Til Death Do Us Part (42 page)

Roarke had been such a distraction she'd finally asked him to leave, to send Kane or a member of his security force to guard her for a few hours. Roarke had put a man named Tom Brown outside her office, kissed her goodbye and told her he'd be back around noon with their lunch.

How could she be this deliriously happy when her life was in constant danger? Because she had fallen in love with her husband, that's how. She'd been attracted to him since the first moment she saw him in his Atlanta office, and with each passing day that attraction had grown. The more she got to know Simon Roarke, the better she liked him. He was everything a man should be. Intelligent. Strong. Courageous. Understanding. Loving. Gentle. And an incomparable lover. But her perfect husband had one slight flaw. He wasn't a man for long-term commitments. He hadn't signed on for the long haul.

She hadn't planned on falling in love with him. He'd been a means to an end. Their marriage a business arrangement. But somewhere between the judge pronouncing them man and wife and Roarke kissing her for the first time and this weekend, when their passion had known no bounds, she'd fallen head over heels in love with Simon.

How would she ever be able to let him go? Without him, her life would be meaningless. But when the time came she'd have no choice—if he chose to leave her. Maybe he was beginning to care for her. Maybe he wouldn't want to end their marriage. Whatever his reasons for stipulating that he wouldn't stick around to see her through the pregnancy might no longer be valid. Not if he loved her the way she loved him.

But Simon had never mentioned love, not even during their most intimate moments, when they were as close as two people could possibly be. She had no doubts that he would die for her, that he'd lay his life on the line to protect her, but what she didn't know was whether his actions would be prompted by duty or love.

Did she dare bring up the subject of their marriage? Question him about his true feelings? What if he didn't love her? What if he intended to follow through with the stipulations of their marriage contract and get a divorce?

A knock on the outer office door brought Cleo out of her thoughts. She glanced up just as Audrey opened the door.

“Mr. Winfield is here to see you, Mrs. Roarke.”

Tom Brown stood in front of Hugh, obviously waiting for Cleo's answer before either stepping aside to allow Hugh entrance or escorting the man outside.

“Tell Hugh to come on in.” Cleo checked her watch. Twelve-twenty. Roarke would return with their lunch shortly.

“Thanks for seeing me, Cleo.” Hugh pranced into the office like some spirited young colt, blithely slamming the door in Tom Brown's scowling face. “We haven't had a chance for a private conversation since you married.”

“Is that what this is—a private conversation?” Cleo asked. “I assumed you needed to speak to me about a business matter.”

“I thought we were friends.” He perched his skinny butt on the edge of her desk. “Can't friends have a private conversation?”

“Yes, of course.” Cleo scooted her swivel chair up to her desk and looked at Hugh.

“We are still friends, aren't we?” he asked. “I mean you're not still upset about what happened between Daphne and me, are you?”

“No, Hugh, I'm not still upset. As a matter of fact, I was never that upset. I was disappointed more than anything else. Disappointed in your judgment. We've known each other since we were kids and I always thought you were a reasonably intelligent guy.”

“You are still upset.” He slid around the desk, grabbed her chair and turned her where she was directly facing him. “Cleo, sugar, Daphne is an exciting woman and very…well, shall we say, talented. But sleeping with her while I was dating you was a big mistake. And I'm sorry it happened.”

“What's the purpose for rehashing old news? You've already apologized and begged my forgiveness.” Cleo wondered just what Hugh wanted. He hadn't stopped by to renew their old friendship. He was after something else.

Leaning forward, Hugh reached out and grasped Cleo's chin in his hand. “It's not as if Daphne and I are in love or anything like that. I mean, if you'd accepted my offer when I found out you needed a husband, we could have
worked something out. You didn't have to pay a stranger to marry you.”

Cleo sucked in her cheeks, then relaxed them and ran her tongue over her teeth in an effort not to laugh in Hugh's face. The dirty dog. The scheming, lying cheat. He actually thought she would have preferred marrying him to marrying Simon Roarke. Obviously Hugh's ego was inflated. Didn't he know that he wasn't even close to being in Simon's league?

“What would you have done if I'd accepted your offer?” She tried desperately not to smile.

“Why, I'd have married you, of course. Obviously your uncle George wanted us to marry. What other reasons could he have had to put such ridiculous stipulations in his will?”

“But if I'd married you to fulfill the stipulations in the will, what would you have done about Daphne?”

“Well, I don't know. Daffie and I are pretty heavily involved sexually. But since my marriage to you wouldn't have been a love match—”

“Are you saying that you could have married me, gotten me pregnant to fulfill the stipulations of the will and continued your relationship with my cousin at the same time?”

“Well, when you put it that way, it does sound rather crude, doesn't it?”

“Hugh, let's cut to the chase. I'm not pining away for you. I never loved you. I never wanted to marry you. And the only reason I dated you was because it pleased Uncle George.”

Her declaration wiped the smile off Hugh's face. “Well, I see. I see. But still, wouldn't it have been better to have married me than to have paid some stranger to marry you and get you pregnant? After all, what do you know
about this Roarke character? Do you have any idea who his people are?”

Cleo grinned. Laughter bubbled up inside her. “For your information, Simon Roarke is the most wonderful man I've ever known and my marriage is a real one, despite what you and my dear family want to believe.” Unable to contain it any longer, Cleo burst into laughter. “Why did you request this little private visit? What is it that you want, Hugh?”

“I certainly didn't request a visit so that you could laugh in my face.”

“I'm sorry, it's just that you're so transparent.” Cleo laid her hand on his shoulder. “You forget that I've known you a long time.”

“Meaning?” Tilting his chin haughtily, he stuck his nose in the air and turned from her.

“You found Daphne irresistible, but you've finally figured out that she might have been using you to hurt me. After Uncle George died, you found out about his will, and hoped you could have me, my money and Daphne, too.”

“How can you accuse me of being so mercenary?” He displayed a properly wounded expression.

“But recently, you've begun to wonder if maybe you made a mistake, that perhaps I'm going to win this battle and retain control of McNamara Industries.” Cleo shot up out of her chair, placed her hands on her hips and looked Hugh square in the eye. “Is that why you've offered yourself to me again? Did you think I still wanted you?”

“You've made it perfectly clear that you don't want me, that you never did,” Hugh said. “There's no need to rub it in.”

She put her arm around Hugh's shoulder. “Thanks for the offer, old friend, but I already have exactly what I
want. I'm married to Simon Roarke, and if I'm very lucky, I'll have his baby.”

“God, Cleo, you're in love with him, aren't you?”

“What's wrong with that?” she asked coyly. “After all, he is my husband.”

“Yeah, well, I hope he doesn't break your heart the way I thought I had.” Hugh slipped his arm around her waist. “You know, you'd probably have been better off if you had married me. At least when our marriage broke up, neither one of us would have gotten hurt.”

She knew that in his own misguided way Hugh might actually have meant what he said, and it was obvious that his statement had made perfect sense to him.

She kissed him on the cheek. “You can always marry Daphne. After all, she's a wealthy woman. Just not quite as wealthy as she would be if we had to sell McNamara Industries.”

“You'd be better off if you did sell.” He sighed, then hugged her to him. “But I know you won't ever do that willingly.”

Just as Hugh kissed Cleo, a hasty, goodbye kiss, Roarke walked in. She glanced over Hugh's shoulder at her husband, who stood in the doorway glaring at her.

The sight of Cleo in Hugh Winfield's arms hit Roarke like a blow from a sledgehammer. He wanted to march across the office, rip Cleo from Winfield's arms and beat the hell out of the guy. How dared he touch Cleo! She belonged to him. She was his wife.

Some primeval instinct rose inside him, heating his jealousy to the boiling point. If Cleo knew what he was thinking, she'd skin him alive. He wanted to place a brand on her. One that read, Roarke's Wife.

Every muscle in his body tensed. He took several deep, calming breaths. Winfield was kissing Cleo, not the other
way around. This was pretty much the same scene Cleo had walked in on in the study yesterday between Daphne and him.

Taking one more deep breath, Roarke lifted the two paper bags he held in his hands. “I brought lunch, honey. Are you finished with Hugh?”

Smiling at Roarke, Cleo stepped out of Hugh's embrace. “Yes, I'm finished with Hugh.” Dismissing her former boyfriend without another word or glance, she motioned for her husband to come to her. “I'm starving. I hope you brought dessert, too.”

“As a matter of fact—” Roarke ignored Hugh as he walked by him and over to Cleo and set both sacks on her desk “—I drove over to the River Bend Café.”

“Lemon icebox pie?” She groaned. “Tell me you brought me a piece of lemon icebox pie, and I'll be yours forever.”

“You're mine forever,” Roarke said, then took Cleo in his arms and kissed her.

The kiss was long and wet and deep, and when he allowed Cleo to come up for air, Hugh Winfield was nowhere to be seen and the office door was closed.

Roarke removed the two lunch sacks, placing them in her empty chair, then lifted Cleo off her feet and set her down on the edge of her desk. Kissing her deeply, he pushed her skirt up her thighs until it bunched around her hips, then slid his hands inside her panty hose and bikini briefs and tugged them down and off.

“What do you think you're doing?” Her heartbeat drummed in her ears. Her body throbbed with anticipation.

“I want dessert, too,” he told her as his lips moved down her neck and his hands unbuckled his belt and un
zipped his slacks. “And I want mine before we eat our corned beef sandwiches.”

“Am I your dessert, Mr. Roarke?” She draped her arms around his neck when he spread her legs apart and situated himself between them.

“Yes, Mrs. Roarke, you most definitely are.” He cupped her hips and brought her forward, then thrust into her, bouncing her hips off the desk.

They made love with wild abandon, oblivious to the outside world. Later they ate their corned beef sandwiches, and when Cleo started to eat her pie, Roarke took it from her and fed it to her. In the middle of the sensual feeding, Cleo gasped.

“Oh, my God, Simon, we didn't lock the door. Anyone could have walked in on us.”

“It wouldn't have happened,” he said.

“Why wouldn't it have happened?”

“Because when I came in, I told Tom Brown that no one was to enter this office until I told him otherwise.”

“You're a wicked, wicked man, Simon Roarke.” Cleo smiled, then opened her mouth, asking for another bite.

“And you're glad that I am, aren't you, my Cleo Belle?” Roarke cut off a piece of the pie with the plastic fork and put it in Cleo's mouth.

 

T
HE FOLLOWING
F
RIDAY NIGHT
, Hugh Winfield dined with the family. During after-dinner drinks in the front parlor, Oralie Sutton announced that Daphne and Hugh were engaged. Hugh made a big production of placing a rather large diamond on Daphne's finger. Cleo congratulated them and wished them well, and considered herself lucky not to have married Hugh.

While Oralie discussed plans for a huge engagement party at the country club, Daphne gloated, smiling cat
tily at Cleo. But when Roarke nuzzled Cleo's neck and she giggled, the glint of triumph died in Daphne's green eyes.

That night Roarke gave Kane orders to have Ellen Denby ready the following Monday night to spring the trap that would hopefully catch the McNamara Industries saboteur. The odds were even. Fifty-fifty. Especially now that Winfield had officially cast his lot with the Suttons.

Which would the trap ensnare? Roarke wondered. A hotheaded, angry young cousin or a money-hungry, disloyal old friend?

C
LEO TOSSED BACK
her head and laughed. Despite the over-cast sky and the prediction of isolated showers, the day was perfect. Perfect because she was going to spend it with Simon, just the two of them alone together. Riding Sweet Justice and Valentino out to the Great Mississippi and into Sherwood Forest again this Saturday. Pearl had prepared them a picnic lunch that Cleo planned for them to spread out beneath the two willows. But what if it rains? she thought, then smiled secretly to herself. She'd never made love outside in the rain.

“What's that impish smile all about?” Roarke squeezed her hand as they walked down the path leading to the stables. “You worry me, woman, when you get that wicked look on your face.”

“Wicked?” Pulling on his hand, she urged him to run with her. “Come on, and I'll show you wicked.”

Releasing her hand, he grinned and checked his small backpack. “That's an invitation I can't refuse.” Roarke raced with her, reaching the stables first. Not even winded from his run, he leaned against the fence and waited for her to catch up.

Breathing hard, but not out of breath, Cleo slowed her pace as she neared him. “No fair. Your legs are longer.” She glanced at him, surveying him from the tip of his boots to his silver belt buckle, then moving her gaze
down again to focus on where his jeans formed a triangle. “Much longer.”

He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her up against him. “You are wicked, Cleo Belle. Wonderfully wicked.”

Reaching up on tiptoe, she circled his neck with her arms and gave him a quick kiss. Thunder rumbled off in the distance. She tilted her head to listen. “It might rain.”

“It might,” he agreed.

“I've never made love outside in the rain,” she said. “You haven't?”

“If it turns out to be only a light summer shower, we could stay under the willows.”

Lifting her off her feet, Roarke took her mouth hungrily. She clung to him, responding fervently.

Willie cleared his throat. “Excuse me, Cleo.” He led Sweet Justice out of the stables. “Got Sweetie all saddled up and ready for you.” He held out the reins to her.

Roarke set Cleo back on her feet. She eased out of his arms and took the reins from Willie. “Thank you.” She smiled at Willie, who beamed with pleasure.

“I'll go get Valentino for you, Mr. Roarke.”

Roarke threw up his hand in greeting. “Okay. Thanks.”

When Willie returned to the stables, Cleo whirled around and faced Roarke. “How would you like to race over to the Great Mississippi? The winner gets to name his or her prize.”

“I think this race just might be rigged,” Roarke said. “Considering the fact that you'll be riding a young filly and I'll be riding a much older horse.”

“What if I give you a head start?”

“How much of a head start?”

“Two minutes.”

Willie led Valentino out of the stables. “Here he is, all ready for a good gallop this morning.”

“Here are the rules,” Roarke told her. “We mount at the same time, then you time yourself two minutes after I start off, and whoever gets to the Great Mississippi first gets to throw the other one in before he gets to name his prize.”

Cleo clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, rolled her eyes heavenward, then pursed her lips. “Sounds fair enough, I suppose.”

“Oh, yes,” Roarke said. “There's just one more thing.” He removed the backpack and held it out to her. “You have to carry our lunch with you.”

Cleo groaned. “That won't be a disadvantage.” She took the backpack and strapped it on, then lifted her foot into the stirrup and swung her leg over Sweet Justice's back.

Following Cleo's lead, Roarke mounted his horse. He glanced over at his wife, who smiled at him, then puckered her lips and blew him a kiss. He loved her smile—beautiful, joyous and genuine, like the woman herself.

Sunlight reflected off the decorative silver trim on Cleo's hand-tooled, leather saddle. The minute Cleo eased her bottom into the saddle, Sweet Justice whinnied loudly and reared her front legs into the air.

Roarke's heartbeat accelerated. What the hell had happened? Something had spooked Sweet Justice. But what? He hadn't heard or seen a thing. He sat in the saddle, watching helplessly while the skittish filly bucked Cleo off and onto the ground.

Dear God, it had all happened so quickly that Cleo must not have had a chance even to try to calm the panicked animal.

“Cleo!” Roarke heard the sound of his own voice as if coming from a great distance.

Willie rushed over to Cleo, who lay unmoving on her side. Roarke dismounted hurriedly.

“Don't touch her, Willie,” he shouted. “Just get hold of Sweet Justice's reins and keep her away from Cleo.” When the stable hand jerked around and looked at him with fear in his eyes, Roarke cursed under his breath. “I know you want to help her, but if she's injured, you would hurt her more if you try to move her.”

Nodding his understanding, Willie grabbed the filly, who'd stopped prancing and casually kicked at the earth near Cleo's head. While Willie spoke softly to the horse, Roarke bent down and ran his hands over Cleo's prone body. She didn't move or speak.

He didn't think she'd broken any bones, but there was no way to be certain without X-rays. He stroked her cheek tenderly with the back of his hand.

“Cleo? Honey?” She didn't respond. “Cleo Belle, can you hear me?” She lay deadly still.

Roarke unzipped the backpack Cleo wore and removed his cellular phone. His hands trembled as he dialed 911. He told the operator what had happened. She warned him not to move Cleo and assured him that an ambulance was on its way.

“What—what can I do, Mr. Roarke?” Willie asked.

“Tie Sweet Justice to the fence over there,” Roarke said. “Then go up to the house and tell Miss Beatrice what's happened. Tell her to call Sheriff Bacon. And Willie—” Roarke hesitated while his mind tried to absorb the implications “—don't let anyone get near Sweet Justice except the sheriff himself. Do you understand? Something caused Sweetie to throw Cleo off and I want the sheriff to examine the horse, her saddle and her food.”

“I got all that.” Willie kept nodding repeatedly. “I'll go tell Miss Bea to call the sheriff.”

Roarke sat down on the ground beside Cleo, wanting more than anything to lift her into his arms and see her open her eyes and smile at him. God, please, don't let her
be seriously injured. Maybe she'd just gotten the breath knocked out of her. No, if that was all it was, she'd be coming around by now and gasping for air.

He looked at her pale face, wishing that her long, dark auburn lashes would flutter. They didn't. Suddenly, he noticed fresh blood ooze out from underneath Cleo's head.

Closing his eyes against the sight, Roarke clenched his teeth and screamed silently. His hot anger raged, boiling inside him, threatening to explode. How could he have let this happen? Why hadn't he seen it coming? He should have done something to prevent this. Dammit, if anything happened to Cleo…

“Cleo Belle.” He caressed her cheek, then checked the pulse beating in her neck. “You're going to be all right. The medics are on their way.”

When Beatrice and Pearl reached the stables, Roarke sat beside Cleo, stroking her hand and speaking softly to her.

“God in heaven, she's not moving,” Pearl said. “She's not—”

“Hush up, you silly goose,” Beatrice scolded the other woman. “Of course she's not.”

“I'll take care of Sweetie until the sheriff gets here.” Willie untied the filly and led her toward the stables, stopping just before entering. “You'll take care of Cleo, won't you, Mr. Roarke? You're her husband and you love her.”

Roarke swallowed hard, downing the pain and anger and regret. “Yeah, Willie. I'll take care of Cleo.”

Beatrice rushed over to Cleo, Pearl on her heels. “Willie said Cleo fell off Sweetie. How could that have happened? She's a good horsewoman. She's been riding since she was a girl.”

“Something frightened the filly,” Roarke said. “Sweetie was fine until— Oh, God!”

“What is it?” Beatrice asked.

“Sit down here beside her.” Roarke shot to his feet. “I don't want her to be alone. If she wakes, I want her to see a familiar face.”

He helped Beatrice sit down, then called out to Willie. “Hold up there.”

“Where are you going?” Beatrice asked.

“Sweet Justice was fine until Cleo sat in the saddle. The minute her back end pressed down, Sweetie reared up as if she'd been shocked.” Roarke clamped his big hand down on Willie's shoulder. “Keep her still while I check out something.”

“Yes, sir.”

Beatrice and Pearl watched while Roarke ran his hand over every inch of the hand-finished, floral-leaf-patterned saddle. He tugged on the silver swell plates and did the same with the full cantle plates and the corner plates. He inspected the skirts, the stirrups, the fenders and the horn. Then he lifted the saddle and turned it upside down, running his hand over the leather belly.

His fingers encountered four small, circular objects about the size of quarters. He flung the saddle on the ground, kicked it and cursed loudly. “Dammit to hell!” He stomped the ground.

“What in heaven's name is wrong with you?” Pearl asked. “Must be something mighty bad for you to be cussing a blue streak.”

“Did you find something on Cleo's saddle?” Beatrice looked up at him, her eyes misty with tears.

“Yeah, I found something, all right. Four small buzzers. The kind you can buy at any party store. A practical joker can put them in his palm and shock somebody when he shakes hands with them.”

“Someone put them under Cleo's saddle deliberately,” Pearl said. “Someone wanted Sweetie to buck Cleo off and
kill her, yes?” The housekeeper's cheeks flared scarlet. Her wide, fleshy jaw clenched. “You've got to find out who's doing these things, Mr. Roarke, and put a stop to this person!”

“I've done a poor job so far.” He blamed himself for this. Why hadn't he checked out Cleo's horse and saddle before she'd mounted? He should have realized that everyone in the family knew that he and Cleo were going riding this morning. Any one of them could have attached the buzzers. But he hadn't been thinking about the possibility that someone would tamper with the horses. All he'd been thinking about was spending the day making love to his wife.

He was too damn close, too personally involved, to do his job right. And if Cleo died—dammit, no! He wouldn't let himself think about losing her.

Roarke lifted Beatrice to her feet and resumed his place at Cleo's side. Beatrice and Pearl hovered over them, and Willie stood beside Sweet Justice, guarding Cleo's filly and her dust-covered saddle.

 

R
OARKE PACED THE
floor in the waiting room. No amount of reasoning from Beatrice or finger-shaking from Pearl stopped his relentless prowl. What the hell was taking those damn doctors so long? Didn't they have any idea what he was going through, not knowing if Cleo was alive or dead?

When the medics had moved her, Roarke saw blood on the hand-size rock that was three-fourths embedded in the ground. The side of Cleo's head had hit the rock when she'd fallen.

Please, God, don't let there be any internal bleeding. Don't! Don't! Don't! Roarke hadn't prayed in fifteen years. Not since the night he'd been notified that his ex-wife and
daughter had been in a serious automobile accident. In those few moments between being given the information and being told that Laurie had died on impact, Roarke had prayed more fervently than he'd ever prayed in his life. He'd said one final prayer at his little girl's funeral, begging God to forgive him for not taking better care of the precious life that had been entrusted to him. After that Roarke had never prayed again. Not until tonight.

He'd never cared enough about anything to seek divine intervention again. His life hadn't been worth a prayer, and praying for Hope was useless. But Cleo was worth a thousand prayers, a thousand promises to God.

Tilting his head, Roarke lifted his eyes heavenward as he stood at the far end of the waiting room, his back to Beatrice and Pearl.
What do you want?
he prayed silently.
Whatever it is, I'll give it. Just let Cleo be all right.

“Oh, Dr. Iverson,” Beatrice cried out.

Roarke spun around just as Pearl and Beatrice rushed toward the doctor, who walked out of the E.R. examining room.

“How is Cleo?” Beatrice asked. “May we see her?”

“It's certainly taken you long enough,” Pearl said. “We've been out here for hours.”

“Mr. Roarke,” Dr. Iverson said.

The sound of his blood rushing through his body momentarily deafened Roarke. His heartbeat accelerated. Sweat coated his palms. He moved forward, every step an effort.

“Cleo?” Roarke asked.

“Her vital signs are good,” Dr. Iverson said. “We've done a series of tests and X-rays. There are no broken bones and no internal injuries, but…”

Roarke let out the breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. “But what?”

“She suffered a concussion and she's still unconscious. I think that's only temporary. I expect her to come around soon. She'll have a headache and probably be nauseated.”

“What if she doesn't regain consciousness?” Beatrice asked.

Dr. Iverson patted Beatrice on the shoulder. “Now, Miss Bea, let's not borrow trouble.” He looked at Roarke. “There's something else, though.”

“What?” Roarke asked.

“Did you know that Cleo is pregnant?”

Roarke felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. Shivers raced along his nerve endings. “Pregnant?”

“Oh, isn't this wonderful.” Beatrice giggled. “A baby. My little Cleo is going to be a mother.”