Sin on the Run

by Lucy Farago

“I was born in Los Angeles. My father moved us so we could live with my grandmother.”

  “Are your parents divorced?” the grandmother asked, clearly not liking the idea.

  “No.” She wanted to wipe that disapproving look off the old woman’s face. “My mother was murdered by a drunk driver when I was three. My father never got over it.”

  The duchess stiffened. She didn’t appreciate being put in her place. Rhonda should feel bad. She didn’t. And apparently neither did anyone else. Sarah was definitely hiding a smile behind her napkin, and if Colin bit his lower lip any harder, he’d draw blood.

  “When one marries it should be for life,” the dowager said, defending her behavior. “Divorce is such a distasteful thing.”

  “So is dying,” Blake pointed out.

  “Of course,” she agreed, then turned her attention back to Rhonda. “Your father should be commended for raising you alone as long as he did. Being a single parent I’m certain wasn’t easy, but for a widower it would have been much harder.”

  “Yes,” Rhonda said. “Much harder.” But it was no excuse. He’d had a daughter to think about, a very young daughter. Instead, he chose to drown his sorrows in a bottle. Who the hell did he think was going to raise her? Why hadn’t he loved her enough to do what fathers were supposed to do? The fork in Rhonda’s hand clattered in her empty dish, drawing everyone’s attention. Embarrassed, she wiped her mouth with her napkin. Where had that come from? Her father loved her. Of course he loved her.

  He did love her. He told her every day, drunk or sober. But did she believe him? If he loved her, why couldn’t he stop drinking? Yes, the love of his life had died, but he had a child—her child. What kind of a father wouldn’t make that a priority? He’d forsaken everything in his life, his job, his faith and the one thing no parent should—his daughter. Rhonda blinked and realized her empty shrimp cup had been switched out for a clean plate. She looked up to see everyone staring at her.

  “Are you all right, dear?” Lady Helen asked.

  “Yes. Jet lag,” she offered by way of excuse. “The person seated beside me snored the entire time, and I didn’t get much sleep,” she joked, and tried not to think about her father.

  “I sat beside you,” Blake said.

  “Blake doesn’t snore.”

  All heads turned to Sarah, including her husband’s. He didn’t look too pleased about his wife knowing such a fact.

  Blake on the other hand, ever so coolly ignored her. “You plied me with liquor. I was only breathing heavily.”

  “Is that what you call it? Back home we call it snoring.” Rhonda nodded at the waiter when he offered her beef. “And I didn’t ply you with anything. You needed sleep and I suggested a drink. He was up all night before, partying with women,” she said to his mother. “He can be a real cad.” She was starting to like that word.

  “Blake?” Lady Helen chastised.

  “Seriously, who are you going to believe, a woman you just met, or your own son?”

  “Rhonda,” his mother and brother agreed in unison.

  Blake shook his head, conceding this round to Rhonda.

  She didn’t say much for the rest of the meal. Her thoughts returned to her father. Exactly where she didn’t want them to be, in the company of Blake’s family. After dinner, she blamed jet lag and excused herself, grateful to get away from all those assessing eyes.

  Her window overlooked the gardens and although it was dark, ground lighting illuminated pathways throughout the grounds. Before she went home, she promised herself a walk through the manicured lawns and hedges. She’d read about homes like this in books, never imagining she’d get to see one in person. Who would have thought the girl from the wrong side of the tracks, hell, from the wrong side of life, would be staying in a home whose history could be traced back centuries? Certainly not her, but despite her father, here she stood. For now, she’d forget about the fact that she didn’t belong.

  Bone tired, she’d just started to unzip her dress when someone knocked.

  She padded across the hardwood floor and opened the door, to find Blake.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi, yourself,” she said, at odds with wanting to see him and wanting to be alone.

  “Can I come in?”

  She peeked into the hall and saw no one. “Sure.”

  “I have news,” he said, entering the room. “Ryan received another call from mother Russia. Apparently Sorrentino has gone into hiding. They’re trying to flush him out. So far, no luck.”

  “What does all of that mean?” Was it over?

  “I’m not sure, but I’d guess Sorrentino knows the jig is up and needs to figure out what’s worse: doing more time or having the Russian mob pissed at him. If he’s hiding, I assume he’s running from what’s behind door number two.”

  “Good,” Rhonda said. “Maybe he’ll keep running.”

  “Sorrentino isn’t the only reason I’m here. I wanted to apologize for what my grandmother said early into the dinner. The woman doesn’t see the need to filter her comments.”

  She closed the door behind him with a soft click.

  “My nosy grandmother hit a sore spot and she’s too full of herself to see it … or care.”

  “It’s not her fault. I just … I realized something about my father I hadn’t wanted to face before. And it caught me off guard.”

  “What?”

  “I guess something I didn’t want to believe … everything I did and sacrificed was wasted on a man who didn’t love me.” Or didn’t care enough to make the effort.

  “You said he told you every day how much he loved you.”

  “Words.” She sat on the edge of the bed. Tucking her feet beneath her, she leaned on one hand. “What are words, Blake, with nothing behind them? If he loved me, why didn’t he stop drinking?”

  “Your dad had demons, ones that he obviously couldn’t conquer.”

  “No, I get that. Not everyone can battle addiction and win, not if you don’t want it badly enough.”

  “Rhonda, you must know it’s not that simple. You think your dad liked being an alcoholic?”

  They say you have to admit a problem before you can fix it. “I think you can know you have a problem and choose to ignore it. It’s a copout to blame everyone and everything for your problems. And the only thing stopping you is you. My dad liked being drunk. He chose to be drunk. He got comfortable in the numbness, then the addiction took over and it was easier just to let it take him. I was partly to blame. I took care of him, made sure he ate … gave him what he needed to stay alive. I enabled him. I know that, but by the time I was old enough to figure it out, it was too late.”

  “You were a kid. You can’t blame yourself.”

  “I don’t. At least not anymore. It is, however, one of the reasons I started stripping. We needed money, but if I hadn’t enabled him, maybe things would have been different. So I had to do everything I could to keep him alive. Even if it meant hurting myself. Maggie helped me see that my father’s drinking wasn’t my fault. But what I realized, downstairs at dinner, is—why did he start drinking in the first place?”

  “He wanted to dull the pain. Losing your mother must have killed him inside.” The bed dipped as Blake sat beside her.

  “I don’t know how many nights I found him sleeping with her portrait. But why didn’t he love me that much?”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “Really? Because it’s one thing to get drunk for a couple of days, weeks maybe, to help you get through the funeral, the shock of losing your wife. It’s another to forget your baby girl needs a daddy. The love you have for your children you’d think is deeper than romantic love.” She would love a baby enough to know she wasn’t the best thing for it. “He loved my mom so much he refused to face losing her. Why didn’t he love me that way? Why risk losing me?”

  Her arm started to fall asleep, so she let her feet drop to the floor and put her hands in her lap. “Do you know, when I was six, I’d set my alar
m clock to get him up for work. By the time I was seven, I never wanted to see another can of baked beans, so I learned to cook. Then he lost his job and I tricked the social workers into thinking we were fine, so they wouldn’t ship me to foster care. He’d lost my mom. I couldn’t let him lose me too, because he told me he loved me. He didn’t know what he’d do if he lost me too. I was a kid who wanted to be loved, so I believed him.”

  Blake took her face in his hands. With his thumbs he wiped away the tears she didn’t know she’d shed. “Your father had his demons It doesn’t mean he didn’t love you.”

  “Your grandmother is a bitch. Doesn’t mean she doesn’t love you.”

  He dropped his hands. “That wasn’t fair.”

  “Maybe not.” She shrugged. “But you see my point?”

  “No, my grandmother’s sunny disposition wasn’t brought on by great loss. She was born that way.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Maybe her parents drilled title, title, title into her head, and it’s all she knows.”

  “Hardly. The title was my grandfather’s. She married into it.”

  “Doesn’t mean her parents didn’t push her to find someone with a title.”

  “Why are you defending her? She’s been nothing but rude to you.”

  “She’s rude to everyone. I should be grateful that she treats me the same as everybody else. And maybe you don’t talk about her family for a reason. Maybe they were horrible people.”

  “We’re getting off topic,” he said.

  “Okay. Truth is I made a huge sacrifice for that man. What if he didn’t deserve it? What if I screwed up my life for nothing?”

  “Is that how you see it? That you screwed up your life?”

  “I gave everything up for him. I was doing something important. I was helping to save lives. Instead, I give men an excuse to go whack off in bathroom stalls.”

  “You are a kind and caring person,” he said, raising his voice.

  “You reach out and help even when you don’t want to because you can’t walk away.”

  “Oh good. We can add spineless to my list.”

  “You slugged a killer with a wig, then threw yourself out of a broken window. That took guts. Having a good heart doesn’t make you spineless. A spineless person would have walked away from a drunken father.”

  “I don’t have a good heart,” she argued. She did things to make people feel better because it made her feel better, important even, like she was accomplishing something.

  “Yes, you do. How many times did you consider smothering me with a pillow when we were in New Orleans? You hated taking care of me, but you didn’t have it in you to make Dozier do it.”

  “That’s only because he could have screwed things up. I had no choice. I had the medical background. Stop trying to paint me as some martyr. I’m not.”

  “Who is? But you’re the next best thing.”

  He didn’t know shit. So maybe it was time she filled him in. “You think so? Do you know, when my father died, I was relieved? Re. Lieved. This huge weight had been taken off my back. Finally, my life was my own. Mine. I didn’t have to take care of him anymore.” She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. “After nearly twenty-five years, my life was mine to do as I wanted. Some martyr, huh? Some kind heart.”

  “There are lots of people burdened with caring for a dying loved one. Are you going to sit there and say it’s wrong for them to feel some relief when they’re freed from that burden?”

  That wasn’t the same thing. “He was my dad.”

  “And you loved him. And you did more than was expected of you. Did he know you were dancing?”

  “No,” she said, horrified to think what would have happened had he found out. “There were days he barely knew my name. When he did, I didn’t want him remembering me that way.”

  “What way? Rhonda, if you can’t stop judging yourself for dancing, how do you expect others not to? I, for one, don’t give a shit.”

  Sure, it was easy not to give a shit when they were talking about a short-lived love affair, a girlfriend even. How would he like his wife to have been a stripper?

  “Don’t,” he warned.

  “What?”

  “Don’t do that eye rolling thing you do when you think I’m full of shit.”

  “I have an eye rolling thing?”

  He nudged her with his elbow. “Yes. It’s like, ‘You’re full of shit and a dickhead,’ all at the same time look.”

  “Huh. I’ll have to remember that.”

  “Don’t bother. I think it comes naturally when I’m around.”

  “You said it, I didn’t,” she said, marveling at how easily he could tweak her mood.

  Blake threw his hands in the air. “You’re a lost cause.”

  “Thank you. I try.” She’d never been this close to anyone before, never trusted anyone to reveal her dark side, her bad thoughts about her father’s death. It felt good. And she’d treasure that even after they’d gone their inevitable separate ways.

  “Listen,” he said. “We could go downstairs right now and tell my family you used to strip. I wouldn’t care about their reaction.”

  “Sure, why the hell would you? I’m just a one-night stand you got stuck with. You and I agreed this would never last. I’m not the love of your life you’re bringing home to meet the parents.” It hurt, but it was the truth. “So let’s not rock their world for nothing.”

  “Rhonda—”

  “No, don’t say anything else. I’m tired. Do you mind? I want to go to sleep.” What she wanted to do was crawl under the covers and forget this evening ever happened. Just like she did when she was a kid. It would be a pity fest and she knew it. And didn’t care.

  She waited for him to leave, then glanced over at the clock by her bed. It would be early morning in Florida. There must be someone at the hospital who would have her results. Unable to find her phone, she used the landline in her room and dialed the operator. If she was going to feel sorry for herself, it might as well be for the right reason. Moping about the past was pointless.

  *

  Begrudgingly, Blake left Rhonda alone. He chalked up her behavior to jet lag and having to deal with feelings about her father she’d never wanted to face. He sat in the drawing room in the dark, a brandy in his hand, and contemplated what to do next. He was seriously thinking of asking her to move in with him.

  He liked … loved, being with her. She made him laugh, especially at himself. And he’d gotten used to it, didn’t want to give it up. She’d become his friend, a really good friend. Hell, he’d go as far as to say his closest friend. He’d told her things Christian didn’t know. Not that he didn’t trust the guy, but Rhonda, for some inexplicable reason, made him want to confess his family bullshit.

  If he were honest with himself, he’d admit that coming from an aristocratic family was embarrassing. But her teasing had made him comfortable with it. Had he been trying to impress her? She came from nothing and confessing his family’s heritage might have come off like he was rubbing her nose in it, even if that wasn’t what he’d intended. Thankfully, she hadn’t taken it that way. And he liked it when she tried to take him down a notch. Something Sarah, or any other woman who knew his family, had never done.

  He sipped the brandy, enjoying the slow burn down his throat. Leaning back in the chair, he closed his eyes. Unable to relax, he sat back up. Damn, he should be exhausted; instead he felt on edge. And it was her fault. He missed her, had gotten used to having her around, to sleeping in the same bed.

  The sudden ringing of a phone jarred him. He’d left his upstairs. It came from one of the two divans. Setting his brandy aside and standing, he listened, then looked under the sofa and found the phone. Country code 001. American. Curious, he answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Oh, hello. I’m looking for Rhonda Deagan. Did I dial the wrong number?” a female voice asked.

  “Who is this?” he said, using his American accent. Who’d be calling her at this hour
and from the States?

  “This is the East Palm General Hospital. I was the nurse on duty when she was brought in. My shift ended and I’m on my home phone but I thought I’d try calling again with the results. She seemed anxious to have them. I hope I’m not waking anyone.”

  “Rhonda’s asleep,” he said, concerned about what tests she referred to.

  “Oh, I guess I’ll try her later. If you could let her know, I have those results.”

  “Wait, what are the results?”

  “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that.”

  “Look … I’m her husband. She’s been tied up in knots waiting.” He had no qualms about lying if it concerned Rhonda’s health.

  “I shouldn’t be telling you, but I can hear you’re concerned. First, congratulations. The test was positive. And second, you’ll be happy to know the drugs we found in your wife’s system shouldn’t have any ill effects on a fetus. She can rest easy.”

  Forcing his jaw to move he said, “Thank you. I’ll tell her.” And as the blood drained from his face he dropped the phone into his lap. At least, he thought he did, because his entire body had gone numb.

  Rhonda was pregnant. Forcing his legs to work, he got up and snatched the brandy snifter off the table, finishing it in one gulp. He barely felt it go down.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Blake had decided not to sneak into Rhonda’s room. He’d considered marching in and announcing the baby was safe, but opted for time to process the news. Was this why she’d been acting emotional? Hormones? Or because she was keeping a secret? He got out of bed and went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. While waiting for it to heat up, he went over their conversation from the night before.

  You and I agreed this was never going to last.

  She wasn’t going to tell him. But she hadn’t known for sure. Maybe she’d been waiting for the results to say something. Just how long had she suspected? Then he remembered the drugstore in Key West. She wanted to go in alone. Had it been to buy a test? He’d shot off his mouth about his grandfather’s ridiculous will. Was that why she kept quiet? Blake wanted Colin to inherit. He didn’t give a shit if his mother thought Sarah had done a one-eighty. What he cared about was keeping Colin happy, and if the she-bitch did that, then so be it. That meant he couldn’t marry Rhonda, not if she was pregnant. Was that why she hadn’t told him? Did she want to get married?