Heart of Hurricane

by Ginna Gray

  Suddenly, without a word, or even a look in her direction, Ward got up and blew out the candle, plunging the room into total darkness. Pretending sleep, Althea lay quietly and listened to him grope his way back to the other couch. It was several seconds before she noticed that the building was no longer swaying and that the keening sound of the wind had ceased. She realized then that they were in the eye of the storm.

  The eye of the storm—it was also an appropriate description of the atmosphere in the room: quiet and eerily calm, but with a definite threat of danger in the air.

  For what seemed like hours, Althea lay wide-awake listening to the leather sofa creak under Ward's restless movements. Sometime in the middle of the night the wind began to howl again; the eye had passed over as the storm moved inland. As though lulled by the renewed sway of the building, Althea began to doze, fitfully at first, and then, just before dawn, she slipped into an exhausted slumber.

  "Althea. Althea, wake up. It's time to go home. The storm has passed."

  Althea blinked and opened her eyes to find Ward standing over her. For a moment she couldn't remember where she was, but then, as she noticed his rumpled look and the dark stubble that shadowed his face, memory came flooding back and she sat up abruptly, flinging off the coat. Her skirt had ridden up during the night and she reached hastily to yank it down, blushing furiously when she noticed Ward staring at her legs.

  The doors to Althea's and Ward's offices were open, spilling a weak shaft of light into the room. Althea took a small brush from her purse and began to rake it through her hair. "Has it stopped raining?" she asked, glancing through the open doors at the pewter-gray sky.

  "There are a few squalls now and then, but the main body of the storm has moved on. It's probably far enough inland now to be breaking up."

  Althea excused herself and made a quick trip to the rest room, taking the candle with her. When she returned, Ward was standing with his coat slung over one shoulder, impatiently jingling the change in his pocket. "Shall we go?" he inquired tersely.

  Carrying the lighted candle, Ward led the way down the stairs. They stopped frequently to rest, but even so, by the time they had descended forty flights Althea was exhausted, the muscles in her legs trembling.

  As they passed through the lobby on their way to the adjacent parking building, Althea glanced out at the street and winced. From the looks of things, downtown Houston was a disaster area.

  When Althea reached her car she bid Ward a quick good-bye and slid in behind the wheel, relieved at the prospect of putting some distance between them at last. She loved Ward Kingman, but the last twelve or fifteen hours had drawn every nerve in her body up in a tense knot. All she wanted now was a long soak in a hot tub and about ten hours of uninterrupted sleep.

  Althea twisted the key in the ignition, but the only sound the car produced was a tiny click. She twisted it a second and third time with the same result. Frustrated and overwrought, she brought her fist down hard on the steering wheel. "Oh, damn, damn, damn!"

  After tossing his coat and tie in the backseat of the bronze Continental, Ward strolled over. "Having trouble?"

  "This darned thing won't start."

  "Well, come on," he said, opening her door and reaching for her arm. "I'll take you home. We'll call a garage to come for your car—that is, if the phone lines are working."

  Althea wanted to argue, but common sense told her she had no choice. Silently, her face set, she allowed him to assist her into the luxury car.

  Negotiating the littered streets was like weaving through a combination mine field and obstacle course. They dodged broken utility poles and downed high-voltage wires and detoured around streets filled with broken glass and debris. Concentrating on his driving, Ward remained silent, his face stony. Althea sat pressed against the passenger door and stared out the window. Ward's quiet, taciturn mood made her uneasy, so she said nothing, not wanting to rouse his temper.

  The silence was finally broken when he pulled into Althea's driveway beside a blue pickup.

  "Who the hell is that?" Ward growled.

  Althea's eyes fastened on the man and woman waiting on the porch, and her mouth went dry. Oh, dear Lord! What were they doing here?

  She turned her head to look at Ward and found him staring at her narrowly. She could only hope she didn't look as shaken as she felt.

  He cocked a questioning brow. "Someone you know?"

  "Yes, my ... uh ... my aunt and uncle." Her fear was accelerating steadily. Since moving out of the Hollands' home Althea had always made it a point never to be alone with either of them, especially her uncle. On the few occasions when they had come over, she had always made sure that either Greg or Judy was with her. Now, unless she asked Ward to stay, she'd have to face them alone.

  Indecision gnawed at her, but when Ward murmured a soft "I see" and reached for the door handle, panic overwhelmed her and she put her hand on his arm. "Don't leave me," she blurted out.

  Ward's head snapped around. Hard, searching brown eyes went from her frightened face to the couple on the porch, and back. His whole body seemed to tauten with steely determination. He put his hand over hers and squeezed. "Don't worry, I won't," he assured her.

  Apprehension crawled up Althea's spine, making the hairs on her nape prickle. She could feel her uncle's beady eyes on them as she and Ward walked up the brick path side by side. Was she making a horrendous blunder, bringing these two volatile men together? Probably, she admitted to herself shakily. Her uncle's presence here meant only one thing: trouble.

  "Well, well. Look who's here." Bill Holland's hard little eyes slid insolently over Althea and Ward, and a mocking smile curved his mouth. "I was beginning to wonder if you'd left town. I should have known you were snuggled up somewhere nice and cozy." He darted another smirking look at Ward. "You always manage to land on your feet, don't you, girlie?"

  "What are you doing here?" Althea asked coolly, forcing herself to ignore his nasty innuendo. She didn't bother with an introduction. All she wanted was for them to state their business and leave.

  Her uncle's face darkened. "My store suffered some damage last night. I'm going to need more money than I thought. Another five thousand at least."

  Althea closed her eyes briefly and sighed. "What about your insurance? Surely it will pay for the damages?"

  "I only carry the minimum. It won't come anywhere near covering it."

  Althea wasn't surprised. The Hollands' hardware store, which had been left to Bill by his father, was in an old run-down building in a bad part of town. In all the years she'd known him, Bill Holland had never spent a dime on the place. That he would carry the absolute minimum in the way of insurance was only to be expected.

  "Well, I'm sorry," Althea said wearily. "I just don't have that kind of money to loan you."

  A smile of hard satisfaction lifted Bill's mouth, and again Althea experienced that prickly sensation on the back of her neck. "Then I suggest that you get a realtor out here and sell this house."

  "I told you, I won't do that."

  "You'll do it now and split the money fifty-fifty, or we'll take you to court and get the whole shooting match. It should have been ours in the first place."

  Ward stepped forward until he was standing between Althea and her uncle, just slightly to one side. His arms were crossed over his chest. His expression was bland but his hard stare seared the older man, an angry challenge glittering in the brown eyes that had grown suddenly cold.

  "That sounds remarkably like a threat," he said in that quiet, menacing voice. "I hope, for your sake, I'm mistaken."

  An angry tide of color climbed up Bill Holland's neck and his body grew rigid, his hands balling into tight fists at his sides. Watching him, Althea felt a moment of sheer panic. Of medium height, he was shorter than Ward but he was powerfully built, and she had seen firsthand the damage he could inflict. He glared at Ward for a moment, his upper lip curling in a sneer as he took in Ward's rumpled clothes and the dark stubble on h
is face. His hard gaze slid to Althea. "Who the hell is this character?"

  "This is Ward Kingman, my employer," she told him softly, and her uncle's head snapped back around, his expression growing wary as he reassessed his opponent.

  "This isn't any of your concern, Kingman," he said at last. "This is a family matter."

  "Anything that affects Althea concerns me," Ward informed him in a level tone.

  Edna Holland stepped forward and grabbed her husband's arm. "Come on, Bill. I told you this was a stupid idea. She's not going to give up this place."

  Althea really looked at her aunt for the first time, and her stomach heaved as she noticed the livid bruise and the puffy swelling that distorted one side of the older woman's face. There was a fresh cut above one eye and her lower lip was split. From past experience Althea knew that there were probably many more such wounds that didn't show. Shuddering, she looked away and wondered what Ward thought of her family.

  "Shut up, you old fool," Bill snapped, viciously flinging off his wife's arm. "She'll give it up, all right, or she'll find herself in court."

  Ward took another step forward. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. You make a move against Althea and you'll be taking me on as well. You want a court fight, you'll get one. If I have to, I'll put my whole legal department to work defending her case." Ward's face was granite hard. He was primed and ready, just waiting for the other man to make a move. When he didn't, Ward added firmly, "Now, I suggest that you climb in that truck and get the hell out of here and don't come near Althea again. You do, and I'll break you in two."

  Purpling with rage, Bill took a step forward, but the quick tensing of Ward's body checked his advance. His jaw clenched and unclenched several times as he glared blackly at the sheer determination in Ward's eyes. The two men measured each other silently, one calm, sure, the other seething with impotent rage. Finally, muttering a vile imprecation, Althea's uncle turned and stalked down the steps. Without a word to her niece, Edna trailed after him.

  When the blue pickup had disappeared around the corner, Althea let out her pent-up breath and sagged against the front door. "Thank you. And I . . . I'm sorry. I didn't mean to involve you in my troubles."

  "What the devil is going on?" Ward demanded grimly, his mouth thinning as he eyed her pale face.

  "As you probably gathered, my aunt and uncle resent the fact that I inherited this house. They think it should have gone to them. They also think I owe them something for the years that Greg and I lived with them."

  "So you've been giving them money?"

  "Yes," Althea whispered, ducking her head as color flooded her cheeks. "When I could."

  Ward muttered a sharp curse. "Why didn't you tell me? No, never mind," he commanded when she would have spoken. "I know now, and I'll take care of it. In the meantime, until I convince your uncle that I mean business, I don't want you staying here alone." Turning away, he began to walk along the wraparound porch, inspecting the windows and siding. "I suggest that we take a quick survey of the house and yard and see what damage was done," he said over his shoulder. "Then, while I go make arrangement for repairs for both this place and the office, you can pack. My parents' ranch has a computer hookup to the office. We'll be working out of there for a couple of weeks."

  ❧

  An hour later, as he negotiated the littered streets between Althea's house and his apartment, Ward's face was tight with rage.

  "That bastard! That sorry bastard!" His balled fist slammed against the steering wheel, making the whole column shudder. "No wonder she's so dead set against marriage," he muttered angrily. The thought of Althea living in the same house with those people made him physically ill. After listening to the man and seeing the shape his wife was in, it took very little imagination to figure out what Althea's childhood must have been like. Now he understood why she was so protective of Greg. Now he understood a lot of things.

  I wonder if the bastard ever hit her? As soon as the question formed, so did the answer, and his hands clenched around the wheel as though he would break it in two. "I'll kill him!" he snarled irrationally. "I'll kill him!" Seething, he drove through the littered streets automatically, pictures of Althea at the mercy of that brutish man flashing through his brain, tormenting him.

  Then suddenly a thought more chilling than all the rest occurred to him. Dear Lord, surely she doesn't think that I would ever treat her that way?

  As before, the answer was quick in coming, and Ward groaned, despair settling over him like the blackness of night.

  When he pulled into his allotted space in the condominium's parking garage he turned off the ignition but remained in his seat. Propping his elbows on the steering wheel, he buried his head in his hands. If only he'd known. If only he'd guessed. Looking back on the past few months, he could see clearly all the mistakes he'd made, and he couldn't blame Althea for being leery of him. He was well aware of his shortcomings: his quick temper, his impatience, his tendency to dominate those around him. He'd cut off his arm before he'd harm a hair on Althea's head, but she didn't know that. To her he must seem like a younger version of her uncle.

  He lifted his head and stared straight ahead, not seeing the concrete-block wall in front of the car. Slowly his eyes narrowed and his jaw set determinedly. By heaven! He would gain her trust if it killed him!

  Chapter 10

  "Now, that's what I call a lovers' moon," Joe Kingman announced in his rough, gravelly voice. Eyes twinkling, he slanted his wife a decidedly lascivious look and added enticingly, "Wanna go for a little stroll?"

  "Behave yourself, Joe," Evelyn admonished, slapping the hand that was fondling her knee, but the loving look in her brown eyes belied her severe tone. "You'll have Althea thinking you're a dirty old man."

  "Ah, well. The truth had to come out sometime," Joe replied with a resigned sigh. He put his arm around his wife and pulled her closer, until her head rested on his shoulder. One booted foot kept the porch swing they occupied in motion, its slow, rhythmic creak providing a counterpoint to the steady croaking of the bull frog down by the pond.

  Althea smiled as she watched Joe rub his chin affectionately against the top of Evelyn's head. They're so different, she mused silently, and yet, strangely, so perfect for each other. Joe was rough around the edges, a big, gruff man with an unruly head of iron-gray hair, twinkling blue eyes and skin that resembled old leather. Evelyn, with her cap of silver curls and well-modulated voice, was small, slender and elegant, a lady in the nicest sense of the word.

  Althea felt the warm glow that had been building deep inside her ever since she'd met Ward's parents grow a little warmer. They had been there a week, but she was still amazed at the love these two people had for one another, after all these years. You couldn't be around them without noticing it. Every time they looked at one another, every time they spoke, touched, the tenderness and caring that flowed between them was almost palpable. Althea found it amazing and touching and almost painfully beautiful that the years had done nothing to diminish the feelings that had drawn them together.

  After a week in their company she was beginning to experience the first faint stirrings of hope that maybe— just maybe—she had been wrong, that perhaps there was a chance for her and Ward after all. For Joe Kingman was every bit as forceful and intense and dominant as his son. With his men he was rough and ready and as tough as old boots, yet with Evelyn he was gentle and loving.

  Althea's eyes slid covertly to Ward, where he sat slouched down on his spine in the other porch rocker. His elbows were propped on the arms of the rocker, his interlaced fingers supporting his chin. His long legs were crossed at the ankle and stretched out in front of him. He was staring out at the star-sprinkled black sky, and in the faint glow of light spilling from the house Althea could see that his face was pensive, remote.

  A fluttery sensation stirred within Althea as she drank in his rugged good looks, the indolent grace of his powerful body. Dressed in faded jeans, a western-cut blue-checked shirt with
the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and a dusty, well-worn pair of boots, he looked different—more relaxed, and if possible, even more ruggedly male. Althea's heart ached with love for him. Was it possible? Could they really find happiness together?

  As always, when her mind flirted with that idea, her immediate reaction was pure fright. The past was too vivid, too painful. It loomed in her memory like a deep black pit. Inch by slow inch, she had clawed her way out of that darkness and built a new life for herself and Greg, a secure, calm life, a safe life. She told herself only a fool would jeopardize that. Yet, daily, the longing to give in to her feelings and follow her heart grew stronger.

  Abruptly Ward rose to his feet. "Well, if you'll excuse me, I've got a few things I need to attend to."

  "Do you need my help?"

  Althea had started to rise as she asked the question, but Ward waved her back down. "No. No, that's okay. I've just got a few reports to study. You sit out here and enjoy the night with Mom and Dad." He gave them all a pleasant smile and stepped back inside the house.

  A soft breeze fluttered the wind chime hanging from the roof of the porch and set it to tinkling. The faint scent of roses wafted through the summer night. Closing her eyes, Althea leaned her head back against the high-backed rocker and breathed deeply of the light perfume, wondering why she felt so . . . abandoned. It was foolish. Why should she be upset just because for the past week Ward had been treating her with the utmost respect and courtesy? He had refused to allow her to work more than eight hours a day; he was polite, thoughtful, pleasant—if somewhat distant—and completely businesslike. She should be grateful. It was what she wanted, after all. Yet this desolate feeling persisted.

  "That boy works too hard," Joe grumbled crossly. "For once in his life he brings a pretty girl home with him, and what does he do? He holes up in that study, buried up to his eyeballs in work!"

  "You're a fine one to talk," Evelyn chided. "Ever since I've known you, you've worked from sunup to sundown yourself."