Читать книгу Twins Included - Grace Green, Grace Green - Страница 6

“YOU’RE pregnant?”

Liz Rossiter felt a stab of apprehension as she saw angry crimson color mottle the face of the man seated across from her. “Yes, darling, I—”

“Dammit, Liz!” Colin Airdrie lurched forward in his chair and punched a fist down on the surface of their elegant Horrocks & Vine patio table. “You know I don’t want any more kids. I’ve been there, done that. What the devil are you trying to do? Trap me?”

Déjà vu.

A fragment of memory—from the past that Liz had buried so carefully thirteen years before—suddenly broke free and surfaced, chilling her to the bone despite the sun beating down on their rooftop garden from a hazy New York sky.

This couldn’t be happening.

Not now.

Not again.

“Colin,” she said pleadingly, “it was an accident. I don’t know how it happened.” She tugged at her filigreed platinum choker, which all at once seemed to be strangling her. “But now that I am pregnant, I want this baby!”

Colin shoved back his chair and swung to his feet, his expression grim.

“Liz, I’m forty-five, as you well know. You also know that I have an ex-wife to support and three children to put through university—Amy’s already there, the twins go next year. There’s no way I want to start another family—”

“But…we love each other.”

“Right. And we’ve been in a committed relationship for more than five years. But you’ll recall,” he added tersely, “that before we moved in together, we agreed that it would be just the two of us. And I haven’t changed my mind. I don’t want this baby. That’s final.”

She stared at him, and it was like looking at a stranger. “Surely,” she whispered, “surely you’re not suggesting I should…should…”

She couldn’t even bring herself to think it, far less say it. But she didn’t need to. She could tell by the curt nod of his head that the unthinkable was exactly what he was suggesting.

“The choice is yours.” Stepping behind his chair, he curled his fingers tightly around the top slat and fixed her with a hard implacable gaze. “You can have either me or this child, Liz. You can’t have both.”

Matthew Garvock flicked up his umbrella as he emerged from his Main Street law office in the small town of Tradition, British Columbia. Heavy rain had been pelting down all day and showed no signs of letting up.

He’d had a hectic week—and he rarely worked on Friday evenings but business was booming and he wasn’t about to complain. The harder he worked, the more money he earned.

And it was money he could put to good use, he reflected as he strode along the rain-splashed sidewalk toward the brightly lit Pizza Palace in the next block. The down payment for his new home had taken a huge chunk out of his savings—

A passing car suddenly veered too close to the gutter and sluiced muddy water in his direction. He jumped back, but it was too late. The damage was done. His pants were soaked, he could feel the fabric stick unpleasantly to his legs.

He glowered through the lashing rain and caught a glimpse of the offending vehicle just before it disappeared around the corner. It was a midnight-blue Porsche.

Didn’t belong to anyone in town, he decided as he tugged sopping wet fabric from his knees before continuing on his way. Most folks in this neck of the woods drove pickup trucks. A Porsche was a city car—and this particular one had been driven by someone with city manners…which meant no manners.

He had occasion to visit Vancouver on business several times a year and was always glad to get home. People down on the Lower Mainland were all so damned busy going where they were going, they didn’t care a hoot about anybody else.

He pressed his thumb against the top spring of his umbrella and shook the umbrella out as he walked into the Pizza Palace. It wasn’t a place he regularly frequented—he didn’t have to, Molly and his mother were forever bringing him casseroles or inviting him over for meals.

But tonight, because Molly had taken the kids to a movie, and his mother had gone to Kelowna for the weekend, he was on his own.

And he was looking forward to having the house to himself. Stressed-out after his hectic week, he needed some time alone. What he planned to do as soon as he got home was have a quick shower and change into dry clothes. Then he’d pour himself a beer and take it—along with a few slices of steaming Hawaiian pizza—through to the sitting room where he would spend a couple of mindless hours flaked out in front of the TV.

“Well, hallelujah, it’s still here!”

Despite her aching fatigue and her screaming muscles, Liz managed a shaky smile as she dug up her old house key from among the clothes pegs stored in a wooden box by the back door of Laurel House.

Huddling under her hooded black slicker, she slipped the key into the lock, and held her breath. For a second, she met resistance…and then the dead bolt slid back.

Her breath seeped out in a relieved hiss and she slumped weakly against the door, heedless of the rain lashing down on her…

Then realizing she was in danger of falling asleep where she stood, she jerked herself upright. She had to stay awake…at least till she had faced her father.

She’d phoned him ten days ago, before setting off from New York, but he hadn’t picked up the phone. She’d listened to his abrasive voice bark: “Max Rossiter here, leave a message after the beep!” but she hadn’t wanted to leave a message. She had just wanted to confirm that he was still living in the family home.

Apparently he was…but this evening he was out.

She’d stood at the front door for a good five minutes, ringing the bell, over and over again. Finally she’d given up.

But she hadn’t left.

On her long drive west, she’d had time to think. And she had made some decisions. One of those decisions was that she was going to stand up to him. She wasn’t going to let him intimidate her, the way he had when she was a teenager. Laurel House was his home…but it was also—legally—her home. And if he tried to throw her out, she would take him to court over it.

She opened the door and stepped inside.

Nothing had changed.

That was her first thought.

But after she’d taken a second look, she saw that some things had indeed changed. The appliances she remembered had been gold. The appliances she saw now were black. Gleaming black stove, dishwasher, fridge, microwave…

Yawning, she walked through the kitchen, out into the corridor and along to the foyer.

The doors to all the rooms were open, and she peeked in every one but they were all empty.

Yawning again, she turned away and ascended the stairs.

“Dad?” she called out as she reached the landing. Her voice echoed back. It had a hollow sound.

She checked his bedroom. He wasn’t there. But everything was just as she remembered it, even to the blue-and-white antique quilt with its log cabin design.

She moved on to her old room. She was surprised but pleased to see that here, too, nothing had changed.

And never had the bed seemed more inviting.

Shrugging off her slicker, she tossed it over a chair. She would lie down, she decided exhaustedly, and have a short nap. But she’d leave the door open to make sure that when her father came home, she would hear him.

She woke from a deep sleep to the sound of movement. The thud of heavy footsteps, someone going down the stairs.

She pushed herself up to a sitting position, and felt her fingers tremble as she brushed her long sleep-mussed hair back. Her father was home. And she had to go down and face him. It was a moment she’d dreaded.

She edged off the bed and crept to the door. And hesitated.

The courage she’d built up during her journey now threatened to desert her. Her father’s rages…they had always terrified her.

But she had to confront him sometime. And what was to be gained by putting it off?

Swallowing down her dread, she made her decision. And before she could change her mind, she walked out of her room, across the landing and then—forcing one foot after the other—she descended the stairs.

Matt had just gulped a mouthful of beer from his can when he heard a sound behind him.

Swiveling around, he spluttered when he saw the pale apparition standing unsteadily in the doorway—a wraithlike figure with long flaxen hair and a perfect oval face.

“What the…?” Wondering if he was dreaming, he stared incredulously. Then shaking his head vehemently, he tried to jar the vision from his head. But…when he looked again, it was still there. She was still there.

And she was staring at him as incredulously as if he, too, were a ghost. Her eyes were starkly wide, her full lips parted in dismay, her oval face as pale as the crumpled ecru suit that hung so loosely on her thin body.

“There must,” he said, “be some explanation for this. Tell me—” he attempted to inject some humor into his tone “—please tell me that you’re not the Phantom Lady of Laurel House!”

“What,” she asked in a voice as insubstantial as her appearance, “are you doing here?”

She was real. No doubt about it. Ghosts didn’t wear perfume and this one was wearing something that made him think of pink roses and summer kisses. Raising his beer can to his mouth again, he regarded her with great interest as he took another long swig.

Then wiping the froth from his lips, he set the can on the counter and settled his fists lightly on his hips.

“I’m here,” he said in an amused tone, “because this is my home.”

Her eyes, if that were possible, widened even further. “Since when?” One of her hands had crept to her throat and she was pulling her delicately fashioned platinum choker from her neck as if trying to keep it from strangling her.

Who the devil was she? And what did she want?

“Since when?” she demanded.

“Since I bought it.”

“You’ve bought it? Bought Laurel House? But you can’t have! What happened to—”

“The previous owner? Max Rossiter?” He shrugged. “He’d been ill for a long time and he passed away a couple of months ago—”

She made an odd sound, like the croak of a parched frog.

Intrigued by her reaction, he kept talking and watched her with fast-growing curiosity. “Shortly before that, he’d put the house up for sale—it’s only two miles out of town and it has the greatest view, so I bought it. It had been mortgaged to the hilt—the old guy had had a stroke several years back and he just couldn’t keep up with his extra expenses so in the end he was forced to sell…”

If she’d been pale before, she was ashen now. Alarmingly so.

He walked over to her. “You need to sit down.” He reached out a hand to take her arm in support, but she tried to twist away and his fingertips accidentally brushed her breasts before he cupped her elbow. “You look all in—”

She wrenched herself free and stumbled back. “Don’t touch me!” She glared at him. “Don’t you dare touch me!”

Stunned by her hostility, he stepped back, his palms up. “Whoa, hold on, lady. You’ve got the wrong idea. I’m not looking to ravish you.”

Her eyes had become icy cold, but her cheeks were fiery red. “If you were, Matthew Garvock, it wouldn’t be the first time.”

Jolted more by the bitterness of her tone than the fact that she knew his name, he gaped at her. Had they met somewhere before? If so, he had no memory of it. He tried to see beyond the pale skin and the pale hair and the pale clothes, to the person vibrating with such blatant antagonism behind them.

And finally, just as he was about to give up, he recognized her.

“Good Lord.” He felt his heart tremble. “It’s Beth.” Emotion threatened to close his throat. “I can’t believe you’ve come back. After all this time.”

She had regained her composure. And she fixed him with a gaze so stony it tore him apart.

“Yes, it’s me, Matt. I’m back…and I’m here to stay. As to Laurel House being your ‘home’—”

At last he’d found his voice again. “You’re welcome to stay here, for as long as you want—”

Her laugh was harsh. “Oh, I plan to. You see, Matt, this is rightfully my home, despite what my father may have led you and his lawyer to believe—”

He was hardly listening to her. He could scarcely believe she’d come back after all these years. Thirteen years. Thirteen years during which he’d never managed to shake free of the racking guilt and the aching regrets—

“…so tomorrow,” she was saying, “I’ll go see Judd Anstruther, my father’s lawyer, and I’ll sort everything out.”

With an effort, he focused on what she was saying.

“Judd’s retired,” he said.

“Who took over his practice?”

“I did. Whatever you decide to do, I’ll be involved.” Agitatedly he raked a hand through his shower-damp hair. “Beth, we have to talk. About…what happened, thirteen years ago—”

“No.” Her throat rippled convulsively. “You have nothing to say to me that I would want to listen to. But I have two things to say to you. And I want you to listen, because I don’t want to say them twice. The first is, don’t call me Beth. I’m no longer that naive teenager, and I no longer go by that name. If you have to call me anything, call me Liz. Or Ms. Rossiter. Either will do and I answer to both…but in your case, I’d prefer the latter.”

He had slipped the pizza into the oven to keep it warm while he had his shower; now he noticed the steamy smell of pepperoni and grilled cheese, and he knew he would always associate that specific aroma with this specific moment.

“And the second thing?” he asked.

The faint lines bracketing her mouth deepened. “Don’t ever,” she said, “try to talk to me about the past.”

Uh-uh. No way. He wasn’t about to go along with that. “But I want to t—”

“You want to what? To say you’re sorry?”

“I want you to know that afterward I tried to—”

“Afterward?” Her mocking tone made him wince. “Matthew, I have absolutely no interest in what happened afterward.”

“But—”

She stopped him by slashing a hand between them. “But what?” she asked fiercely. “Do you have anything to say that can change what happened? Can you change the past?”

She had broken his heart when she’d disappeared out of his life. But he knew he must have broken her heart, too. And while he had deserved all the agony he’d suffered, she had not.

“No,” he said wearily. “No, I can’t.”

“Then please don’t try.” Her tone was crisp. “And please don’t ever bring up the subject again. I’ve put the past behind me. And you,” she said as she turned away, and started toward the door, “would be wise to do the same.”

He moved fast and got to the door before she did. Blocking her exit, he said, “Where are you going?”

“To bed.”

“I’m not budging from the house. I paid good money for it. And I have all the papers to prove it.”

As soon as he’d spoken, he felt like a heel. Now that he was close to her, he realized she was even more fragile than she’d seemed. Fragile and vulnerable.

And here he was, confronting her, in the way a school bully would challenge a weaker child. Remorse poured through him like bile.

“So what are we going to do now?” he asked gruffly. “It looks as if we’ve reached an impasse.”

Fragile and vulnerable she might be, and bone-tired by the looks of her, but she was one thing, he saw as she straightened her spine, that she hadn’t been as a teenager.

Liz Rossiter was a fighter.

She looked up at him, and in her beautiful khaki eyes he could have sworn he saw a spark of cynical humor.

“You’re bigger than I am,” she said, “and as I recall you were a champion amateur boxer, so I won’t even try to throw you out. At least, not bodily. But you’d better start looking for another place to stay, because I promise you, Matthew Garvock, I’m going to win back this house.”

“Is that,” he asked softly, “a declaration of war?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, in a tone that was equally soft—as soft as steel, he thought, sheathed in a velvet glove!— “a declaration of war is exactly what it is!”