She felt suddenly, unutterbly weary, and she sank back down on the window seat she'd vacated. "By the time I found out I was pregnant, I … knew who—or rather what—you were. Knew that you had a line of ladies that ran from here to anywhere you wanted to go. I knew you wouldn't believe it, and that I couldn't blame you for that." She laughed acidly. "I even guessed it might have happened before, being who you were."
She took a breath, aware of Trace's stunned eyes fastened on her. "Why should you believe me? I wasn't a virgin—" Her voice caught, and he knew that she was, as he was, remembering what he'd said about that.
"Did you ever stop to think that I might just believe you because … you're you?"
Her eyes went wide with puzzlement. "Why? You knew the truth about me, what I was, where I came from… Why should you believe I wouldn't lie to keep my baby from going through what I did? You're rich, why shouldn't you think I was feathering my own nest?"
Trace winced; he would have thought that—once. Yet he knew instinctively that, had she come to him, he would have believed her. Even then, before the undeniable proof he'd been presented with this morning. But even if he hadn't…
"Did you really think I would have let you go through that alone?" he asked tightly. "Even if I hadn't believed the baby was mine, I—"
"Don't you see?" she cried out, cutting him off. "That's exactly what I was afraid of! That you wouldn't believe, but you would help me anyway! I was a charity case most of my life, and I'd be damned before I would let my baby grow up that way! Maybe I didn't have a mother to teach me how to be one, but I try my best, damn it, and if nothing else, that child knows she's loved! It may not sound like much, but it's more than I ever had." She rubbed at her eyes tiredly. "I don't expect you to understand. But I couldn't come begging."
Trace's expression changed then, not a lessening of pain but rather a change from one kind to another. "I think I understand. I wish—never mind. Just tell me … why didn't you tell me this time? God, Christy, you could have told me a hundred times!"
"I … couldn't." She sighed heavily. "I knew that you love—that you thought you loved me." Trace drew in a breath, but she hurried on before he could speak. "I thought you would realize after a while that you didn't, not really, that it was just…"
"Lust?" Trace supplied tightly.
"Something like that. Or just storm-induced insanity. I thought you'd change your mind, realize you'd made a mistake, and that would be it. You'd never need to know."
"Never need to know? That I had a child?"
Christy winced at his bitter tone. "I was afraid that if I told you, you'd feel … obligated. Like you had to marry me, or support us, or something."
Trace closed his eyes as he let out a long, weary sigh. When he opened his eyes again, it was to look at her sadly. "You never believed it, did you? You've never been able to believe that anyone truly loves you. For all your courage and spirit, that's the one thing you just can't put behind you, isn't it?"
"I did believe it. With you. When you asked me to marry you that morning, for the first time I thought it might work. I thought you really meant what you said, that there wasn't anything we couldn't handle. And I wanted it so badly—"
"You did?" He looked doubtful, and she knew once more how much she had hurt him.
"Yes," she said softly. "I tried to tell myself I only stayed with you so you could see it was impossible. I never admitted to myself that that was only part of the reason."
"And the rest?"
"I wanted to be with you. To steal that time with you, so I would have something to … hold on to when I got so cold I wanted to cry." Christy wiped at her eyes, fighting to hold back a tide she knew she would never be able to stop if it began. "And then there you were, holding out the brass ring."
"But you didn't take it," he said, his voice husky with remembered pain. "Even then, you didn't tell me. God, Christy, you knew how I felt—"
"I found out." Her voice echoed with a bitterness she couldn't conceal. "You and your brother made it quite clear how you felt about children and their scheming mothers."
He went white. Her words echoed in his head, words about not giving him what he didn't want. Anger at her unfair assumption warred with guilt at the truth of it, from her viewpoint at least, and the battle showed clearly in his face. It was the intense hurt in her eyes that tipped the scales.
"She wasn't you, Christy. She was a … a groupie, a hanger-on. I was drunk. I know it's no excuse, but back then I didn't give a damn. And later I found out she'd tried the same thing before. I never would have thought that of you. I'd never even mention the two of you in the same breath."
"Are you saying you would have believed me?" She was watching him carefully.
He answered just as carefully, knowing she would detect any hedging. "Yes. I would have. We only had a few days together, but they were the kind of days that force you to learn more about someone than you learn in months under normal circumstances. I can't doubt that, because of what I learned about myself."
She kept her eyes on him steadily, and he dug deep for the feelings, the words, that would convince her. "Maybe I didn't know all the little things, your favorite color or what kind of car you drove, but I knew you were good and clean and honest and brave, and all the things that are the most important. Yes, I would have believed you."
Christy blinked against the sting of tears. "I wish—"
"You couldn't," he said quietly. "I see that now. Being who you are, with how you grew up, what happened to you, you couldn't. But I wish it, too. God, Christy, to go through that all by yourself! Was it … really bad?"
She stiffened, and Trace winced. She was still so skittish, like a fawn in a clearing, ready to leap away at the slightest sign of danger. He rubbed tiredly at the back of his neck, at muscles stiff with strain. "Oh, Christy, we've been at cross-purposes so many times…"
He sucked in a long breath, then lifted his eyes to hers. "I tried to hate you for leaving, but I couldn't." He saw her look, and his mouth twisted wryly. "I know, I gave a hell of an imitation, didn't I? Maybe I'm a better actor than I thought." He shrugged. "And now that I know why, and why you never came to me the first time… You've got to believe me. I never mentioned children because I just never thought of it. I didn't dare let myself think about a baby. God, our baby…" His voice echoed with a longing that shook her. "All I could think of was keeping you there, not scaring you off before you were sure of me, of how I felt, until you believed that I loved you. There wasn't room for anything else."
He sagged against the back of the chair, eyes closed, suddenly lacking the strength to even move. "Tell me what to do, Christy," he said hollowly. "I can't fight anymore. It's your call."
Christy looked at him, at the worn, bleak expression on his face, softened only by the ridiculously thick sweep of his lowered lashes. She knew she was trembling; she couldn't seem to stop it. Nor could she find the words to express all the confused emotions that were welling up inside her. Minutes passed in silence, and Trace's face seemed to go grayer before her eyes. At last he struggled up in the chair and then unsteadily to his feet.
"Okay, Christy. You win. I'm gone. I won't bother you again. You or—" His eyes flickered to the door through which the daughter he'd never known, would never know, had gone.
"Char," Christy whispered.
Trace winced, beyond caring about hiding his anguish. "Char," he breathed, every ounce of his pain in that one soft syllable spoken for the first and last time. "I hope her life is … less stormy than her namesake." He turned away from her.
His hand was on the knob once more when Christy finally found the words. "That's the wrong door."
Trace stared at the door, then at her, thinking there was something wrong with his befuddled brain. Christy gestured toward the kitchen. "Your daughter's in there."
Trace stared, swaying a little. "Christy…?"
"I love you, Trace." She saw a muscle in his jaw jump. "Oh, I know it's too late for me
, but … not for you and Char. She's a wonderful little girl, Trace. She deserves to know that she has a … wonderful father."
Tentatively, she held out a hand. After a long moment of searching her face, of staring into the depths of her troubled gray eyes, he reached out and enclosed her fingers in his.
Trace couldn't tear his eyes away from the tiny form in the bed. Snuggled into a soft, turquoise comforter up to the sassy little chin that was the image of her mother's, the child slept peacefully, her sandy hair a tousled halo around her sweet face. His daughter. The words still echoed in his head, sending little shivers down his spine.
After her initial reservations, Char had decided she liked this big man who had eyes just like hers. When he had shyly told her that he didn't know much about children and would she please teach him, she had been considerably taken with the idea of teaching a grown-up. She had plunged into the task enthusiastically, and if there were moments when the big man seemed to do more looking at her than paying attention, or when he would reach to touch her tentatively, gently, she wrote it off as the oddities of adulthood.
Trace had watched while Christy put the little girl to bed, Char protesting despite her yawns that she was not ready for this extremely interesting day to end. He'd felt numbly tired himself, emotionally battered, yet warmed beyond belief by that bright, innocent presence.
"She's beautiful," he said softly.
"Yes."
"When was she born?"
"June twenty-second."
He looked at her then, his eyes wide as the significance of the date registered.
Christy's mouth twisted wryly. "I know. Nine months to the day."
Trace swallowed, then looked back at the sleeping child. The reality was still tentative, the wonder of it still growing. "I wish—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I'm sorry you were alone. Was it … hard?"
Christy hesitated, then sighed. If anyone had a right, he did. "Long. I'd had enough the day before, but she was determined to come on the twenty-second. She was born at three in the morning."
He bit his lip; the thought of her pain made him shudder. One hand tightening over the other, he sucked in a short breath. "What … was she like? Then?"
He sounded so wistful that Christy felt tears sting her eyes. She reached toward the small bookcase next to the child-size table he was sitting on and drew out a large book. Gently she handed it to him.
If her talent with a camera was obvious in her books, her love of both photography and her daughter was clear in this album of pictures. Trace lingered over every page, from the first red-faced portrait to the first tottering steps, to the sunlight shot that took his breath away, so clear was the resemblance to her mother in the delicate bones of her face and that sassy nose and chin, and to him in the sandy-hair and eyes turned to blue-green fire in the golden light.
Christy saw him blink rapidly, saw the hasty swipe of the back of his hand at his damp eyes. Emotion welled up inside her so strongly that she had to move; she dropped down to her knees on the floor before him. "I'm so sorry, Trace. I never thought … you would care so much. I had no right to keep her from you."
He lifted his eyes from the book to see tears streaming silently down her cheeks. He reached out and gently brushed them away. "I … can't say it doesn't matter, because it does. I missed so much. But I understand."
They sat in silence for a long time, watching their daughter sleep. Gradually Christy relaxed, propping her back against the side of Char's bed. Surreptitiously she studied Trace, trying desperately to store up memories against the time when he would leave. And wishing she could halt the certain knowledge that it was her fault, that she had destroyed her chance at making the dream come true because she had so completely underestimated him.
"I like your house," he said suddenly. "Especially the backyard."
Christy smiled. "I always wanted one like that, that you could play in and let your imagination run wild. I always had to do it in my head. I wanted Char to have it for real."
Trace smiled back, then looked once more at the little girl who had so quickly wormed her way into his heart. "Do you suppose she'll mind trading it for the Pacific Ocean?"
"No!" Christy came up on her knees in a violent motion, her eyes suddenly wild. "Please, Trace! I know you must hate me, but please, no!"
Trace stared at her, stunned. "Christy—"
"You've got the money to do it, you could win, I know it wouldn't take much to prove I—I'm not fit, but please, Trace, please don't take her away from me!"
"Take her— God, Christy!" He went down on his knees beside her, pulling her into his arms fiercely. He pressed her head to his chest, holding her so tightly that his arms ached as he soothed her. "Christy, she's beautiful, she's quick, she's bright, but most of all she's happy. How can you think you're not fit?" He chuckled ruefully. "I'm just worried that I won't be a fit father for her."
He felt her shiver, heard her gulp for air between the sobs that had overtaken her. He gripped her shoulders and held her back from him. "Christy, look at me." Slowly her tear-stained face came up. "When I said that about trading houses, I meant all of us."
Her eyes, shimmering with tears, widened. "You … what?"
His eyes flicked to the bed, then back to her. "I think it's past time you made an honest man out of me, don't you?"
Christy paled, and her voice was a breathless whisper. "You can't mean… You still … want me?"
He pulled her close again. "Oh, Christy, I've got my work cut out for me, haven't I? So many years to make up for, for all the time nobody cared about you. But I'll do it, even if it takes the rest of my life to convince you how much I love you."
He held her until the shivers stopped, until she was quiet in his arms. Then Christy made a small sound, and he leaned back to look at her. To his amazement, she was smiling through her tears.
"I was just thinking," she explained between sniffs, "that I'd be a fool to tell you if you ever succeed."
It took him a moment, but he got there, and a wide grin broke across his face. "Does that mean yes?"
"If you're—"
"Hush. I'm sure. Surer than I ever thought I could be. You wanted me before you ever knew who I was, Christy. Do you realize what that means? I was never sure if anybody wanted me for me, or for what and who I was. You said you love me, didn't you? Marry me Christy. I want … my family."
Somewhere in her muffled, choked words, he heard a repeated "yes," and he pressed his lips to her hair. "We'll make it, love, I promise."
"Yes," she murmured against his chest. "Soon?"
"Yes."
He chuckled. "I seem to be on a hot streak. Maybe I should ask for tomorrow."
"Yes."
He backed her up again and looked at her. "You mean it?"
"If you want." Her brow furrowed. "But I have to leave next month."
"Australia?"
She nodded, biting her lip. "I didn't want to leave Char, but I promised—"
"Don't."
"Don't … what?"
"Leave her." He shrugged. "Think I can get her to like me in a month?"
"She likes you already."
He grinned, and her heart turned over. "Then you've got a built-in baby-sitter, don't you? But I don't come cheap. I want a wedding ring first, lady."
All of them. Together. A family. Christy nearly broke down again. "Oh, Trace. I don't know what to say."
"How about 'I love you'?"
"I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you."
"That'll do, for starters." He tilted her head back and kissed her, long and hard and deep, and full of the pent-up longing of the last lonely days. They were both breathless when he at last raised his head. "Just how upset is my daughter going to be when she finds me in bed with you in the morning?" he asked thickly.
"If you plan on being there from now on, I guess she'd better get used to it." Christy clung to him.
"Good. Because I plan on being there forever. Starting now." He lifted
her in his arms and proceeded to make good on that promise. And all the others.
* * * * *
UPON THE STORM Page 17