by Mary Campisi
She’d be here any minute. He wasn’t sure she’d actually accept his offer for dinner tonight, but he hadn’t really left her a choice, not with the threat to seek William out himself. He wouldn’t do that, not unless there were no other options, and there were always other options. He liked this one: spend time in the same room with her. That was a start. She’d been so jittery around him, like she was holding her breath, waiting for him to announce he planned to let the whole town know he was William’s biological father. He’d handled that part badly, but the shock of seeing her again had affected his ability to reason, and not in a good way. Tonight he’d settle her concerns.
Grant turned on the sound system and soft music filtered through the rooms. The lights were dim, the scent of the flowers mixing with Harry Blacksworth’s food. He would have cooked, but he hadn’t visited the local grocery store for more than a few essentials. That would come tomorrow, along with checking out the rest of the town and grabbing lunch at Harry’s Folly. He liked Harry Blacksworth, hoped to see him again, and maybe they’d even talk about more than next season’s fashions or the choice between cuffed and uncuffed trousers. Maybe Grant would ask him how he’d adapted to small-town life after living in a big city, and if he’d had more than one scotch, he might ask about the wife and kids. Grant knew a former playboy when he saw one, and why wouldn’t he when he’d been one himself?
Those days were gone. Long gone. He glanced around the room. Seduction blared back at him. The music, the candles, the flowers. Would Maggie think that, too? He’d only been trying to set the mood for a relaxing night. But relaxing for what? Seduction? No. No, that wasn’t his intention at all. He blew out the candles, moved the flowers to the kitchen counter, and switched the music from jazz to soft rock. There. If their relationship had any chance of turning into something deeper—and he hoped at some point it would—he was not going to rush her.
Maggie arrived ten minutes later, giving Grant enough time to second-guess the wisdom of inviting her to dinner at his place. Maybe they should have eaten at Harry’s Folly surrounded by the clatter of silverware against plates, quiet chatter, and piano music. That might have been the sensible idea, but lately, he’d let emotion take over and he didn’t like the results. Not one bit. “Sensible” evaporated the second Grant opened the door. Maggie stood before him, dressed in a royal blue sleeveless top made of a chiffon material that hugged her breasts in a way that was neither suggestive nor seductive. Classy, that’s what it was, same with the black slacks, and high-heeled sandals. Silver hoops in her ears, no necklace, a plain strap watch. And her face? Minimal makeup, shiny lip gloss. Perfect. He smiled and said, “Come in. I hope you’re hungry.”
The smile she gave him was small, forced, and looked painful. “Thank you.”
“How about a glass of wine? Chianti?” They’d enjoyed a bottle on the night they first made love, and no matter the circumstances or the person he’d been with all those years later, when he had a glass of Chianti, he thought of that night.
Her gaze widened a split second before it settled back to normal and she nodded. “Sure. Thanks.”
So, she remembered too. That’s not why he’d chosen it. Chianti went with red sauce. That’s why he’d selected this particular wine, that and the fact that he’d always been partial to it. But when he poured their wine, handed her a glass, and watched those shiny lips take a sip, he wondered if he’d been kidding himself all these years. Maybe he’d developed an affinity for the wine because of that night. Maybe—
Maggie cleared her throat. “Your home is beautiful.”
“Thank you.” He sipped his wine, glanced at the vaulted ceiling, the hardwood floor, the granite countertops in the kitchen, leaded glass in the cabinets—attractive, functional, a place for a family. That last clung to his brain, slid to his chest with a thud. He pushed it away. “Hungry?”
A lift of her right shoulder. “Not really.”
This was going to be a long night filled with gaps and hesitations if they didn’t find a way past the awkwardness. Grant was not going to lose this opportunity, not when he had years of questions. “Maggie?” When she looked at him, he remembered the young coed she’d been, shy yet eager, filled with ideas and dreams. Was that girl still buried in there somewhere beneath the woman she’d become? “I’m not going to make life difficult for you or William.” He paused, his voice dipping with conviction. “I promise.”
Those green eyes sparkled. “Thank you.”
“I just want to get to know him.” He shrugged, slid her a smile. “And you. It’s been a long time and I don’t know about you, but the veneer’s worn off my finish.” The smile spread and he swore her lips twitched. “I really was pretty arrogant, wasn’t I?”
The twitch morphed into a smile, a real one that showed white teeth and two dimples. “Um, yes.”
Grant laughed. “That’s it? Not willing to expand on that?”
Another smile, accompanied by a shake of her head. “No.”
“Okay, then.” He set down his wine glass and made his way to the oven, opened the door. The smell of tomato sauce mixed with garlic filled the kitchen. “I’ve got mushroom ravioli in vodka cream sauce, salad, and breadsticks.” Mushroom ravioli had been her favorite. Grant slid a glove on his left hand, removed the foil-covered dish and the breadsticks. “Compliments of Harry’s Folly.”
“I love that place.” Pause. “I haven’t had mushroom ravioli in…a long time.”
Eleven years? He wanted to ask but didn’t. If she’d just admitted this small truth, maybe she’d admit more if he kept his mouth shut and didn’t scare her. “It’s not the kind of food you have on a regular basis. I like to think of it as a celebratory meal.” He removed the salad from the refrigerator, placed it on the island. “Rich and creamy, fills your senses.” They’d shared the mushroom ravioli the night he hinted at a commitment. After the meal, they’d made love with a slow, deliberate passion that eclipsed the world outside until there was nothing but the two of them. Three days later, Maggie told him she was pregnant.
“Do you still cook?”
Grant cleared his throat, pushing back memories of a naked Maggie clouded in too many regrets. “I do, but I’ve got to get the lay of the land before I start concocting. It looks like Sal’s Market is the only place in town, or at least the go-to place unless I order online, is that right?”
Maggie nodded. “You won’t find any gourmet shops or big chains here, though we do have a butcher shop and a bakery. You just missed the best cupcakes and brownies I’ve ever tasted. The baker was visiting…she got married and moved back to her hometown.”
“Ah.” Grant looked up from the steaming tray of food. “Sounds like a story buried in there somewhere.”
Maggie answered with “There always is, especially in this town.”
He fixed their salads, placed mushroom ravioli and a breadstick on each plate. She’d started to relax and maybe the casualness of the kitchen was part of the reason. “Do you want to sit in the dining room or stay here?” He motioned to the island and the high-backed chairs.
She eyed the entrance to the dining room with the crystal chandelier and the cherry woodwork. “Let’s eat here.”
“Sure.” He’d sit on the floor if it kept her talking. Grant waited for her to take a few bites of ravioli before he said, “I met Harry Blacksworth; interesting guy. I liked him.”
“You liked him or his clothes?”
Grant shrugged, smiled. “Both. He’s a city guy but he seems at home here. I’d be curious to see how he made the transition.”
“It’s a long story,” she said, toying with a piece of romaine lettuce. “His brother visited, actually had a family here and one in Chicago. When he died, his daughter found out, and after a lot of heartache, she married the woman’s son, and now she’s pregnant with their second child. Harry Blacksworth moved here later with his new family. They’re good people, but it was a huge mess for a while.”
Was Harry’s brother the
man Leslie told him had a secret family? He’d bet it was. “How do you know all of this?” He did not want the town talking about him and Maggie this way, as a curiosity or a tragedy.
“It’s a small town.” She forked a piece of ravioli, chewed. “Nobody’s trying to be malicious or gossipy, but people know each other, many are related, and word gets out.”
“What about this Brody guy who had a massive heart attack and left behind a young widow?” And a mistress named Leslie Maurice—my sister.
Maggie shot him a curious look, asked. “You haven’t been here that long. How did you hear about him?”
Grant couldn’t tell her about his sister, so he shrugged and said, “It’s buzzing all around town. Why? Was it supposed to be a secret?”
“No, of course not.” She shook her head, sighed. “And there is a lot of buzzing, but the whole town feels sorry for his wife.” Maggie paused, met his gaze. “They’ve got three little girls.”
Didn’t Leslie tell him the wife had refused to have a child with him? Was that because she already had three? Did Leslie know that?
“Grant? Is something wrong?”
He relaxed his jaw, smoothed his expression. “No. Just thinking.” Leslie was better off without the guy, but knowing his sister, there would be another man just like him soon enough. What was it with his family; could they not settle down and be happy? Were his parents the only ones who knew what a good relationship looked like? No, none of that was true, not anymore. Grant knew what a solid relationship looked like and he knew who he wanted to share it with—Maggie.
Talk of his sister’s lover faded, slipped into the joys and issues of living in a small town versus a city—casual, comfortable talk, without blame or insinuation. This was one of the things he remembered about Maggie: her ability to listen and not judge, then offer her own thoughts. Grant had avoided talk of their past the entire night, hoping to make her feel at ease. But after she finished her second cup of coffee and eaten a cannoli, he realized if he didn’t speak soon, the opportunity would be gone.
“Maggie,” he said with more emotion in his voice than he intended. “I…” he hesitated, tried again. “I want to get to know you. It doesn’t mean it will be like it was before…not to the same degree…I mean, physically…” What an idiot. “That’s not what I mean.” He sucked in a breath, plowed on. “I’d like to get to know who Maggie Finnegan is now, and what she went through to get here. That’s what I’m saying.” He cleared his throat. Twice. He’d never stumbled over his own thoughts before. “We both have reasons not to trust each other, but I want to…we had something all those years ago and maybe we can get it back…and if the physical part comes, then I’d welcome it.” Who was he kidding? He’d give up the use of his other hand for a chance to touch her again. “But if it doesn’t, I’ll accept that.” He looked away, gathered the hope that sprouted in him the second he learned he had a child and said, “Please. Will you let me get to know my son?”
***
Grant spoke as though he were in serious need of oxygen and close to requiring a resuscitation attempt. This was not the man she’d known eleven years ago. That man would have expected her to accommodate his wishes because it would not have occurred to him that she wouldn’t. He wasn’t to blame for thinking like that when people went out of their way to please him for the sake of a smile, a nod, a minute or two of his time. Especially the women, though he hadn’t seemed interested in them, had actually ignored them. But the Grant Richot who had practically begged her for time with his son just now didn’t seem at all like the one she’d known before. Oh, he had the same good looks, the dazzling smile, the soft, persuasive voice, but this one was kind, compassionate, unselfish. This man she might consider saying yes to, but there had to be ground rules and they had to be hers. “I need boundaries,” she found herself saying. “No promises you aren’t willing or able to keep.”
“I can do boundaries, promises, too.”
Maggie didn’t miss the hope in his voice, the sincerity in his gaze. A physical relationship wasn’t a given. Did she want one? She tried to shut down the notion, hard and fast, tell herself, of course she didn’t, why would she even consider it? But there was a part of her that knew exactly why she’d consider it: Grant Richot had set her on fire with a passion she’d never experienced before or after being with him. To admit that felt like a betrayal to David, so she tried to ignore it, bury it beneath so many other issues she had with Grant. “If I decide to open up about my past and what I’ve been doing all these years, that’s my choice. You can’t force me.”
His blue eyes turned bluer. “Understood.”
She nibbled on her lower lip, tried to spot the holes in his proposal so she could patch them up. “No comments about William’s father. You’ll be respectful, no matter what he says about him.”
Grant’s brows pinched together. “Should I anticipate something, maybe the boy saying the man was a genius or a saint?”
“Of course not, but I don’t want you trying to undermine William’s feelings for his father. I’m not saying you would; I’m just asking you to be aware of that.”
The left side of his jaw twitched. “I’ll be aware.”
His tone said she’d offended him, and that hadn’t been her intention, but she had to protect her son. “Thank you.” Maggie paused, drew in a deep breath, and said, “There is one more thing I’d like to clarify.”
“Only one more?”
Okay, now he was offended and annoyed. “He’s just a boy; I want to be careful. This last request isn’t about him.” She met his gaze straight on, said, “We have a history together. A very physical one.” Maggie waited for him to say something, but he didn’t. He simply nodded, waited. “I want you to promise that we’ll keep this about William, not about us.”
“I promise.” That gaze turned hotter. “Unless you change your mind and want it to be about us.”
What exactly did that mean? If she wanted a physical relationship with him, she should tell him? And if she didn’t, he’d behave like the perfect gentleman, no expectations, nothing but manners and niceties? Maggie tried to read his expression, interpret the meaning behind the words, but the man wasn’t giving away a hint of his true feelings. “Okay,” she said. “You’ve got a deal.”
His gaze slid to her lips. “Deals are sealed with a…” Grant cleared his throat, held out his left hand. “A handshake.”
When their fingers touched, heat swirled through her, forced back the memories of so many years ago. The desire, the need, the dreams that lived between them for twelve short weeks slipped to the surface with a rush of emotion. And when his hand closed over hers, warm and gentle, Maggie knew if she weren’t careful, Grant Richot would steal her heart again.
Chapter 6
“Are you Bree Kinkaid?”
Bree made a three-second evaluation of the woman in front of her—blue eyes, full lips, large breasts, lots of curves. The woman was glamour-queen voluptuous, even dressed in shorts and a simple navy top. Brody had wanted Bree to plump out without the help of a push-up bra and he’d wanted her butt to hug her jeans. Wouldn’t happen; her body type never got past long and lean, except when she was pregnant. She forced a smile and said, “Yes, I’m Bree. May I help you?”
The woman cleared her throat, said in a quiet voice, “I’m Leslie Maurice. I knew Brody.” More throat clearing. “Can we talk?”
She knew Brody? How? Bree was certain she’d never seen this woman in Magdalena before. She would have remembered. So how did she know Brody? There was only one way to find out. Bree held the door open and said, “Come on in. I just made a pitcher of passion fruit iced tea. Would you like some?”
“Thank you, sounds delicious.”
Bree led her into the kitchen, removed two glasses from the cupboard, filled them with ice cubes, and poured their tea. She’d never suffered from shyness and under any other situation, she would have already asked ten questions and answered five. It was just her way. Not this time, not
with this woman, because something deep in her belly told her once the questions and answers started, everything would change: her life, her past, her beliefs.
“I didn’t think you’d be so beautiful.”
The comment startled Bree. She tried to block it out with the same force and determination she’d used to create the story about why Brody ended up in a hotel room nineteen miles away from home, and why a mystery woman who still hadn’t been identified called 9-1-1. She needed her story, needed to repeat it to herself several times a day, so she could believe it—so she could move from one minute to the next. But the woman and her words smothered the air from the kitchen, threatened to destroy Bree’s stories with tales of their own, tales that might be true.
“He told me you didn’t care about him, that you’d only married him for his money.”
Leslie Maurice’s words burst through the denial that had claimed Bree since the night Rudy Dean knocked on the door and told her Brody was dead. Some part of her had known it would come to this, had known the mystery woman would be involved. Still, she had to ask. “You’re the one who called 9-1-1 that night, aren’t you?”
The woman’s eyes glittered, her voice turned husky. “I was.”
Bree bit her bottom lip, blinked. “I thought so.” She handed Leslie her glass of iced tea as though the woman had stopped because she was thirsty and heard about Bree’s specialty passion fruit iced tea. Hardly. How dare Brody say she didn’t care about him, had only married him for his money? What money? He hadn’t had two nickels, neither did his mother, but they sure latched onto Bree and her family, hands out and crying needy so the MacGregors couldn’t say no. They’d paid off Georgia Kinkaid’s credit card debt and Brody’s loan on his truck, financed Georgia’s bathroom renovation, and kept Brody stocked with toys like a four-wheeler and a big, flat-screen TV. The very thought that her husband could mouth such blasphemy made her beyond furious. “My husband lived off of my money.” She narrowed her gaze on the mystery woman. “Did Brody tell you I ran my father’s company after he didn’t pan out?” When the woman shook her head, Bree snorted. “Of course not.” That would make him look incompetent, and he was more interested in playing the neglected and misunderstood husband. “Brody wanted things his way and that meant cook his food, keep his house clean, and let him make all the decisions.” Her brain swirled with memories of the sacrifices she’d made in an attempt to make her husband happy.