You’ll Find Out

Chapter 5

Chapter 5

W hen morning dawned, sending forth warm rays of summer sunshine, and Mara awakened sleepily, she felt a tranquility and a peace that she hadn’t experienced in years. Curling up comfortably against Shane’s strong body in a dreamless sleep had created a warm, delicious feeling that wrapped her in a rosy cloak of good humor as she stretched languidly on the bed.

She watched Shane, still sleeping soundly next to her. The lavender sheet, which she clutched to her naked breast, was draped casually over his dark-skinned body. All tension seemed to be drained away from him, and the rock-hard muscles were relaxed in slumber. Even with the evidence of a beard against his chin, he looked younger and softer than he had the night before. He lay on his side, an arm stretched over his head, his bronzed skin deepened by the pale color of the bedding.

The morning sun was to Mara’s back, and through the window it cast warm rays past the thin slats of the blinds, causing an uneven striping of shadows over his body. He stirred after a few moments, the sun in his eyes and Mara’s intense gaze awakening him.

A sleepy eye cracked open and a smile, crooked but becoming, spread across his features as he let his eyes wander caressingly over her body. He stretched, and in one lithe movement pulled the sheet away from her breasts. His dark eyes reached for her, and she could sense the flames of passion sparking in their ebony-colored depths.

“Do you know,” he inquired lazily, as a finger came up to outline the swell of her breast, “that you’re more beautiful in the morning than I had remembered?” His finger stopped its warm, seductive movement. “I didn’t think that was possible.”

She reached for his finger and halted its further exploration by holding it to her lips. “And do you know,” she countered, suggestively, “that you and I have an incredible mountain of things that have to be sorted out today?”

“But we’ve got all morning,” he assured her, and brushed a golden curl away from her face.

“No . . . no, Shane, we don’t.”

The firm quality of her answer surprised him. “What do you mean?” he asked, and suddenly became serious. Noting the pained look that had crossed her face, he pulled away from her, but couldn’t help but touch her forehead, as if to wipe away the lines of concentration that furrowed her brow.

“There are things that we have to discuss . . .”

“Nothing so earth shattering that it won’t wait,” he argued seductively, and pulled her down to lie next to him before covering her lips with his. The weight of his chest, crushing against her breasts, made her heart race in anticipation. His magic was working on her again.

Reluctantly, she pulled her mouth from his, determined to explain about Angie. “Shane . . . there’s so much to say,” she began, trying to ignore the passion that was heating within her. “Some things have to be discussed.”

“So . . let’s discuss them right now,” he suggested. His smile was satisfied, almost evil, as he let his fingers circle her lips in rapturous swirls.

“Shane! Be serious . . . please,” she implored breathlessly.

His weight shifted and he eyed her studiously. Something was weighing heavily on her mind—that much was obvious. “All right,” he agreed, pulling apart from her. The few inches on the bed that separated them seemed an incredible distance to Mara. He levered himself on one elbow, partially supported by a pillow, and watched her, waiting to hear whatever confession she thought was necessary. He thought fleetingly of Peter Wilcox, and a sour, uneasy feeling formed in the pit of his stomach.

His stare was intense, and his partially covered body compelling. Mara had trouble finding the words that should have come easily to her—how could she begin?

“Let’s go downstairs,” she suggested, biting her lip.

“I thought you wanted to talk.”

“I do. But I would rather do it . . somewhere else . . . where I can think more clearly . . .”

His dark eyebrow quirked in interest and he shrugged his shoulders. “If it would be easier for you.” He reached for his clothing, cast in a wrinkled pile on the floor, and wondered about the upcoming discussion. There was a confrontation in the air—he could almost taste it.

Knowing that if she didn’t explain to Shane about Angie as soon as possible, she would lose her frail nerve, she wondered how he would take the news that he had a nearly four-year-old daughter. Would he believe it? How would he react? Mara slid off of the bed and walked quickly to the closet to grab her apricot-colored terry robe that was hanging on a peg. She didn’t turn around, but she could feel Shane’s dark eyes roving over her naked backside as she shrugged into the robe. “A pity,” she heard him mutter to himself, but she didn’t respond to the passion she visualized was on his face. She knotted the belt of the robe angrily, forcing herself to keep the promise of the night before—that she would tell him about Angie. It was his right! She meant to keep that promise to herself, no matter how difficult it proved to be. Also, before anything else happened, she had to know why he had waited so long to come back to her, and the reason for his sudden desire for her after four quiet, lonely years.

The seductive mood of the bedroom was broken by the airy cheerfulness of the kitchen. The clean hard surfaces of bright rust-colored tile and warm butcher-block countertops brought Mara back to reality. As she sat across from Shane at the small breakfast table, Mara wondered if she had the nerve to ask all of the questions that plagued her. She swirled cream into her coffee and watched her cup studiously as the dark brown liquid absorbed the milky cream.

Steeling herself, she raised her eyes to meet his. The pungent aroma of coffee filled her nostrils as she looked deeply into his black gaze. As if anticipating the worth of her question, Shane’s face became completely sober, his stare penetrating. Mara felt as if he were looking into the deepest corners of her mind.

“You wanted to talk,” he coaxed gently.

She licked her lips, a movement he found devastatingly distracting. Her voice was low and direct. “That’s right,” she agreed hesitantly. Oh, God, why was this so difficult? “There are things that we have to discuss. Things I need to know . . . things that you have to know.”

A dark eyebrow cocked. “Go on . . .”

Mara sighed deeply, took an experimental sip of the scalding brew, and glanced out the windows, past the broad expanse of green lawn, past the now empty stables to the backdrop of the imperial mountains. How could she begin? How could she explain that he had a daughter? Turning back to face him, the silence beginning to gnaw at her, she found Shane still glaring at her, and this time she found the strength to meet his unwavering black gaze. Her voice, though breathless, was firm, and she controlled her hands that had begun to tremble by gripping the coffee cup tightly.

“Shane, I need to know why you didn’t come back to me. I just don’t understand why it took you four years to show up.”

A flicker of doubt and confusion flashed over his face. He seemed almost suspicious, and his voice was harsh, brittle. “I thought that I explained all of that last night.”

Mara closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. This was going to be more difficult than she had imagined. “I understand about the hospital and the identity mix-up. And I realize that your father didn’t lie to me—he thought you were dead at the time that I spoke with him.” She gulped a drink of hot coffee to steady herself and strengthen her determination. “But,” she continued, “what I don’t understand is why, when you finally got out of the hospital . . . why you didn’t . . . you wouldn’t . . .” her voice trailed off.

“I didn’t come back for you,” he finished for her. “You don’t understand that?” he snapped, fury and incredulity twisting his features. A storm of emotion passed over his face, and his eyes had turned to stone. His voice was vehement with the anger that he had repressed for the last four years. “I did come back for you, Mara, after spending nearly two months in a London hospital! And when I got back here, what did I find? Were you waiting for me as I had expected you to be? No! Of course not—that was much too much to ask, wasn’t it?” he challenged from across the table.

The words that were forming in Mara’s throat died as he blasted on.

“You know, I wondered why you never answered my letters. And I thought it strange that your phone had been disconnected, with no forwarding number. But I found out, didn’t I? The hard way. I found that the woman I loved and who I thought loved me was married to another man. Within three months, Mara . . . three lousy months!” His lips curled in contempt as he looked at her and the fury that he had hidden away surfaced.

A feeble protest formed in her mouth, but he continued to speak harshly, as if the dam of silence that had held his torment at bay was suddenly washed away. All Mara could do was listen, unbelieving.

“Not only that, Mara dear,” he sneered, “but you were pregnant, weren’t you? I wonder just how long you had planned to keep me on the string? My trip to Northern Ireland was very convenient for you, wasn’t it?” he blasted.

She shook her head in confusion and frustration, tears sprouted in her eyes and blurred her vision, but still he continued. His tirade wasn’t over.

“I don’t know how I could have been so blind,” he admitted, his voice heavy with self-contempt. “You must have been seeing Wilcox while I was still here—or very soon after. All the time that I was away, I thought—no, make that I expected— you to be faithful, but I guess that was too much to ask, wasn’t it? The minute my airplane took off, you conveniently found yourself another lover, didn’t you? Tell me—” his voice broke with the emotion that he had hoped to keep hidden within him “—just how long did you think you could keep up the charade with me? Were you seeing Wilcox while I was still in Asheville? What was it—his money that attracted you to him?” Bright fires of anger and disgust burned in his eyes.

“No!” she screamed, finding her voice. He grabbed her wrist menacingly.

“Liar!”

“No, no!” She shook her head in shame and disbelief. Was this the same man who had been so gentle, so thoughtful in bed only minutes before? “Peter was never my lover!”

Shane yanked on her wrist, and she was forced closer to him, leaning across the table. The coffee cup clattered to the floor, breaking and splashing the murky liquid against her robe. Shane’s tormented face was only inches from hers, and his hot, angry breath scorched her cheeks.

“Don’t lie to me!” he commanded.

Blue eyes snapped in indignation. Without thinking, she felt her free hand arc and she slapped him with all of the force that she could find, while she pulled her head regally high, over the taunts of his degrading insults.

“You bastard! How dare you accuse me of being unfaithful!” she shot back at him. “I never looked at another man, much less slept with one!”

“How can you expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth!” Her lips thinned, and her eyes glittered like ice. “If you would let go of me and just listen for a minute, you could stop these ridiculous insinuations.”

Shane’s eyes narrowed. He knew that he should be suspicious, but the honesty of her eyes and the haughty disdain with which she looked upon him shook his resolve. His grip on her wrist slackened. She withdrew her hand and rubbed the wrist, never letting her eyes leave his face.

“Then . . . what about Wilcox?” he accused, harshly. “Why did you marry him?”

“I thought you were dead, for God’s sake!” She slumped back into her chair and rubbed her tired eyes. “Shane, if you would just calm down and listen, I’ll try to explain.” A tremor in her voice belied her commanding words.

Shane crossed the kitchen and raked his long fingers through his black hair. Leaning against the cherrywood cupboards, he folded his arms over his chest and eyed her warily. His muscles were tight, tense, as he watched her. She wasn’t lying, he knew that much instinctively, and the sting of her contempt still burned against his cheek. “All right,” he conceded impatiently, his voice barely audible. “I’m listening.”

“It’s true,” she began, her blue eyes never leaving his. “I was pregnant when I got married.”

His lips thinned menacingly, but he remained silent, his stony gaze daring her to continue.

“But . . . it’s not what you think. You see . . . I . . . I was pregnant when you left—only I hadn’t realized it at the time. And then—” her voice trembled and she began shredding a paper napkin from the table “—and . . . then, when you didn’t call . . . or write, I became worried. I called your father, because I needed to get in touch with you, and that’s when I found out that you were dead . . .”

“You wanted to get in touch with me?” Shane was incredulous and darkly angry. “Why? Did you want my address in order to send me a wedding invitation?” he asked, his lips curling with sarcasm. “Why, damn it!” A fist crashed against the countertop.

“You’re not listening—I wanted to get in touch with you—needed to tell you about the baby . . .”

“As if I would want to know!”

“. . . our baby, Shane—don’t you understand? I was pregnant with your child!”

“Oh, God,” he groaned, and shook his head. “No . . . it’s too farfetched . . .” he began, but the anger in his eyes died as he came to terms with the truth. A quiet uncertainty lingered in his gaze, and his tanned face drained of color. “What are you trying to say, Mara?” he demanded, his lips barely moving and a look of incredulous disbelief crossing his face. His fingers gripped the edge of the counter as if for support.

“For God’s sake, Shane,” Mara cried, her breath torn from her lungs. “I’m trying to explain to you that Angie’s your daughter, that I only married Peter because it was the best thing that I could do for our child!”

“You can’t expect me to believe . . . all of this,” he retorted, but his midnight gaze wavered.

“It’s true,” Mara breathed. “Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know . . .”

“Then why can’t you believe me?”

Shane pushed a wayward lock of hair angrily aside, and Mara noticed that his hands trembled. “You can’t really expect me to believe that you were pregnant with my child, and yet the minute you thought I was dead, you were able to find a replacement father. It’s all too incredible.”

“Incredible or not—that’s the way it happened, all because I thought that you were dead!” Her blue eyes, clouded with disappointment at his reaction, pierced his. “Angie is your daughter!”

“Why . . . why didn’t you tell all of this to me last night?”

A grim smile captured her lips. “Yesterday was confusing and shocking—I hadn’t expected to ever see you again. And when I did, I wanted to be sure that the timing was right, I guess.” Her honeyed brows drew together thoughtfully. “I needed time to work things out . . .”

“You mean, that it occurred to you not to tell me,” he accused.

“Never!”

“Oh, God,” Shane moaned in painful prayer as the realization of the worth of her words caught hold of him. Mara wasn’t lying. As incredible as it seemed, Angie was his daughter. Knowing what he did now, the resemblance in the portrait he had fingered just last night startled him. Peter Wilcox had raised his child in the four years that he had been away. “And how,” he asked raggedly, stunned by the weight of her announcement, “did you think that marrying someone else would be good for her?” His question slashed through the air like a gilded saber.

“What else could I do?” she implored, her eyes filling with tears of despair as she witnessed an impenetrable mask closing over his angled features.

“You could have been honest and strong enough to have kept the baby yourself and not be pressured by Asheville society’s morals. You could have given my child my name, if indeed she is mine!”

“You saw the picture on the mantle—she’s your daughter, Shane, whether you want to believe it or not! And I won’t stand for your giving me the advantage of your hindsight and telling me what I should have done with my life!” She stood up and faced him with an arctic gaze. “I thought you were dead, Shane—DEAD! Not missing. Not even hiding from me, but dead! I never expected to see you again. You could have prevented that, you know, by coming home to me. I don’t think I owe you any apologies, none whatsoever. Peter wanted to marry me, and I agreed. I wanted our child to grow up in a normal lifestyle, with loving parents. Everything that I did was with Angie’s welfare uppermost in my mind! Can’t you see that?”

“What I see is that you schemed for Wilcox to marry you, and I call that tantamount to prostitution—passing off another man’s child as his!”

Mara slapped the table in frustration with her small, curled fist. “Don’t even suggest anything so absolutely preposterous!” she warned him. “I didn’t pass Angie off as anything but your child—to Peter. And he had the kindness and the decency to marry me and accept Angie, nonetheless. He knew that she was your child, but for the sake of practicality we let everyone else think that she was his.”

For a moment there was a long silence. Shane looked out the window, seemingly mesmerized by the view of the gracious lawn, the gleaming white fence, the empty paddock. He rubbed the back of his neck furiously with his hand as if trying to wipe away some of the anger that was raging within him, before turning once again to face Mara.

“Shane,” she said evenly, “if I had had even the slightest idea that you were alive—”

“What about my letters?” he demanded.

“I never got any letters from you and the mail from my old apartment was forwarded here . . .”

“Well, someone got them, you can be sure of that. They were never returned to me!” He paused for a moment, his black gaze clouded as he thought. “And what would you have done, Mara, if you had known that I was alive? Would you have waited for me? Is that what you were beginning to say?”

“Of course.”

He waved his hand angrily in the air and cut her off in mid-sentence. Closing his eyes and shaking his head, he walked past her and out the kitchen door. As the screen door banged shut Mara sighed deeply. Her own anger and indignation burned within her, and she knew it was best to let him be, give him time alone to accept the fact that he had a child. What had she expected anyway? That he would be thrilled with the fact . . . that he would love the child instantly, that he would fall in love with her all over again?

As she reached down and began to pick up the pieces of the shattered coffee cup, she wondered to herself, what was it that they always said—you can never go back? Well, they were right.

Mara took the time to wipe up the floor and straighten the kitchen before following Shane outside. Once again in control of her ragged emotions, she knew that she had to finish the discussion about Angie. Whether Shane liked the fact or not, he had a daughter to consider.

Her resolve wobbled a little as she saw him sitting, his head in his hands, on the top step of the long, shaded back porch. The morning sun was high in the sky, and only a few wisps of white clouds lingered near the mountain peaks. The air was flavored with the scent of pine and honeysuckle, and aside from the deep anger that kept Shane and Mara apart, the day promised to be perfect.

If Shane had noticed her entrance into his privacy, he didn’t acknowledge her presence. He continued to hold his head in his hands and stare, almost unseeing, at the glorious Carolina day.

Mara dusted a spot on the steps and sat next to him. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you,” she whispered, half to herself as she smoothed the apricot robe over her legs.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I wanted to know,” he muttered in a voice devoid of emotion. “Besides which, you can’t run from the truth, Mara, as you did when you married Wilcox.”

Mara sighed heavily. “I told you that I married Peter for Angie’s sake.”

“Is that right?” he shot back vehemently. “And what about you? Didn’t you do it for yourself?” His dark eyes swept over the large colonial house, the expansive back porch, the elegant gardens, and the rest of the well-tended grounds. “This isn’t such a bad way to live, is it? Lots easier than raising a child on your own. I don’t suppose that it took you very long to get accustomed to this kind of lifestyle, now, did it?”

“You don’t understand . . .”

“You bet I don’t! How could you marry another man, Mara, knowing that you were carrying my child? And what about all the nights after you were married? Do you expect me to believe that you and Wilcox never made love? You can’t possibly take me for such a fool!”

The tears that she had pressed back began to tumble unwanted down her cheeks, but she managed to level her gaze at Shane. “No, Shane, I don’t expect for you to believe anything of the kind. If I did, it would be a lie. I did make love to Peter, over and over again in the three years that we were married.” Shane winced at the words, his dark eyes glowering in bitterness. “But you have to remember,” she cautioned, noting the twisted look of rage on his face, “that I believed you were dead. Otherwise, I swear that I would never have let Peter, or for that matter any other man, lay a finger on me! You have to believe that!”

Shane’s face was rigid, his severe jawline clenched as he watched her. The clear honesty in her eyes, the regal tilt of her defiant chin, the stain of tears that ran down her cheeks, everything about her posture convinced him that she was baring her soul to him.

He groaned to himself and then reached for her hand, which he pressed to his lips. “Oh, baby,” he sighed, letting his broad shoulders droop. “What’s happened to us? Why can’t we trust each other?” He pulled her gently onto his lap and buried his face against her breasts. “I believe you, Mara—I believe you.”

Mara shuddered in relief and clutched him as if she thought he might disappear. Her choked words came out between breathless sobs. “I can’t pretend that Peter and I didn’t sleep together . . . nor do I expect that you have remained faithful to me . . .” He began to interrupt but she quieted him with a finger to his lips. “Let’s just not talk about it . . . or think about it. I don’t want to hear about any of the women in your life, and Peter is dead. It’s just us now—the past doesn’t matter.”

“And Angie,” he reminded her as he crushed her to his body. She could hear the pounding of his heart echoing deep within the cavern of his chest. Tears slid silently down her cheeks in long-denied happiness.

“Come on, Mara . . . let’s go upstairs and get dressed. There’s a young lady I can’t wait to meet, and you and I have a lot to do.”

“Such as?” she asked quietly.

He regarded her silently for a moment, and then a sad smile crept over his face. “Such as pick up our daughter and get married as quickly as possible.”

Against all of the urges of her body, she slowly extracted herself from his embrace. “It’s just not that easy, Shane,” she whispered. “We can’t get married.”

His hand, which still caught hers, tightened around her fingers and the muscles in his face hardened. “Of course it’s that easy, Mara. We can get married immediately. What’s to stop us?”

“There are things . . .”

“What things?” he demanded, deep furrows edging over his brow.

Her voice was soft and low, but decisive. “It’s not just us, you know. We have other people and their feelings to consider.”

“What kind of a game are you playing, Mara? I don’t give a damn about other people!” He stood up, and pulled her up beside him—forcing her to gaze into his eyes. His hands clutched the terry robe at her shoulders, and his strong arms held her away from him. His fingers, once gentle, held her tightly, roughly pinching her arms, and his face was twisted in suspicion. “For God’s sake, Mara,” he implored. “What do we care about other people. We have a daughter to think of—don’t we?” Doubt was beginning to creep into his eyes.

“Of course we do, Shane, but you can’t expect a three-year-old child to just accept you as the natural father that she didn’t know existed. She thought that Peter was her dad—and he was! Angie needs time to adjust—and . . . and so do I!” Her admission was torn from her, and the words surprised even herself, but the firm resolve in her cold, blue eyes never slackened for a moment.

“What are you suggesting?”

“Give it time, Shane . . .”

“You’ve had time.”

“Angie hasn’t! Think of her!”

“I am thinking of her, damn it, but I don’t know if, after all of these years, I can wait any longer . . . knowing that she’s mine.”

“You have to! We all need a little breathing room—we’ve all had some rather extensive shocks, wouldn’t you say? You and I . . . we have both come over some incredible, almost insurmountable hurdles in finding each other again. And time has a way of sorting out all of the unnecessary things in life and healing old wounds. We need time, and we need it now.”

“You’re stalling!”

“I’m not! Just think about it, Shane.”

Shane reluctantly released Mara, and she stepped backward. His eyes, two black diamonds, glittered with mistrust and confusion. “All of this is hard for me to accept,” he admitted. “First you tell me that I have a three-year-old daughter that I’ve never met, and then you tell me that I can’t have her with me.”

“This isn’t any more difficult for you than it is for me,” Mara reminded him. “Less than twenty-four hours ago, I still thought that you were dead, and now I find out that for four years you deliberately hid away from me. Four years!”

“Not intentionally,” he clarified, again taking solace in the view of the mountains from the back porch. “Remember, I thought that you had betrayed me.”

“There’s just so much that we have to work out, don’t you see?” Mara asked, reaching out and touching his cheek.

“I don’t know if I can wait,” he admitted moodily, and rubbed his forearms in frustration. “I want to see Angie now, this very minute, and I want to change her name to Kennedy. If I have a child, I want that child to bear my name and live with me. Enough of this pretense about her being Wilcox’s child!”

Mara let her hand slide from his cheek to his shoulder, but if he noticed her gesture of consolation, he didn’t respond. “I’m not asking for you to give up anything that is rightfully yours. I wouldn’t. I’m only asking for a little bit of patience. Maybe after you meet with Angie, actually see her, touch her, talk to her, you’ll understand. She’s a little precocious—perhaps spoiled, and she’s only three. She needs to get to know you before we try and explain that you’re her ‘real’ father.”

Shane’s face was captured in a storm of emotions. He wanted desperately to believe and trust Mara, and he couldn’t fault her reasoning. But there was a deep, primeval urge that controlled him and argued that he should immediately claim what was rightfully his.

“There are other people to consider, too,” Mara suggested.

“Who?” Anger and frustration were boiling just beneath the surface of his visibly calm exterior.

“June, for one, and—”

Shane interrupted viciously. “June?” he sneered in contempt. “Peter’s mother? You’re concerned about her welfare?”

“Of course I am. She’s not particularly well, and the shock of finding out that Angie isn’t her grandchild . . . well, I don’t think that it would be particularly good for her health. I don’t want to do anything that might worsen her condition.”

“Condition? Are we talking about the same woman who wouldn’t let me in to see you on the day of the funeral?” he demanded in disgust. “You’re concerned about her welfare, when she has had every opportunity to know and love my daughter as her own grandchild? Stop the theatrics, Mara—June Wilcox has already gotten more than she deserves!”

“She’s not well,” Mara attempted to explain, but Shane silenced her with a rueful stare.

“Neither is my father,” he said through clenched teeth. “As a matter of fact, he’s in a nursing home, and he hasn’t even suspected that he has a granddaughter, much less one that is going on four years old. Would you deny him the joy of knowing Angie in order to promote the charade of your life as the faithful wife of Peter Wilcox?”

“No . . . but . . .” Shane was seething. He dusted off his hands and leaned against one of the heavy white posts that supported the porch roof. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched Mara, mutely inviting her to continue her denial and explanation. She could tell that he was tired of the conversation, and that his anger was simmering just under the surface of his self-control. Barely concealed rage fired his ebony eyes, and Mara found herself desperately attempting to control the conversation that was rapidly deteriorating into another battle.

“But what?” Shane prodded as her voice trailed off. He came up with his own assumptions. “But Peter’s mother’s state of mind is more important than Angie’s real grandfather? The man that’s lying in an Atlanta nursing home, barely able to feed himself. The man that doesn’t even know about his grandchild. Is that what you were beginning to say?”

Mara shook her head violently, and the golden curls of her hair moved in soft waves against the light peach color of her robe. “Of course your father has to know,” she said quietly.

“When, Mara? Today? Next week? Six months from now? Ever? When will you think the time is right?” Shane asked, his fists clenching and relaxing against his body.

“Just how long would you be willing to wait, gambling on my father’s health?”

Suddenly Shane looked old. His hastily donned clothing was wrinkled, and the shadow of a beard that darkened the lower half of his face seemed to age him. The barely controlled fury that had taken hold of him when he understood Mara’s position emphasized the deep lines that etched his arrogant forehead. His eyes, dark and distrustful, never left Mara’s face. They silently challenged her, dared her to deny him.

Mara couldn’t answer. Her emotions had tangled up within her to the point that she couldn’t speak. How could she expect him to understand? How could she ask him to wait? And yet, what else could she do? It had taken four years to get where they were today; could it all be undone in just a few minutes?

Shane’s voice challenged her pensive thoughts. “Are you sure that your only concern is for Angie, and for Peter’s mother?”

“You have to understand that—”

“What, Mara?” he demanded. “That you’re afraid to give up what little hold and control you have on the Wilcox estate? The role of Peter’s widow gives you control of the corporation, doesn’t it?”

“Peter’s will has nothing to do with us!”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Of course not! If I were concerned about my ownership of the stock, I wouldn’t be foolish enough to tell you about Angie, would I?” she tossed angrily to him. “Honestly, Shane, I don’t think I know you anymore. How could you think so little of me—after all we shared together?”

“Then why the wait?” he demanded. “I’ve met June Wilcox, and I doubt that she really is sick. And as for Angie, I think she probably will adjust to me without too much trouble. This entire argument is about the Wilcox fortune, unless I miss my guess. Aren’t you afraid that when Angie’s true identity is announced, the rest of Peter’s family will contest his will and try and take back whatever inheritance Peter left you and Angie? After all, how does anyone know that Peter knew the secret of Angie’s paternity—they have only your word, don’t they? And that won’t count for much, believe me. As far as the Wilcox family is concerned, June included, you’re a traitor, Mara, and I doubt that they would tolerate you running Imagination Toys . . . or—” his gaze swept the vast estate, bathed in early morning sunlight “—allow you to be mistress of this house . . .”

“No!” Mara cried, leaning against the polished white railing for support. “It wouldn’t be like that!”

“Prove it!”

“What? I . . . I don’t understand.”

“Sure you do.” His rough voice was flavored with honey. “All you have to do is give me the right to claim my child!”

“I will, you know that,” she said, letting her forehead drop to her hands. “I just need a little time . . .”

“You’ve had four years!” he snapped.

“And you gave them to me, didn’t you?” His arms, crossed rigidly over his chest, as if to ward off her words, dropped to his sides. His gaze softened slightly, and he pinched his lower lip between his fingers as he regarded her thoughtfully.

“All right, Mara. You win. I’ll give you a little more time to let everyone adjust to me . . . but not much!”

“I . . . we . . . don’t need much . . .”

“Good. How about one week, is that enough?”

“Two would be better . . .”

“Fine! Two it is.” His smile was nearly genuine. “But that’s it—no more stalling!” His dark eyes gleamed with satisfaction, as if a particularly savory thought had occurred to him. “Now,” he suggested, “why don’t you get dressed and we’ll get going. I’d like to meet Angie as soon as possible.”

The elation that Mara should have felt escaped her. There was something almost too pleasant about Shane’s change of mood—something too practiced and smooth, and it continued to bother her as she hastily took a shower and pulled on her clothes.