then so be it.”

He lounged back, the chair tipping and squeaking as he did. “From what I hear, these articles of yours have tongues wagging all the way to Sacramento. People are nervous.”

“Good,” she said adamantly. “That’s exactly what I want.”

“When criminals get nervous, they tend to take revenge. Dammit, Becky. I asked you if you had any enemies.”

“I don’t,” she retorted. “I haven’t done anything except point out the obvious—that there is no way the crime can flourish in this city without someone being paid off. The Barbary Coast is going twenty-four hours a day, and it’s expanding. Someone is letting that happen. It’s obvious who.”

“You’re dealing with—hell, you don’t even know who you’re dealing with.”

“Of course I do. I suspect the mayor and Chief Brody, for starters. Probably some lower officials, clerks, policemen, and so forth.”

“Suspect? Don’t tell me you don’t have any hard proof.”

She blanched, but didn’t back down. “Not yet. Nothing in writing.”

Lord, she really was in over her head. “Has it occurred to you that someone might have taken your child, might have
harmed
your child, to get back at you for these stories? To stop you from finding hard proof?”

She paled, and a trembling hand fluttered to her throat. “No one would do such a thing! Only the lowest form of human life would do that!”

“Well, someone sure as hell did.” He paced away from her. “Wake up, woman. These little articles of yours have rattled someone’s cage, and they don’t like it.”

“If you’re right—and I’m not saying you are—what would someone hope to gain?”

That was still a bit of a puzzle, but Luke figured things might clear up when the ransom note arrived. “I’m guessing they’re letting you know they can get to you anytime they want. They can hurt you anytime. If they make a demand, you’d damn well better do it, is what they’re telling you.”

She stared at him for the longest moment, then slowly shook her head in denial. “No. I don’t believe it. As much as I believe the mayor and the chief are involved in city corruption, I don’t believe either one of them would do this, would take my child as part of some dastardly scheme to get even with me.” She shook her head more emphatically.

“I’m telling you this paper is the cause of all your trouble.”

“Not true. Why, only two years ago John Woodson’s wife was dragged right out of her carriage in broad daylight. The perpetrators demanded money, and she was released, and neither she or her husband had anything to do with newspapers.”

“I’m telling you you’re wrong, sweetheart.”

“I don’t agree, and don’t call me sweetheart. I’m not your sweetheart, or anyone else’s.”

“Really? That’s gonna come as a big surprise to the joker who was trying to play kissy-face with you last night.”

“How dare you mention such a thing!” Rebecca set her balled fists on her waist. “If you were any kind of a gentleman, you would have made your presence known or returned to your room until
Edward
—” she emphasized his name “—had left.”

He chuckled. “Well, if I was any kind of a gentleman, I guess you’d be right. I must have missed school the day they were teaching drawing room manners.”

“No, Luke, no one could accuse you of being anything but what you are—arrogant, presumptuous...” She faced him head-on. “As far as I’m concerned, you barged in here yesterday morning, started giving orders to everyone—including the chief of police—took over without asking or being asked, and eavesdropped on a private conversation with my guest.” She paced back to the window. “I acknowledge your abilities as a lawman, and for that I am grateful, but as you can plainly see, we have nothing in common, and I do not have the time or inclination to reminisce about a brief...encounter that we are both better off forgetting about.”

If he was insulted by her tirade, he showed no signs of it. In fact, she thought she heard him laugh, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him, so she couldn’t be certain.

“Princess,” she heard him say, “that was a fine speech. Trouble is, I don’t see it quite that way. When I walked in here yesterday you were in trouble, and we both know it. Brody had you over a barrel, and there wasn’t a thing you could do. You needed me then, and you need me now. If that’s arrogant, then so be it. I did the right thing, whether you admit it or not.”

“So you’re always right.”

“No, not always. Sometimes it takes me a while to admit a mistake.” His voice took on a strange, husky quality that seemed to caress her already raw nerves. “Sometimes it takes years—eight years, to be exact.”

Before she knew what he was about, he pulled her to him and kissed her, fully, intensely, possessively. About the time her knees liquefied, he tore his mouth from hers and in a fierce tone said, “You can’t dismiss me. You can’t dismiss the sparks that fly whenever we’re together. You want me as much as I want you, whether you’re willing to admit it or not. I’m a patient man. I can wait. I’ve waited eight years. I’ll wait another eight, or eight hundred, but you’re going to be mine, make no mistake about it.”

Then, releasing her, he left the room.

R
ebecca quietly but oh-so-firmly closed the door. Her hand twisted around the brass knob as though she were wringing a chicken’s neck. Lord knew she wanted to wring someone’s neck.

She counted to a hundred. Her heart was still pounding like a Gatling gun. She clamped her jaw down so hard her teeth ached. She counted to a hundred again—this time in French—just for good measure.

She wanted to hit something or someone. Definitely someone—a specific someone, with the sable-soft eyes of the devil himself.

Damn the man. Damn his arrogance. In one fluid motion, she grabbed the white porcelain vase from the bookshelf and hurled it against the closed door. The distinct sound of breaking porcelain only momentarily eased her temper.

It was that momentary relief that sent her searching for something else to throw, something else to destroy the way he destroyed her carefully built defenses.

“Who do you think you are, Luke Scanlin?” She shook her fist in the air. “What kind of woman do you think I am?” she ranted to the empty room.

She kicked at her chair, sending it lurching across the room to slam into the wall with a hollow thud that made a sizable chink in the plaster.

She inspected the damage. “This is your fault, too!”

Everything
was his fault. Every disaster, every heartache, every minute of lost sleep...it had all started the day Luke Scanlin walked into her life.

She stormed to the bookshelves, then back to her desk and back to the bookshelves again. The air stirred by her quick movements made the loose papers flutter in the breeze of her wake, like so many fingers shaking to rebuke her for her foolish actions. With narrow-eyed determination, she retaliated by flinging them off the shelf to float and tumble until they settled onto the floor.

She would show them. And she would show him. She would show everyone!

She hadn’t needed him then, and she most certainly didn’t need him now.

The man had a colossal nerve. How dare he think he could say he wanted her and she’d just swoon into his arms in gratitude!

You did swoon,
her conscience reminded her.

“I was seduced,” she countered through clenched teeth. “Then and now.”

Call it anything you like, but he’s right. You do want him.

She froze. The truth hit her like cold water on a hot day. She sagged down in her chair, her head lolling back against the smooth, cool plaster.

Like it or not, this was reality. Luke, the one man she’d thought she would never see again in her life, was here, and he’d made his desires very clear to her. Oh, yes, very clear. Her pulse fluttered at the memory of his explicit words.

Dammit. She snatched back the thoughts, and the feelings. Well, the thoughts, at least. Having Luke rip through her life had nearly been her undoing once.

Her eyes fluttered closed, and in her mind she could see her mother’s stern countenance as she admonished her to give up her flights of fancy, to stop romanticizing, to do her duty to herself and her family. None of which included a certain cowboy, no matter how handsome he was.

Yes, she thought ruefully, her mother had warned her, and she’d been so right. If only she’d listened. But all her life her mother had been the strict one, the demanding one, the disciplinarian, and, after a while, Rebecca had simply stopped listening.

Oh, it hadn’t really been Mama’s fault that she was so strict, so determined, so rigid. After all, she had been one of
the
Stanleys of Virginia—first family, and all that.

But the Stanleys had fallen on hard times, and what little was left had been finished by the war. Analise had been raised to be a spoiled belle, only with no money and no society left in the South, well, there had been no one to spoil her—except Papa. What little money he had, he spent on her.

So, they’d married. What a pair they had made—the underpaid college professor and the society belle. Mama was constantly after Papa to work harder, demand raises, demand promotions, and Papa, so engrossed in his books and his research he’d never even noticed that other, younger men were passing him by.

It was no wonder, then, that Mama had gotten more than a little desperate. One day she’d simply announced that she’d decided they were moving to California. There was gold in California. Not that she expected Papa to go prospecting. Heavens, no, that would be beneath them. No, she expected Papa to get a position in some nice school, and she expected Rebecca to attend one of those same nice schools, but for an entirely different reason.

You see, there was no society in California, at least not anything like in Virginia, where families had been on the same land for generations. No, in California, things were new, rules were...flexible, and the daughter of a schoolteacher and a disadvantaged Southern aristocrat had as much chance as anyone to marry up, to marry into society.

Yes, that was the life Analise Stanley Parker had aspired to. That was the life Rebecca had been trained for, educated for and told in no uncertain terms would be her destiny.

As far back as Rebecca could remember, she’d been taught the
important
things—how to arrange flowers, serve a formal tea or a formal dinner, play the piano and dance the latest dances. She’d been required to be well versed in the latest fashions, theater, gossip. Oh, yes, gossip was most important. One had to know who was in—and who was out—in this newly forming society. It wouldn’t do to be seen associating with the wrong person, Mama would admonish her.

Rebecca lifted her head away from the wall and sat up straighter. What it had all boiled down to was how to fawn and simper over some man—the right man—until he offered for her.

It was planned, pretentious and preposterous. She had hated every minute of it, but she had loved her mother, so she had tried. But when she couldn’t stand one more minute of fine embroidery, she would slip off to her father’s study and its book-lined walls—just like these, she thought with a ghost of a smile.

Standing, she strolled over to the bookcases on the far wall. Sunlight filtered through the curtains and caught the smooth surface of each leather spine. Lightly, lovingly, she ran the tips of her fingers along the row. Her father’s books. He’d left them to her when he died. It was all she had of him. That and a few faded tintypes.

Her hand paused on a volume of Plato’s Dialogues. How Papa had loved to discuss philosophy. How she had loved her father, and now these books. Each one was like an old friend. Each one, a special memory of a time shared with her father.

Many had been the night they had stayed up well past midnight. Ensconced in his tiny study, they had explored the world through the pages of these books. They had shared views on education and women’s rights and argued politics. He’d taught her all she knew about ethics and honor, about caring and loving.

Perhaps it was naive, but she had thought all men held the same high codes and principles. Perhaps that was why she had risked so much with Luke, or perhaps it was as simple as rebelling against a lifetime of rules and plans. Whatever it was, it was a mistake, she thought with stomach-clenching certainty.

A mistake that seemed certain to engulf her and drag her down, down the way a tidal wave engulfs an otherwise safe harbor.

Oh, in the endlessly long hours after Luke left, after she realized what had happened, the logical part of her mind had said that Luke hadn’t made any promises. And it was true.

But certain things had been implied, even if they had remained unspoken. Hadn’t they? A woman didn’t give herself to a man unless she loved him. Luke had to have known that. He had to.

And if she believed that—and she did—then he had betrayed her at the most intimate level.

So now what? He was here. Right in the middle of her worst nightmare. She could send him packing, but she knew she needed him. Andrew needed him.

A cold chill raced down her spine at the thought.

Abruptly she stooped and started to gather the papers scattered across the floor. The white pages were smooth and cool against her fingers. She glanced up in time to see a hummingbird pause briefly near the open window, then dart away.

Rebecca wished she could leave her troubles behind as easily and as quickly.

But, like before, she had to face it through. Luke would not stay. She was certain of that. So all she had to do was keep him at a distance, and pray that Andrew was returned soon.

Once Luke realized that this time he couldn’t get what he wanted, what she’d given so freely, so trustingly, before, he’d move on.

She gathered the last of the papers and tapped the stack lightly on the floor to even them in her hands.

She sat back on her haunches, her skirt flowing around her legs as she stared at the grouping of photographs on the top of her desk. One, in particular, in a small silver frame.

Luke Scanlin would never know of her heartbreak—or anything else. That was a vow she would not break.