A Treasure Worth Seeking (15 page)

"I kept an eye on her, Mr. Stanton," Lance said laconi-cally. "I was up most of the night myself."

The double entendre was so blatant that Erin didn't think Bart could help but catch it. She closed her eyes in mortification.

Apparently Bart hadn't heard Lance's suggestive words with a guilty ear as she had. He was saying, "Sugar, you look plumb tuckered out. Are you sure you're okay?"

She opened her eyes to see him leaning over her with concern stamped across his weather-creased face. "Yes," she stammered shakily. "I'm just a little tired."

"Now that Melanie is gone, there's no reason for you to stick around, is there?" he questioned her softly.

She looked at Lance, whose composed, insouciant pos-ture hadn't changed. Yet she noticed that the muscles of his body were bunched with tension. Raising her eyes to his, she searched them deeply for some sign of the tenderness she had read in them before. There was none. They were cold and impersonal and as impenetrable as a metal shield between them.

She couldn't leave now! She had to know what he was thinking. Last night had been heaven to both of them. It had to have been as earth-moving to him as it had been to her. He couldn't have pretended that convincingly. If she left now, she would never know.

"Bart, I—" she started.

"Where's your ring?"

Bart had taken her hand and noticed immediately the absence of the large diamond ring. Erin looked up at him wordlessly, grasping for an answer. It came from another source.

"She took it off because of me."

She and Bart turned their heads in unison and stared at Lance. He was looking directly at Erin. Was he going to tell Bart about them? Yes! It would be cruel, but it would be clean. He was going to declare his love for her openly.

Her heart burst with gratitude.

But as she studied him expectantly, she noticed that the eyes fixed on hers weren't warm and soft with love, but cold with . . . what? Challenge? He waited for a long while before his lips curled with disdain, then he looked at Bart.

"Since we didn't know at first all the ramifications of Mr.

Lyman's crime, I thought it best that the ladies not wear such valuable jewelry. I requested that Miss O'Shea take off the ring for her own protection."

It was an outrageous lie, but Bart seemed to consider the prevarication feasible. "Oh, I see. Thank you, Mr.

Barrett." He turned to face Erin who, in her frozen state, looked like a pillar of salt. "How long will it take you to pack your things?"

She looked at Lance once again, but he was staring at the floor beneath his shiny shoes. He wasn't prepared to tell Bart anything. His only intention was to hurl veiled insults at her that mocked Bart, to make her feel humiliated and ashamed over what she had done out of love. His derision announced her betrayal of Bart like blaring trum-pets in her head.

Lance raised his head then and looked at her. Her heart twisted with pain as she met the implacable eyes that told her clearly their shared intimacies had meant nothing more to him than a diversion.

She hung her head and mumbled, "I won't be long," as she climbed the stairs with leaden legs.

She never remembered packing her bags and checking the guest bedroom for articles left behind. She did recall retrieving her ring from the jewelry case and slipping it on her finger. She hadn't changed her mind about Bart. She could never marry him, but she would tell him later.

Later. Not now. The ring weighed her down like an iron collar around her neck.

Her next conscious thought caught up with her as she stood once again at the front door. Bart was saying, "I took a cab from the airport. We'll drive your rented car back and turn it in before meeting Jim."

"Yes," she said passively, not caring if she had to walk to Houston.

"Here, sugar, let me put these in the car for you."

He went down the concrete steps with her bags, and she was left alone with Lance and Mike in the entrance hall.

"Good-bye, Mike," she said, realizing that she had never known his last name.

"Miss O'Shea." He inclined his head in a brief nod.

Lance came toward her with sauntering grace. He took her hand. His lip was lifted at one corner in a knowing smirk. "Miss O'Shea, I can't tell you what a pleasure it has been . . . knowing you." His eyes sought out the intimate places of her body that his hands and lips had learned so well.

It was the height of insults and she jerked her hand away from his. She glared at him with pure venom before she spun on her heel and marched out the door to the waiting car.

Lance didn't shut the door right away. He watched until the white Mercedes had disappeared around the corner. Then he collapsed against the wall. His anguished cry came straight from the pit of hell. "God, no, please. No!

How can I stand it?"

Mike saw the blue eyes squeezed shut in an expression of incredible agony, the bared teeth, and the balled fists raised to vein-rippled temples. He mistakenly thought his boss was referring to the arrival of Mrs. Lyman's parents, who were imperiously making their way toward the front door.

THE LIGHT ON THE
intercom lit up, and the buzzer sounded. Picking up the receiver, Erin said, "Yes, Betty?"

"That gal from the Boutique Four in Tulsa is on the line again. This is the fourth time this week she's called asking about the possibility of a trunk show with Bill Blass's holiday line."

Erin rubbed her throbbing forehead in agitation. "Then for the fourth time this week tell her that Mr. Blass is in Europe and I can't talk to him about it until he gets back."

She was immediately sorry for her nasty retort and, taking a deep breath, said, "I'm sorry, Betty."

"No need to apologize. Don't you feel well today?"

"A little weary," she admitted.

"Why don't you lie down for a while?"

"No. I have too much to do."

"Okay," Betty said without conviction. "While I've got you on the line, Lester called and begged that he be able to take someone with him to the show at Walsh's in Al-buquerque. It's an overnight trip and he says he'll kill himself if he can't take his live-in along."

Lester was one of the male models that Erin frequently used in her style shows. "Is the live-in male or female?"

Betty said, chuckling, "You know Lester."

"Then tell him he'll just have to kill himself. The Wal-shes are very conservative and very straight and very rich, and I need to hold on to that account. We can't jeopardize it. The live-in, male or female, stays at home."

"I'd already told him to load the pistol, but I promised to ask."

Erin laughed, silently thanking Betty for injecting a little levity into this depressing day. "Thanks, Betty, you're a real friend."

"You bet I am. Excuse me now. I have to get back to that broad in Tulsa. If you need anything, holler." She clicked off her line and Erin leaned back in her deep leather chair. ,

The yielding cushions suffocated her, however, and she stood up and walked to the window. She stared out at the Houston skyline, bathed in a hot, watery glare from a humid sky. This was a terrible climate to be in during July.

The heat was oppressive, the humidity was cloying, and the air was thick. One couldn't breathe.

Especially if she were five months pregnant.

Unconsciously Erin rubbed her hand over her stomach which was still flat by most standards. Never having had any tummy at all, she felt like it was enormous. She could still fit into most of her regular clothes, but she had pre-ferred to start wearing loose-fitting dresses.

As to everything these days, she was apathetic to her lovely surroundings. Her office was decorated in ivory, teal, and peach. The gracious setting, decorated in such good taste, was intended to impress clients, which it never failed to do.

Ironically, today her dress matched her decor. It was a soft voile print that picked up the colors of the room.

Albert Nipon hadn't intended it to be a maternity dress, but it served that purpose. It buttoned down one side, over the breast. The bodice was pleated and fell into a graceful skirt beyond where a waistline would be.

The pregnancy had cost her very little discomfort, she conceded. There was always that annoying feeling of being stuffed full even when she was hungry. The doctor said that was because she was normally so thin. She had suffered through a few weeks of morning sickness, but a tiny yellow tablet before breakfast had helped. She was very cautious now about the medication she took. Ever since San . . .

It mattered not how it got there, her mind always came back to that. To San Francisco. To Lance Barrett. To the hateful and cruelly amused expression he wore that last time she had seen him before she left with Bart.

Bart. Dear Bart. Why must he have been hurt? She could remember the day she had quietly returned the ostentatious engagement ring to him.

"What's this?" he had asked, staring down at the ring stupidly.

"I can't marry you, Bart," she said simply.

He had shaken his large, burly head as if to clear it.

"What do you mean, Erin? Why?"

"Because I'm pregnant."

He had stared at her through uncomprehending eyes.

She could have been speaking a language he didn't understand. Finally he blinked and closed his mouth, which was hanging slack. "Pregnant?" he asked.

"Yes."

She watched as his stupification gradually turned to understanding, then changed to anger. "Pregnant!?" This time the word was a shouted accusation. "How? Who?"

Before she could form an explanation, he demanded, "An-swer me, damn you."

She met his accusing eyes calmly. Her hands, clasped tightly in her lap, were the only concession to the trembling fear she felt for this bear whose ire had been raised.

"It doesn't matter, Bart. The baby is mine. No one else's."

"Don't play coy with me, you bitch. It takes two to make a baby. Even this ol' redneck, who you must think is really dense, knows that." He gripped her arms hard.

"Who was the man, because, by God, I know it wasn't me!

And it wasn't for lack of trying!"

"Bart, please," she begged, "you're hurting me."

He looked down at the white knuckles of his hands that gripped her delicate arms. "I'm sorry," he muttered. He released her immediately and stood up. He paced the length of the sofa in her living room several times before he stopped in front of her and said, "It was Barrett, wasn't it?"

Her eyes flew to him in surprise. How had he known?

It was useless to lie. "Yes," she said quietly.

"Dammit!" he cursed, slamming his meaty fist into the palm of his hand. "I'll kill that bastard. Did he rape you?

If he hurt you—"

She shook her head vehemently. "No. It wasn't rape."

Her denial doused his impetus. Quieter, more calmly, he asked hopefully, pathetically, "Did he seduce you, sugar? You couldn't help yourself. Is that it, honey?"

Tears streamed down her face, but she looked up at him and answered honestly, "No, Bart. I knew exactly what I was doing."

The massive shoulders slumped in rejection and dejection. He put his hands in his pockets. "I see," was all he said. They were quiet for long moments. Erin cried softly.

"I guess the sonofabitch refuses to marry you. Worth-less scum. You say the word, Erin, and I'll have Mr.

Barrett taken care of. I know the people to call. He'll be snuffed out so quick—"

Erin catapulted off the couch and grasped him by the shoulders, shaking him frantically. Her face was wet with tears. "No!" she shrieked. "No. Don't you dare hurt him.

Say you won't. God! He's not to be hurt." She collapsed against him as Bart put protective arms around her and patted her on the back.

Soothingly he said, "Shhh. Honey, calm down. I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to." With a certain fear in his voice he asked, "Are you okay now?"

Bart Stanton, the terror of boardrooms, was intimidated by no one or nothing. But an hysterical woman reduced him to mush.

She pushed away from him and nodded. "Yes," she sniffed. Raising swimming eyes, she said, "Bart, he doesn't even know. Promise me you won't tell him or hurt him in any way."

He looked at her with that shrewd scrutiny that had earned him his reputation. "So that's the way it is," he said slowly. "You love him, don't you?"

"Yes," she said without shyness or hesitation.

He went to the wi
ndow and stared out at her tree
shaded lawn. A panoply of early spring spread out before him. Everything was lush and green, verdant, fecund. The thought sickened him as he said, "I know how you feel about your religion and all, but maybe it would be better, all things considered, if you had an . . . uh . . . operation."

She smiled at his cowardice over saying a word. She shook her head with a sad little smile. "No, Bart. It's not just because of my religion. It's me. I could never do that."

"You won't give it up for adoption." It wasn't a question. He already knew that answer.