by Janet Dailey
His assertion of the time jolted Vanessa out of her daze. “It can’t be that late.”
“I beg your pardon, but it is.” He sounded patiently amused.
“I’ll be right there.” She didn’t bother to wait for a reply as she hung up the phone.
CHAPTER TEN
BY THE end of the day, Vanessa felt mentally and emotionally depleted. There was an ache inside that wouldn’t go away. She glanced at the telephone on her desk, wanting to reach for it and dial Race; but for the hundredth time, she didn’t.
The door to her office was open. Something moved by it, drawing her attention. Peter was peering around the frame, a bright twinkle in his eyes. Ever since she had arrived at the shop shortly before one, there had been a knowing quality to the looks he gave her. Vanessa knew it all went back to Race answering the telephone that had wakened them this morning. And Peter was nearly eaten alive by curiosity because of it.
She wanted desperately to be alone, but she suppressed the wave of irritation at his appearance. “Did you want something, Peter?” she demanded briskly.
“No.” But he swung the rest of his body into view and she noticed the cup and saucer he was carrying. “But I thought you might be needing the benefit of a little stimulant right now.” He entered her office without waiting to be asked and walked to her desk to set the cup and saucer down. “Some black New Or leans coffee, guaranteed to be weighted with caffeine.”
“Thank you.” Vanessa accepted it, fully aware it was merely an excuse to speak to her privately and satisfy his curiosity.
“I guess it should have been champagne.” Peter settled his slender frame into the chair in front of her desk. She darted him a questioning look and he glanced pointedly at her left hand. “Aren’t congratulations in order?”
It felt so natural to have the wedding rings on her finger that Vanessa had forgotten she was wearing them. “Not really,” she partially denied his question, aware that she only had to give Race the answer he wanted for it to be true. “These are just my old wedding rings.”
“And it was just your ‘old’ husband that answered the phone this morning when I called,” Peter guessed.
“Yes.” The alternative to a truthful answer was to pretend it had been some other man. Vanessa quickly decided against that.
“Is there a reconciliation in the wind?”
She hesitated a second too long before answering. The instant she saw his expression take on a smug look, she realized it.
“I don’t know.” Again it was the truth.
“Which means one of you is not too sure,” Peter guessed—again accurately.
The telephone on her desk rang. Vanessa reached for it quickly, grateful for the interruption that allowed her to avoid comment. “Vanessa Cantrell speaking,” she said into the mouthpiece, adopting her professional tone.
“Hello, Vanessa. It’s Phillip.”
His bright, cheerful voice triggered a series of memories, including his call to her apartment the other night which Race had answered. She guessed that his curiosity was running as high as Peter’s.
“Hello, Phillip.” She injected a lightness into her voice. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, fine.” It was obvious that he didn’t want to talk about himself. “Well?” There was a wealth of expectant meaning in the single-word question.
“Well, what?” Vanessa attempted a laugh of confusion.
There was a full second of silence before Phillip spoke again, more hesitantly this time. “Race proposed to you, didn’t he?”
“How did you know?” Surprise pushed the admission from her.
“We talked about it a few days ago and again when he answered your phone the other night,” his father explained, then chided her, “which doesn’t answer my question.”
“I… haven’t decided,” Vanessa replied, then glanced at Peter, realizing she was answering his question, too.
“I don’t understand.” Confusion ran heavy in his voice. “That was quite a concession Race made.”
Aware that Peter was unabashedly listening in, Vanessa didn’t want the conversation to continue. “I’m sorry, Phillip, but I can’t discuss it right now.”
A heavy sigh came over the phone lines, filled with disappointment. “I guess it’s your decision to make, but… if you want to talk to me about it—”
“I know,” she interrupted gently before he could offer his willing ear. “Thank you, Phillip.” But she couldn’t confide in Race’s father, since he had already related previous confidences to his son. There was an exchange of good-byes before Vanessa hung up the phone.
“So you are the one who isn’t sure,” Peter guessed.
“Yes, I’m not sure.” Her irritation crept through despite her attempts to keep it out of her voice.
“You’re wearing his rings, so you must love the guy,” he concluded. “So what’s holding you back?”
Vanessa waged a silent debate within herself before deciding to see Peter’s reaction to her reason. “He doesn’t need me.”
He looked at her with a smiling frown. “If he didn’t need you, he wouldn’t want you back.”
“You don’t know Race.” She sighed, a dejected and rueful smile lifting the corners of her mouth.
“I don’t have to know him,” Peter countered. “It’s human nature. Nobody wants to share their life with another person unless that person also satisfies some need within them. Now, whether he needs you the way you want to be needed, that’s another question entirely.”
Vanessa stared at Peter, slowly letting his remark sink in. As it did, the doubts began to glide away. Her expression began to take on a new glow.
“Your coffee is getting cold,” Peter observed with the beginnings of another knowing smile.
“I don’t think I need it anymore.” She reached for the telephone and dialed the number of Race’s company. When a woman answered on the fourth ring, Vanessa guessed it was either his secretary or an answering service. “I’d like to speak to Race Cantrell, please.”
“I’m sorry, but he isn’t here right now. May I take a message?” the woman inquired.
“This is Vanessa Cantrell. Do you know where he is or how I might reach him?” she asked, trying to contain her eagerness.
“Mrs. Cantrell.” The woman’s voice seemed to take on a friendly warmth of recognition. “Race did leave a message in case you called. He had to go to the drilling site in Assumption Parish. Unfortunately, there isn’t a telephone where he can be reached, but I will be talking to him first thing in the morning. Do you want to leave a number where he can call you, or is there a message I can give him?”
“I’ll be at my apartment.” Vanessa gave the woman her telephone number in case Race didn’t know it, but no message. It was one she wanted to give him herself. When she rang off, she looked up to find Peter shaking his head at her. “What’s the matter?”
“I was just commiserating with you because you have to wait now for him to call you,” he explained.
Her spirits dipped for a second when she realized how long it was until tomorrow morning, but they soared with a new decision. “I’m not going to wait,” she stated. “There’s nothing keeping me here. Carla’s left for the weekend, and you’re going.”
“I am?” He arched a dark eyebrow.
“Yes, you are.” Vanessa didn’t make any attempt to straighten her desk as she rose from her chair, prompting Peter to stand as well.
A few minutes later, the shop was locked for the weekend and she was waving to Peter as she walked to her small sports car. The long angle of the sun flashed its fire on the diamonds of her wedding rings. Vanessa smiled at the prism of light they reflected as she slipped behind the wheel.
Evening traffic lengthened the driving time from New Orleans to Assumption Parish. Darkness had settled in when Vanessa neared her destination. A sigh of relief trembled through her as the car’s headlights picked out the sign on the gate that read: “Boars Head #1.” She had just about d
ecided she’d missed the turn.
Negotiating the narrow, rutted road in the daylight hadn’t been easy. Attempting it at night was definitely a challenge as the trees closed in, creating a black tunnel. Lights flickered through the mossdraped branches, becoming steadier as she neared them.
When she reached the clearing, floodlights illuminated the drilling platform and trailer like daylight. There were fewer trucks parked in front of the office trailer. Vanessa maneuvered her car into an opening between two pickups and switched off the motor.
As she stepped out of the car, she made the same mistake as before—her high-heeled sandals sinking into the marshy ground. She tried to find more solid footing, but there didn’t seem to be any. A shadow loomed suddenly in front of her, the noise of the man’s approach drowned out by the loud drone of a pump motor at the well site.
“Looking for somebody?” the man challenged.
“Race Cantrell. Is he here?” Vanessa dodged a buzzing mosquito flying around her face and took a futile swipe at it with her hand.
“In the trailer.” The man in coveralls motioned over his shoulder.
“Thank you.”
The heavyset man just nodded and moved out of her path, heading for one of the trucks. The muddy ground was like a water-laden sponge that sucked at her shoes, trying to pull them off with each step Vanessa took. The puddle of murky water at the base of the trailer’s metal steps seemed larger. Vanessa eyed the distance and height to the first step and knew she’d never make it in one long stride.
Headlight beams from the departing truck swept over her as it reversed away from the trailer. With a sigh of defeat, she balanced herself on one leg while she slipped the heeled sandal off her other foot, then repeated the procedure to remove the other shoe. Mud oozed between her nylon-covered toes, but it was better to have dirty feet and torn stockings than to ruin a pair of shoes.
Holding the shoes by the heel straps in one hand, Vanessa used them for balance as she waded into the puddle where the warm, muddy water lapped around her ankles. When she was within reach of the metal handrail, she grabbed for it and hauled herself onto the steps. Her wet feet made the footing slippery, forcing her to climb the smooth metal steps slowly, when she wanted to run.
The anticipation for this moment had been building all during the long drive to the drilling site, until now it was at a fever pitch. Her heart seemed to be tripping over itself in high excitement as Vanessa reached for the door. An interior light spilled onto the steps when she opened it and stepped quickly inside, shutting off the outside noise when she closed the door.
Her eager gaze darted to the office side of the room, oblivious of the other two men in the trailer, and halted the instant she located Race. He was in a frozen stance by the table with the coffee urn. There was a hint of pallor beneath his sun-bronzed features as his gaze first locked with hers, then slowly traveled down her length.
The flush in her cheeks made her face glow with the inner fire that had hastened her to his side. Her eyes sparkled like dark amethyst crystals. The high Louisiana humidity had begun curling tendrils of hair against her neck.
With a soft, self-conscious laugh, Vanessa realized what a picture she made in her belted camel-gold dress, with muddy feet and shoes in her hand. “I’m simply going to have to invest in a pair of boots before I visit any more of your drilling sites.”
The sound of her voice seemed to prove to Race that she wasn’t a figment of his imagination, breaking him free of the motionless stance. Yet his expression continued to show strain, something raw and stark flashing in his dark eyes.
“You damned well better be here to tell me yes.” There was a hoarse rasp to his voice, low and urgent in its aching roughness.
“Yes.” Her voice went husky with emotion, too, as she gave him her answer.
Without consciously directing her feet, she was moving toward him. A mighty thaw seemed to tremble through him, shattering the cold grip uncertainty had kept him in. His long strides covered the distance more quickly than her light feet. His strong arms gathered her up, lifting her feet off the floor while his mouth crushed its hungry kiss onto hers.
Her arms were wrapped around his neck, holding him as tightly as he held her. A delirious joy swept her high, making her feel weightless and boneless, and on fire with a happiness more complete than she’d ever known. Neither of them heard the other two men in the trailer when they discreetly slipped outside.
As the long kiss ended, Race slowly let her feet touch the floor, while his arms maintained their tight hold. His fiercely possessive embrace was heady bliss as Vanessa kept her eyes closed to implant his movement forever in her memory. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, roughly mouthing her sensitive skin.
“I love you, Vanessa.” His voice was choked with raw emotion.
“I love you, too, Race…just the way you are,” she vowed. “I want to be with you—all my life. Rich or poor. It took me a long time to realize that it doesn’t matter whether we have a roof over our head or not, as long as we’re together.”
A violent shudder went through him as he loosened his hold on her and lifted his head to look at her upturned face. His hands were trembling as they moved over her shoulders and back, as if reassuring themselves that it was really her.
“Do you mean that?” he asked in an aching whisper.
At first, Vanessa couldn’t answer. She was staring in silent wonder at his strong male features. There was a vulnerable quality about them. More incredible than that, there were tears in his eyes. She curved a loving hand to his hard, lean cheekbone and caught the tear in the corner of his eye with her fingertip.
Race not only loved her, but he also needed her. It was there, written for her to see in the shimmer of tears in his eyes. How could she have ever doubted it? Vanessa was overwhelmed and humbled by the totality of his love.
“Yes, I mean that.” There was no uncertainty in her reply.
With a groan, he kissed her again. This time, there was none of the desperate urgency that marked the last. His mouth moved in a slow, adoring fashion over the softness of her love-swollen lips, showing her the gentle side of equally powerful passion. She combed her fingers into the virile thickness of his dark hair, clinging to his kiss and making it her own.
Neither of them spoke for a long second afterward, content for the time being just to be in each other’s arms. Vanessa let her hands wander over the sinewed muscles in his arms and shoulders, aware of their male strength and their protectiveness.
His breath was warm against her cheek, an invisible caress when Race spoke. “Don’t make a mistake. I could never let you leave me again.”
“I won’t leave you—ever,” she promised again. “No matter how rough and rocky the road gets.” Vanessa attempted to lighten the intensity of the moment. “Which isn’t to say that I won’t complain sometimes. I probably will. But you are my home—and your love is all the security I need.”
A glint appeared in his eyes, as if enjoying some secret joke. “Are you sure?” Race challenged lightly.
“Yes, I’m sure,” she answered, a little puzzled.
He pressed a firm kiss to her temple, then shifted to curve her to his side, nestled under the crook of his shoulder. “Let’s go over here and sit down.”
He guided her to the desk and sat down in the creaky swivel chair behind it, drawing her crosswise onto his lap. His hand roamed familiarly over her hip, the curve of her waist, and lingered on the straining fullness of her breast. Then he ran a finger over her lips, tracing their outline, while his eyes watched with interest the way they trembled.
“This is much better, isn’t it?” Race murmured.
The position contained so many physically disturbing influences that Vanessa found it difficult to think, let alone talk. But she rather enjoyed this kind of elemental communication, too, from the unyielding solidness of his chest to the hard columns of his thighs.
“Much,” she murmured, kissing the forefinger that ta
ntalized her lips.
His gaze continued to study her with a certain knowing quality in his look. A smile slowly spread its warmth across his mouth, dazzling her a little with its potent charm. She held her breath in heady anticipation of his kiss, but it didn’t come. Instead he turned his attention from her. The chair squealed a protest when he swiveled it at an angle and reached to open a desk drawer.
“I have something for you,” Race said, and took a long, fat envelope from the drawer. There was a definitely complacent glitter in his eyes when he handed it to her.
The envelope flap was unsealed. Vanessa darted him a bewildered glance as she opened and withdrew a many-paged legal document. It would take too long to read and decipher all the legal jargon, so she turned her gaze on Race.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Your security,” he stated lazily. “Now I won’t have to hear you gripe about it anymore, and I can get on with my wildcatting.”
“My security? What are you talking about?” She frowned and looked at the document again, not understanding its significance. “And I already told you that I’m not worried about security,” she added for emphasis.
“I’m not taking any chances,” Race replied on a dry note. “This document represents a legal trust, whereby all income from this well, Boars Head #1, will be protected solely for you, with provisions for an annual allowance. Which should keep you in jewels and furs for a few years.”
For a dazed moment Vanessa could only stare at him while she tried to absorb the meaning of his announcement. “Are you saying…”—it was hard to get the words out—“… that your well is a producer?” Immediately she frowned, because she had asked him the same question only a day ago. “You said the other day that it wasn’t.”
“It isn’t my well. It’s yours,” he corrected. “So I wasn’t exactly lying when I told you my well didn’t test out.”
“But you did find the big one,” she realized. When he nodded an affirmative reply, she was speechless with happiness for him, knowing how long and how hard he’d searched. “You did it!” she cried, and flung her arms around his neck, accidentally crumpling the legal papers in her hand. “I’m so glad! It’s what you wanted! Now you’ve made it!”