A Risky Affair (22 page)

Her eyes widened. She went limp with shock.
“Lamar?”

“Hello, Solange.” He offered a small, tentative smile. “Surprise.”

“Man, you sure weren't lying about this place being so far away,” exclaimed fifteen-year-old Jacob Tarrant, his face pressed to the passenger-side window of Dane's Durango as it hurtled up the rocky hill toward Crandall Thorne's ranch. “We're out here in the middle of nowhere!”

Dane chuckled, slanting an amused glance at the teenager. “We definitely need to get you out of the city more often, kid. You were born and raised in Texas. How is it you've never seen a real horse before?”

Jake turned, giving him a look that said the answer should be obvious. “Ain't no horses in the middle of the East Side!”

“Really?” Dane feigned a look of exaggerated disbelief. “I could have sworn I saw one in your neighbor's backyard the other day.”

Jake cracked up. “That wasn't a horse. That was mean ol' Mr. Wallace!”

Dane didn't laugh. “Now, Jacob,” he said in his gravest I'm-disappointed-in-you tone, “what have your mother and I taught you about respecting your elders?”

The boy faltered, the dimpled grin fading from his smooth, chocolate-brown face. “Sorry,” he mumbled.

Dane could hardly keep a straight face. “That's all right. I know you didn't mean to imply that Mr. Wallace looks like a horse.” He paused a beat. “Even if it's true.”

Jake's uproarious laughter filled the interior of the truck, drawing an answering chuckle from Dane. It was good to hear the kid laugh again, he thought. He hadn't been the same since his mother was diagnosed with breast cancer eight months ago. Although the cancer had been caught on time and she was now in remission, the stress of her illness, chemotherapy treatments and the growing stack of medical bills, along with the scary realization that they'd nearly lost their mother, had taken a serious toll on Jake and his two younger siblings. Jake, whom Dane had met earlier that year through the Big Brothers Big Sisters program, started skipping school and neglecting his responsibilities at home. After bailing him out of trouble a third time, Dane got in the boy's face and threatened to have him sent away to a military academy run by an old friend of his—a place that made Guantanamo Bay look like a tropical vacation destination.

The threat worked like a charm.

“Are you sure Mr. Thorne is gonna let me work in his stables?” Jake asked anxiously.

“Of course. I told you, kid, it's already a done deal.” Last night at the dinner party, Dane had made a point of seeking out Wyome, the Native American foreman in charge of hiring all laborers at the ranch. After hearing about the bright, hardworking teenager who could use a part-time job to help support his struggling family and keep himself out of trouble, Wyome had instructed Dane to bring Jake to the ranch the following day so that Tomas could begin training him on how to clean the stables and take care of the horses. Jake had been thrilled at the opportunity to work on a real cattle ranch and couldn't get dressed fast enough. His mother had been overcome with gratitude, while his younger brother and sister had groaned with envy until Dane promised to pick them up one afternoon during their two-week Christmas break and take them horseback riding at the ranch.

“This place is off the chain.” Jake breathed in awe as they approached the sprawling property. “Mr. Thorne must be seriously balling.”

Dane grinned at the slang terms. “Oh, he's balling all right. The man is richer than King Midas.” And probably just as arrogant, he refrained from adding.

After getting Jake situated at the stable with Tomas, who gladly welcomed the extra help as well as the company of another boy his age, Dane accompanied Wyome to the main house for a cup of coffee while he filled out some paperwork.

He was unprepared for the sight that greeted him when they entered the living room.

Seated next to Solange on the sofa was an attractive, clean-shaven man in full dress uniform, the silver oak-leaf cluster on his shoulder identifying his rank as a lieutenant colonel. He was carrying on an animated conversation with Crandall, who sat in an adjacent armchair while Rita, a courteous smile pasted onto her face, occupied a corner of the chintz-covered love seat.

It was a wonder Dane processed any of those minute details when a red haze was slowly settling over his brain. Who the hell was this chump? And, more to the point, why was his hand resting possessively on Solange's knee?

When Crandall glanced up and met his gaze, there was no mistaking the malicious gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. “Ah, Mr. Roarke,” he said smoothly, standing. “You're just in time to meet our special guest.”

There was a sudden flurry of movement as both Solange and Rita lunged to their feet and chorused awkward greetings to him, while the stranger rose more slowly. With his eyes locked on Solange, Dane watched the play of emotions that flitted across her face—embarrassment, annoyance, regret and guilt, the latter of which alarmed him the most.

What did she feel guilty about? Had she done something to feel guilty about?

In a voice like oiled silk, Crandall said, “Dane Roarke, allow me to introduce Lieutenant Colonel Lamar Rogers—Solange's fiancé.”

Solange flushed, seeing the flash of shocked fury in Dane's eyes. “For the last time, Mr. Thorne, we're not engaged,” she said with forced patience.

Lamar looked down at her with a proprietary little smile that set Dane's back teeth on edge. “Not yet, anyway.”

She frowned. “Lamar—”

Ignoring her, he stepped forward to shake Dane's hand. “Nice to meet you, Dane.”

Dane arranged the muscles in his face into a polite smile. “Same here,” he said coolly, resisting the savage urge to crush the other man's smaller hand.

“Lamar was in San Antonio attending the promotion ceremony of a fellow officer,” Crandall took the liberty of explaining. “Afterward he drove all the way out here to see Solange and take her out to lunch. I was just telling him that he's more than welcome to stay at the ranch until he returns home in a few days.”

“And I was just taking him up on his generous offer.” The two men exchanged meaningful smiles, like a pair of coconspirators.

Dane's gut clenched on a fresh wave of fury. He searched Solange's eyes, but this time her impassive expression gave nothing away.

Lamar eyed Dane curiously. “And how are you acquainted with my Solange?”

In more ways than you can ever imagine. And she's not yours, you smug bastard. She's mine!

Crandall interjected, “Dane works at a private-investigation firm owned by my daughter-in-law and her brothers.” His lips curved in a mocking smile. “I made the mistake of allowing him to run the routine background check on Solange when I hired her, and I haven't been able to get rid of him since.”

Lamar laughed, the sound loud and forced. “I'm not surprised. Solange has that effect on members of the opposite sex. Always has.” He curved a possessive arm around her waist, drawing her closer to his side as he smiled into her eyes, which were almost at the same level as his. “I'm so lucky she gave me the time of day when we met at the county fair four years ago. I was wearing this very same uniform. Do you remember, sweetheart? You said I looked like a hero returning home from war.”

And speaking of war, Dane thought darkly, if Lamar Rogers didn't get his damned hand off Solange in the next ten seconds, there was going to be some serious carnage in Thorne's expensively furnished living room.

Seeking to defuse the mounting tension in the air, Rita said with an overly bright smile, “There's no need for Solange and Lamar to eat out for lunch. Gloria always prepares more than enough food for extra guests. Dane, why don't you join us as well?”

Before he could unsnap his tightly clenched jaw to respond, Crandall said airily, “Nonsense, woman! Let the two lovebirds spend some time alone together. They haven't seen each other in almost a year.”

“Yes,” Solange murmured, looking at Lamar. “It
has
been a while. We really need to talk.”

Dane stiffened. Hearing her utter the very same words she'd spoken to him last night, and remembering the way their “talk” had ended, was nearly his undoing.

Lamar smiled warmly at Solange. “You're right. We have a lot of catching up to do. I passed a nice little Italian restaurant on the way up here. Shall we go?”

She nodded quickly. Stealing one last furtive glance at Dane, she slipped her arm through Lamar's proffered one and allowed herself to be escorted from the living room.

Crandall grinned after them. “What a fine couple! Does my heart proud to see young people in love. Ah, Wyome,” he said, as if noticing his foreman standing there for the first time. He draped a companionable arm around the man's broad shoulders. “I'm glad you're here. I wanted to ask you about one of your ranch hands, a hardworking fella by the name of Chavez. I understand he and his wife are expecting their fourth child soon, and I was just wondering if…” His voice receded as he led Wyome out of the room and down the corridor, leaving Rita alone with a quietly seething Dane.

The look she gave him was full of maternal sympathy. “I'm so sorry, baby. He just showed up out of the clear blue, talking about how he drove all the way from Haskell to claim his woman.” She gave a derisive snort. “The whole time he was here, he and Solange hardly spoke three words to each other. He spent more time trying to impress Crandall with all his fancy military credentials than trying to find out why his quote-unquote woman seemed less than pleased to see him.”

Dane could scarcely hear what Rita was saying above the roar of blood pounding in his ears. Maybe if he'd actually heard the last part, he would have felt somewhat comforted. As it was, all he felt was murderous. And sick to his stomach.

Had he been wrong about Solange's feelings for him? Had she merely been passing the time with him until her lieutenant-colonel boyfriend returned to claim her, as he'd put it? After years of cavalierly playing the field, was Dane finally getting his comeuppance—just when he'd found the one?

“…You know I'd love to have your company,” Rita was saying. “Do you want me to set an extra plate at the table for you, baby?”

Dane shook his head. Muttering an apology to the worried woman, he turned and strode purposefully from the house.

H
e got halfway to the carport when he heard the rapid approach of footsteps behind him. He knew who it was even before Crandall opened his mouth and said tersely, “You're not welcome here anymore, Roarke. This is my last warning to you.”

Dane stopped walking, but didn't turn around. When he spoke, his voice was flat and hard. “Go back inside the house, old man. I have nothing more to say to you.”

“Did you just hear what I said? I don't want you hanging around here anymore. Wyome told me about the boy he just hired. I've arranged for him to have transportation to and from the ranch on the days he has to work, so your services won't be needed. Do you understand?”

Dane hesitated, then lifted his shoulder in a careless shrug. “Have it your way, Thorne, but don't expect me to stop seeing Solange.”

“That's
exactly
what I expect you to do.”

Something inside Dane finally snapped. His pride could only take so much battering in one afternoon.

He whirled on Crandall. “What gives you the right to interfere in her personal life?”

Crandall's face was suffused with rage. “I have every right!”

“Says who?” Dane snarled.

“
I
say!”

“Why? Because she's your employee?”

“No, because she's my granddaughter!”

It was the absolute last thing Dane had expected to hear. He staggered back a step, staring at Crandall with a dumbstruck expression. Surely he couldn't have understood him correctly. “Your
what?
”

“You heard me. Solange Washington is my granddaughter.” Crandall looked visibly shaken, as if the admission had shocked him just as much as it had shocked Dane.

“I don't understand,” Dane whispered hoarsely. “How can she be your granddaughter?”

Crandall glanced over his shoulder at the house, as if expecting to find Solange framed in a window, watching them with avid interest.

Turning his back on Dane, he started walking down the gravel path that led away from the house, knowing Dane would follow.

“Forty-three years ago,” he began, his voice pitched low as Dane fell into step beside him, “I cheated on Caleb's mother with a married woman I had loved since my youth. The affair produced a child, a daughter we gave up for adoption to spare our spouses from the pain and humiliation of our betrayal. I'm not proud of the decision we made. It was selfish and downright cowardly, but at the time, it seemed like the best—and only—way to save our marriages. Marriages that, unbeknownst to us, were already beyond salvaging.

“Our daughter, Melanie, grew up in the foster-care system, bounced around from one dysfunctional home to the next. As you might imagine, such an upbringing didn't engender warm, fuzzy feelings about the parents who had once abandoned her. When she turned nineteen, she came looking for us. After tracking down her mother, she still wanted answers. But she had more in mind than seeking closure.”

He paused, and Dane held his breath, instinctively bracing himself for the worst.

He wasn't disappointed.

“She showed up at my house with a gun,” Crandall continued grimly. “She was nearly incoherent with rage, rage over the fact that she'd been forced to fend for herself on the streets while her mother and I were both living in the lap of luxury, as she called it. She threatened to kill me and my wife, then Caleb when he returned home from school. I was terrified—not so much for myself, but for my family. Why should they have to pay for the terrible mistake I'd made so many years ago? I couldn't let that happen. So, while Melanie was distracted, I went for the gun. We struggled, and I…I accidentally shot her.” He swallowed hard. “She died in my arms.”

Dane swore softly under his breath. He thought he'd heard it all, witnessed enough tragedies in his years as an FBI agent to have grown immune to them. He couldn't have been more wrong.

Crandall dragged in an unsteady breath, looking haggard and haunted. “When the police arrived, I told them I didn't know Melanie, that she was an armed intruder who'd forced her way into my home. They accepted my story, and that was the end of it.” A muscle tightened in his jaw. “Until now.”

Dane frowned, dread clenching in his gut. “How do you know Solange is Melanie's daughter?”

“I know.”

“
How
do you know?” Dane barked impatiently.

Crandall turned to him, his face contorted with grief and outrage. “Because I hired a private investigator, and because she looks just like her grandmother!” he roared, spittle flying from his mouth. “And because every time I look at her, damn it, I feel as if God Almighty is playing a cruel joke on me, punishing me for my past sins! Do you have any idea what that's like?
Do you?
”

In the tense, ensuing silence Dane said nothing, staring at Crandall as if he'd never laid eyes on him before. And maybe he hadn't. The man who stood before him bore little resemblance to the brash, arrogant, powerful force of nature Dane had come to know over the last year.
That
Crandall Thorne had never displayed such naked fear and vulnerability. And in that moment, Dane was struck by two jarring realizations. The first was that the woman Crandall had hired to be his personal assistant, the woman Dane had fallen so hard for, was actually the old man's long-lost granddaughter. The second, and perhaps more startling, realization was that Thorne had loved Melanie's mother, loved her with a fierce intensity that sank deep into a man's soul, took root and never, ever let go.

Thanks to Solange, Dane now knew a thing or two about that kind of love.

He said quietly to Crandall, “Who's her father?”

Crandall waved a dismissive hand. “Some lowlife punk Melanie met on the streets when she ran away from one of her foster homes. Last I heard, the man had OD'd on crack.”

Dane closed his eyes for a moment, his heart squeezing painfully at the knowledge that Solange would never have the opportunity to meet her birth parents. The choice had been taken away from her a long, long time ago. “When?”

“When what? When did he die? I don't—”

Dane opened his eyes. “When were you going to tell her the truth about who she really is?”

Crandall flinched uncomfortably at Dane's harsh tone. “I was waiting.”

“For what?”

“For the right time. I had to make sure—”

“What? You had to make sure she was worthy of your love and acceptance?” When Crandall said nothing, Dane stared at him, torn between disbelief and contempt. “How can you be such a heartless bastard? The moment you learned about her existence, your main concern should have been getting to know her, to at least
try
to make amends for what happened in the past!”

Crandall's face twisted with anger. “What happened to her mother that day at my house was an accident! And I didn't share that story with you to have it thrown back in my face, boy!”

They glared at each other for a long, charged moment before Dane, with a snort of disgust, turned and headed back toward the carport.

“Where are you going?” Crandall blustered after him. “We're not finished yet!”

“Oh, yes, we are,” Dane bit off tersely without breaking stride. “I have better things to do with my time, old man.”

“I don't want you talking to Solange! Do you hear me? I don't want you talking to her!”

“Hey, if you won't tell her the truth, I will.”

“Like hell you will!” Crandall hurried to catch up with him. “This is none of your business, Roarke. Stay out of it.”

Dane whirled on him. “I can't, damn it!”

Crandall drew up short, staring at him as if he were seeing a demonic apparition. “My God,” he breathed. “You're in love with her, aren't you?”

Dane averted his gaze, a solitary muscle throbbing in his jaw. He could no more deny the accusation than he could deny what day of the week it was. He was in love with Solange, deeply and irrevocably. And God help him if she didn't feel the same way.

Crandall's mouth tightened with displeasure. “You're no good for her, Roarke. You and I both know it. You're going to break her heart.”

“You don't know the first damn thing about me!” Dane thundered furiously. “How do you know whether or not I'm good enough for Solange? Just because your son happens to be married to my cousin doesn't make you an expert on my character!”

“No, son, years of training and experience make me an expert on your character!” Crandall gave a harsh, mirthless laugh. “I've been around a lot longer than you, Roarke. I've seen your kind. Hell, I've even
been
your kind. Oh, it's not your fault a coldhearted, mercenary woman once betrayed your trust and hurt you. No, don't look surprised, son,” he said when Dane's eyes narrowed. “Of course I know all about your past. I make it my business to know everything about the people who work for me, you know that. My personal contact at the FBI told me you were one of the best and the brightest, an extraordinary agent with a long, promising future ahead of him. Until you let that woman take it all away from you.”

His hard, accusing gaze bored into Dane's. “Are you going to stand there and tell me you're not slowly dying inside, consumed by hatred for her and every other woman who crosses your path? Do you honestly believe you can make my granddaughter happy when you've spent the past two years punishing every female for the treachery of one?
Do you?
”

Dane stared into Crandall's eyes for so long the other man actually glanced away, then took a subtle step backward.

When Dane finally spoke, his voice was low and controlled. “Like I said before, old man, you don't know the first thing about me. I'm not a misogynist. I don't hate women, nor do I go around punishing them in some cruel, twisted attempt to get back at a silly, misguided female from my past. Maybe that's
your
baggage, but it sure as hell ain't mine. Let me assure you that I'm not going to spend the rest of my life regretting my decision to leave the Bureau. As it turns out, I don't have to. When—and if—I ever decide to return, I've been promised the sun, moon and stars on a silver platter, a promise signed in blood by the director himself. As for whether or not I can make your granddaughter happy, I sure as hell intend to try—with or without your permission.” He paused, one corner of his mouth twisting cynically as he shook his head at Crandall. “You're not a psychologist, Thorne. You're a lawyer. So here's my advice to you. Stick to what you know—lying and keeping secrets—and leave the rest to the overpaid shrinks.”

Crandall glared at him, looking as humiliated as if he'd been slapped across the mouth. “I'm going to tell her on Christmas day. I had already decided.” His gaze hardened. “Don't ruin this for me, Roarke.”

“This isn't about you, old man,” Dane growled. “It's about Solange's right to know the truth.” With that, he turned on his heel and stalked off again.

With a muffled oath, Crandall hurried after him. As he neared Dane's shadow, he reached out, seizing Dane's shoulder to halt his steps.

Dane jerked violently away, fists balled at his sides, half praying he wouldn't be forced to thump Daniela's father-in-law on his own property. Good God. Hadn't he just reminded young Jake Tarrant to respect his elders?

Veins throbbed visibly in Crandall's temple, his face was flushed bright red and his nostrils flared as he struggled to catch his breath. If Dane hadn't been so incensed, he would have felt an actual twinge of alarm. Crandall Thorne had always been such an imposing figure—the picture of robust health and virility—that it was easy to forget he was a sixty-six-year-old man who'd suffered a major health crisis four years ago.

“Are you all right?” Dane asked through gritted teeth, his temper cooling to a slow simmer.

Crandall nodded quickly, looking slightly embarrassed. “Just a little winded,” he admitted. “I'm not a young man anymore. I can't keep up with you when you storm off like that.”

Dane felt an annoying pang of guilt. “You should go back to the house. You need to rest.”

Crandall glowered at him. “Don't you dare treat me like an invalid, boy. And I'm not going anywhere until we've settled this matter. I'm asking you to give me a chance to tell Solange the truth. It should come from me, not you or anyone else.”

Dane frowned. “That may be true, but do you really think it's a good idea to wait until Christmas?”

“I've waited this long. Twenty-four years, to be exact. What difference does fifteen more days make?”

Dane swore savagely. “
Twenty-four years?
You've known you had a granddaughter for
twenty-four years
and you did absolutely nothing about it?” he demanded incredulously.

Crandall grimaced. “She was healthy, she was happy. Her parents adored her. What more could I do for her?”