Love Me

by Cheryl Holt

  “Well, you can’t, princess.” He leaned over and swatted her on the butt. “Get dressed—and hurry up—before I change my mind and decide to join you under those covers.”

  She lifted the sheet. “There’s plenty of room, big guy.”

  “You’re going to be the death of me. Have I told you that before?”

  “I believe you have.”

  He sat on the edge of the mattress, his feet on the floor, as he fussed with the buttons on his shirt.

  She was able to study his injuries. He’d been badly burned in the explosion in Iraq, and he had large swaths of scarring that were usually kept hidden under his clothes.

  She laid her hand on the worst spot, wishing she could wipe it away, that she could heal him. He hung his head, silent, pensive, letting her touch him for a brief minute, then he shifted away, as if he was embarrassed.

  She came up on her knees and draped herself over his back, her arms over his shoulders, as she kissed him on the cheek.

  “I’m happy,” she said.

  “I’m glad.”

  “Don’t be so angry with me.”

  “I’m not. I don’t feel well most of the time. I take it out on everybody.”

  “Don’t take it out on me.”

  “I’ll try not to.”

  He reached up to riffle her hair, then he eased away and stood. He groaned and winced.

  “Are you all right?” she asked.

  “I’m always sore when I first crawl out of bed. I have to stretch a little to get the blood flowing.”

  “You’re a mess, Monroe.”

  “I know. I have so many pins and plates holding me together that I can’t ever fly on an airplane again. I set off the metal detectors in the airport.”

  “You’re a walking scrap heap.”

  “That’s what it seems like, honey.”

  She wanted to ask him what had happened the day he was wounded, about his years as a soldier, or his months in the hospital in Germany. Ken occasionally alluded to some of those topics, but Matt would smoothly guide the conversation in another direction.

  She wondered if he’d ever trust her enough to talk about any of it. She wondered if he’d ever let her get that close. She certainly hoped so, but she couldn’t figure out how to venture into that territory.

  In the period she’d been in Ken’s house, she’d been so relaxed. It was so easy to be with the three of them. She hadn’t worried a single time about what she was doing or where she was headed. She hadn’t fretted over her choices or moped around like an outsider looking in.

  Though she couldn’t explain why, she felt as if she belonged with Ken, as if she’d arrived where she was meant to be.

  She’d ignored her contentment, telling herself that she was on a brief vacation from her real life, that she’d sneaked away but would have to go back as soon as she’d rested and regrouped. But why would she go back?

  Once she spoke to Andrew and broke off her engagement, there was nothing out in the big wide world to which she had to return. Why couldn’t she stay with Ken and Matt?

  Ken was in no hurry to have her go, and Jeremy liked her.

  Matt had been the only one who’d been opposed, but now that she’d passed the afternoon in bed with him, his fury had faded. He was back to being his normal, caustic self, and their relationship had reverted to the spot where it had been when he’d first brought her home.

  There was absolutely no reason for her to leave, and she was finally clear on what she wanted.

  She wanted Matt. She wanted him to love her and stand by her and be her friend forever, but if he couldn’t give her all that, she’d take whatever she could coax him into providing. And she’d take it for as long as he would agree to give it to her.

  She’d fallen for a man who had nothing of value to share except himself and his misfit family. Matt would never admit it, but he needed her. They all needed her, and she needed them.

  Her fortune often seemed like such a burden, but it had dawned on her how she could use some of it more constructively. She could spend money—money that she’d never miss—tending and caring for them.

  In return, they’d supply her with purpose and direction, would fill her with joy and the sense of belonging that had constantly proved so elusive.

  “You’re grinning again,” Matt said. “Why?”

  “Because I’m baking a birthday cake. I haven’t done that in years.”

  “Before I met you, if someone had told me you could cook, I’d have called them a liar.”

  “I’m a great cook,” she huffed, offended.

  “Yes you are, but you’re spoiled rotten and always have been. Who would imagine that a rich girl like you would know how to cook?”

  “I’m not incompetent.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re proficient in all sorts of areas.”

  He nodded toward the bed, which made her laugh and blush.

  “You haven’t even scratched the surface of my skills, bud.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “If you can keep from barking at me every two seconds, you might get even luckier.”

  “I haven’t decided if we’ll do this again. I’m still not convinced that the first time was a good idea.”

  “Ha! I give you one hour, then you’ll be begging me to sneak up here.”

  She was still on her knees on the mattress, naked, her blond hair curled over her shoulders. His lazy gaze traveled down her torso.

  He chuckled. “You’re probably right. I’m a pushover for a pretty face, and you’re as easy as they come.”

  “Easy! I’ll show you easy. Next time, I’m on top, and you’ll have to obey my every command.”

  “As if you could boss me around and get away with it.”

  “Just wait and see.”

  He handed her his shirt. She helped him stuff his arms in the sleeves, then buttoned the buttons and patted him on the chest.

  “There you are, big boy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  The most electrifying silence ensued.

  He was watching her, his entire being alert and brooding. It seemed as if he was about to tell her something important, something she’d always needed to know. She held her breath, intrigued by what it could be.

  He ran a finger over her lips, then down her chin, stopping at her cleavage.

  “Ken’s a good guy,” he quietly stated.

  It was the last comment she’d expected.

  “I know that.”

  “He’s had a tough life, and the coming months won’t be pleasant.”

  “I know that too. He’s dying, isn’t he?”

  “We’re all dying, Brittney.”

  “But he’s very ill.”

  “Yes, he is, so no matter how he behaved in the past, you have to remember that he had his reasons. He tried to do what he thought was right for everybody.”

  “Okay…” she slowly said, not having a clue what point he was making.

  “Don’t you dare hurt him.”

  “Hurt him! I never would.”

  “Just be sure you don’t—or you’ll have to answer to me.”

  She frowned, anxious to defend herself against what appeared to be his very low opinion of her intentions toward Ken. She had no intentions toward Ken except sincere friendship, and she was eager to apprise Matt in the baldest of terms.

  But noise erupted downstairs as Ken and Jeremy arrived. Jeremy was talking a mile a minute, his happy chatter drifting up.

  “Crap,” Matt muttered, and he whipped away and hurried to the door. “I’ll go down and keep them there while you get dressed. I don’t want Jeremy to catch you in here.”

  Then he left.

  She hesitated, wondering what had just happened. Why had his attitude changed so abruptly?

  One second, they’d been enjoying their usual, acerbic banter, and the next…?

  “The man is insane,” she mumbled to herself.

  Hadn’t she alwa
ys understood that about him?

  She scrambled off the bed, scooped up her clothes, and frantically tugged them on.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Where did you get this?”

  “Get what?”

  Jeremy came over to stand beside Brittney. She was in the kitchen, frosting his mother’s birthday cake.

  Ken and Matt were in the backyard, grilling steaks, while Brittney finished up with the salad and other last details.

  Jeremy had gone upstairs, saying he wanted to have his favorite photo of his mother at the table as they ate. He’d just brought it down and laid it on the counter. Brittney stared at it, feeling confused and somewhat alarmed.

  It appeared to be her—Brittney—posed with Matt when she was a teenager. They were much younger, happy, grinning.

  Lately, she’d been dealing with a lot of personal issues, but none of them had affected her memory. She had only been acquainted with Matt for two weeks, and she most definitely had never known him when she was a teenager.

  “Where did you get this picture of me and your dad?” she asked again.

  “It’s not you. It’s my mom. See?”

  He pointed to a notation jotted in pencil on the back: Emily Scott, age 17—with Matt Monroe.

  Brittney assessed the girl, and as she studied her more closely, it became clear that it wasn’t her. But Emily was a carbon copy of Brittney; they could have been twins. Same golden blond hair. Same expressive green eyes. Same height and slender shape.

  “This is your mom?” she said.

  “Yeah. She looks like you, don’t you think?”

  “I guess.” Brittney nodded. “A little bit.”

  “I wish you could have met her. I don’t remember her—she died when I was a baby—but Ken and Matt say she was really nice. I bet you’d have liked her.”

  “I bet I would have too.”

  He headed to the living room and plopped down in front of the television. She was left alone with the disturbing photo.

  She kept running her finger over and over the deceased girl’s face. It was the eeriest sensation, but she was certain Emily was trying to tell her a secret. What was it?

  You know… a voice whispered. You know what it is. You’ve always known…

  This wasn’t some weird coincidence. This wasn’t a fluke. She and Emily Scott could be sisters. There was a loud buzzing in her ears, and she began to tremble.

  The back door opened, and Matt walked in.

  He stopped, his gaze falling to the photo. Brittney extended it toward him.

  “Who is this?”

  “Ken’s daughter, Emily.”

  “She looks just like me. Why?”

  He shrugged but didn’t speak.

  “Answer me!”

  “It’s not my story to tell.”

  “Then whose story is it?”

  He went to the door and called, “Ken, would you come in here for a minute?”

  “I can’t leave the steaks.”

  “I’ll watch the grill,” Matt promised.

  Momentarily, Ken entered.

  “This better be important,” he grouched. “I don’t trust you with a good piece of meat. Charbroiled doesn’t mean that you—“

  Noting the strained silence, he cut off his remark. Matt gestured to Brittney.

  “She has some questions to ask you.”

  “About what?” But his smile faded as he noticed the photo. “Where did you get that?”

  “Jeremy gave it to me,” Brittney replied.

  “Your time is up, Ken,” Matt said.

  Ken’s shoulders slumped with resignation. “I was hoping to have a few more days with her.”

  “To what?” Brittney inquired.

  “Ah…ah…” Ken stammered, but he couldn’t explain. He peered at Matt, his expression grim. “Would you and Jeremy go get a burger?”

  “What about the steaks?” Brittney asked.

  “Forget the steaks,” Ken sadly mumbled. “They don’t matter now.”

  “I’ll take them off the grill,” Matt said, and he hollered into the living room. “Hey Jeremy, we have to drive to the store. Brittney forgot something we need for supper.”

  “I’m right in the middle of my show,” Jeremy complained.

  “It’ll still be on when we get back.”

  Jeremy trudged through the kitchen, oblivious to the tension swirling among the three adults.

  Matt glared at Ken.

  “No more screwing around. You say it straight out.”

  “I will,” Ken agreed.

  “I’ll give you an hour.” He yanked his furious gaze to Brittney. “If you want to go home when I come back, I’ll take you.”

  He pushed Jeremy out the door and stomped out after him.

  She stared at Ken, feeling sick to her stomach, off balance and dizzy with worry.

  Ken eased down into a chair, looking as if he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, as if he’d just aged ten years.

  He pointed to the chair across.

  “Sit down,” he quietly told her. “We need to talk.”

  * * * *

  “What are you saying?”

  “We had an affair.”

  “You and my mother?”

  “Yes.”

  Brittney studied Ken, her disbelief obvious, and he couldn’t blame her for being skeptical.

  It was hard for a child to imagine a parent being swept away by passion. But when the parent was Jacquelyn Merriweather, it was even more difficult. In fact, it bordered on the fantastical, on the absurd.

  “How did you even meet her?” Brittney asked.

  “Your parents were in Colorado a lot that summer. They constantly threw parties and hosted conferences with all these big wigs. Oil sultans and sheiks and prime ministers. President Reagan showed up once while I was there.”

  “No offense, Ken, but you worked security. Part-time security, and she’s really self-absorbed. When would you have had a chance to be alone with her?”

  “We spent three weeks together—when your dad was out of town.”

  She frowned, pausing to evaluate Ken’s tale. In recent days, they’d developed a fairly close bond. Why would she suddenly assume he’d lie to her?

  Finally, she nodded, as if convincing herself.

  “Okay, fine,” she said. “You had an affair with my mother. Why tell me about it?”

  “It was a bit more than an affair.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I thought for awhile that she might leave your father and…well…run off with me.”

  She chuckled frostily, sounding very much like the rich girl she’d been raised to be.

  “Run off with you? I don’t think so, Ken.”

  “She was very unhappy, kiddo.”

  “I don’t care how unhappy she was. She’s an incredible snob, and being a Merriweather is everything to her. She would never have left my father.”

  He shrugged. “I realize that now. Back then, I was young and stupid. Right up to the end, I believed she would follow through.”

  “What happened?”

  “I arrived at the mansion. She was supposed to be packed and ready to go, but at the last second, she got cold feet and came to her senses.”

  “She said that? To your face?”

  “No, I never spoke to her again. My boss was waiting for me. She’d told him some lie about me bothering her, so he fired me and sent me on my way. He hung around so I couldn’t return later and sneak in. Didn’t matter, though.”

  “Why?”

  “I found out that she’d left town earlier in the afternoon, so I couldn’t have talked to her even if I’d wanted to. Which I didn’t. I’m not an idiot. Her message was loud and clear: I’d been played for a fool.”

  “Why bring it up? Why still fuss over it?”

  “Because…” He had to swallow three times before he could continue. “Because she had a baby exactly nine months after that.”

  “A baby?”

  “Y
es. You.”

  “Me? So?”

  “Your family has dark hair and blue eyes, but your hair is blond and your eyes are green. Didn’t you ever wonder why?”

  “No,” she insisted.

  “Didn’t you wonder why your mother was so cruel to you?”

  “She was cruel to my brothers, too. It wasn’t just me.”

  “Didn’t you ever wonder why you never felt as if you belonged with that horrid bunch?”

  He could see that he’d scored a few points. A troubled expression flitted across her features, but it was swiftly masked.

  The photo of Emily lay on the table between them. He shoved it toward her.

  “Ask me again why you look so much like her,” Ken said.

  She stared at the picture, a scowl marring her brow. “You’re trying to tell me something important, but I don’t get it. I give up. Why do I look so much like her?”

  Was she being deliberately obtuse?

  “Because you’re my daughter. You’re mine. You were raised as if David Merriweather was your father, but he—“

  “Shut up!” she hissed. She pushed back her chair and leapt to her feet.

  “It’s true. I’m your dad.”

  “Don’t you dare say that.”

  She glanced around frantically, like a trapped animal, as if she was about to run out the door and keep on running, but he couldn’t permit her to leave. Not until they’d hashed it out to the bitter end.

  “Calm down and think for a minute.”

  “About what?”

  “You know your relationship with your mom is all screwed up. With your dad too. I always figured he had to suspect. They hadn’t slept together in ages, so he would have—“

  “Shut up!” she repeated more vehemently. Her distress palpable, she started pulling on her hair, scratching her arms. “You’re claiming that I…that my mother…that I’m not…”

  She couldn’t complete any of her sentences, and he gazed up at her, letting a wave of comfort ooze from him to her.

  He’d had twenty-six years to accept what he’d done, what had happened, but she’d only had a few seconds.

  He’d spent decades, playing and replaying this encounter in his head. Especially over the past months, when his breathing difficulties had gotten so awful, when the news from the doctors was all bad.

  He’d envisioned her having differing reactions, from glad to angry to some variation in between. And of course, in his fantasy, he’d been extremely logical and articulate. He’d explained the details perfectly, but that was the problem with imagined scenarios. The reality was always much different, always more distasteful or wounding.