You’ll Find Out

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

T hat period in her life, when she lived so naively and happily with Shane, was long over, she reminded herself as the sleek silver car raced through the busy streets of Asheville. The sports car ground to a halt before an expensive restaurant and inn. The large, three-storied structure stood out in gleaming relief against the darkness of the night. Established just after the Civil War, the inn was painted white, with traditional green shutters on each of the bay windows. Shimmering lanterns, reflecting against the paned windows, poured out a Southern welcome to Mara, beckoning her to enter the well-known establishment.

Mara was propelled unwillingly back to the present and the betraying fact that Shane had a purpose in seeing her. She moistened her lips and couldn’t help but wonder if he, too, had been absorbed in memories of the past that they had shared together. The thought was intriguing, but traitorous. If he had wanted to see her, if he had needed her as desperately as she had needed him, he would never have left her to think that he was dead for all of these years.

The shimmering lanterns and the warmth of the night reminded her of the romance and passion that she had shared with Shane. How many times in the past four years had she fantasized about just such an evening with the only man she had ever truly loved? And how many times had she ruthlessly destroyed those conjured imaginings because of what she had thought was the truth—that Shane was dead, gone forever?

Once again the creeping sense of betrayal cooled her blood. Shane must have felt the change in her mood, because as he helped her from the car, he trapped her with a dark, questioning look.

She walked gracefully toward the colonial restaurant, Shane’s commanding fingers guiding her with a light but persuasive pressure on her elbow. She tried to ignore the enticement of his touch and concentrate on the elaborate restaurant. The cheerful decor of gleaming wainscoting and blue, floral-print wallpaper helped to lighten her mood. And the staff of the inn, dressed in colonial attire, made her forget momentarily her dilemma with the man she still so feverishly loved.

Shane declined the waiter’s invitation that he and Mara join some of the other guests along a long, linen-clad table for family-style dining, where the “down-home” feeling grows as you sit down at the large table with the other patrons and pass the chef’s specialties around the table. He preferred more intimate dining arrangements, and the amiable waiter led them to a corner of the inn near a large window, where they could enjoy privacy and a view of a private duck pond. Amber-colored lamps reflected on the water, and a few water birds skimmed quietly on the surface of the pond near the shoreline.

The waiter began to hold Mara’s chair for her, but Shane smiled at the man and assisted Mara into her seat himself. Once she was comfortable, he took his place directly across from her and stared deeply into her eyes, as if trying to delve into the farthest reaches of her mind. Without asking her indulgence, he ordered for the both of them, and for the moment Mara forgot the nagging feeling of deception that had converged upon her. A smile teased her lips, lessening the crackle of the tension in the air, as she noticed that still, after all of the years apart from him, Shane remembered all of her favorite dishes, even down to pecan pie.

After a vintage bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon had been poured and Shane had tasted the wine, he broke through the pretense of small talk that had enveloped them since entering the restaurant. His dark brows drew together and he rubbed the back of his neck with his fingers. Mara sipped her wine patiently, waiting to hear explanations, reasons, alibis, excuses, ANYTHING that would help her understand why he had lied to her four years ago and what he wanted from her now.

“I told you that I was interested in purchasing Imagination Toys,” he stated, and watched for her reaction.

Mara nodded slightly and ran a polished fingernail over the rim of her wine glass. “And I told you that Imagination wasn’t for sale.” A muscle worked in his jaw and a scowl creased his forehead. His entire body became rigid.

“That you did. But I was hoping that you might have altered your position.”

In answer she puckered her lips thoughtfully, but shook her head. To Shane, her pensive motion and concentrated brow were the most alluring provocations that he could imagine. Her tawny hair moved wistfully against her cheek as she thought.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t sell. It’s not that your offer isn’t tempting . . .” Her deep blue eyes met his in total honesty. “It’s just that I feel . . . responsible . . . not only for the company, but also to Peter’s family.”

Something akin to anger swept his face, and his eyes, once darkly enticing, became stony. “Responsible to the Wilcox family?” he echoed, incredulous. “Your loyalty surprises me!”

“My loyalty surprises you?” she repeated in disbelief.

“That’s right,” he snapped. “I really don’t think that devotion is your long suit!”

“Why not? I’ve always been faithful to . . .” she tried to explain, but the last word, which should have been Shane’s name, stuck in her throat. It was the truth. In her mind she had never loved another man, and she had remained faithful to Shane until she had thought him dead and Peter had convinced her to marry him. But even during the marriage, she had never loved her husband—not with the same burning intensity that she had tasted with the man who was seated angrily opposite her in the quaint Southern restaurant. She tried tactfully to change the subject. After clearing her throat, she spoke in a voice that was devoid of the feelings that were raging within her.

“You said earlier that you had an alternative proposition? I’d like to hear it. I’d also like to know why you’re so interested in Imagination. There must be a dozen toy companies that would do just as well.”

“You’re probably right. But I chose Imagination because of you. No other reason.”

“Not exactly sound business practice,” she deduced, but she couldn’t help but lift her eyebrows to indicate that she hadn’t missed his comment or any of its poignant implications. Her heart turned over, and for a moment she thought that he might elaborate, but the waiter came to remove the dishes and serve the dessert. Shane’s intimate mood seemed to have vanished.

When he spoke again, it was in a tightly controlled, businesslike voice. “Do you know anything about Delta Electronics?” he asked.

“Your company?” She shrugged her slim shoulders and touched her napkin to her lips. “Not much, other than the fact that you manufacture computers—”

“Micro-computers,” he corrected. Her brows pulled together, and he sighed. “I guess I’d better start at the beginning.”

“It might help!” She leaned back against the chair in a totally attentive pose.

“When I got back from Northern Ireland,” he began, but her face froze in disbelief at his words, and all of the tension of the last few hours destroyed her facade of Southern civility.

“When you got back from Northern Ireland?” she whispered with a distinct catch in her voice. “Just like that?” She snapped her fingers. “You haven’t even explained to me what happened to you in that horrible war, and why you let me think that you were dead!” Her eyes showed the anguish that she had lived four years ago and her breath was ragged and torn from her throat. “You were just going to start a lecture on micro-computers with a phrase like ‘when I got back from Northern Ireland’? For God’s sake, Shane, what happened over there? Why did your father tell me that you were dead? For so many years you let me think . . .” Her voice broke with emotion and tears began running down her face and onto the table. She reached for her napkin to cover her eyes, but her small clenched fist continued to pound against the table, rattling the silver and the wine glasses. “Why? Why?” she murmured, only vaguely aware that people at nearby tables were beginning to stare at the spectacle she was creating. Her shoulders drooped, and she couldn’t stem the uneven drops that ran in darkened smudges from her eyes.

Shane listened to her tirade, his large hand half covering his face, as if to shield him from her torment. He couldn’t bear to see her so ravaged, and yet he knew that he was the source of her anguish. Aware that he had to get her out of the restaurant, he fumbled in his pocket for some bills and stuffed them into the open palm of the waiter as he helped Mara to her feet and ushered her out of the building past the disapproving eyes and gaping mouths of several of the well-to-do patrons.

The drive home was silent, and with extreme difficulty Mara regained her poise. She stared into the night and felt the brooding silence of the man seated so closely to her. Mara was drained and exhausted, and Shane was driving the small car as if the devil himself were chasing them. The tires screeched against the pavement, the gears were ripped savagely, and Mara wondered vaguely if Shane was going to kill them both. It didn’t matter, she thought wearily, but an image of Angie’s laughing face broke into her lonely thoughts, and she realized that everything mattered. It mattered very much. Her life, Shane’s life, and most especially their daughter’s welfare.

When the headlights flashed against the oak trees that guarded the circular drive and the large front porch of the house loomed into Mara’s view, she felt a wave of relief wash over her. The strain of the day had taken its toll on her, and she was thankful to be home.

Shane walked her to the door, and she didn’t object when he asked to come in. She fumbled with the key, and he helped her unlock the door. Their hands touched in the darkness, and a warm possessive heat leaped in Mara’s veins. She tried to calm herself and tell herself that all of her reminiscent memories were to blame for her reaction to him, but she couldn’t ignore the pounding of her heart at his touch. Shane pushed open the door, and once inside, locked it. Mara didn’t protest—it was impossible to do so, because it felt so natural that he was home with her again after nearly five long, lonely, years.

Still silent, he poured himself a drink from the decanter at the bar. He lifted the glass to her in a silent offering, but she shook her head negatively. The last thing she wanted was a drink to cloud her tired mind.

After slumping onto the couch, Mara kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her on the soft cushions. She waited. Shane finished his quick drink and poured himself another. She watched. Was it her imagination, or did Shane’s hands tremble slightly as he poured the drink? He poured yet another glass of brandy and handed it to her over her whispered protests.

“You want to know about what happened in Belfast, don’t you?” he asked curtly.

She took a deep breath and nodded. Her blue eyes reached out for his as she nodded her head.

“All right, but here.” He gave her the brandy.

“I didn’t want a drink, remember.”

“You might change your mind,” he responded gravely, and without further question she accepted the drink.

Shane sat beside her, but didn’t look at her. Instead, he concentrated on the clear amber fluid in his snifter and pulled at his tie, which he finally discarded angrily. When he began to speak, his voice was hushed, disturbingly distant.

“You know that several of us went over there?” She nodded. “Well, everything was going just fine—most of the work had been completed. The rest of the crew had already taken off back for the States, leaving just Frank and me to finish the last few finishing touches. There wasn’t much work left—Frank and I just had to retake a couple of feet of film that hadn’t worked out quite right the first time. If everything had gone as planned, we would have been home within the week.

“It was uncanny how well everything went together.” He paused for a long drink, and his eyes darkened in memory. Mara felt her stomach tighten. “The last day that we were shooting, it wasn’t even anything controversial, just a shot of parents and kids in the park, that sort of stuff. There was this cathedral, a huge stone building, and the parishioners were just arriving for services. It was an absolutely gorgeous Sunday morning. . .”

“And?” Mara prodded, as his voice trailed off.

“And . . . Frank and I stopped for a quick shot. We left everything in the van, other than the shoulder camera and the portable microphone.

“There were a lot of people there, all ages. Parents, children, babies, grandmas, all talking and climbing the steps. The children were playing, laughing, but suddenly I—” he searched for the right words, and his voice was tight, as if it was an effort to speak “—sensed . . . felt that something wasn’t right. I had been filming the gardens, near the steps of the church, but I pulled my camera away from the church just as a horrible noise came from a parked car. The car exploded, metal flew everywhere, people screamed and ran, the timbers of the church rocked, the stone steps cracked . . . there was blood, bodies . . . cars smashed into parked vehicles to avoid running over the people who had been knocked into the street by the explosion. And then I felt something painful on the side of my head—I heard a baby cry just as I passed out. When I came to, I was in a hospital bed, and a nurse was shining a light into my eye. Two weeks had passed.” Shane’s voice sounded as dead as Mara felt. Tears glistened in her eyes and she took a sip of the brandy.

“And the children that you saw playing?”

Shane drew a whispering breath and shook his head. “That’s the worst of it. Several entire families were killed. All of them.” Shane turned to face Mara and she saw the rage and guilt that contorted his features. “Those people died because of me, Mara.”

“What? How can you blame yourself? That’s crazy . . .”

“Why do you think that particular church was bombed—at that time? It was common knowledge that we were filming a piece on terrorism at the time—”

“No!”

“It wouldn’t be too difficult to have figured out the general area where we would be—”

“I don’t believe it. How could they have known?” His eyes held the sincerity and the pain of the guilt that he had borne for four years. “You can’t be sure . . .” she whispered, but knew that her protests were only the ghost of hope that he would absolve himself of his blame.

Pain twisted his features. “I know, damn it! I know. It was our story that brought attention to that area of the city. We’d been friendly with several of the local residents, and they must have been on the opposing side, you see, and somehow, we weren’t careful enough. The word got out, and we created an opportunity for the terrorists to strike again!”

Mara closed her eyes, as if by force she could destroy the painful picture that Shane was painting.

“You can’t blame yourself!”

“Then who is to blame Mara? Who?”

“The system . . . the economics of the country . . . the Protestants . . . the Catholics . . . I don’t know.”

“Well, I do!” With his final damning admission, Shane swallowed the remainder of his drink. He looked to the bar, as if he intended to pour himself another, but put the empty snifter down in disgust. “Don’t you think that I’ve tried to convince myself that there was nothing I could have done to prevent this—that we were all just victims of fate? But late at night, when I have to face myself alone, I see those young eager faces, and I know that somehow I was a part of that tragedy!”

“Oh, Shane,” Mara murmured, hoping to somehow heal the wounds that had been festering within him. She reached out her hand and gently stroked his chin. Her fingers became moist from the tiny beads of sweat that had accumulated over his upper lip. He swallowed before continuing.

“And so . . . there was a mix-up of some sort. Everyone at the hospital thought I was Frank—and that Frank was me.” His voice was low. “We didn’t carry our identification on us—it was locked in the van, and the van was totaled as a truck braked to avoid colliding with some of the injured on the street. Our I.D., camera gear . . . film . . . clothing . . . everything was in the van. And somehow, at least for a while, in all of the confusion and aftermath of the explosion, the mix-up in our identities remained.”

Mara guessed the rest of the grisly story. “And Frank was killed?”

“He died before the ambulance could get him to the hospital.”

“Oh, God,” Mara breathed, and felt a nauseous rumbling in her stomach.

“That’s right, Mara. Dad didn’t lie to you. He actually thought that I was dead.”

“Oh, no . . .” Mara murmured, her fingers still caressing the firm line of his jaw. “So much has happened to us . . .”

“I know, Mara, I know.” His lips touched hers and she felt a yearning that she hadn’t known for years. His tongue outlined her lips and tasted the salt of her tears that had passed over her mouth. With a shudder, he groaned as he pulled her more closely to him. When he parted her lips and their tongues met, she felt a rush of molten desire well up from the deepest part of her and spread through her blood in thundering currents of fiery passion. His hands touched her hair, at first tentatively, and finally in heated desire as he wound the blond curls through his fingers and let his face nuzzle the length of her neck, exploring her throat, the shell of her ear, the supple muscles of her shoulders.

His fingers moved from her hair and down her neck in down-soft touches of intimate persuasion. She gasped for air as his thumb found the pulse at the base of her throat and outlined the delicate bone structure in warm circles of desire. The seductive movements created a whirlpool of heat, to churn desperately within her. She sighed against him and felt his own labored moan as he searched for and discovered the top button of her dress. He took the pearl button in his mouth and with ease forced it through the buttonhole. As he did so, his tongue touched deliciously against the rounded swell of her bosom, and her breast ached with need. His head dipped lower—to the next button. Once again the warm, wet tongue lapped enticingly at her breast, only to draw away in agonizing suspense. His fingers slowly opened the dress, parting it only enough to let him caress the ivory cleavage with his face.

“Oh, Shane,” Mara sighed, the warmth of ecstasy overtaking her. A nagging thought told her that she should stop him, but she found it impossible to deny that which she had wanted for four years. She wanted to enjoy the sweet surrender of her body to his, and forget, at least for the next few hours, all of the sadness and sorrow that had separated them over the past four years. She wanted to reach out to him and help salve some of the guilt that he had borne.

He sighed against her and pushed the clean angles of his face into the folds of her skirt. The same words that she remembered from their first night together echoed in her ears. “Mara, God, but I want you. I’ve ached for you for over four years,” he admitted in hot breaths that scorched through the silk fabric of her dress and caressed her legs in hot whispers. “Let me love you again.”

His hand reached under the hem of her skirt to embrace her thigh, and she groaned softly as her legs parted. “Let me love you, Mara,” he pleaded, and her answer was a breathless moan of yearning hunger. He stroked her thigh, and involuntarily she arched. He pulled at her panty hose and discarded them into a heap on the floor. And then, ever so gently, he petted her—letting his warm fingers brush against the length of her calves and thighs. “I want you, Mara, I want you as no man has ever wanted a woman.”

“Oh, God . . . Shane, I want you, too.”

With her soul shaking admission, he scooped her into his arms and lithely carried her out of the drawing room and up the expansive sweep of the staircase. She clung to him and placed liquid kisses against his neck, but at the top of the stairs he hesitated, and she nodded in the direction of her room. He carried her into the expansive bedroom and stopped near the door. He eyed the darkened room speculatively, and for an indeterminate minute he hesitated.

“Is this the bed you shared with Peter?” he asked harshly.

Her eyes, glazed with drugged passion, instantly cleared. “No,” she whispered. “I moved into this room . . . before he got sick.”

“Humph!” His dark eyes found hers, and after a flicker of doubt he carried her over to the bed. The down comforter sagged beneath their combined weight, and the cool satin felt smooth and welcome against her bare legs.

“You don’t know how much I’ve missed you,” Shane conceded, his breath dew-soft against her earlobe.

Her own breath, a prisoner in her lungs, escaped with the question that had been searing her mind for the past twelve hours. “Then why, Shane? Why didn’t you come back to me?”

Her blue eyes pleaded with him, and the picture she made—a lovely full-grown woman, still innocent in her own blushing manner—was too much for him to bear. The golden hair, tousled carelessly against the cool blue comforter, the flush of pink under the surface of her creamy complexion, and those eyes—blue as the morning sky and innocently mature. “It doesn’t matter—not anymore—I’m here now,” he whispered before pressing his lips, moist with hunger, against hers.

She let her lashes fall over her eyes, and let her body react to the exquisite rapture that he was evoking within her. Too many years had passed, and too many unanswered questions still lingered. An ugly corner of her mind nagged at her, but she ignored the thought and abandoned herself to him. Her hands caught in the thick black silkiness of his hair, and her fingers moved against his scalp, as if by their touch she could erase the pain of four desolate years.

His hands slid beneath the dress and let it slip silently to the floor. Warm palms pressed urgently against the contour of her spine and the supple roundness of her hips. He pulled her urgently to him, and she could feel his virile need and hunger burning in his loins. “Oh, Mara,” he whispered as he unclasped her bra and let her breasts, snowy white, fall unbound against him. “You’re more beautiful than I remembered.” Tentatively, he reached forward and circled one rounded swell with his finger, enticing a sweet ache in Mara that aroused her to even higher pinnacles of yearning.

His tongue, warm and soft, touched delicately against her breast and teased her nipple until she felt a swelling ache of torment. His hands and fingers massaged her, and finally, just as she thought she could endure no more of his teasing, the warm, moist cavern of his mouth closed over her waiting taut nipple, and a bursting wave of desire engulfed her. She shuddered with the force of her emotions.

Quickly, he discarded what was left of their clothing, destroying the flimsy barriers that kept her from him. She sucked in her breath as she looked upon him, long and lean and virile—exactly as she had remembered him and precisely as she had fantasized about him a hundred times over in her mind. Her fingers outlined the strong muscles of his back and abdomen, which glistened with a salty film of perspiration.

His voice broke through the night, in pure animal pleasure. “Oh, God, Mara . . . I can’t wait any longer . . .”

His head lowered and he kissed her abdomen and belly button, letting his tongue slide urgently over her skin. His hands pulled against her hips, until his face was covered with the warm creamy complexion of her abdomen. Soft purring noises escaped from her throat as he murmured her name over and over against her warm flesh.

Just as she thought she could endure no more of the tormented ecstasy, he pushed her legs apart with his knees and settled comfortably in the saddle of her soft hips. “I’m sorry, Mara, but I can’t wait any longer,” he groaned, as his face came up to hers and his lips sought the warmth of her mouth.

“Neither can I,” she whispered, and in one hushed instant, he came to her, moving against her with the desire that had tortured him for years. She felt molten hot explosions ripping through her body, his cataclysmic, shuddering surrender, and a burst of passion as their bodies came hungrily together in complete, rekindled union.

Shane cradled her against him, and she felt younger than she had in years. She gave into the yearnings of her body, and fell asleep nestled in the warm strength of his arms. She knew that she had to tell him about Angie, and she wanted desperately to understand everything that he had experienced in Northern Ireland, but she couldn’t bring herself to shatter the peace that they had found and shared together.

Late in the night, when Shane awakened her with his own returning passion, she thought about the absurdity of the situation, but kept her thoughts to herself. In the morning, she promised a guilty corner of her mind—I’ll get everything straight with him . . . in the morning.