That Boy From Trash Town (11 page)

She turned away from the affectionate anxiety in his eyes. "You're wrong," she said quietly. "You taught me. You taught me to adapt, to handle any new situation that came along. Without flinching. Without complaining.'' She drew in a slow breath and turned to look at him again. "These people... They like me, Dean."

He made a sound of exasperation. "Of course they like you. That was a stupid thing to say."

"Not so stupid." Her lips curved in a small smile. "What I meant was, they like me without knowing I'm a Harcourt. Back home, I was treated with respect, even awe, because of who I was. But here, they respect me for what I am. That kind of thing is addictive, Dean." She paused. "I need to stay here and get some answers. I need to know why Daddy left, why he never came back, or even got in touch with me. And I need to know what kind of person he is when I look at him from an adult perspective instead of with the adoration of a little girl. But—and maybe this is the most important thing—I also need to find out what kind of person Whitney Grant is."

She reached out and touched his cheek. "I'm sorry if I caused problems for you. I never wanted to do that" She let her hand fall to her lap. "Go home now,

Dean. And stop worrying about me. I'm fine." She bit her lip. "Tell my mother I'll call her when...when I'm settled in."

He nodded slowly. "If that's what you want," he said finally. After a moment he moved to open the door. "You'll take care?" he asked without looking at her as he stepped from the car.

"Sure," she said, keeping her voice light. "And you do the same."

She slid into the driver's seat and watched Dean walk away, into the darkness, out of her life, then she started the Buick and pulled out of the parking lot

Fifteen minutes later, when she walked into her apartment, Whitney turned on everything. All the lights, the television and the radio in the kitchen.

It didn't work. The noise and lights didn't even begin to fill the rooms. Although Dean had never been in her apartment, she still felt his absence keenly. And she still had to live goodbye all over again.

When her neighbor to the east began to pound on the wall, Whitney turned everything off, took a shower, and climbed into bed. As she lay on top of the covers, she stared at the ceiling and willed her body to relax. Tonight she wouldn't pull up memories of him, and she wouldn't fantasize about a someday wedding.

But there was no way she could keep from thinking of him, about the way he'd looked tonight. Had he lost weight? She was almost positive there were lines in Ins face that hadn't been there the last time she saw him. What had he been doing to himself? He probably wasn't eating right.

She shifted restlessly on the bed. Being away from his work must have been hell for him. He shouldn't have done that. He shouldn't have neglected his work to come looking for her.

It would be better for him now, she told herself. Now that they had actually said goodbye face-to-face, now that he had seen for himself that she was making a new life for herself, he would be able to forget about her and get on with his own life.

And, acknowledging how well everything had worked out. Whitney rolled over and cried herself to sleep.

* * *

Dean closed his eyes so the redhead in the seat next to him would think he had fallen asleep. He was in no mood to flirt. In fact he was in no mood to be on this plane. Had he given in to his real mood, he would have stayed in Dallas and kicked somebody's butt out of sheer frustration, preferably the muscle-bound imbecile who had been kissing Whitney in that bar.

Get a grip, Dean told himself. Wasn't this just exactly what he'd wanted? He had convinced himself that all he wanted was for Whitney to lose her dependency on him and have a normal life. That was why he had always been so open with her about the women he dated. Hell, it was why he was with the women in the first place, to convince her that she had to let go of her childish obsession for him.

Not that Whitney hadn't had dates. She'd gone out with plenty of boys in high school. Prep-school types. Boys who were destined to have their names boldfaced in the society pages of the newspaper. Young men wearing natural fiber clothes, who came to her stamped with the Harcourt seal of approval.

Whitney had dated them; she had even liked a few. But more often than not, she would come to Dean with a wicked imitation of the way they talked and walked and thought. The few she had liked, she kept as friends. All the others she had ruthlessly discarded, heedless of her mother and uncle's outrage.

When Dean had grown exasperated, waiting for her to form even one romantic attachment, he had become more open with Whitney about the women he dated, trying to show her that he had a personal life, one that didn't include her.

But, true to form, Whitney hadn't reacted as he'd expected her to. There had been no angry confrontations, no bouts of weeping. Although she made a show of jealousy, it was a teasing kind of thing. It was as though she were waiting, as though she knew that one day he would turn to her.

And Dean pretended, even to himself, that her obstinacy made him angry. Tonight he had learned the truth. When he'd seen her in the arms of a stranger, he knew he had been lying to himself.

Turning his head toward the window, he shifted in his seat. Learning the truth about himself was distinctly unpleasant. Disillusioning. He'd believed he was stronger. Now he could see that all along he had been feeding on Whitney's unassuming adoration, using it to sustain himself, to keep his head above water.

No matter what he faced in the courtroom, no matter how many times he got knocked down, no matter what changes occurred in his life, he knew he could count on Whitney to stay the same. He knew she would be there for him, telling him that whatever happened, he would always be her hero. It was the one constant in his life. Whitney's laughing, loving devotion had grounded him.

Opening his eyes, Dean stared out the window at the darkness. Clouds obscured the lights from the towns below and night obscured everything else. He had never liked flying at night. Planes were always smaller at night, the surrounding wall of black isolating. The interior of the plane became the whole world.

He hadn't brought any work with him, which meant there Was nothing to keep his mind occupied, nothing to stop the memories.

As he stared into the darkness, the window became a screen onto which his mind projected bits and pieces of the past. Flash cards of days gone by.

There Dean could see the day he'd found her, sitting on the curb, no part of Trash Town but there just the same. And now a picture of Whitney showing him the beaver costume she would wear in her third-grade play. He saw her dressed in riding clothes and a little hard hat, holding up her first riding trophy. He saw her on the night before her first school dance, wearing the poufy pink dress her mother had chosen, the running shoes on her feet spoiling the too adorable look.

And then the scene changed, and Dean saw the first time he'd known that he wanted her.

Drawing in a deep, shaky breath, he closed his eyes against the vision, but it didn't help. It was still there, more vivid than ever.

In the vision he was twenty-four and Whitney was sixteen. Even now, when he was looking at it rather than living it, Dean didn't know why it had happened at that particular moment. There had been no reason or rhyme to it. The jeans and T-shirt she wore were, by no definition of the word, provocative. And there had been nothing flirtatious either in her words or in her attitude.

They had been sitting side by side on the back stoop, close but not touching, as she told him about sneaking out of Sweet House in the middle of the night so she could ride without anyone critiquing her performance on a horse. As she described the moonlight ride, sharing her feelings of exultation when she and the horse flew together across Harcourt land, Dean found himself watching her mouth. And that was when it happened. That was when he knew he wanted her.

At twenty-four, physical needs held no mysteries for Dean. He had been with women. But he had never fete anything as overwhelming as what he felt right then, sitting on the steps beside Whitney.

As she settled back, their bodies overlapped slightly and she leaned comfortably against him. It was the kind of touching that frequently took place in a friendly relationship. Nothing out of the ordinary. No sensual intent behind it. But, God, it felt sensual to Dean. And as she continued to talk, he suddenly realized his hand was resting on her waist. He had no idea how it got there, but now that it was, he couldn't seem to shift it. He felt the heat of her flesh burning into his palms as though the T-shirt were nothing more than a figment of his imagination. And when she moved her head, he felt each separate strand of black hair that brushed across his lips, as though they had taken on a life of their own, deliberately taunting him, willfully seducing him.

As he held her in an almost embrace, every muscle in his body grew hard and tight and hot, and his breath came in labored drafts. He couldn't seem to concentrate on what she was saying. Although he could feel her laughter in the palm of his hand, he had no idea what caused it.

When his hand began to move at her waist, as though his fingers felt an independent need to touch more of her, Dean knew he had to stop it. Jerking abruptly away from her, he forced himself to stand up and move away, his hands shaking, his lungs on fire.

He had spoken sharply to her then, telling her he didn't have time to sit around gossiping, and walking past her into the house, he had closed the door and locked it.

Dean had known Whitney since she was six years old, and their relationship had never been simple. It wasn't merely friendship. And he didn't see her as a little sister. He wasn't sure just how to define the ties that held them together, but he had felt, felt from the very first day, that it was his job to take care of her.

But on that day when she was sixteen, out of the blue he found himself wanting her with an unbelievable urgency. He wanted to take her. He wanted her naked beneath him. He wanted to feel her body moving beneath his. He wanted to taste her, every inch of her.

The sensations were so strong—the scent of her in his nostrils, the taste of her on his tongue—that the very air around him felt electrically charged, as though he had actually felt her naked flesh against his.

Confused and embarrassed, it had taken Dean weeks to get over the experience. And the worst part, the part that haunted his darkest hours, was that Dean knew he could have Whitney. He was her champion, and she made no secret of the fact that she had a crush on him. She was so warm and loving, she would have come to his bed gladly, joyfully.

And sometimes, in the middle of a sleepless night when desperation took hold of him, he considered asking her to do just that. He considered using her misguided, unformed emotions to get what he was so desperately wanted.

He was ashamed that he had even allowed the thought to cross his mind, but shame didn't make the craving for her go away. It was as if his desire had been a tethered demon, and once unleashed, it refused to be contained again.

For most of her life, Whitney had come to Dean for affection ... understanding ... compassion ...- companionship. For all the things she didn't get from the Harcourts. And suddenly he was afraid to touch her, afraid his need for her would get out of hand.

He had to tell himself over and over that Whitney was just another pampered Harcourt brat, as different from himself as night from day. There was no place in his life for someone like Whitney. Chance had brought them together, but reality kept them from being anything other than friends. That was the way Dean wanted it, he told himself. A friendship he could handle. Anything else didn't bear thinking about.

Whitney accepted the new restrictions he had placed on their relationship. Without demur, without questions. But although she wasn't as free with her affection as she had been in the past, she flatly refused to let him step out of her life completely. They remained friends, and as the years passed, Dean had learned to control the demon within him. There were times he even thought he had conquered it.

But on the day she left San Antonio, on the day she had walked unannounced into his bedroom, he had been forced to acknowledge the truth. The demon— the overpowering need, the devastating hunger—was still there inside him, waiting to get put and destroy them both.

But in spite of all that, it had all worked out. Dean's strength of purpose, the control he has imposed on his own will, had worked. Whitney was over her infatuation. She had finally recognized the fact that heroes could live only in the rarefied atmosphere of childhood. You couldn't carry them along with you into the adult world.

Whitney was at last making a new life, a real life, for herself. Dean had won. So why didn't he feel triumphant? he wondered. Why did he feel so damned empty?

Chapter 8

"
I
don't understand it," Lloyd said. "How can you be so brilliant at darts and so pitiful at bowling?"

Unaffected by the insult, Whitney held her hands over the air dryer as she waited for her ball to return. "It's very simple. Pick up a dart, then try picking up one of these bowling balls. 'You canna change the laws of physics, Captain Kirk.' It has something to do with thrust and force and expendable energy."

"And that's why the ball lands in the gutter every time?" Lloyd asked.

"She's conning you," Frankie called from the next lane. "Face it, Mary, you stink like a big dog. You're the only person in the history of bowling to come up with a negative score."

Frankie's opinion and her digital response brought a roar of raucous laughter from the group, but Whitney ignored them and picked up her ball. She went carefully through the steps that Lloyd had taught her—hold the ball at chest level; step and thrust out; step and swing back; step and release on the return swing—then she sighed heavily as the ball headed straight for the gutter.

After curtsying to the burst of enthusiastic applause—people she didn't even know were keeping track of her score—Whitney headed for the ladies' room to freshen up.

She was washing her hands when a petite, attractive blonde came out of one of the stalk. Linelle Pierce also worked at the toy factory, but since she had an office job, Whitney didn't see her as often as she did the rest of the group.

"I'm glad you don't let their teasing bother you," Linelle said as she fussed with her ham "They all like you a lot. Especially Frankie."

Whitney studied the blonde's carefully composed features. "Do I detect a hidden question there? Like, am I interested in Mr. Watch-Me-Flex-My-Muscles Halloran?" Whitney grinned. "You don't have to worry about me, Linelle. Frankie is right out of my league. I would never aspire so high."

"Somehow I get the feeling Frankie wouldn't agree with you," the woman said gloomily.

Whitney took a lipstick out of her purse. "Frankie simply likes a challenge. If I were really hot for him, he wouldn't give me the time of day. Next time you're talking to him, let your attention wander off to another man. Just see what kind of reaction you get then." She grinned. "If he doesn't strain a tendon trying to impress you, I'll eat my bowling shoes."

After a moment of thought Linelle gave a slow smile. "Why not? I couldn't be worse off, that's for sure."

As she watched Whitney apply her lipstick, the blonde's expression grew thoughtful, and after a moment she dropped her gaze to her hands. "Mary-Look, we don't know each other all that well, and you can tell me to mind my own business if you want, but..." She raised her head and met Whitney's eyes. "You're not thinking about going after Lloyd?"

Whitney choked back startled laughter. "No... really," she said, shaking her head vehemently. "It's nothing like that. Lloyd and I are friends. Just friends."

Linelle relaxed. "That's a relief. I like you, and I like Lloyd. But the two of you together? Know what I mean?"

"Is anyone else thinking along those lines?" Whitney asked with a worried frown. "Do the rest of the gang think that Lloyd and I are, you know... together?"

The blonde shrugged. "A few of them, maybe. I mean, you spend all your time hanging around Lloyd, and as far as we know, you haven't had a single date since you started out at the factory. Lloyd told them nothing was going on between the two of you, but you know how men are. They just wouldn't let it alone."

"Lloyd told them—" She broke off and shook her head. "He didn't say a word. Why didn't he tell me the guys were razzing him?"

"Maybe he was embarrassed. You know how private Lloyd is." Linelle paused. "If you haven't got a thing for Lloyd, then how come you don't ever date? There are plenty of guys at the factory, not all of them slugs, either, who would jump at the chance to go out with you. Say, I could fix you up if you want. Maybe we could double."

"That's really sweet of you, Linelle, but I don't think so. I'm just not ready yet."

"Yet?" Linelle narrowed her eyes at Whitney, giving her an ah-ha look. "I thought so. You're coming down from a bad man trip. Am I right?"

"Something like that."

"Hey, forget him. Men are worms." The blonde leaned back against the vanity counter. "Have you ever looked at a night crawler up close?"

"Noo-oo," Whitney said slowly. "I can't say that I have."

"Try it sometime. Get two of them and see if you can tell any difference. It's impossible. One might be longer or shorter than the other—you can take that any way you like—" she added with a grin "—but they're basically the same. You gave me some advice, so now I'm going to return the favor. It's stupid to let yourself get all messed up over one worm when you can dig up another one. Just use it."

"Pithy," Whitney said, nodding judicially. "Really pithy. The only flaw I see in your hypothesis is a muscle-bound wonder named Frankie."

Linelle laughed and shook her head. "I was afraid you'd remember him. Okay, so I don't believe a word of what I just said. And apparently, neither do you."

"No." Whitney smiled.' 'Because my night crawler wasn't a duplicate of anything. You could line up a thousand earthworms beside him, and I'd still know the difference. Instantly and without a doubt."

As though she had seen something in Whitney's eyes, Linelle put a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, honey. Sometimes it works out that way, damn their eyes."

Whitney shrugged. She knew Linelle wanted to hear the details of her "bad man trip," but Whitney wasn't willing to have her relationship with Dean turned into just another affair gone wrong. She wouldn't ever be able to talk about it with the casual but enthusiastic indignation with which most women treated their past love affairs.

Turning toward the door, she smiled again and said, "I hope you'll have better luck with Frankie."

After playing another game the party began to break up, and it was just after three when Whitney followed Lloyd out of the bowling alley to his station wagon.

She and Lloyd still took separate cars to work, but occasionally on the weekends, if the gang from the factory was getting together at the lake or the bowling alley, she and Lloyd would ride together. It was a small step, but she figured a small step was better than no step at all.

Linelle had been right when she said Lloyd was a private person, and Whitney disliked knowing that their friendship was causing him problems, but she couldn't back off now. She simply couldn't.

In the two weeks since Dean's sudden appearance, Lloyd had gradually begun to grow more comfortable in her presence. There were even times when he seemed glad to see her, which was fortunate, because Whitney made sure he saw her as often as possible. He laughed more often now; and what was even more important, his laughter no longer took him by surprise. Maybe it was wishful thinking on her part, but it seemed that he was coming back to life a little more each day.

And not before time, she told herself as he parked the station wagon in his regular space at the side of their apartment building.

Garden Court Apartments was a small complex that consisted of four separate, two-story buildings that were arranged around a central courtyard. The Court contained no indoor corridors; the apartments all opened onto covered walkways that overlooked the courtyard.

Lloyd's apartment was on the upper level of the west unit and, with some careful maneuvering, Whitney had managed to get one just three doors away.

"I don't know what you keep going on about," she said once they reached his door. "I took out six pins in that last game. That's definitely progress."

"You might say that," he said, nodding sagely. "Bat you'd be the only one. I probably should have explained that the object of the game is to try and knock over the pins in your own lane."

"I was hoping you hadn't noticed that," she said, her voice peevish.

As she stood watching Lloyd laugh at her expense, Whitney moved out of the way so that a man with a large cardboard box could pass by them. Out of the corner of her eyes she saw the newcomer stop in front of an apartment four doors down, just on the far side of Whitney's.

When the man put down the box and inserted a key in the door, Whitney frowned. Something about him was beginning to nag at her. She turned her head for a better look and instantly drew in a sharp breath, her eyes widening in shock.

The new tenant wore a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut out, and his faded jeans fit like a glove across well-shaped buttocks. Even though the man had his back turned to her, Whitney recognized him now.

Oh yes, she knew that backside.

Dean turned and nodded his 'head in greeting. "How're you doing?" he said, his smile polite, his dark eyes gleaming with suppressed laughter.

"Mary?"

Whitney turned to find Lloyd watching her, making no effort to hide his amusement. "Are you going to introduce me to your friend?" Lloyd asked.

Leaving the box on the walkway, Dean walked back to where they stood. "Yes, Mary, introduce us."

She was going to kill him. She was going to kill him in a way that was painful. And slow.

After sending Dean a vengeful look, she said, "Lloyd, this is Dean Russell... an old friend. Dean, Lloyd Grant."

"A new friend," Lloyd said as he shook Dean's hand.

Whitney stood a step away from the two men, feeling anger and a lot of other things she didn't want to
think about at the moment. She wanted to concentrate on the anger. At least until she found out what in
hell was going on.

"The apartment only became available yesterday," Dean was telling Lloyd. "I was really lucky to get it. Fortunately the manager thought I had a trustworthy look about me."

Enough was enough. Grasping Dean's arm tightly, Whitney began walking back toward the door that he had left open.

"Dean, dear, you probably need some help getting unpacked. You should have let me know you were moving in today. You know how helpful I can be." She glanced over her shoulder. "See you tonight, Lloyd."

"Yeah... see you tonight, Lloyd," Dean called.

When they were both inside his apartment—his apartment—Whitney slammed the door behind them and looked him over slowly and carefully.

The way he was dressed reminded her of the way he used to look back when he was that wild boy from

Trash Town. A little uncivilized and totally sensual. He also looked as though he were laughing at a secret joke, as if he were thoroughly enjoying her anger, damn his sexy eyes.

"What in hell do you think you're doing?" she burst out, her voice high with incredulity. "Why are you here? What about your practice? If you mess this up for me, Dean, so help me God, I'll never forgive you."

Dean threw back his head and laughed. Sweet heaven, it was good to see her again.

"Let's take those in order," he said. "Your first question, I believe, was what in hell do I think I'm doing here? That's easy—I'm moving in. Second, why am I here? Because for good or for bad, and no matter what I've said to make you mink otherwise, I made myself responsible for you eighteen years ago. I can't let go until I know you're okay. What I saw last tone I was here didn't convince me of that. The third question was, what about my practice? I turned most of my cases over to Sam. The rest I'll handle from here, flying back to San Antonio when I need to."

What he didn't tell her was that the past two weeks had been pure, unadulterated hell, first making the decision to come here, then arranging to handle, on a commuter basis, the cases he couldn?t turn over to Sam.

"And as for the last question," he continued. "But that wasn't a question, was it? It was an assumption that would probably offend me if I were in the mood to be offended, which I'm not." He met her eyes. "I have no intention of messing this up for you. I think you should get to know your father. When have I ever wanted less than the best for you, Whitney?"

Whitney turned away from him. Damn it, she didn't want to love him. Why couldn't she stop? Why couldn't she stay mad? It wasn't right that he could walk in, say a few words, and have her melting inside all over again.

"It just seems like you're going a little overboard," she said, her uncertainty showing in her voice. "I knew you felt responsible for me, but this is too much, Dean. Why should you neglect your own life just to make sure mine is going well?" She shook her head slowly. "I don't like it. I've never asked this kind of thing of you."

"I know you didn't." She heard him move, then his voice came from directly behind her. "You never asked anything of me. This is for me, Whitney. Strictly for me. Okay?"

She turned to face him, examining his eyes. She could always see the truth in his eyes. "Okay," she said after a moment

He picked up her hands and gave them both a slight squeeze. "That's better."

This was going to take some mental adjustment, Whitney told herself as she casually pulled her hands free. Dean was in her life again, and she wasn't sure how she felt about that. She wasn't sure how he wanted her to feel about it.

For most of her life Whitney had chased Dean, and Dean had done his level best to hold her off. She didn't know how to react to this obvious reversal of roles. Who was she supposed to be now? What was she supposed to be to Dean? Had all the rules changed, or only some of them?