Heiress

by Janet Dailey

  "Look at her," he murmured. "So small and innocent. A sleeping angel."

  Admittedly that was the way she looked, the white pillowcase a halo around her dark head, her cheeks still baby-soft, her long-lashed eyes closed, all sweetness and innocence. But Abbie was well aware that Eden was no angel. Surely MacCrea didn't really think she was, but he had never seen her at her irritating worst. He'd only been exposed to her in small doses.

  Surely he didn't think that today was an example of what it was like to be a parent. Certainly it had been fun and idyllic, but today was the exception rather than the rule. All he'd ever done was play at being a father. Living with Eden was something entirely different.

  "Don't be fooled by her. She isn't always like this," Abbie warned. "You've never seen her when she's sick with the flu or a cold. She's whiny and demanding, always wanting this or that. Believe me, she's no fun at all then." Judging by his amused study of her, MacCrea wasn't at all convinced. Abbie hurried on, "Being a parent isn't all fun and games. That little temper tantrum you saw today—it was mild compared to some she's thrown when she didn't get her way. Just wait until she starts sassing and talking back. You won't think she's so cute and innocent then."

  "Is that right?" The hint of a smile around the edges of his mouth seemed to mock her.

  "Yes, it is," Abbie retorted, irritated that he might think she was making all this up. "And then there's the way she talks all the time. Look at the way she talked through the entire movie, asking why somebody did this or said that, wanting everything explained to her. Do you know that she even talks in her sleep? You've only had to put up with her endless chatter for a few hours at a time. Wait until you have to listen to her day in and day out."

  "Talk, talk, talk," he said.

  "Exactly. She just goes on and on. . ." Abbie forgot what she was going to say as he took her by the shoulders and squared her around to face him, all in one motion.

  She stared at his mouth, surprised to find it so close, and watched his lips form the words, "Just like her mother."

  Before she could react, he was kissing her, warmly, deeply. For an instant she forgot to resist then she drew back, breaking the contact. "Mac, I think—"

  "That's always been your trouble, Abbie." He didn't let her get away. Instead, he started nuzzling her neck and ear. "You think too much and you talk too much. For once, just shut up."

  As he claimed her lips again, his advice suddenly seemed very wise. Why should she refuse herself something she wanted as much as he did, just because she didn't want to admit she wanted it? Denying it wouldn't change the longing she felt at this moment. As she allowed herself to enjoy his embrace, it was a little like coming home after a long absence. The joy, the warmth, the sense of reunion—they were all there. . . and something more that she was reluctant to identify.

  He tunneled his fingers into her hair and began pulling out the pins that bound the chignon. As her hair tumbled loose about her shoulders, he drew back to look at her, his eyes heavy-lidded and dark. "I've wanted to do that for a long time."

  Still holding her gaze, he scooped her off her feet and carried her to the nearest armchair and sat down, cradling her in his lap. No longer did she have to strain to reach him and span the difference in their heights. She was free to touch him, to run her fingers through his thick, wavy hair and feel the rope-lean muscles along his shoulders and back. His roaming hands stroked, caressed, and kneaded her body as he and she kissed and nibbled as if hungry for the taste of each other. Then his fingers went to work on the bow at her throat and the buttons of her shirtwaist dress, undoing them one by one. When his hand glided onto her bare skin, a rush of sensations raced through her body.

  Caught up in the building passion between them, Abbie had no idea how long they had been in the chair, necking like a pair of teenagers just discovering all the preliminary delights that made making love the wonder it was. But when she heard Eden stir and mumble in her sleep, her maternal instincts reclaimed her. She couldn't tune out the sounds her daughter made, or ignore her presence in the room.

  When she tried to inject a degree of restraint into their embrace, MacCrea protested. "Let me love you, Abbie. It's what we both want."

  "Not here." She drew back, earnestly trying to make him understand. "We can't. Eden might wake up." A mixture of irritation, disappointment, and frustration darkened his expression when he glanced toward the bed. "We'd better stop before. . . one of us loses control," Abbie suggested, no more willing than he was to end this.

  "Me, you mean." His mocking reply had a husky edge to it.

  "I didn't say that."

  He sighed heavily, giving her his answer as he sat her upright. She swung off his lap to stand on her own, feeling shaky and weak. She wanted nothing more than to turn and have MacCrea gather her back into his arms. Instead, she walked him to the door, holding the gaping front of her dress together. As he paused with his hand on the knob, she had the feeling that he didn't trust himself to kiss her again.

  "This isn't over, you know," he said.

  "Yes." She nodded, recognizing that she didn't want it to be over. A slow smile spread across his face. "It took you long enough to admit it." Then he was gone—out the door before Abbie could say any more.

  Automatically, she locked the door and slipped the safety chain in place, all the while thinking about his last statement. For the last four months, ever since she'd seen him that first time in Scottsdale, she had been telling herself it was over between them. Now she knew better. She wanted him so much it had become a physical ache.

  She walked over to the open suitcase on the dresser. As she started to pick up her lace nightgown, she noticed her reflection in the mirror. Her long hair was all disheveled; her lips looked unusually full; her eyelids appeared to be faintly swollen; and the front of her dress gaped open all the way to her navel. She had the definite look of a woman who had just been thoroughly made love to. . . perhaps not thoroughly, she corrected, conscious of the lingering need.

  As she gazed at her reflection in the mirror, Abbie found herself coming face to face with reality. A part of her had never stopped loving MacCrea—and the rest of her had learned to love him all over again.

  She went through the motions of getting ready for bed—washing her face, brushing her teeth, and changing into her nightgown—but she didn't go near it. Instead she laid out clean clothes for herself and Eden and packed everything else into the suitcase except the toiletries they would need in the morning, postponing the moment when she'd have to climb into that bed alone.

  At first, Abbie didn't pay any attention to the light rapping sound she heard, thinking that someone was knocking on a door somewhere along the corridor. Then it came again, slightly louder and more insistent, accompanied by the soft calling of her name. Frowning, Abbie started for the door. Halfway there, she realized that the rapping was coming from the door to the adjoining motel room. She stopped in front of it and waited until the sound came again.

  "Yes?" she said hesitantly.

  "It's me, MacCrea. Open the door."

  She fumbled briefly with the lock, then pulled the door open. There he stood, leaning in the doorway to the next room and dangling a room key from his hand.

  "I gave the desk clerk a hundred dollars and told him one twenty-eight was my lucky number. Is it?"

  She stared at him, momentarily at a loss for even the simplest answer. Then she found it. "Yes." She was in his room—and in his arms—before she had time to consider the decision. But it didn't matter. It was where she belonged. Where she had always belonged.

  Chapter 43

  MacCrea drifted somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, a heady contentment claiming him. He was reluctant to waken and break the spell of whatever dream he'd had that made him feel this good. Yet something—or someone—stirred against him and coolness touched his bare leg where heat had been. Instinctively he reached out to draw that warm body close to him again. The instant he touched her, he knew. He opened
his eyes to look and make sure he wasn't dreaming. It was Abbie he held, nestled in the curve of his body.

  In sleep, she reminded him of a more sensual version of Eden: the same dark hair billowing about her face like a black cloud, the same long-lashed eyes and full lower lip. Now fully awake and aroused by the recollection of last night's passion, MacCrea couldn't resist the urge to lean over and kiss the ripe curve of her lips.

  She stirred beneath him, drowsily kissing him back. He lifted his head to study her, watching as she arched her back, stretching her arms overhead like a cat waking from a nap, the action brushing her breasts against his chest. Then she snuggled back down, her eyes more than half-closed.

  "Is it morning?" she asked, her voice thick and husky with sleep.

  "Does it matter?" Supporting himself on one arm, he ran his hand over her body, pausing long enough to arouse a sleeping nipple, then traveling back down.

  "Yes." But her body language was giving him an entirely different answer.

  "This is the way it should be every morning, Abbie: you and me in the same bed and Eden sleeping in the next room."

  "I'd better get up. I don't want her waking up alone in a strange room." Shifting position, she reached for his wristwatch on the nightstand and glanced at the dial. "It's eight o'clock already. I need to get Eden up, finish packing, and get out to the airport in time to catch our flight."

  MacCrea checked the move she made to get out of bed.

  "Take a later plane. Stay here with me awhile longer."

  For an instant she gazed at him longingly, then she shook her head. "I can't." She rolled away from him to the other side of the bed. "Dobie's meeting us at the airport."

  Disturbed by something in her tone, he stared at her slim back, watching as she picked the short nightgown off the floor and slipped it on. He wanted to pull her back onto the bed and make her stay. With some women that might work, but he knew Abbie wasn't one of them. Stifling his frustration, he reached for the pair of slacks lying on the floor and stepped into them.

  As he pulled them up around his hips, coins and keys jingling in the pockets, he turned to study her. "You are going to tell him about us, aren't you?" She hesitated ever so slightly, but didn't answer. As she moved toward the connecting door between the two rooms, MacCrea didn't like the implication of her silence one damned bit. "Don't leave yet, Abbie—not unless you want this conversation to take place in front of Eden."

  She paused short of the door and turned back as he came around the bed. "Why? What is there to talk about?"

  But he didn't buy her attempt to feign ignorance. "About us, of course. Or didn't last night mean anything to you?" He was certain it had. He'd stake everything he owned on it.

  "Of course, it did." She avoided his gaze, the action telling him more than she realized.

  Confident now of her answer, he could ask, "Abbie, do you love me?"

  She sighed and nodded. "Yes."

  "You know this changes everything, Abbie." He watched the play of warring emotions upon her face. "You can't stay married to him now. You have to tell him the truth. You know that."

  "I don't know any such thing," she retorted tightly.

  MacCrea gritted his teeth, wanting to shake her until her own rattled. "What are you, Abbie? Too stubborn or too proud to admit you made a mistake? Or are you planning to be just like your father and stay married to someone you don't love and make everyone's life as miserable as your own?"

  "That's not true," she flashed, startled into anger by his accusation.

  "Isn't it? Then tell me just how long you expect me to go on living with this lie of yours?"

  "I don't know. I haven't had time to think. I—"

  "You'd better find the time, and quickly," MacCrea warned. "I've played it your way long enough. I'm not going to live the rest of my life this way, sneaking off to meet you whenever you can get away."

  "Don't threaten me, MacCrea Wilder." Tears glittered in her blue eyes, adding a hot brilliance to them.

  "It isn't a threat." Sighing, he took her by the shoulders, feeling her stiffness. "We love each other, Abbie. And I'm not going to let you do this to us."

  "It just isn't as easy as you think it is," she said, continuing to protest faintly.

  "But it's got to be easier than living a lie the rest of our lives."

  She leaned against him and hugged him around his middle, like a child seeking comfort and reassurance. "I do love you, Mac. It's just so hard anymore to figure out what's right or wrong. I always thought I knew."

  He kissed her. He didn't know what else to say or do.

  The farmhouse bedroom stared back at her, its silence somehow heavy. The old hardwood furniture of mixed styles was nicked and scarred from years of use, but still more than serviceable. Dobie didn't believe in replacing something just because it was old. He waited until it was practically falling apart. The pretty chintz bedspread and pale blue linen curtains at the windows were her choices. At the time, getting them had seemed a minor triumph, but now, Abbie didn't care at all about them.

  With enough clothes packed to last several days, she closed the lid of the suitcase and swung it off the bed. As she set it on the floor behind the bedroom door, her glance fell on the gold wedding band she wore. She twisted it off her finger, hesitated, then slipped it into the pocket of her white cotton shirtdress.

  Downstairs a door slammed. Frowning slightly, Abbie paused to listen. When she heard footsteps in the kitchen, she went to investigate. She found Dobie standing at the sink, filling a glass with tap water, his battered hat pushed to the back of his head and hay chafe clinging to his sweaty skin.

  "What are you doing here?" She glanced at the wall clock. "It isn't even lunchtime yet. Did something break down?"

  He shook his head briefly, then drank down the water in the glass and turned back to the sink to refill it. "I saw the car leave. I thought maybe you'd gone off somewhere again." Suspicion was heavy in his tone.

  "Ben took Eden to her swimming lesson. Afterward, he's taking her out for a hamburger and french fries, so they won't be back for lunch." It had been her suggestion. She hadn't wanted Eden anywhere around this noon.

  "You could have fixed some here just as easy. And it'd been a lot cheaper, too."

  Irritated by his niggardly remark, Abbie nearly told him that Ben was paying for the treat, but she checked the impulse. She didn't want to get sidetracked into a meaningless argument with him over money.

  "We need to talk, Dobie."

  "About what?"

  "Us. Our marriage. It isn't working out," It was ironic. She'd been through this before. She wondered why this moment wasn't any easier the second time.

  "You seemed satisfied until Wilder showed up."

  She didn't try to deny that. "Maybe I thought things would change—that we just needed more time. But it hasn't worked, not from the beginning. You have to admit, Dobie, that I haven't been the kind of wife you wanted. . . someone who stays home, who's waiting here when you come in from the fields every night."

  "Have I complained? I let you have your horses, and go traipsing all over the country—"

  "Dobie, stop." She wasn't going to let this turn into one of their typical arguments. "Please, all I want is a divorce. Believe me, it will be better for both of us."

  "It's Wilder, isn't it?" Dobie accused, his jaw clenched tightly. "You've been sneaking around and meeting him behind my back, haven't you? You want a divorce so you can marry him. That's it, isn't it?

  In a way, everything he said was true. Only none of it was the way he thought. "I love him," she admitted simply, quietly.

  For an instant, he just stared at her, his eyes wide, his expression raw with pain. Then he swung around abruptly, facing the sink and gripping the edge of it, his head bowed and his shoulders hunched forward. Seeing him like that, Abbie wanted to cry, but she determinedly blinked back the tears.

  "Dammit, Abbie," he said, his voice low and half-strangled by his attempt to control it, "I
love you too. Doesn't that count for something?"

  "Of course, it does. Why do you think this is so hard for me? I never meant to hurt you, Dobie. You don't know how many times I wished there was some other way."

  "Then why are you doing this?"

  "Because. . . it's the right thing to do, the fair thing."

  "Fair for who?" He turned back to look at her, his eyes reddened with tears. "For you? For Wilder? What about me and Edie?

  Abbie glanced away, unable to meet his gaze. "We need to talk about Eden. I know how much you love her—"

  "What do you expect? She's my daughter."

  Mutely she shook her head, finding it almost impossible to say the words. But no matter how much it hurt him, she couldn't hide the truth any longer. "No, Dobie, she isn't."

  "What?"

  With difficulty, Abbie forced herself to look at him. "Eden isn't your daughter. I was already pregnant with her when we made love that first time."

  "You're lying."

  "Not this time. I wanted my baby to have a father and I knew you would be a good one. And you have been. It was wrong of me to deceive you like that, I know, but—"

  "If I'm not her father, then who is?" Dobie demanded, still doubting. "Not Wilder—"

  "Yes."

  "But you can't prove it. And you can't expect me just to take your word for it."

  "Look at the way her little fingers curl—MacCrea has one like it. I've never seen such a thing before. It's a Wilder family trait."

  "My God." He whitened. "All these years. . ."

  "I'm sorry," Abbie said. "More than you'll ever know."

  When Abbie tried to reach MacCrea at his office, she was told he was at River Bend, meeting with Lane Canfield. There was a moment when she almost decided not to call him at all, but she needed to talk to him. Tense and anxious, she dialed the number.

  Rachel answered the phone. Abbie recognized her voice instantly and had to fight the urge to hang up. "I'd like to speak to MacCrea Wilder, please. I was told he was there."

  "Who's calling?"