The Rebel's Return (2 page)

Oh, no. Now what? She was not going anywhere with him. Not even in a Porsche. Her mother would be appalled if she ever found out that her daughter had even talked to Dylan Bridges, let alone taken a ride with him.

Dylan eased the car around to the front of the club, flung open the passenger door and grinned at Maddie. “Come on, Red. Live dangerously for once in your life. You know you're dying to come with me.”

“I can't.”

“Yes, you can.”

“No, Dylan, really, I can't. I wish you'd stop pes
tering me. You get me all confused and I don't like it.”

With that confession, Dylan hopped out of the Porsche, grabbed Maddie's hands and dragged her toward the car. She skidded across the sidewalk, her efforts doing little to halt Dylan's determination. She realized that she really did want to go with him, so her protest was only halfhearted. When they reached the car's passenger side, Maddie jerked her hands back, but Dylan held tight.

“Come on, honey. Don't chicken out on me now.”

“I—I…Oh, all right. But—”

Dylan swept her off her feet. She cried out in surprise, barely able to believe that he'd lifted her up into his arms. He deposited her in the bucket seat, then bolted around the hood and got behind the wheel. As he sped down the circular drive, the wind whipped Maddie's long hair into her face.

I've lost my mind, she thought. A niggling sense of uncertainty fluttered inside her. What was she doing here, flying down the highway with Dylan in a borrowed car?

About fifteen minutes later, Dylan turned off on a bumpy dirt road. After pulling under a tree several yards from the highway, he killed the motor, then threw his arm across the back of Maddie's seat as he leaned toward her. Before she realized his intention, he kissed her. A quick brush of his lips over hers. She gasped.

“What's the matter, honey? You've been kissed before, haven't you?”

“Of course, I've been kissed,” she told him. “And much better than that.”

Without warning, Dylan grabbed her, lifted her up and over the console and into his lap. She was jammed between the steering wheel and Dylan's lean body. When she felt his erection pressing against her bottom, she panicked and tried to pull free. He manacled her wrists and held both in one hand while he lowered his head and kissed her again. But this time, he took her mouth hungrily, shocking her with the fury of his possession. She trembled. She felt hot. She ached between her thighs. Oh, mercy, this can't be happening.

Maddie knew that she had to stop him now, before he went any further, before she wouldn't have the power to resist. But he kept ravaging her mouth, his tongue seeking entrance. She wriggled and squirmed, but he seemed to enjoy it and moaned into her mouth. She immediately stopped moving. Finally, he lifted his head so that they could both breathe again.

“I didn't tell you that you could kiss me!”

He grinned. A cocky, self-assured smile that created a flurry of butterflies in her belly. “But you wanted me to kiss you, didn't you? You've been wondering what it would be like, the same way I've been wondering.”

“No, that's not true, I haven't…”

She looked into his eyes, an earthy moss green, and
recognized a kindred passion unlike anything she'd ever experienced with Jimmy Don or any other boy. Was it possible that he could see the same overwhelming emotion in her eyes?

They stared at each other for an endless moment. Maddie tugged on her bound hands, and he loosened his hold. She lifted her arms up and around his neck, then moved against him, her breasts pressing against his hard chest. When she leaned forward, he watched her, waiting for her to make the next move. She kissed him. Softly. Sweetly. But suddenly that wasn't enough. She wanted more. She wanted a lot more.

Taking charge, Dylan deepened the kiss.

Just as he undid the top two buttons on her blouse and kissed the swell of her breasts spilling over the top of her bra, she heard the sirens. But she disregarded them. By the time she had Dylan's shirt undone and her fingers were caressing his chest, she realized the sirens came from two police cars that were turning off the highway onto the dirt road.

“Damn,” Dylan muttered under his breath.

Within minutes two uniformed policemen had parked and were approaching the Porsche.

“What's going on?” she asked Dylan.

“Both of you get out of the car, nice and slow,” one of the officers said.

“Dylan?” She stared at him.

“Do what they say, Maddie.”

“I don't understand.”

“The guy I borrowed this car from must have called the police.”

“You
stole
this car?”

“I borrowed it, dammit.”

“You stole it!” Maddie flung open the door and got out. Glaring at Dylan, she shouted, “I hate you, Dylan Bridges. Do you hear me? I hate you and I never want to see you again as long as I live.”

That had been six weeks ago. Six long, agonizing weeks. Jimmy Don hadn't spoken to her for days afterward. All her girlfriends had asked her a hundred and one questions about Dylan. Her mother had all but disowned her. Only her daddy had comforted her. But she suspected that he'd spoken to Carl Bridges about Dylan. She had wanted to ask her father to intervene on Dylan's behalf—and he could have. With one word from Jock Delarue, Flynt Carson, the owner of the silver Porsche would have dropped the car-theft charges against Dylan. But she didn't dare let anyone, least of all her daddy, know that she cared about Mission Creek's bad boy.

Wasn't it for the best that Dylan was being sent away to Amarillo for two years? At least now she would be safe from him. And safe from her own confusing emotions.

D
ylan Bridges removed his coat and tie, tossed them on the bed, then slipped out of his Italian loafers and padded across the lush carpet to the closet. He removed a pair of faded jeans from a wooden hanger and retrieved a Texas A&M T-shirt from the top drawer of a built-in dresser. After all these years, he still preferred casual wear to hand-tailored suits and five-hundred-dollar silk ties. He supposed that at heart he was still just a middle-class guy from Mission Creek.

As he changed clothes, he chuckled, thinking about how surprised the good folks in his old hometown would be if they could see him now. Seventeen years ago he'd been shipped off to the Texas Reform Center for Boys in Amarillo, and when he'd walked out of that hellhole after serving his full two years, the last place on earth he'd wanted to go was back to Mission Creek. And the last person he'd wanted to see was his father.

Yeah, his feelings for his old man had only grown more hostile during his incarceration. And even a sweet little letter from Maddie Delarue while he was
serving time hadn't lessened his resentment toward her.

Figuring that she'd written the letter either as some do-good, philanthropic club project or simply because she had a guilty conscience, Dylan hadn't responded. And he never received another letter from her. But truth be told, he'd never forgotten Maddie Delarue. In a totally illogical way, she remained the ultimate, unattainable goal.

Dylan made his way into the living room of his luxury penthouse apartment, poured himself a drink—Jack Daniel's, straight—and relaxed in the overstuffed, tan leather easy chair. Why was he thinking
about Maddie, a girl he hadn't seen since he was sixteen? It wasn't as if he'd been pining away for her all these years. He hadn't. In his twenties women had come in and out of his life like tourists through a revolving door at a New York hotel. And now, at thirty-three and the wealthiest stockbroker in Dallas, all he had to do was snap his fingers and the lovely ladies came running.

The only reason he'd thought about Maddie was that he planned to return to Mission Creek. He was going to do something he'd thought he would never do—go home to see his father. And who knew, he'd probably run into Maddie while he was there. Maybe he'd make a point of it.

Nothing would please him more than to show her—and everybody in Mission Creek—that the town bad boy had turned out all right. Actually better than all right.

After leaving Amarillo, he'd bummed around the country for a couple of years, had attended some night classes at several community colleges and then had come home to Texas and settled in Dallas. The odd thing was that when he finally channeled his energy—including his anger and aggression—into something productive, he discovered he had a talent for finances, the stock market in particular.

The kid who'd been sent to reform school for stealing another man's Porsche now owned one of his own. And a Jag and several antique vehicles. His penthouse
apartment had cost him in the millions, he owned a home in Aspen and he was part-owner of a chain of resort hotels in the Bahamas.

Oh, yeah, a part of him would love to rub Maddie Delarue's nose in his success. Of all the people back home, she was the only one he really wanted to impress. She was probably married now, with a couple of kids. Surely she hadn't married Jimmy Don Newman, Dylan thought.

Since her father's death a few years ago, she was now the richest woman in Texas. Dylan chuckled. Hell, maybe she wouldn't be that impressed with him after all.

Grinning, Dylan sipped on his whisky. Even after several days of mulling over the entire matter, he still found it difficult to believe that his father had called him. Out of the blue, after all this time, Judge Carl Bridges had set aside his unswerving pride and telephoned his only child.

“Son, I'm asking you to forgive me,” Carl had said. “Can you find it in your heart to give your father a second chance? Is there any hope that we can put the past behind us and build a new relationship?”

Strange that he hadn't vented years of frustration and rage directly at his father. Even stranger was the fact that he, too, wanted nothing more than to put the past to rest, to reach out and forge a new relationship with his father. As a man of experience, he now realized what a rebellious hellion he'd been as a teen
ager, and how both he and his father had allowed their grief over Leda Bridges' death to separate them instead of bring them closer together. Yes, his father had made mistakes, had concentrated on his career more than his son, had given Dylan no room for failure. But Dylan knew that he had made a lot of mistakes himself, that he'd acted up time and again hoping to get his father's attention.

If staunch, unyielding Carl Bridges could admit mistakes and ask for forgiveness, then so could his son.

Dylan had ended his conversation with his father by saying, “Yeah, Dad, I'll think about coming to Mission Creek for a visit. I just need some time to get used to the idea.”

This morning when he awoke, he decided right then, even before his first cup of coffee, that there was no better time than the present to find out if his dad and he could reconnect as father and son. Besides, he needed a vacation. He worked too much; even his closest friends told him he'd become a workaholic. But despite his wealth and great success, he didn't have anything else in his life that truly mattered. Only work.

Long ago, he'd come to the conclusion that a guy couldn't count on anyone or anything except himself. Family was a bogus term. He felt as if he'd lost his only family when his mother died. The desire to marry and start a family of his own had eluded him, mainly
because he'd never met a woman he thought he could spend the rest of his life with—never loved or trusted a woman enough to make a serious commitment.

He supposed he should call his father and apprise him of his plans, but he liked the idea of just showing up on his dad's doorstep and surprising him. He'd already gotten a reservation on a flight to Mission Ridge, the nearest airport to his hometown. He'd be home in time for supper. Maybe he'd take his dad to the country club, to the Empire Room. Now, wouldn't that be something—to go back to the Lone Star Country Club as a guest instead of an employee.

And who knew, maybe if things worked out with his father, he might even relocate to Mission Creek.

 

“Mrs. Delarue, please stop.” Alicia Lewis jumped up from behind her desk in Maddie Delarue's private office space in the Lone Star Country Club and rushed forward toward her boss's mother. “Maddie is very busy and I'm not supposed to let anyone disturb her.”

“Well, my dear young woman, I'm Maddie's mother and I can assure you that I'm not just anyone.” Over the years Nadine Delarue had perfected the royal put-down. “My daughter's position as the events manager here at the club is nothing more than a hobby for her anyway, so she can't possibly be that busy.”

Hearing the ruckus outside her office, Maddie groaned. Oh, Lord, just what she needed this afternoon—dealing with her self-pitying, hypochondriacal
mother. For the past sixteen years, ever since her parents' widely publicized, bloody divorce and her father's death a few years back, Nadine had clung to Maddie with a tenacious stranglehold. Only by sheer force of will had Maddie been able to live her own life. But her life was often interrupted by her mother's histrionics. Maddie did her best to be the dutiful daughter, but there were times when the burden became almost too much for her to bear.

When Maddie opened the office door, she found Alicia standing there blocking Nadine's path. The moment her mother saw her, she burst into tears.

“This awful girl wouldn't let me see you.” Nadine hiccuped. “And I told her that I was your mother.”

Oh, great, her mother was tipsy. “It's all right, Alicia.” Maddie patted her assistant's shoulder. Alicia was new on the job, so this was her first encounter with Nadine the Terminator. When the bewildered young brunette stepped aside, Nadine flung herself at Maddie, who wrapped her arm around her mother's shoulders and led her into her office. “Have you had anything to eat today? You seem a little unsteady.”

As Maddie closed her office door, her mother wiped her eyes and sniffed several times. “I had lunch with the girls here at the club,” Nadine said.

“I see.” Lunch had undoubtedly consisted of several martinis. “I don't mean to rush you, Mother, but I am very busy this afternoon. The Mystery Gala at
the club is this weekend and I have a zillion loose ends to tie up. Is this something that could wait?”

Nadine slumped down on the sofa, upholstered in a beige-and-white striped silk. Maddie groaned internally. No way was Nadine going to let her get off so easily.

“You're always too busy for me.”

Nadine stroked the soft waves of fine white-blond hair that lay close to her face in an attractive, modern style that her hairdresser had assured her took years off her appearance. But not nearly as many years as her most recent facelift, Maddie thought. Since the day her husband had walked out on her, left her for a much younger woman, Nadine had been obsessed with staying young. After the divorce, she'd gone through a succession of suitors half her age, but was left high and dry by each one when they realized that her divorce from billionaire Jock Delarue had not gained her half his net worth. Grandfather Delarue had been a smart old buzzard; he'd insisted Nadine sign a prenuptial agreement before she wed his only son, something not standard procedure in the mid-sixties.

“I'm sorry, Mother. Really I am. But I do have a job, you know. Responsibilities. People counting on me.” Maddie eased her behind down on the edge of her elaborately carved, antique mahogany desk.

“I'm counting on you, Maddie. You're all I have in this world.”

Oh, here we go again, Maddie thought. I'm all
alone. No one needs me. No one loves me. I gave birth to you. An excruciating labor. You were a colicky baby. My every thought since the day you were born has been of you. She'd heard it all before—ad nauseam.

“What do you want? What can I do for you today?” Maddie focused her attention directly on her mother.

“I—I…well, I'm not sure. It's just that the others, my friends…well, they were all going home to husbands. And you know that I don't have a man in my life. And they all have grandchildren to dote on. I'd think the least you could do is give me a grandchild.”

“I'd like nothing better, and maybe someday I'll—”

“Why must you work here? Why do you bother with such a mundane little job? You're the wealthiest woman in Texas. For God's sakes, Maddie, your father left you several billion dollars. You don't need to work. If you spent half as much time socializing as you do playing with this silly job of yours, you might find a husband.”

Maddie groaned. Nadine hiccuped, then shook her head, as if trying to clear the cobwebs.

“I socialize,” Maddie said. “But let's face it, I haven't had much luck with men. They all seem far more interested in my money than in me. Does that ring a bell, Mother?”

“No need for you to be cruel. And there's no need
for you to remain single, either. There are several eligible men in Mission Creek. Young men wealthy in their own right. You could have had Flynt Carson or Matt Carson if you hadn't let them get snapped up by other women. Neither of whom was half as suitable as you to become a Carson bride.”

“Let's don't go there again. I've known Matt and Flynt all my life. They're simply my friends. They could never have been anything more.”

Tears trickled down Nadine's rosy cheeks. She sniffed several times. “Why must you scream at me? I'm not a well woman.” She clutched her silk blouse where the material draped across her breasts. “Sometimes I don't know why the good Lord sees fit to let me go on living. I suppose I haven't suffered enough.”

Nadine stood on wobbly legs and made a valiant—if somewhat overly dramatic—effort to walk toward the door. Halfway there, she stumbled. Maddie rushed to her mother's side, slid her arm around Nadine's waist and sighed deeply.

“Let me drive you home,” Maddie said. “A nice, long drive in the fresh air will be good for both of us.”

“Yes, dear, that would be lovely.” Nadine patted Maddie's cheek. “You can be such a good daughter…when you want to be.”

Maddie sat her mother back on the sofa until she could clear off her desk and retrieve her handbag. On
the way out, she instructed Alicia to forward any important calls to her cell phone and take messages about anything that could be handled tomorrow.

Ten minutes later, with Nadine secured by the seat belt in Maddie's white Mercedes-Benz convertible, they headed down Gulf Road, past County General Hospital. With wind humming around her, her hair flying like a bright red flag, Maddie shut out the sound of her mother's droning whine. Complain, complain, complain. Was there never any end to it? Why couldn't her mother be content? Sometimes Nadine didn't care that no one responded to her incessant chatter; all she seemed to require was an audience to listen.

Still tuned out to everything except her private thoughts about the upcoming gala at the club, Maddie whipped the convertible off the road and into her mother's private drive. After their divorce, Jock had generously given Nadine the home they had shared for nearly twenty years, and Maddie now paid for the upkeep as her father had once done. The palatial Georgian sat on twenty acres, all immaculately groomed.