Keep On Loving you

by Christie Ridgway

  “She still hates when you call her that,” she said with a little smile.

  He tugged on the ends of her hair as if she were ten. “Tough.”

  “What about that tour?” she asked.

  Remembering that had been his earlier intent, he led the way up the stairs, opening doors of unused rooms and pointing out the shelves of books that would have to be packed up, the closets that were jammed with who-knew-what, the neglected baseboards and the cobwebs taking over the corners.

  In a third-floor space, they passed a narrow mattress set on an iron bed and covered with a faded quilt on their way to the set of mullioned windows that provided light and a spectacular view of distant mountains.

  Mac stared through them for a long moment. “This is a room for daydreams,” she mused and drew a fingertip over the glass, tracing a design in the accumulated dust.

  “What are yours?” Zan asked, studying her profile. God, she was beautiful. That hadn’t changed.

  “You remember my snake charmer ambitions.”

  He shook his head. “I mean now.”

  She continued to draw designs. “I don’t have any.”

  “No?” He tucked her hair around her ear so she couldn’t hide behind it. “I find that hard to believe.”

  At his touch, she’d stilled. Now she dropped her hand, though her gaze continued to focus on the distance. “Poppy’s our dreamer these days. Not that she wasn’t always, of course, but she’s got this vision for the cabins, and one by one Shay and then Brett have adopted it as their own.”

  Oh, hell. Zan sucked in a deep breath. “You don’t see it as they do?”

  She shrugged. “It’s hard to make a go of any business. But Poppy is really bent on this new income stream for the family.”

  “Excuse me...” He cleared his throat. “But, um, I get the impression that Poppy and Shay... Well, the men they’re marrying look to have plenty of money.”

  She turned her head and just stared at him.

  “I don’t mean to imply they’re marrying for money—”

  “This is about the Walkers. A Walker business on the last of the Walker land.”

  A Walker business on the last of the Walker land. Zan was hip-deep in muck now. There was no way he couldn’t tell her. Putting it off another moment would only submerge him completely in shit.

  Reaching out, he took her hands in his and turned her toward him. “Mac, honey.”

  She tried tugging free. “Show me the rest of the house.”

  “Not yet,” he said, then hesitated. “Mac, we need to talk.”

  Her face took on a pinched expression. “The last time you said that to me, you told me you were leaving the very next day.”

  He looked away, closing his eyes as he remembered making that decision. Until there was less than twenty-four hours left for them to be together, he hadn’t let her know his flight was booked, his plans ironclad.

  At the time, he’d told himself it would make leaving easier on her if it wasn’t drawn out. Now he wondered if it hadn’t been for him. If given more time to look into her tear-drenched eyes, he would never have left at all.

  But going...that had seemed an imperative.

  As was this conversation.

  Unwilling to put it off even as long as it would take to get downstairs, he guided her over to the small bed and pulled her down to sit beside him.

  “You’re scaring me, Zan,” she said and yanked her hands from his to twist her fingers together in her lap. “Did you...” Her throat moved as she swallowed, hard. “Did you come home to die?”

  “What?” He stared at her. “No. Where’d you get that idea?”

  Her laugh was shaky. “Sorry. It was just something ridiculous that Poppy said. I guess it stuck in my head.”

  “About Poppy...”

  Mac’s brows came together over her small, straight nose. “About Poppy...?”

  Crap. Was there any way to soften this? “I met with my grandfather’s attorney this morning. We went over everything.”

  She was still frowning. “Everything?”

  “It was all left to me. His estate. His holdings. The whole wad, including cash and properties.”

  “You told us that at Oscar’s the other morning.”

  “Yeah. Right.” He grabbed her entwined hands and cupped them in his. “God, Mac, how I wish I didn’t have to tell you this.”

  “All those years ago...” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “You said those exact words, too.”

  Then, the color had drained from her cheeks, leaving her mouth pink and her eyes a blue that was drowned in tears. His gut tightening, he brought her fingers to his mouth and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “Here’s the thing, Mac. My grandfather...it turns out he owns the Walker land.”

  She blinked at him. “What?”

  “I found out today my grandfather owns the Walker land,” he said, looking her straight in the eyes.

  She blinked again. “The mountaintop? Well, I guess I’m not unhappy about that. It’s good to know it’s no longer in Victor Fremont’s evil clutches.”

  Zan nodded. “The mountaintop he did get from Fremont. Apparently he gave him an offer he couldn’t refuse.” Then he pulled in a long breath. “But...but my grandfather also ended up with the rest of it, Mac. It started with an agreement your dad made with him years ago.”

  Her body froze. “An agreement...?”

  “The other parcel, Mac.” He squeezed her cold hands in his. “The cabins parcel.”

  “The cabins parcel,” she repeated, as if she needed to say it to absorb the truth.

  “I can lay it all out for you,” Zan said. “Show you the paperwork.”

  “Dad was terrible about that kind of thing—paperwork.” Her voice sounded wooden and her words came out slowly. “Brett’s been complaining about it for years. So many things we couldn’t find.”

  “I suspect some of what came about was because my grandfather was actually trying to do your family a favor—at least that’s what the lawyer believes. To be honest, it’s complicated and intentions have been lost in the fog of time and because the principals have all now passed on—including the original attorney. I’m working with his grandson.”

  She frowned. “This isn’t making sense. I know we’ve been paying the property taxes.”

  “Yes,” Zan said. “Originally, my grandfather loaned your father money, using that land as collateral on the loan. Your family held on to the deed and your dad paid the annual property taxes as well as a small amount against the loan to my grandfather each month.”

  “A small amount,” Mac repeated.

  “It wasn’t very much,” he admitted. “And before your dad died—what was it, about eleven, twelve years ago?—he’d already missed a big balloon payment that was part of the deal. The loan was a couple of years in arrears at the time of his death.”

  She rubbed at her forehead. “Why didn’t we know about this?”

  “My grandfather either forgot about the loan or opted not to call the note—and I’m guessing the latter—maybe because your father and then your mother passed away and also maybe because of my longstanding friendship with your family. I think he might very well have considered that money a gift and didn’t mean there to ever be a transfer of the property.”

  “But we hardly knew him.”

  Zan shrugged again. “Anyway, it boils down to this. Because he didn’t clear up the situation before he died, we don’t have any choices. The estate must be settled. Due to that missed balloon payment, the property rights have legally been reverted and will be recorded at the county to show that the parcel...belongs to me.”

  “To you.” She pulled her hands from his again. “Really? Really? The last of the Walker land belongs to you?”

  Watchin
g her closely, he nodded.

  A beat passed, and then she fell back on the mattress, threw her forearm over her eyes and...

  Laughed.

  Right away, Zan knew there was no humor in the sound. It was a wretched noise, as miserable as the sobs she’d let loose all those years ago when he’d told her he was going down the hill.

  Feeling like shit, he could only watch as her shoulders shook with more bleak laughter. When it finally petered out, however, he only found the ensuing silence more unnerving.

  “Mac...” he started, wondering what the hell he could say.

  Her body jerked back to a sitting position and she looked at him, dry-eyed and lioness-fierce. “This is how it’s going to go.”

  “How?” he asked, cautious.

  “You can’t tell anyone else.”

  “Mac—”

  “Not yet, I mean.” She bit her lower lip so hard it flooded with color and she grabbed his forearm in a tight grip. “Poppy... We have Shay’s wedding and then hers in less than a month. The cabins have been Poppy’s project for so long, and it would take some shine out of her if she finds out before she marries.”

  “Mac—”

  “Poppy’s got to shine, Zan,” Mac insisted, her fingers clutching him harder and shaking him a little. “On her wedding day, Poppy’s got to shine.”

  “Okay.” The frantic note in her voice stabbed at him. He’d talked to the lawyer. Surely that particular red tape could be left untended for a few more weeks. “Okay.”

  “You mean it?”

  He swept her hair from her forehead with his free hand. “Yes, baby. Yes.” Mac’s urgency bothered him, but he had no trouble agreeing. It would have to be sorted out sooner than later, but no way wouldn’t he give her this.

  “You promise?” she asked, her gaze roaming his face as if to assess his truthfulness.

  It killed that she’d doubt him for a second. “I promise, sweetheart. Of course I promise.”

  Then she dropped his arm and flopped back to the mattress, as if emotion had wrung the bones and muscle right out of her. His heart moved in his chest. Lying down beside her, he tried gathering her in his arms.

  She resisted, pushing him away, which reminded him again of that day he’d told her he was leaving and how she’d fought against his offer of comfort. Now, like then, he brought her back, three times, until her energy seemed depleted. Her head dropped to his chest and he palmed the back of her silky hair. They breathed together.

  Her arms suddenly came around him, clinging. “You promise?” she asked again, her voice hoarse. “You really promise?”

  “I do, Mac,” he said, and then he shifted her up to seal it with a kiss.

  It was supposed to be an act of reassurance, a physical symbol of his pledge.

  But with their bodies so close together, when his mouth touched hers, all intentions fled. What flooded in was impulse, imperative, immense waves of sensation. Heat. The softness of Mac’s lips. Her fresh, sweet taste.

  His head spun as he hitched her closer and touched his tongue to her bottom lip.

  On an instant she opened for him and his head revolved again, but he didn’t let the dizzy feeling prevent him from surging inside the heated cavern of her mouth. Her hands slid into his hair and her body pressed closer—or maybe that was his doing, because he drew one hand down to her ass and pushed her hips against his.

  It felt like no time at all and also forever since he’d been like that with Mac. Relief and regret and lust coalesced into a molten ball that formed in his belly and traveled toward his chest. He was burning all over and greedy for more of her. So he pushed her to her back, taking them from their sides in order to press into the cradle of her pelvis. She instantly made room for him there, parting her legs so he could tuck his erection against the warm center of her.

  She moaned, and his hand slid up her side to cup her breast. Her hips tilted and she ground herself against him as he thumbed the nipple that went hard beneath his touch.

  His tongue dived deeper into her mouth. She sucked on it, shooting his lust even higher and taking the last of his air. He tore his lips from hers to pull more in, then lifted his head to look at her flushed face. The pink made her half-closed eyes a brighter blue.

  Struck by her sweet beauty, he toyed with her nipple, loving the little catch to her breath. “God, Mac. I’ve missed you.”

  Which he discovered were the exact wrong words to say, because they were barely uttered before she was pushing on his shoulders, shoving him off her so she could jump from the bed. Her feet landed with a thunk on the floor. Her finger shook as she pointed it at him. He stared, still horny and totally unable to think straight.

  “I told you,” she said, her color high and her eyes glittering. “Not happening again.”

  Then she was gone, leaving him with the echo of her footsteps racing down the stairs as if she wanted to outrun an enemy.

  And, considering he now owned her family’s most prized possession, that’s probably exactly what she considered him to be.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  TILDA SLOWLY APPROACHED a huge wooden front door and told herself she wasn’t the least bit intimidated. After all, for months, as one of Mac’s employees, she’d been in and out of many of the most impressive homes in the area. Looking up, and up again, she acknowledged this one wasn’t even as posh as some others surrounding the lake. It had more of a lodge feel, the exterior walls half rock and half stained wood.

  Her fist looked small and pale as she lifted it from her side, but she made herself knock anyway—and pretended her knees weren’t doing the same as she waited for a response.

  Then the door swung open and a tall woman with a perfect platinum bob and Ash’s dark blue eyes looked down at her.

  Tilda swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’m part of the catering help. I didn’t see a way to get to the back entrance...”

  The woman smiled and it looked as expensive as her hairstyle. “Come in, come in. We don’t expect you to use a service entry, I promise you.”

  “I’m Tilda,” she said, stepping over the threshold. When the woman didn’t react to her name, the knot in Tilda’s stomach loosened a little.

  “And I’m Veronica Robbins. Let me show you to the kitchen.”

  She followed behind Ash’s mother, noting her dark gray slacks and the deep violet sweater she wore with them. Cashmere, Tilda supposed. She’d considered not taking the job the caterer had offered—to act as server during a bridge luncheon—but she’d never been in any position to turn down extra cash.

  Not so different from her mother, she realized, and the thought made her a little ill. She rubbed her queasy stomach but let her hand drop when Mrs. Robbins glanced behind her. “Tilda, did you say?”

  Did she know of her, then? Had Ash mentioned her before? Or was it for some other reason? Shame set her cheeks flaming and Tilda tried ignoring the edge of panic. “Short for Matilda.”

  “Such a charming, old-fashioned name,” the woman said.

  “My grandmother’s.” Tilda took strength in that. Until the day she died, the practical old lady had encouraged her granddaughter at every opportunity. You have backbone and brains, girl—which means you don’t bow your head to anyone!

  So Tilda kept her chin lifted now until she was ushered into the kitchen. There, she could breathe a sigh of relief. She might not need to bow her head during this job, but she had every intention of fading into the woodwork. Ash was an unlikely guest to his mother’s luncheon, so she could do her work, collect her pay and get on her way without any close contact with any of the Robbins family.

  Later, when the dozen guests were gathered at a long table in the dining room, Tilda perfected her silent act by moving about the table like a ghost, serving plates, filling glasses, bringing in more courses. The food smelled deli
cious and she prayed her stomach wouldn’t grumble. The good thing about these gigs for the caterer, after the guests were finished, there would usually be leftovers offered to the servers. They’d sit in the kitchen, resting their feet while chatting about the party.

  The camaraderie came in near second place to the food. A little patience and she’d get her taste of linguine and shrimp, the crunchy rolls and possibly some of the delicious cheesecake for dessert.

  She was half dreaming about the creaminess of her first bite of the stuff when she tuned into the conversation at one end of the table. Mrs. Robbins was responding to a question about her son. “Oh, Ashton.” She beamed just saying her son’s name. “Yes, he has that six-month job in London starting in a few weeks. It’s far, but that just means we’ll make many opportunities to visit him there.”

  “Then it’s just a hop and skip to Paris,” the woman to her right added.

  London, Tilda thought. Hop and skip to Paris. Ah well, she still had cheesecake.

  “Is there a girl in his life?” another of the guests asked.

  Tilda bobbled the stacked plates in her hand, causing a minor clatter that caused several of the guests to glance around. Her face heated and she wondered if letters were scrolling across her forehead. I HAD A NIGHT WITH ASH ROBBINS! I’D LOVE TO HAVE ANOTHER!

  Except, of course, she really wouldn’t love to have another.

  Because of the way the first one had ended.

  Because of the reason why the first one had even happened.

  And especially because another night might cause her to want yet another and then yet another and her grandmother hadn’t raised any fool. A girl with backbone and brains didn’t believe there ever could be a future between a Smith and a Robbins.

  Though as these thoughts wound through her head, that didn’t mean her ears didn’t pick up Ash’s mother’s response to the question. “No one special. Ash is too young to make any kind of commitment, even if the right kind of girl came into his life.”