Terms of Surrender

by Janet Dailey

  “Sorry, but I’ve never heard the name before,” she lied, feigning indifference and deliberately failing to tell him her own.

  “I’d swear I know you.” He continued to scrutinize her, much to Angie’s dismay.

  She tried to appear nonchalant. “I probably remind you of someone else. It happens.” She shrugged.

  “Maybe,” Kelly sounded skeptical. He slid onto the vacant barstool next to her, not giving up. “To rephrase another bad line, what brings a nice girl like you to this sleepy Texas town? It’s a little off the beaten path.”

  “I’ll borrow another old line.” The curved line of her mouth was stiff. “I’m just passing through.”

  “—and just happened to stop here for the night,” he concluded with continuing doubt.

  “That’s hardly so unusual,” Angie defended. “I understand this area receives its share of tourists.”

  “I guess so,” Kelly conceded reluctantly. He lit a cigarette of his own and glanced sideways at her through the smoke. “Maybe it was San Antonio that we met.”

  “I’ve never been there.” Somehow she had to stop this conversation without rousing his suspicions further.

  He pursed his lips thoughtfully and motioned to the bartender. “I’ll have a beer, Al,” he ordered and sent another half-smiling glance at Angie. “Let me buy you a fresh drink.”

  “No, thanks,” she refused. “I’ve barely touched the one I have.” She took another sip, fully aware the beer had become flat.

  There was a lull as the bartender brought him a bottle of beer and a glass. Kelly dug the money out of his hip pocket to pay for it. When the bartender went to get his change, the cowboy turned his head to study Angie again.

  “What did you say your name was?” he prompted.

  This was becoming dangerous. Any minute he might remember her. What if he knew the story? What if he called Deke and told him she was in town? All hell would break loose. Was she ready for that? Or was she willing to resign herself to the status quo? It was a decision Angie hadn’t been able to make yet. Soon Kelly Reynolds might force her into a course of action she might not want.

  “I didn’t tell you my name.” Her voice was frozen with icy cold fear.

  With an unnatural display of cowardice, Angie gathered the pack of cigarettes and matchbook, shoving them inside her purse. As she slid off the barstool to leave, he grabbed at her arm. Surprise was mixed with confusion in his expression.

  “Don’t go,” Kelly protested.

  “It’s late and I’ve had a long day.” She firmly extricated herself from his hold. “Good night, Mr. Reynolds.”

  As she walked to the exit leading into the restaurant, Angie could feel his intent gaze burrowing into her back. Right up to the very last second, he was trying to place when and where he’d known her before. Angie had the feeling that she’d handled the situation badly, whetting his curiosity about her identity instead of diverting it. She should have made up a name, rather than refusing to tell him. Now it was too late. She was angry with herself—angry and a little scared.

  When the door closed behind her, Kelly Reynolds turned back to the bar and folded his arms across its top. His heavy sigh betrayed his inner confused and troubled state. The bartender paused, eyeing him thoughtfully and with a trace of amusement.

  “Strike out, did ya’, Kelly?” he mocked.

  “Naw.” Kelly picked up the bottle of beer and poured its liquid into the glass. His expression remained contemplative. “I’ve met that blond somewhere before. Dammit, I know I have.” There was more than a trace of frustration in his voice.

  “You probably have,” the bartender shrugged as he removed the partially empty glass of beer Angie had left. “She told me she used to live around here.”

  “She lived here?” Kelly repeated on a surprised note, because she had denied it to him. “But—” He stopped in the middle of a half-formed protest. “Did she say when?”

  “No. But I had the impression it was a few years ago.” He looked at Kelly and smiled dryly. “I never realized there had been so many blonds in your life that you wouldn’t remember a number like that one.”

  “That’s what bugs me,” Kelly admitted on a disgruntled note. “I haven’t dated that many.”

  “Maybe you didn’t date this one,” the bartender suggested. “It could be that she wouldn’t give you the time of day even back then.”

  There was a moment of silence as Kelly studied the foamy top of his beer. Slowly he lifted his head, a dawning light glimmering in his eyes.

  “That’s it,” he murmured. “She was dating someone else.” He snapped his fingers in sudden recall. “Deke. It was Deke. I was taking Marissa out then and we used to double with Deke and that blond. Damn.” He bit at his lower lip. “What was her name?” He muttered the question to himself. “Mandy? No. Tammy? No.”

  “When was this?” Now the bartender was curious.

  “It was a little before Deke ran off and got married,” Kelly replied absently. “I wish I could remember her name. It’s going to drive me crazy until I think of it.”

  The bartender’s train of thought traveled in a different direction, focusing on Deke Black-wood. “Ya’ know, I can’t help feeling sorry for Blackwood. The man’s sure had his share of grief, first losing his bride when she gave premature birth to his daughter, then his father getting killed in the crash of a light plane, and his mother passing away two years ago. I guess that goes to prove that there’s some things money can’t buy.”

  “I tell ya’, I’d give a hundred dollars if I could remember that blond’s name,” Kelly declared.

  “It won’t cost a hundred dollars,” the bartender replied cryptically. “Just the price of a phone call.”

  It took a second for the cowboy to follow his thinking. “You’re right!” Kelly scooped up the small change on the countertop. “Either Deke or Marissa will be home. I’ll just call and ask.”

  He stepped off the barstool and headed to ward the pay telephone in the back hall by the rest rooms.

  The walls in the den were cream-colored, giving the room an open, spacious feeling. A walnut gun cabinet stood near the door to the foyer, gleaming rifle barrels showing through its locked, glass door. Another area of the room was occupied by two overstuffed armchairs covered in roughly grained brown leather, worn smooth with age and usage. On the floor in front of the matching chairs was a large, woven mat, geometric designs stained into it with natural dyes. A massive desk dominated the room. A century old, its pecan wood was accented with heavy brass trappings.

  Seated in the desk’s companion chair, Deke Blackwood made the day’s entries in the ledger opened before him. Having played in the den as a child, he was unimpressed by the aura of authority and power that was in the air.

  The responsibility that went along with the right to occupy the chair behind the desk had long ago wiped away the carefreeness of youth from his face. At thirty-two, he bore the stamp of experienced command. His hardened features were marked with lines of cynicism that seemed to look upon the world with weary humor. Handsome was no longer a word that described him, although all the ingredients were there—dark hair, the color of bronze—gray eyes with the sheen of polished steel—and a rangy muscled build. He was like a wolf who had learned to survive by his wits and cunning, and no longer relied on mere good looks. In some intangible way, that altered his appearance.

  A faint sound broke his concentration. His senses were trained to be ever on the alert. They became centered, now, on discovering the source of the sound—the whisper of soft material coming from the open door. Deke lifted his gaze from the column of figures and let it glide to the door. A young blond-haired girl was peering cautiously into the room, her look expectant and hopeful, one bare foot resting atop its mate. His mouth crooked in a half-smile at the sight of his daughter, but the fiercely possessive love in his eyes was more reflective of his true reaction. His glance skimmed her, taking note of the lavender nightgown and matching cotton rob
e.

  “Is it that late-already?” Deke glanced at his watch as he closed his ledger book for the time being. His action was the indication Lindy Blackwood had been waiting for as she scampered into the room, darting around the desk to his chair. “I guess it is eight o’clock,” he acknowledged what his watch had revealed. He pivoted the swivel chair at right angles to the desk and lifted the child onto his knee.

  “Are you through with your work?” Lindy asked with a glance at the closed account book.

  “Not quite.” Deke studied his daughter with an absolute pleasure. Lindy was the shining light in his life, practically the only one still left. He was highly protective of her, motivated by a certain selfishness. It was evident when he curved an arm around her small shoulders and snuggled her close to him. Bending his head, Deke brushed his mouth across the silkenness of her platinum hair. “Mmm, You smell good.”

  “Aunt Marissa let me put some of her perfume in my bath water.” She gave him a sidelong look, precociously testing her flirting skills. Little girls always tried them out on their own daddies first. For the time being, it amused him, but Deke wasn’t sure how he’d feel when she got older and turned her charms on some young man.

  “You’re too anxious to grow up,” Deke murmured, because he knew how many ways she could be hurt.

  But Lindy paid no attention to his remark. “My rock looks nice sitting on the desk next to yours.” She drew his glance to the large fossilized stone that acted as a paperweight and the little one sitting in its shadow.

  “It certainly does,” Deke agreed.

  “I thought I was lucky to find it, but Mrs. Gonzales said that I had sharp eyes,” Lindy repeated the praise from her teacher. “Angie asked me how I knew what it was and I told her about your rock.”

  The name vibrated through him. It was a slight shock to hear it spoken by his daughter. “Who is Angie? One of your classmates?”

  “No. Angie is the lady who was visiting Mrs. Gonzales at school today,” Lindy explained blithely. “When I brought my rock in to show my teacher, she asked to see it. She thought I was clever for remembering about yours.”

  “That was clever,” Deke echoed the praise.

  “Tomorrow I’m going to look for some more,” she stated.

  “Speaking of tomorrow, it’s time you were getting to bed.” As he started to slide her off his lap, the telephone rang. After a second’s hesitation, he set her down. “Run along to bed,” Deke instructed while reaching to pick up the phone. “I’ll be there in a few minutes to tuck you in.”

  Obediently, Lindy did as she was told. Deke watched her go, lifting the telephone receiver to silence its shrill ring, but not carrying it to his ear until his daughter had disappeared. The swivel chair squeaked as he leaned back in it.

  “Blackwood.” He spoke into the mouthpiece.

  “Deke? Kelly Reynolds,” the male voice on the other end of the phone identified himself.

  Mild surprise registered in Deke’s expression. “Hello, Kelly. How’ve you been?”

  “Fine.” It was a quick reply, dismissing the pleasantries. “What I was calling about, Deke —Do you remember that blond you dated a few years back? She spent the summer here visiting some relative.”

  Deke stiffened, his blood running cold for an instant. “Angie?” Harshness made it an accusing question.

  “Angie! That’s it!” Kelly exclaimed in satisfaction.

  Deke leaned forward in his chair, his features growing hard. “What about her?” he demanded.

  “She was here at Al’s, having a drink. I finally recognized her, but I couldn’t remember her name. I knew I would go crazy until I found out what it was, that’s why I called you.” He laughed shortly in mixed relief. “Now I can have some peace.”

  A white-hot rage began to thaw the coldness that had momentarily gripped Deke. A deadly quiet entered his voice. “Did she say what she was doing in town?”

  “Just passing through, she said,” Kelly replied indifferently. “I guess she’s spending the night here at the motel.” A muscle leaped along Deke’s jawline. “Well, I won’t keep ya’, Deke. Give Marissa my regards.”

  “Yes.” It was an absent response, a galling bitterness filling his thoughts.

  The line went dead. Deke replaced the telephone receiver on its cradle, visibly struggling to control the surge of raw anger that swept through him. Nearly possessed by it, he pushed out of his chair and circled the desk, crossing the room with long strides.

  In the foyer, he paused to drag his naturally tanned leather jacket from the halltree and clamp a charcoal black Stetson atop his head. As he shrugged into the tailored jacket, footsteps approached the foyer. His steel gaze thrust itself into his dark-haired sister when she appeared. Her glance was startled.

  “Where are you going?” Marissa frowned in confusion. “Lindy’s waiting for you to tell her good night.”

  “I have to go to town.” His answer was brisk, too severely controlled.

  There was trouble in the air. Marissa could almost hear the crackling of electricity in the room. Something was very wrong or Deke wouldn’t be leaving without tucking Lindy into bed. But he was leaving—going into town, he said—without explanation.

  “Why?” she blurted the demand and watched him pause, his hand on the doorknob. His gray eyes were cold and emotionless when they met her searching look. Yet she had the curious sensation of being burned as if a wild fire raged behind them.

  “Have there been any calls today that you failed to mention to me?” There was a hint of derision in his tone, a vague accusation that she had been deliberately keeping something from him.

  Despite the surface appearance of devotion, she and her brother had never been close—not in the sense that they confided in each other or shared their deepest thoughts. Marissa loved her brother and would have welcomed a relationship like that, but Deke kept his own council, never allowing her to get too close. Marissa understood because he’d lost so many people that he cared about. If it wasn’t for Lindy, she would have believed that he’d lost the capacity to care about another human being. Their personalities had become very divergent. More than once Deke had accused her of being too softhearted and gullible. Such things hurt, just as his veiled challenge that she had deliberately kept something important from him now.

  “No one called other than those on the list I left on your desk,” Marissa insisted.

  “No one?” His low drawl was almost taunting. “Not even Angie?”

  Shock wiped the color from her face, a reaction Deke’s sharp gaze was quick to note. It was impossible for his sister to hide her feelings. He was almost irritated with himself for doubting her loyalty, except he knew her feelings could be manipulated. And Angie was an expert at that.

  “Angie,” Marissa whispered the name. “Has she . . . ?” She stopped before finishing the question.

  Deke already knew what it was going to be. “Yes. Kelly says she’s in town.”

  “And that’s where you’re going?” she breathed.

  “Yes. I want to find out what’s on her cold, little mind.” A thick thread of embittered anger ran through his voice. “If it’s trouble she wants, I’ll give her all she can handle.”

  “Deke—” Her voice seemed to plead with him not to be hasty, but he was already walking out the door.

  Chapter Three

  By the time Angie reached her motel room, she was in a confused state of indecision. She was usually a very decisive person, fully aware of what she wanted and how to obtain it—in control of her emotions at all times. At least, that’s what she had always believed about herself. Except for that one lapse with Deke, although, of course, there had been extenuating circumstances. She had been with Deke too soon after the death of her parents. She had been grasping for something to fill the void. Luckily she had come to her senses in time.

  Or had she? Angie paced about the small room. She was shaking, a mass of trembling nerves. Why hadn’t she been able to forget? Why hadn’t s
he put the past behind her? If she was so convinced she had done the right thing, why had the memory of it lurked at the back of her every waking moment?

  Angie stopped asking herself why she had come back. She knew it was because she hadn’t been able to forget. But what was she to do now that she was here? She couldn’t walk away again as she had done before, supposedly with a clear conscience. It had never been clear, she realized that now.

  A sensation of pain, more physical than mental, intruded on her thinking. Angie glanced at her hands. They were twisted so tightly together that little circulation was reaching her fingers. Her nerves were shot. She halted by the bedside table and unclasped her hands to open her purse. Shaking a cigarette out of the pack, Angie lit it to give her trembling hand something else to hold.

  No longer able to trust the wisdom of her own counsel, she wished for someone to talk to, someone who could give her advice. But who could she call? Who could she trust? Her anxious gaze ran to the phone on the table next to the bed.

  There was one person who had taken an active interest in her of late. Angie hadn’t discouraged it, although she hadn’t allowed herself to become emotionally involved. She hesitated, then crushed out the half-smoked cigarette in the ashtray and reached for the phone. Angie dialed the number without conscious thought. She’d always had a natural facility for remembering telephone numbers.

  The motel switchboard came on the line, and Angie gave her room number, then listened to the ringing of the phone on the other end. On the fourth ring, it was answered.

  “Hello, Ted?” Angie heard the stress in her voice. “It’s Angie.”

  Ted Sullivan was in charge of the legal department in the Houston branch of Data-Corp. A young, aggressive man, he was one of the first people she’d met after being transferred. It was an advantage Ted had quickly followed up by setting himself up to be her personal guide to the city. Angie had enjoyed his company, finding him both intelligent and amusing. So far, he hadn’t demanded more from her than she had been willing to give.