Читать книгу The Season Of Love: Beloved - Diana Palmer - Страница 10

The numbered lot of Hereford cattle at this San Antonio auction had been a real steal at the price, but Tira Beck had let it go without a murmur to the man beside her. She wouldn’t ever have admitted that she didn’t need to add to her substantial Montana cattle herd, which was managed by her foreman, since she lived in Texas. She’d only wanted to attend the auction because she knew Simon Hart was going to be there. Usually his four brothers in Jacobsville, Texas, handled cattle sales. But Simon, like Tira, lived in San Antonio where the auction was being held, so it seemed natural to let him make the bids.

He wasn’t a rancher anymore. He was still tall and well built, with broad shoulders and a leonine head topped by thick black wavy hair. But the empty sleeve on his left side attested to the fact that his days of working cattle were pretty much over. It didn’t affect his ability to make a living, at least. He was a former state attorney general and a nationally famous trial attorney who could pick and choose high-profile cases. He made a substantial wage. His voice was still his best asset, a deep velvety one that projected well in a courtroom. In addition to that was a dangerously deceptive manner that lulled witnesses into a false sense of security before he cut them to pieces on the stand. He had a verbal killer instinct, and he used it to good effect.

Tira, on the other hand, lived a hectic life doing charity work and was independently wealthy. She was a divorcée who had very little to do with men except on a platonic basis. There weren’t many friends, either. Simon Hart and Charles Percy were the lot, and Charles was hopelessly in love with his brother’s wife. She was the only person who knew that. Many people thought that she and Charles were lovers, which amused them both. She had her own secrets to keep. It suited her purposes to keep Simon in the dark about her emotional state.

“That was a hell of an anemic bid you made,” Simon remarked as the next lot of cattle were led into the sale ring. “What’s wrong with you today?”

“My heart’s not in it,” she replied. “I haven’t had a lot to do with the Montana ranch since Dad died. I’ve given some thought to selling the property. I’ll never live there again.”

“You’ll never sell. You have too many attachments to the ranch. Besides, you’ve got a good manager in place up there,” he said pointedly.

She shrugged, pushing away a wisp of glorious hair that had escaped from the elegant French twist at her nape. “So I have.”

“But you’d rather swan around San Antonio with Charles Percy,” he murmured, his chiseled mouth twisting into a mocking smile.

She glanced at him with lovely green eyes and hid a carefully concealed hope that he might be jealous. But his expression gave no hint of his feelings. Neither did those pale gray eyes under thick black eyebrows. It was the same old story. The wreck eight years ago that had cost him his arm had also cost him his beloved wife, Melia. Despite their differences, no one had doubted his love for her. He hadn’t been serious about a woman since her death, although he escorted his share of sophisticated women to local social events.

“What’s the matter?” he asked when his sharp eyes caught her disappointment.

She shrugged in her elegant black pantsuit. “Oh, nothing. I just thought that you might like to stand up and threaten to kill Charles if he came near me again.” She glanced at his shocked face and chuckled. “I’m kidding!” she chided.

His gaze cut into hers for a second and then they moved back to the sale ring. “You’re in an odd mood today.”

She sighed, returning her attention to the program in her beautifully manicured hands. “I’ve been in an odd mood for years. Not that I ever expect you to notice.”

He closed his own program with a snap and glared down at her. “That’s another thing that annoys me, those throwaway remarks you make. If you want to say something to me, just come out and say it.”

Typically blunt, she thought. She looked straight at him and she made a gesture of utter futility with one hand. “Why bother?” she asked. Her eyes searched his and for the first time, a hint of the pain she felt was visible. She averted her gaze and stood up. “I’ve done all the bidding I came to do. I’ll see you around, Simon.”

She picked up her long black leather coat and folded it over her arm as she made her way out of the row and up the aisle to the exit. Eyes followed her, and not only because she was one of only a handful of women present. Tira was beautiful, although she never paid the least attention to her appearance except with a critical scrutiny. She wasn’t vain.

Behind her, Simon sat scowling silently as she walked away. Her behavior piqued his curiousity. She was even more remote lately and hardly the same flamboyant, cheerful, friendly woman who’d been his secret solace since the accident that had cost Melia her life. His wife had been his whole heart, until that last night when she betrayed a secret that destroyed his pride and his love for her.

Fool that he was, he’d believed that Melia married him for love. In fact, she’d married him for money and kept a lover in the background. Her stark confession about her long-standing affair and the abortion of his child had shocked and wounded him. She’d even laughed at his consternation. Surely he didn’t think she wanted a child? It would have ruined her figure and her social life. Besides, she’d added with calculating cruelty, she hadn’t even been certain that it was Simon’s, since she’d been with her lover during the same period of time.

The truth had cut like a knife into his pride. He’d taken his eyes off the road as they argued, and hit a patch of black ice on that winter evening. The car had gone off the road into a gulley and Melia, who had always refused to wear a seat belt because they were uncomfortable to her, had been thrown into the windshield headfirst. She’d died instantly. Simon had been luckier, but the airbag on his side of the car hadn’t deployed, and the impact of the crash had driven the metal of the door right into his left arm. Amputation had been necessary to save his life.

He remembered that Tira had come to him in the hospital as soon as she’d heard about the wreck. She’d been in the process of divorcing John Beck, her husband, and her presence at Simon’s side had started some malicious rumors about infidelity.

Tira never spoke of her brief marriage. She never spoke of John. Simon had already been married when they’d met for the first time, and it had been Simon who played matchmaker with John for her. John was his best friend and very wealthy, like Tira herself, and they seemed to have much in common. But the marriage had been over in less than a month.

He’d never questioned why, except that it seemed unlike Tira to throw in the towel so soon. Her lack of commitment to her marriage and her cavalier attitude about the divorce had made him uneasy. In fact, it had kept him from letting her come closer after he was widowed. She’d turned out to be shallow, and he wasn’t risking his heart on a woman like that, even if she was a knockout to look at. As he knew firsthand, there was more to a marriage than having a beautiful wife.

John Beck, like Tira, had never said anything about the marriage. But John had avoided Simon ever since the divorce, and once when he’d had too much to drink at a party they’d both attended, he’d blurted out that Simon had destroyed his life, without explaining how.

The two men had been friends for several years until John had married Tira. Not too long after the divorce, John had moved out of Texas entirely and a year later that tragic oil rig accident had claimed his life. Tira had seemed devastated by John’s death and, for a time, she went into seclusion. When she came back into society, she was a changed woman. The vivacious, happy Tira of earlier days had become a dignified, elegant matron who seemed to have lost her fighting spirit. She went back to college and finished her degree in art. But three years after graduation, she seemed to have done little with her degree. Not that she skimped on charity work or political fundraising. She was a tireless worker. Simon wondered sometimes if she didn’t work to keep from thinking.

Perhaps she blamed herself for John’s death and couldn’t admit it. The loss of his former friend had hurt Simon, too. He and Tira had become casual friends, but nothing more, he made sure of it. Despite her attractions, he wasn’t getting caught by such a shallow woman. But if their lukewarm friendship had been satisfying once, in the past year, she’d become restless. She was forever mentioning Charles Percy to him and watching his reactions with strange, curious eyes. It made him uncomfortable, like that crack she’d made about kindling jealousy in him.

That remark hit him on the raw. Did she really think he could ever want a woman of her sort, who could discard a man she professed to love after only one month of marriage and then parade around openly with a philanderer like Charles Percy? He laughed coldly to himself. That really would be the day. His heart was safely encased in ice. Everyone thought he mourned Melia—no one knew how badly she’d hurt him, or that her memory disgusted him. It served as some protection against women like Tira. It kept him safe from any emotional involvement.

Unaware of Simon’s hostile thoughts, Tira went to her silver Jaguar and climbed in behind the wheel. She paused there for a few minutes, with her head against the cold steering wheel. When was she ever going to learn that Simon didn’t want her? It was like throwing herself at a stone wall, and it had to stop. Finally she admitted that nothing was going to change their shallow relationship. It was time she made a move to put herself out of Simon’s orbit for good. Tearing her emotions to pieces wasn’t going to help, and every time she saw him, she died a little more. All these years she’d waited and hoped and suffered, just to be around him occasionally. She’d lived too long on crumbs; she had to find some sort of life for herself without Simon, no matter how badly it hurt.

Her first step was to sell the Montana property. She put it on the market without a qualm, and her manager pooled his resources with a friend to buy it. With the ranch gone, she had no more reason to go to cattle auctions.

She moved out of her apartment that was only a couple of blocks from Simon’s, too, and bought an elegant house on the outskirts of town on Floresville Road. It was very Spanish, with graceful arches and black wrought-iron scrollwork on the fences that enclosed it. There was a cobblestone patio complete with a fountain and a nearby sitting area with a large goldfish pond and a waterfall cascading into it. The place was sheer magic. She thought she’d never seen anything quite so beautiful.

“It’s the sort of house that needs a family,” the real estate agent had remarked.

Tira hadn’t said a word.

She remembered the conversation as she looked around the empty living room that had yet to be furnished. There would never be a family now. There would only be Tira, putting one foot in front of the other and living like a zombie in a world that no longer contained Simon, or hope.

It took her several weeks to have the house decorated and furnished. She chose every fabric, every color, every design herself. And when the house was finished, it echoed her own personality. Her real personality, that was, not the face she showed to the world.

No one who was acquainted with her would recognize her from the decor. The living room was done in soft white with a pastel blue, patterned wallpaper. The carpet was gray. The furniture was Victorian, rosewood chairs and a velvet-covered sofa. The other rooms were equally antique. The master bedroom boasted a four-poster bed in cherrywood, with huge ball legs and a headboard and footboard resplendant with hand-carved floral motifs. The curtains were Priscillas, the center panels of rose patterns with faint pink and blue coloring. The rest of the house followed the same subdued elegance of style and color. It denoted a person who was introverted, sensitive and old-fashioned. Which, under the flamboyant camouflage, Tira really was.

If there was a flaw, and it was a small one, it was the mouse who lived in the kitchen. Once the house was finished, and she’d moved in, she noticed him her first night in residence, sitting brazenly on a cabinet clutching a piece of cracker that she’d missed when she was cleaning up.

She bought traps and set them, hoping that the evil things would do their horrible work correctly and that she wouldn’t be left nursing a wounded mouse. But the wily creature avoided the traps. She tried a cage and bait. That didn’t work, either. Either the mouse was like those in that cartoon she’d loved, altered by some secret lab and made intelligent, or he was a figment of her imagination and she was going mad.

She laughed almost hysterically at the thought that Simon had finally, after all those years, driven her crazy.

Despite the mouse, she loved her new home. But even though she led a hectic life, there were still the lonely nights to get through. The walls began to close around her, despite the fact that she involved herself in charity work committees and was a tireless worker for political action fundraisers. She worked long hours, and pushed herself unnecessarily hard. But she had no outside interests and too much money to work a daily job. What she needed was something interesting to do at home, to keep her mind occupied at night, when she was alone. But what?

It was a rainy Monday morning. She’d gone to the market for fresh vegetables and wasn’t really watching where she was walking when she turned a corner and went right into the path of Corrigan Hart and his new wife, Dorothy.

“Good Lord,” she gasped, catching her breath. “What are you two doing in San Antonio?”

Corrigan grinned. “Buying cattle,” he said, drawing a radiant Dorothy closer. “Which reminds me, I didn’t see you at the auction this time. I was standing in for Simon,” he added. “For some reason, he’s gone off sales lately.”

“So have I, coincidentally,” Tira remarked with a cool smile. It stung to think that Simon had given up those auctions that he loved so much to avoid her, but that was most certainly the reason. “I sold the Montana property.”

Corrigan scowled. “But you loved the ranch. It was your last link with your father.”

That was true, and it had made her sad for a time. She twisted the shopping basket in her hands. “I’d gotten into a rut,” she said. “I wanted to change my life.”

“So I noticed,” Corrigan said quietly. “We went by your apartment to say hello. You weren’t there.”

“I moved.” She colored a little at his probing glance. “I’ve bought a house across town.”

Corrigan’s eyes narrowed. “Someplace where you won’t see Simon occasionally,” he said gently.

The color in her cheeks intensified. “Where I won’t see Simon at all, if you want the truth,” she said bluntly. “I’ve given up all my connections with the past. There won’t be any more accidental meetings with him. I’ve decided that I’m tired of eating my heart out for a man who doesn’t want me. So I’ve stopped.”

Corrigan looked surprised. Dorie eyed the other woman with quiet sympathy.

“In the long run, that’s probably the best thing you could have done,” Dorie said quietly. “You’re still young and very pretty,” she added with a smile. “And the world is full of men.”

“Of course it is,” Tira replied. She returned Dorie’s smile. “I’m glad things worked out for you two, and I’m very sorry I almost split you up,” she added sincerely. “Believe me, it was unintentional.”

“Tira, I know that,” Dorie replied, remembering how a chance remark of Tira’s in a local boutique had sent Dorie running scared from Corrigan. That was all in the past, now. “Corrigan explained everything to me. I was uncertain of him then, that’s all it really was. I’m not anymore.” She hesitated. “I’m sorry about you and Simon.”

Tira’s face tautened. “You can’t make people love you,” she said with a poignant sadness in her eyes. She shrugged fatalistically. “He has a life that suits him. I’m trying to find one for myself.”

“Why don’t you do a collection of sculptures and have a show?” Corrigan suggested.

She chuckled. “I haven’t done sculpture in three years. Anyway, I’m not good enough for that.”

“You certainly are, and you’ve got an art degree. Use it.”

She considered that. After a minute, she smiled. “Well, I do enjoy sculpting. I used to sell some of it occasionally.”

“See?” Corrigan said. “An idea presents itself.” He paused. “Of course, there’s always a course in biscuit-making…?”

Knowing his other three brothers’ absolute mania for that particular bread, she held up both hands. “You can tell Leo and Cag and Rey that I have no plans to become a biscuit chef.”

“I’ll pass the message along. But Dorie’s dying for a replacement,” he added with a grin at his wife. “They’d chain her to the stove if I didn’t intervene.” He eyed Tira. “They like you.”

“God forbid,” she said with a mock shudder. “For years, people will be talking about how they arranged your marriage.”

“They meant well,” Dorie defended them.

“Baloney,” Tira returned. “They had to have their biscuits. Fatal error, Dorie, telling them you could bake.”

“It worked out well, though, don’t you think?” she asked with a radiant smile at her husband.

“It did, indeed.”

Tira fielded a few more comments about her withdrawal from the social scene, and then they were on their way to the checkout stand. She deliberately held back until they left, to avoid any more conversation. They were a lovely couple, and she was fond of Corrigan, but he reminded her too much of Simon.

In the following weeks, she signed up for a refresher sculpting course at her local community college, a course for no credit since she already had a degree. In no time, she was sculpting recognizable busts.

“You’ve got a gift for this,” her instructor murmured as he walked around a fired head of her favorite movie star. “There’s money in this sort of thing, you know. Big money.”

She almost groaned aloud. How could she tell this dear man that she had too much money already? She only smiled and thanked him for the compliment.

But he put her sculpture in a showing of his students’ work. It was seen by a local art gallery owner, who tracked Tira down and offered her an exclusive showing. She tried to dissuade him, but the offer was all too flattering to turn down. She agreed, with the proviso that the proceeds would go to an outreach program from the local hospital that worked in indigent neighborhoods.

After that, there was no stopping her. She spent hours at the task, building the strength in her hands and attuning her focus to more detailed pieces.

It wasn’t until she finished one of Simon that she even realized she’d been sculpting him. She stared at it with contained fury and was just about to bring both fists down on top of it when the doorbell rang.

Irritated at the interruption, she tossed a cloth over the work in progress and went to answer it, wiping the clay from her hands on the way. Her hair was in a neat bun, to keep it from becoming clotted with clay, but her pink smock was liberally smeared with it. She looked a total mess, without makeup, even without shoes, wearing faded jeans and a knit top.

She opened the door without questioning who her visitor might be, and froze in place when Simon came into view on the porch. She noticed that he was wearing the prosthesis he hated so much, and she noted with interest that the hand at the end of it looked amazingly real.

She lifted her eyes to his, but her face wasn’t welcoming. She didn’t open the door to admit him. She didn’t even smile.

“What do you want?” she asked.

He scowled. That was new. He’d visited Tira’s apartment infrequently in the past, and he’d always been greeted with warmth and even delight. This was a cold reception indeed.

“I came to see how you were,” he replied quietly. “You’ve been conspicuous by your absence around town lately.”

“I sold the ranch,” she said flatly.

He nodded. “Corrigan told me.” He looked around at the front yard and the porch of the house. “This is nice. Did you really need a whole house?”

She ignored the question. “What do you want?” she asked again.

He noted her clay-smeared hands, and the smock she was wearing. “Laying bricks, are you?” he mused.

She didn’t smile, as she might have once. “I’m sculpting.”

“Yes, I remember that you took courses in college. You were quite good.”

“I’m also quite busy,” she said pointedly.

His eyebrow arched. “No invitation to have coffee?”

She hardened her resolve, despite the frantic beat of her heart. “I don’t have time to entertain. I’m getting ready for an exhibit.”

“At Bob Henderson’s gallery,” he said knowledgeably. “Yes, I know. I have part ownership in it.” He held up his hand when she started to speak angrily. “I had no idea that he’d seen any of your work. I didn’t suggest the showing. But I’d like to see what you’ve done. I do have a vested interest.”

That put a new complexion on things. But she still didn’t want him in her house. She’d never rid herself of the memory of him in it. Her reluctant expression told him that whatever she was feeling, it wasn’t pleasure.

He sighed. “Tira, what’s wrong?” he asked.

She stared at the cloth in her hands instead of at him. “Why does anything have to be wrong?”

“Are you kidding?” He drew in a heavy breath and wondered why he should suddenly feel guilty. “You’ve sold the ranch, moved house and given up any committees that would bring you into contact with me….”

She looked up in carefully arranged surprise. “Oh, heavens, it wasn’t because of you,” she lied convincingly. “I was in a rut, that’s all. I decided that I needed to turn my life around. And I have.”

His eyes glittered down at her. “Did turning it around include keeping me out of it?”

Her expression was unreadable. “I suppose it did. I was never able to get past my marriage. The memories were killing me, and you were a constant reminder.”

His heavy eyebrows lifted. “Why should the memories bother you?” he asked with visible sarcasm. “You didn’t give a damn about John. You divorced him a month after the wedding and never seemed to care if you saw him again or not. Barely a week later, you were keeping company with Charles Percy.”

The bitterness in his voice opened her eyes to something she’d never seen. Why, he blamed her for John’s death. She didn’t seem to breathe as she looked up into those narrow, cold, accusing eyes. It had been three years since John’s death and she’d never known that Simon felt this way.

Her hands on the cloth stilled. It was the last straw. She’d loved this big, formidable man since the first time she’d seen him. There had never been anyone else in her heart, despite the fact that she’d let him push her into marrying John. And now, years too late, she discovered the reason that Simon had never let her come close to him. It was the last reason she’d ever have guessed.

She let out a harsh breath. “Well,” she said with forced lightness, “the things we learn about people we thought we knew!” She tucked the smeared cloth into a front pocket of her equally smeared smock. “So I killed John. Is that what you think, Simon?”

The frontal assault was unexpected. His guard was down and he didn’t think before he spoke. “You played at marriage,” he accused quietly. “He loved you, but you had nothing to give him. A month of marriage and you were having divorce papers served to him. You let him go without a word when he decided to work on oil rigs, despite the danger of it. You didn’t even try to stop him. Funny, but I never realized what a shallow, cold woman you were until then. Everything you are is on the outside,” he continued, blind to her white, drawn face. “Glorious hair, a pretty face, sparkling eyes, pretty figure…and nothing under it all. Not even a spark of compassion or love for anyone except yourself.”

She wasn’t breathing normally. Dear God, she thought, don’t let me faint at his feet! She swallowed once, then twice, trying to absorb the horror of what he was saying to her.

“You never said a word,” she said in a haunted tone. “In all these years.”

“I didn’t think it needed saying,” he said simply. “We’ve been friends, of a sort. I hope we still are.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “As long as you realize that you’ll never be allowed within striking distance of my heart. I’m not a masochist, even if John was.”

Later, when she was alone, she was going to die. She knew it. But right now, pride spared her any further hurt.

She went past him, very calmly, and opened the front door, letting in a scent of dead leaves and cool October breeze. She didn’t speak. She didn’t look at him. She just stood there.

He walked past her, hesitating on the doorstep. His narrow eyes scanned what he could see of her face, and its whiteness shocked him. He wondered why she looked so torn up, when he was only speaking the truth.

Before he could say a thing, she closed the door, threw the dead bolt and put on the chain latch. She walked back toward her studio, vaguely aware that he was trying to call her back.

The next morning, the housekeeper she’d hired, Mrs. Lester, found her sprawled across her bed with a loaded pistol in her hands and an empty whiskey bottle lying on its side on the stained gray carpet. Mrs. Lester quickly looked in the bathroom and found an empty bottle that had contained tranquilizers. She jerked up the telephone and dialed the emergency services number with trembling hands. When the ambulance came screaming up to the front of the house, Tira still hadn’t moved at all.