Amanda thought she recognized the voice on the other end of the line.
“Rita?” Rita Kingston had been her father’s executive secretary for the last twenty years. How the woman could stand it, Amanda had no idea.
“Yes? Who’s this?”
Amanda breathed a sigh of relief. She could talk to Rita. “It’s Amanda, Rita. Amanda Foster.”
“Amanda?” The crisp voice dissolved in a flurry of warmth. “How have you been?”
There was so much to say. How could she pack four years into a single sentence? Amanda chose something deliberately vague. “Working. I’m at K-DAL in Dallas now.” Or I was. “Is my father really busy, or—?”
“He’s just going over a brief, but I’m sure he can spare a few minutes for you.”
Well, that makes one of us, Amanda thought.
Amanda knew how much her father hated to be disturbed. To be disturbed because his prodigal daughter was on the line would only compound his ire. She wouldn’t have wanted to be Rita when the woman walked into her father’s office.
But Rita, Amanda recalled, had always managed to ride out her father’s bad moods, far better than Amanda’s mother had. There had been a time when Amanda had been convinced that Henry Foster was sleeping with his secretary, but if that were true, she only felt pity for Rita. It must have been infinitely difficult and unsatisfying to make love with a man who had no love to give.
“Let me put you on hold,” Rita was saying. “I’ll go tell him you’re calling.”
Soft theme music from classic old movies filled the air. Rita’s choice, no doubt. Her father would have opted for numbing silence.
Amanda fidgeted with the wire, wondering what her first words to her father would be beyond hello. She hadn’t had any contact with him since before her son was born. Not since the day of her mother’s funeral. With her mother gone, there didn’t seem to be any reason left to pretend that they were a family.
She knew her father well enough to know he undoubtedly blamed her for the schism.
But then, she thought, he hadn’t tried to get in contact with her either.
She stiffened as the soft music abruptly ceased and she heard someone come on the line. Geronimo! It was a cry uttered by marines leaping from airplanes. Amanda felt as if she had left her chute on the plane.
“Amanda.” The male voice was formal. Cold.
That was so like her father. No hello, no small talk. Just cut to the chase. There was no interest exhibited in anything other than his law firm.
With great effort, she managed to keep her emotions out of her voice. Her father would only view that as a sign of weakness. Weakness always irritated him and the conversation would become even more difficult. The man knew how to inspire trepidation with just a pregnant pause.
“Hello, Father. It’s been a while.”
“Yes. Did you call to tell me that?” He didn’t bother masking his impatience. There’d been no word from her, no attempt to make any sort of contact, and then suddenly here she was, interrupting his work schedule, with no regard for how busy he was.
Amanda was tempted to hang up, but there was more at stake here than old wounds. “No, Father, I called to ask some advice.”
The laugh was harsh and without compassion. “A little late in the game for that, don’t you think?”
She knew exactly what he was thinking. His ego always took center stage. “I’m not calling about a career change, Father.” At least, I hope not.
He snorted. Apparently she hadn’t acquired any more sense in the last four years than the little she’d already had. “Or that embarrassment of a marriage of yours?”
She would have liked nothing better than to tell him that she was deliriously happy. But she wouldn’t lie, not even to him.
“I’m divorced now.”
That caught him by surprise. “Perhaps you’re not as devoid of common sense as I had thought.”
Everything always turned into negative criticism with him. Just those few words brought vivid memories back to her. Memories she didn’t want.
Amanda thought she heard a doorbell in the distance and hoped she was mistaken. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone, unless it was Paul.
“Father. I didn’t call to trade thrusts and parries with you.” She cut to the heart of the problem, desperately wanting to get off the line as quickly as possible. Just the sound of her father’s condescending voice was beginning to agitate her. As it always had. “I’m going to need a lawyer. A good one.”
“My calendar is full, Amanda. As you might know, I’m representing Whitney Granger.”
He wouldn’t even make room for her if she needed him, she thought, her hurt feelings and resentment mounting. Nothing had changed.
She struggled to hold onto her temper. “Yes, I do know. And it’s not that kind of a case. All I want from you is the name of a good civil lawyer. I might have to take my station to court.”
“Still dabbling in the news field?” Contempt dripped from every syllable.
Amanda knew he would have never approved of what she did, no matter what it was. With her father, there were only varying degrees of disapproval. If she had become a lawyer, he would have criticized the way she handled every case, whether she won it or lost.
“I’m the six o’clock news anchor at K-DAL. That’s hardly dabbling.” Her anger at his demeaning attitude broke free. “But it seems the station manager doesn’t like me any more than you do and he’s found a loophole in my contract to get rid of me—“
“Then go. Why would you want to stay where you’re not wanted?”
He made no effort to disguise his boredom with the topic. Hearing that energized her.
“I don’t cave in that easily, Father, I think you know that. All I’m asking for is the name of a good lawyer to represent me. I don’t really care what you think of me, Father, but surely you must know what it feels like to want to stand up for yourself. At least allow me the same dignity you’d allow a client.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line, as if he was wrestling with his better judgment. She half expected the line to go dead.
“Jefferson Stone,” he finally said. “He’s with Rushmore and Teicher.”
She scribbled down the name on a scrap of paper. “Do you have the number?”
“It’s in the book.” She heard the impatient breath he blew out and could picture him, sitting in his wine-colored leather chair, cherrywood smoke curling from his pipe as it rested in the carved ashtray on his desk, his face pinched into a patrician frown. “Is that all?”
You couldn’t want me to hang up any more than I do, Father.
“Yes. Except for one thing.”
“Yes?”
There was a whole list of things she would have liked to say to her father. There were accusations, recriminations. Questions that had never been answered. At the very least, she’d have liked to finally get into a meaningful dialogue with him, one in which he didn’t shut her out with one of his pat statements.
But she was too tired, and what was the point? Her father had never listened before. Why would he bother to now? “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
The brittleness spurred her on. She knew her father had deliberately lost track of her life. “Oh, there is one more thing.”
“Yes?” This time, the impatience was tangible. “Get on with it.”
“You’re a grandfather.”
The connection broke off.
Amanda hung up the telephone. Well, that certainly spoke volumes. The wound she had told herself she no longer carried felt as if it was oozing again. The conversation she’d just had, or not had, was breaking old stitches within her.
She would have thought that at twenty-eight, the lack of parental approval or affection would no longer mean anything to her.
Damn it, even fools learned eventually.
Apparently, she didn’t.
Amanda sighed deeply and turned around. She heard Christoph
er squealing loudly in the living room. Maybe a little time playing with her son would take her mind off what was happening, at least until she heard from Paul about the report or could find a way to get in touch with the station’s general manager.
She stopped dead when she reached the living room. There, sitting in the middle of her living room floor playing with Christopher, was Pierce.
Chapter Thirty One
He was sitting cross-legged on her floor. Her son was on his lap. There was a six-inch dark brown streak on the side of Pierce’s light blue knit shirt, thanks to the huge chocolate bar Christopher clutched in his hands. The heat from the little boy’s fingers was melting the bar faster than he could do away with it. But he was giving it a good try, gnawing on the chocolate and smearing it all over his face.
Pierce’s demeanor was that of someone who felt very comfortable with what he was doing, as if this were simply a part of his everyday life instead of just a ruse. He was behaving as if he didn’t have a care in the world. And maybe he didn’t.
Or, more aptly, she thought, maybe he didn’t have a conscience. If he could actually sit there, smiling at her, when he’d just been instrumental in stealing something from her that she had fought long and hard to win, then maybe he didn’t have one after all.
Plucking three tissues from the dispenser on the coffee table, Amanda dropped to her knees and began cleaning Christopher up. She thrust what was left of the melting candy bar—a peace offering of his, no doubt— at Pierce. She didn’t bother to look at him as she worked on her son.
“How did you get in here?”
Gingerly, Pierce folded the silver foil around the remaining chocolate, then licked off the small bit that he’d gotten on his fingers. He noted that Amanda was pretending not to watch him, but her strokes had gotten slightly less vigorous as she cleaned Christopher.
He grinned. “Carla let me in.”
Carla peeked in at that moment, drawn by the sound of Amanda’s voice. As a rule, Carla avoided the scene of any confrontation, afraid that some of the barbs might be hurled in her direction. This time she decided to stick it out. Amanda needed support at a time like this, even if she might be angry.
“I thought that maybe you might need a friend to talk to.” Carla’s eyes indicated Pierce.
The woman’s heart was in the right place. There was no reason to get annoyed with Carla. It was Pierce she wanted to shoot.
“If I did, it wouldn’t be him.” Amanda rolled the tissues into a ball, then rose to her feet. “He’s not a friend, he’s a traitor.” She urged her son toward Carla. “Why don’t you take Christopher into the bathroom and hose him down? He’s got so much chocolate in his system, we’ll be peeling him off the ceiling for hours.”
Amanda looked accusingly at Pierce. Something else she could blame him for.
Carla was more than happy to comply. She’d decided that she was standing in the middle of a mine field. One that was going to be tripped at any minute.
Despite Pierce’s easygoing smile, he looked as if he was just waiting to have something set him off. And Amanda looked as if she was more than willing to do the honors.
Taking Christopher’s still sticky hand in hers, Carla hustled him out of the room, hoping for details later, when things settled down.
Pierce rose slowly to his feet, dusting off his hands on his jeans. He frowned at his shirt and wondered if chocolate was washable.
He looked at Amanda, searching for an opening, wondering why he was even here. “You don’t sound as if you get along very well with your father.”
He’d been eavesdropping again. The man made a habit out of listening in on her life. She frowned at the mention of her father.
“I don’t think God could get along with my father, but that’s really none of your business, is it?” She didn’t wait for him to answer. The betrayal she’d felt earlier rose up into her mouth like bitter brine, almost choking her. “What are you doing here? Is there something else of mine you’ve decided you want?”
His natural inclination, when being attacked, was to strike back. He worked to curb his temper, telling himself that she had a right. Up to a point.
“Yes.”
She misread the look in his eyes. Of all the unmitigated gall. He’d come here with an itch, after what he’d done to her, and expected it to be scratched.
Contempt rose in her eyes. “I’m not interested in another tumble in bed with you. You’re under no obligation to hand me a consolation prize now that you’ve gotten what you wanted.” The tissues still wadded in her hand, she turned to stalk out.
Pierce caught her by the arm and spun her around. She knew exactly what buttons to press to aggravate him. “You don’t have the first clue what I want.”
Trouble was, lately, neither did he. But he was in no mood to admit that to her, or to explore the reasons why he’d suddenly lost his way.
She tried to jerk free, but he wouldn’t let her. He didn’t want to follow her around, arguing with her back. Defiance rose in her face.
“Oh no? Tell me that you didn’t want my job.”
That was easy. “I didn’t want your job.”
He said it with such underscored sincerity, she almost believed him. Almost. Her eyes narrowed into slits. “Liar.”
He was tempted to shove her away. Instead, he released her. “I never bother to lie, Amanda. Lies get you all tangled up, and I don’t like to be tangled up.”
“Oh. Right.” Sarcasm tinged her mouth. “No strings. Well, there aren’t any,” she assured him. “But don’t get too comfortable in my job, because I’m going after it.”
“I figured that.” He would have expected nothing less of her. He would have thought less of her if she didn’t try.
Right. He wasn’t stupid. In her place, he’d undoubtedly do the same thing, she thought. “And you’re here to head me off at the pass.” It wasn’t a question; it was a given.
He realized that he’d given her too much credit when he’d thought she understood him. That she thought so little of him both annoyed and hurt him. That was the part he didn’t care for. That it hurt. Nothing was supposed to hurt anymore. He’d paid his dues and earned the scar tissue that was supposed to keep him invulnerable.
“I’m here to knock a little sense into your head, if it isn’t too late.”
Amanda folded her arms before her, stubbornly digging in. She knew it was foolish to goad him like this. But she was too angry, too incensed, too hurt to back down or care.
“You’re not talking me out of this.” She turned to leave the room.
He wrapped his fingers around her arms and held her in place, struggling to contain the urge to squeeze just a little. “I’m not here to talk you out of anything, God damn it, except that miserable stubborn streak that keeps you from listening to anyone else once you have an idea in that narrow-minded head of yours.”
She tried to shrug him off, but she might as well have been trying to move a boulder by blowing on it. “I don’t have to stand here and have you insult me.” She knew she didn’t have a choice. She wasn’t going anywhere unless he wanted her to.
“Then listen to me, damn it. I don’t want your position.”
The hell he didn’t. He had it, didn’t he? He hadn’t turned the station manager down flat and told him to go to hell when he’d offered it to him. That told her everything she needed to know.
“You have a damn funny way of showing it.”
Patience in the face of aggravating circumstances was never in abundant supply for Pierce. He tried to find some now, for her sake. “Grimsley came to me with the offer. He said if I didn’t take it, someone else would.”
Did he want her to think he was noble for accepting it? “Better you elevated than someone else, is that it?” she countered sarcastically.
She still didn’t understand, did she? “Yes,” he said fiercely. “Because I’ll step down.”
Now he wasn’t making any sense. “Excuse me?”
He went
through it slowly. “If you win the case, or the station makes Grimsley back down, I’ll walk away from the anchor position and go back to my old beat. Someone else might not be that willing to give it up.”
“But you would.” Some of the sarcasm had ebbed away, but she still couldn’t let herself believe that he was in her corner.
Pierce looked at her, wondering if he should have his head examined. It’d been a long time since he had put up with any sort of garbage because of a woman. And even then he hadn’t taken it. Why was he doing it now? She didn’t believe him, anyway.
“Yes.”
It didn’t make any sense. He was ambitious. This was a plum spot. “Why?”
He sighed, then fell back on a standard reply. If he was really going to have to explain it to her, then it would lose its meaning. “Being an anchor is too staid a position for me. I like fieldwork, remember?”
The wind was being taken out of her sails as she looked into his eyes. She knew she was being a fool, but she couldn’t help herself. “Why should I believe you?”
Damn, how could one woman turn him inside out like this? It didn’t seem fair. In the middle of their argument, all he could think about was touching her. About making love with her again. He was badly in need of an exorcist, because she was quickly becoming his demon, his ruling force.
“I think you have to start believing someone somewhere along the line,” he told her quietly, belying the magnitude of emotion he felt. “Whether you know it or not, Mandy, you’re one hell of an angry woman. You’re angry at your father, at Grimsley, at your ex-husband—“
Who was he to criticize her? Especially about them. “Not a winner in the bunch.”
His eyes held hers. “At me.”
It was hard not to look away from the accusation she saw there. Hard to talk when her mouth suddenly went dry. “I’m angry at you because I thought you used me.” She had used the past tense without meaning to.
He had no idea what made him even bother. Normally, he’d just walk away. Instead, he stayed. Like a jerk. “I didn’t.”
Even as she railed against him, she wanted to believe. Convince me, a small voice pleaded. “I’ve only got your word for that.”
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