by Mary Campisi
Okay, now she was making him edgy and scaring the hell out of him. Charlotte Donovan never slathered him with compliments; it wasn’t her style. She was more of a toss-it-out-and-laugh-as-you-said-it kind of woman. So, why the ten-pound compliment? He tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, let the silky strands slide between his fingers. “What’s going on?”
She lifted a shoulder, whispered, “I have no idea.”
When she flung her arms around his middle and hugged him long and hard, he knew whatever she had to say was serious, and she wasn’t ready to tell him. “How about you make Astrid happy and eat some of the chicken soup she fixed for you today?” He eased back, cupped her chin with two fingers. “As soon as I told her you didn’t feel well, she started on the soup.” He recalled the conversation that included the cook’s interrogation tactics and comments about stress, cold, and a faint reference to morning sickness. Yeah, he’d almost choked on the last one and assured her that was not it.
“Chicken soup sounds perfect.”
Tate kissed her and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Let’s go find Astrid. I think she also made some of those sugar cookies you raved about last week.” Astrid Longhouse said she was a good judge of character, and Charlotte Donovan was the one for him. Marry the girl and don’t dilly-dally, she’d said. You belong together and the sooner you both admit it, the better for all of us. Oh, but imagine a house filled with children and laughter! He’d brushed off the woman’s comments with a casual laugh, but her words stayed with him. What would it feel like to live in a home where love and laughter prevailed? He didn’t know, but he sure would like to find out.
Astrid delivered Charlotte soup and a plate of crackers with cheese, her expression filled with concern, her words soothing. Tate hadn’t missed the way she’d snuck a look at Charlotte’s belly once or twice, as if to say, Are you sure it’s not morning sickness? Knowing Astrid and her love for children, she wanted it to be just that! Well, one step at a time…
“The soup is delicious.” Charlotte slid her gaze to his. “Thank you for being so good to me.”
The sadness in her voice tore at him. “Where’s the woman who delivers compliments with sass and sarcasm?” He’d hoped for an answer full of both, but what he got were tears. Lots of them. “Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Tate pushed back her chair and pulled her onto his lap. “Shhh, don’t cry. I’m here.” He stroked her hair, murmured, “Talk to me. Let me help.”
She snuggled against his chest, her tears soaking his shirt. “I don’t think you can.” More tears, a shaky “I am so scared.”
He couldn’t do much with comments like that other than provide comfort and find a way to get her to talk. Guys were fixers, and it was hard to sit by and listen when his brain wanted to get going on the overhaul and renovation of whatever had her so upset. He’d grown up taking care of problems, especially the ones affecting the women in his family. With a man like Harrison Alexander in the house, his mother and sister had needed someone on their side, a first line of protection, for the times when the old man turned dictator—which was often.
But no one was forcing Charlotte to do anything, at least as far as he knew…unless he was the problem. Was she having second thoughts about their relationship? Was she scared he wanted more—which he did—and didn’t know how to tell him she didn’t feel the same way? His chest ached at the thought but until she started talking, it was impossible to know. That was one thing about Charlotte Donovan; he never quite knew where he stood with her, though maybe tonight was the time to straight-out ask.
“How about we go upstairs, and you take a hot shower and we’ll settle in? If you want, we can even watch a chick flick.”
She nodded, her silky hair stroking the opening of his dress shirt. These past weeks had been magical, the perfect blend of heat and chill, and not once had she acted scared or unsure. In fact, she’d seemed to want to be with him, and not just in bed. So, what was going on? A spurt of annoyance shot through him as he considered the timing of her worries. Hadn’t she just had dinner with Rogan and Elizabeth last night? Of course, Tate hadn’t been invited because she still hadn’t told her brother they were serious. Nice. He got her hesitancy, but that didn’t mean he liked it. When he asked if her brother had commented about them being together, she’d avoided a direct answer, which meant she had an answer but didn’t want to share it.
As if Tate couldn’t guess what it would be. Rogan had barely tolerated him at the wedding, making snide comments about staying away from his sister. If he only knew… But maybe he did. Maybe the guy had figured it out and issued some sort of warning to Charlotte, or worse, embellished a story about Tate that cast him as a playboy/rich-guy who would never commit to a woman.
That was such a bunch of BS, but protective brothers were good at making up stories to safeguard their sisters. Hadn’t he done the same thing to keep one particular hound dog away from Meredith? He got it, but Tate wasn’t interested in Charlotte as short term, and eventually, the guy would have to acknowledge that fact.
“I think I’ll take a shower.”
Tate glanced at her, nodded. “Sure, good idea.” He watched her move toward the bathroom, close the door. In the past, he’d never wanted to know the details surrounding a woman’s bad mood or upset—because they’d usually involved him. But Charlotte was different. Everything with her was different. He undressed and headed to the bathroom down the hall to get ready for bed. Most nights, he’d join her in the shower, but his gut and his brain told him this wasn’t one of those nights.
Several minutes later, she opened the bathroom door, wearing one of his old T-shirts, and slipped into bed. “What movie are we watching?” he asked. “Your pick tonight.” He offered a smile, tried for a lighthearted attempt. “I promise I won’t make any comments about boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy and girl end up together.” He raised a brow. “After all, boy gets girl in the end is not such a bad gig after all, is it?” There was a big question in that last part, one that was about a lot more than the plot of a chick-flick movie.
“No television tonight.” She laid her hand on his bare chest, said in a soft voice, “When I first returned to Reunion Gap, I never imagined myself here. With you.” Those green eyes sparkled with tears. “But now, I can’t imagine myself anywhere else.” Her voice cracked, split open, and spilled out words he’d only dreamed of hearing, “I love you, Tate. I love you with my whole heart, and I’m finally not afraid to admit it.”
That’s what she’d been so upset about? Admitting her feelings? “Wow.” He opened his mouth to speak, cleared his throat, tried again, and ended up with, “Well.”
Her cheeks burst with pink, and she looked away. “I…just wanted you to know the truth. I didn’t tell you because I expected you to say anything.”
“Look at me, Charlotte. Please.” She inched her gaze to his, sniffed. “I’ve loved you for years, but I’ve tried so damn hard to deny it. Especially to myself.” He brushed a tear away with the pad of his thumb. “You live in my soul, and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”
“But…”
“But what about the fact that you’re a Donovan and I’m an Alexander? What about the fact that everyone says our families can’t mix? Who cares? I love you and you love me; isn’t that all that really matters? We can have a good life together, one filled with happiness and children and memories where Donovans and Alexanders do blend. Where they marry and spend the rest of their lives together.”
“Is that a proposal?”
“No. This is.” He clasped her hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed each finger. “Marry me, Charlotte Donovan. Let me show you how happy we can be.” Another kiss, this one on her lips. “Just say yes.”
When she spoke, he had to lean close to hear. “Yes,” she whispered. And then, louder, “Yes.”
There was no talking after that, only touching and a blending of heart and soul as they made love; the joining was deep, more intense than ever before. Charlotte cried
afterward, clung to him so tight he couldn’t draw a full breath. Tomorrow, they’d figure things out. They were going to have a life together, no matter who objected. This time, the Donovans and the Alexanders were going to find joy and happiness because they belonged together, and nobody was going to keep them apart. As Charlotte drifted off to sleep, her hold on him relaxed, and her breathing evened. Tate stroked her back, inhaled her scent, and closed his eyes.
Life was good.
The world was right.
All because Charlotte Donovan loved him.
And she’d said yes.
Chapter 12
Tate’s bliss lasted fewer than twelve hours, just long enough for him to believe he and Charlotte had a chance at happily-ever-after. He’d left her asleep in his bed and had placed a note on his pillow. Take the day off. We’ve got a lot of planning to do. Love, Tate. He’d done something as stupid as draw a heart by his name. Foolish. Idiotic. There were times in a person’s life that were too good to be true, and marrying Charlotte Donovan was one of them. Correction; marrying a woman who loved him and had been honest with him was too good to be true.
The phone call from Marybeth Caruthers came minutes after he arrived at his office. She told him about Charlotte’s visit and her accusations, told him everything he needed to hear to know the woman he loved had betrayed him. She’d really thought he’d fathered a child with Marybeth? And kept it a secret from her? Evidently so, because she’d driven two hours and conducted her own interrogation.
She hadn’t even trusted him enough to ask him the truth.
He dragged a hand over his face, cursed under his breath. That’s why Charlotte was crying last night. She’d realized what she’d done and worried he’d find out about it. But she hadn’t told him herself. Nope, not Charlotte. She’d gambled that he wouldn’t find out and she’d lost. What else had she done? What other files had she scavenged around in, looking for dirt? Damn it, he’d trusted her, but she hadn’t trusted him enough to believe he might be one of the good guys—one of the Alexanders who didn’t have destruction and menace in his soul.
Did she even care about him? Had she ever cared about him? And love? What a joke. Oh, she’d said she loved him, but what did that really mean? Were they simply words to her? He would’ve bet a lot of money that he’d be the first one to tell her I love you. But it had been Charlotte. Now why was that? His brain raced with hundreds of possibilities, none of them good.
Had she been playing him this whole time, setting him up for a big fall, or was she after his money and his name?
Like all the other women he’d known?
She’d never seemed to care about money, but he hadn’t missed the fancy car, the designer handbag, or the sunglasses. Even her jeans were high-end. How did she afford them with random jobs that were probably low paying and sporadic? Did she have a lot of debt? Who knew? She’d acted like she didn’t want to touch his sister’s closet, but after a little prodding, she hadn’t hesitated to go after armfuls of dresses, slacks, scarves, handbags—all designer, of course.
He knew Fred had employed a private investigator weeks ago to check out Charlotte’s background. When Tate found out, he’d been furious and close to firing the man who’d been with the company for decades. Of course, he’d refused to look at the file, but now things were different. Charlotte Donovan was not who she said she was.
Had anything about her been real?
There was no boyfriend; she’d admitted as much. Maybe none of whatever they’d shared had been real either. Maybe she’d played Tate the way her father had been played. And maybe she’d taken the one thing from him he’d wanted most—to find a woman who loved him for himself, not his money or status, or family name.
And now that was gone. He buzzed Fred, and minutes later, the man entered Tate’s office, made his way to the massive desk where Harrison Alexander had conducted years of business, no doubt, much of it unsavory.
“Yes, Tate. What can I do for you?” When Tate didn’t respond right away, Frederick Strong placed his hands on the edge of the desk, leaned forward. “What’s wrong? Is it your father? Has something happened to him?”
“I need the file on Charlotte Donovan.” I need to see who she really is and what she’s really been up to since she landed in Reunion Gap.
“Charlotte? Are you certain?” Confusion skidded through his words, fell out in a jumble. “But I thought… You and she… Why would you want to see it?” And then, “Are you certain?”
Tate bleached the emotion from his voice, nodded. “I want to see the file, Fred. All of it.”
Minutes later, the file rested on his desk, filling in all the questions he’d had—and then some.
Her last known address was an apartment in Nashville. Three months delinquent. Before that, she’d lived in Charleston, Greensboro, and Knoxville.
Last known place of employment was a chauffeur service where she worked as a driver.
Reason for leaving: mutual parting of ways. Whatever that meant.
Two months behind on car payments. Two delinquent credit cards. No savings accounts listed. One checking account. No assets aside from the sports car.
Tate read the history of Charlotte Adelaide Donovan, the school, the jobs, the volunteer to foster dogs and cats. She sure had an affinity for picking up strays and finding homes for them. Had she been the stray this time, looking for a home with him? His money must’ve looked awfully appealing to her, even as she stuck her nose up at it. Yeah, was that all an act? Reel him in, make him believe she didn’t care about the big house, the cars, the jewelry. Make him believe it was only about him.
Right up until he read the report from Lester Conroy, private investigator.
It was all there, staring back at him, and if he added in the trip to see Marybeth, his future with Charlotte looked dismal. In fact, it didn’t look like a future at all, just a pathetic past full of lies and deceit.
Charlotte placed the amaryllis bulb into a pot, covered the base of the bulb. The instructions said it was important to leave the top portion of the bulb exposed, which seemed odd, but if doing so produced gorgeous red flowers like the picture on the container, then she’d do it. She’d purchased the bulb at the local garden center when she’d gone hunting for a rosemary plant. Astrid said the place sold rosemary plants shaped like mini trees and made the perfect gift for anyone who enjoyed the holiday season. Her mother might like one, and the added practicality of the herb tree would mean Rose Donovan could admire the tree and cook with it.
Astrid had told Charlotte that Benny, the gardener, would take care of the potting, but Charlotte wanted to do it. It would help pass the time while she waited for Tate to come home for lunch. She gnawed on her bottom lip, poured a tiny bit of water in the pot. When he’d called a little while ago, he’d sounded distracted and nothing like the man who’d pledged his heart and his love to her last night.
Had Marybeth Caruthers called and told him about Charlotte’s surprise visit? Oh, please, do not let it be that. Anything but that. She should have told him about the trip last night, but she hadn’t been able to stop the tears or the emotion. He’d been so kind and gentle that she couldn’t get the words out. But she planned to tell him as soon as he arrived home, no matter how difficult it might be. He wouldn’t like what she’d done. In fact, he’d probably be furious, but maybe after the anger, he’d understand. Maybe he’d even forgive her. Darn her impulsivity! If they got through this, she’d promise to slow down and think things through before barreling ahead and ignoring the consequences.
She loved him, and she’d do anything to make things right. Now if he would only get home so she could spit it all out and they could start over. No hidden agendas, no secrets, nothing but the truth.
Tate Alexander was the only man she’d ever loved and her heart burst with possibility and the dream of sharing a life with him. There would be difficult times, disagreements, even heartache, but if they stuck together like her parents had, they would have a long an
d joy-filled life. If only her mother and father had been able to get through the disastrous loss of money and her father’s ill choice of friends, he might still be here. Charlotte would not let that happen to her and Tate. She would not let him shut her out, no matter how grave the situation or difficult the circumstance.
The early November air was chilly, but the sun was bright, the sky clear. Fall and winter were her favorite seasons, and she couldn’t wait for the first big snowfall. What would Tate think about heading to a ski resort this winter? Spend the day on the slopes and the nights before a fire? What could be more perfect? She contemplated the coming months, beginning with Thanksgiving and Christmas. They hadn’t talked about a wedding date, but the sooner, the better. Would he want some fancy country club affair? Oh, she hoped not.
Charlotte removed her garden gloves and lifted the pot, preparing to take it indoors when the sliding door to the terrace opened and Tate emerged. He bounded down the steps and moved toward her, stopped when he was a few feet away.
“Making yourself at home?”
The lack of tenderness in his voice and the frown surprised her. “I needed something to keep me busy.” She nodded toward the pot, smiled. “Come Christmas, this bulb will produce the most beautiful red flowers you’ve ever seen.”
He stared at the pot. “Benny could have planted that for you.”
She shrugged. “Astrid said the same thing. I guess I didn’t realize I might be infringing on his duties.”
“Benny’s a prideful man.” The frown deepened. “No man wants his pride stepped on.”
He wasn’t just talking about Benny. “Did I say something to offend you, or make you angry?”
There was no mistaking the coldness in those silver eyes as they narrowed on her. “You tell me. Have you done anything that might offend me or cause a problem between us?”