You’ll Find Out

Chapter 6

Chapter 6

T he drive toward Asheville was quiet and fast. Shane seemed to concentrate on his driving, his brooding thoughts keeping him silent, while Mara feigned interest in the view from the car as it sped through the mountains and toward the city. The countryside of deep rolling hills, ancient wooden fences, and bright splashes of wildflowers passed quickly out of Mara’s range of vision as the sleek sports car hurried northward on Interstate 26, across the clear waters of the French Broad River and into the city limits of Asheville.

Mara felt the usual rush of pride that always captured her as she entered the city. Nestled in the heart of a million acres of natural mountain wilderness and the tallest mountains in the eastern United States, the Asheville plateau and the city that bore its name seemed to reach out to her. Tall, stately modern office complexes stood proudly against older, more finely detailed turn-of-the-century buildings, and the entire city was graced with tall mountain trees—pine, oak, chestnut . . . Mara took in the familiar scenery that never failed to awe her. The clear mountain air and the bright morning sunlight only added a deepening intensity to the grandeur of the busy town.

Shane pulled the car into the parking lot of one of the older, nineteenth century inns near the center of the city and helped Mara out of the car. With his arm hooking persuasively under her elbow, he gently pushed her into the elevator and tapped impatiently on the paneled walls as it ascended to the fourth floor. Mara sat mutely, somewhat amused, as Shane raced around his hotel room, changed, and shaved, as if every second was being wasted. Secretly she was pleased with his anxiety and nervousness at the prospect of meeting Angie, and yet, she still couldn’t shake a feeling of wariness and tension about the meeting. How would Angie react to Shane? And what about June? Why did Mara feel that there were serious undercurrents of tension that seemed to take hold of Shane at the mention of her mother-in-law’s name? Was it jealousy of the woman’s relationship with his child, or was it deeper than that?

“Come on. Let’s go,” Shane called to her, interrupting her thoughts. He was racing to the door, fumbling with his tie, and reaching for his keys all in one movement.

“Slow down,” Mara cautioned good-naturedly. She got up from the bed, where she had been sitting, and reached up to help him with the knot on his tie. “We’ve got the rest of the morning . . .”

“Can’t you see that I’m in a hurry, damn it!” Shane muttered, jerking on the tie impatiently.

“Too much of one,” she said chuckling and touched his cheek, where he had obviously nicked himself with the razor.

A crooked, lazy smile stole over his lips as he noticed the amused twinkle in her eye. “You’re enjoying all of this aren’t you? You’re actually taking pleasure in watching me fall all over myself as I try to hurry to meet my daughter.”

Mara couldn’t help but blush. “I guess you’re right,” she conceded, avoiding his gaze. “It’s heartwarming to see your more human side surfacing. And—” her eyes locked with his “—it’s an incredible relief to realize how important Angie is to you.” Her voice caught for a moment. “I . . . I was afraid that maybe, when you found out about her, you wouldn’t want her . . .”

A pained expression crossed his features. “How could you think anything of the kind?”

“It’s been a long time, Shane.”

“Too long,” he agreed and wrapped his arms around her. He brushed a kiss across the top of her forehead. “You know that I’d love to stay here and make love to you all morning,” he murmured, his eyes sweeping over to the large, comfortable wooden-framed bed, “but I really do want to meet my child. I’ve waited much too long, already.”

* * *

No one answered Shane’s impatient knock, and so after several awkward moments, Mara let herself into June’s apartment with her own key. She called out to her daughter and mother-in-law, but there was no answer, only a dull echo from the empty rooms.

Shane followed Mara through the entry and into the living quarters of the tidy, modern apartment. Other than a few pieces of Angie’s clothing draped unceremoniously over the back of a floral couch, there was no sign that the child was about. Without Angie or June inhabiting it, the apartment seemed cold and sterile, the cool blue tones of the carpet and furniture austerely precise and impractical.

Shane eyed the living room with obvious contempt, his dark eyes only softening when he observed Angie’s tattered blanket tossed carelessly on the floor. He stooped to pick it up, and smiled to himself as the worn pink blanket unfolded to reveal a nearly naked and slightly dirty doll. “Can’t you afford something a little bit . . . cleaner?” he asked, eyeing the doll’s tousled frizzy hair and lazy blue eye.

“I’ve tried, believe me,” Mara laughed. “But she prefers Lolly.”

“Lolly?” Shane repeated uncomfortably. “But . . . you manufacture toys. Isn’t there something you could find to replace . . . Lolly?”

Mara’s lips curled into a grim smile. “I would hope so,” she muttered, shaking her head pensively, “but it seems that our Angie, like the rest of the toddlers in America, prefer the products of the competition.”

“Lolly isn’t manufactured by Imagination?”

Mara shook her head again. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

Shane looked upon the doll quizzically. “A damned shame,” he whispered, straightening himself to his full height. Still holding the doll tentatively, his eyes swept the apartment to rest on the wall behind the couch. His frown deepened as he recognized portrait after portrait of Angie and Peter adorning the smooth white surface. “Your husband?” he guessed, with a bitter edge to his voice.

Ignoring the sarcasm, Mara walked to the wall laden with family portraits. She rested with one knee on the couch and pointed to several of the pictures, her voice taking on the quality of a teacher. “Yes, this is Peter—with Angie, when she was about six months old. And this one, next to it, is a picture of June, her husband, Peter, and his older sister, Dena. The next picture is of Peter, Angie and me . . . Angie was about two at the time; it was just before we learned of his illness—June insisted that we have it taken. And this large portrait, here on the left, is of the entire family, including the cousins and aunts of Peter and his family. The lower, smaller shot is . . .”

Mara had been pointing to each of the photographs in turn. The fact that Shane was obviously angry spurred her onward. No matter what else happened, Shane would have to learn to accept the fact that she had been married to Peter. Nothing could change the past.

“That’s enough,” Shane nearly shouted, reaching out and capturing Mara’s arm. “I’ve seen enough of the Wilcox family history for one morning. Let’s go and find Angie. Where do you think she would be?”

Mara retrieved her hand from Shane’s grasp. “June mentioned something about taking her to the park for a miniature train ride. It’s just across the street . . .”

“Good. Let’s go.”

“Don’t you think we should wait? June was really looking forward to spending the morning with her.”

“We’re going, Mara, and now. You really can’t expect me to sit here—in this shrine to your husband—and wait for his mother to bring back my child, can you?”

“No, I suppose not . . .”

“Then stop dragging your feet, and let’s go.”

Shane grabbed the few belongings that he recognized as being Angie’s and followed Mara out of the apartment and across the street to one of the well-manicured parks of Asheville. It was nearly noon, and although the day was warm the mountain breezes that cooled the city made the late August morning feel crisp and invigorating. The trains were on the far side of the park, near a small depot, and although the track wound through the lush vegetation all along the perimeter of the gardens, Mara reasoned that the most likely spot to find June and Angie was near the miniature station.

Mara heard her daughter before she actually caught a glimpse of her. Over the clacking of the wheels on the small track and the occasional blow of a whistle, Mara could hear Angie’s laughter and shouts. Both Shane and Mara stopped in their tracks when they rounded a bend in the path and could view grandmother and child. Angie was digging in a sandbox of sorts, and June was watching her over the top of a magazine as she sat on a bench in the sunshine. Angie was obviously having the time of her life, and June seemed to be enjoying the peaceful, warm morning. Mara smiled, but couldn’t help but feel a lingering sadness steal over her as she thought about June and her frail health. June so obviously enjoyed and loved Angie, and Shane didn’t hide his dislike for Peter’s mother. Mara felt her heart go out to the elderly woman who had been so kind to her. With Shane’s preoccupation with his child, and insistence that Angie become his legal daughter, June would lose that fragile link that she felt she had to her dead son. She had always thought that Angie was Peter’s daughter, and Mara knew that when the truth came out, June would be devastated to learn that Angie was Shane’s child. Would she feel betrayed, lied to? Suddenly Mara’s life seemed a complicated labyrinth of deception.

Shane’s hand tightened over hers, and after a momentary pause he walked directly toward the unsuspecting grandmother and child. Mara found her throat tightening with each step she took. After all the years of yearning for the chance to be with Shane again, she found herself dreading what she had dreamed about. When it came time for Shane to claim Angie, how would it affect June . . . Dena . . . and Angie herself? How could Mara anticipate that final confrontation with such sublime happiness and increasing dread?

June looked up from her magazine and then used it as a shield over her eyes to ward off the late summer glare from the sun. She watched Mara and Shane approach her bench, and the broad smile that had lighted her face when she recognized Mara faded as she identified the strange man walking briskly and determinedly toward her,

“Good morning, Mara,” June beckoned, noticing the lines of worry crowding Mara’s normally clear forehead.

At the mention of her mother’s name, Angie looked up from her digging and squealed with delight at the sight of Mara. “Mommy!” she chirped, running over to Mara and leaping into her arms. She clung, monkeylike, to her mother and began chattering wildly. “Grammie take me on train rides-just like the big ones in the book, and they have whistles and real smoke and . . .” her voice trailed off as she observed Shane for the first time. Her black eyes collided with her father’s and although Shane smiled, there was distrust in Angie’s stare. “Who he?” she asked pointedly, sticking out her lower lip. “Why he got Lolly and my blankie?”

One chubby arm held onto Mara’s neck, while the other reached out impatiently to claim her things. Shane handed the doll, draped in the tattered blanket, to his daughter. Importantly, Angie clutched them to her chest, all the while eyeing Shane with suspicion.

Mara had trouble finding her voice but finally managed the introduction. “Angie . . . June . . . this is Shane Kennedy, a friend of mine, and someone who’s interested in the toy company.”

“We’ve met,” June replied, taking Shane’s proffered hand with obvious disinterest.

“That we did—on the day of the funeral,” Shane agreed amiably. June’s blue eyes narrowed icily.

“I don’t like you,” Angie said, glaring at her father.

Mara gasped and turned several shades of crimson. “Angie! That’s not nice! We don’t say things like that. You apologize to Mr. Kennedy.”

The child folded her arms defiantly over her chest and stared up at Shane with obvious mistrust. “No!”

“Angie,” Mara cajoled, her patience beginning to thin. She set the girl down on the bench next to her grandmother. “Now you be nice. Mr. Kennedy is Mamma’s friend . . .”

Silence. Awkward, warm, embarrassing, uncomfortable silence. Angie turned her head so as to avoid direct eye contact with her mother, and a small smile tugged at the corners of June’s mouth. She seemed to be extracting a small sense of satisfaction at Angie’s behavior and ill manners.

Shane ignored Angie’s rejection altogether. “There’s no need for an apology, Angie,” he said, and Mara shot him an uncompromising glance. “I’ve met a lot of people that I didn’t like in my life; I just wasn’t honest enough to admit it.”

“But she shouldn’t—” Mara began, but Shane waved off her arguments.

“You’re right, she probably shouldn’t be so . . . forthright. But it doesn’t matter—not with me.”

Angie looked as if she didn’t quite know what to make of the conversation. Fully expecting further protests from her mother, she was surprised when none came about. After casting a confused and furtive glance at her mother’s friend, she sat down on the bench and began playing with the doll and blanket, telling Lolly about her morning in the park on the trains.

“Excuse me, Mr. Kennedy,” June said, meeting Shane’s dark gaze. “Did Mara say that you were interested in purchasing Imagination?”

“That’s correct.”

“Well, I hope she explained to you that the company is absolutely, without condition, not for sale!” June retorted. Mara was surprised. June never took an interest in the family business, much less interjected an opinion of company policy.

“That she did,” Shane agreed, leaning against an oak tree and watching Angie play with her doll.

“Then . . . I guess . . . I don’t understand why you’re still here . . .” June evaded.

“As Mara stated earlier, she and I are old friends,” Shane replied smoothly, almost intimately. Mara felt a wave of color once again stain her cheeks.

“Oh, then you’re here in Asheville for the weekend?”

“At least,” he drawled, a slow smile spreading over his arrogant features.

June’s lips pursed slightly. “I see you were at the apartment. Did you get all of Angie’s things? Her nightgown was in the spare bedroom.”

“No, we only picked up the blanket and the doll. But I thought you could bring her other things over when you come to stay with her on Monday.”

“Well,” June began crisply, a hint of exasperation flavoring her words. “In that case, I’ll be running along.” She picked up her magazine, tossed it into her basket, and rose from the bench. At the effort, her skin seemed to pale.

“Wouldn’t you like to spend the rest of the afternoon with us—perhaps go to lunch?” Mara offered.

“I don’t think so” was the stiff reply, aimed directly at Shane. “Dena’s coming over later in the day—for the life of me I don’t know why—I can’t remember the last time she came to visit me.”

“Thanks so much for looking after Angie,” Mara whispered, giving June a kiss on the cheek. “I’m sure she had a wonderful time.”

June’s face relaxed a bit as she looked at Angie, busy again in the sandbox. “Yes, I think she did. It was my pleasure.” June’s long, bony hand clasped firmly over Mara’s. “I’ll see you Monday morning.”

“All right.”

“Good-bye, Angie,” June called out to the little girl, who looked up from her play long enough to flash June her most ebullient smile and wave her hand and blanket at her grandmother.

When June was out of earshot, Shane turned his attention back to Mara. “I’d say she doesn’t like me much, wouldn’t you?” He cocked his head in the direction that June had taken.

“She probably just didn’t like the fact that you attempted to see me on the day of Peter’s funeral. She was pretty upset. Peter was her only son.”

Shane shrugged indifferently, but Mara couldn’t help but think about her mother-in-law. The chilling undercurrent of tension that had developed when Mara had introduced Shane to June couldn’t be ignored, and the withering look of haughty disdain in the older woman’s eyes—a look so atypical of June—spoke of a deep-seated mistrust or hatred. Why did June instantly dislike Shane? Was it, as Mara had suggested, because he had broken through unspoken bonds of civility and tried to see Mara on the day of the funeral? Did June overreact because she was emotionally drained at the time, or could there be another, deeper, angrier cause for June’s personality reversal?

“I think your suggestion earlier was great,” Shane said, breaking into Mara’s distracted thoughts.

“What . . . what was that?”

“Lunch. I’m starved. One cup of coffee wasn’t quite enough this morning.” Shane dropped a protective arm over Mara’s slim shoulders. “Quit worrying about June. It’s her right not to like me.”

“It’s just that I don’t understand it. It’s all so out of character for her. She’s usually a warm, open person.”

“Somehow I find that hard to believe.”

Further conjecture was cut short as Angie came up dragging her blanket behind her. Mara smiled at her child. “Are you hungry, Angie? How about some lunch?”

“Hot dogs?” Angie asked, her eyes lighting.

“Hot dogs?” Mara repeated. “Is that what you want?”

Angie shook her blond curls vigorously and pointed in the direction of a local vendor pushing a metal cart with large bicycle wheels and a bright green umbrella.

“Hot dogs it is,” Shane agreed with an amused smile.

“Are you sure?” Mara asked, eyeing the mustached vendor and his steaming wares dubiously.

“Whatever the young lady wants,” Shane laughed, and Angie began running off in the direction of the vendor.

“Don’t you think you’re pouring it on a little strong?” Mara asked. “Angie’s already spoiled. The last thing she needs is an overindulgent father.”

“We’ll see,” Shane said enigmatically, his dark eyes following the path of the escaping child.

The rest of the afternoon was spent in the park with Angie. Though shy at first, Angie finally accepted Shane and even let him have the privilege of holding her blanket as they walked through the city. The Summerfest Arts and Crafts Show was being held at the Civic Center, and Shane insisted upon looking over the various arts and crafts made by local mountain craftsmen and the Cherokee Indians. At the show, Shane purchased Angie a beaded bracelet, which she proudly wore around her wrist. By the time the afternoon shadows had lengthened, Shane carried a tired Angie against his shoulder, back to the car parked near June’s apartment.

The drive back to the house was as quiet as the drive into the city. Dusk was beginning to take hold of the countryside and a deep red sunset formed a backdrop for the purple-hued mountains. Angie slept quietly in the back seat, with only a deep, contented sigh escaping from her lips disturbing the quiet hum of the sports car. Shane was thoughtfully, broodingly silent during the journey home, and Mara could almost feel his dark thoughts begin to take hold of him. They were almost back at the Wilcox estate before he broke the silence that had captured them.

“I don’t know if I can hold up my end of the bargain,” he admitted.

“The bargain? What bargain?”

“Our deal, that I give you two weeks to sort things out before we tell Angie that I’m her father.”

“You promised,” she reminded him, gently touching his coat sleeve.

“I know . . . I know. But—” he paused, trying to find the right words as he shifted down and turned up the long, circular drive “—that was before I knew her. She needs me.”

“And?”

A sarcastic grin curved his lips. “You were waiting for this one, weren’t you? Well, you’re right. I need her. That’s what you’ve been waiting to hear, isn’t it?”

Tears began to pool in Mara’s eyes, and her voice deepened. “I’d be a liar to deny it. You see, well . . . Peter and Angie never did get along . . .”

“What do you mean?”

Shane stopped the car, and pulled the key from the ignition. Angie stirred but settled back into a comfortable sleep.

“Peter resented Angie.”

Shane touched Mara’s shoulder, and she could feel the heat of his fingertips through the light cotton of the blouse she was wearing. “He resented her?” Shane whispered. “But I thought that you married him in order to have a normal family life. Isn’t that what you told me?”

Mara nodded mutely. “I did, and I thought it would work. But I was wrong. After she was born, everything changed. And he was never close to her. Not as a baby or a toddler . . .”

Shane rested one arm on the steering wheel, and supported his head with his hand. His voice was level, and quiet, but filled with rage. “He didn’t do anything to her, did he?”

Mara gasped. “Oh, no. Peter was never violent or cruel. “No . . . no . . . but he was impatient with her, or he would ignore her altogether. He wanted more children. . . his children. But after seeing his lack of interest in Angie . . .” She shrugged her shoulders.

“So that was your ‘perfect marriage,’ was it?”

“I didn’t say it was perfect. I don’t think that there is such a thing.”

“No?”

She stuck her chin out determinedly and looked him in the eye. “No.”

“You’ve changed a lot in the last four years, Mara.”

“I don’t think so. I’ve just become more realistic. Life has a way of forcing you to give up your dreams.”

“Don’t ever give up your dreams, Mara.”

“Haven’t you?”

He cupped her chin in his hand and watched while his finger outlined the soft hill of her cheek. “Never,” he whispered and let his lips touch hers.

“Are we home?” Angie asked from the back seat, rubbing her eyes and only catching a glimpse of the intimate kiss.

“Yes, honey,” Mara said, hurriedly opening the car door and reaching for Angie. “Come on in the house and I’ll fix us a quick dinner.”

“Can I play with the kitties—Southpaw’s kitties?” Angie asked, her gaze running around the foundation of the house, looking for the mother cat.

“For a few minutes, honey. Until dinner is ready.” A smile spread over Angie’s face, and she immediately took off in the direction of the back porch.

* * *

It was nearly nine o’clock by the time dinner was over, Angie was bathed, the dishes were done, and the little girl was asleep in her bed. She had found the kittens and talked Shane into crawling under the back porch to get them. Against Southpaw’s soft protests, Shane extracted the kittens and helped Angie make a bed for them in the screened-in portion of the porch. Southpaw didn’t seem too pleased with the new arrangement, but Angie was delighted with a bird’s-eye view of the four chubby gray-and-white cats. “You can help me name them,” she had announced to Shane, who was more than thrilled at the prospect, supplying names of his favorite football players.

“I don’t think O.J. is a very good name for a kitty,” Angie confided in Mara as she was being tucked into bed.

“Neither do I,” Mara laughed. “But if Shane likes it, maybe we had better use it.”

“Don’t like it,” Angie repeated with a yawn, and Mara kissed her lightly on the forehead. Angie snuggled against the pillow, and before Mara could turn out the light, the little girl was breathing deeply and evenly. Shane stood in the doorway, watching the intimate scene between mother and daughter, and wondered how he had found himself so tangled up with Mara all over again. It wasn’t what he had planned, and he mentally chastised himself for his weakness where Mara was concerned. All the years of bitterness and deception were beginning to wash away, and he knew that if he allowed himself, he could fall in love with her, just as easily as he had the first time, nearly four years ago. An uneasy feeling that he had never really stopped loving her crept over him, and he wondered if there was ever a time when he hadn’t cared for her, as he had forced himself to believe. But now, as she bent down to kiss his child, and the moonglow caught the golden highlights of her hair, a warm feeling of protectiveness stole over him. Was it Mara that he cared for, or was he just succumbing to latent feelings of fatherhood for the child he had never met until late this morning? Now that he knew about Angie, was he mixing up his feelings for Mara with his newfound emotions for the little blond girl with the slightly upturned nose and the mischievous twinkle in her dark eyes?

“She doesn’t think much of the names that you gave the kittens,” Mara whispered as she closed the door quietly and started down the long carpeted hallway toward the stairs.

“I heard,” Shane chuckled, walking at Mara’s side. “Can you blame her? Who ever heard of naming newborn kittens after football heroes? No wonder she thinks the names are ill-fitting.”

“ ‘Crummy,’ I think, was the word she used,” Shane replied, and noticed Mara’s wistful smile. “She’s not exactly afraid to speak her mind, is she?”

“Not that one,” Mara agreed.

Shane apparently found the thought amusing and chuckled at the image of the outspoken child.

“Oh, you think it’s funny, do you?” Mara baited. “Well, just you wait. You’ll get yours. Let me tell you, her outbursts can be embarrassing—damned embarrassing!”

Shane touched Mara’s arm just as they stepped off the staircase and headed toward the back of the house. “You know what they say, ‘From the mouths of babes—’ ”

“I know,” Mara agreed, waving off the rest of his quote and snapping on the kitchen lights. “And I suppose you’re right,” she admitted reluctantly. “Anyway, I wouldn’t change one thing about her.”

“I would,” Shane countered, and clicked the light back off. Once again, the kitchen was dark, except for the pale, filtered moonglow.

“What?” Mara asked, breathlessly. The light mood and banter of a moment before had changed when darkness had covered the room. It was as if she could feel Shane standing next to her, not touching her, and yet reaching out to her. “What would you change about Angie?” Mara was slightly taken aback. All afternoon she had been led to believe that Shane was absolutely enchanted with his headstrong young daughter.

“I want them back, Mara,” Shane whispered, and his fingers brushed invitingly against her upper arm. “The three years that I haven’t known her . . . haven’t been around her . . . I want them back.”

She paused a moment before answering. The silence was burdensome and painful, and it was with difficulty that she found her voice. Her fingers touched his and pressed his hand more tightly against her arm. “Those years are gone, Shane . . . if they were so important to you, you should have taken them when you had the chance.”

“Damn it, Mara! I didn’t have a chance!”

“Oh, Shane,” Mara sighed, rotating to face him and looking deeply into his eyes that were almost ebony in the darkness of the room. “We can’t change the past. It’s difficult, I know—and we’ve both made mistakes. But we have no choice but to live with them.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted thoughtfully, though the tone of his voice lacked conviction. His fingertip reached up and touched her eyelid, and the thick brush of her eyelashes.

Mara closed her eyes and leaned against him. “For the rest of the weekend, let’s try to forget all of our problems and the past. Can’t we just concentrate on the present and the future?” she asked, leaning against his chest.

He hesitated, and reached for her right hand. After taking in a long breath and letting his fingers entwine through hers, he continued: “That depends.”

“On what?”

“A couple of things. The first being that you tell me just how you think another two weeks will give you the courage you need to face June Wilcox and tell her that Angie is my child.” His fingers tightened over her hand.

“I told you before, June’s not well.” Mara’s eyes flew open, and even in the shadowy night, she could tell that Shane was becoming angry again. But why? His grip on her fingers was severe, nearly crushing, and her eyes flew down to their hands, suspended and tangled between them in the darkness.

“The second thing I would like to know is why you still insist on wearing your wedding ring, even though your husband is dead? Does it hold some special significance? Or is it just that you don’t want to give up that last little piece of evidence that you were married to Peter Wilcox? Was your love that lingering that you can’t bear the thought of taking off his ring?” Shane’s words were ice cold and they shattered the intimacy of the moment. Mara fought to withdraw her hand, which he reluctantly released.

For a moment she was unsure, and then slowly, with careful and theatrical precision, she slid the wide gold band off of her finger and placed it on the windowsill, where it winked in the moonlight.

“Satisfied?” she asked him, and once again snapped on the lights. Instantly the room transformed into the warm kitchen with rust accents. “Why do you constantly want to battle with me, Shane? Why is it, just when I think we’re making some concrete headway toward working things out, you find another excuse to bring up the past?” Her eyes glittered with the provocation she felt. “The reason that I wear the ring is obvious, at least to most people. It discourages unwanted male attention.” She turned and placed the teapot on the stove to heat some water. She was angry and was having trouble reining in her temper. Why did she still love him so desperately? He was so unpredictable, so moody, so prone to swings in temperament, and still she loved him.

The whistle on the teapot caught her attention, and she carefully poured two cups of scalding water, before steeping in them a rare blend of pekoe. With barely controlled indignation, she handed Shane a mug of the hot liquid.

“You have a lot of admirers, do you, now that dear old Peter is gone?” He observed her over the rim of his cup, and his black eyebrows quirked in dubious interest.

“That’s not the point . . .”

“Then, please—” he turned up a disbelieving palm, encouraging her to continue her explanation “—enlighten me.”

Mara nervously tapped her fingers on the edge of her cup, feeling somehow as if she was being cornered and manipulated. Still, she couldn’t help but take the well-placed morsel of bait, although she eyed Shane suspiciously before accepting his suggestion. She sighed wearily into the tea leaves. “I suppose that it’s no secret that since Peter’s death, when I became the woman in charge of Imagination, there have been a few persistent gentlemen—and I use the term loosely—who seem to think, in their lofty opinions of themselves, that I, a mere woman in charge of a large corporation, need their expert advice—or at the very least, their bodies—to help me deal with my loss of Peter and the awesome responsibility of running the company. It’s apparent that most men can’t understand how I can cope without a husband and father for my child, not to mention managing the business, to boot.” As Mara began talking, warming to her subject, all of her secret thoughts came tumbling out. “I’ve become some sort of target, Shane, and I don’t like it.” Her proud chin inched upward in defiance. “I’m not the kind of woman who needs just any man who happens along.” Her cheeks had become flushed, and she paused for a moment, to stop the angry quivering of her lips. “I don’t understand why some of the men around here don’t think a woman can run Imagination Toys . . .”

“Perhaps they’ve read the financial statements and realize that the company has been losing money ever since you took over the reins.”

“Not fair, Shane,” Mara admonished, suddenly willing to do verbal battle with him. “The company has been losing money for quite some time, long before I took over. It all started sometime before Peter’s illness was diagnosed, and although I haven’t been able yet to turn things around and operate in the black again, I refuse to take full responsibility. I’m not accepting the blame for the recession!”

“You’re hedging! The recession is just a convenient excuse! You can look over the earnings reports of most of the companies in this region—and they’re still making it. Why is it that Imagination can’t face up to the competition, anyway?”

“We’ve had a few bad breaks . . .”

“It comes with the territory, Mara. Every company has ‘bad breaks,’ but some seem to rise above them and find a way to make a profit.”

“I guess I don’t really understand where this conversation is heading,” Mara snapped, and put her teacup down with a clatter against the butcher-block countertop. “Are you criticizing the way I’m handling the company?”

“Not yet.”

“But you intend to?” she asked indignantly.

“Perhaps, if it’s necessary,” he promised.

“Then, why, now, all of the arguments?”

“I only asked you about your wedding ring.”

“And I was only trying to explain to you that the only reason that I wear the ring is to discourage certain businessmen from coming on too strong with me. Is that so hard to understand?” Blue fire danced in Mara’s eyes as she stood before him, silently challenging him to pursue the argument. When he didn’t immediately accept the dare, she prodded him. “And really, admit it, isn’t that what you thought, along with everyone else, that there was no way that I would be able to run the toy company effectively?”

An unsuppressed smile lighted his near-black eyes.

“I thought so!” she stated, shaking her head and pursing her lips until they whitened. Blond curls rubbed angrily against her shoulders. “Well, just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean that I can’t handle the job. Nor does it mean that I need any male help!”

Shane’s lips thinned, and he set his cup down next to hers on the counter. “I think that we should get something straight between us, once and for all,” he replied with quiet determination. “I didn’t come up here to Asheville with any intention of helping you.”

“But I thought . . .”

“It doesn’t matter what you thought. I came here with the express purpose of buying out the company. You know that. Because you refused to sell, I’ve had to alter my position.”

“What are you getting at?”

“I just want you to know that my personal life, including the fact that I’ve found out that I’m Angie’s father, doesn’t necessarily alter my position with regard to Imagination. If anything, it probably strengthens it!”

“I don’t understand,” she admitted flatly.

“Don’t you? Come on, Mara, you’re a bright woman. Don’t play games with me.”

“I’m not playing games with you, Shane. I’m only trying to understand you.”

“Then understand this—I don’t like the idea that you and I made love in this house last night.”

“What?” Mara was stunned. “What are you talking about?” she asked, clearly perplexed by the twists in the conversation and wounded that he hadn’t shared the same supreme ecstasy and bliss that she had experienced during their lovemaking.

“I’m talking about playing second best to the memory of a dead husband,” Shane ground out, his eyes darkening. “Do you know how hard it was for me to make love to you last night, in his house, his bed, his sheets? Everything around me, including you, was owned by Peter Wilcox! Do you have any idea how I feel each time that I hear his name or see his picture? Don’t you realize that every time I see Angie, I wonder just how much influence Peter had over her? How did she feel about him? Did she love him? Was he kind to her? Did he hurt her, or mentally abuse her?” He paused for a moment, but before Mara could find her tongue and refute his insinuations, he continued with his tirade. “And the same goes for the toy company. I don’t want to live, or work, in the shadow of another man’s memory. I can’t accept that.”

“For God’s sake, Shane, can’t you, for just a moment, forget about Peter?”

“How?” He grabbed her by her thin shoulders and with a shake, forced her to look squarely into his tortured eyes. “How, Mara?” he repeated, through clenched teeth. “Everything that I should have had, he took . . .”

“He didn’t take anything that you weren’t willing to give, Shane. And besides, what’s the point? Peter’s dead!”

“But he was alive once, wasn’t he?” Again the involuntary shake. “And he made love to you, didn’t he? How many times was he invited into your bedroom, like I was last night? How many times did you moan your surrender to him, just as you did to me?” Shane asked, his grim face showing the strain of his pent-up emotion. His rage was so out of control that Mara could feel his hands trembling where they gripped her upper arms.

“I . . . I thought that we had decided to put all of that . . . behind us,” she said, reaching up and smoothing a lock of black hair away from his forehead.

“It’s difficult,” Shane admitted, his grip relaxing slightly. “And . . . I’m not really sure that I even want to try to forget. Not as long as we’re trapped in this house— his house.”

There was a silence, long and charged with electricity that hung between them. Finally, Shane’s arms dropped to his sides and he cleared his throat. Still visible, his anger was a tangible force.

“I’m going back to the hotel, Mara,” he stated thoughtfully. “I’ll call you in the morning.”

“But you could stay here tonight,” she invited, suddenly afraid that he might leave and, once again, be lost to her.

“No, I couldn’t.”

“But last night . . .”

“Last night was different. There’s too much here to remind me of the things that I would rather not remember.” His black eyes traveled over her body, and she could see the sparks of passion rekindling in their ebony depths. “I want you, Mara, as much as I ever have,” he admitted, his dark eyes reflecting the intensity of his words. “But I want you on my terms—not yours, nor Peter Wilcox’s. So I’ll wait—as you’ve suggested for two weeks—to claim what is rightfully mine. But, then,” he warned quietly, “things will be my way!”

As he turned to leave, Mara found her voice and called out to him. “But what about Angie? Are you just going to walk out of her life for the next two weeks?” she cried. What was he doing? Why, dear God, was he leaving, just as he had once before?

“Of course not. Don’t you know that I’ll be back?” The fear in her eyes was unmasked, and he felt an uncompromising urge to run to her, to wrap his arms around her thin shoulders, to whisper promises to her that he couldn’t possibly keep. But somehow he found the strength to stand his ground. “I’ll see you in the morning,” he promised. “And we’ll go out, just the three of us. But,” his voice deepened again, “I don’t want to spend any more time than I have to being reminded of your husband.”

Mara took a step toward him and opened her mouth to protest, but his next words halted her.

“Remember, Mara, this was all your idea. You’re the one that needed the extra time to adjust. For the next two weeks, we’re playing by your rules!”

Mara followed him to the door, intent on changing his mind, but somehow lacking the resolve to argue with him. She stood in the doorway as he stepped into his Audi, flicked on the ignition, and roared down the driveway. The headlights faded into the darkness, and the silver car and the man she loved were swallowed in the night.

Shane never looked over his shoulder, but Mara’s image, a dark silhouette backed by the warm lights of the house, lingered in the rear-view mirror and burned in Shane’s tormented memory.