by Linda Style
Lord, how she wished…until she drifted into a fitful sleep and wished no more.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
FEELING THE WARMTH of sunlight on her face, Whitney stretched languidly, then curled on her side. A door slammed somewhere in the distance and she roused herself enough to realize it must be Rhys bringing SaraJane for the day. She’d overslept.
Groggy, she struggled to orient herself. She threw off the sheets and the down comforter, rolled from the bed and stumbled to the window. The Jeep was there, but she didn’t see Rhys. He was probably inside, but there wasn’t time to get dressed and go downstairs before he left.
Then she saw him in the drive heading toward the Jeep. She tapped on the glass. He looked up, and she tried to raise the window, but it wouldn’t budge.
She tugged again. No luck. Waving to keep his attention, she mouthed, “Wait, I need to talk to you.”
He shrugged, palms up and she repeated herself, moving her lips very slowly. Finally she motioned for him to come inside.
How was she going to do this and not give anything away? She swished a toothbrush in her mouth, tossed on her robe, and flung open the door, ready to charge downstairs to catch him. But he’d reached her door first and she nearly plowed him down in her haste.
“Whoa.” He grabbed her arms to avoid the collision. His gaze dropped to where the robe ended somewhere around the middle of her thighs. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he joked. “But on second thought—” he waggled his eyebrows “—maybe not.” He ended with a wicked grin.
She backed away, smoothed the satin lapels and tightened the tie around her waist before she managed a weak smile.
“Rhys, I need a minute,” she said, shifting from one bare foot to the other. “To talk.” How could she tell him about her mother without revealing too much about herself? God, she was so sick of the lies.
Interest sparked in Rhys’s eyes as he shut the door behind him.
Her pulse quickened and she had a crazy urge to throw herself into his arms and blurt it all out.
Instead, she turned away, walked to the couch, and sank into the welcoming softness of the cushions.“It’ll only take a minute?” she said, clasping her hands together.
“Sure.” He came over and sat next to her. “What’s up?”
“I need to go to California for a couple of days.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. “Business.”
“No. Not business. A family problem.”
A look of relief flickered on his face. Then he took her hand, almost as if he sensed she needed his strength. Lord, if he only knew how much she did.
“Anything I can do to help?” His eyes held hers.
She shook her head, touched by the tenderness in his eyes…and she’d crumble if she gave in to her self-pity. She broke the gaze and launched to her feet, turned to face the window and folded her arms across her chest.
Within seconds she felt the heat of his body behind her. A painful ache grew in her chest, and she wanted more than anything to lose herself in the comfort of his arms.
“No,” she said softly. “No one can do anything. I’ve tried for years.”
He moved a step closer, placed his hands on her upper arms. Weary, she leaned against him. God, she longed to tell him the truth, the whole truth, not just about her mother, but also about Morgan and herself.
But what was the point? What would be gained by telling him she was there to gain custody of SaraJane?
He’d already said he’d fight for his son’s rights, no matter what. And once he knew why she’d come to Estrade, once he realized everything she’d said was a lie, he’d never trust her again.
“It’s my mother. An overdose. She’s in a treatment center.” She made every effort to steady her voice before she continued. “I know it might sound cold, but unless she wants to help herself, treatment won’t do a damn bit of good.” As Whitney pulled in a deep steadying breath, a lifetime of ugly memories flashed through her head. “It isn’t anything new. We’ve been through this before.”
He gently rubbed her arms. “Pills?”
“And alcohol.”
“Anyone with her?”
Whitney shook her head.
“Your father? Where’s he?”
A brittle laugh tumbled from her lips. “My father. He’s as bad as my mother. I talked to him last night. He didn’t have any idea where she went. He probably doesn’t even remember I called.”
Her anger flared; she moved out of Rhys’s reach and stalked across the room. She couldn’t let him see her this way. And if he touched her again, she might fall apart. “My father—” she repeated and gave another hollow laugh “—could barely read me a phone number. He didn’t have a clue about anything.” She paced, desperate to hide her turmoil.
“I had no idea.” Rhys stepped toward her. “I’m sorry. Maybe if your father understood how you feel—”
“Please!” Whitney whirled around, hand raised. “Please. Don’t. I’ve had years of experience with this,” she said, unable to keep the bitterness from her words. “Alcoholics aren’t concerned with anyone’s feelings. They’re selfish, egocentric people whose only thought is—” She stopped abruptly, before she crumbled into a weeping mess. The last thing she wanted was for him to see her like this. She waved a hand. “It’s…my problem.”
Rhys pulled back, seeming surprised, even a little hurt at her response. “Sorry,” he said. “Sometimes I really put my foot in it.”
He went to the door, turned to look at her and, for a moment, he just stood there, looking irresolute. Then he walked toward her again; he rested his hands on her shoulders and massaged lightly. He traced a fingertip along her jawline and, tilting her chin up, leaned down to brush his lips over hers. Softly, tenderly.
“We’ll miss you,” he said, then backed away. “Call, if you need anything. Anytime. I’ll be here.” He turned and disappeared into the stairwell.
***
Tanya met Whitney at LAX, and the two of them drove to the clinic together. “I can’t believe you’re actually behind the wheel, that you’re actually driving a car,” Whitney teased. Tanya didn’t own a car, didn’t want one, didn’t need one in New York.
“Self-defense,” her friend said. “You can’t do anything out here if you don’t have a car.”
“Didn’t Albert pick you up at the airport?”
Tanya nodded. “But I can’t have your cousin driving me everywhere.”
“You could’ve used mine.”
“Yeah, but your car’s expensive, and I’m no Danica Patrick behind the wheel.”
Whitney murmured a response, her thoughts focused on her mother. She dreaded what she’d find when they arrived. She was grateful her best friend had insisted on flying out to go with her. Tanya had denied that was the reason, saying she needed a break, but it was obvious to Whitney Tanya had come simply to be with her.
Spotting the clinic ahead, Whitney’s pulse raced. She tried to draw a full breath but couldn’t. That’s how they always began, the panic attacks. She grabbed a paper bag she’d brought along and clamped it over her mouth, breathing deeply, fighting the anxiety, the inevitable chest pains.
Tanya reached across the seat and placed a hand on Whitney’s arm. “It’s gonna be okay, Whit. Just take it one step at a time.”
After another deep breath, Whitney muttered, “Sure.” But the truth was, she didn’t want to do it at all, much less one freaking excruciatingly painful step at a time. She honestly didn’t think she could go through with it, not without sacrificing the emotional stability she’d gained over the past twelve years.
She knew exactly what would happen. Because every time she had contact with her mother, even by phone, it all came back—the tirades, the hateful words spewing from her mother’s mouth as though she were possessed.
Whitney had thought she’d exorcized all those demons, and in less than a heartbeat, they were back with a vengeance.
She was a little girl again, stand
ing in front of her mother, tears streaming, still waiting, wanting more than anything to hear her mommy say she loved her.
That was all she’d wanted. Ever.
“I’ll wait,” Tanya said after they’d checked in at the clinic’s desk. “Maybe get some coffee or do some shopping.”
Whitney nodded, suddenly feeling numb, somehow removed from it all…as if this was happening to someone else, not her. She held up her cell.“I’ll call when I’m ready.”
“Great. It’ll work out. I know it will.”Tanya hugged Whitney and left. Less than fifteen minutes later Whitney called her back. Ten minutes with her mother and it was all over. She couldn’t do it. God help her, she just couldn’t.
Driving home, she was silent. It hurt too much to talk, and if she could just put some distance between herself and this awful place… Forget it, close it out of her mind—like she’d learned to do so many years ago. But this time, she couldn’t seem to do it.
When they arrived at Whitney’s house in La Jolla, Tanya suggested Whitney take a nap. “Maybe I will,” she said, then plodded upstairs. She was tired. More tired than she’d ever been.
Her nerves felt raw and exposed. Thinking about everything in her life—her mother, Morgan, Rhys and SaraJane—the responsibility of it all weighed her down.
All the lies and secrets…and what for? So her mother could keep her faux persona…her social status?
So she wouldn’t hurt Rhys and SaraJane?
Such diametrically opposite reasons and yet the result was the same. Deception. Emotionally disabling deception.
Every muscle in her body seemed to hurt. She was exhausted. Completely emotionally exhausted. And sleep was a welcome respite.
She slept all afternoon. All night.
When she awoke, Whitney got up from the queen-size four-poster and padded to the window, throwing it open, allowing the chilly Pacific breeze to sharpen her senses.
Mmm. She inhaled deeply of the moist salt air and listened to the seagulls squawk. She loved the ocean and the healing effect it had on her.
She rubbed her bare arms. Today was a new day. If she could just manage to think about anything other than the fact that she’d abandoned her mother, she might be okay.
Whitney raked a hand through her hair. Why did she feel compelled to help her mother now?
Kathryn Sheffield had never given an ounce of love to anyone, least of all her children. And her mother’s acceptance no longer mattered to Whitney. She’d conquered that weakness, that need—or so she’d thought until yesterday, when the floodgates were thrown open and every heartbreaking memory came crashing in on her.
Why had yesterday’s meeting affected her so much? Nothing had changed. She hadn’t expected it to.
She’d always been the one to take over, to fix things, clean up the mess, wipe away Morgan’s tears. No one had ever been there for her. Why try again? Was there some little hope—
God. How could she even think it? She couldn’t go back. She couldn’t face all that heartache and pain.
She wasn’t strong enough.
She closed her eyes, wanting to shut it all out, but the thought persisted.
What if this was the one time that might be different—and she turned away?
A soft knock at the door roused her from her thoughts. She’d almost forgotten Tanya was there with her. Glad of her friend’s presence, she collected herself. “C’mon in.”
“Hey, you’re up.” Tanya smiled brightly.
Tanya’s olive complexion was even more golden from just a few hours yesterday in the California sun, and in a black concert T-shirt and bleached jeans, she looked more like a teenager than a thirtyish New York editor.
“I’m up, but just barely.” Whitney walked to the bed and sat on it, cross-legged. “Apparently, beach living agrees with you.”
Tanya frowned. “Yeah, but not right this minute, though. You have a visitor.”
“Really? This early? Who? No one knows I’m here except my mother. And—” her heart raced “—Rhys.”
“Rhys?”
When Tanya gave her a blank look, she added, “The motorcycle guy.”
“Oh, yeah. Well, someone else knows you’re here, and he’s downstairs waiting for you to be summoned. If you want, I’ll tell him to drop dead.”
There was only one person who evoked that kind of response from Tanya. “Brock?”
“In the living, slimy, crawling flesh.”
Whitney chuckled at Tanya’s animosity. “D’you think you could be a tad more explicit about your feelings?”
Tanya wheeled around. “Sorry. Guess it’s none of my business. I just have this foul taste in my mouth about him since he was such a jerk to you. And someday I’ll tell you about an experience I had that makes me hate him even more.”
Whitney arched an eyebrow. Tanya’s dislike for Brock went deeper than she’d imagined. “Tell me now. Before I see him.”
Tanya wrinkled her nose. “You sure? It’s ugly. And you’ve got enough on your plate.”
“Spit it out,” Whitney said. Nothing could be worse than what she’d been through recently.
“Okay. If you’re sure…” Looking skeptical, Tanya blurted, “This happened last March. I saw Brock checking into the Plaza with two women while you were still engaged to him. And he asked me to join them.”
Whitney drew back and, after a moment, exhaled long and hard. “Whew. I don’t know if I’m happy to know that or not. Certainly validates my decision to dump him.”
“I had planned to tell you before, but there wasn’t any point because you found out what a creep he was, anyway. But now that the jerk is sniffing around again…” She hesitated. “Well, I just thought you should know, in case he makes a move on you.”
Whitney recoiled. “Tanya! Puh-leeze. Give me a little credit.” She rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom. “I’m not that needy. Or that stupid.”
At least not where Brock’s concerned.
Tanya followed her into the bathroom. Whitney loaded her toothbrush, then leaned against the sink. “Listen, I’m going to take a shower. If it’s something important and he wants to wait out on the deck until I’m done, tell him he can. I’ll make it totally clear to him that he’s an unwelcome intrusion in my life.”
Tanya grinned. “I’ll be more than happy to relay the message.”
Forty-five minutes later, Whitney stepped onto the deck. “Hello, Brock.” She smoothed the front of her white cotton sweater. “What do you want?”
Brock wiped a desultory look from his face and got up from the wicker deck chair. He smiled, his usual polished smile, perfected so that the skin at the corners of his eyes didn’t crinkle. His blond hair had obviously been lightened, and his perennial tan reminded her of a third-rate movie star. She’d never felt quite so repelled by the man as she did right now.
“Whitney, darlin’,” he murmured, arms open as if he expected a hug. He stopped short, seeing her arms folded tightly across her chest.
“How did you know I was here?”
He waved a wrist toward a chair, indicating that they should sit at the patio table. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink? I got kinda dry waiting out here like a delivery boy.” He pulled out a chair for her and one for himself and sat. “Did you get my flowers?”
Whitney glared. If looks were daggers, he’d already be dead. She’d never realized more than she did right this minute how sick she was of people like Brock in her life. People she’d lived among for far too many years.
“Cut to the chase, Brock. What do you want? And don’t hand me any of your lies about still being in love. I’ve had enough of your deceit to last a lifetime.”
Brock’s eyes flew open in surprise. He cleared his throat. “We’ve become very common these days, haven’t we?”
“We’ve become nothing! Spit it out or quit wasting my time.”
Crossing his legs, Brock went on, all the while brushing at the trousers of his beige linen suit. “Well, I can’t s
ay I’m surprised. I suppose when one becomes a motorcycle groupie, that sort of thing is bound to rub off.”
Adrenaline pumped into Whitney’s veins. She scowled at him. How did Brock know anything about her current work? “Like I said, cut to the chase.”
Ignoring her comment, he twisted a thread on his lapel. “Whitney darlin’, I sent you the flowers hoping to show you how wrong I was. I wanted to talk to you. To explain.”
He stood, then sauntered to the edge of the deck, hands in the pockets of his loose-fitting pants. He stared out at the ocean and shrugged. “But I can see you don’t want to listen. You should’ve waited, you know. I did have an explanation.”
Whitney expelled a long-held breath and rose to her feet, too. “You can’t explain being in bed with another woman two days before our wedding.” Not to mention what Tanya had told her. “And even if you could, I don’t want to hear it.” She moved to usher him out. “You’re a jerk, and if that’s all you came here for, then you better leave. I’m busy.”
Brock’s expression twisted into an ugly knot of contempt. “Busy doing what?” he spat out. “Busy running back to the mountains and your greaser friend? Does he know why you’re there?”
She caught her breath.
“Oh, got your attention now?” He smirked. “I mean, does your biker friend know you intend to take your sister’s brat with you? Does he know all that?”
She winced but said nothing. Of course Brock knew about SaraJane and the plan to gain custody. They’d been engaged when she’d learned about her niece. But how did he find out that it had anything to do with Rhys?
“I didn’t think so,” Brock said. “Anyway, since you aren’t interested in my explanations, I’ll make a deal with you, instead.”
Whitney’s anger mounted.
“Yes,” Brock continued. “And it’ll only cost you what it takes to produce my film.”
When she still didn’t speak, he said, “You finance the film and I’ll stay away from your motorcycle man. You know, darlin’, the film I’d planned to do after we were married.” His lips thinned. “And I can see you’re just so overwhelmed with my generosity you need a little time to think about it.”