She smelled delicious. Her complexion glowed from some inner source. Her lips were moist and parted. He could see her dainty pink tongue resting behind the row of perfect white teeth. God, he wanted to feel it against his lips, in his mouth, taste her.
Looking up at him now with those tear-flooded eyes, it took all his control to keep from crushing her against him and never letting go. She was different and yet painfully familiar. She was the woman who had loved him so completely, fit him so uniquely. She was Erin O'Shea. His Erin.
But there was something . . .
"There's an inscription on the back," he told her gently.
Turning the picture over, Erin read aloud, " 'Ken's mother, Mary Margaret Conway, and his sister. Died two weeks after picture taken of tuberculosis. Little girl already adopted when we got Ken. God bless them.' " It was dated and signed MRL.
"Those were Ken's adoptive mother's initials. My guess is that she got the photograph when she adopted Ken. I found it in a manila folder marked in Ken's handwriting as 'Mother's papers.' He probably didn't get this until after she died."
"Then he knew about me."
"I suppose so."
The tears were flowing again. "Lance, this is my mother," she whispered, smoothing her fingers across the face in the picture. "Mary Margaret Conway. I know her name."
"And she loved you. She probably knew that she was about to die and took you to the orphanage to see that you were taken care of."
"My father?" She looked up at him expectantly.
He only shook his head sadly. "I don't know, Erin. But now you have a name. That's a lead if you want to start from there."
She sighed, but it wasn't out of sadness. It stemmed from a sense of peace and well-being. "I don't know.
Maybe sometime. For right now, this is enough. More than enough. I . . ." She choked on the emotion clogging her throat. "I don't know how to thank you." Slowly she raised her eyes to his. She saw a strange shine glossing ever the blue irises.
"It was the least I could do, Erin. I felt responsible for your losing your brother. When I saw this, I wanted to bring it to you. I don't think Mrs. Lyman will mind."
Imperceptibly they moved closer together. Each was caught up in a maelstrom of whirling emotions. His clean, masculine scent filled her head and numbed her brain. His hard, strong body promised solace for someone who wanted and needed support. Someone who was troubled by problems that seemed insoluble. Someone whose heart had been shattered five months ago and still continued to be chiseled away a little each day.
"Erin," he said gruffly. "Erin—"
The door was flung open and Bart barreled into the room. "Sugar, are you okay?" He glanced quickly to Erin before glaring at Lance, who had flown off the sofa and stood facing Bart dangerously. "What in the hell are you doing here?" Bart demanded.
"None of your damn business," Lance said with a deadly calm.
"Like hell it's not," Bart challenged. "I ought to pound the everlovin' crap out of you."
"You might try," Lance said placidly.
Erin remained on the sofa, too overwrought to "stand and fight them both. Her head was splitting and her mouth had a sour taste in it. "Please, please. Both of you."
"Has he upset you, honey? You've been crying." Bart folded his immense bulk into the ludicrous facsimile of a squat in front of the sofa and covered Erin's cold hands with his.
"No, he—" Erin began.
"What I had to see Erin about was private and no concern of yours, Stanton," Lance barked.
"Everything about her concerns me," Bart declared, standing up to his full height.
"Not what she and I say to each other." Erin knew that tone of Lance's. He was furious, and the cold, brittle voice rained on them like shards of glass. His eyes were frigid as they locked with Bart's.
Bart was no coward, but he recognized a worthy oppo-nent. He backed away slightly. "Then we'll leave it up to her." He took his eyes off Lance for only a split second to look down at Erin. "Sugar, do you have anything more to say to Mr. Barrett?"
The import of the question wasn't lost on her. She knew what he was asking.
Did she want to tell Lance about their
baby?
God, what was she to do?
She wanted to tell him. To see a glow of happiness and love replace that fearsome glint in his eyes would be the most beautiful sight in the world.
But dare she take the risk? What if he looked at her with disgust? Suppose he berated her for not practicing birth control? Could she bear a patronizing attitude born of guilt and a sense of responsibility? Would he feel obligated to do the "right thing" by her?
Don't ever be afraid of me, Erin. Never. . .
No. She couldn't trap him by announcing her pregnancy. As much as she wanted him, she wouldn't take him on those terms. Scheming women had used that resource since history began. It was the ultimate weapon to assure victory—the trump card.
She loved Lance. That was an undeniable fact. But he had never expressed love for her. In all those passion-laden hours they had shared in San Francisco, he had never made any allusions to loving her.
Perfect, perfect. . .. I'll wait. . .
Her appeal to him was strictly physical. True, it was consuming. But to Erin, who had always wanted the strong bonds of a family based on love, it wasn't enough.
I don't know what's happening to me .. .
Looking up at him, she fell under the full power of his eyes. They seemed to touch her soul and ignite her spirit.
She looked at him deep and long, for she knew that this might be the last time. It might have to last her for the rest of her life.
You have two very feminine habits, Erin O'Shea ...
Finally, she lowered her eyes and shook her head. "No.
I have nothing more to say."
There was a heavy silence in the room so complete that they could hear the traffic several stories below them on the Houston streets. She closed her eyes against the pain in her heart when she heard Lance turn on his heels and stalk to the door. The clicking sound of the closing latch was like a bullet that ended her life.
She collapsed on the sofa, succumbing to her misery.
The spasm of heartbreak lasted for so long that Bart became genuinely concerned for her health. He tried in his endearing, clumsy way to comfort her, but was unsuccessful. Finally, his desperation bordered on anger and he commanded, "Look here, Erin, I don't want you to lose that baby of yours, so straighten up!"
More than what he said, it was his use of her name that caused her to sit up and choke back lingering tears.
"That's more like it," he grumbled.
"You called me by my name, Bart."
"Don't I always?" he asked with a puzzled expression.
She smiled and fondly touched his cheek. "No," she whispered.
He stood up and took a few steps away from her. "Sugar, this is the hardest thing I've ever had to say, but here goes. You should tell Barrett about the baby. The way he looked at you, for a minute there, I thought, well . . . it was like . . . you know. Like he might love you. Let me go after him."
"No, Bart. I can't tell him."
Quietly, hesitantly he said, "He has a right to know, darlin'. That baby is his too, you know."
She sighed. She had thought of that. "Yes. He'll have to know, of course, but not now. Maybe when the baby's born, my lawyers or something . . . " Her voice trailed off.
She had no energy left.
"You know I still want to marry you." Bart cleared his throat. "Will you change your mind? I love you." An incredible sadness clouded his dark eyes.
"I love you too, Bart. You're the dearest friend I have,"
she said sincerely.
"Yeah, I know," he snorted mirthlessly. After a moment he asked, "Do you want me to call the doctor and have him send out a tranquilizer? Frankly, you look like hell," he said.
She laughed ruefully. "Well, in this case looks aren't deceiving because that's just how I feel." When the crease between his brows deepened, she said, "No, I don't need a tranquilizer. It's been an eventful day. I just want to go home to bed."
"Can I drive you?"
"No. I'll be fine."
As they walked toward the door, Bart asked, "Why did Barrett come here in the first place?"
Erin's fingers closed around the envelope that contained the picture so precious to her. It was the only remnant she had of her mother and brother. It was also the only thing that Lance had ever given her. For a while, she wanted to keep it to herself.
"It was only some unfinished business about Ken," she answered vaguely.
ERIN WAS DRAINED
from the heat and exhausted from the emotional upheaval of the day as she let herself in the back door of her house. She noticed that the petunias in the flower beds were drooping with thirst. If she had any conscience, she would come out here and water them, but she doubted that she could amass the energy tonight.
She switched on the central air conditioning system that had been one of her im
provements to the house. Labori
ously climbing the stairs, she went into her bedroom and turned on the overhead fan to stir the sultry air until the air conditioner could take over.
She changed into a full, loose sundress that was held on to her shoulders with thin straps. The pale blue gauzy fabric swirled around her like a cloud. No longer able to tolerate any confinement, she peeled off her panty hose and slipped on a pair of bikini panties, discarding her other underwear.
The thought of food was obnoxious, but she went downstairs into the kitchen and fixed a glass of iced tea, liberally spiking it with lemon juice.
Walking into her living room, she paused as usual and enjoyed the sight of it. She loved this room. The walls were painted a dark beige which contrasted nicely with the white woodwork and shutters. The sofa and easy chairs were also white, but were heaped with pillows in vivid shades of blue, green, and orange. As if on command, her eyes strayed to the white brick fireplace. It was one of three in the house.
Lance had lit a fire in that unused fireplace that night.
What was on his mind when he did that? Had he been thinking of her? Had he wished she would come down—
Stop it!
She sank down in one of the easy chairs and put her feet up on an ottoman. In her hand was the photograph Lance had delivered to her today. As she sipped her tea, she stared at the picture of her family. Tomorrow she would buy a gold frame to put it in. What kind did she want?
Something Victorian with filigreeing around the edges? Or something simple so as not to detract from the photograph itself?
For the first time in her life, she felt like she had a heritage. She could be content.
Almost. If it weren't for the heartache over the man—
She groaned when the doorbell sounded. It was probably the paper boy collecting for this month. With weary limbs, she got up from the chair and dragged herself to the front door.
Lance was standing on the porch between the urns of red geraniums on either side of the door. He had forsaken the brown coat and there was one more button on his shirt undone. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows.
She shrank from the livid anger on his face.
"Take off your clothes."
She stared at him dumbfounded. Her ears must be playing tricks on her. "What—"
"I said to take off your clothes." He barged past her into the living room. "And if you don't, I will." She shut the door and turned to face him. His voice brooked no argument, and she didn't doubt for one moment he'd do what he threatened.
Well, she wasn't going to cringe against the door in fear.
She pushed away from that false sanctuary and lifted her chin defensively. "You'd have to kill me first."
"Don't tempt me," he growled. "I'm on the verge now of wringing your lovely neck."
"What have I done to provoke you?" Her heart was racing. Did he know? Of course he did. He never missed anything.
His eyes narrowed on her. The golden-flecked lashes formed a thick brush over them. "I couldn't quite figure out what it was while I was with you, but I knew that something was different. I was just about to board the airplane when it finally hit me." His face suddenly lost its belligerence. If he had stripped away a mask, the change in his expression couldn't have been more disparate. "Erin"
He didn't finish. Instead he walked toward her and reached out to touch her. Reflexively, she protected her stomach with her hands. Inexorably, he moved her hands aside and settled his palms against her.
The abdomen that he knew as almost concave and supple was now turgid and slightly convex. He inclined toward her, keeping his hands as they were, and released a long, ragged breath. She saw a look that resembled pain in his eyes as he asked, "Stanton?"
Her lips trembled when she tried to smile. "No, Lance."
The blue eyes asked that monumental question and hers answered by closing briefly in affirmation.