Lovers' Lies (3 page)

Nailed it in one. Running scared?

Too right, she was running scared.

Her relaxing weekend had now assumed the aura of a waking nightmare.
 

With brutal efficiency, she shortened the stems of the remaining flowers and dropped them on the table, an artless sprawl fading into insignificance—as Logan, and his incessant proposals, faded into insignificance.

A nervous laugh escaped.

How would Muriel view her creation?
 

Victoria shrugged. Muriel was the least of her worries.
 

The burst of creativity allowed logic to kick in.

Logan had no reason to mention Connor. And, unless she let it slip, how could Keir Donovan suspect she'd borne his son?

One glance at the clock and she was scurrying to get ready for dinner—it would never do to be late.

But Seth's sudden reappearance in her life had yanked open that closet door and let the memories tumble out—and persistent little buggers that they were, they resisted every effort to shove them back—

Her father’s insistence she spend the summer with her uncle before taking up the lucrative scholarship to Otago University. A holiday when she was so worried over her mother’s illness?
 

Even now, a sick feeling invaded her gut.

She winced, hand stilled, hairbrush halfway down a hank of thigh length hair.

Her father had flat-out lied to her.

He'd robbed her of the chance to say goodbye to her mother—she'd never forgiven him. He'd had no right to keep her in ignorance of the facts
.

The only good thing to come out of that holiday, the one thing she could never regret, was Connor. His arrival may have forced her to make choices, but the joy he gave her, far outweighed every sacrifice.

And yet some questions still niggled.

Why had her uncle warned her away from the men and yet encouraged her to spend time with Seth? How had he won her uncle over?

She’d spent every waking hour with Seth.

He’d comforted her anxiety over her mother, soothed her bitter complaints at her father’s rigid rules—and he'd become her first lover.

Victoria closed her eyes—God she remembered every detail—the pungent odor of sand and salt wrack—the musky scent of Seth’s sun-warmed skin with its hint of mint—the sharp fragrance of crimson pohutukawa petals crushed under their naked bodies—.The clarity of recall sent shivers cascading across her skin.

And he ruined me for any other man.

On that last day she’d been too content to worry over his uncharacteristic silence—. The nimble fingers plaiting her hair, stilled.

Did he regret his deception? Or is that my wishful thinking?

With jerky movements she twisted her hair into a coronet, securing it with a beaten copper pin.

She'd never blamed Seth for her pregnancy; no birth control was foolproof.

It was the aftermath she struggled with.

Pregnant and desperate to find Seth, she’d gone to her uncle. He insisted he didn’t know Seth Donahue or how to contact his friends.

And I always suspected he’d lied. Now I'm sure of it.

Had Seth leaned on her uncle to deny him? Or, given his wealth, greased her uncle’s palm?

No longer naïve or eighteen, she knew men hid base motives behind wealth. In her business she saw far too many such men.
 

She'd never pegged Seth as being one of them.

Would he believe Connor was his son?

She dismissed that thought out of hand.

Connor was a miniature of his father.

Her greater fear was Donovan trying to claim custody.
Victorian Grace
earned her a good living, but paled into insignificance when measured against Donovan wealth.

Now at school, Connor was feeling the absence of a father. And a bond with his father was Connor's birthright, a right Victoria could not deny him.

Seth could never blame her for not telling him she was pregnant. But now fate and Logan had thrown them together, she no longer had that defense.

"Keir. Keir!
Keir!"
She smacked her forehead with an open palm. "The man’s name is Keir."

And Keir Donovan had the right to know he’d fathered a son.

But not while we're guests at Darkhaven, under his father’s roof, Victoria decided.
She
would choose the time and place for that conversation.
 

And having made that decision¸ some of the weight rolled off her shoulders.

She studied her reflection in an ornately carved antique cheval mirror.

The silk jersey gown outlined every curve, flaring below the hips in a demure swirl that showed off her legs and ankles.

Seth had always appreciated her legs.

Designed by An'Ville, a young up-and-coming Hamilton designer, the gown was a birthday gift from her father and Daphne.
 

Victoria took a trembling breath.

Daphne was the best thing to happen to the Scanlan family. Strong and forceful, she stood up to Andrew, and forced him to treat Victoria, and her decisions over Connor, with respect.

And it was Daphne who insisted Victoria leave Connor with them so she could enjoy a rare weekend of congenial adult company.

A choked laugh escaped.
Congenial? Not likely!

It boosted Victoria's flagging morale to know she was appropriately dressed for the company at Darkhaven.

Old gold, the gown accentuated her sugar brown hair and darkened her eyes to topaz.
 

She cinched a plaited kidskin belt with a beaten bronze buckle at her waist. Chunky beaten copper earrings and bracelet, bronze lip gloss and eye shadow heightened the effect.
 

Pagan!

As pagan as the primitive emotions at war in her breast.

The discovery that the rich and powerful Keir Donovan was her Seth Donahue was one curve ball she'd never expected.
 

A tap on the door brought her spinning around, heart jerking in panic against her ribs.

"Come in."

Keir entered, closed the door, leaned against it and raked her from head to toe with those disturbing eyes.

"Why are you here?" How could her voice sound so normal when her heart jumped in her chest like a terrified jackrabbit?

"I need to talk to you. Alone." He levered himself away from the door and walked across the carpet, as predatory as a jungle cat. "Where has the innocent little virgin gone?"

"She grew up." Pride kept her chin high, gaze steady.

She was no longer an infatuated girl smitten dumb in his presence.

She was a woman.

A mother of a five-year-old son—
this man’s son—
and that was a detail she couldn’t afford to forget for one single moment.

"Into a beautiful woman," he murmured.
 

Victoria was only human, and warmed to the compliment.
 

"My brother’s woman."

Her pleasure evaporated at the acid rider. She needed to squash this misapprehension. Now.

"Logan and I are friends. Where did Seth Donahue disappear to?"

Satisfaction stabbed her when color seeped up under his tan, his lips thinned, dark eyes grew wary. "I had my reasons. Why are you here at Darkhaven?"

She faked a smile. "Would you believe I intended to quote on the flowers for your wedding?"

The moment the words escaped she wanted to claw them back.
 

He broke the explosive silence. "I’m sure Davina would welcome my ex-lover, an amateur, messing with
her
wedding."

"Amateur?" His attack hit her most vulnerable spot.

Her decision to forge a career in floristry and not take up a lucrative scholarship had caused a rift with her father, a rift that had never quite healed.

That damn closet door jacked open a little more allowing a knife stab of pain to escape. Hurt made her come out fighting.

"I’m no amateur, Keir. Nor does
Victorian Grace
produce unprofessional work."

She stalked across the room, extracted an album from her satchel, opened it at a full page spread and slammed it on the dark green counterpane.

It was a photo spread of a recent medieval themed wedding she'd created the floral displays for, displays that had earned her business huge kudos. "Explain to me what is substandard in this?"
 

He looked at the photos and held up both hands in surrender. "Okay. Okay. I apologize."

Barely mollified, she looked from the photo spread to the man who’d grossly deceived her. Anger and resentment bubbled in an unholy mix.
How dare he deride my work? Who I am?

A mere apology didn't cut it.

The need to hurt him as he'd hurt her left her shocked.
 

She smiled at him, a fake, sickly sweet effort.
 

"Besides, Keir, if you omitted all former sexual partners from the wedding would there be enough people left to do the catering?"

Velvet brown eyes narrowed to an angry glitter. A small muscle flexed in his jaw. "You're so funny. Cut the subterfuge. Are you here for revenge?"

"Revenge?" She echoed, suddenly very wary. Just what was he implying?

"Don't tell me you've forgotten."

His mockery hurt. Was she the only one who thought they’d shared something very special?

"You are so very forgettable." Her voice dripped disdain.
 

She didn’t think it possible but his expression grew even harder. The grooves in his face deepened and one hand clenched into a white knuckled fist.
 

"Does Logan know you've been my lover?"
 

The harsh demand had her inhaling a shaken breath. They were so close she caught the faint scent of mint, and the sexy, evocative essence of Seth.

A once familiar scent she'd never forgotten.

"Hardly!"

Her presence, she realized with clear incipience, had him rattled. That knowledge boosted her confidence. She wasn’t the only one in a panic over this
very
unexpected meeting.

The ticking of the wall clock was suddenly very loud in the tense silence.

"Don't be tempted to cause trouble," he warned softly, a muscle pulsing near his mouth. "If I hurt you that summer, I'm sorry."

Rage and bewilderment tore a hole in her heart. How could he not know he’d hurt her?
 

"How exceedingly noble."

Her sarcasm sent color up under his tan, and a fleeting expression—of guilt? "Don't use my sins to hurt Logan."

"I would never hurt your brother." The implication sank claws into her soul.
 

"You already have." He cut across her angry words. "He's in love with you."

Too late, every doubt ever she’d entertained over the wisdom of this visit, surfaced. It would be an easy out, but she refused to pretend she loved his brother.
 

"That’s rich, coming from a family who wants Logan to marry and cement a financial merger. I've told Logan I won't marry him."
 

"Then why in hell are you here?" He raked a hand through his hair, eyes wide and incredulous. He picked up a comb off the dresser, bending it between long supple fingers.
 

"Because I was invited," she said sticking close to the truth. "As Logan’s guest."

 
She’d long ago learned lies returned to bite you. Loyalty dictated she not betray Logan. The dark head lifted, patrician nostrils flared. He flung the comb down.
 

"It would be better if you made some excuse to leave."
 

"Better for whom?" she asked sweetly. "You? Your adoring fiancée? Your oh, so charming stepmother?"
 

Something hot, feral and dangerous flashed in his dark eyes. "There is nothing charming about Muriel. Forget that at your peril."

His unwitting confirmation of her suspicion added yet another layer to her misgivings.

"You mean she doesn’t pander to your ego? How devastating for you," she mocked, adding with crushing sarcasm. "Did you get a thrill from taking my virginity,
Keir?
Was that the reason for the bogus name?"

Fierce emotion flared in his dark eyes. "Nothing about that holiday gives me pleasure."

The breath caught in her chest, the sensation akin to physical pain. "Would your fiancée, or father, be so understanding?"

He caught her shoulders and she winced. "Is that what you’re about? Blackmail?"

The ugly accusation settled like a boulder in her gut. She yanked free of his hold. Was this the same man she’d loved? The man who fathered her child?
 

"Not likely!"