The Real Father (Twins) (Harlequin Superromance No. 927) (7 page)

She looked from one man to the other curiously. Both were tall, athletic, extremely good-looking—
and tense as bowstrings. Ross Riser was almost ten years older than Jackson, a gap that back in high school had given him an air of unassailable authority. But now the balance of power had shifted, and they were just two grown men who obviously didn't like each other very much.

She wondered why.

“Jackson,” Ross responded tersely. “I've been looking for you.” His tone was oddly accusatory, and Molly's curiosity deepened. Why should Ross Riser take that attitude with Jackson?

Jackson obviously found it inappropriate, too. “Did you look in New York? Because that's where I've been for the past three days.” He smiled without warmth. “I hope I haven't violated my parole.”

“Oh.” Ross's fair skin flushed, and he lowered his eyebrows in a self-conscious scowl. “Well, I need to talk to you.” He shrugged one shoulder and slipped his fists into his pockets again, obviously working for a more conciliatory tone. “If you have a minute.”

“Go ahead, Jackson,” Lavinia said. “We'll meet you back at the house.”

Stewball didn't like it, but Molly kept him tightly leashed as Ross and Jackson walked away, so the disappointed dog had to content himself with a few plaintive whines.

“What on earth,” Molly said quietly, as soon as the men were out of earshot, “was that all about?”

Lavinia looked thoughtful. “I'm not sure. Things haven't been right between those two for years.” She sighed. “I've always wondered…” She patted
Stewball absently and gazed after her nephew. “Ross and Beau were very close. I've always wondered whether Ross blamed Jackson for Beau's death.”

“Blamed Jackson?” Molly was incredulous. “Why?”

Lavinia slipped her arm through Molly's. “A lot of people did, you know. Right away a rumor began spreading around town that Beau hadn't really been driving, that Jackson had been responsible.”

Jackson? Molly felt herself filling up with resentment. How unfair—and how cruel. Jackson had been a rebel. He had been cocky, irreverent and stubborn. But he had never been a liar. And, while a lesser man might have envied his smooth-talking, prom-king brother, Jackson had always been intensely supportive of Beau—even protective.

“You see, the police couldn't actually tell who'd been behind the wheel,” Lavinia said her deep voice sad but resigned, as if she'd been over this a million times. “We had only Jackson's word for it.”

“Well, that should be enough,” Molly said hotly. She had adored Beau, but even she knew that his halo had been kept in place more than once by virtue of having a loyal identical twin. She remembered one day particularly, when Beau had been in bed with a hangover, unable to face Saturday football practice. Jackson had suited up and played all morning as Beau. Not even Coach Riser had noticed the difference.

“Yes, well, you know how gossips are.” Lavinia buttoned her cardigan against a sudden, distinctly
wintry breeze and, letting out the leash, let Stewball prance ahead of them down the brick path. “Anyhow, it may be Annie Cheatwood, for all I know. She's dating Ross and is the type who has always got men at each other's throats like dogs.”

Annie. Of course. If Ross was dating Annie, he might have some questions about Tommy—and Tommy's parentage. And if he cared about Annie, he wouldn't be very fond of any man he suspected of leaving her holding the diaper bag alone.

Molly turned without thinking. The men were just barely visible, standing in the front driveway near a large blue Ford truck. Even at this distance it was obvious that Ross was furious. Jackson looked bored.

“You mean that Ross and Annie are…” She hesitated, wondering suddenly how much Lavinia knew—or suspected—herself. “I mean, that Jackson and Annie are—”

“Oh, who cares?” Lavinia snorted softly. “It's just some stupid testosterone skirmish or another. Besides, it's the world's worst waste of time to try to figure out what men are thinking anyhow, right?”

“Right,” Molly agreed halfheartedly. But, she realized as she turned reluctantly back to follow Lavinia into the house, this was one time she would certainly have liked to know.

R
OSS DIDN'T SPEAK
until he and Jackson were almost at the driveway. Better to get as far away from the women as possible. This might turn ugly, and he'd rather not have an audience.

Jackson had parked his shiny green 1958 Thunderbird right next to Ross's bunged-up truck. Of course. The way Ross's luck had been going lately, where else? The two cars looked like a textbook illustration of the difference between “collectible” and “old.”

But screw that. He didn't care if Jackson drove a platinum Rolls-Royce with diamond-studded hubcaps. This wasn't about money. This was about character. This was about honesty. And fair play.

And Annie. It was definitely about Annie.

“So what's on your mind, Riser?” By the time they reached the truck, Jackson already had his keys out, signaling that he didn't intend to waste a lot of time here. Well, that suited Ross fine. He was sick of trying to pull an end run around Jackson Forrest. He was ready to go right up the middle.

“I want to talk to you about Annie,” he said. Jackson didn't look surprised. And why should he be? What else could it have been about? The New
York architect and the small-town football coach didn't exactly have a whole lot else in common. Except Beau. And Jackson knew Ross would rather cut out his own tongue than bring up Beau.

“Okay.” Jackson leaned against the hood of Ross's truck and let his keys dangle loosely at his side. “Talk.”

“It's pretty simple.” Ross filled his chest with air and set his shoulders. “I want to know what your intentions are.”

Damn. That line had sounded much better in his head.

Jackson's eyebrows went up lazily. “You know, Riser, I've heard people complain that you were too old for Annie. This is the first time I've wondered if they might be right.” He chuckled. “Are you auditioning for the part of her father?”

Ross felt himself flushing. Jackson had always had the effect on him, even when he was a teenager. Something in that bored green gaze could always find your weak spots, like a heat-seeking missile. But damn it, how had Jackson guessed that Ross was feeling particularly shopworn today?

Like there weren't a million signs. He probably had noticed that Ross was favoring his bad knee. The Ace bandage around his elbow was in plain sight. And, even without those clues, Jackson was smart enough to deduce that any forty-year-old workhorse with a pin in his knee would feel pretty decrepit standing next to a thirty-year-old Thoroughbred.

“I'm only ten years older than Annie is, damn
it.” His voice sounded slightly hoarse. “Who says I'm too old for her?”

“Oh, you know.” Jackson shrugged carelessly. “People.”

“Really.” Ross stepped a foot or two closer. “Would you be interested in knowing what people say about
you,
Forrest?”

“Not even remotely.” Jackson's smile tightened, and he straightened to go eye to eye with Ross. “Listen, Riser, I haven't got time to stand here trading insults. And frankly I don't recognize your right to grill me about Annie, so, unless you've got another subject you'd like to try, I'm out of here.”

For a minute, Ross thought he was going to have to smash that arrogant Forrest nose so flat Jackson would breathe through his mouth for a year. But somehow he managed to keep his fists where they belonged. Ross's mother, a science teacher who had been widowed young, had drilled into her three brawny sons that fighting was always a last resort, except for the most pea-brained species.

He took a deep breath and tried to use his human-size brain, trusting that he still actually had one under this testosterone fog. He had gone about this all wrong. Whether he liked Jackson Forrest or not, the man stood in his way like a two-ton nose guard. Antagonizing him wasn't going to do anything but make matters worse.

He moved aside, abandoning the up-in-the-middle strategy. He sucked in another chestful of oxygen, and, rubbing hard against a smudge on the truck hood with the pad of his thumb, tried to regroup.

He had meant to have a simple, sane, man-to-man talk with Jackson. He'd failed miserably. One snarky comment from the younger man and he'd let himself get overheated.

No, damn it, that wasn't true. He had to be honest with himself. He wasn't overheated. He was just plain jealous.

Jealous of that fast, sexy car. Jealous of that perfect air of insouciance, an attitude you were born with or lived without. Jealous of those Hollywood-green eyes that looked as if they'd been stolen from a jeweler's shelf. Jealous of that runner's body, which still looked more twenty-something than thirty. Ross's own ex-football muscles threatened every day to turn to flab unless he worked himself to death, which led to that mummy look of Ace bandages and the subtle stink of liniment.

Hell, yes, he was jealous. And even less dignified, he was afraid.

He was afraid that he might lose Annie to this man. This rich, smug, disgustingly lucky son of a bitch, Jackson Forrest.

Annie was less impressed by cash and cachet than any other woman he'd ever known. But she was human.

And he was afraid that, when Forrest got bored—
which he would
—Annie would get hurt. Tommy, too.

So he had to get his envy back under wraps and appeal to Jackson's better nature. Jackson might like Annie—who didn't like Annie? He might even want her—after all, Jackson was human, too.

But he didn't love her. Ross did.

“Annie's starting to make noises about maybe cooling things between us for a while,” he said, working that smudge as if he were getting paid to polish the car. “She says she needs space, time to think. But I know what that means. It means you've said something.”

“Something like what?”

“I don't know. Maybe you don't even have to say anything. Maybe you can just give her that look. But somehow you've been turning her against me.”

“Ross—”

“Don't deny it, Forrest. I've seen you do it. I just don't know whether you're doing it because you want her—or because you hate me.”

A long pause beat against the air between them. Ross didn't dare look up, for fear he'd lose his control again. He was coming pretty damn close to whining here, and he didn't like the sound of begging on his lips. But for Annie he could do this. For Annie he could do almost anything.

“You're wrong.” When Jackson finally spoke, his voice was low and controlled. Ross thought he heard a note of sympathy somewhere deep in the short, simple syllables. “I don't hate you, Riser.”

Ross looked up and forced his burning gaze to meet the other man's calm eyes. “Okay, you despise me, then. Choose any word you like. The bottom line is, you don't think I'm good enough for her. You don't think I'm good enough for Tommy.”

“It doesn't have anything to do with ‘good enough,'” Jackson said carefully. “I don't think
you're good
for
him. There's a difference—although I guess from where you sit it appears to come to the same thing.”

Not good for him? Jackson Forrest could dare to stand there and say that Ross Riser was not good for Tommy? He might have laughed if he hadn't been so furious.

“I'd marry his mother, if she'd have me. I'd be a full-time father to that kid, Forrest, if you'd just get the hell out of the way. I guess that's a damn sight better for them than anything you're offering.”

Jackson's mouth hardened. “No, Ross, you won't do that,” he said with a deceptively soft voice—like the sound a Doberman makes in the back of his throat to warn you to freeze in your tracks. “Don't even think about it.”

Suddenly it was just too much. Ross banged the flat of his hand against the hood of the truck. The metal bowed under the force then bounced back into shape.

“This is still all about Beau, isn't it?” He wiped his hand across his face, pulling his mouth so hard it hurt. “God, Forrest, that was fourteen years ago! It was one game, one lousy high school football game. It was wrong. It was a terrible, terrible mistake.”

“But it was your mistake, Riser. And you used my brother to fix it for you.”

Ross let loose a short bark of harsh laughter. “What, your saintly brother? Have you been telling yourself that I corrupted him? Well, I'm sorry to disillusion you, but Beau was delighted to do it,
Jackson. He thought it was funny. God, how he laughed in the locker room! I wish you could have seen him laugh.”

“Ross,” Jackson said, still softly. “Shut up.”

“No.” Ross couldn't stop himself. “Goddamn it, I've earned a reprieve. It's been fourteen
years.
Aren't you ever going to let me off the hook?”

Jackson palmed his keys, and something in the way his knuckles whitened around them proved that his temper was just as close to slipping its reins as Ross's.

Jackson shouldered past him roughly, without apology, as if he didn't trust himself to stand so close. With the truck between them, he turned.

“No,” he said. “I'm not. Not where Tommy is concerned.”

He stared at Ross over the rusted flatbed, his green eyes as hard and dangerous as a snake's. “Listen carefully, Riser. I don't give a damn whether you gamble or not. Lose your truck at the poker table and walk to work. Bet your kidneys at the dog track and pee through a machine for the rest of your life, for all I care. But know this—if you let your problems come within a hundred miles of that little boy, I'm going to bring you down.”

 

M
OLLY KNELT
in the empty garden bed, sifting the soil through her fingers, searching for stray roots. She had been working this bed for nearly two hours, and finally she was almost finished. She had long ago flung her sweater across an overhanging branch, working too hard to notice the chill. She had aban
doned her gardening gloves so that she could feel the resistance of weeds as she pulled them. Her cheeks felt gritty where she had wiped away sweat with blackened fingers, and her knees were numb where the cold, damp dirt had penetrated her jeans.

She rocked back onto her heels, satisfied. This was the sort of job she generally left to hired hands these days—in fact, there were three day workers even now doing similar clearing at other spots on the Everspring grounds and two whole crews at the park grounds. But she had needed to do some big-time thinking this afternoon. And, as she had learned years ago, she thought better with dirty hands.

As usual, the earth had not disappointed her. While she had knelt here, rhythmically sifting and pulling, she had come up with a new, fully formed vision for the Everspring landscaping.

The proposal she had submitted to Lavinia when she bid for the project had been done from memory. The reality of Everspring, after ten years of storms and disease, bad pruning and uncontrolled growth, was somewhat different. The stately, spreading oak out back, for instance, the centerpiece of the family sitting garden, had been taken down yesterday, the victim of a lighting strike that had left the core dead, vulnerable to disease.

With the oak gone, she had seen instantly that she was going to need new plans.

Which thankfully had come to her. She could hardly wait to start sketching, taking her ideas, which right now existed only in her mind, as fragile
as bubbles of air, and giving them a substance, a color, a tangible reality.

Dirt and imagination. What more could a person ask from a job? She lifted a handful of the rich black soil to her nose and inhaled its loamy scent with a sensual appreciation. She let her gaze roam across the bed of bulbs, which were just now beginning to sprout tender green shoots above the dirt.

Her heart beat a pleasantly rapid rhythm high in her chest, as it always did when she was exhilarated.

She loved this work. She loved this plantation.

“Hi, Mom.” She looked up to see Liza standing at the edge of the flower bed, her book bag in her hand. Molly lifted her wrist, guiltily checking her watch—though of course it was caked in soil and unreadable.

Was school out already? She'd been so engrossed she hadn't heard the bus arrive. “Oh, sweetheart, I'm sorry. I meant to meet you at the stop.”

Liza smiled. “That's okay. Tommy Cheatwood walked with me. He came to Everspring because he and Mr. Forrest are going fishing. They invited me to go with them. Is that okay?”

Molly couldn't miss the glow on Liza's face. She hadn't ever been fishing before—and Liza was an adventurer at heart. She loved nothing better than trying something new. From origami to paintball, from ant farming to line dancing, Liza's instincts were always clamoring “yes!”

“What about homework?”

“Just math. Page 242, the evens. I can do it after
dinner.” Liza pressed her hands together imploringly. “Mom, please?”

How could anyone resist that smile? And yet, Molly felt herself hesitating—her mind scanning for excuses. The idea of Liza spending all afternoon with Jackson made her nervous. Suppose he started asking Liza questions? Molly hadn't prepared Liza—though she had been perfectly willing to lie herself, her conscience had balked at the idea of rehearsing her daughter in perjury. Liza knew only that her father had died before he had been able to marry her mother. Molly had promised to tell her all about him when she was a little older. But that might be enough. Jackson was no fool.

“Honey, I don't know. Mr. Forrest might have felt awkward. I mean, if you were standing there, they might have invited you because they thought it would be rude not to—”

“You know me better than that, M.” Liza and Molly looked up to see Jackson coming around the corner from the main house. He wore faded jeans and a sweatshirt, carried a trio of fishing poles, and looked immensely amused. “I'm not at all allergic to being rude, if the occasion calls for it. We invited her because we thought it would be fun.” He winked at Liza, who grinned back happily. “What do you say, Molly? We won't let her fall in.”