The Tycoon's Bought Fiancée (20 page)

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Authors: Sandra Marton

BOOK: The Tycoon's Bought Fiancée
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“What does it look like I'm doing?” He yanked a sweatshirt from a drawer and tugged it over his head. “I'm getting dressed.”
“No, David. It isn't necessary.”
He looked at her. “I'm not going to let you go out, alone, in the middle of the night”
“I'll be fine. I'll call a cab.”
“I can drive you wherever it is you're going.”
“No!” She thought of Paul, as he would be now, knowing how much worse things could get if he were to be upset. “No, David, really. You don't have to.”
“I know that. I
want
to go with you.”
“But
I
don't want you with me!” The words fell between them like stones. Stephanie caught her breath. “David. I didn't mean that the way it sounded.”
“You'll find the number of a cab company programmed into the phone downstairs,” he said coldly. Then he walked into the bathroom, and shut the door.

* * *

The motel looked like a set from a cheap movie.
Paul was in the last room. He lay in bed, under the covers, with his arm over his eyes, and he was as bad as she'd ever seen him. His clothing lay discarded on the floor.
“Paul?” she said softly.
He didn't respond. She sighed, shut the door behind her, and went to him. She knew what to do. She'd sit beside him, cradle him in her arms, tell him how much she loved him and hope against hope that her words would sink in…and that, when she explained, David would understand. She thought of how he'd looked at her and a shudder racked her body.
She would not lose David. She could not lose him, and it hadn't a damn thing to do with needing money, or what he'd miraculously made her feel in bed.
It was time to admit the truth. She was in love with David, and she could only hope that he might love her, too, someday.

* * *

David paced up and down his living room.
What in hell did Stephanie think she was doing? Going off in the middle of the night to see her sick brother? Telling him, hell,
shrieking
at him, that she didn't want him to go with her?
If it was a brother, he thought grimly.
For all he knew, Jack was right. There was no brother. There was a man, yeah, but not one related to her. It would explain so much. So much. The reason she needed money, that she'd tolerated Willingham's abuse…
That she was so good, so incredibly good, in bed.
David stopped pacing. He felt cold, as if the marrow of his bones were turning to ice. Women lied. Krissie had taught him that. They were faithless. Krissie had taught him that, too.
But Krissie, at least, hadn't married a man for money.
Why hadn't he asked Nolan to check on Stephanie before this? He needed something to go on…
And then he remembered. She had scrawled something on the notepad.
He ran up the stairs, snatched up the pad. The impression left by the pencil was deep and clear. David read it, and the coldness seeped away. Rage, white-hot and glowing, replaced it.
“Damn you, Stephanie,” he whispered.
And then he was out of the house, in his Porsche, roaring toward the Elmsview Motel.

* * *

“Paul,” Stephanie said. “Paul, please, can you hear me?”
She shifted closer to her brother, lifted his head and cradled it against her shoulder. “Please, Paul. Talk to me.”
Paul made a strangled sound. He rolled over, clutched her tightly and buried his face in her breast.
“Oh, Paul,” she said softly. She bent her head, kissed his hair. “Darling, I love you. You know I do. No matter what happens, I'll always be here for you. I love you, Paul. I love…”
The door slammed against the wall, and the stink of the highway suddenly filled the room. Stephanie turned quickly and saw David standing in the doorway.
“David? David, what are you doing here?”
His gaze swept over the room, taking in the discarded clothing, the rumpled bed, the man in her arms. Something hot and dark twisted inside him.
“Such a trite question, Scarlett. At least I don't have to ask it of you. We both know what
you're
doing here.”
“No. Whatever you're thinking…”
David's hands knotted into fists. The man, the scurvy bastard, had barely moved. The urge to stride across the room, drag Stephanie from the bed by the scruff of her lying neck, beat the crap out of her lover, roared through him like a tidal wave. But, if he did, he'd never stop. He'd beat her lover until he was a bloody pulp, and then he'd turn on Stephanie and he'—he'd…
God, oh, God. what did you do when the woman you loved tore out your heart?
He blinked hard, forcing the red haze to clear from his eyes.
“Not to worry, Scarlett.” From somewhere, he dredged up a smile. “We were both playing games. You just got careless before I did, that's all.”
Her face, her lovely face, became even paler than it already was.
“What games?”
He laughed. “You didn't really think I was going to marry you, did you? Hey, a man will do a lot of things to get a woman into his bed, but marry her? Not me, baby. I'm not a fool like Willingham.”
She recoiled, as if she'd been struck. He turned on his heel, victorious, and strode from the sleazy little room, telling himself he'd forever remember this moment.
But it wasn't true. He got into his car, shut the door and pounded his fists against the steering wheel while the tears coursed down his face, knowing that what he'd always remember was the agony of Stephanie's betrayal.
It would be with him for the rest of his life.
CHAPTER TWELVE
T
HERE was no place on earth as beautiful as Wyoming in June. David had always thought so, even when he was a kid growing up in a clapboard shack in a cowtown slum.
He'd come a long way since then, a hell of a long way. The thought brought a smile to his face for the first time in days, but then, he'd almost always found something to make him smile, when he was up here, on the ridge that overlooked the Bar C Ranch.
Night was coming. Purple shadows were already stretching their long fingers over the mountains. A red-tailed hawk, still seeking his dinner, drifted on silent wings across the canyon.
David's horse snorted and danced sideways with impatience. He reached forward and patted the velvet-soft neck.
“Easy, boy,” he said softly.
The horse had had enough of sunsets. And so had he. It was getting him nowhere, sitting on this damned bluff every evening, watching the mountains and the hawk…and imagining.
He frowned, tugged at the reins, and turned for the trail that led down to the valley, and home.
“Stupid.” he muttered.
Stupid was the word. What else could you call a man who'd been lucky enough to avoid disaster by the thinnest margin, who'd come within a whisper of tying himself to a woman who lied and cheated as easily as some people breathed? What was such a man, if not stupid, when he ended up thinking about her, remembering each detail of her face, instead of being forever grateful he'd gotten away with his skin intact?
There was no reason to think about Stephanie anymore. She was out of his life, and he was thankful for it.
“Thank heavens you came to your senses,” Jack had said when David had brusquely informed him that the wedding was off, and he hadn't argued. Jack was right.
Then, why couldn't he get her out of his head?
It was almost dark now. His horse knew the trail well but still, the animal's ears were pricked forward and he made his way with care. That was fine. David was in no rush to get back to the house. His housekeeper would have supper waiting, he'd go through the charade of telling her how fine the meal was, move the stuff around on his plate a little so it looked as if he'd done more than pick at it, and then he'd go sit in the parlor, build a fire to ward off the chill that still settled on the mountains, even in June. He'd read, or work on some legal stuff he'd brought with him…pretend to read, or work, to be accurate. And then he'd look at the clock, tell himself it was time for bed, and go upstairs, alone, to toss and turn in the big canopied bed where he'd once imagined himself lying with Stephanie in his arms.
David frowned. Where in hell had that bit of nonsense come from? He'd never even thought of bringing her here. She wasn't the outdoors type—was she? He really didn't know. And, dammit, he really didn't care.
Why didn't he stop thinking about her?
His horse whinnied and David realized they'd come out of the trees. Dusk had settled over the valley. The house, nestled against the spectacular mountain backdrop, looked cozy and warm. It had the look and feel he'd always thought a home should have, even years ago, when he'd only been able to dream about living in a place like this.
He couldn't recall much about the house where he'd been born. His folks had been poor, they'd died when he was just a little kid and he'd gone to live in a foster home where the man he was ordered to address as “Dad” thought beatings and poverty were necessary for the good of the soul. That house he could remember with utmost clarity. The rooms had been uniformly gray, but neither the surroundings nor the people had been able to ruin the view.
The view had been David's salvation.
If you scrambled up the drainpipe to the flat roof, you could see past the streets and the clutter to the mountains. He'd spent a lot of time on that roof, looking at the mountains, telling himself that someday he'd live up there, in a place where you could almost reach up and touch the sky. It had seemed an impossible dream but he was living proof that dreams could, indeed, come true. Everything here was his. The valley, the house, the mountains—all of it.
Luck, hard work, a combination of things had secured him this existence. The football scholarship had come first, then an academic scholarship to Yale Law, and, at last, a career he loved. So he'd had a failed marriage along the way. Those things happened to lots of people. He'd been bitter, but he'd survived. And, until a couple of weeks ago, he'd figured he had everything a man could possibly want in life.
Now, he knew better.
What he needed was someone to share all this with. No. Not someone.
Stephanie.
David's jaw tightened. That was crazy. He didn't need her. Why would he?
It infuriated him, that he should even think of her. What a time she must have had, not to have collapsed with laughter when he'd asked her if she had any acting experience. Experience? She had enough to open her own drama school. She'd spent her years with Willingham at stage center. As for the short time she'd spent with him…damn, but she'd outdone any performance he'd ever watched on the Broadway stage.
It wasn't as if he'd really loved her. Oh, sure, he'd been infatuated. He'd even sat outside that fleabag motel, convinced he'd never get over her, but he had. It didn't hurt to think about her anymore. What thinking about her did was make him angry.
“Angry as hell,” he said, and the horse danced nervously again.
No man liked to be played for a fool, and that was exactly what Stephanie had done to him.
He'd admitted that to Jack.
“She played me for a fool,” he'd said over a threebourbon lunch.
Jack had sighed and shaken his head; he'd looked down into his drink and over the heads of the diners at the next table, anywhere but at David, and he'd said, in a voice that could have rung with self-righteous satisfaction but didn't, “I tried to warn you, David.”
Yes. Oh, yes. Jack had tried to warn him, but he'd been so sure. So convinced. So damn positive he'd found…
What?
What had he thought he'd found? An honest woman? Stephanie had never been that. A woman with simple tastes? No way. A woman who loved him? Absolutely not. Well, that was something, wasn't it? She hadn't ever claimed to love him. And a good thing, too, because he'd have called her on it. He'd have known she was handing him a load of crap because a woman who loved a man didn't lie, didn't cheat, didn't weep crocodile tears.
It was just that he couldn't forget. Her laugh. Her smile. The way she'd get that glint in her eye and stand up to him, no matter what…
The way she whispered his name when they made love, in a voice hushed with emotion. The way she returned his kisses. The way she curled into him when she slept, with her head on his shoulder and her arm across his chest, as if she never wanted to let him go…
“Dammit,” he snarled.
Startled, the horse reared up on its hind legs. When its hooves touched the ground, David dug in his heels and leaned forward. He knew better than to hope he could leave his memories behind, but maybe, if he was lucky, he could ride and ride and ride, until he was just too tired to think anymore.

* * *

Riding helped.
So did working hard every day, from sunrise until sunset. He knew his men were asking each other questions behind his back. Even his foreman, who knew him as well as anybody and knew, too, that he'd always worked as hard as any of the hands, started looking at him strangely.
Nobody would ask him any questions, though, partly because he was the boss, mostly because you just didn't do that. In the West, a man's thoughts were his own. And that was just as well, David told himself as he sweated over what had to be his millionth fence posthole of the afternoon, because anybody getting a look at what he was thinking would have run for cover.
Why had he ever gone to the Cooper wedding? Why had he sat at table seven? Why had he let Jack talk him into going to Georgia?
Because he was an idiot, that was why. David grunted and jammed the digger into the soil. Because he was an unmitigated, unrepentant ass, that was why.
“David?”
He looked up. His foreman was standing in front of him, his hands on his hips.
“What?” he snapped.
“You have a phone call.” The foreman looked down at the ground, then up at David. “You're also about to dig that next hole right through your foot.”
David looked at the posthole digger, then at his boot. He cursed, tossed the digger aside and wiped the sweat out of his eyes.
“I'm not in such a great mood lately,” he said.
His foreman raised his eyebrows. “Do tell.”
The two men looked at each other.
“I guess it shows.”
“Nah.”
His foreman grinned. David smiled back.
“Thanks for the message,” he said.
The foreman nodded. “Sure.” He watched his boss stride toward the house. Then he sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and headed back to the barns.

* * *

The house was cool and quiet David nodded to his housekeeper and signaled that he'd take the call in the library. He shut the door after him, took the phone from the desk, and put it to his ear.
“This had better be good, Jack,” he said.
He heard his partner laugh.
“That's quite a greeting, David. How could you be so sure it's me?”
“No one else would be foolhardy enough to call me here.” David cocked a hip against the edge of his desk. “What do you want, Jack? I told you, when I left, that I was going to take a few weeks off.”
“I know, but…” Jack cleared his throat. “I thought you might want to hear this.”
“Hear what? The only open file I've got is that Palmer thing, and I explained—”
“It's not about the office, David.” Jack cleared his throat again. “It's about the Willingham woman.”
David's heart dropped. “What about her? Has something happened to her? Is she—”
“No, no, it's not about her. Not exactly. It's…the report came in.”
“What report?”
“The one from Dan Nolan. You asked him to do a check on her, remember?”
David closed his eyes. A sharp pain lanced just behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I remember. Listen, do me a favor, Jack. Burn it.”
“Well, I was going to, David. But then Dan phoned, and he said some things…”
“What things?”
“Look, I think you might be interested in what be found out.”
“Yeah, well, I'm not. Just take the report and—”
“I sent it out this morning, David. By courier.”
David sighed. “No problem. I'll chuck it out when it arrives.”

* * *

But he didn't.
The report arrived early the next morning. David took it into the library, along with a mug of black coffee. He sat down at his desk, tilted back his chair, put his feet up and studied the envelope as it lay on his desk. Then he sat up straight, drank the coffee, and squared the edge of the envelope with the edge of the desk. It was a standard number nine tan manila envelope, no different than a thousand other envelopes…
He dreaded opening it.
“Dammit, Chambers, stop being a jerk.”
He moved quickly, grabbing the envelope and ripping it open. A slim white folder was inside. Dan's letter was attached but he ignored it, looked at the folder and took a deep breath.
There it was, waiting for him. The story of Stephanie's life. Not as many pages as he'd have figured, but quantity wasn't everything, quality was.
His smile was bittersweet.
Read it, he told himself, and put an end to thinking about her. He took another deep breath.
“‘And the truth shall set you free,'” he murmured.
He opened the folder.
An hour later, he sat with the pages of the report scattered on the desktop.
“Oh, Scarlett,” he whispered. “Scarlett, my love.”
By midday, he was seated in the cockpit of a chartered plane, headed for Willingham Corners, Georgia. The pilot, a man he'd known most of his adult life, chattered on and on about the world and the weather, but all David could think about was Stephanie, and how much he loved her…
And how badly he had failed her.

* * *

Stephanie sat shelling peas on the tiny porch of the house she'd grown up in.
It was a warm, lazy afternoon. Fat honeybees buzzed among the roses; an oriole trilled from the lowest branch of a magnolia. It was a perfect June day—or it would have been, if she weren't so angry.

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