by Raina Lynn
Three months ago. Before he found out about the baby.
“What I don’t understand is, why didn’t he say anything about having remarried?” Karen cocked her head expectantly.
“He hadn‘t—I mean we hadn’t—yet.”
The woman pounced on that tidbit like a cat on a mouse. “So he’s been stringing us both along?”
That didn’t sound like Mason at all. On the other hand, why would a woman uproot herself completely and move hundreds of miles without concrete encouragement? “Are you sure he didn’t tell you he’d changed his mind?”
The probing quality to Karen’s gaze intensified. “He said he had a complication that would take a few months to resolve. I was to come on up. He promised to explain after I settled in.” She looked at Jill’s stomach again. “He said there were things he needed to tell me face to face. Now I see why.”
Jill exploded inside. Mason had practically waxed poetic about hearth and home and how family stability was important to raising children. Beneath it all, had that been part of a secret agenda? Had he married her only to divorce her after the baby was born? For what purpose? To try to better his bid for custody later?
Despite the way things appeared, she’d never seen a hint of deceitfulness in Mason’s character. Then again, her track record with selecting men didn’t bear close examination.
Jill hated being an emotional wreck. Maybe once the pregnancy crazies were over, she could trust her judgment again. She wouldn’t be so terrified of getting hurt again or be such a world-class pessimist. That day couldn’t come fast enough to suit her, but future sanity didn’t help her right now. She could hardly choke out the words to her next question. “So you moved to Washington under the impression you two would be reconciling soon?”
“Mmm, hmm.” With a toss of her head, Karen dragged her long, red, manicured nails through her hair. The blatant sensuality in the gesture tore Jill’s already bleeding heart into open shreds. “I can’t believe that Simon and Madeline didn’t warn me. We’re so close.”
“Who?”
Karen blinked in bafflement. “His parents.”
“I’ve never met them.”
The woman’s jaw dropped. “Mason has some serious explaining to do.” She cocked her head. “Do they even know about you?”
Jill felt like a bug in a science lab. “Do they know about your reconciliation?” she countered hotly. This conversation had all the potential of deteriorating into a catfight.
Karen took her time in answering. “The specifics, no. They’re in Europe again. Mason and I intended to surprise them when they returned.”
“Europe? Again?”
A slow smile crossed Karen’s lips. “He’s told you nothing?”
Holding absolutely still, Jill just stared at the woman. She’d already given away far too much.
“Not even who they are?”
Again, Jill stayed silent.
“What kind of games is Mason playing these days?” Karen shook her head. “No matter. You have a right to know. Simon Bradshaw is the industrialist who regularly turns the stock market on its ear. Madeline Bradshaw just retired from the California State Supreme Court. They just bought sizeable interest in a cruise ship line and sailed to the Caribbean to celebrate. Then they flew on to Spain.”
Mason was the son of those Bradshaws? Jill’s knees wobbled, and the room tilted. She’d always suspected that Mason had come from money, but she couldn’t begin to relate to the privileged life his family had known.
A cruise ship line. Last summer she’d been euphoric just to be on one. His parents were part-owners of several.
“I think I need to call them and find out what this is all about,” Karen drawled.
Jill shook herself. “I’d like you to leave now. If you give me your phone number, I’ll have him call you, and the three of us can straighten this out.”
“I’d like that.” Karen pulled out a note pad from her purse. “My business cards won’t be printed until next week, but here’s all the information you’ll need to find me.” She scribbled on a sheet of paper, then handed it to Jill. On it was the name of a local business and its address and number. “I’ve been hired as human resources director of a new telecommunications company in Stafford. The bottom number is my home phone.”
Jill got the message. The woman held a prestigious position with a big company, and she was here to stay. But not in this apartment, and not today. Jill showed her the door.
Alone again, Jill trembled with anger and shock. None of what Karen said fit the Mason she knew—or thought she knew. If he really was the son of Madeline and Simon Bradshaw, why was he a struggling, small-town newspaper editor? Why hadn’t his parents set him up financially? Why didn’t he run around in the elite circles of the rich and famous?
From what Mason had implied about Karen, she thrived on deceit and betrayal. Had that whole conversation been designed as the cold-blooded revenge of a woman scorned? Or did it have some truth to it? Could it be a combination of both? If so, where was the line between fact and fiction?
The questions swirled endlessly through Jill’s head until her skull began to throb. She needed answers, and Mason wasn’t home to ask. Then she remembered something she’d found when cleaning. It wasn’t much, but it was all she had. Going into the master bedroom, she pulled down the box into which she’d put his old yearbooks and awards, plus assorted income tax returns. She hadn’t dusted anything, and her fingerprints indicated no one else had touched them in a long time.
With a combination of curiosity and dread, she curled up on the bed and dug through the record of Mason’s life. She knew so little about him. That made the treasures in the box even more precious. In no particular order, she perused the yearbooks first. The school turned out to be a prestigious college preparatory school for boys. He’d received his bachelor’s degree from an Ivy League university back east. His tax returns only went back five years, far enough to see that he and Karen had made a respectable living. Even so, it wasn’t what she would have expected from a wealthy industrialist’s son. She compared them with the minuscule salary he drew from the Journal and the simple apartment in which he lived. Nothing fit.
Jill came from lower-middle-class parents and had only one year of business college to her credit. She was fiercely proud of her accomplishments, considering she’d had no one but herself to rely on. Could Mason be ashamed of her? Was he hiding her from his family?
Condemning him without trial was unfair, and she returned everything to the box. If she wanted the truth, she need only ask, then weigh his honesty for herself. Would he lie outright or just soft-pedal everything to keep from hurting her? Either way, at least the issues would be out in the open.
“Maybe on a less-pregnant day when I’m thinking with my head and not my hormones,” she said aloud. She put the box back on the shelf. “Right now, I can do nothing. I have enough on my plate, thank you very much—Karen and his parents can wait for another meal.”
Moving like a zombie, she returned to the laundry project and tried to think positively. The idea was great in theory, but she hadn’t counted on an unutterable fatalism wrapping itself around her. She’d never been helplessly dependent on anyone before, not even her parents—especially not her parents. The word “divorce” dropped into the emotional stew. Once the baby was past the newborn stage, she’d find a job away from the Journal. She’d done it once. She could do it again. Complete dependence on another human being was intolerable. Even if Mason didn’t have any dark and evil secrets, what chance did a marriage have that was built on obligation?
“Then again, when I’m no longer pregnant, things might look a little brighter.” Grabbing the corners of a bath towel, she tried not to think about anything.
Mason called. “On top of everything else that has gone wrong today, the roof leaked. I’ve got the insurance company and a contractor out here now. Apparently, the insulation has been soaking up water for a long time.”
“What did
it do?” she asked. “Hit its capacity, then flood the world?” Civility took every shred of willpower. She wanted to rant and rave. Why can’t you love me? Why couldn’t I have lived the rest of my life without ever knowing you existed?
“According to the contractor, that’s exactly what happened. I don’t know when I’ll be home.”
“If you’re going to be late, why don’t you grab a bite there? Letting your blood sugar go to pot won’t accomplish much.”
He chuckled, and her throat clogged with tears. “Bobby is out picking up Chinese.”
“Good,” she answered, struggling to sound normal.
There was a long pause before he spoke again. “Are you okay?”
She swallowed, then discreetly cleared her throat. “Sure, why?”
“You sound...odd. You’re not in labor are you?”
“No, unfortunately. Just do your thing, and I’ll see you when you get here.” She knew her voice didn’t square with the flippant comments, but it was the best she could do. Once he got home and she could see his face, then they’d talk.
After she hung up, pain rippled across her lower abdomen. “Probably more Braxton-Hicks,” she muttered. “Life wouldn’t be rude enough to do the real thing today.”
By the time Mason cleared the door, the contractions were a respectable fifteen minutes apart and sharp enough to grab her attention—and keep it.
“Are you still awake?” he asked, stifling a yawn. Mud in varying degrees of drying had taken up residence on his gray suit.
“It’s only ten o’clock,” she said, drinking in the sight of him. She needed to confront him, needed to learn the truth, but fear of what he might say held her words back. What she and Mason had shared so far wasn’t great, but it beat some of the alternatives. Without thinking first, she met him halfway across the living room, the same spot where Karen had stood. She put her arms around him.
From the sudden stiffness in his body, her actions had startled him, but she ignored it, silently pleading for him to hold her in return. When he pulled her close, only then did she realize she’d wanted it so much she’d been holding her breath.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, worry thick in his voice.
“Just a rotten day, and I need a little TLC.”
“I wondered about that when I called,” he said, caressing her back. “What happened?”
Jill felt the explosion in her brain a scant heartbeat before the vicious salvo erupted from her lips. “Did you make love to me that night because you were looking for a substitute for Karen?”
The tension in his body tripled. She looked into his eyes for an explanation. The shock she found there made her wonder if he’d turned to stone.
“Where did that question come from?” he demanded faintly.
Jill pulled out of his embrace and put some distance between them. The next contraction hit, and she took great care not to react. “If this were Hollywood, I could stand in as a stunt double for her.”
He gaped.
“That’s me. Jill Mathesin Bradshaw, stand-in for the beauty queen.”
For the first time ever, she heard him truly swear, the expletive sharp and uncharacteristically crass. He dragged in several long, slow breaths, obviously fighting to regain enough self-control to speak civilly. “When did you meet her?”
Jill had hoped he’d deny she looked anything at all like his ex-wife. She wouldn’t have believed him, of course, but a loving fiction might have been nice to hear.
“I asked when you met her.” The anger hardened his expression. “Is she in Stafford?”
“As if you didn’t know. How long did you think I’d keep from finding out?” Inside her head, a neon warning sign flashed Bitchy Pregnant Woman Here.
He gave her a blank, uncomprehending stare.
She crossed her arms. “Are you going to answer my question?” She’d wanted to sound defiant, but her voice cracked on the last syllable and ruined the effect.
Mason stared at her a long time before answering. “What is it you think I know, Jill?”
“That Karen moved to Stafford—per your request. That as soon as you get your current complications straightened out—” she spread her arms to indicate herself “—the two of you are going to put the pieces back together. I assume good ol’ Simon and Madeline will throw a tasteful and very highbrow reception in your honor.”
Shadows whipped behind his eyes as he analyzed what she’d said. Every muscle in his body looked as if it had been carved from marble. “Jill, I’m going to ask one more time,” he ground out. “When and how did you meet Karen?”
“This afternoon. Right where you’re standing.”
“Here? In my house?”
“It’s an apartment, Bradshaw,” Jill fired back. “The house, you lived in with her.”
His breathing came unnaturally deep and rapid. His fingers curled and uncurled into white-knuckled fists. “What did she tell you? Verbatim!”
Jill realized at that moment that she’d only thought she’d seen Mason angry before. Murderous fury billowed from him like a blast furnace. Having no reason to keep anything secret, she related both conversations as close to word for word as best she could remember.
With each word she spoke, his rage heated a few more degrees.
“Who are you mad at, Bradshaw?” she demanded. “Me for finding out? Yourself for having your secrets exposed? Or her for lying?”
He made an abortive attempt at raking his fingers through his hair, but his rage had thrown him far beyond his usual mannerisms. “How can you even ask!” he yelled. Then he became deathly still. “Where is she?”
“Home, I suppose.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Where she sleeps. Where she waits for you with bated breath.”
Mason turned away, she assumed to calm himself. He still hadn’t answered any of what she wanted to know. Then again, Jill couldn’t remember what—if anything—she’d asked.
“Do you have the address?” he asked low, through gritted teeth.
That surprised her. “You mean you don’t have it?”
He glowered at her over his shoulder. “If I did, I wouldn’t have asked for it.”
Jill considered that. As enraged as he was, she doubted he’d be thinking in terms of subterfuge. Maybe he really didn’t know. Fragile hope latched onto the idea. In labor with his child, she needed something to cling to—even a chimera would do.
The contraction ended, and she retrieved the piece of paper from where she’d set it on the counter.
He scanned the information, then shoved the paper into his pocket. “I’ll be back later.”
Don’t leave me! her heart cried. “Whatever, Bradshaw.” Watching him storm out the door mangled her, but she’d be damned before she’d beg him to stay.
Mason stuffed his driver’s license and the speeding ticket into his wallet.
“I don’t know where the fire is, Mr. Bradshaw,” the cop said, his expression as bland as his voice. “But I think it’ll still be there if you do thirty-five on this street. Okay?”
“Thank you.” Mason meant it. If he hadn’t gotten pulled over two blocks from Karen’s house, he might have murdered her. How dare she do that to Jill!
The motorcycle cop gave him a strange look. Few people probably thanked him for handing out a ticket for a moving violation. The few minutes being cited gave Mason the time to regain a little control. He’d never known such blinding rage. Pulling back into traffic, he maintained a saner speed and frame of mind.
The red convertible in the driveway told him he had the right address long before he saw the house numbers. A Realtor’s sign on the lawn had a Sold tag covering one comer. It threatened to ignite his temper again, a self-indulgence he couldn’t afford.
Mason saw the bell, but pounding on the door with his fist gave him more satisfaction. He had no fear of waking her up. The porch light was on; she expected him. True to form, though, she took a fashionably long time to answer.
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“Mason,” she breathed, a practiced smile on her lips. She had dressed the part of seductress for her charade, a short silk nightshirt with a gauzy robe. “I asked your...wife...to have you call me at your convenience. I never intended for you to—”
“Save it for someone who doesn’t know you, Karen.”
She blinked and recoiled. “What are you talking about?”
“That little production number you played out for Jill.”
“I don’t know what you mean. Why don’t you come in and—”
“You have nothing I want, so stop the theatrics.”
“Mason, I really don’t know—”
“I came here for one reason, and one reason only. You may take it as a threat or a warning—your choice. If you ever contact me or my wife again, I’ll take out a restraining order against you. If you violate it, I won’t hesitate to press charges.”
“Sweetheart, I don’t know what she told you I said, but—”
“I will enjoy watching them arrest you.” He turned his back and stepped off the porch. “Count on it.”
“You’re serious.” The incredulity in her voice stopped him.
“I’m not as gullible as I used to be,” he said. “My eyesight has improved, too.”
“I don’t understand this,” she said, wounded. “You come to my house late at night, yell at me about who knows what, then threaten me.”
“It’s not working, Karen.” He headed across the lawn.
“Mason, you still love me, and nothing on earth will convince me otherwise. Once you realize that, you know where I’ll be. My door will always be open to you.”
He didn’t answer. What would be the point?
“Don’t you see?” She followed him. “You were looking for me when you settled for her. She’s just a poor imitation.”
That got him. Mason turned back around but didn’t close the distance between them. “Poor imitation?” He shook his head in wonder. “Karen, you bury yourself inside a makeup bag for an hour every morning to look half as good as she does before she has the sleep from her eyes.”