That Boy From Trash Town (10 page)

Chapter 7

W
hitney's mind went completely blank, becoming nothing more than an empty space between her ears. Then, with dizzying abruptness, her brain began working overtime. Dean was here. In Dallas. At Rick's.

His expensive suit looked out of place in the pub, and Whitney's new friends were beginning to stare. They were beginning to speculate:

"Internal Revenue?" someone proposed.

"No, he's too good-looking."

Someone else suggested a pimp, but that was quickly knocked down by the fact that he wore no gold jewelry. Although several were positive he was simply lost, the determined look in his dark eyes seemed to quash that theory. It eventually boiled down to a tie between a Mafia hit man and a real estate developer who wanted to buy the place, tear it down and build something more profitable.

At any other time Whitney would have seen the humor in the situation and thrown in her own outrageous theories, but at the moment she was too busy panicking.

How had he found her? And what was more important, why had he found her? If Dean approached her, using her real name, everything she had worked so hard to accomplish would be lost. It couldn't happen. Too much was at stake.

Forcing herself to meet Dean's eyes, she gave her head a little shake. Let him understand, she begged silently. Please let him understand.

She shouldn't have doubted him. After only the slightest pause, he moved to sit at the bar and ordered a drink, his expression now suitably blank.

"Dean?"

Whitney swung around, her heart pounding. Lloyd was standing beside her, studying her face carefully.

"What did you say?" she asked, her voice faint with panic.

"I asked if that was your Dean."

If there had been one chance in a million of getting away with it, Whitney would have denied everything. But already Lloyd was coming to know her. He would have spotted the lie in an instant.

"Not mine." Her lips curved in a wry smile. "He never was mine. But it's Dean all right." She paused to draw in a slow breath. "It's definitely Dean."

Lloyd glanced toward the bar. "He didn't look pleased."

"No," she agreed weakly, "he didn't, did he?"

Lloyd led her back to their table, gently pushing her into a chair. "If he sees you as a burden, why did he bother to track you down?"

She caught her lower lip between her teeth, then gave her head a little shake. "I guess because be thinks I'm his burden. I told you he was kind. He's been taking care of me—getting me out of trouble, being my foundation—since I was six years old." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "He never wanted me to just disappear. But he wanted me to have a life of my own, which I have now. Of course, he couldn't know that. And that's why he's here...maybe," she finished without conviction.

"Are you going to talk to him?"

She shook her head vigorously. "Not now. It's not that I'm a coward, I just prefer to be humiliated in private."

Lloyd frowned, glancing at Dean again. "Will he try to humiliate you?"

"No," she admitted, "but he won't have to. I usually manage to do just fine on my own." With difficulty she pulled her gaze away from Dean. "Let's talk about something else. If I ignore him, maybe he'll go away."

Her father chuckled. "Somehow I don't think he's the type to conveniently vanish."

Lloyd was wrong. A few minutes later Dean paid for his drink and slid off the barstool. On his way out, although he passed within a foot of the table where she sat, he didn't acknowledge her with so much as a glance.

When the door closed behind him, when she no longer felt his presence in the room, Whitney should have been able to relax and join in the conversation that flowed around her, but it wasn't that easy. One glimpse of him and she was a mess, electrified and confused, exhilarated and apprehensive.

After she left San Antonio, Whitney told herself she would be able to put her love for him in the past where it belonged, and go on from there. She told herself that loving Dean would be a part of the Whitney Daryn Grant she'd moved away from. Like the white Jaguar, her love for Dean would always be there, but it would be safely in storage. A memory. A piece of the past, one of many, that helped set her on the way to becoming the new Whitney Daryn Grant.

Then she realized the truth. She was a fool. A thousand times a fool. Her love for Dean wasn't in storage, and it wasn't a bit of nostalgia. It was right here in her heart, as strong and deep and solid as ever. She had simply been hiding' from it.

As of tonight, there was no place left to hide,

"I guess it's time for me to get home," Lloyd said, breaking into her thoughts.

Dismayed, she glanced at her watch. How could it be ten already? She wasn't ready for the evening to be over. She wasn't ready to leave this place with its comforting shield of noise and laughter.

Rising reluctantly to her feet, she walked with Lloyd to the entrance, waving good-night to friends who called out to them. Outside the bar Lloyd squeezed her hand, told her good-night and disappeared into the shadows of the parking lot.

Whitney stood for a moment and glanced around. Drawing in a deep, steadying bream, she straightened her shoulders and walked toward her car.

She was in the process of unlocking the Buick when someone grabbed her from behind. A hand came over her mouth, cutting off her squeaking gasp, and she was lifted off her feet. With his free hand, her assailant opened the car door, shoved her inside, and slid in beside her, forcibly moving her over to make room for him. Seconds later she was in her attacker's arms, being ruthlessly kissed. Then, before she had time to either respond or repel, she was being pushed away.

"Do you see what could happen to you?" Dean rasped out, Ins breathing harsh as he gave her one hard shake.

Oh, yes, she thought, he's definitely ticked off.

The light from the parking lot barely made it into the car, but Whitney didn't have to see him to know he was shaking with fury.

"Do you see how easy it would be for someone to hurt you?" he went on. "Damn it, Whitney, you didn't even struggle. You didn't even try to scream. You simply— What? What did you say?"

"I said I knew it was you." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, anger building in her, as well. "I knew you would be out here. And I knew you were mad."

"Mad? Mad? That doesn't even come close to describing how I feel. What in holy hell do you think you're doing? Do you know how scared your mother is? And your uncle—" He broke off and gave a short laugh as he raked a hand through his hair. "Your distinguished uncle has very quietly, very discreetly, gone right around the bend. He's been calling out the FBI, the CIA, Pinkerton's and the sainted Mounted Police! Where is the Jaguar? Why in hell are you driving a car that's older than you are? Damn it, Whitney, do you have, any idea what you've done? I've been chasing after you for ova: a week. My practice is going down the tubes and I can't do a damn thing about it because I'm too busy wandering around skid row hunting for you."

"Who asked you to?" she demanded through clenched teeth. "Do you see me sending up smoke signals? I was doing just fine. At least I was until you strolled in looking like a Wall Street version of James Bond. I can take care of myself, thank you very much. And like I said, who asked you?"

Dean stared at her face in the dim light. She had that look he remembered so well. Stubborn, rebellious. God, it was good to see her. He hadn't dreamed it would take so long to catch up with her, and each day that had passed without finding her had intensified his fear. He had told himself that when he found her he would kill her. But first he would hold her so tight that she wouldn't be able to breathe.

Of course, at the time Dean hadn't known that when he finally did find her, she would be wrapped around some stranger in a bar.

Once again, he forced the anger down. "Your mother asked me," he said. "She's really worried about you, Whit. And if she knew I found you wandering around a parking lot in the middle of the night, she'd have a very refined hissy fit." He paused. "You have a right to your own life, honey, but surely you can see this is no kind of place for you."

Whitney stared straight ahead, willing herself not to be seduced by the caring in his voice. "What you mean is, Rick's might be all right for someone else, but not for a pampered, useless Harcourt brat." She shook her head, annoyed that she was letting the hurt show in her voice. "I'm doing just fine, Dean. Since I've been coming here, you're the only one who's given me any real trouble.

"Whitney."

Whitney didn't look at him, but she felt his gaze on her as he spoke.

"Whitney, I'm sorry.. .I'm really sorry about the things I said when— That day in my bedroom, you took me by surprise, honey. That's all there is to it."

"I didn't know you needed a warning before you could see me. Do you have to prepare yourself to be nice to me?"

When he hesitated, as though he were having trouble formulating an answer, a tiny, piercing pain went right to the center of her.

"And that kiss just now?" she asked, her voice hard with suppressed emotion. "You can't say I caught you by surprise tonight. And if it was supposed to be some kind of object lesson, I'm afraid you supped right into overkill."

"Don't you damn well mink you could use—" He broke off and drew in a slow breath. When he continued, his voice was calm once again. "No, I wasn't trying to show you what can happen when you don't watch your step. My only excuse is, I was mad as hell. You know what my temper's like."

"I'm beginning to find out," she muttered. "Forget it, Dean. I have. It doesn't matter anymore."

Lies, she told herself sadly, all lies. It mattered more than she cared to think about. It mattered more than he would ever know.

She turned and met his eyes. "Since you're here, in Dallas, I assume you know I came here to look for my father." When he nodded, she said, "I found him, Dean. That's why I'm at Rick's. That's why I'm living in this part of town. I want to be close to him. I want to get to know him. I want to let him get to know me.

"The man at your table? Did he recognize you? Does he know who you are?"

"No, not yet. I can't tell him yet." She bit her lip. "It's complicated... but the reasons don't really matter. The important thing is, we're building a friendship. We're right on the brink of getting close." She gave her head a little shake. "This is important to me, Dean. I'm not going to give up now."

Dean exhaled a slow breath. It hurt a little that she felt she had to explain how important her father was to her. Hadn't he tried for most of his life to help her cope with Lloyd Grant's absence? Hadn't he held her in his arms when she cried from grief that, although diminishing through the years, never quite left her?

"Okay," he said slowly, "I can see you feel deeply about this. And I'm glad you found your father. You can't doubt that." He glanced at her. "Do you like him, Whit? Is he the way you remembered?"

Whitney had opened her mouth to tell him about the gentle, troubled man she'd found, to explain about the insecurity she felt when she thought about telling Lloyd who she really was, but before the words were fully formed, she swallowed them. She couldn't force Dean back into the role of counselor and confidant. She had to deal with this on her own.

"I like him," she said simply. "He looks different from the man in my memories, and right now we're not much more than casual friends, but I think maybe there's some kind of genetic bond, or maybe we're simply on the same wavelength. Whatever it is, I can feel us pulling closer. It's like real affection, true affinity, is just sitting there waiting for us to discover it,"

She smiled. "I'm learning to be patient, Dean. That should please you. And in the meantime, I have my job at the factory." Whitney felt more than saw his startled reaction. "Oh, yes," she said with a smile. "I have a real honest-to-goodness job. I use my background in art to get all those little wheels symmetrically arranged on those little toy trucks."

"Assembly line?" The words sounded strangely choked.

"Yup," she said cheerfully. "And I don't want to hear any disparaging remarks. We blue-collar workers are very sensitive to slurs. We take a great deal of pride in what we do. And for your information, I like my work. Very much. I work hard all day, come out here to Rick's to unwind with my friends, then go home to my new apartment to sleep the sleep of the righteous."

"I knew about the apartment," he said slowly. "That's how I found you tonight, but the rest..." IBs voice faded away, and he leaned forward to rest his chin on the steering wheel. "You'll have to give me a minute to take in the rest of it. An assembly line, Whit?"

She laughed. "Believe it or not, I'm getting good at it. Mother would have a stroke if she saw me. I even wear a scarf to keep my hair out of the way. Frankly, I think the peasant look suits me."

After a moment, she turned to meet his eyes in the dim light. "The fact is, my whole life suits me now, Dean. So if you came here to take me back, you'll have to forget it. I'm staying."

A long moment passed before he spoke. "I told your mother that I would let you make your own decisions. I refused to either force or coerce you." His lips twisted in a rueful smile. "It's easy to be unbiased from a distance, but now that I'm here, I find my objectivity is shot to hell. I am biased, Whitney. I might as well admit that up front. And I'm worried about you. You were never taught the coping skills necessary to survive in this kind of place.