Heiress (60 page)

"I want you, Abbie." He held her tightly, rubbing his mouth near her earlobe, his mustache catching loose strands of her hair. "I've never stopped wanting you, nor loving you, not once in all these years. And you still feel the same way about me. You can't deny it. Nothing's changed, Abbie. Not one damned thing."

But that wasn't true. "You're wrong." Abbie pushed back from him. "Things have changed, MacCrea. I'm not the same woman I was then, and you're not the same man. We've changed. I've grown up. I think differently and feel differently about things now. You don't know me. You don't know what I'm like now—what I want or what I need."

"No? I'll bet I could make some damned good guesses," he mocked. "Take your hair, for instance. Every time I've seen you lately, you've got it pulled back in this prim little bun. I'll bet you never wear it loose anymore, all soft against your neck." He trailed his fingers down the taut cord in her neck, stopping when he reached the high collar of her blouse. "And you wear a lot of turtlenecks and button your blouses all the way up to your throat. Your jackets are tailored like a man's. I bet if I looked in your closet I wouldn't find a single pretty dress that shows off your figure."

"You're wrong. I have several."

"New ones?"

"That's beside the point."

"Is it? You're a passionate woman, Abbie. But you've locked it all inside, beneath those high collars and that prim bun. You don't love that farmer husband of yours. You never have."

"What are you suggesting?" Abbie demanded. "That I leave him?" But she could tell by his expression that that was precisely what he meant. "And after that, what am I supposed to do? Come back to you?"

"Yes, dammit." He scowled impatiently, then tried to wipe it away. "Can't you see it would solve everything? The three of us would be together, you, me, and Eden, the way it should have been."

Abbie stared at him for several seconds, then pulled away from him and walked to the center of the empty room, unable to hold back the bitter laugh that rolled from her throat. "Why? Because you want your daughter?"

"Is it so damned impossible to believe that I might want you both?"

"No, it isn't impossible. Look, maybe you have the right to see your daughter and get to know her—"

"You're damned right I do."

"You also hold the power to force this whole situation out into the open. If I agree to let you see Eden, will you give me your word that you won't let on that she's your daughter—at least not for a while?"

"And if I gave you my word, would you believe me?" he asked, arching an eyebrow skeptically.

"I'd have to."

"That sounds remarkably like trust."

"You'd also have to let me choose the time and place to meet her." Unconsciously she held her breath as MacCrea studied her thoughtfully.

His answer was a long time coming. "Yes."

"Good." Abbie breathed easier, for the first time believing there was hope. "I'll be in touch. I promise."

"Abbie." He caught up with her in the corridor. "Before you go, there's one other thing. When I saw you in Phoenix that first time, long before I found out Eden was my daughter, it was you I wanted. Think about that. And think about this." He kissed her long and deep, not letting her go until she was kissing him back.

Chapter 41

As Rachel passed the study, she noticed the door was ajar. She stepped back and pushed it the rest of the way open, but there was no one in the walnut-paneled room. Hearing the rustle of a starched uniform, she turned from the door just as one of the maids came around the corner of the back hallway.

"Maria, have you seen Mr. Tibbs?"

"Yes, ma'am. He's in the front parlor."

"Thank you." Quickening her steps, Rachel walked swiftly toward the high-ceilinged foyer. Intent on the double doors that led to the parlor, she almost walked right by the small boy standing by the front door, struggling with the zipper of his winter jacket. She stopped short of the double doors and swung back to face her son. "Where are you going, Alex?"

He darted an anxious glance at her, then lowered his chin, burying it in the collar of his jacket. "Outside," he mumbled, the mop of brown hair shielding his pale blue eyes from her sight.

"Did Mrs. Weldon say you could?" Rachel frowned, wishing he'd stop acting as if she were going to hit him. She'd never struck him in her life.

He bobbed his head up and down in an affirmative reply. "She said I could take the truck Uncle MacCrea gave me and play with it outside."

She glanced at the large toy pickup truck with oversized, "monster" wheels sitting on the floor near his feet. "You be careful and don't break it."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Can't you call me Mommy or Mother—something other than ma'am all the time?" Rachel insisted impatiently. "I know Mrs. Weldon is trying to teach you to be polite, but sometimes, Alex, you carry it too far."

"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled again.

Seeing it, Rachel felt absolutely helpless. She tried to be a good mother to her son, but she just couldn't seem to reach him. There were times when she wondered whether this timid, sensitive child belonged to her. It was so irritating to know that Lane could do no wrong in Alex's eyes, and she could do nothing right. Sometimes she even wondered why she tried. Neither of them cared about her—not really.

As Alex continued to fumble with the zipper, Rachel walked over to him. "Let me help you with that."

At first he pulled away, but Rachel persisted. She arranged his collar so it would lay smooth, then paused, with her hands on his shoulders.

"There you go." She smiled at him. When he smiled hesitantly back at her, she had the urge to give him a quick hug. As she started to pull him toward her, he hung back. Suddenly it all felt awkward and forced. Rachel straightened abruptly, unable to endure his rejection of her. "You can go outside and play with your truck now."

Still smarting from his rebuff, Rachel turned and walked stiffly to the double doors. As she entered the parlor, she forgot all about Ross being there. She gasped in surprise when her wrist was seized and she was spun halfway around.

"There's no escape, blue eyes," Ross declared, smiling as he locked his arms behind her back. "This time I've got you."

"Ross, you're—" But he silenced her protest in the most effective and demanding way, kissing her with an ardor that melted all her previous stiffness. Sighing contentedly, she relaxed against him and nestled her head on his shoulder. "I've missed you," she whispered.

At almost the same instant, she heard a faint noise near the doorway. Too late she remembered the door was still open. Maria, Mrs. Weldon—anybody could have seen her kissing Ross. Guiltily she pushed away from him and turned, half expecting to see one of the maids retreating from the doorway. Instead she saw her son, poised uncertainly on the threshold.

"Alex, I thought you were going outside. What are you doing here? What do you want?" she demanded sharply.

He backed up a step, his gaze falling under her glare. "I thought. . . maybe you'd want to come outside and watch me play with my new truck."

"No!" She knew she answered too angrily, but she couldn't help it. "Not now. I'm busy." Alex continued to stare at both of them as he backed up farther still.

"Maybe another time, sport," Ross inserted.

Rachel couldn't stand the way the child looked at her. Those pale blue eyes, the color of washed-out denim, seemed filled with hurt and condemnation. "Alex, please. Just go outside and play."

He took another step backward, then turned and ran for the front door. Rachel stood motionless, waiting until she heard the door shut and the clump of his boots on the porch outside; then, only then, did she hurry over and close the double doors to the parlor. She leaned weakly against them and half turned to look at Ross, a wild fluttering in her throat.

"You shouldn't have been so hard on the kid," Ross said gently.

"You don't understand. He doesn't like me. What if he tells Lane?" Agitated, she moved away from the doors, clasping her hands tightly together.

"What can he tell him?" Ross stopped her and loosened her clenched hands, holding them in his own.

"I can't help it." She sighed, feeling frustrated and confused. "You don't know how glad I am that you're here, but at the same time, I'm worried that Lane might find out about us."

He lifted her right hand to his mouth and pressed his lips into the center of her palm. "Would it be so terrible if he found out about us, Rachel? After all, I love you and you love me."

"I want to be with you, darling. You have to believe that. But it isn't as simple as you make it sound. If I walked out that door with you, I'd lose everything: my home, River Bend, Sirocco, and—" She had been about to say, "and all the rest of the horses."

But Ross broke in, "I know. . . your son."

"Yes, Alex, too." She felt guilty that she hadn't even considered him. But she'd always regarded him as Lane's son. River Bend, the horses—they were hers. But Lane would never let her have them; she was certain of that. "Darling, you know all you have to do is call and I'll meet you whenever and wherever I can. We love each other. Isn't that what counts?"

"I'm just greedy, I guess. I want you all the time."

"Silly, you have me all the time. I'm always thinking about you—except when I'm with Sirocco and my other horses," she teased.

Ross chuckled. "I never dreamed I'd have a stallion for a rival."

"Now you know." She laughed softly, relieved that Ross was slowly beginning to accept the idea that she could never divorce Lane. Naturally he didn't like it. She didn't either. But it was the only way things could be.

Looking back, she understood so well what Dean had gone through. This land, this home had been in his family for generations. How could he risk losing it in a divorce settlement? He had been deeply in love with her mother. Two people didn't have to be married to be happy. In time, Rachel was certain she could convince Ross that this arrangement was best. If he truly loved her, he'd accept it and not expect her to give up everything she'd ever dreamed of having.

"Do you have any idea how frustrating it is to sleep under the same roof with you and not in the same bed?" Ross drew her back into the circle of his arms and began nuzzling the little hollow behind her ear. "Let's go up to my room, lock the door, and make love the rest of the afternoon."

"You know we can't do that." Deftly she eluded his attempt to draw her into another embrace and stepped free of him. "Lane and MacCrea might come back anytime now."

"I've been here three days and all we've managed to do is steal a few kisses. Rachel—"

"I think we'd better talk about something else." She walked over to the front window and lifted the sheer curtain aside to gaze outside. There was no sign of Alex anywhere in the front lawn. A movement in her side vision drew her glance to the adjoining field west of the house. The dark ring of the oval track stood out sharply against the tan stubble of the former hayfield.

"Any suggestions?"

She ignored the faint edge to his voice. "Last night, when you were talking to MacCrea after dinner, did he give any reason why he suddenly decided to move back here?"

"No. Do you know?"

"I have the feeling he's gotten himself involved with Abbie again," Rachel said tightly, aware that he'd announced his decision shortly after he'd disappeared with Abbie that night Sirocco had won the championship. "He's a fool to get mixed up with her again."

"Speaking of Abbie, did you see the article on her in the March issue of the Arabian horse magazine?" With a wave of his hand, Ross indicated the magazine on the coffee table, the one with the color photo of Sirocco on its cover.

"This one?" Rachel picked it up, frowning in surprise. "I read the piece they wrote about Sirocco, but I haven't had time to look through the rest of it."

"I read it last night—while I was trying to fall asleep." His pointed remark indicated she was the cause of his insomnia as he took the magazine from her and flipped through the pages. After locating the article, he handed it back to her. "She's going to get a lot of mileage out of her decision to race her stallion. There are some great pictures of her training track under construction. 'Abbie's folly': isn't that what you call it?"

"Yes," she muttered absently as she quickly began skimming the article. Between the photos and the text, it was five pages long, a full page more than the cover story on Sirocco.

"You have to admit it's a good piece," Ross said when she'd finished it.

Rachel flipped back to the beginning and read it through again, her ire growing with each infuriating word. "They make that old Polack sound like some sort of a guru. And did you see this quote others?" Rachel read it aloud: "'Racing will have to play a major role in the Arabian horse scene in America the same as it does in Russia, Poland, and Egypt. It's part of Nature's selection process; the survival of the fittest. Races are won by the strong and the swift. Here, in the United States, we put too much emphasis on the beauty of the Arabian horse,' claims Ms. Hix. 'Too many of our recent national champions have had serious conformation faults—serious enough that they would automatically be eliminated as racing prospects by any knowledgeable horse trainer. Yet our judging system has proclaimed these stallions to be the best we have. If they are the best, then I'm afraid we're in serious trouble.' End of quote."

"She's only saying publicly what a lot of people in the business have been saying privately for years."

"Is that so?" Rachel angrily tossed the magazine onto the coffee table. "You are aware that she's referring to Sirocco in this article. She just doesn't have enough nerve to use his name. She can't stand it that her stallion lost to mine. Now she's doing everything she can to make Sirocco look inferior. I'd love to make her eat those words."

"Unfortunately, that's not likely to happen."

"Why isn't it?" she demanded, resenting his implication that Sirocco couldn't beat Abbie's stallion.

"Well, because. . . you're not going to be racing Sirocco. You've got the Nationals to get ready for. Besides, you don't risk injuring a valuable stallion like that on the racetrack."