by Billie Green
Dean spent the night with her again, but something about his mood puzzled Whitney. She couldn't figure out what was going on in his mind. He still wanted her—most of the time he could barely keep his hands off her—but there were too many brooding silences between them. It was almost as though he regretted their new relationship.
In the days that followed, Dean's strange mood continued. Each time they made love he seemed to be fighting a silent battle. And each time, when he finally took her to bed, his reaction was explosive and reckless, as though he were throwing good sense to the wind. As though he fought his feelings until they grew too powerful to control.
Dean had always been big on control. And maybe that was the problem. Maybe he resented the fact that his feelings for her were so strong, stronger even than his control.
On Thursday, almost a week after they first made love, Whitney was having lunch in the cafeteria at the factory when she decided she would have to force the issue. Even if she got hurt, she had to get him to talk about what was going on inside him.
After work, as soon as she had taken a shower and changed her clothes, she went straight to his apartment.
"Did you have a good day?" she asked when he let her in. "Is the Sanderson case going all right?"
"Average to the first question and the way I expected to the second," he said dryly as he moved to sit on the couch.
"That's good...that's good." She shoved her hands into the pockets of her shorts. "Dean... Dean, I've been doing some thinking."
He raised one dark brow. "Now there's a scary thought."
"You're so funny." She moved to sit on the coffee table in front of him. "You told me that I was too inexperienced. Well, that's changed. I've had lots of experience. Wonderful, exciting experience."
His features were tight as he studied her face. "Get to the point, Whitney.''
"Well, if the object was to clue me in on sex, I'm clued. You have to admit I wasn't slow in picking it up."
Whitney stared beyond him, avoiding his eyes. She knew she was taking a big chance, but some things were worth taking a chance on. Dean was worth taking a chance on.
"I'm probably ready for a solo flight," she continued. "Well, not solo really, but I think I'm ready to go up without my esteemed instructor. Don't you think so? I mean, now that you know I can do it, you don't have to worry about me anymore. You could probably even move back to San Antonio now and get your practice back in shape."
"You've met someone new?" The words were harsh and there was a white line around his mouth. "Is he good-looking? You're not thinking about that muscle-bound son of a bitch? Because if you are, you can forget it. You heard me, Whitney. You can just—"
She-grasped his face between her hands. "Hush a minute. Did you listen to yourself, Dean? Did you listen to what you were saying? You don't want me to be with another man any more than I want you to be with another woman. Why do you suppose that is? Why do you think it hurts so much to think of either of us with someone else?"
He pulled away and stood up, turning his back on her. "What was that?" he asked, his voice rough. "Some kind of game?''
"No," she denied, moving to stand directly behind him. "I don't play games with you. I wouldn't do that. You know why, Dean? You're too important to me. I'm not afraid to admit how I feel. I love you. I've loved you for as long as I can remember. If anyone was playing games it was you."
When he swung to face her, she knew he was going to deny it.
"Yes," she said before he could speak. "You. You've been pretending that we're having an affair. A casual, disposable thing. And that's not the truth, is it?"
A shudder shook through him. "No, it's not. You're right. What I feel for you is not casual. Not disposable. I love you, Whitney."
With a little squeal of relief, she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him.
He responded immediately, drawing her close to run his hands urgently over her body, then seconds later he pulled back from the kiss. "Whit—"
"What's the matter?" she breathed against his cheeks. "Why did you stop? That was some of my best stuff. Better men than you have crumbled under the weight of that particular kiss." She smiled and shook her head. "I'm lying of course. There is no better man than you." She took his hand from her shoulder and held it against her cheek. "And now that you've admitted you love me, you're perfect."
"I couldn't very well deny it," he said with a strange, choking laugh. "Not after making a fool of myself when I thought you were going to see someone else. I've loved you since you were sixteen years old, but all these years I've been trying to convince myself that it was something else. Desire, respect, admiration, sincere liking. When you combine all those things with the feeling that I'm not quite complete unless you're with me, you get love. All along it was love. Ifs not something I asked for, and it's not something I can deny, either."
A moment after joy began to spread through her like wildfire, the full sum of his words began to penetrate. He had made the admission reluctantly, regretfully, as though he didn't want to love her, but there wasn't anything he could do about it.
She hid her face against his shoulder, unwilling to let him see how much it hurt, knowing that he wasn't as happy about their love as she was.
When she had gained control of her emotions, she pulled back slightly and met his eyes. "You think you could do better?" she asked, one brow raised. "Well, let me clue you in, dumpling. You can't. You won't ever find anyone who could love you better than I can. I've had a lot of practice. After all, I've been doing it all my life. And that's your fault. If you weren't so wonderful, I wouldn't love you to the bottom of my toes. Take away the part of me that loves Dean and there wouldn't be much left. Nothing but an incredibly beautiful shell."
He laughed, pulling her closer. He was holding her so tightly, she could barely breathe. There was an urgent feel to the embrace. A desperate feel.
"What's wrong?" she whispered. "Something's scaring you. Why can't you talk to me about it?"
"Nothing... no really, it's nothing." He smoothed kisses across her forehead. "I was just thinking of something your mother said. She said I was your rebellion."
He moved away from her. "It made sense, Whitney. And don't try to tell me you haven't made it your life's work to tick off the Harcourts. Your apartment, your new job, those things aren't just about getting close to your father. When you came here you didn't just separate yourself from people, from a way of life. You left everything Harcourt behind."
"So?"
"So maybe I'm part of that. An affair with me is certainly something all your relatives would disapprove of."
"Not all of them. Baby thinks you're sexy as hell."
When he didn't respond, she drew in a slow breath, trying to sound calm when she really wanted to scream at him. She had never heard anything so ridiculous.
"Okay.. .okay," she said in irritation. "You may be right about the apartment and the job. I don't know. I haven't thought about it. But even if you're right, it doesn't have anything to do with how I feel about you. I wanted you when I was a good little Harcourt—"
"You were never a good little Harcourt." A hint of a smile was twitching at his lips.
"As I was saying," she said with a quelling look. "I wanted you when I was a Harcourt and now that I'm a full-fledged Grant, I still want you. I still love you. If I found out tomorrow that I'm adopted and am really heir to the British throne, I would still feel the same way. My love for you is not a rebellion. It's a given, a constant, a fact of life."
He jerked her back into his arms and just before his mouth covered hers, she heard him say, "Maybe it's enough. Sweet heaven, let it be enough."
Chapter 12
"What are you thinking about so hard?" Dean asked.
Whitney raised her head off his chest and looked up at him. "Lloyd... Daddy. You don't know how often I've almost called him that. I was just thinking that if I had him—as a father rather than a friend—I would have everything I've ever wanted.
"
She ran her fingers in an absentminded caress over his bare thigh. "I know I've got to tell him soon, but every time I try, something always stops me. Something in him. But it's not just that blasted wall he puts up. Something—I don't know. It's a kind of darkness or a sadness that comes over him when he thinks about the past."
Dean settled her more closely against him. "From what the others say, he's opened up a lot since you came here. But I know what you're talking about. There's still a part of him that's sealed up tight.. .and whatever's in there isn't giving him an easy time."
She sighed. "It's like that story, The Lady or the Tiger! I don't know what's behind the closed door and it scares me. I'm afraid I'll hurt him or even lose him, simply because I don't know what I'm dealing with."
He smoothed the hair from her forehead. "What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to tell him." She smiled, then kissed his chest, his neck and his chin. "I didn't get where I am—in the arms of the sexiest, most adorable man in the country—without taking chances. I've never believed in 'if only.' There's no way I'm going to spend the rest of my life regretting something I didn't do. So I'm going to do it, and if I screw up, I'll deal with that, too."
* * *
It was a good decision. She was sure of that. And during the next few days Whitney had plenty of opportunities to tell Lloyd that she was his daughter. On one occasion, the words were halfway out of her mouth before she changed her mind and coughed instead.
She had known that getting to the sticking point wouldn't be easy, but sometimes it seemed almost impossible.
On Saturday night several people from the toy factory gathered at her apartment to watch a rerun of The Magnificent Seven on cable. It was a noisy, entertaining evening, especially after the movie was over. All the men in the group pretended they were gunslingers—Whitney had people dying all over her livingroom floor—while the women huddled around the table and tried to talk over the noise.
They had all chipped in to have pizza delivered, but Whitney—with the help of a downtown bakery—provided dessert and coffee, and it was well after midnight before her guests, with the exception of Dean and Lloyd, finally said good-night and left.
Whitney made another pitcher of iced tea—the air-conditioning had gone out again—and the three of them sat around the kitchen table talking.
"I really admire the way you hint to your guests that it's time to leave, Mary," Lloyd said, his lips shaking as he tried to sound sincere. " 'Do you think this rash on my leg is contagious?' may not be subtle, but it was certainly effective. I've never seen a room clear so fast."
Dean chuckled. "Oh, she's always been inventive. Did I tell you about the time—"
Whitney groaned. "Please, Dean. Do you know how many times I've heard those stupid words in the past few weeks? The only reason Lloyd doesn't throw up when he hears them is he either has a strong stomach or he's brain-dead. Or maybe he's simply too much of a wuss to tell you to zip it."
"Zip it," Lloyd told her. "Go ahead, Dean. Tell your story."
"As I was saying," he said, giving Whitney a smug look,' 'she was in eighth grade— No, I think it was the seventh. Anyway she forgot to study for this really important history test. I think she was out messing around with her horse or something."'
"I wasn't 'messing around' with him," Whitney said, her voice indignant. "He had a cough. Ben was my very first horse. I couldn't study for a dumb test when Ben might have been coming down with pneumonia."
"It wasn't a cough. He just snorted funny."
She laughed. "I think he had enlarged adenoids," she admitted.
"What about the test?" Lloyd prompted.
"It was true-false. Since she hadn't studied, she didn't know any of the answers and figured she would fail it anyway, so she decided what she needed was a system."
Remembering, Whitney groaned again and stood up to walk to the sink where the party dishes were soaking. "You are evil and must be destroyed," she muttered under her breath as she dipped her hands into the soapy water.
"What kind of system?" Lloyd asked, his voice filled with anticipatory laughter.
"Well, at first she was going to mark True on all the questions—she figured she'd get at least half of them right that way—but she decided that was too dull, so she answered to the tune of the 'Blue Danube,' True... True ... True... True... True... False, false... False, false."
When the two men roared with laughter, Whitney threw a handful of suds at them, lifting a chin in haughty indignation. "I passed it, didn't I?"
"You're kidding," Lloyd said as he struggled to catch his breath.
Dean shook his head wryly. "Whitney has always had the hick of the devil, she..."
When the words faded away into silence, Whitney looked over her shoulder in curiosity. The two men sat at the table staring at each other. Dean's expression was pained and Lloyd had gone white.
"Whitney?" the older man whispered.
Dean switched his gaze to her. "I'm sorry. God, honey, I'm so sorry."
She was still staring at Lloyd, taking in the stunned look on his face. "No," she said softly, "don't be sorry. It had to happen sooner or later."
Lloyd slowly turned his head to look at her, taking in each detail of her face. "Who are you?" he rasped out.
She shrugged, tightening her lips to stop their trembling. "Whitney Daryn Grant," she said, her voice barely audible. "Your daughter?"
As father and daughter stared at each other, Dean rose to his feet and walked out of the kitchen.
Lloyd didn't seem to notice. Even when he rose to his feet, he never took his eyes from her face.
Whitney simply stood by the sink, waiting for him to say something, waiting for him to take even one step toward her. But seconds later he turned and without a word, Walked out of the kitchen.
The move took her by surprise and a couple of seconds passed before she was able to move. She pushed away from the Formica counter that had been supporting her and ran, catching up with her father as he reached the front door.
"Don't!" she called out. "You can't— Don't you dare walk out on me again. Don't you dare."
For a moment Whitney thought he was going to ignore her shouted demand, but he paused with his hand on the doorknob, his back to her.
She drew in a deep breath and pushed the hair from her forehead. "You don't owe me love," she said, her voice low and shaken. "Or loyalty. You don't have to care... you don't even have to like me. But damn it, you owe me some kind of explanation. I want you to tell me why you left. I want to hear why you never even once got in touch with me. Why, for God's sake, did you let me spend my whole life thinking my father was dead?"
As she stood staring at his stiff back, a violent shudder shook through him. "Your mother wanted it that way," he said finally, the words flat, almost indifferent.
Moving forward, Whitney leaned her shoulder against the wall beside the door, trying to see his face, needing to know if his features matched his impassive voice. But his head was bowed, his expression hidden.
"And you just said, 'Gee, that sounds like a great idea. Let's tell the kid I died'?"
He shook his head. "You don't understand. I was in no position to make demands. It had to be her way." He drew in an unsteady breath. "I put her through hell. I—I had to do what I could to make it up to her. She said you would both be better off, and— I wasn't feeling too good about myself at the time, so I could see her point."
"What happened?" she whispered in desperation. "Tell me, Daddy. Why did you think we would be better off if you were dead?"
He raised his head slowly, turning it slightly in her direction, then winced as though the sight of her face hurt him. Shifting his position, he leaned against the door and closed his eyes.
"I don't suppose you remember," he said slowly, "but in Winnetka, I had a decent job. Not a great job, but a decent one. I was one of a dozen bookkeepers who worked for a big company. A profitable company." He opened his eyes and met hers squar
ely. "Anne gave up so much to marry me. She gave up everything, Mary.. .Whitney."
He paused, swallowing with difficulty. "We went to San Antonio once after we were married. Just once. But once was enough. I guess you know better than anyone how she was raised. She had everything money could buy. I could see how it hurt her, struggling to make ends meet, never having enough money for the luxuries she was used to. It was wearing her down...and seeing that was killing me. I—I just wanted to give her some of the things she deserved."
He shook his head. "I'm not trying to make excuses for what I did. I just want you to understand why I did it."
"You took money?"
He nodded, exhaling a slow, shuddering breath. "I embezzled almost fifty thousand dollars. When the loss was discovered... when they came to the house and arrested me— It was on a Saturday. You were upstairs sleeping. You know, even now, after all these years, when I close my eyes, I'm there again, living it over again. And the look in her eyes tears at me just like it did the first time. It just about destroyed her, Whitney. She couldn't take the shame. She was terrified that the people back home in San Antonio would find out that her husband was a criminal. She— She stayed until I was sentenced, then she was gone."
He shrugged, the movement weary. "I think she told her brother, but everyone else thought I was dead. I had been in prison for almost a year when she wrote and told me what she had done. She explained why she thought it was best if I didn't try to see you when I got out.
"It wasn't an easy thing for me to accept. It— It ate at me. God, I almost came after you dozens of times. Once I even got all the way to San Antonio. I had convinced myself that no one had the right to keep us apart, not even your mother. You were my daughter, and I had a right to at least see you, to make sure you were all right, to make sure you were happy." He drew in a slow breath. "But I couldn't do it. When it came to the sticking point, I just couldn't do it. I thought about the way people reacted when they found out I'd been in prison... And sooner or later, they always find out. You don't know, you can't imagine what it's like, a particular look in their eyes, a certain something in their tone. And I knew it would be much worse for you. You would find yourself torn between loyalty and resentment. I couldn't do that to you... You see that, don't you, baby? I couldn't let my sins ruin your life. I had to accept that what Anne said was the truth. I gave up all rights to you the day I decided to take money that didn't belong to me."