Читать книгу A Proposal Worth Waiting For - Raye Morgan - Страница 12
ОглавлениеTORIE slipped out of bed and reached for her clothes, pulling on leggings and a heavy sweatshirt that came down almost to her knees. She tied her hair back quickly and went to the doorway, opening it as quietly as she could. This was an old house. Just how badly were the stairs going to creak? She stayed as close to the banister as she could get and hardly made a sound.
The rooms downstairs were silent. She hesitated at the door, waiting for something to stop her, but nothing moved. Once out the door, she was free.
Now she was on a path she knew well. She didn’t even have to think about it. Her feet knew where to step. She’d taken this route so many times in her childhood.
The night was clear and even though there was no moon visible, there was enough light to see where she was headed. The sounds of the frogs and crickets, the scent of the ocean, the breeze on her face—it all was so familiar, she found herself smiling as she hurried toward her old house as though she was truly going home. She rounded a corner and ducked back off the path as the flash of headlights from a passing car hit close to her. Who in the world was driving around at this time of night? From the snatch of laughter she heard, she could make a guess. Marge and Jimmy had been out and about.
She turned back and looked at her goal. Almost there. She stopped behind a small stand of palms to get the lay of the land, and she stood very still, shivering. Was it the cool air or a nervous reaction? For a moment, she thought about Marc and wondered what he was doing right now. Was he asleep? She certainly hoped so.
Finally she was on the front porch, the one she’d run onto as a girl, calling out, “Hey, Mom, what’s for lunch?” as she threw down the latest shells she’d collected at the beach, or the prettiest rocks she’d found in the hills. The flame of nostalgia made her ache inside, but it was a good ache. Those were good days.
She tried the front door. It was locked. That was hardly surprising. Never mind. She knew other ways to get in. She made her way to the back of the house and found the window to her old room. It looked firmly closed and solid as a rock, but she knew that a little push here and a jiggle there and a shove in the right direction would loosen the sash and the window would slide up easily. She hadn’t forgotten how to climb through, and in another minute, she was in her old room.
Pulling out her little flashlight, she played it against the empty walls. It was amazing, but no one had painted the rooms since her family had left. There was her growth chart by the door, milestones marked off in pencil. And there was the splotch of purple color where she’d thrown a paintbrush at the wall in a fit of anger. She stood and stared, breathless. Here it was, evidence that she really had lived here. For some reason, that choked her throat and filled her eyes with tears.
She went out into the hall and then the family room. The scrapings where chairs had brushed the walls, the mark on the door where her old dog Nanny had scratched to go out a few too many times, the old bulletin board where her mother had put up bits and pieces of her schoolwork or articles that interested her—all were still there. Had she stepped back in time?
The kitchen tore apart that theory. There was ample evidence that people had lived here since her day. The refrigerator was not the one she knew. The cabinets had been painted white and a relatively new-looking microwave sat on the counter.
That set her head back on straight. This wasn’t her house. But she did have things she needed to do here.
The attic. That had been her goal from the beginning and she made her way through the living room to the hallway where the little structure that held the attic ladder hung from the ceiling. And how, without a stepladder or a piece of furniture, was she supposed to reach it to pull it down?
Her heart sank and she looked down the hallway and around the room. The heating register stood out against the wall, and there, leaning against it, was a long handled iron key for working the temperature controls. Could it possibly be long enough?
It was. She bit her lip as she worked hard to release the little rickety ladder, and her work paid off. It unfolded before her eyes, giving her access to the attic door. She climbed up quickly and tried to shove the door open. It didn’t budge. She pushed and pulled and tried to pry it open, but nothing seemed to work.
And then she heard footsteps...a man’s footsteps. She doused her little flashlight and pulled her legs up into the enclosure, heart racing. Anyone who came into the hallway would notice the ladder was down. But would they look up and see her perched there?
The footsteps came into the hallway. She tried to hold her breath, but she was already short of oxygen and rapidly falling into panic mode. Luckily, he just didn’t stop walking, moving back and forth, just out of sight, making too much noise to hear her and her problems. The beam from his flashlight skittered around the walls, but didn’t aim her way. She caught
a glimpse of a shoulder in a black pea coat at one point, but she couldn’t see enough to identify the man. All he had to do was glance up and she would be caught.
Suddenly, he stopped moving. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest. Had he seen her?
No. He switched off his flashlight. He’d heard something, or had a sudden idea, because he turned and began to stride quickly toward the door. Now she was afraid he would get away before she could see who he was, and she slid down the ladder and sneaked silently toward the front room.
He was headed down the driveway toward the highway. She slipped out into the night and tried to stay hidden in the trees, following him the best she could. Was it Marc? Or Carl? She still couldn’t tell.
So when the strong arms grabbed her from behind, she was completely unprepared and let out a shriek before the hand slapped down hard over her mouth.
“Hush,” Marc growled in her ear. “It’s me.”
Her heart stopped and then started up again. She sighed, relaxing in his arms. It was just Marc. Everything was okay.
She tried to rouse her own sense of jeopardy. After all, what made her think Marc was a good guy? Still, his arms felt right around her and she turned her head to feel the heat of his face against her cool cheek as though she’d been waiting for just that.
“Torie, I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her huskily, and she nodded.
“I know,” she whispered back, even though she really had no reason to know that at all. She couldn’t stop shivering and he held her more tightly against his body as though to calm her.
For just a moment, he indulged himself and turned his face into her hair. She smelled good and she felt even better. He didn’t want to let go. He wanted to hold her and run his hands up under her sweatshirt and...
But he wasn’t going to. Too tempting. Too stupid. Too dangerous. And most of all, a big distraction from what he had to do.
Instead, he slowly released her and she turned to face him.
“Hi,” she said, peering at him in the dark. The features of his face looked as though they’d been cut from stone. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you, I guess,” he said, his voice laced with sarcasm.
She frowned. “Who was that man?” she asked him. “I couldn’t get a good look at him.”
His mouth twisted. “Don’t you know?”
“No! Was it Carl?”
“Weren’t you meeting him out here?”
“Marc!” She threw up her hands in exasperation. “No, I wasn’t meeting him. I wasn’t meeting anyone. I’m actually surprised to find so many people out wandering around in the middle of the night.” She glanced suspiciously into the trees. “I wonder who else is out there.”
Marc glanced in the same direction. “There’s no telling, but I wouldn’t be too surprised to find a Texan, doing placer samplings here and there.”
She smirked at him with impetuous impertinence. “Are you watching him, too?”
He surprised her with a sudden grin. “No. The man’s an open book. I don’t have to.”
“Unlike me and Carl,” she said, eyes flashing a sense of barely concealed resentment.
He didn’t bother confirming her accusation, but it was more than true. He’d been following Carl when he’d come across Torie doing the same and he had to make the call—the lady or the tiger? He could only choose one. He’d gone with the one he would rather be with, and that had probably been a mistake.
See? Too tempting. Too dangerous.
Still, he might be able to get information out of her he would never get out of Carl. From what he could tell, there was little rhyme or reason for the way Carl was zigzagging all over the estate, looking for who-knew-what. What he couldn’t figure out was—why was Torie tailing the guy as well?
“Just what is Carl looking for?” he asked her again.
She shrugged. “You got me.”
He frowned. “You’re the one who brought him here.”
“No. I used him to get here, but that’s as far as it goes.”
He studied her as well as he could in the darkness. Basic instinct told him she was telling the truth. What the hell—he was going to take a chance on that instinct. It usually worked out best when he did, despite his natural inclination to want to see proof for everything.
“I wish I could figure the guy out,” he told her. “I saw him leave the house and then I checked your room and you weren’t there, so I took off after him.”
“Where did he go?”
“Nowhere that made any sense.”
She frowned. “So you thought you’d follow me for a while to see where I was going?”
“Why not?”
She groaned. “This is crazy. We’re all running around in the middle of the night following each other. It’s like a Keystone Kops episode. Going in circles, getting nowhere.”
“I’m not getting nowhere.” He gave her a twisted smile and reached for her hand. “Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere.” His hand curled around hers as though he didn’t trust that she would come along if he didn’t force the issue. “Back into the house. I want to see what you were doing in there.”
“No.” She pulled back, obliging him to turn. “You know what? It’s none of your business what I was doing in there. You can’t stop me.”
She knew she sounded childish. She felt childish. Maybe that all went along with her being in her childhood home. At any rate, it annoyed Marc enough that he yanked on her hand, pulling her in close and glaring down into her eyes.
“While you are here, you are my business. I thought we’d already established that. But in case you’re still not convinced, let me say it again. I can kick you off the estate and send you home any time I want to. And I don’t have to ask Marge first.” He gave her that twisted smile again. “So be nice to me.”
“I’m always nice,” she protested, but her breath was coming faster.
“Prove it.” His voice lowered huskily. “Tell me why you’re out here in the dark, dark night. Tell me what you hope to achieve.”
She drew in a sharp breath. He was obviously stronger than she was and he could force her to go along with him if he wanted to. But he didn’t need to force her. She could probably use his help. So she traded in complete rebellion for the chance to be a smart aleck instead.
“Wisdom,” she said crisply. “Revenge. Closure. Truth.”
He looked at her for a long moment and then he grimaced and his shoulders seemed to relax.
“That’s a tall order,” he said, his voice lighter. “Life doesn’t usually give out free passes. I’m afraid you’re probably going to have to work very hard for all those things, and never actually be satisfied with the results.”
She closed her eyes, but a complete and detailed picture of him stayed in her mind. He had it all—looks, strength, a natural honesty that might be a façade, but was still impressive as hell. She wanted to trust him. Could she take that leap? She stared down at the hand that held hers and pondered that question.
Her first impulse was to keep it all to herself, not to let him in. But she didn’t have time to wait this out. The only way she was going to get into the attic was if someone helped her. The only someone she could even halfway trust right now was Marc. Could she take the risk? What choice did she have? Besides, he was going to see the ladder and make his own assessment.
Should she go ahead and tell him? Why not? What did she have to gain by avoiding it? She made the decision and suddenly, she felt calm inside.
“Okay. Here goes.” She raised her face to him again. “I’ll tell you what I was doing. I was looking for something, anything, that might give me a new lead on finding out what really happened when my father was fired.”
He stared down at her and shook his head. “Torie, that was a long time ago.”
Her chin rose. “About time we got to the truth then.”
He drew in a long, deep breath. “You really loved your father, didn’t you?”
“Oh yes. Above all else.”
He winced and she frowned, wondering why. Didn’t he ever love anyone? Didn’t he know how brave it could make you?
Or was it the other way around? Did he think no one had ever loved him that way?
She couldn’t help all that. She had to move forward. If she could bring him along, so much the better.
The front door was standing open, just as she’d left it when she crept out. Moving quickly, they walked right in. Marc turned on his flashlight and did a quick survey of the empty room.
“There’s nothing here. What’s it been, fifteen years? What did you think you would find?” He looked at her. “Or were the walls going to talk to you? Spill all the secrets.”
“I want to get into the attic,” she told him. “The door seems to be sealed.”
He moved closer, searching the depths of her green eyes. “What’s in the attic?” he asked softly.
She had to steel herself not to start shivering again. “I’m not sure.”
He shook his head. “You’re going to have to do better than that. You must have something in mind.”
She shrugged and it felt like surrender. She would tell him what she had to, but she couldn’t tell him everything.
“My mother told me there were things left in the attic,” she said slowly. “I...we left in such a hurry, we couldn’t take everything.”
He nodded. “That was a long time ago,” he noted again. “Other people have lived here since.”
She took a deep breath and tried to smile. “I know. But I have to look and see.” She met his gaze and tried to maintain her dignity, but she knew he could see the pleading in her eyes. “Please, Marc. I really need to see what’s in the attic.”
He gazed at her for a long moment. The sweet, quiet way she’d asked him made him want to help her more than anything else! If she would put away the threat of antagonism that always seemed just a comment away, they might get on quite well with each other.
He shrugged. “Let’s go take a look.”
To her chagrin, he shoved the attic door open with no problem at all and then followed her up into the dusty area. The light from his flashlight made eerie shadows as it flickered through the beams. The ceiling was low and they both had to bend over to make their way toward where boxes and old suitcases were stacked.
Torie sorted through the boxes quickly, then turned to the luggage. Most items belonged to other people, but there was a suitcase that looked familiar. Marc gave the locks a jab with his pocketknife and they sprang open.
Torie stared at what was inside, more moved than she’d expected. These were the remnants of another life, far, far away, but she recognized them immediately. Her mother’s wool coat. Her own band uniform. Her father’s sweaters.
And beneath all that, a photo album and a stack of papers. She went through the papers anxiously, heart beating. Marc watched her, wondering what she was looking for. He didn’t ask again.
She’d set the photo album aside carelessly and he wondered why. He picked it up and leafed through it while she searched, holding the flashlight high. There was that chubby young girl Torie had once been. Seeing the pictures made him smile.
“How did you manage to make such a big change from the annoying little squirt you used to be?” he asked her dryly.
“Magic,” she shot back, not looking up from her search. “I traded a cow for a handful of beans.”
“Right.”
The pictures showed a loving family living at Shangri-La—his home—and none of them were any relation to him. Sort of weird. Jarvis the butler was just as he remembered him—full dignity with a touch of reserve. He remembered Torie’s mother, too, a pretty woman with a slightly worried, fragile look.
“Darn,” Torie muttered at last, sitting back. “It’s not here.”
He waited for a moment, but she didn’t say any more, and he moved impatiently.
“What? What are you looking for?”
She ignored him and began to put things back in the suitcase.
Assuming she would want the photo album, he held onto it.
“Take a look at these pictures,” he said, opening the album to a shot of Torie in her younger, more rounded past.
She took a deep breath and shook her head, avoiding even looking his way. “I can’t,” she said, her voice strangely choked. “Not now. I just can’t.”
He watched her curiously, touched by the emotion he heard in her voice. Life hurt pretty much everybody, one way or another, but it seemed life had really done a number on Torie. Still, he couldn’t believe she wouldn’t want the pictures eventually. He tucked the album under his arm and led the way back down into the house.
“What now?” he asked her.
She looked tired and a bit defeated. Not finding whatever it was that she’d been looking for seemed to have crushed her for the time being. He had a fleeting thought that this might be the time to press her, to poke around in her psyche and get to the truth of what she was doing here, what she really hoped to accomplish. But when he looked at her sad, pretty face, he didn’t have the heart for it. Maybe later.
“I guess I might as well go back to bed,” she said, holding her chin high with seeming effort. “I can’t really look any place else until it’s light.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to give me a hint?”
She glanced at him, then away. “What do you mean?”
“What are you looking for? What did you think you would find in that suitcase?”
She stared at him and he knew she was mulling over her options.
“You never know,” he said softly. “I might have already found it. I might have hidden it myself.”
“Hidden what?” she challenged, blinking rapidly.
He shrugged. “What you’re searching for. Why don’t you tell me what it is?”
She took a deep breath, looking at him sideways. He was sounding so reasonable and looking so gorgeous. It wasn’t fair. Marc wasn’t fair. He thought he could manipulate her. And maybe he wasn’t far off the track. He had to know she’d always had a thing for him.
She had to convince him that all embers of that fire had gone cold long ago. And they had! After all, he was one of the people, one of the family, who had been so cruel to her father. She had to remember that.
But she was at a dead end. She’d searched the caves. She’d searched the attic. She had no other leads.
“My mother thinks my father had a journal,” she said softly, avoiding his gaze. “She thinks he put things down that might help me—might show the way to the truth.” She shook her head. “I don’t know. I never saw it. I was just hoping...”
She stopped. Tears were choking her voice. He stared at her, wanting to take her in his arms. She looked so sad, so lonely. But he wasn’t ready to give her the benefit of the doubt. Not yet.
What was it about this woman that seemed to crash right through all his normal defenses and touch him at his core? They were fighting over something here and he couldn’t concede. Not without getting something for his side.
“I’ve never found a journal,” he told her. At least he could be honest with her. “Are you sure it exists?”
She shook her head, avoiding meeting his gaze. “I’m not sure of anything.” She looked up at him, tears shimmering in her haunted eyes. “I’m not even sure my father was innocent. What do you think of that?”
He raked his hard fingers through his hair, leaving spikes in every direction. He could see she was tortured and he wanted to grab her and hold her and tell her it was going to be okay—but he couldn’t.
“I don’t think,” he told her, mostly because he didn’t know what to think of that statement. “I just react.”
She nodded. She shouldn’t have said that. It was true, but no one else needed to know. She couldn’t un-say it, but she could throw some other things out there into the mix to lessen its impact. Hopefully.
“Okay. React to this.” She took a deep breath and her green eyes looked like bits of shattered emeralds. “I’ve hated your family for fifteen years. I think you caused my father’s suicide. If it hadn’t been for the way you all handled it and how disgraced you made him feel, he would be alive today.” Her voice was firm, but the edges were trembling, just a little bit. “What’s your side say?”
Her words stung. He turned away. His natural reaction was to lash out at her, but he held it back. She was talking crazy. Her words, her emotions, her reasoning, everything was jumping all over the place. She wasn’t really making sense. And maybe that was because she really didn’t have any solid proof of anything. It was all conjecture, all an attempt to fill in a past she just couldn’t understand.
Understandable. Still, he had to balk when he heard her using his family as an excuse to cover up her family’s heartbreak. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t in pain. He could see it. He could feel it. Her soul was writhing in agony.
And he had a sudden insight. If it was true what she’d told him, if she really didn’t know for sure if her father was guilty, if this was more a search for truth than a search for proof—then she had a kind of inner integrity that was rare to find.
Still, it didn’t mean she couldn’t be capable of some pretty underhanded methods to get to where she wanted to go. He’d seen enough of the raw and untamed side of humanity to know it was always lurking. Never trust anyone. That was his motto.
“My father was an honorable man,” he said softly, leashing his anger. “If he did something that hurt your father, I’m sure he had a reason. He didn’t have a mean bone in his body.”
Tears were sliding silently down her face. Her mouth twisted. “I know,” she whispered. “I...I loved your father, too.” Her voice broke. “He was so kind to me. I can’t believe... Don’t you see?” She hugged herself, arms wrapped tightly. “That’s part of the problem. It just doesn’t make sense that he would treat my father like an evil person. He...he...”
She couldn’t go on. He started to reach for her, but she turned away. “Torie,” he said, but she shook her head and moved further away.
“Let’s go back.” She started off down the trail. He followed close behind.
He wasn’t sure what he wanted to do. Everything in him rebelled at her calling his father a villain. He didn’t believe it. He’d known the man too well.
But at the same time, he suspected her father had probably been treated badly. Why? How? Had he really been guilty of the original theft? Or what? He wanted to get to the bottom of this as much as she did.
“By the way,” he said as they walked along the path. “The Greeks have gone.”
She stopped and whirled, staring up at him, remembering the shouts she’d thought she heard in the night.
“What? What happened?”
He shrugged. “Turns out they weren’t very Greek. And they definitely weren’t on the up and up.”
Her shoulders sagged and her face was truly sad. “Oh no. I liked the Greeks.”
“Sure you did,” he said as they started off again. “That’s part of their game. They spend a lot of time at events like this, or resort gatherings, endearing themselves to people with money and trying to get some of it.”
She sighed sadly, looking up at the house as they approached. All the windows were dark. Hopefully everyone was asleep—even Marge and Jimmy. “So there’s no idyllic little Greek supper club?”
“No.”
“No little Greek grandmother with secret recipes from the old country?”
He gave her a half smile. “Sorry.”
She shook her head. “It’s a real shame. I liked that story.”
“Yes.”
They’d reached the porch and slowly took the steps, one at a time, until they were in front of the door.
“How did you find out?” she asked, turning to face him again.
His face took on a hooded look and he shoved his hands down into the pockets of his jacket. “I’ve got some friends in law enforcement. I made a few calls.”
She looked at him, tilting her head. Was that a subtle hint that she and Carl had better watch their steps?
“What did your sources have to say about me?” she asked tartly.
He started to grin, then cut it short. “I’ll let you know when I get the full report.”
She reacted badly. That wasn’t something she had wanted to hear. “You see this face?” she asked him, pointing at it. “Once again, this isn’t adoring reverence for you. This is what we call anger. Anger and resentment and...”
His kiss stopped her words. He couldn’t help it. It had to be done. Right now, she needed to be kissed, and he was the man to do it.
It was just a kiss. A kiss wasn’t a surrender. It didn’t mean he believed her. It didn’t have anything to do with guilt or innocence. It was just an expression of desire, or maybe need, or maybe something even deeper. But that hardly mattered at all. It just was.
She gasped, her hands rising up to push him away, but they didn’t try very hard. His mouth was hot and his arms were strong and she began to melt. And just as she began to enjoy it, he pulled away.
“Good night, Torie Sands,” he said roughly, hunching deeper into his jacket. “Go to bed.”
She felt slightly dizzy. “Where...where are you going?”
“I think I’ll just take one more turn around the area. See what’s shakin’.” He gave her a quick grin as he turned to go. “See you tomorrow. Breakfast is at nine.”
