Worth Dying For

by Beverly Barton

  “Another man, you mean.” Tad mimicked a sulky pout.

  Sharon laughed. “You are adorable when you playact that way, but I’d prefer you save all your talent for the bedroom. That’s where I most appreciate you.”

  “You’re cruel, Sharon. Why do you treat me this way when you know I’m mad about you?”

  “Pooh. You’ve probably been out with a different young thing every night while I’ve been gone.”

  Obviously peeved at her comment, Tad revved the engine, screeched out of the parking area at the airstrip and zoomed up the road. Sharon struggled to put on her safety belt, but finally gave up and just sat back to enjoy the wild ride.

  “Who flew you into Fairport?” Tad asked. “One of your millionaire boyfriends?”

  Sharon laughed again, but didn’t bother telling Tad that her old friend, Stuart Markham, with whom she’d been staying in Key West, had flown her straight from Florida to Mississippi. The last thing she wanted was to argue with Tad. What she did want was to savor every moment of freedom she had before they reached the Leslie Plantation. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her brother and his family. She did. But she and her brother didn’t get along. Mostly because G.W. had never approved of the way she lived her life. He was eleven years her senior and after their father died, he’d taken it upon himself to act as her domineering parent.

  G.W. had married well. You didn’t do better in Fairport, Mississippi, than to marry a Leslie. Of course, giving the devil his due, her brother had loved Anne Leslie almost beyond reason. Sharon had been twenty when G.W. and Anne married, twenty-two when Tessa was born. And from the very second he’d gotten himself engaged to the older Leslie daughter, G.W. had judged his little sister by an impossible standard. He had wanted her to be a lady. God, she would have suffocated in such rarified air, if she’d tried to please him. Which she hadn’t. Of course, the more he tried to rein her in, the more she’d rebelled.

  Marriage and babies weren’t for her. Not when she’d been twenty or thirty or even forty. The thought of belonging to a garden club and the Junior League had bored her, as had most of the suitable young men G.W. paraded through the Leslie Plantation in the hopes she would marry one of them. She had wanted to live life to the fullest, to travel the world, to meet and bed exciting men. And that’s exactly what she’d done. But her big brother hadn’t understood her hunger for an exciting life; and he couldn’t forgive her for being a constant embarrassment to him. She supposed the thing he would really never forgive her for was encouraging a teenage Tessa to spread her wings and fly into the wild, glorious blue yonder. She and the teenage Tessa had been two peas in a pod, more like sisters than aunt and niece. Sharon had introduced Tessa to beer, marijuana and men, not necessarily in that order.

  But after Tessa’s so-called accident, the fun-loving girl Sharon had so enjoyed tutoring became a different person. The rebellious hellion that had been the bane of her parents’ existence, matured by a trial of fire, had become the ideal daughter. Dutiful, respectful, dependable. And dull. Poor Tessa. The trauma to her brain had erased more than her memories. It had altered her personality.

  To this day, Sharon felt partly responsible for what had happened to her niece. If she hadn’t led Tessa off the straight and narrow, it was possible she wouldn’t have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. And she wouldn’t have encountered that monstrous man, Eddie Jay Nealy. Although her sister-in-law, Anne, who’d been a kind and loving lady, had forgiven her, she had never quite forgiven herself. And God knew G.W. hadn’t forgiven her.

  While Tad chatted nonstop, about this, that and nothing, Sharon started thinking about Leslie Anne. When Sharon had left Fairport less than a month ago, her great-niece had been little more than a carbon copy of her saintly mother, so it had come as a complete shock when Myrle had phoned her in Key West to say that the little princess had run away from home.

  “Have you seen Leslie Anne since they brought her home?” Sharon asked, interrupting Tad midsentence.

  “No, but Mother went with G.W. early this morning to meet them when they flew home in a helicopter from somewhere over in Alabama. From what little G.W. told Mother, it seems the girl ran into a bit of trouble and some man tried to rape her in a motel.”

  “What?” Had she heard Tad correctly? “Did you say somebody tried to rape Leslie Anne?”

  “Those things happen to little girls who run away. You hear about it happening all the time. It’s on the news and in the papers nearly every day. She’s just lucky that one of the agents G.W. hired found her and rescued her before—”

  “Agent? What agent?”

  “Haven’t you talked to G.W. or Tessa?”

  “No, only to Myrle, and she didn’t seem to know much of anything. First she called to tell me to rush home immediately because Leslie Anne had run off. Then she called to say that the child had been found and brought home.”

  “G.W. hired this high-priced private security and investigation agency to locate Leslie Anne,” Tad explained. “According to Mother, your brother paid a small fortune to bring in four agents to do the job.”

  “Does anyone know why Leslie Anne ran away in the first place?”

  “I don’t have a clue. G.W. hasn’t told Mother anything. The reason seems to be some major secret. I thought surely you’d know.”

  A shudder of uneasiness wound its way up Sharon’s spine. Totally crazy, wildly ridiculous thoughts went through her mind. What would possess a happy, well-adjusted sixteen-year-old to suddenly run away from home?

  “I don’t have the slightest idea why she ran away,” Sharon said. “Teenagers do crazy things.”

  “Not Leslie Anne.”

  No, not Leslie Anne. And that’s what worried Sharon. “Maybe she got sick and tired of being little Miss Goody Two-Shoes.”

  Liar. You know there could be another reason. A more compelling reason. No, it can’t be. It just can’t be.

  There’s no way that sweet kid could have found out the truth about her father, was there? Neither G.W. nor Tessa would have told her. And Sharon knew that she sure as hell hadn’t. And no one else knows, do they? She’d never told a living soul about Tessa being raped. At least as far as she knew she hadn’t. Even when she was zoned out on liquor or occasionally on pills, she wouldn’t have revealed such a heartbreakingly tragic family secret.

  When the iron gates guarding the Leslie Plantation came into view, Sharon tensed. Something instinctive within her balked at coming home. And despite the fact that she loathed this pretentious old house and all it stood for, it was still home because her family—G.W., Tessa and Leslie Anne—was here. As much as she loved traveling and having fun with friends, she had found that as she grew older, family had come to mean a great deal more to her than it had in the past.

  If Leslie Anne was in trouble, she would need her aunt Sharon. After all, she wasn’t likely to get any sympathy from G.W. He thought the girl was perfect or at least should be. Maybe her niece had a secret boyfriend and had gotten herself pregnant. If that was the case, Auntie Sharon would find a way to help her. Or maybe the problem was something a lot less serious. Something as silly as she’d failed geometry. First and foremost, G.W. and Tessa expected Leslie Anne to maintain her straight-A average.

  Whatever the reason Leslie Anne had run away, it wasn’t because she’d found out the truth about her mother being raped by a maniac. No, no, that wasn’t the reason. It just couldn’t be. There was no way G.W. or Tessa could deal with having to face the past. And there was no way anyone could have found out about Tessa’s horrible ordeal, not after G.W. had done everything in his power to bury all evidence of what had happened.

  TESSA KNEW that with just the least bit of encouragement, Dante would kiss her. And even though she longed for that intimacy, she feared losing control. It seemed unreal to her that she could want a man—any man—but that she would yearn to be with a man she barely knew astounded her.

  “Don’t shut me out, Tessa,” he said.

&nb
sp; “I’m not—”

  He gently placed his index finger over her parted lips. “Yes, you are.”

  “Not intentionally.”

  His finger traced the outline of her lips, then moved across her chin and down her neck. Momentarily lost in the sensual pleasure of his touch, Tessa closed her eyes, then drew in a deep breath and held it until Dante spread his hand out over her throat and cupped her chin.

  Her eyelids flew open. Their gazes connected and melded, neither able to look away. “I don’t really understand what’s happening to me,” she admitted, wanting to be completely honest with this man.

  “It’s called sexual attraction.” The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly in a hesitant smile. “You know, it’s that feeling that makes a man and woman want to rip off each other’s clothes and go at each other like a couple of wild animals.”

  “I know what it is.” She made an effort to return his smile. “But I’ve never experienced it. Maybe before the…the rape, but not since then.”

  “You aren’t saying you haven’t been with a man since—”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. As part of my healing process, I had sex, but…Let’s just say I couldn’t work up very much enthusiasm. I haven’t really wanted someone. Not until now. And it shouldn’t be you.”

  “Why shouldn’t it be me?”

  He reached for her; she sidestepped him.

  “You don’t want me to touch you?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “That’s not it. The problem is that I want it too much. And my life is far too complicated right now for me to deal with a love affair. The first real love affair I’ve ever wanted.”

  “Ever? What about before you were raped? You said maybe before then. Why maybe? Either you did or didn’t. It’s my understanding that most women never forget their first lover.”

  “I’ve been told that Charlie Sentell was my first lover. At least that’s what he told me,” Tessa said. “But Aunt Sharon swears I was sexually active long before Charlie. She said her guess is that my first time was when I was fifteen and—”

  “You’re confusing me with all this Charlie told me and Aunt Sharon says. You talk as if you—” His eyes widened in realization. “My God, you don’t remember, do you? When you woke up in that hospital in Louisiana and didn’t know your own father or remember what had happened to you, it wasn’t just hysterical amnesia, not some temporary loss of memory. You can’t remember anything before that time, can you?”

  Tessa clenched her teeth, trying to control her emotions. She didn’t want to think about how she’d felt all those years ago when she had awakened in that hospital ICU and had no memory of who she was or what had happened to her. Terrified didn’t begin to describe how she’d felt.

  “I suffered minor brain damage,” Tessa said. “It took endless months for me to relearn how to do almost everything. How to put sentences together so they made sense. How to dress myself and feed myself and even to read and write. Actually, it took me several years to become somewhat normal again.”

  “Oh, Tessa, honey…” He socked his right fist into the open palm of his left hand. “Damn, I wish I could have gotten hold of Eddie Jay Nealy. I’d have—”

  “You’re thinking about her, aren’t you? About Amy and what he probably did to her.”

  “There’s no telling how many young women he raped and tortured and killed. But you somehow survived. Not only survived, but recovered. God, Tessa, you’re living proof that a person can endure anything.”

  “Maybe your Amy survived, too. Maybe she’s out there somewhere and has no memory of her past.” Unable to resist the urge to comfort Dante, she ran her hand up and down his arm.

  He grabbed her hand and held it over his biceps, then squeezed. “If only that were possible.”

  “Why isn’t it possible? I survived. And if my father hadn’t been notified that there was a woman fitting my description in that Louisiana hospital, I might never have discovered my identity. I could be out there somewhere alone, with no memory whatsoever of my past. If it nearly happened to me, it could have happened to Amy.”

  Dante slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her to him, his dark eyes boring into her as if he were searching beyond the exterior, seeking something inside her. In her soul.

  “Until Helene Marshall survived, you were the only one of Nealy’s victims who was found alive. But I didn’t know anything about you. I didn’t know you even existed because there is no record of your being raped and beaten. Believe me, I’ve done my research over the years, and I’ve done some more since meeting you. There was no other young, blond woman reported raped and beaten around the time of Amy’s disappearance, not anywhere in the South or Southwest. If I hadn’t come to Fairport on this assignment, I’d have never known about you. Your father did a great job of covering up what happened to you.”

  “Oh, Dante, I’m so sorry. I wish, for your sake that—”

  He kissed her. It happened so quickly, so unexpectedly that she had no time to prepare herself. His wide mouth was soft and moist, but the kiss was hard and demanding. As a trickle of fear crept up her spine, she stiffened in his arms. Then suddenly the kiss changed from aggressive to tender, as if he instinctively understood her reaction and tempered his passion with gentleness. Giving herself over to the delicious sensations bombarding her body, Tessa returned his kiss, opening her mouth, inviting him in. His tongue licked a quick path over her lips, then delved between her teeth and raked over the roof of her mouth. Tessa sighed. Her tongue darted out shyly, wanting to participate, but not sure exactly how. As Dante deepened the kiss, took it to another level of intimacy, primeval feminine instinct took over and Tessa’s inhibitions dissolved in the heat of her passion.

  The kiss exploded into raging hunger that Tessa could not control. She grasped Dante’s shoulders, her nails biting into the fabric of his jacket. Throbbing, moistening in preparation, her femininity clenched and unclenched. All rational thought ceased.

  And then without warning, Dante ended the kiss, grabbed her by the shoulders and held her away from him. His breathing was harsh and labored; hers was the same. They stood there staring at each other, the chemistry between them electrified.

  “Dante?”

  “It’s all right, honey. We just got a little carried away. It was all my fault. I shouldn’t have let things get so out of hand.”

  She shook her head. “I wanted it…needed it.”

  “Ah, babe…”

  He stared at her with such longing, the hunger in his eyes so raw, that it hurt her to look at him. “Were you kissing me or were you kissing Amy?”

  He released her abruptly. “You want the truth?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t know. I honest to God don’t know who I was kissing.”

  Tessa told herself that she would not react in any way to his admission. After all, she’d already known what he would say, hadn’t she?

  “Maybe you’re right. Maybe another Dundee agent should take over the investigation. I can’t seem to handle things in an objective manner.”

  He gave her one last look, his gaze saying how sorry he was, before he walked away. Out of the parlor. Leaving her alone.

  His name echoed inside her head. Dante. Dante. She wanted to cry out, to call him back, to beg him not to leave her. Did it really matter that he was still in love with his teenage sweetheart? Amy Smith was dead, wasn’t she? How could Tessa possibly be jealous of a dead woman?

  But she was jealous of Amy. And it did matter that Dante still loved her, or at least the memory of her. Let him go, Tessa told herself. Let him go before he breaks your heart.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “WHAT’S THE MATTER, Dr. Barrett?” Leslie Anne glared at the therapist. “I thought you were the wise one, the great psychiatrist who helped my mother recover from being raped and savagely beaten by my father, and yet you don’t seem to have any words of wisdom for me.”

  She hated the way the doctor looked a
t her, with such pity in his eyes. What was he thinking—that Leslie Anne Westbrook would make a fine case study, perhaps be the ideal subject for a book on inherited deviant behavior?

  “Do you really think of Eddie Jay Nealy as your father?” Dr. Barrett asked.

  Leslie Anne shrugged.

  The truth of the matter was that she didn’t think of her mother’s rapist as her father. But she also didn’t think of some fictitious guy named John Allen as her father, either. Even though she’d been curious about her paternity for years and had suspected her mother and grandfather were lying to her about John Allen, she had clung to the childish hope that whoever her father was, he and her mother had loved each other. Boy, what a dummy she’d been. Nothing could be further from the truth.

  “You can’t expect to digest all the information you received today in a matter of hours or even weeks,” the doctor told her. “It took your mother years to work through her fears and doubts, to be able to move forward and live a normal life.”

  “Is that what she has—a normal life? She isn’t married. She doesn’t date. Her whole life revolves around three things—her job with Westbrook, Inc., Granddaddy and me. If you’d actually cured her, don’t you think she’d at least have a boyfriend?”

  “Is that what you want, Leslie Anne? Would you like to see your mother married?”

  “I didn’t say that. I just said I don’t think you fixed her a hundred percent and you’re not going to be able to fix me, either. I’m like Humpty Dumpty, all broken into a bunch of pieces and not you or anybody else can put me back together.”

  Dr. Barrett paused in their stroll along the path that led through the well-maintained gardens on the estate. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked into her eyes. “If your mother got married, you’d have a stepfather, someone you might be able to think of as a father. Is that the reason you’d—”