Reclaiming His Pregnant Widow (14 page)

“It's what you should've done all along…it would've made everything right.”

Clea's eyes widened. “Is that why you tried to kill Brand? So that I would be free to marry Harry?” It made her stomach roll. “I feel quite sick.” She started to turn away. “I should go home.”

Her father's low voice stopped her. “You don't understand, Clea. He was going to destroy me—everything I'd built up.”

Shocked, she swung back. “What do you mean?”

“The first time you introduced him to me, I knew. Brand is sharper than a knife—he sees things most people don't notice. He's a cold, clever bastard. That analytical brain puts together information and spits out the answer. He'd lived in Iraq and Afghanistan. He understood the antiquities trade in the Middle East—the players, the black market, the legitimate market. To top it all, he had that peculiar gift of being able to recognize a fraud at a glance…and his ability to recall information about the obscurest pieces was formidable. I knew it would only be a matter of time.”

Clea's confusion hardened into certainty—and bitter disappointment. She rubbed the nagging pain at her side and it seemed to ease. “You're involved in buying looted artifacts.”

Like the Vessel of Inanna. And the Lady of the Temple. And heaven only knew how many other pieces.

“I defended you,” she said sadly, “I told Brand you would never be involved in such things.” Clea bit her lip, remembering her rage at Brand. How blind her loyalty had been. “I don't know you at all, do I?”

She owed Brand an apology. He was right: She
was
too naive to be let out on her own.

Her father spread his arms out wide. “I tried to spare
you the news of his death, my dear. If you had believed that your husband had deserted you for another woman and divorced him, it would've made it…easier.”

“But I never believed that.” Clea knew she must be wearing her most mulish expression. “Which meant you needed to come up with another scenario—so you got your ‘investigators' to report that Brand had died in a car crash in the desert with his nonexistent lover. Problem was, the men you'd hired to kill him kidnapped him instead—and kept him alive as insurance.”

“Harry and I had used them to move antiquities over the border into Turkey before. What I didn't know was that Harry had been shortchanging them. So they took Brand and disappeared, hoping for a bigger payoff somewhere down the line. Until one of the men surfaced with Brand's wedding ring after seeing our poster—he contacted Harry to claim the reward.” Her father sighed. “I knew then that we had Brand within reach.”

“So you put a contract out on the kidnappers—and their victim. If you'd succeeded I never would have known that you'd tried to have my husband executed.”

“Once it started, things snowballed.”

But the seeds of doubt about Brand's adultery had been successfully planted and after Brand's return they had flourished.
She'd been so gullible.
Clea felt like bursting into tears. But what would that accomplish?

“Dad—” Donald Tomlinson was still her father “—Brand's seen the Lady of the Temple and he knows where it originally came from. I have no doubt he will go to the FBI.”

He walked away, stopping beside a pedestal holding an ancient bronze—Clea didn't even want to contemplate whether that piece, too, had been obtained through illicit means.

“I knew this day would come from the moment I met
that man.” He reached out and touched the bronze. “And when your husband came back, I tried to buy time. I tried to talk Alan out of exhibiting the mask—told him we should wait until the museum could display all the pieces together. But he wouldn't—” her father turned to face Clea “—and I couldn't tell him why. It has been like standing frozen in the path of an oncoming train.”

“So Alan wasn't in on it?” Clea had wondered. Alan authorized all purchases and checked the provenance of every item.

“He had suspicions, I think. He never asked many questions—as long as some kind of provenance was provided. Enough to cover his bureaucratic ass.”

“I never suspected a thing.” It was hard to believe. But she'd always looked up to her father…viewed him as omnipotent and honest.

“You're my daughter, my only child. Of course, I never wanted you embroiled in that darker side of my life.”

“But you were prepared to let me marry Harry, knowing he was in on it? Didn't you think I might be drawn into it by accident?”

Her father gave her a sad smile. “We planned to stop while we were riding high. Four years ago we were nearing that point. If Brand hadn't started asking questions or gone to Iraq to find answers things might have been different. The mask was going to be our retirement fund.”

“Don't blame Brand. And it didn't work out that way— Harry is broke.”

“He's developed a gambling problem in the past few years.”

That stunned Clea. “Harry? A gambler?”

Her father sighed. “So perhaps in Brand you picked a better man, after all.”

“What you don't understand is that I love Brand. There is only Brand for me. Not Harry. Not anyone else. Ever.”

“That cold bastard loves you.” Her father paused, and Clea's heart gave a skip of surprise. “You should remind him that I am your father—and that if he turns me in, you will be devastated.”

“Don't ask that of me,” she begged. “Anything but that. Besides Brand would never compromise his beliefs. Not even for me.”

Having the veil of innocence ripped from her eyes was excruciating…yet Clea knew the time had come to grow up. She was no longer Daddy's little girl, and she would not do this for him.

A wave of emotion swept across her father's face. At last only resignation remained. “That's that then. I'd better talk to my lawyer.”

Clea closed the distance between them. “Oh, Daddy!”

Her father gave her a bear hug. “However this plays out, never forget that I love you. You're the best daughter a man could have.”

B
rand took one look at Clea's expression as she closed the front door behind her and resisted the demand to know where she'd been all this time. Instead, he scooped her into his arms and carried her into the study. Lowering himself into the chesterfield, he settled her on his lap and gazed into her ravaged eyes. “What happened?”

“You were right again—and now you're mopping up more tears. This is becoming a habit.” Clea buried her face against his shirt front.

Pulling her closer into his embrace, he said, “I'd much rather be wrong every time if being right leaves you looking like you this.” He was discovering that he had no stomach for being right when it brought her such pain.

“Oh, Brand!” She shuddered in his arms. “I went to see my father.”

Brand stared over her head. If he'd known Clea was going to confront her father, he would've moved heaven
and earth to make sure he was beside her. He didn't trust Donald Tomlinson with the most important person in his life—even if Clea was the man's daughter.

Resting his chin on top of her sweet-smelling hair, he decided that no man should have to face what he faced now. Going to the police to file charges against Donald Tomlinson could very well mean the end of him and Clea.

Brand was under no illusions. Doing the right thing was going to cost everything he'd lived for during the past four years…it was going to cost him his happiness. His wife. His child.
His family.

Their marriage could not survive this disaster. Thinking about how his baby would grow up without its parents together made him contemplate the other option: He could keep quiet…and let Donald go free.

It was the most tempting decision of his life.

Yet Brand knew he couldn't be the man he considered himself to be if he allowed Donald—and Harry—to continue unchecked. Hadn't Clea told him that the reason she'd fallen in love with him had been because of his integrity?

Tightening his hold around Clea, he pressed his lips gently against her hair and told himself that at least he would have memories of having experienced a love many never discovered. It was cold comfort…but it would have to be enough.

“Sweetheart, you know I'm going to have to call the authorities, don't you?”

For long seconds Clea was silent.

Then she turned her head. Tears silvered her eyes. And Brand knew his heart was about to break.

“I'm so sorry, Brand, for doubting you. I thought you and D-Dad…” She stumbled over the word. “I thought it was just a personality clash, kind of like two strong-willed
wolves. Pack leaders. I didn't see what was happening—how much he loathed you.”

“I was a threat to him.”

“That's what he said. Can you ever forgive me?”

The first fingers of hope touched him. Was it possible that Clea would stay, even if he turned her father in? But before he could reply, her face contorted.

Her hand went to her side. “Brand. The pain.”

Panic filled him. “Where?”

She doubled over in his lap, not replying. Digging into his pocket, Brand searched for his cell phone. “Curtis? Has Smythe gone home?” He listened. “I need you to bring the Lincoln around. We're going to the hospital.”

 

And then Brand started to pray.

The sound of the footfalls was heavier than those of the nurse who had just checked her blood pressure after helping Clea into the high, narrow hospital bed. Clea turned her head on the pillow as Brand entered the private ward.

His face was paler than Clea had ever seen it.

“How are you feeling?” he asked softly.

“A lot better now that I know the sharp pain in my sides was due to a ligament rather than something more serious.” His concern warmed her. “And the baby's fine, too. There's no bleeding—thank heavens.”

“But you need to rest—your blood pressure is higher than it should be, that's why they admitted you. Although, the medical team tell me it's already looking better.”

Pulling up a chair, Brand dropped down beside her and covered his face with his hands. Clea touched his cheek. Immediately he glanced across at her, and the taut mask of worry softened.

“You
do
care,” she whispered.

“Of course I care!”

“You've always been so difficult to read.”

“We can't have that.” He lowered his hands between his knees and sat forward on the edge of the chair. His lips curved up into the beginnings of a smile. “Look into my face, tell me what you see.”

The translucence in his ocean eyes was blinding. Clea's breath caught at the unmasked emotion.

Was she seeing love for her there? Or was she seeing only his relief about the baby? Her heart started to pound. Clea was too scared to hope that the divide that had separated them had finally gone.
“Brand?”

“I'm a man who lives by action, rather than words. Don't my actions tell you how I feel?” Propping his elbows on the edge of the bed, he leaned closer still. “I came back to you from hell.”

That caused Clea to think about what was most causing her stress right now—the harm her father had done to Brand. Tentatively she asked, “Have you heard anything about my father?”

“Clea…” Brand rested a hand on hers. “The FBI are going to arrest him.”

She shut her eyes.
So be it.
When she opened them again, Brand was still leaning forward, his eyes intent on her face.

“Clea, I'm going to be right beside you—whatever happens. Remember that. So try to let go of the worry.”

“Thank you—I will.”

What Brand was saying made sense. The baby—and Brand—were her priorities. Her father had made his own choices and he would have to bear the consequences for the harm, he'd caused Brand.

Forcing a smile, she said, “I will forever be grateful for the strength it took for you to come home to me.”

“Then I had to put up with Harry hanging around, because you liked him, even when I wanted to take him out!”

Clea snorted. “Don't even remind me about how I let myself be taken in. But self-restraint is good for you—violence is never the answer…and that's what we're going to teach our child.”

“No, love is,” said Brand.

Clea's jaw dropped. “L-love?” she stuttered.

At that, his smile broke into a chuckle. “Oh, Clea! I might not be good with words, but I've already told you that it was only ever you. What more do you need me to say?”

Her eyes softening, Clea gazed at him. “That you love
me?
”

He gave her fingers a gentle squeeze. “Isn't it obvious?”

“Okay, maybe I have been dense,” Clea admitted. “Forgive me?”

“Of course I forgive you, if you want to be forgiven. Oh, and don't forget I believed in our child without requiring scientific proof.” His mouth quirked.

Clea started to smile. “That was definitely an act of love.” Brand had always required scientific facts to accept anything; it had driven her mad in the past. “I should have realized that.” Then her body jerked. “Ow!”

The laughter vanished, and he was on his feet. “Are you okay?”

“I'm fine and so is the baby.” She took his hand and placed it on the rise of her belly. “The baby moved. Feel.”

“Hey,” Brand scolded the child in her stomach, “it's not your time yet. Stop kicking. Give your mother a break—she needs rest.”

Actions, not words
. Clea's lashes lowered as she drifted off to sleep. Although, when he chose to, he did words pretty well, too.

 

Actions, Clea reminded herself when she awakened in the morning to find Brand fast asleep beside her in the visitor's chair, his hand draped over hers, his long, lean length folded into the impossibly small space.

His eyes immediately peered as if he'd sensed her awakening, and he pulled his chair up closer to the bed. “How are you feeling, sweetheart?”

Clea turned her head on the pillow and smiled at him. “I'm ready to go home.”

“The doctor came in earlier and said they're going to discharge you. Your blood pressure is back to normal. Everything is looking good…and the baby is fine,” he said quickly as she started to sit up.

“So why do you still look worried?”

“Nothing to do with the baby, but a lot has happened over the past few hours.”

“My father?”

Brand nodded.

“Tell me—I need to know.” It brought great relief that Brand was treating her like an equal—he wasn't keeping secrets any longer.

“Harry surrendered to the FBI last night. He had some crazy idea that they might grant him immunity if he told them about your father.”

A terrible sense of foreboding filled Clea. “Dad's not dead, is he?”

“No, but when the authorities arrived at his penthouse, he was gone.”

“You're joking,” Clea whispered, covering her mouth with her hands.

“I'm not.” Brand held up three fingers. “Scout's honor. Apparently, it looked like the place had been ransacked. There were artifacts missing—small but exceedingly valuable pieces, according to what Harry told the Feds—and paintings had been cut from their frames. Your father's safe was open—his passport was nowhere to be found.”

“Oh, my heavens!”

“He escaped.”

“After I saw him last night, he knew you would go to the police. He'd finally run out of time.” Clea discovered she wasn't surprised that her father had flown the coop—and taken a nest egg of treasures with him. No doubt he had a stash of money stored somewhere abroad as well. Going over their last conversation, she realized he'd already had it figured out—he'd told her he loved her, and that she was the best daughter a man could have. He'd been saying goodbye.

“He probably started setting up an escape hatch from the moment you arrived home,” she said.

Brand nodded in agreement. “That's not all. Harry told the authorities that your father arranged for the death of a Baghdad taxi driver and poor Anita—and then had the bodies burned in my rental car to stage my death. So the charges are mounting. Of course, the FBI thinks Harry played a bigger role in this than he's admitting.”

Clea shook her head. “I can't believe it. My best friend and my father. How will I ever be able to trust my judgment again?”

“You married me,” Brand pointed out. “Nothing wrong with your judgment there.”

“You're different—you've got integrity. Even my father recognized that.”

Brand perched himself on the edge of her bed. “I'll admit that I'm torn. Your father is smart enough to head
for a country that will have no extradition treaty with the United States. And, while I believe he should be jailed for what he did to me, and for the looting of priceless museum artifacts, I can't forget that he will always be your father.”

Reaching up, Clea wrapped her arms around his neck, and kissed him. “I love you.”

“I know,” said Brand. “That's why you wanted the baby so badly.”

Clea found herself smiling. “Actions not words.”

“Exactly!” He bent his head and slanted his mouth across hers for a kiss that told her exactly how he felt about her.

 

One week later, Clea stopped dead in the doorway to her new—and much more spacious—office. She'd been appointed acting curator of the museum after Alan Daley had resigned over his involvement in purchasing the stolen artifacts for the museum. The final appointment still had to be made, but Clea had been left in no doubt that she would be awarded the position.

Brand was sitting in the chair behind her desk.

“What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you. I was going to take you to dinner at Fives to celebrate.” He glanced at the solitary clock on her office wall. It showed New York time. The other clock hadn't made the journey to this new space—Clea no longer needed it. “But we've missed the booking.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. I slipped out to share tea with Mom.” After the news had broken about her father, Clea had received an unexpected visit from her mother at the office. Now they were slowly reestablishing a relationship. Today, Clea had surprised herself by being gracious—and as she'd relaxed, she'd found herself actually liking her mother.
Warmed by the visible joy in her face. “What were we celebrating?”

“How about life?”

“What a good idea.” Brand's nightmares had all but disappeared in the past week, as Clea cuddled up to him every night in their great big bed. “I'm sorry I wasn't here.”

“No matter.” He pushed the chair back from the desk and got to his feet, shrugging his jacket back on. “Are you hungry?”

“Starved,” she admitted. “There are two of us to feed after all.”

Sliding her an amused glance, Brand held out a hand. “Then let's go find something for you both to eat.”

They settled on hot dogs from a stand on a street corner near Central Park.

It reminded Clea of those heady days when they'd first fallen in love, when their relationship had still been their secret joy, not yet revealed to the outside world.

“Let's walk through the park,” she said impulsively.

They ate as they walked, and when she was done, Clea reached for Brand's hand and laced her fingers through his.

It was perhaps unsurprising that they ended up under the oak tree where Brand had first proposed. The golden rays slanting through the leaves gave the evening a magical glow. Brand turned her into his arms.

“I love you, Clea.”

Her heart melted at the words.

“Will you marry me?”

Clea stared. “We're already married.”

“I thought we might renew our vows. What do you say?”

Her answer came without hesitation. “Yes.”

Brand groped in the pocket of his jacket before leaning
down to kiss her. When he straightened, he said, “Give me your hand.”