by Janet Dailey
Taken aback by his explanation, and the danger it implied, Abbie lost some of her anger. "No. But I've heard—" she began, considerably subdued.
"You've heard," he mocked sarcastically. "Well, honey, I've seen. And let me tell you, it isn't a pretty sight. You don't know what's down in that hole—gas, saltwater, or oil—or maybe all three. And you don't know how much pressure it's packing. Whether it's got enough to blow you and your rig sky-high. Or if it's gonna be a ball of fire. You could have been standing on a damned powder keg out there."
"Well, I obviously wasn't," Abbie retorted. "I'm still standing here. Nothing happened."
"Nothing happened." He repeated her words through clenched teeth as he seized the undersides of her jaws, the heel of his hand pressing itself against her throat. For an instant, Abbie was too startled to resist. "I ought to—"
"Wring your neck" was what she expected him to say, but it never came out as he suddenly crushed his mouth onto her lips, brutally grinding them against her teeth, shocking her into immobility. After interminable seconds, the pressure eased. Short of breath and with racing heartbeat, Abbie waited for his mouth to lift from hers. But it lingered there, motionless, maintaining a light contact but nothing more. Cautiously, she looked at him through her lashes. He was watching her, the fiery blackness in his eyes reduced to a smoldering light that strangely bothered her more than his anger.
Then he broke all contact and turned, stepping away from her. He stopped with his back to her and sighed heavily, his hands resting on his hips. "Would it make any difference if I apologized?" he asked, almost grudgingly.
"Only if you choked on it." She was trembling, but she was faking her anger now.
"Good." He swung around to face her, his features set in grim lines. "I won't have to say something I don't mean. The method I used to get you off the drilling floor might not have been polite, but you have to admit it was effective. And I didn't have to waste a lot of time on explanations—time I couldn't afford. As for kissing you—"
"That wasn't a kiss."
"Maybe it wasn't," he conceded. "But you wouldn't have liked the alternative any better. I have enough problems right now out there without getting the riot act read to me by you all because of your damned ignorance and hurt pride. So if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do."
As he turned and opened one of the file-cabinet drawers, Abbie walked blindly out the door, stung by the things he'd said and hating him for making her feel so wretched, when he'd been the one at fault.
Chapter 12
Awed by the expensive decor in the penthouse, Rachel wandered into the spacious living room, artfully done in a subtle blending of gray, peach, and cream. It was like something out of the decorating magazines, everything precisely arranged with an eye for symmetry and balance. Nothing gaudy or overdone, just an understated elegance.
Her glance was drawn to the large windows that overlooked the city. Rachel walked over to them, anticipating the panoramic view of Houston at sunset, the glass-walled towers reflecting the sky's fuchsia hues, and the first dull glow of the streetlights far below.
"What do you think?" Lane came to stand beside her.
"Breathtaking," she said, then looked at him and smiled. "And fitting, too, to have Houston at your feet."
"I don't know about that last part," he replied.
His modesty was sincere. During the few times she'd seen him, Rachel had discovered that was one of his traits. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that this was only the third time she'd seen him, counting the funeral. The feeling was so strong that she'd always known him. She admired that confidence he exuded, never overtly, always calmly. She liked him. Sometimes she worried that she liked him too much.
"You've been so kind to me, Lane." She didn't want to misinterpret that kindness, to build her hopes too high.
"It is extremely easy to be kind to a beautiful woman, Rachel. Don't misunderstand me. I didn't invite you to dine with me this evening out of any sense of obligation to your father. I wanted your company."
Rachel believed that. The first time he'd asked her to have lunch with him, she had thought he'd invited her to fulfill some duty he felt he owed her father. The first may have been an obligatory gesture, but not the second. She could tell he wasn't patronizing her. His interest seemed genuine. Truthfully she was flattered. . . and a little thrilled that a man of Lane Canfield's standing would want to spend his time with her. It made her feel important.
That's why her minor shopping expedition into Houston today had turned into a major one. None of the clothes in her closet had looked suitable; all of them were too casual, appropriate for California maybe, but not for dinner with Lane Canfield. She'd spent the better part of the morning and early afternoon combing the shops in the Galleria, looking for something sophisticated yet simple, this time not letting price sway her.
Finally she'd found this white linen suit with a matching camisole top on a sale rack. Its lines were simple and timeless, yet the epaulets of pearls on the padded shoulders gave it that touch of elegance Rachel had wanted.
After buying the evening suit and the accessories to go with it, she'd gotten up enough nerve to take the final plunge and stopped at the Neiman-Marcus salon to have a complete makeover done by one of their beauty consultants. A woman named Karen had shown her how to use makeup to soften her features, add fullness to her lips, and bring out the blue of her eyes. She had her hair cut to shoulder length and styled to curl softly about her face. For the first time in her life, she felt sophisticated and confident enough about her appearance to accompany Lane to the most exclusive restaurant in Houston. But what could be more exclusive than his penthouse apartment in Houston's Magic Circle?
"I have to confess, Lane, that I didn't accept because you were a friend of Dean's. I came because. . . I like being with you." Rachel felt bold saying that, but she wanted him to know her true feelings.
"It's mutual, Rachel. I can't begin to tell you how much I enjoy being with you. If I did, you'd start thinking I was a lecherous old man."
"No. Never that." She didn't like it when he talked about himself that way. She had never felt so comfortable with any man before. The men she'd dated seemed like immature boys in comparison—not that she had ever dated all that much.
"It's a curious thing, the way the aging process works. Chronologically the body gets older, but the mind—well, I think and feel about twenty years younger." He smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners the way she liked. "To put it in your vernacular, when I'm with you, I feel like a young stallion.”
She laughed softly. "I hope not. Young stallions can behave so foolishly at times."
"Maybe that's what worries me, Rachel. That I am being foolish where you're concerned."
Behind the quiet statement, there was a question. Rachel heard it and felt the sudden skittering of her pulse in reaction. She wasn't any good at being coy and flirtatious. Abbie probably was, but Rachel couldn't think of anything flattering or witty to slay. She had to resort to the truth.
"I don't think you are." She practically whispered her reply, conscious of how much she was admitting about her own feelings toward him. She gazed at his face, liking the lines that gave it so much character. They told so much about the man he was: his strength, his confidence, and his sense of humor—although there was little evidence of the latter in his expression at the moment as he studied her intently.
"I hope you mean that," he said.
She felt the light grip of his hands on her arms, bunching the thick shoulder pads of her boxy jacket. He drew her gently toward him. The warm touch of his lips was firm and persuasive, not demanding a response, yet seeking one.
Hesitantly she returned his kiss, letting her lips move against his while controlling her ardor, not wanting to appear gauchely eager to a man as experienced and worldly as Lane Canfield. Tentatively she let her hands touch the sides of his waist, the rich fabric of his jacket feeling like silk beneath her fingers.
&n
bsp; His hands glided onto her back, his arms folding around her to draw her closer still, and his kiss now spoke to Rachel of need and want, two emotions she felt in abundance. She answered him, warmth spreading through and filling her body. As her breathing deepened, she inhaled the masculine fragrance of his cologne. It was neither musk nor spice nor citrus, but some exotic blend that made her feel almost giddy.
Someone in the room coughed delicately, but the sound hit Rachel with all the shattering force of a lightning bolt as she realized they weren't alone. She jerked from the kiss and averted her face, hot with embarrassment. Lane loosened the circle of his arms while retaining a light hold on her.
"Yes, Henley. What is it?" Lane sounded tolerant, not the least upset by the intrusion of his butler. Then Rachel recalled that he'd introduced Henley as his houseman, although the man's aloof bearing, his cordial impassivity, had reminded her of a butler.
"A telephone call, sir. I believe it's somewhat urgent."
"I'll be there directly." Lane dismissed him and returned his attention to Rachel.
She didn't know what she was supposed to say or do in a situation like this. Then she was doubly mortified by the discovery that her fingers were clutching his jacket. She would have looked ridiculous if he'd tried to leave just then. Hastily she let go as her face felt as if it had caught fire. Lane tucked a finger under her chin and gently turned her face toward him. Rachel tried to look at him, but her glance skipped away from the amusement that glinted in his eyes.
"You blush beautifully," he murmured.
"I'm sorry." She felt dreadfully inadequate. She had tried so hard to appear sophisticated so he would like her and respect her, but she had failed miserably. She always did.
"Why?"
"You must think I'm naïve."
"Because you were embarrassed when Henley walked in right in the middle of our kiss?"
She nodded.
"My dear, I would have been disappointed if you weren't. I considered that kiss to be special and private—not something to be shared with others. You obviously did, too, and I'm glad."
He started to kiss her lightly, but their lips clung moistly together, unwilling to part. Rachel wanted it to go on, to recapture that warm feeling that had just started to grow inside her when the last kiss was so abruptly halted, but she couldn't block out the image of formal and proper Henley hovering somewhere out of sight, waiting, knowing what he'd seen and what their silence meant. Reluctantly she drew back.
"Your telephone call," she said.
"Ah, yes." With a rueful smile, he let her go. "I won't be long.
"Is he there?" Babs Lawson anxiously hovered close to Abbie's shoulder.
"Yes. He's being called to the phone right now." Absently she twisted the receiver cord around her fingers, her impatience growing with the lengthening delay. "Before I forget, tell Jackson we'll need another place setting for dinner tonight, Momma. Dobie Hix will be joining us."
"He will? Why?"
"Because I invited him," Abbie snapped, then sighed, realizing that she'd been snapping at everyone since she'd come back from the drilling site. "He came by the stables this afternoon and I decided to ask him to stay for dinner." She didn't mention the broad hints Dobie had made. . . or the unpaid hay bill.
"If we're having company, maybe I should have Jackson get out the good china. What do you think?" She made it sound as if it were a major decision that required discussion.
"I doubt that Dobie would know the difference. Do whatever you want, Momma." She had too much on her mind to be bothered with such trivial things. Distracted by her mother, Abbie almost missed hearing the voice on the other end of the line. "Hello. Lane?" She tightened her grip on the receiver.
"Yes."
"This is Abbie Lawson." She didn't waste time apologizing for bothering him at his home but went straight to the point. "We've been receiving quite a number of phone calls from creditors wanting to know when they'll get their money."
"Give them my office number and tell them to call me. I'll handle it." His response was too pat. It irritated her; nearly everything did.
"That's what we've been doing. But. . . how long will it be before they're paid?"
There was a lengthy pause at the other end of the line. Abbie sensed that, at last, she had his full attention. "Why don't I come out to River Bend on Thursday," he finally said. "That way I can sit down with both you and your mother and explain the situation to you."
"The sooner the better."
"Yes. I'll see you then. And give Babs my regards."
"I will." But the line had already clicked dead. Abbie frowned and replaced the receiver on its cradle, wondering why she didn't feel relieved. That long pause, the strange tone of his voice before he'd hung up—they troubled her.
"What did Lane say?"
Abbie shot a brief glance at her mother. "He sent you his regards and. . . said he'd be down on Thursday to talk to both of us."
"I'm glad. This is all so embarrassing—the phone calls and the questions."
"I know, Momma." Abbie nodded.
As good as his word, Lane was back within minutes of leaving her alone in the living room. But Rachel noticed immediately how preoccupied he looked, not anything like the smiling, jaunty man who'd left the room.
"Is something wrong?" Her question seemed to startle him out of his reverie.
Quickly he fixed a smile on his face, but she noticed that it didn't extend to his eyes. "No. Nothing at all. Just a business matter." He reached to take her hand. "Henley informed me that dinner can be served whenever we're ready. Are you hungry?”
“Yes." She let him lead her into the dining room.
The table was set for two, replete with white candles burning in silver holders and champagne chilling in a silver ice bucket. On one of the china plates lay a long-stemmed red rose. Henley pulled the chair away from the table directly in front of it and held it for her.
"See how optimistic I was tonight?" Lane said as Rachel scooted her chair closer to the table with Henley's assistance. "Candles, champagne, roses, and privacy." Henley popped the champagne cork from the bottle with a practiced whoosh. Lane glanced at him, then back to Rachel, and smiled faintly. "Well, almost privacy."
Rachel tried to hide her smile, even though Henley gave no indication that he'd heard a single word Lane had said. He filled their glasses with champagne, then retreated from the room via a side door.
"To a beautiful evening, and a beautiful lady." Lane lifted his wineglass and Rachel touched hers to it, the melodic tinkle of crystal ringing softly in the air. She sipped the champagne, noticing over the rim of her glass how thoughtful Lane had become again. This time he caught himself. "I was just thinking—wondering is probably a better word—whether you'd like to have dinner with me again this Friday night. I'll be tied up probably all of Thursday at River Bend. Otherwise—"
"I'd like to, yes." Rachel rushed her acceptance, still debating whether she should mention her own visit to River Bend. She decided against it, unwilling to recall how unwanted—and uncomfortable—she'd been made to feel.
Chapter 13
After Ben had broken the news to the half-dozen stable hands, Abbie stepped forward to explain the situation to them. She knew she was in an awkward position, and their stunned, quizzical looks didn't make her task any easier. She slipped her fingers into the side pockets of her jodhpurs, trying to appear relaxed and in control despite the tension she felt.
"We want you to know that your layoffs are temporary. It's obvious that we need help to take care of all these horses. Unfortunately, until my father's estate is settled, we don't have the cash available to pay you. It's legally tied up by the court." Abbie doubted that they understood the judicial system or the inheritance laws any better than she did. "We can't ask you to continue to work at the farm and wait until later to receive your wages, We know you all have families." Still, she had her fingers crossed that some of them would volunteer to stay on.
"How long
do you think this will be before we can get our jobs back?" Manny Ortega inquired in his heavy Spanish accent, his brow furrowed in a troubled frown.
"I don't know." Lane Canfield had been reluctant to speculate on that when he'd spoken with Abbie and her mother that morning. She saw the discontented shakes of their heads. "Maybe six weeks," she held out hopefully.
But their expressions didn't change as they nervously fingered the pay envelopes Ben had passed out to them. Three of the stable hands glanced at Manny, looking to him to be their spokesman. "You will let us know when to come back, no? Señor Jablonski will call us?"
"Yes, he'll call." Nettled by their reaction, Abbie watched them as they shuffled off to their vehicles, where they congregated briefly to talk among themselves, then went their separate ways.
"How bad is the problem?" Ben stood beside her.
"It's just a temporary situation," she insisted. "Nearly all Dad's personal and business accounts are frozen." Lane had explained it in more detail, but that was the gist of it. "We knew we were short on funds, but we expected to get a check from the insurance company. Now, we've learned that Dad cashed his life insurance policy last year and neglected to tell anyone."
"Why was this done?"
"I don't know. It's spilt milk now." Abbie shrugged. "We don't have it and we're not going to get it. And what with Dad's law practice, the farm, and his personal finances, things are in a tangle. Lane says it's going to take longer to sort them all out than he first thought. The loss of the insurance money is just frustrating, that's all. We'll make it. . . in spite of them." With a jerk of her head, she indicated the vehicles driving out of the yard.
"What did you expect them to do?"
"I thought Manny would stay. He's worked here for six years steady."
"He has a family to feed," Ben reminded her with his usual tolerance, but he recognized the signs that indicated her mood was turning argumentative. From the time she was a child, she reacted this way when things went wrong. It was as if she had to pick a fight with someone to release her pent-up anger and frustration.