by Nora Roberts
Invitations all accepted. No one dare decline. B. ordered flowers—argued about ostentation. Told her big display equals success and wife must never question husband. She will wear emeralds, not pearl choker as she suggested, show society my taste and means, remind her of her place.
Her place, Megan thought with pity for Bianca, had been with Christian. How sad that it had taken death to unite them.
Wanting to dispel the gloom, she flipped to the back pages. The numbers simply didn't make sense. Not expenses, she mused. Not dates. Account numbers, perhaps. Stock-market prices, lot numbers?
Perhaps it would be worth a trip to the library to see if she could unearth any information from 1913 that correlated. And on the way she could stop by Shipshape to drop off the completed spreadsheet for April and pick up any more receipts.
If she happened to run into Nathaniel, it would be purely coincidental.
It was a pleasure to drive in the rain. The slow, steady stream of drops had most of the summer people seeking indoor entertainment. A few pedestrians wandered the sidewalks, window-shopping under umbrellas. The water in Frenchman Bay was gray and misted, with the masts and sails of ships spearing through the heavy air.
She could hear the ring of bell buoys, the drone of foghorns. It was as if the entire island were tucked under a blanket, snug and safe and solitary. She was tempted to keep driving, to take the twisting road to Acadia National Park, or the meandering one along the shore.
Maybe she would, she thought. After she completed the day's business, she would take that drive, explore her new home. And maybe she would ask Nathaniel to join her.
But she didn't see his car outside Shipshape. Ridiculous to say it didn't matter whether she saw him or not, she realized. Because it did matter. She wanted to see him, to watch the way his eyes deepened and locked on hers. The way his lips curved.
Maybe he'd parked around the corner, out of sight. Snagging her briefcase, she dashed from her car into the office. It was empty.
The first slap of disappointment was stunning. She hadn't realized just how much she'd counted on him being there until he wasn't. Then she heard, faintly, through the rear wall, the throb of bass from a radio. Someone was in the shop attached to the back of the building, she concluded. Probably working on repairs as the seas were too rough for tours.
She wasn't going to check out who was back there, she told herself firmly. She'd come on legitimate business and she took out the latest spreadsheet and set it on the overburdened desk. But on a purely practical level, she would need to go over, with at least one of them, the second quarter and the projections for the rest of the year. But she supposed it could wait.
A long look around snowed her a disorder she couldn't comprehend. How could anyone work, or hope to concentrate, in such a mess?
She was tempted to organize, but turned her back on the chaos and walked to the filing cabinets. She'd take what she needed and leave the rest. Then she would, casually, wander around back, to the shop.
When she heard the door open, she turned, ready with a smile. It faded a tittle when she saw a stranger in the doorway. “May I help you?”
The man stepped fully inside and shut the door behind him. When he smiled, something jittered inside Megan's brain. “Hello, Megan.”
For an instant, time froze, and then it rewound. Slow motion for five years, six, then back a decade, to a time when she'd been young and careless and ready to believe in love at first sight.
“Baxter,” she whispered. How odd, she thought dully, that she hadn't recognized him. He'd hardly changed in ten years. He was as handsome, as smooth and polished, as he'd been when she first saw him. A trim, Savile Row-suited Prince Charming with lies on his lips.
Baxter smiled down at Megan. For days he'd been trying to catch her alone. Frustration had pushed him to approach her here and now. Because he was a man concerned with his image, he'd checked the office thoroughly before he stepped through the door. It was easy to see she was alone in the small space. There were things he intended to settle with her once and for all. Calmly, of course, he thought as she stared at him. Reasonably. Privately.
“Pretty as ever, aren't you?” It pleased him to see her eyes go blank with shock. The advantage was with him, as he preferred it. After all, he'd been planning this reunion for several weeks now. “The years have improved your looks, Megan. You've lost that charming baby fat, and you've become almost elegant. My compliments.”
When he stepped closer, she didn't move, couldn't make her legs or her brain respond. Not even when he lifted a finger and trailed it down her cheek, under her chin, to tip it up in an old habit she'd made herself forget.
“You were always a beauty, Megan, with that wide-eyed innocence that makes a man want to corrupt.”
She shuddered. He smiled.
“What are you doing here?” Kevin was all she could think. Thank God Kevin wasn't with her.
“Funny, I was going to ask you the same. Just what are you doing here, Megan?”
“I live here.” She hated hearing the hesitancy in her voice, like the throb of an old scar. “I work here.”
“Tired of Oklahoma, were you? Wanted a change of scene?” He leaned closer, until she backed into the filing cabinet. Bribery, he knew, wouldn't work with her. Not with the O'Riley money behind her. Intimidation was the next logical choice. “Don't take me for a fool, Megan. It would be a terrible, costly mistake.”
When her back hit the filing cabinet, she realized she was cringing, and her shock melted away, her spine stiffening. She wasn't a child now, she reminded herself, but a woman. Aware, responsible. “It's none of your business why I moved here.”
“Oh, but it is.” His voice was silky, quiet, reasonable. “I prefer you in Oklahoma, Megan. Working at your nice, steady job, in the midst of your loving family. I really much prefer it.”
His eyes were so cold, she thought with dull wonder. Odd, she'd never seen that, didn't remember that. “Your preferences mean nothing to me, Baxter.”
“Did you think I wouldn't find out that you'd thrown your lot in with my ex-wife and her family?” he continued, in that same reasonable tone. “That I haven't kept tabs on you over the years?”
With an effort, she steadied her breathing, but when she tried to shift away, he blocked her. She wasn't afraid, yet, but the temper she'd worked so hard to erase from her character was beginning to bubble up toward the surface.
“I never gave a thought to what you'd find out. And no, I wasn't aware you were keeping tabs. Why should you? Neither Kevin nor I ever meant anything to you.”
“You've waited a long time to make your move.” Baxter paused, struggling to control the fury that had clawed its way into his throat. He'd worked too hard, done too much, to see some old, forgotten mistake rear up and slap him down. “Clever of you, Megan, more clever than I gave you credit for.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“Do you seriously want me to believe you know nothing about my campaign? I'm not going to tolerate this pathetic stab at revenge.”
Her voice was cooler now, despite the fact that she could feel her skin start to tremble with an intense mixture of emotions. “At the risk of repeating myself, I don't know what you're talking about. My life is of no concern to you, Baxter, and yours none of mine. You made that clear a long time ago, when you refused to acknowledge me or Kevin.”
“Is that the tack you're going to take?” He'd wanted to be calm, but rage was working through him. Intimidation, he realized, simply wouldn't be enough. “The young, innocent girl, seduced, betrayed, abandoned? Left behind, pregnant and brokenhearted? Please, spare me.”
“That's not a tack, it's truth.”
“You were young, Megan, but innocent?” His teeth flashed. “Now, that's a different matter. You were willing enough, even eager.”
“I believed you!” She shouted it—a mistake, as her own voice tore her composure to pieces. “I believed you loved me, that you wanted to marr
y me. And you played on that. You never had any intention of making a future with me. You were already engaged. I was just an easy mark.”
“You certainly were easy.” He pushed her back against the cabinet, kept his hands hard on her shoulders. “And very, very tempting. Sweet, Megan. Very sweet.”
“Take your hands off me.”
“Not quite yet. You're going to listen to me, carefully. I know why you've come here, linked yourself with the Calhouns. First there'll be whispers, rumors, then a sad story to a sympathetic reporter. The old lady put pressure on me about Suzanna.” He thought of Colleen with loathing. “But I've made that work for me. In the interest of the children,” be murmured. “Letting Bradford adopt them, selflessly giving up my rights, so the children could be secure in a traditional family.”
“You never cared about them, either, did you?” Megan said in a husky Voice. “Alex and Jenny never mattered to you, any more than Kevin.”
“The point is,” he continued, “the old woman has no reason to bother about you. So, Megan, you'd better mind your step and listen to me. Things aren't working out for you here, so you're going to move back to Oklahoma.”
“I'm not going anywhere,” she began, then gasped when his fingers dug in.
“You're going back to your quiet life, away from here. There will be no rumors, no tearful interviews with reporters. If you try to undermine me, to implicate me in any way, I'll ruin you. When I've finished—and believe me, with the Dumont money I can hire plenty of willing men who'll swear they've enjoyed you—when I've finished,” he repeated, “you'll be nothing more than an opportunistic slut with a bastard son.”
Her vision hazed. It wasn't the threat that frightened her, or even infuriated her so very much. It was the term bastard in connection with her little boy.
Before she fully realized her intent, her hand was swinging up and slapping hard across his face. “Don't you ever speak about my son that way.”
When his hand cracked across her cheek, it wasn't pain she felt, or even shock, but rage.
“Don't push me, Megan,” he said, breathing hard. “Don't push me, because you'll be the one to take the fall. You, and the boy.”
As crazed as any mother protecting her cub, she lunged at him. The power of the attack rammed them both against the wall. She landed two solid blows before he threw her off.
“You still have that passionate nature, I see.” He dragged her against him, infuriated, aroused. “I remember how to channel it.”
She struck out again, a glancing blow, before he caught her arms and pinned them against her body. So she used her teeth. Even as Baxter cursed in pain, the door burst in.
Nathaniel plucked him off the floor as he might a flea off a dog. Through the haze of her own vision, Megan saw there was murder in his eye. Hotblooded. Deadly.
“Nathaniel.”
But he didn't look at her. Instead, he rapped Baxter hard against the wall. “Dumont, isn't it?” His voice was viciously quiet, terrifyingly pleasant. “I've heard how you like pushing women around.”
Baxter struggled for dignity, though his feet were inches off the ground. “Who the hell are you?”
“Well, now, it seems only fair you should know the name of the man who's going to rip out your damn heart with his bare hands.” He had the pleasure of seeing Baxter blanch. “If s Fury, Nathaniel Fury. You won't forget it—” he rammed a fist low, into the kidneys “—will you?”
When Baxter could breathe again, his words struggling out weakly, he wheezed, “You'll be in jail before the night's out.”
“I don't think so.” His head snapped around when Megan started forward. “Stay back,” he said between his teeth. The hot leap of fire in his eyes had her coming to a stop.
“Nathaniel.” She swallowed hard. “Don't kill him.” “Any particular reason you want him alive?”
She opened her mouth, shut it again. The answer seemed desperately important, so she offered the truth. “No.”
Baxter drew in his breath to scream. Nathaniel cut it off neatly with a hand over the windpipe. “You're a lucky man, Dumont. The lady doesn't want me to kill you, and I don't like to disappoint her. We'll leave it to fate.” He dragged Baxter outside, hauling him along as if the man were nothing more than a heavily packed seabag.
Megan raced to the door. “Holt.” A shiver of relief worked down her spine when she spotted Suzanna's husband near the pier. “Do something.”
Holt merely shrugged. “Fury beat me to it. You should go back in, you're getting wet.”
“But—he's not really going to kill him, is he?”
Holt considered a moment, narrowing his eyes against the rain as Nathaniel carted Baxter down the pier. “Probably not.”
“I hope to God you can't swim,” Nathaniel muttered, then threw Baxter off the pier. He turned away and was striding to Megan before the sound of the splash. “Come on.”
“But-”
He simply scooped her up in his arms. “I'm knocking off for the day.”
“Fine.” Holt stood, his thumbs in his pockets, a look of unholy glee in his eyes. “See you tomorrow.”
“Nathaniel, you can't—”
“Shut up, Meg.” He dumped her in the car. She craned her neck, and wasn't sure whether she was relieved or disappointed to see Baxter heaving himself back onto the pier.
He needed quiet to pull himself back from violence. He detested the temper that lurked inside him, that made him want to raise his fists and pummel. He could rationalize it, under the circumstances, but it always left him sick inside to know what he was capable of if pushed.
There was no doubt in his mind that he would have come very close to murder if Megan hadn't stopped him.
He'd trained himself to use words and wit to resolve a fight. It usually worked. When it didn't, well, it didn't. But he continued, years after the last blow he'd taken from his father, to remember, and regret.
She was shivering by the time he parked the car in his driveway. It didn't occur to him until that moment that he'd forgotten Dog. Holt would see to him, Nathaniel figured, and plucked Megan from her seat.
“I don't-”
“Just be quiet.” He carried her in, past the bird, who squawked greetings, and up the stairs. Megan was ready to babble in shock by the time he dumped her in a chair in the bedroom. Without a word, he turned away to rummage through his dresser drawers. “Get out of those wet clothes,” he ordered, tossing her a sweatshirt and sweatpants. “I'm going to go down and make you some tea.”
“Nathaniel-”
“Just do it!” he shouted, gritting his teeth. “Just do it,” he repeated quietly, and shut the door.
He didn't slam it; nor, when he was down in the kitchen, did he put his fist through a wall. He thought about it. But instead, he put on the kettle, got out the brandy. After a moment's consideration, he took a pull of the fiery liquid, straight from the bottle. It didn't calm him very much, but it took the edge off his sense of self-disgust.
When he heard Bird whistle and invite Megan to come to the Casbah, he set her spiked tea on the table.
She was pale, he noted, and her eyes were too big. So were the sweats. He nearly smiled at the picture she made, hesitating in the doorway, with the shirt drooping off her shoulders and the pants bagging at her ankles.
“Sit down and have something to drink. You'll feel better.”
“I'm all right, really.” But she sat, and lifted the mug in both hands, because they tended to shake. The first sip had her sucking in her breath. “I thought this was tea.”
“It is. I just gave it a little help.” He sat across from her, waited until she sipped again. “Did he hurt you?”
She stared down at the table. The wood was polished so brightly she could see her own face in it. “Yes.”
She said it calmly. She thought she was calm, until Nathaniel put his hand over hers. Her breath hitched once, twice, and then she put her head on the table and wept.
So much washed out with the te
ars—the hopes she'd once had, the dreams, the betrayal and the disillusionment, the fears and the bitterness. He didn't try to stop her, only waited it out.
“I'm sorry.” She let her cheek rest against the table a moment, comforted by the cool, smooth feel of the wood on her skin and Nathaniel's hand on her hair. “It all seemed to happen so fast, and I wasn't prepared.” She straightened, started to wipe the tears away, when a new fear glazed her eyes. “Kevin. Oh, God, if Bax-”
“Holt will take care of Kevin. Dumont won't get near him.”
“You're right.” She gave a shuddering sigh. “Of course, you're right. Holt would see to Suzanna and all the children right away. And all Baxter wanted to do in any case was frighten me.”
“Did he?”
Her eyes were still wet, but they were steady. “No. He hurt me, and he infuriated me, and he made me sick that I'd ever let him touch me. But he didn't frighten me. He can't.”
“Atta girl.”
She sniffled, smiled weakly. “But I frightened him. That's why he came here today, after all this time. Because he's frightened.”
“Of what?”
“Of the past, the consequences.” She drew another, deeper breath and smelted Nathaniel—tobacco and salt spray. How oddly comforting it was. “He thinks our coming here is some sort of plot against him. He's been keeping track of me all this time. I didn't know.”
“He's never contacted you until today?”
“No, never. I suppose he felt safe when I was in Oklahoma and hadn't any connection with Suzanna. Now, not only is there a connection, but I'm living here. And Kevin and Alex and Jenny... Well, he doesn't seem to understand it has nothing to do with him.”
She picked up her tea again. Nathaniel hadn't asked anything, he'd simply sat and held her hand. Perhaps that was why she felt compelled to tell him.