“Yes.” She nodded. “I suppose they are.”
“Then, I guess you won’t mind if I kiss the bride.”
Caught off guard, India had little time to do more than squeak out a feeble, “No.”
In the past, Morgan had always been concerned about consent. If she hesitated at all, he pulled back, giving her time to think, to adjust. Now, he wasn’t worried about what she wanted. He didn’t ask for a kiss, he demanded.
The sensible thing to do would be to protest. Really, she should have. But her feelings for Morgan had always been the furthest thing from sensible. She loved him. She wanted him.
What harm could one kiss do?
The second Morgan’s lips touched hers, India knew the answer. Familiar yet new, his kiss wasn’t meant to harm but to devastate. In less time than it took her to think, this is where I belong, he turned her world upside down, then sent her spinning out of control.
Morgan’s tongue toyed with hers. A duel neither would win, victory wasn’t the point. India realized he wanted her to think of him when she was alone. More important, to remember how real passion felt while stuck the rest of her life with Allard Hallstrom, a man who at best was a poor, pale substitute.
Morgan broke away, his breathing labored but his eyes a cool emerald green. Dropping his hands, he watched, smirking, as India swayed—just a bit—before she willed her spine to stiffen.
“You’ve practiced.”
“You haven’t,” he said with an arrogant smirk.
Ouch, India thought. Direct hit.
“Don’t worry. Your soon-to-be husband isn’t after a sex goddess. Hallstrom wants your father’s connections, not your body, right?”
Again, Morgan’s aim was dead-on. The difference was, India didn’t care about Allard, so this time, his jab didn’t hurt. But he wasn’t finished. His parting shot, pointed and true, left a wound she doubted would heal anytime soon.
“Enjoy your wedding night, India.” Hand on the doorknob, Morgan shook his head. “Jesus Christ. Allard Hallstrom. You, princess, deserve exactly what you get.”
India waited until she heard the door click shut. Alone, she sank to the floor. Seemed only right to walk down the aisle a wrinkled mess—a good match to how she felt inside.
Touching her lips, she closed her eyes. His beard was soft. His lips hard—in the best way possible.
Morgan. She didn’t break his heart. Bruised, maybe. In a little while, he would mend. India was a different matter. She rubbed her chest. Numb. Nothing. She wasn’t surprised. How could she feel a beat when the only man she would ever, could ever, love unwittingly carried her heart with him? Now, forever, always.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
♫~♫~♫
PRESENT DAY
MORGAN PULLED TO a stop at the top of the driveway and surveyed the house Marcy and Sven Reinhold built with their own hands. Where they worked, lived, loved.
To this day, despite his penthouse apartment in New York and the flat he maintained in London, the farmhouse where he learned the meaning of love and friendship was the only place he thought of when he pictured home.
So many years—too many—yet little had changed. New paint on the barn. A berry patch added near the edge of Marcy’s extensive herb garden. They were the kind of small, acceptable differences all children find when they return as adults after so long away.
The memories of the Reinhold farm saw him through some bad times, as did the knowledge Sven and Marcy were here if he needed them. Eighteen years old, alone, beaten, unsure about his next move, they had been his lifeline, his first and only phone call.
Morgan tried to downplay his injuries, but he couldn’t lie to them. Marcy cried when she heard what happened. Sven, the gentlest person he knew, vowed to find Rance Curtis and beat the shit out of the bastard after he drove to wherever Morgan was and brought him home.
Returning to Lake Darwell hadn’t been an option back then. Took some effort to convince Sven and Marcy that the best thing for Morgan was to stay away. The anger didn’t subside, nor their fear for his safety. However, they finally agreed to let him go out into the world earlier than planned—if he promised to stay in touch.
A weekly phone call, no negotiations.
Morgan didn’t argue, but he asked two favors in return. First, check on his father who, in his own twisted way, had dredged up a bit of latent protective instinct for his son.
Second, he begged Marcy and Sven to keep their ears open for any gossip about India and keep an eye on her if she returned to Lake Darwell. Morgan, sick with worry, needed information.
Lips twisted into a bitter smile, Morgan removed his sunglasses. Rubbing the bridge of his nose. He had suffered so much, barely sleeping, thinking she was as miserable as he was. Turned out, she hadn’t needed his protection. Like a cat, she knew how to land on her feet.
Ensconced in the lap of luxury, in her father’s private jet, Morgan wondered what thoughts ran through India’s mind. Had she worried—even a little—about what happened to him? Or did she forget him, everything, the second her father discovered the truth?
How many times since the day of India’s wedding had Morgan tried to convince himself he didn’t care? If he never knew the whole story, so what. She taught him a valuable lesson about trust and love when she played him for a fool.
What rankled, what he couldn’t forget was that he let her.
A smart man would have moved on from a brief high school love affair. Indulge in the occasional, what might have been. Then, chalk up their time together as a rite of passage.
Seemed Morgan wasn’t as smart as he liked to believe. Not where India was concerned.
Even today, Morgan could see India in her bridal gown. He could feel the excitement that coursed through his body as he sneaked into the Curtis mansion, certain she would thank him for stealing her away. He’d taken one look and, as had always been the case, his mouth watered.
If he hadn’t been blinded by what he wanted to see, one look would have told him everything he needed to know. His India would never have agreed to dress up like a porcelain doll. She would have balked at letting someone change her appearance, especially her wonderfully wild hair.
Part of what he loved about teenage India was her sense of self. Instead of obsessing over what made her different, she embraced her individuality with a finger to anyone who thought she should conform to some false, impossible standard of beauty.
Turned out, India wasn’t who he thought, and the bitter taste of reality still lingered on his tongue.
Morgan sighed. He’d let her betrayal eat at his soul and motivate his actions over the past five years. Yes, a smart man would have cast off the past. Perhaps he was wrong, foolish. However, no one could argue his anger turned him into a rich fool.
Marcy ran from the house, breaking into his musings. Morgan welcomed the interruption. Today was his homecoming, and he didn’t want to waste another moment brooding about the past.
Arms waving, her height-challenged legs quickly ate up the distance as she ran toward him down the driveway. Morgan slid from the SUV and opened his arms. She threw herself at him, laughing with a joy only she could generate. She was a breath of fresh air, light wherever dark lingered.
One hug and suddenly the chaos of Morgan’s world settled into a smooth, easy place. If he wasn’t completely at peace, he was close enough.
“I can’t believe you arrived last night and didn’t let us know.” Marcy sent him a mock frown. “Our boy, back where he belongs for the first time in forever, and we had to wait another whole day for him.”
“Twelve hours is hardly a day,” Morgan teased.
Marcy didn’t look convinced.
“Let me get a look.” She motioned for him to turn in a circle. Because he could never tell her no, he did as she asked. “Been so long, it’s a wonder I recognized you.”
“You were in New York just last month,” Morgan reminded her with an indulgent smile
.
“Was I?” Her expression thoughtful, Marcy tapped her chin with her finger. “Only a month? Are you sure? Seems like longer.”
The best part of Morgan’s financial status was the ability to spoil the two most important people in his life. The first time he earned some real money—when he toured the world as a member of Razor’s Edge, he flew Marcy and Sven to Los Angeles to see him in concert.
Under the impression he still needed to hide his identity and needing help to handle the details, Morgan broke down and confided a little of his past to someone he knew he could trust. Joplin Ashford.
As the person who discovered Razor’s Edge then acted as their liaison to the glamor and glitter of the music world, Joplin became the band’s go-to person when they needed advice or just a sympathetic ear. In Morgan’s case, he didn’t tell all but shared enough details to give her a sense of why he wanted Marcy and Sven’s experience to be first class but couldn’t let anyone know his connection to them.
As always, Joplin came through with flying colors. She gave the Reinholds the time of their lives.
After Razor’s Edge broke up and Morgan discovered India wasn’t the love of his life but a duplicitous bitch, he avoided Lake Darwell out of principle. However, he refused to let one woman keep him from his family.
To their surprise and delight, Sven and Marcy became jetsetters. Paris, London, Lisbon, Tokyo. While nothing could match the happiness of their everyday routine on the farm, two or three times a year, when there was a lull in their workload, they allowed Morgan to show them the world. Economy class for most of their lives, they took to the high-end lifestyle like seasoned pros.
Marcy and Morgan took their time as they strolled toward the house, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm.
“You remember New York just fine,” he teased. “Dinner out every night followed by a Broadway show. And don’t forget your shopping spree.”
“Fancy,” she said, glowing with the memory. “Still love the boots.”
Laughing, Morgan glanced at Marcy’s leather-encased feet. She hadn’t asked the cost of the designer originals. Wisely, he didn’t tell her. Not that the price would ever be the point where she was concerned. The delight on her face as she strutted from Fifth Avenue to the farm in Upper Michigan was worth any price.
The boots were not meant for hard country living. But what the snooty designer didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Long as Marcy was happy, a fine layer of dust overcoating the glossy shine, nothing else mattered.
“Glad to know you’re getting your money’s worth.”
“Your money’s worth,” Marcy corrected. “Still boggles my mind when I realize my son is rich as Croesus.”
Her son. Marcy long ago stopped thinking of Morgan as the hired help. He couldn’t be anymore theirs if she’d carried him in her body for nine months. And he agreed. In every way that mattered, she and Sven were his parents.
As they entered the house, Morgan breathed in. The aroma of fresh-baked bread made him want to weep with happiness.
“You’ve been busy. Sourdough?”
“For your homecoming celebration, what else?” Marcy led the way into the kitchen. Taking a long bread knife, she cut him a thick slice. “Chicken pot pie for dinner and lemon tart for dessert.”
“I’ll get fat,” Morgan said over a mouthful of goodness. He licked a dab of Marcy’s hand-churned butter from the corner of his mouth and realized he wasn’t home. He was in heaven.
“Not likely.” She laughed. “Been too long since I had a chance to spoil you properly. Hope you don’t mind.”
“Spoil me all you want. I won’t complain.” Comfortable in his surroundings, Morgan poured himself a glass of milk, straight from the cow to the refrigerator. “Where’s Sven?”
“Out in the apple orchard with the new farmhand.”
Morgan understood how difficult it was to find trustworthy workers who didn’t loaf off the second the boss turned his or her back. He hadn’t left the farm of his own volition, yet he still felt a twinge of guilt at leaving Sven and Marcy in the lurch. Never a substitution, his money helped ease their burden. Extra hands meant less worry, and he was happy to take care of the extra payroll. In fact, he insisted.
“How’s the new man working out?”
“New woman.” Marcy tsked. “Join the twenty-first century. Females are capable of more than baking a pie. We can also till the ground, plant the trees, fertilize the soil, and pick the fruit.”
“Strong multitaskers.” He nodded. “I understand.”
“You should. Dionne practically runs your business, and she does so in a skirt and heels without breaking a sweat or chipping a nail. I’d like to see you try to do the same.”
“Stilettos aren’t my cup of tea,” Morgan said with a straight face. “Don’t have the legs for them.”
Marcy’s lips twitched.
“As for the business, Cumulous Inc. is my baby, don’t forget.” Morgan snatched a carrot from the pile Marcy expertly peeled and julienned. “Started from the ground up.”
“You always had an unparalleled work ethic.” Pride vibrated in Marcy’s voice. “If you’d stuck with your music, think where you’d be.”
“Playing for donations?” he asked. “Barely making rent?”
“With your talent and ambition?” Marcy scoffed. “I don’t think so.”
“Just wasn’t meant to be.”
“Such a shame.” Shaking her head, Marcy scraped the carrots into a large pot. “Why can’t you do both? Run the business and make music?”
With a casual shrug, Morgan placed his glass in the dishwasher.
“Don’t have time,” he said.
Which was true, up to a point. He’d put all his time and energy into building Cumulous Inc., to the detriment of everything else—especially writing, playing, and singing.
And, his old friends.
If Morgan were honest with himself, he missed the camaraderie he’d lost when he left Razor’s Edge. Even more, he missed his ex-writing partner, Beckett Kramer, and he had no one to blame but himself.
Morgan could have stayed in touch with Beck. No, he should have stayed in touch. At first, he was angry. With the band, with India. He turned his focus on revenge, and the days spent building his fortune ran together.
Weeks passed, then months, then years. Every path a person takes, successful or not, is paved with regrets. Morgan carried more than his share. The loss of his music and the best friend he’d ever known topped the list. However, he couldn’t go back and too much time had passed. Getting in touch with his old friend after so long would be awkward.
What if Beck didn’t want to talk? Or worse, told him to go to hell? Rather than take a chance on one last bitter conversation, he held onto the good times and lived with his regrets.
Morgan smiled at Marcy.
“How often have you told me to let go of the past?”
“I meant your obsession with revenge,” Marcy said with a pointed look. “Your music was a joy, for you and everyone lucky enough to experience your talent. The last time I saw you truly happy was when you were on stage with your band.”
“I’m happy,” Morgan insisted. “As for the rest, even if I wanted to go back, I can’t. Razor’s Edge is gone. Blown into five separate pieces and scattered to the wind.”
“You know I didn’t mean the band specifically. Though, I’ve heard rumors of a reunion.”
Morgan’s brows shot up. Unsure how he felt besides flabbergasted, he shook his head.
“Impossible. Too much vitriol and animosity under the bridge. Hell, the bridge was obliterated.” Curious, he frowned. “Where could you possibly have heard about a reunion?”
“Beats me,” Marcy said as she rolled out the crust for the pot pie. “Just wishful thinking, I suppose.”
A terrible liar, Marcy was particularly bad at fibbing to someone she loved. Morgan could tell by the way she kept her gaze trained on the pastry somet
hing was afoot.
“Seems like a very specific bit of gossip.”
“Gossip.” Marcy brightened. “Exactly. At some time, I read a random article on a random website. You know.”
“Random?”
“There you go.”
Because the idea of a Razor’s Edge reunion was so preposterous, Morgan let the subject go. Still, he wondered, if he bought Marcy’s explanation—which he didn’t—why was she acting so twitchy.
“Morgan!”
Sven, covered head to toe in dirt and sweat and grinning ear to ear, rushed into the kitchen. He reached to pull Morgan in for a hug, stopping at the last second with a good-natured laugh.
“Let’s hold off on the manly show of affection until I have a shower.”
“Fair enough.” Morgan grinned. “Think we can risk a handshake?”
With a mock frown, Sven mulled the idea for a few seconds then shrugged.
“Why not. A little dirt won’t kill you.”
More than a little, he discovered. Sven’s hands were caked with mud. Morgan didn’t care, he’d experienced worse. Life on a farm meant jumping in feet first, literally. If you were at all squeamish about grime or the smell, feel, and occasionally, the taste of organic fertilizer—usually the chicken variety—you were in the wrong business.
Like all things in life, Sven didn’t believe in half-assing his way through a handshake. Strong, firm, with plenty of eye contact, he made the experience one his partner didn’t soon forget.
“How are things in the orchard?” Morgan asked. He moved to the sink, intent on washing the mud off his hands before any dropped onto Marcy’s clean floor. “Heard you have a new farmhand.”
Sven tried to sneak a bite of the chicken Marcy had yet to add to the vegetables and gravy she had bubbling on the stovetop, but she was too fast for him. Instead of a moist morsel of meat, he received a wooden spoon to his knuckles for his troubles.
“After you clean up,” Marcy told her husband.
“Treats me like a ten-year-old boy,” Sven lamented to Morgan.
ALMOST EVERYTHING Page 17