Heiress (27 page)

"I think I'll get some fresh air, too." Dobie Hix rose abruptly and headed for the door. He grabbed his hat off the hook, then paused. "That was a lovely meal, Mrs. Lawson. Thank you."

"You're more than welcome, Dobie."

Ben wasn't certain whether Dobie intended to add to his collection of barely visible bruises, so he pushed back his chair. "I will join you, Dobie."

He followed Dobie onto the veranda and stood beside him at the top of the steps. The sun was down and moonlight silvered the grounds—and the couple walking body against body across the clearing. Dobie stared at them and impatiently tapped his hat against the side of his leg.

"Maybe it isn't my place to be saying this, but I don't like him, Ben." He shoved his hat onto his head and pulled it low.

Ben wondered if Dobie noticed that the pair was headed for the office annex, not the broodmare barns where the sick foal was. "She is a woman grown."

"Yeah, I guess so." Dobie clumped off the porch "I'd better be getting home. See you in the morning."

"Good night, Dobie." Ben remained on the porch.

As they entered the dark annex, MacCrea attempted to turn Abbie into his arms, but she eluded him and caught hold of his hand to pull him deeper into the shadows. He followed reluctantly.

"Where are we going?"

"Here." A doorknob turned, a latch clicked open, and he breathed in the smell of leather. "It's my father's private office." She led him inside, then released his hand. He could barely make out the myriad of shapes, distinguishable mainly by their differing shades of darkness. "Wait here."

He could hear her footsteps as she moved confidently into the room. There was a snapping sound and the soft glow of light from a small green-shaded desk lamp spread over the room. He glanced quickly around the room, noticing the desk and chair, the paneled walls covered with pictures and trophies, and the leather sofa, its cushions empty and inviting. He looked at Abbie, partially backlit by the desk lamp, then glanced at the ribbons and trophies on the near wall.

"That's some collection."

"Yes." Abbie looked at them briefly. "I won most of them, the ones in the English pleasure and park classes."

"You must be quite a horsewoman."

"I can ride with the best of them." Her smile gave her reply a totally different meaning.

"So I've discovered."

"The door has a lock," she said.

MacCrea shut the door behind him and turned the lock. This time they wouldn't be rudely interrupted by her neighbor or anyone else. She was still standing in front of the desk when he turned back into the room. He walked over to her, paused, then ran his hands over her bare collarbones and up her neck to cup her face. Bending, he kissed her, taking little bites of her lips and feeling the rapid beating of her heart. At last he came up for air, and a tremor shook him. She looked into his eyes, and he had the feeling she could see all the way into his soul.

"You have the bluest damned eyes." He kissed their corners, closing them, and slid his hands onto her shoulders, his thumbs caressing the hollows. Conscious of the slight rise and fall of her breasts, he let his gaze travel down to them and center on that hint of cleavage behind the first white button. Then his fingers were around it without his being aware of moving his hand.

"No." She stopped him before he could free the button, and stepped back from him. "I'll do it."

A protest formed, but MacCrea never got it out as he watched the swift deftness of her hands reveal that she wasn't wearing a bra under that dress. Christ, she wasn't wearing a damned thing! he realized as the dress slithered to the floor and she stood completely nude before him, bathed in the soft lamplight.

He swore and she laughed. Then he had her in his arms. After that, it all became a blur of raw passion: the shedding of his clothes, the entwining on the leather couch, the kissing and fondling of bodies, the rhythmic rocking in unison, their climax, which forever trapped in his memory images of her nipples so erect with arousal, the side-to-side turning of her head, the arching thrust of her hips, and the look of raw wonder on her face.

MacCrea and Abbie lay nestled together on their sides like two spoons, the narrow couch not giving them any room to sprawl in contentment. He felt a tingling in the arm that pillowed her head, the warning of the nerves that they were going to sleep, but he didn't move. Hell, he didn't want to move from her.

Frowning, he absently studied the top of her mussed hair, the dark strands pulled loose from the single braid. He tried to analyze his feelings and understand why, with her, everything seemed different. True, Abbie went out of her way to please him, but so had other women, and succeeded as well. So what did she give him that others didn't or hadn't? Maybe it was the way she loved him with more than her body. All her emotions, her passion, went into it. She gave him everything—every part of her. But there wasn't any room in his life right now for a wife and family.

Marriage. My God, was he really thinking about marrying her? He concealed his shock and felt Abbie rub her cheek against his arm like a purring cat.

"After Daddy's funeral, I came here to think. Until that day, I didn't know he had another daughter. All along I thought I was the only one. It was hard for me to accept. It still is," she mused. "She was his favorite."

"How do you know that?" He felt her shrug a little.

"I know," was all she said. "You've seen her, MacCrea. . . you've seen Rachel. You know how much I look like her." He was struck by her phrasing: "I look like her" and not "she looks like me." "Every time Daddy looked at me, he saw her. Do you?"

"No." Until she'd mentioned it, he'd completely forgotten she had a half-sister, let alone the resemblance between them.

As Abbie turned in a tight circle to face him, needle-sharp pains shot through his arm. Wincing, MacCrea shifted onto his back to ease the pinching in his arm and pulled Abbie partially onto his chest. Using her forearms to prop herself up, she searched his face, her own expression warm and loving. He didn't want to notice that, any more than he wanted to notice the rounded contours of her breasts hanging full before him.

"I'm glad we made love here, MacCrea." She leaned forward and kissed him, her lips soft, her breath fresh. He felt himself growing hard again and tried to will it to stop. "Now when I come here, I'll remember this. I'll remember how good it was." She laid her head on his shoulder, pressing her firm breasts against his chest.

"Abbie." He knew he wanted to go on seeing her. But if he ever had to choose between his business future and her, he knew Abbie would lose. He wouldn't sacrifice his ambitions, his dreams—his life—for her. She'd give and he'd take. Wrong or not, that's the way it was going to be. But it wasn't necessary to make that choice yet. Maybe it never would be.

She made a protesting sound and snuggled closer to him. "I know it's late and I have to get up early in the morning, but I wish we could stay here all night."

"What are you going to be doing this next week?"

"Lane is supposed to come. Hopefully, he'll have this mess straightened out with Daddy's estate." Her mood changed. MacCrea sensed her restlessness.

"That's your days. What about your nights? Are you free?"

"No, I'm very expensive." She sat up, her smile mocking him.

"Are you, now?" The lightning change of topic and tempo kept him alert. She stimulated him mentally as well as sexually.

"Yes. And don't you forget it." She picked up his pants and tossed them to him.

Chapter 15

But Lane Canfield didn't come to River Bend until the end of the week. Now that he was there, sitting in the living room, Abbie felt uneasy, her nerves on edge. She didn't know what was going to come out of this meeting with him, but something had to. This waiting and all the attendant uncertainty was becoming a strain on everyone.

As she listened to her mother chattering away, playing hostess, she wanted to scream at her to stop, but she couldn't. Her mother had been in such good spirits all morning that Abbie dreaded the moment when they would vanish. Which they surely would. She had noticed that Lane hadn't touched either the coffee or the pecan tart he'd taken. Abbie had trouble convincing herself that he simply wasn't hungry or thirsty.

"Now, Lane, what was it you wanted to talk to us about?" Babs smiled and sipped at her coffee, blithely indifferent to the tension that was twisting Abbie's stomach into knots.

"Unfortunately, what I have to tell you isn't good," Lane began, setting his cup and saucer on the end table by the tasseled arm of the sofa.

"What are you trying to say?" Abbie demanded. "Is Daddy's estate going to be tied up in some litigation?" All along she'd suspected Rachel would contest the will and demand a share of the estate. Now it was happening. Abbie was sure of it.

"No. Nothing like that." He appeared to dismiss the possibility out of hand.

"Then what?" She frowned.

"It's taken some time to get a clear picture of exactly what the financial condition of the estate is. And I'm afraid it's worse than was first thought."

"What do you mean?" Mentally Abbie braced herself as she watched him closely.

"I'm sure you know that when Dean sold his father's company, he received a very large sum of money—"

"Twelve million dollars," Abbie remembered.

"Taxes, commissions, and various other costs had to be paid out of that, so actually he netted less than that," Lane stated. "Over the years, he has repeatedly dipped into that capital. Even though he borrowed money to build the improvements at River Bend—the new stables, et cetera—the actual breeding and showing of his horses was a constant cash drain. His law practice operated in the red as well. Add to that some unwise investments and an extremely high standard of living, and. . ." He paused, as if unwilling actually to voice the rest.

"You're saying there isn't any money left?" Abbie asked, hoping it wasn't true.

"I'm saying he was heavily in debt. His mortgage payments to the bank are past due. Property taxes are owed. There is virtually no source of income."

"You mean we're broke?" She doubted she understood him correctly.

"I'm sorry. But the assets will have to be sold to satisfy the claims against the estate."

"What has to be sold?" Abbie questioned, dreading the answer, yet needing to know precisely what he meant. "The horses? Some of the land? You just can't mean we'll have to sell River Bend."

"I'm afraid I do."

"No." Abbie couldn't believe it. She darted a stricken glance at her mother. Babs looked white. "Momma." She didn't know what to say to her.

"Is it that bad, Lane?" Babs watched him anxiously.

"Yes, Babs, it is." His expression was grim, regret evident in the way he avoided her gaze. "You know I'll help in any way I can."

"I know," Babs said dejectedly.

But Abbie still couldn't believe it was true. Things couldn't be that bad. She stared blindly at the papers Lane took from his briefcase, physical proof of his claim, evidence in black and white of monies owed, complete with names, dates, and figures. Her mind reeled with the words that sprinkled his conversation: mortgages, overdue loans, past-due bills, property taxes, delinquent payments.

All the talk of liabilities and indebtedness was followed by a discussion of terms such as "appraisal of assets," "inventory of stock and equipment," and "estate auction." But once Abbie waded through the business and financial language, she saw that Lane was saying they had to sell the only home she'd ever known, the beautiful Arabian horses she loved, the little corner of the world she lived in. Everything that was familiar to her, everything she'd ever loved, had to go under the auctioneer's hammer. River Bend was to be sold, the home that had been in her family for generations. This was her life he was talking about so coolly and unemotionally. Didn't he see that? She listened to him in frozen shock, rooted in her chair, unable to think, with the constant whirl of questions spinning in her head.

What was going to happen to them? What about Ben? Where were they going to live? What would they do? Where could she find a job? Doing what? Where would they get the money to eat? How could they move all this furniture when they didn't know where they were going? Why had this happened? How could her father have done this to them? How could he have done it to her mother?

But Lane never offered answers to any of her questions as he kept talking, now using phrases like "possible proceeds left after satisfying the creditors." He was so calm and matter-of-fact about it all that none of it seemed real. This wasn't happening to them. It couldn't be.

"Don't worry about anything, Babs," Lane insisted. "I'll handle all the details. Someone will be out in a couple of days to take a complete inventory and estimate the fair value of everything. I promise you we'll get the best prices we can."

"Promise. How can you promise anything?" Abbie angrily protested the way he kept trying to assure them everything was going to be all right. It wasn't all right. "How can you sit there and tell us not to worry? It isn't your home that's being sold! It isn't your world that's being turned upside down!"

"Abbie." Her mother was stunned by her outburst.

"I don't care, Momma. We're about to lose everything, and he's telling us not to be upset about it! Well, I am!" She couldn't take any more of his bland pap and bolted from the house.

Hot tears burned her eyes as she ran blindly to the stables. All she knew was that she had to get away and think—off by herself, away from everyone and everything. She grabbed a hackamore from the tackroom wall and ran to the paddock, hounded by the pounding questions in her head, driven to panic by the desperation and uncertainty. Somewhere there was an answer, a solution, a way out of all this—and she had to find it. They just couldn't lose everything. It was all a mistake, a dreadful mistake.

Her fingers were deft and sure even in her present turmoil as she hurriedly buckled the hackamore on the silver head of her filly and led her out of the paddock. She looped the reins over the Arabian's arched neck, grabbed a handful of mane, and swung herself onto the filly's back. With a prod of the heel and a pull on the reins, she turned her silver-gray horse toward the gate to the large back pasture.