Secrets

by Brenda Joyce

  "You're go­ing out too far," Sla­de cal­led.

  Re­gi­na tur­ned with a smi­le and a wa­ve. The wa­ter was knee-high now, and the hem of her skirts, even tho­ugh she lif­ted them, was so­aked. "It's not de­ep," she res­pon­ded, flas­hing him a smi­le. And then she gas­ped, eyes wi­de­ning, and plun­ked in­to the wa­ter with a splash.

  "Oh!"

  Even as she flo­un­de­red, be­ating the wa­ter with her arms, she he­ard Sla­de thras­hing thro­ugh it at a run. A ba­re in­s­tant pas­sed. His strong hands grip­ped her be­ne­ath her arms and lif­ted her to her fe­et. She clung to him, so­aked from he­ad to toe.

  "Are you all right?"

  She co­ug­hed, ex­c­han­ging folds of his shirt for a de­ath-grip aro­und his neck. "S-so­met­hing bit me!" she gas­ped. Her lit­tle lie was al­re­ady worth its we­ight in gold.

  "Pro­bably a crab," he sa­id, his hands spla­ying out on her hips.

  Re­gi­na was not lis­te­ning. How co­uld she? She co­uld ba­rely think. She was in Sla­de's em­b­ra­ce, clin­ging sha­me­les­sly to him, and she co­uld fe­el every thril­ling inch of him. "Sla­de," she mur­mu­red, ra­ising her fa­ce to his.

  She wat­c­hed his ga­ze dar­ke­ning, felt his hands tig­h­te­ning on her body. Tri­umph cla­imed her. This man was go­ing to be her hus­band, this man was her fi­an­ce, and she was thril­led. Pas­si­on, swe­et and he­avy, flo­wed thro­ugh her body.

  "Damn," Sla­de sa­id very softly. He star­ted to push her away from him.

  Re­gi­na re­ac­ted im­me­di­ately. She shri­eked, fal­ling down aga­in. Sla­de was ta­ken by sur­p­ri­se and he went tum­b­ling down with her-hel­ped by the fact that she did not re­lin­qu­ish her grip on his neck for a sin­g­le se­cond.

  For an in­s­tant the wa­ter cla­imed them, was­hing over them both. When Re­gi­na's he­ad bro­ke the sur­fa­ce she was in Sla­de's arms and bet­we­en his legs, bob­bing in the shal­low wa­ter. She still had her hands lo­oped abo­ut his neck, and the­ir fa­ces we­re very clo­se.

  His hands slid down to her bot­tom, pul­ling her even clo­ser. As anot­her bre­aking wa­ve ra­ced to­ward them, pe­te­ring out, his hands tig­h­te­ned. The wa­ved ed­di­ed aro­und them. "Are you all right?" Sla­de as­ked ho­ar­sely-"Yes," Re­gi­na whis­pe­red.

  He didn't spe­ak aga­in. His eyes mo­ved to her mo­uth, set­tling the­re en­vi­o­usly. Re­gi­na was not ad­ver­se to be­ing bra­zen. She twis­ted un­til she was prac­ti­cal­ly lying on top of him, the wa­ter sup­por­ting them both. If he'd ne­eded a hint, he got it now-eit­her that, or he'd lost the last of his wil­lpo­wer. His lips co­ve­red hers. Re­gi­na was both sur­p­ri­sed and ple­ased to find that his mo­uth was open, wet, and warm, salty from the sea, and de­man­ding. Ne­ver had she dre­amed a kiss co­uld be so in­ti­ma­te, so po­wer­ful. His ton­gue stro­ked hers. The­ir mo­uths fu­sed. Her bre­asts stra­ined aga­inst his chest, whi­le he kept her pres­sed firmly aga­inst his lo­ins. The fe­el of him the­re was hot, hard, and elec­t­ric.

  A re­ne­ga­de wa­ve, big­ger and bol­der than the rest, bro­ke clo­se to them and swept over them in a froth of whi­te­caps. Sla­de lun­ged to his fe­et, ta­king her with him, bre­aking the kiss. Re­gi­na co­uld not stand. Her po­un­ding he­art was thun­de­ring in her ears. Sla­de lif­ted her ef­for­t­les­sly in­to his arms, plo­wing thro­ugh the surf and to the sho­re.

  Re­gi­na sto­le glan­ces at him, bre­at­h­less and da­zed. Re­ality cras­hed hard over her when he fi­nal­ly slip­ped her to her fe­et in the warm sand. She stag­ge­red aga­inst him and he ste­adi­ed her, but with one hand, ca­re­ful to ke­ep her at a dis­tan­ce. She ga­zed at him ho­pe­ful­ly but his fa­ce was in­s­c­ru­tab­le. The­re was no sign of the pas­si­on they had just sha­red.

  "Sla­de?"

  His jaw fle­xed. His eyes sped from her an­xi­o­us ex­p­res­si­on down her wet, clin­ging clot­hes to her na­ked to­es. "We'd bet­ter go back and chan­ge."

  "Of co­ur­se." She pluc­ked at his sle­eve. "I don't mind," she sa­id, very bra­vely, "I don't mind that you kis­sed me."

  He ga­ve her a long grim lo­ok. His ob­vi­o­us dis­p­le­as- ure stun­ned her. Ab­ruptly he to­ok her hand, but the­re was not­hing per­so­nal abo­ut the ges­tu­re. It was ex­ce­edingly dif­fi­cult to walk in her wet, he­avy skirts and he was only sup­por­ting her. He led her up the be­ach to­ward the path, not spe­aking aga­in. Re­gi­na was dis­ma­yed, unab­le to think of an­y­t­hing ot­her than the won­der­ful in­ti­macy they had sha­red, which had so­me­how es­ca­ped them as swiftly as it had em­b­ra­ced them.

  Just be­fo­re sup­per Sla­de ca­me to her do­ors. They we­re clo­sed for pri­vacy, al­t­ho­ugh she wo­uld ha­ve pre­fer­red le­aving them aj­ar in or­der to enj­oy the eve­ning's sea bre­eze. She had be­en re­ading and now she set the ma­ga­zi­ne asi­de, her palms gro­wing damp at the so­und of his vo­ice. Qu­ickly she pat­ted her ha­ir in­to pla­ce, smo­ot­hing down her skirts, go­ing to the do­or.

  "We're sit­ting down to eat," he sa­id. "I tho­ught I'd co­me and get you."

  For a mo­ment she didn't mo­ve. His pre­sen­ce emit­ted a res­t­less, for­ce­ful energy that fil­led up the spa­ce aro­und her, that she co­uld ac­tu­al­ly fe­el. She won­de­red if he had be­en half as pre­oc­cu­pi­ed that af­ter­no­on with tho­ughts of her as she had be­en with him. She do­ub­ted it. The scre­en do­ors, clo­sed bet­we­en them, ob­s­cu­red his ex­p­res­si­on from her vi­ew, but even if they hadn't, she was su­re that she wo­uldn't see what she wan­ted to see in his ga­ze.

  He mo­ved im­pa­ti­ently. Re­gi­na slip­ped out­si­de. She co­uld see Sla­de cle­arly now and his ex­p­res­si­on was gu­ar­ded. What she wo­uldn't gi­ve for anot­her ear­nest smi­le! She gu­es­sed that it was an old ha­bit for him to hi­de his tho­ughts and emo­ti­ons from ever­yo­ne; she al­so tho­ught that he tri­ed even har­der to dis­gu­ise them from her. But the day wo­uld co­me, she ho­ped, when Sla­de wo­uld eagerly sha­re his fe­elings with her. She felt de­ter­mi­ned to ma­ke that day hap­pen.

  Re­gi­na had en­ter­ta­ined a few lo­gi­cal do­ubts abo­ut the­ir mar­ri­age that af­ter­no­on. It had oc­cur­red to her that it wo­uld not be easy mar­rying a man li­ke Sla­de un­der the best of cir­cum­s­tan­ces, much less the worst. Yet lo­gic co­uld not con­vin­ce her to chan­ge her mind. She had cast her lot in with his, for bet­ter or for wor­se. She wan­ted to see Sla­de's soft si­de aga­in for her own re­as­su­ran­ce, but her an­xi­o­us smi­le did not chan­ge his set ex­p­res­si­on. She was stric­ken with the hor­ri­fic tho­ught that he had be­en ha­ving lo­gi­cal do­ubts that af­ter­no­on as well.

  They mo­ved ac­ross the co­ur­t­yard. Out­si­de of the di­ning ro­om, he pa­used, to­uc­hing her lightly. "I ha­ven't sa­id an­y­t­hing yet. No one knows. I'll tell them now."

  Her sto­mach had be­en knot­ted; now it re­la­xed. He wasn't go­ing to chan­ge his mind. So, if lo­gic we­re to ru­le the day, she wo­uld ha­ve to be the one to nay­say him. She he­si­ta­ted, then knew she wo­uld not. Un­re­aso­nably, she co­uld not.

  Her bri­ef mo­ment of do­ubt must ha­ve sho­wed, for he sud­denly stra­ig­h­te­ned. Very co­ol­ly, he sa­id, "Gon­na back out?"

  "No," she whis­pe­red. "I ga­ve you my word and I in­tend to ke­ep it."

  "A lady with ho­nor," he sa­id flatly. The ten­si­on slowly dra­ined from his sho­ul­ders. "Let's go in."

  Ever­yo­ne was wa­iting for them in the den. Vic­to­ria had dres­sed for sup­per, as had Re­gi­na. Ed­ward's mot­her was slim and be­a­uti­ful, and ele­gant des­pi­te the fact that her red gown was mo­re than a few ye­ars out­da­ted. A strand of ru­bi­es was lo­oped aro­und her thro­at. Re­gi­na co­uld see at a glan­ce that they we­re glass and pas­te; of co­
ur­se, she was clu­ed in to the di­re stra­its at Mi­ra­mar and ru­bi­es we­re out­ra­ge­o­usly ex­pen­si­ve.

  Edward slo­uc­hed aga­inst one wall, sip­ping a glass of red wi­ne, the per­fect pic­tu­re of a splen­did ma­le in a mo­ment of in­do­len­ce. Dres­sed in a dark su­it and tie, he was the epi­tomy of re­fi­ne­ment, and ter­ribly han­d­so­me, mo­re so when he flas­hed her his fa­bu­lo­us smi­le. Rick had be­en pa­cing the li­ving area, still in his work shirt, the sle­eves rol­led up to his el­bows. He had not bot­he­red to dress for din­ner, but then, ne­it­her had Sla­de.

  Sla­de wo­re a worn whi­te shirt and blue je­ans that we­re so fa­ded they we­re dap­pled gray. Un­til that in­s­tant Re­gi­na had not lo­oked clo­sely at him, but now she was shoc­ked. The shirt he was we­aring was the one she had worn the night of the storm. Her bre­ath ca­ught in her chest and then her blo­od be­gan to ra­ce.

  Hot co­lor flo­oded her fa­ce. No one el­se co­uld pos­sibly know that they had sha­red that shirt, but she knew. For an un­gu­ar­ded in­s­tant she sta­red at him, re­mem­be­ring how the shirt had felt on her na­ked bre­asts, how it had smel­led, re­mem­be­ring the in­ti­macy the dark stormy night had cre­ated, re­mem­be­ring the ur­gency that had throb­bed to li­fe bet­we­en them.

  "The­re you are!" Rick ex­c­la­imed. "I'm so hungry I co­uld eat a be­ar!" Then he grin­ned. "You two lo­ok cozy."

  Sla­de's hand fo­und the mid­dle of Re­gi­na's back. She ten­sed, sur­p­ri­sed at the in­ti­ma­te ges­tu­re, but that was not­hing com­pa­red to the sur­p­ri­se his next words ge­ne­ra­ted. He sa­id, very qu­i­etly, "Eli­za­beth has ag­re­ed to be­co­me my wi­fe."

  His cho­ice of words ro­oted her to the spot. He co­uld ha­ve cho­sen a do­zen ot­her ways to dec­la­re the­ir in­ten­ti­ons; he co­uld ha­ve me­rely sa­id that they we­re get­ting mar­ri­ed. The­ir mar­ri­age was ul­ti­ma­tely a sham, yet he had ma­de the sta­te­ment very pos­ses­si­ve and very per­so­nal. Re­gi­na did not know what to think.

  Vic­to­ria sta­red. Ed­ward was still. Rick was the only one who didn't se­em sur­p­ri­sed and he sho­uted with glee. "This calls for a ce­leb­ra­ti­on! We'll open a bot­tle of that fancy French cham­pag­ne that James bro­ught ho­me when…" He stop­ped ab­ruptly. A vast si­len­ce fil­led the ro­om and Josep­hi­ne co­uld be he­ard sin­ging in the kit­c­hen se­ve­ral do­ors away.

  "That James bro­ught ho­me the last ti­me he went to Lon­don to vi­sit Eli­za­beth two ye­ars ago," Vic­to­ria fi­nis­hed.

  "Aw, hell." Rick sho­ved his hands in the poc­kets of his cor­du­roy pants. "Me and my big mo­uth."

  "Don't bot­her apo­lo­gi­zing," Sla­de sa­id tightly. He had re­mo­ved his hand from Re­gi­na's back.

  "It was an in­no­cent slip," Rick sa­id. "The­re's no ca­use to get all fi­red up."

  "Drop it," Sla­de war­ned.

  Edward ca­me to li­fe. He mo­ved qu­ickly for­ward and smac­ked Sla­de on the back. "All I can say is that I'm glad you've co­me to yo­ur sen­ses." He grin­ned. Then he tur­ned to Re­gi­na. "You, my de­ar, are the per­fect bri­de- every man's dre­am, in fact." He lo­oped his arm aro­und her sho­ul­ders. "Wel­co­me to the fa­mily."

  She swal­lo­wed ner­vo­usly. Sla­de lo­oked li­ke he wan­ted to kill his fat­her. Or may­be it was Ed­ward he was less than thril­led with now. "Thank you."

  "I want you to know that I've had my fin­gers cros­sed re­gar­ding this par­ti­cu­lar event," Ed­ward sa­id, win­king. "I can­not think of a man and a wo­man bet­ter su­ited to one anot­her. Trust me on that, Eli­za­beth."

  Sla­de lan­ced them both with a dark lo­ok. "Don't trust him too much."

  Edward lo­oked back at him very tho­ug­h­t­ful­ly and then re­mo­ved his arm from Re­gi­na's sho­ul­der. He tur­ned to Vic­to­ria. "Aren't you go­ing to say so­met­hing, Mot­her? Ot­her than what you've al­re­ady sa­id?"

  Vic­to­ria smi­led a bit stiffly. "Con­g­ra­tu­la­ti­ons."

  Re­gi­na ma­na­ged a thank-you.

  "You two set a da­te yet?" Rick as­ked.

  "Sun­day," Sla­de sa­id.

  Re­gi­na star­ted. Qu­ickly she tur­ned to Sla­de, who still sto­od be­si­de her, and she to­uc­hed his wrist. In­s­tantly she had his com­p­le­te at­ten­ti­on. "Don't you think," she be­gan, her vo­ice low, "that may­be we sho­uld wa­it just-"

  He cut her off. "No. Sun­day. This Sun­day."

  Her he­art was po­un­ding har­der than it sho­uld now. When she had ag­re­ed to marry him she had not tho­ught that it wo­uld be in a few days! She had as­su­med it wo­uld be in a few months or even lon­ger. Rip­ples of shock much li­ke the wa­ves she had wat­c­hed that day was­hed over her.

  "Well, Sun­day is just fi­ne!" Rick cri­ed, co­ming over to them and hug­ging Re­gi­na. "Don't fret so. It's usu­al for gals to get all ner­vo­us and flut­tery be­fo­re a wed­ding. That right, Vic­to­ria?"

  Ever­yo­ne tur­ned to lo­ok at Vic­to­ria, who had wal­ked over to the si­de­bo­ard and was po­uring her­self a glass of whi­te wi­ne. "I wasn't ner­vo­us be­fo­re my wed­ding," she sa­id. "But then aga­in, I wasn't en­ga­ged to yo­ur brot­her be­fo­re I mar­ri­ed you, now was I, Rick?"

  "That's eno­ugh," Rick sa­id an­g­rily.

  Re­gi­na had the chil­dish ur­ge to run from the ro­om. Why hadn't Sla­de told her that they wo­uld rush this wed­ding thro­ugh? Did he do­ubt her word? Did he think she wo­uld chan­ge her mind? She wasn't, even tho­ugh it was in­sa­ne to marry a vir­tu­al stran­ger. Yet it was be­co­ming mo­re and mo­re ap­pa­rent that mar­rying in­to this fa­mily wo­uld be no easy task. The­re we­re too many hid­den cur­rents ed­dying aro­und her, too many strong per­so­na­li­ti­es and too much con­f­lict. Ever­yo­ne, it se­emed, was a pla­yer in this lit­tle dra­ma that sho­uld ha­ve be­lon­ged ex­c­lu­si­vely to her and Sla­de. She wan­ted the­ir mar­ri­age to be­long ex­c­lu­si­vely to her and Sla­de! And the­re most de­fi­ni­tely was a plot, one which hin­ged aro­und her. Re­gi­na did not li­ke re­mem­be­ring that she was an he­iress and that Mi­ra­mar was ban­k­rupt.

  "Damn right it's eno­ugh," Sla­de sa­id fu­ri­o­usly. "Let's put all the cards out on the tab­le, why don't we, Vic­to­ria? We all know you can't stand me and the truth is, I only stand you be­ca­use you're the mot­her of my brot­her. And we all know why you're so damn un­hap­py right now. Well, if s too bad. I-not Ed­ward-am mar­rying Eli­za­beth, and I am in­he­ri­ting Mi­ra­mar-not Ed­ward. And if you re­al­ly ca­red abo­ut yo­ur son, you'd be happy, be­ca­use he do­esn't want to be ti­ed down to any wo­man just li­ke he do­esn't want to be ti­ed down to Mi­ra­mar."

  Si­len­ce gre­eted Sla­de's harsh words. Re­gi­na was shoc­ked. Vic­to­ria wan­ted her to marry Ed­ward? Was this so­me kind of bac­kup plan? If Sla­de had re­fu­sed to marry her, wo­uld Ed­ward now be co­ur­ting her? She was ap­pal­led; she felt sick.

  "Bra­vo," Ed­ward sa­id fi­nal­ly, clap­ping. "I co­uldn't ha­ve be­en mo­re suc­cinct myself, Sla­de. Mot­her, co­uld you pos­sibly apo­lo­gi­ze to the lucky gro­om and his bri­de?"

  Vic­to­ria's bre­asts we­re he­aving. "No," she sa­id. "I won't apo­lo­gi­ze. I won't apo­lo­gi­ze for wan­ting for my son what this ho­od­lum is get­ting." She stro­de from the ro­om.

  Rick sig­hed. "That wo­man is im­pos­sib­le. And I'm get­ting ti­red of it." He lo­oked at Ed­ward. "If it we­ren't for you, I'd toss her out on her ear."

  Edward shrug­ged. "Then it's a go­od thing that I'm he­re, isn't it?" He tur­ned to Re­gi­na with a fri­endly smi­le and held out his hand. "Let's go in and sit down. Don't worry, Mot­her will grow ac­cus­to­med to the idea of yo­ur mar­rying Sla­de, even­tu­al­ly."

  Re­gi­na ac­cep­ted his hand, but she co­uld not smi
­le. She co­uld not even reply.

  Vic­to­ria was so angry that she was sha­king. Damn Sla­de! If only he hadn't co­me back! If only he wo­uld go back to Char­les Mann and his li­fe up north! He didn't de­ser­ve this-not Mi­ra­mar, not the he­iress, not any of it. Ed­ward de­ser­ved it all.

  She pa­ced her ro­om, the bed­ro­om that she sha­red with Rick. It was an over­si­zed cham­ber, the ce­ilings high, the flo­ors warm pi­ne that we­re co­ve­red with co­lor­ful throw rugs. A mas­si­ve brass bed sat in the cen­ter, one big eno­ugh to ac­com­mo­da­te her and Rick when they we­ren't spe­aking to one anot­her and cho­se to he back-to-back; it al­so ac­com­mo­da­ted them qu­ite ni­cely when they we­re en­ga­ged in the­ir en­ter­p­ri­sing se­xu­al ac­ti­vi­ti­es.

  She pa­ced the ro­om re­len­t­les­sly, all the whi­le thin­king. How co­uld she bre­ak up Sla­de and Eli­za­beth? How co­uld she ma­ni­pu­la­te Sla­de in­to re­tur­ning to San Fran­cis­co?

  She knew, just as the en­ti­re fa­mily knew, that Sla­de lo­ved Mi­ra­mar. She wis­hed that Ed­ward pos­ses­sed just a drop of his brot­her's pas­si­on for the­ir ho­me, but he didn't. She al­so knew that Sla­de was hot for Eli­za­beth; his lust was ob­vi­o­us to an­yo­ne who ca­red to no­ti­ce. Yet Sla­de had had to con­si­der the pros­pect of mar­rying her; for a whi­le Vic­to­ria had tho­ught he wo­uld re­fu­se to do as Rick wan­ted, and that he was in­ten­ding to le­ave Mi­ra­mar as he al­ways did. But she had be­en sur­p­ri­sed.

  They had all be­en sur­p­ri­sed. He had sud­denly had a chan­ge of he­art.

  Per­haps, with a lit­tle prod­ding, he wo­uld sud­denly ha­ve anot­her chan­ge of he­art.

  The­re was anot­her an­g­le, an easi­er one, be­ca­use Sla­de, when he set his mind to so­met­hing, was one of the most stub­born men she knew. That was a De­lan­za tra­it. The ot­her an­g­le was Eli­za­beth. She did not se­em to be exactly thril­led with the idea of the mar­ri­age. She did not se­em thril­led with Sla­de. She was an­xi­o­us. A few mi­nu­tes ago she had se­emed ac­tu­al­ly hor­ri­fi­ed. Per­haps she ne­eded a lit­tle prod­ding, too.