by Billie Green
She grinned. "I probably did that, too."
He raised his arm and looked at her across the beer mug as he took a swallow. "Do you really want my opinion?" he asked as he lowered the mug.
"I do," she said earnestly. "I really do."
"I think you've saved yourself a lot of heartache," he said flatly. "I'm alone and most of the time I think it's the best way. No responsibilities, no one to disappoint. Because that's where the real pain comes from, Mary. Not from what's been done to you, but from what you've done to others. That's the part that will rip you apart."
What did you do? she wanted to ask. But she knew she couldn't. What she saw in his eyes wasn't pain from the past. It was from the present.
Did he feel, even after all these years, guilty for having walked out on his family? The thought made her throat constrict with suppressed emotion. She had suffered because of his desertion, but her grief was nothing compared to what this man had gone through.
Like Prometheus, this man's pain was endless. Day after day, it rose up fresh and new, to torment him.
He rose abruptly to his feet. "I'd better be going," he said, his voice gruff.
Whitney knew Lloyd never left Rick's until ten, but she made no move to stop him. She had reminded him of something that hurt, something he wanted to deal with in private. And in truth, she could use some time of her own to think.
"Thanks for the drink." Lloyd turned to leave, then he paused. "You looking for a job?"
The question took her by surprise. She stared at him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Now that you mention it, I believe I am."
"There's an opening at the factory. I can put in a good word for you if you want."
"Thank you, Just Lloyd. I would appreciate that." She grinned. "I can use all the good words I can get."
With a soft chuckle, he walked away.
Whitney watched as the door swung shut behind him, then closed her eyes. She had almost told him. Right there at the end, when she realized how much he was hurting, she had almost told him that she was his daughter.
The words had been on the tip of her tongue when she realized that she didn't know a thing about this man. The pain she saw in him might not have anything to do with the family he had left behind. She had no way of knowing if he even remembered he had a daughter. After all, people left their families behind all the time, cheerfully and without regret.
So in the end, it was fear that kept her mouth shut. She was afraid that if she told him who she was, he would walk away and never look back.
She would wait until she knew him better. She would let him get to know her as an individual, let him see that she was no threat to him or the new life he had made for himself.
Whitney was pushing back the chair to stand up when it finally hit her.
She had found her father.
* * *
Beginning a new life was hard work, and the next few days were busy ones for Whitney. She was more or less helpless when it came to looking for an apartment, choosing furniture and buying groceries, and she made sure Lloyd knew it. Every time he tried to back away from her—and he tried quite often at first—Whitney, without a twinge of conscience, begged for his help.
"In China," she told him, "when you save a person's life, you have to assume responsibility for that person. It's a law, Lloyd. Check it out"
"All I did was yell for Tink to throw out some troublemakers," he said, laughing at her outrageous exaggerating. "I didn't save your life."
"You did," she argued. "You saved my life. Because if that fool had touched me one more time, I would have cold-cocked him with a seltzer bottle. And if he had gotten a concussion and died, I'd have been arrested for using unreasonable force and any jury in the world would have found me guilty, because it's obvious that I did it. What's more, I don't see how I could possibly show any remorse, and you know how judges feel about penitence." Her voice dropped ominously. "They give lethal injections in Texas, Lloyd."
"Okay...okay, I give up. I'll help you pick out your stupid pots and pans."
Lloyd not only helped her pick out pots and pans, he took her to the places that sold good used furniture, then he rounded up enough volunteers with pickup trucks to move the furniture into the small apartment she had rented in his building.
Occasionally Whitney worried about getting cash from her credit cards, knowing the bills were going to her uncle, but she was keeping an account of every dollar she spent. She would be able to support herself soon, then she would begin paying her uncle back. It was suddenly important that she make her own way in the world. She wanted her father to be proud of her. She wanted to be proud of herself.
The one area in which she couldn't ask for Lloyd's help was her new job. At the factory, Whitney was on her own.
The first obstacle was a simple little detail that threatened to ruin the whole scheme—Whitney's name and social security number.
She had watched the people at Rick's long enough to know the toy factory was like a small town. There were no secrets. If Whitney gave her true name, it would be all over the factory within hours. But if she used her new name and a fictitious social security number, she was pretty sure the federal government wouldn't like it
The dilemma had kept her pacing outside the personnel office for hours on the day she was supposed to apply for a job. Just as Whitney had decided she would have to forget the whole thing, the woman who ran the office came back from lunch.
With her blue hair and faded housedress, Mrs. Dennison looked like everyone's grandmother. But looks were deceiving. Lloyd had told Whitney about Mrs. Dennison. She was the owner's mother, and nothing happened in the factory without her permission. But what gave Whitney hope wasn't the sweet grandmotherly face or the power the woman wielded. What made Whitney follow Mrs. Dennison into the personnel office was the paperback book the older woman carried under her arm. Midland Mafia Murders. Mrs. Dennison was a true crime fan.
An hour later Whitney not only had a new job, but a promise from her new friend that no one would ever know her real name.
Whitney hadn't actually lied to,Mrs. Dennison. She'd simply told her about her wish to start a new life, throwing in a few hints that if certain people knew where Whitney was hiding, "things" might happen. Things that simply couldn't be talked about So it would be better, safer for everyone concerned, if no one at the factory knew Whitney's real name.
Mrs. Dennison had eaten up every word.
The second obstacle wasn't so easily resolved. The fact that Lloyd Grant, a much admired supervisor, had recommended Whitney for the job helped her make friends quickly, but not even a recommendation from the president would have helped her on the assembly line.
It was Whitney's job to attach little rubber tires to little toy trucks, and when Lloyd had described the task, it had sounded like a snap. After all, how difficult could it be?
She learned the answer to that question on her first day at the toy factory. Attaching little rubber tires to tittle toy trucks could be pure, unadulterated hell. Everyone had neglected to tell her the job had to be done at top speed.
The first day felt a little like she had been dropped into an old I Love Lucy episode. The trucks seemed to come at her faster and faster. She would barely have time to get one tire on—forget the other three—before another truck descended on her.
That night Whitney had nightmares about all those tittle red and blue and yellow trucks chasing her, demanding not only tires, but a lube job, as well.
By her third day at the factory, Whitney had begun to adjust. She still wasn't as fast as she should be, but she was beginning to believe that someday, if she worked hard at it, she might eventually be adequate.
She tried to talk Lloyd into car-pooling. It made no sense to take both cars, she told him. They would have each other's company on the ride to and from work, and save gas, as well. It was practically their civic duty.
But in tins one matter, Lloyd held out. Sharing a car somehow represented a closeness h
e wasn't ready to acknowledge.
It didn't take Whitney long to understand why everyone went to Rick's after work. The pressure at the factory was intense. They needed to relax and let off steam before going home to normal life.
On Friday night, after her first week at the factory, everyone was at Rick's for the weekly dart tournament. Whitney had played every once in a while with Lloyd and a few of her new friends, and it was at their urging that she decided to enter the tournament.
She took her first two opponents easily, and her last match was with Frankie Halloran, self-acknowledged Lothario. Frankie—tanned and muscular, with dark, curly hair—thought a lot of himself, but he was too likable for people to take any real offense at his conceit.
"It's my turn, little Miss Dart Shark. I think I can take you, and I'm willing to back that up with a little side bet."
Frankie's challenge brought on a chorus of derisive hoots.
"Okay, here's the deal," he continued. "If I win, you go with me to the tractor pull tomorrow night... and parking afterward," he added with an overdone leer.
"And if I win?" she asked.
"Make him polish that ratty old Buick of yours!" someone called out.
"No, make him scrub your kitchen floor," one of the women suggested. "And take pictures. You could make a fortune selling pictures of Frankie on his knees."
When everyone laughed, Frankie held up a hand to quiet them. "If you win," he said, "I'll buy a round of drinks for everybody in the place."
"Go for it, Mary."
"Make him pay."
"Didn't Rick get in a shipment of imported beer yesterday?"
"You can take him," Lloyd said as he stepped closer and raised his voice to be heard over the enthusiastic crowd. "Just keep your distance. He has a habit of brushing against you just when you're ready to throw."
Although everyone wanted a free drink, when the game started, the group divided into two groups. The young, single men and a few of the single women—the ones who were hoping to date Frankie—were rooting for Whitney's opponent. The others were cheering for her.
Whitney knew immediately that Frankie was good, better than any of the others she had played against, but she kept her cool.
"Come on, Mary, you can do it. Show him your stuff. Make him eat your dust."
Whitney picked up another dart and turned to wave at the bouncer, who was cheering her on from his barstool. She'd learned that Tink was short for Tinkerbell, and considered the fact that he didn't mind the nickname a sign of the big man's self-confidence.
"Stop distracting her," Lloyd called to link before turning back to Whitney. He stood at the forefront of the crowd gathered around the dart board. "Take your time, Mary. This shot has to be good."
In a show of total self-assurance, she dusted a bit of lint from her sleeve, then casually tossed the dart in the air and watched it hit dead center.
Whitney was immediately surrounded by the group. They were all pounding her on the back, shouting their approval, taunting her opponent.
When Whitney saw Frankie taking the teasing with a good-natured grin, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the cheek. "Your consolation prize," she said.
Laughing, he grabbed her around the waist and leaned her over backward. The kiss was long and noisy, and even though it was more playful than sexual, it brought cheers and enthusiastic encouragement from the rest of the crowd.
When Frankie finally turned her loose, Whitney made a big play of wiping her face before turning to signal Roxie for a drink. Her hand was in the air and her mouth was open to speak when her eyes widened in shock.
Dean was standing not three feet away from her. And judging by the look on his face, there was going to be hell to pay.
Chapter 7
Whitney's mind went completely blank, becoming nothing more than an empty space between her ears. Then, with dizzying abruptness, her brain began working overtime. Dean was here. In Dallas. At Rick's.
His expensive suit looked out of place in the pub, and Whitney's new friends were beginning to stare. They were beginning to speculate:
"Internal Revenue?" someone proposed.
"No, he's too good-looking."
Someone else suggested a pimp, but that was quickly knocked down by the fact that he wore no gold jewelry. Although several were positive he was simply lost, the determined look in his dark eyes seemed to quash that theory. It eventually boiled down to a tie between a Mafia hit man and a real estate developer who wanted to buy the place, tear it down and build something more profitable.
At any other time Whitney would have seen the humor in the situation and thrown in her own outrageous theories, but at the moment she was too busy panicking.
How had he found her? And what was more important, why had he found her? If Dean approached her, using her real name, everything she had worked so hard to accomplish would be lost. It couldn't happen. Too much was at stake.
Forcing herself to meet Dean's eyes, she gave her head a little shake. Let him understand, she begged silently. Please let him understand.
She shouldn't have doubted him. After only the slightest pause, he moved to sit at the bar and ordered a drink, his expression now suitably blank.
"Dean?"
Whitney swung around, her heart pounding. Lloyd was standing beside her, studying her face carefully.
"What did you say?" she asked, her voice faint with panic.
"I asked if that was your Dean."
If there had been one chance in a million of getting away with it, Whitney would have denied everything. But already Lloyd was coming to know her. He would have spotted the lie in an instant.
"Not mine." Her lips curved in a wry smile. "He never was mine. But it's Dean all right." She paused to draw in a slow breath. "It's definitely Dean."
Lloyd glanced toward the bar. "He didn't look pleased."
"No," she agreed weakly, "he didn't, did he?"
Lloyd led her back to their table, gently pushing her into a chair. "If he sees you as a burden, why did he bother to track you down?"
She caught her lower lip between her teeth, then gave her head a little shake. "I guess because be thinks I'm his burden. I told you he was kind. He's been taking care of me—getting me out of trouble, being my foundation—since I was six years old." She paused, gathering her thoughts. "He never wanted me to just disappear. But he wanted me to have a life of my own, which I have now. Of course, he couldn't know that. And that's why he's here...maybe," she finished without conviction.
"Are you going to talk to him?"
She shook her head vigorously. "Not now. It's not that I'm a coward, I just prefer to be humiliated in private."
Lloyd frowned, glancing at Dean again. "Will he try to humiliate you?"
"No," she admitted, "but he won't have to. I usually manage to do just fine on my own." With difficulty she pulled her gaze away from Dean. "Let's talk about something else. If I ignore him, maybe he'll go away."
Her father chuckled. "Somehow I don't think he's the type to conveniently vanish."
Lloyd was wrong. A few minutes later Dean paid for his drink and slid off the barstool. On his way out, although he passed within a foot of the table where she sat, he didn't acknowledge her with so much as a glance.
When the door closed behind him, when she no longer felt his presence in the room, Whitney should have been able to relax and join in the conversation that flowed around her, but it wasn't that easy. One glimpse of him and she was a mess, electrified and confused, exhilarated and apprehensive.
After she left San Antonio, Whitney told herself she would be able to put her love for him in the past where it belonged, and go on from there. She told herself that loving Dean would be a part of the Whitney Daryn Grant she'd moved away from. Like the white Jaguar, her love for Dean would always be there, but it would be safely in storage. A memory. A piece of the past, one of many, that helped set her on the way to becoming the new Whitney Daryn Grant.
Then she realized
the truth. She was a fool. A thousand times a fool. Her love for Dean wasn't in storage, and it wasn't a bit of nostalgia. It was right here in her heart, as strong and deep and solid as ever. She had simply been hiding' from it.
As of tonight, there was no place left to hide,
"I guess it's time for me to get home," Lloyd said, breaking into her thoughts.
Dismayed, she glanced at her watch. How could it be ten already? She wasn't ready for the evening to be over. She wasn't ready to leave this place with its comforting shield of noise and laughter.
Rising reluctantly to her feet, she walked with Lloyd to the entrance, waving good-night to friends who called out to them. Outside the bar Lloyd squeezed her hand, told her good-night and disappeared into the shadows of the parking lot.
Whitney stood for a moment and glanced around. Drawing in a deep, steadying bream, she straightened her shoulders and walked toward her car.
She was in the process of unlocking the Buick when someone grabbed her from behind. A hand came over her mouth, cutting off her squeaking gasp, and she was lifted off her feet. With his free hand, her assailant opened the car door, shoved her inside, and slid in beside her, forcibly moving her over to make room for him. Seconds later she was in her attacker's arms, being ruthlessly kissed. Then, before she had time to either respond or repel, she was being pushed away.
"Do you see what could happen to you?" Dean rasped out, Ins breathing harsh as he gave her one hard shake.
Oh, yes, she thought, he's definitely ticked off.
The light from the parking lot barely made it into the car, but Whitney didn't have to see him to know he was shaking with fury.
"Do you see how easy it would be for someone to hurt you?" he went on. "Damn it, Whitney, you didn't even struggle. You didn't even try to scream. You simply— What? What did you say?"
"I said I knew it was you." She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, anger building in her, as well. "I knew you would be out here. And I knew you were mad."