by Lisa Kleypas
“Yes. We had words about it.”
“I’ll bet you did.” I gazed into the fire. “Why’d you start coming to the salon?”
“I wanted to know you. I was proud as hell of you for keeping Carrington and raising her on your own, and working your tail off. I already loved you and Carrington because you were all that was left of Diana. But after I met you, I loved you for yourselves.”
I could barely see him through the glitter in my eyes. “I love you too, you high-handed interfering old jackass.”
Churchill held out his arm, gesturing for me to come closer. And I did. I leaned against him, into the comforting fatherly smell of aftershave and leather and starched cotton.
“My mother could never let go of Daddy,” I said absently. “And you could never let go of her.” I sat back and looked at him. “I’ve always thought it was about finding the right person. But it’s about choosing the right person, isn’t it?…Making a real choice and giving your whole heart to it.”
“Easier said than done.”
Not for me. Not anymore. “I need to see Gage,” I said. “Of all times for him to be gone, this has got to be the worst.”
“Sugar.” Churchill wore the beginnings of a frown. “Did Gage happen to mention why he was going on this last-minute trip?”
I didn’t like the sound of that. “He told me he was going to Dallas and then to Research Triangle. But no, he didn’t say why.”
“He wouldn’t want me to tell you,” Churchill said. “But I think you need to know. There have been some last-minute problems on the Medina deal.”
“Oh, no,” I said in concern, knowing how important it was to Gage’s company. “What happened?”
“Security leak in the negotiations process. No one was supposed to know the deal was going on—in fact, everyone at the table had signed a nondisclosure agreement. But somehow your friend Hardy Cates found out what was in the works. He took the information to Medina’s biggest supplier, Victory Petroleum, who is now putting pressure on Medina to kill the whole deal.”
All the air seemed to leave my lungs at once. I couldn’t believe it. “My God, it was me,” I said numbly. “I mentioned the negotiations to Hardy. I didn’t know it was top secret. I had no idea he’d do something like this. I’ve got to call Gage and tell him what I did, that I didn’t mean to—”
“He’s already figured it out, sugar.”
“Gage knows I’m the leak? But—” I broke off, turning cold with panic. Gage must have known last night. And yet he hadn’t said anything. I felt nauseous. I buried my face in my hands, my voice filtering through the cage of my stiff fingers. “What can I do? How can I make this right?”
“Gage is taking care of damage control,” Churchill said. “He’s cooling things down at Medina this morning, and later today he’ll pull his team at Research Triangle together to deal with the issues that were raised about the biofuel. Don’t worry, sugar. It’ll all work out.”
“I need to do something. I…Churchill, will you help me?”
“Always,” he said without hesitation. “You name it.”
Chapter 25
The sensible thing would have been to wait for Gage to come back to Texas. But in light of the fact that he’d tolerated more than a few blows to his pride and an even bigger blow to an important business deal, all for my sake, I knew it was no time to be sensible. As Churchill says, sometimes grand gestures are called for.
I made one stop on the way to the airport, at Hardy’s downtown office. It was located on Fannin in a towering aluminum and glass building with two halves that locked together like two giant puzzle pieces. The receptionist was a predictably attractive blond woman with a smoky voice and great legs. She showed me in to Hardy’s office as soon as I arrived.
He was dressed in a dark Brooks Brothers suit and a vivid blue tie the exact shade of his eyes. He looked confident, sharp, a man who was going places.
I told Hardy about my conversation with Churchill, and what I’d learned about his part in trying to ruin the Medina deal. “I don’t understand how you could have done such a thing,” I said. “I would never have expected it from you.”
He looked unrepentant. “It’s just business, honey. Sometimes you have to get a little dirt on your hands.”
Some dirt doesn’t wash off, I thought of saying. But I knew he would have to find that out for himself someday. “You used me to hurt him. You figured it would break us up, and on top of that, it would put Victory Petroleum in the position of owing you a favor. You’d do just about anything to succeed, wouldn’t you?”
“I’ll do what has to be done,” he said, his face smooth. “I’ll be damned if I’ll apologize for wanting to get ahead.”
My anger drained away, and I stared at him compassionately. “You don’t have to apologize, Hardy. I understand. I remember all those things we needed and wanted and could never have. It’s just…it’s not going to work for you and me.”
His voice was very soft. “You think I can’t love you, Liberty?”
I bit my lip and shook my head. “I think you loved me once. But even then it wasn’t enough. Do you want to know something?…Gage didn’t tell me about what you’d done, even though he had the perfect opportunity. Because he wasn’t going to let you drive a wedge between us. He forgave me without being asked, without even letting me know I’d betrayed him. That’s love, Hardy.”
“Ah, honey…” Hardy took my hand, lifted it, and kissed the inside of my wrist, at the tiny whisk of blue veins beneath the skin. “One lost deal doesn’t mean shit to him. He’s had it all since the day he was born. If he’d been in my shoes, he’d have done the same thing.”
“No, he wouldn’t have.” I pulled away from him. “Gage wouldn’t use me for any price.”
“Everyone has a price.”
Our gazes met. It seemed an entire conversation took place in that one glance. Each of us saw what we needed to know.
“I have to say goodbye now, Hardy.”
He stared at me with bitter understanding. We both knew there was no room in this for friendship. Nothing left but childhood history.
“Hell.” Hardy caught my face in his hands, kissing my forehead, my closed eyelids, stopping just short of my mouth. And then I was wrapped in one of those hard, secure hugs I remembered so well. Still holding me, Hardy whispered in my ear. “Be happy, honey. No one deserves it more. But don’t forget…I’m keeping one little piece of your heart for myself. And if you ever want it back…you know where to find it.”
Having never been airborne before, I white-knuckled it all the way to Raleigh Durham. I sat in first class next to a very nice guy in a business suit, who talked me through the takeoff and landing, and ordered me a whiskey sour during the flight. As we deboarded, he asked if he could have my number, and I shook my head. “Sorry, I’m taken.”
I hoped I was right.
I’d planned to take a cab to my next stop, a small public airport about seven miles away, but a limo driver was waiting for me in baggage claim. He held up a sign with the handwritten letters JONES. I approached him tentatively. “Are you by chance looking for Liberty Jones?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That would be me.”
I guessed Churchill had arranged for the ride, either out of thoughtfulness, or the fear that I couldn’t have managed to get a cab by myself. Travis men are nothing if not overprotective.
The driver helped me with my suitcase, a Hartmann tweed Gretchen had loaned me and helped pack. It was stuffed with light wool pants and a skirt, some white shirts, my silk scarf, and two cashmere sweaters she swore she had no use for. Optimistically I had also packed an evening dress and heels. There was a brand-new passport in my purse, along with Gage’s, which his secretary had provided.
It was nearly dusk by the time I was dropped off at the small airport, which had two runways, a snack bar, and nothing remotely resembling a control tower. I noticed how different the air smelled in North Carolina, salty and soft an
d green.
There were seven aircraft on the ground, two small and five mid-sized, one of them the Travises’ Gulfstream. Next to a yacht, the most blatant exhibition of extreme wealth is a private jet. The superrich have planes with showers, private bedrooms, and wood-paneled workstations, along with fancy stuff like gold-plated cup holders.
But the Travises, mindful of maintenance costs, had been conservative by Texan standards. That’s sort of a joke if you’ve ever seen their Gulfstream, a luxury long-range aircraft fitted with fiddleback mahogany and soft wool carpeting. Also leather swivel seats, a plasma TV, and a curtained-off divan that folds out into a queen-sized bed.
I boarded the plane and met the pilot and copilot. While they sat in the cockpit, I had a soda and waited nervously for Gage. I practiced a speech, a hundred versions, searching for the right words to make Gage understand how I felt.
I heard someone boarding the plane, and my pulse went crazy and the speech flew right out of my head.
Gage didn’t see me at first. He looked grim and tired, dropping a shiny black briefcase into the nearest seat, rubbing the back of his neck as if it were sore.
“Hey,” I said softly.
His head turned, and his face went blank as he saw me. “Liberty. What are you doing here?”
I felt an overwhelming rush of love for him, more love than I could contain, rising off me like heat. God, he was beautiful. I groped for words. “I…I decided on Paris.”
A long silence passed. “Paris.”
“Yes, you know you asked me if I…well, I called the pilot yesterday. I told him I wanted to surprise you.”
“You did.”
“He’s worked everything out so we can leave straight from here. Right now. If you want.” I offered him a hopeful smile. “I’ve got your passport.”
Gage removed his jacket, taking his time about it. I was reassured by the way he seemed to fumble a little as he laid the garment over a seat back. “So now you’re ready to go somewhere with me.”
My voice was thick with emotion. “I’m ready to go anywhere with you.”
He looked at me with brilliant gray eyes, and I caught my breath as a slow smile curved his lips. Loosening his tie, he began to approach me.
“Wait,” I choked out. “I have to tell you something.”
Gage stopped. “Yes?”
“Churchill told me about the Medina deal. It was my fault—I’m the one who tipped Hardy off about it. I had no idea that he would…I’m sorry.” My voice broke. “I’m so sorry.”
Gage reached me in two strides. “It’s all right. No, damn it, don’t start crying.”
“I would never do anything to hurt you—”
“I know you wouldn’t. Hush. Hush.” He hauled me close, wiping at my tears with his fingers.
“I was so stupid, I didn’t realize—why didn’t you say anything to me about it?”
“I didn’t want you to worry. I knew it wasn’t your fault. I should have made certain you understood it was confidential.”
I was stunned by his belief in me. “How could you be so sure I didn’t do it on purpose?”
He cradled my face in his hands and smiled into my streaming eyes. “Because I know you, Liberty Jones. Don’t cry, sweetheart, you’re killing me.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I swear—”
“Shut up,” Gage said tenderly, and kissed me with a blistering heat that made my knees buckle. I wrapped my arms around his neck, forgetting the reason for tears, forgetting everything but him. He kissed me over and over, deeper, until we both staggered in the aisle, and he was forced to brace a hand on one of the seats to keep us from falling over. And the plane wasn’t even moving. His breath rushed fast and hot against my cheek as he drew back enough to whisper, “What about the other guy?”
My eyes half closed as I felt the heel of his hand brush the side of my breast. “He’s the past,” I managed to say. “You’re the future.”
“Damn right I am.” Another deeply uncivilized kiss, full of fire and tenderness, promising more than I could begin to take in. All I could think was that a lifetime with this man wouldn’t be nearly enough. He pulled away with an unsteady laugh and said, “There’s no getting away from me now, Liberty. This is it.”
I know, I would have said, but before I could answer he was kissing me again, and he didn’t stop for quite a while.
“I love you.” I don’t remember who said it first, only that we both ended up saying it quite a lot during the seven-hour-and-twenty-five-minute flight across the Atlantic. And it turned out Gage had some interesting ideas about how to pass the time at fifty thousand feet.
Let’s just say flying is a lot more tolerable when you’ve got distractions.
Epilogue
I’m not sure if the ranch is an engagement present or an early wedding present. All I know is that today, Valentine’s Day, Gage has given me a huge ring of keys tied with a red bow. He says we’ll need a getaway place when the city feels too crowded, and Carrington will need a place to ride. It takes a few minutes of explaining on his part before I understand it’s an outright gift.
I’m now the owner of a five-thousand-acre ranch.
The place, once known for its prime cutting horses, is about forty-five minutes away from Houston. Now reduced to a fraction of its former size, the ranch is small by Texas standards—a ranchette, Jack calls it mockingly, until a glance from Gage causes him to cringe in pretend-fear.
“You don’t even have a ranch,” Carrington accuses Jack cheerfully, scampering to the doorway before adding, “which makes you a dude.”
“Who you callin’ a dude?” Jack asks with feigned outrage, and chases after her, while her screams of delight echo through the hallways.
On the weekend we pack overnight bags and go to see the place, which Gage has renamed Rancho Armadillo. “You shouldn’t have done this,” I tell him for the dozenth time as he drives us north of Houston. “You’ve given me enough already.”
Keeping his gaze on the road, Gage brings our entwined fingers to his lips and kisses my knuckles. “Why does it always make you so damn uncomfortable when I give you something?”
I realize there is an art to accepting gifts gracefully, and so far I haven’t acquired it. “I’m not used to getting presents,” I admit. “Especially when it’s not a holiday or a birthday and there’s no reason for them. And even before this…this—”
“Ranch.”
“Yes, even before that, you’d already done more for me than I could ever repay—”
“Darlin’.” His tone is patient, but at the same time I hear the uncompromising edge in it. “You’re going to have to work on erasing that invisible balance sheet you carry around in your head. Relax. Let me have the pleasure of giving you something without having to talk it half to death afterward.” He glances over his shoulder to make sure Carrington has her headphones on. “Next time I give you a present, all you need to do is say a simple ‘thank you,’ and have sex with me. That’s all the repayment I need.”
I bite back a smile. “Okay.”
We drive through a pair of massive rock pillars supporting a twenty-foot iron arch and continue along a paved road that I come to realize is our driveway. We pass winter-wheat fields dappled with the wing-shadows of geese overhead. Dense growths of mesquite, cedar, and prickly pear crouch in the distance.
The drive leads to a big old rock-and-wood Victorian shaded by oak and pecan trees. My dumbfounded gaze takes in a stone barn…a paddock…an empty chicken yard, all of it surrounded by a fieldstone fence. The house is big and sturdy and charming. I know without being told that children have been born here and couples have married here, and families have argued and loved and laughed beneath the gabled roof. It’s a place to feel safe in. A home.
The car stops beside a three-car garage. “It’s been completely renovated,” Gage says. “Modern kitchen, big showers, cable and Internet—”
“Are there horses?” Carrington interrupts in excitement, tea
ring her headphones off.
“There are.” Gage turns to smile at her as she bounces in the back seat. “Not to mention a swimming pool and hot tub.”
“I dreamed of a house like this once,” Carrington says.
“Did you?” Even to my own ears, I sound a little dazed. Unbuckling my seat belt and climbing from the car, I continue to stare at the house. In all my longing for a family and a home, I’d never quite been able to decide what they should have looked like. But this house looks and feels so right, so perfect, it seems impossible any other place would suit me half so well. There is a wide wraparound porch, and a porch swing, and it’s painted pale blue under the ceiling like they did in the old days, to keep mud daubers from building nests. There are enough fallen pecans beside the house to fill buckets.
We go inside the air-conditioned house, the interior painted shades of white and cream, the polished mesquite floors gleaming with light from tall windows. It’s decorated in a style the magazines call “new country,” which means there aren’t many ruffles, but the sofas and chairs are cushiony, and there are lots of throw pillows. Carrington squeals in excitement and disappears, running from room to room, occasionally hurrying back to report on some new discovery.
Gage and I tour the house more slowly. He watches my reactions, and he says I can change anything I like, I can have whatever I want. I am too overwhelmed to say much of anything. I have instantly connected with this house, the stubborn vegetation rooted so stubbornly in the dry red land, the scrubby woods harboring javelina and bobcats and coyotes, so much more than with the sterile modern condo poised high above the streets of Houston. And I wonder how Gage knew this is what my soul has craved.
He turns me to face him, his eyes searching. It occurs to me that no one in my life has ever concerned himself so thoroughly with my happiness. “What are you thinking?” he asks.
I know Gage hates it when I cry—he is completely undone by the sight of tears—so I blink hard against the sting. “I’m thinking how thankful I am for everything,” I say, “even the bad stuff. Every sleepless night, every second of being lonely, every time the car broke down, every wad of gum on my shoe, every late bill and losing lottery ticket and bruise and broken dish and piece of burnt toast.”