by Donna Fasano
His words and the frown on his forehead didn't register with her, and she plunged ahead. "But getting a free ride is all that's important to the high and mighty Ian Powers."
His expression clouded and his jaw set. "Be careful, Andrea."
"Free ride," she repeated defiantly. "I worked my tail end off to get you ready for this race. I personally supervised each and every phase of your training. I molded that pitiful body of yours into the conditioned runner that you are today."
"Andrea—"
His tone was a warning, but she went on, heedless. "And what do I get for all the time and effort I put into this whole affair? I get rooked by the very person I tried to help." She glared up at him. "But I guess I should be proud to have been burned by the best. Huh, Ian? You've scorched me worse than my own father ever did."
Ian's eyes narrowed and his quiet voice held an underlying current when he assured her, "You're going to get your money."
"But it's not your money, is it, Ian? You don't even have the decency to pay your own debt." She batted her hair out of her eyes. "You've schemed a way to have Pamela pay it for you!"
The muscles in his face contorted in anger. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know exactly what I'm talking about." She glanced at the check she clutched between her fingers and impulsively shoved it at him. "I don't want Pamela's money."
"Andrea," he said, ignoring the check and clutching her shoulder.
She shrugged out of his grasp. "Don't touch me!" Her voice was cold as she pushed Pamela's payment at him. "Take it, Ian. I don't want it!"
His jaw snapped shut and his nostrils flared with fury, but he calmly plucked the check from her hand. "That flaw in your character that makes you dive into things headfirst isn't cute anymore, Andrea. In fact, I think it's just caused you to snap that pretty little neck of yours. You've jumped to the wrong conclusion once too often."
He turned and strode off toward the crowd.
Andrea watched him go, hearing Harry's faint voice announcing the names of the winners. She let her tears flow freely now that Ian wasn't there to see them. Then she did the only thing she could. She turned in the opposite direction and ran.
Chapter Ten
Andrea stood in her backyard, mechanically throwing the mangled tennis ball that Gunther kept fetching and dropping at her feet.
She'd come home over three hours ago, showered, changed and done a multitude of mindless chores, trying to keep thoughts of Ian at bay. But no amount of cleaning and straightening could erase the bitter scene that kept playing through her head.
She wasn't a coward and didn't usually feel the need to escape from difficult situations. But that Ian had walked away from her as though he were the one who had been wronged had been more than she could stand. So, she'd run away from him and his hurtful words. The whole rotten mess stank to high heaven.
Ian hadn't planned on making the promised donation. Probably from the very beginning he'd been scheming one way or another to get out of it. She should be thankful for the way things had turned out. If she hadn't spoken with Pamela, she might have never known—she might have really gotten burned.
A wave of depression washed over her as she thought of the fact that now she would have no money—not Ian's, not Pamela's, nor any from the school's budget—to use in purchasing new equipment for her students. She'd gone through all this for nothing. Mr. Scott might even fire her when he heard the outcome.
Returning Pamela's money had been childish, she knew that. But the thought of keeping the check rankled her so badly she couldn't help refusing it.
Andrea looked up to see Gunther sniffing at one corner of the fence, the ball forgotten. She sat on the wooden steps and rested her chin in her palm.
She wished she had followed her first instincts where Ian was concerned. She wished she hadn't let his honeyed words color her perception of him. But she had. She'd gone further still, falling head over heels in love with the man.
She'd gone out on a limb for Ian Powers, and it had snapped under the weight of her emotions. She shouldn't have let herself get so involved with him, but since she had, she'd just have to pay the price for her mistakes.
Part of that price included the gloom that now filled her to the brim. She snatched up a pebble lying at her feet and hurled it out into the yard.
How long would she hurt? How long before the scars on her heart began to heal? How long would it be before Ian's name ceased to conjure images of warm passion?
When the doorbell rang, Andrea hopped up, brushing off the back of her shorts. Gunther bounded through the porch door when she opened it and ran, barking, toward the living room.
"Gunther, sit!" Andrea waited for the German shepherd to obey her command before she pulled open the door.
Ian's stony expression greeted her.
She didn't even try to hide the irritation that welled up inside her. "What do you want?"
"Just came to collect," he said, brushing past her to stalk to the center of the room before turning to face her. "You made a bet. I'm here for the shoes."
Andrea swallowed and gripped the brass door handle as though it was her lifeline. Her heart ached at the sight of him. Why couldn't he just leave her alone with her misery? Why did he find it necessary to torture her?
"Ian, I don't want you here," she cried, fighting the tears that threatened to spill.
He whirled around to face her. "I don't care what you want! You're going to listen to what I have to say."
All the frustration and anger and hurt she'd felt since she'd run from Ian earlier rose to the surface, forcing a vent for itself. She slammed the door, her fists clenched at her sides.
"I knew the kind of person you were the first time I laid eyes on you," she said, restraining the words from coming too fast. "I knew you were just like my father, an overbearing tyrant, not caring what anyone else might think or want. Hearing you say the words has done me a world of good."
She stepped behind the couch and splayed her fingers on its headrest, willing herself to relax. "My father can't dictate to me any longer, Ian. And neither can you." She raised her chin. "I don't have to listen to anything you have to say."
His hard mouth wasn't softened by the cold, slow smile that curved his lips. "But you do, Andrea." He shook his head, his eyes full of scorn. "When are you going to open your eyes and see what's in front of you? Look at you. Look at where you've chosen to position yourself for protection." He indicated the couch with a curt jerk of his head. "Andrea, it's not me you need protection from. It's your own passionate emotions that you're trying to hide from."
"That's ridiculous!" The words dripped contempt and Andrea felt the heat of anger flush her face. "The only emotion I feel toward you is hate. And I feel it with a passion."
His chuckle was humorless. "There's a fine thread that separates love and hate."
"What are you saying?" Her eyes were wide with incredulity. "You think I—"
"I'm reserving comment," he interrupted. "I won't tell you what you feel. You'll have to figure that out for yourself."
"I can't believe my ears! The great and powerful Ian Powers is passing up a chance to tell me what I feel." She shook her head sarcastically. "That's so out of character, Ian. My father would be so disappointed."
"I'm sick and tired of hearing you complain about your father." Ian planted one hand squarely on his hip. "From what I've gleaned, he was a man who loved his daughter the best way he knew how—by providing for her and trying to steer her in the right directions in life. Your father loved you, Andrea. You're just too damned stubborn to see it." Ian pointed his finger at her. "He just wasn't lucky enough to have someone point out that his child needed a relationship with him more than she needed the things his hard-earned money provided. But it's very low of you to hold that against him."
Stepping toward her, in a low, tight voice he said, "You've thrown challenges at me from day one, Andrea. And I've met them time and again. Well, I have a challeng
e for you now. I think you should contact your father. Talk to him." He leaned forward. "Communicate with him. Try to work out some of the anger you feel, because it's making you jump to hasty conclusions and it's coloring your perception of the most important aspect of your life."
He took another step toward her, his tone softening as he said, "You saw problems between my daughter and me and you helped us work them out. For that I'll be eternally grateful. But I wish like hell you were perceptive enough to see the mistake you're making right now."
Silence and anger separated them. They stood glaring at each other.
Andrea searched his hard features for a clue to his last statement. But before she had a chance to figure it out, he erased all emotion from his face, his shoulders slumping a fraction.
"Like I said when I first arrived, I only came to collect." He pushed his fists into his pockets.
"You're not really serious."
"I'm serious." He extended one hand toward her, waving his fingers in a "gimme" motion.
She stood firm. "What in the world are you going to do with my shoes?"
"Keep them," he told her. "It'll teach you a small lesson—don't kick a man when he's down."
"I didn't kick you," she snapped. "I only prodded you a little."
"Anyway, I didn't finish the race in time to win a trophy. I need something to set on my shelf and admire, something to commemorate my accomplishment."
Andrea glared at him. "You just want to rub my nose in it." She bent and slipped off one of her running shoes. She tossed it at him and was pleased when it thumped him on the chest before he caught it. She pulled the other shoe off and hurled it at him, but he snatched it in midair.
He gave her a nod and a cocky smile and headed toward the door. He stopped short and turned to face her.
"I almost forgot," he said, reaching into his back pocket. He extended a white envelope to her. "This is for you."
She stepped from around the couch, her bare feet making her feel utterly naked. She frowned and looked at the envelope, making no move to accept it.
"Go on, take it," he said, then added wryly, "I think you'll be pleased."
When she took the envelope a smug question passed through her mind. Had she made Ian feel so bad that he'd decided to pay her the money he owed? Well, he should feel bad, and he should pay his debt.
"Pamela's hosting a celebration dinner for us tonight at her apartment. Her address is on the front, there."
"But, Ian, I can't—"
"You can. And you will." Her eyes narrowed. "If you won't do it for me, you'll do it for my dad and Denise. My father told me he'd agreed to help coach your track team, and Denise dedicated herself to training for the run today. They deserve some recognition. If you're not there by eight, I'll be back to throw you over my shoulder and carry you there."
After he left, Andrea stared at the door, knowing his threat wasn't an idle one. He'd be back if she didn't show up at Pamela's.
Well, she'd go to the dinner. Not because she was frightened of Ian's warning, but for Denise and Harry. Denise had worked hard all spring to train for the half marathon, and Harry had become Andrea's friend. Andrea wanted to explain to Pamela why she hadn't accepted her check. Some fresh-cut flowers might help to soften the explanation.
Andrea reached into the envelope and was surprised when she pulled out not one, but two checks: the original check signed by Pamela Jamison, the other carrying Ian's bold signature. Each check was made out for the amount that she and Ian had agreed on, leaving Andrea with double the donation she'd been expecting.
What was this all about? Andrea stared at the two checks, pondering the question.
She remembered her angry accusation earlier, when she'd railed against Ian for letting Pamela pay his debt. She'd obviously made him feel guilty enough that he'd decided to make his promised donation. But why, then, was Pamela's check included?
As Andrea gazed down at her bare toes, her jaw slowly clenched with the realization that Ian simply wanted to avoid the embarrassment of returning Pamela's check.
"Oh, Ian," Andrea whispered aloud.
Andrea had been soaking in the tub for half an hour. She'd pushed all thoughts about the two checks aside, feeling undecided about what to do about them. She focused her attention instead on Ian's summation concerning her father.
Your father loved you the best way he knew how. Ian's words replayed themselves in her mind. Was it possible that her father did love her?
She lifted herself out of the now chilly water and wrapped a towel around her body, tucking one corner between her breasts. She sloshed out of the bathroom, unconscious of the fact that she was still dripping wet. Rummaging through the bookcase in her bedroom, she found the dusty old photo album she was looking for.
The yellowed pages crackled as she opened them. The black-and-white pictures were creased and delicate. Images of her smiling father stared up at her. One picture had been taken as her father held her, laughing, atop a white pony, another as they rode a giant merry-go-round at a carnival.
There weren't many pictures, but in every one, her father's expression was the same—he looked at his only daughter with love and adoration.
Andrea studied the prints for a long time. Her father did love her. The proof was there in black-and- white. Happy memories of when she was very young flooded her brain, further evidence that, at one time, she had returned that love.
But when had everything turned sour between them? Had it been when he'd been forced to take that new job and had to travel? Or had it been when she'd hit rebellious adolescence?
She stared off, wondering how both of them could have let their relationship get into the lousy shape it was in. She glanced at the telephone on the nightstand. Would a call to Kansas start a rebuilding of her and her father's lost relationship? She closed the album and went to sit on the edge of the bed, lifting the phone receiver from its cradle. She could only try. The last thought that flashed through her mind as she heard the ring on the other end of the line was that she was taking Ian up on his challenge.
~ ~ ~
Andrea parked her car and hurried up the steps of Pamela's apartment building. She was late and her heart was racing.
She pressed the buzzer and waited. She didn't know what this evening had in store. Even though she was hurt and angry with Ian, she had to remember that he'd inadvertently been responsible for her and her father's budding understanding. Ian's enlightening words had been like a huge hammer that chipped away at the wall between her and her father, and she wanted to thank him for making her see how wrong she'd been.
With that in mind, she'd decided to keep Pamela's check and let Ian's secret remain just that, a secret. That way, Highland Academy would get the extra money for the equipment and Ian and Pamela's business relationship wouldn't be jeopardized.
Pamela opened the door. "Hi," she said. "I'm glad you could come."
Andrea handed her the bouquet of spider mums, roses and daisies. "Thank you for inviting me."
"Everybody's in there," Pamela said, ushering her through the foyer. "I'm going to put these in water." She buried her nose in the beautiful blooms and went off toward the kitchen.
Ian met Andrea at the living room doorway, and the sight of him filled her with an odd array of emotions. She was angry that she'd had to goad him into making his promised donation. She was afraid that they might spoil the party with another quarrel. Yet, at the same time, her heart was bursting with the happy news about her conversation with her father, and she felt the need to tell Ian. And woven among all these feelings was that same steady rhythm of desire that sang through her every time she was near him.
"I'm glad you decided to show up," Ian said. "I was about ready to come get you."
"There was no need for that." Her words were clipped by her nervous tension. "Ian, you don't have to worry. I plan to keep your secret."
"What secret?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"
"The—"
"Mis
s O'Connor," Denise called from across the room, "look what I won!"
Denise ran over and handed Andrea a small trophy, a replica of the one Harry received at the first Wilmington Challenge.
"I took third place in my age division," Denise told her.
"That's wonderful, Denise." Andrea ran her eyes over the trophy with pride, turning it around in her hands. She looked up at the teenager. "I saw the painting you did for your grandfather. It's perfect."
"I'm so proud of that girl." Harry's smile lit up his wrinkled face.
Andrea smiled a greeting at the old man. "I am, too," she said.
"The same goes for me." Ian gave his daughter a quick hug.
"Did Ian offer you a drink?" Pamela asked Andrea when she returned from the kitchen.
"No, but I'd like one, please." Andrea followed the woman over to the small bar. "Pamela, I want to thank you for the donation you made to the school. It was very generous."
"It was for a good cause." Then Pamela grinned. "It would have been much more fun to get another raise out of Ian, but—" she shrugged "—that's the way the mop flops."
As Pamela handed Andrea a glass of white wine, the timer sounded in the kitchen.
"Oops, the lasagna's ready to come out of the oven. Excuse me just a minute." Pamela disappeared again.
Andrea turned and saw Ian sitting at the opposite end of the room, staring at her. She avoided him, joining Denise and Harry as the two of them discussed the race.
"I thought I was going to pass out," Denise said.
"But you didn't," Harry commented. "You kept right on running until you crossed that finish line."
Denise shook her head and looked up at Andrea. "That last mile was a killer."
Andrea chuckled. "It always is."
Harry nodded knowingly, then shot a question across the room at his son. "How about you, Ian? How do you feel about finishing the Wilmington Challenge?"
"I feel really good about it."
"Good enough to take the challenge again next year?" Harry raised his eyebrows.