Her Sister's Secret (Mills & Boon Vintage Superromance) (19 page)

“I had planned to tell you before, but there wasn’t any point because you found out what a creep he was, anyway. But now that the jerk is sniffing around again…” She hesitated. “Well, I just thought you should know, in case he makes a move on you.”

Whitney recoiled. “Tanya! Puh-leeze. Give me a little credit.” She rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom. “I’m not
that
needy. Or that stupid.”

At least not where Brock’s concerned.

Tanya followed her into the bathroom. Whitney loaded her toothbrush, then leaned against the sink. “Listen, I’m going to take a shower. If it’s something important and he wants to wait out on the deck until I’m done, tell him he can. I’ll make it totally clear to him that he’s an unwelcome intrusion in my life.”

Tanya grinned. “I’ll be more than happy to relay the message.”

Forty-five minutes later, Whitney stepped onto the deck. “Hello, Brock.” She smoothed the front of her white cotton sweater. “What do you want?”

Brock wiped a desultory look from his face and got up from the wicker deck chair. He smiled, his usual polished smile, perfected so that the skin at the corners of his eyes didn’t crinkle. His blond hair had obviously been lightened, and his perennial tan reminded her of a third-rate movie star. She’d never felt quite so repelled by the man as she did right now.

“Whitney, darlin’,” he murmured, arms open as if he expected a hug. He stopped short, seeing her arms folded tightly across her chest.

“How did you know I was here?”

He waved a wrist toward a chair, indicating that they should sit at the patio table. “Aren’t you going to offer me a drink? I got kinda dry waiting out here like a delivery boy.” He pulled out a chair for her and one for himself and sat. “Did you get my flowers?”

Whitney glared. If looks were daggers, he’d already be dead. She’d never realized more than she did right this minute how sick she was of people like Brock in her life. People she’d lived among for far too many years.

“Cut to the chase, Brock. What do you want? And don’t hand me any of your lies about still being in love. I’ve had enough of your deceit to last a lifetime.”

Brock’s eyes flew open in surprise. He cleared his throat. “We’ve become very common these days, haven’t we?”

“
We’ve
become nothing! Spit it out or quit wasting my time.”

Crossing his legs, Brock went on, all the while brushing at the trousers of his beige linen suit. “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. I suppose when one becomes a motorcycle groupie, that sort of thing is bound to rub off.”

Adrenaline pumped into Whitney’s veins. She scowled at him. How did Brock know anything about her current work? “Like I said, cut to the chase.”

Ignoring her comment, he twisted a thread on his lapel. “Whitney darlin’, I sent you the flowers hoping to show you how wrong I was. I wanted to talk to you. To explain.”

He stood, then sauntered to the edge of the deck, hands in the pockets of his loose-fitting pants. He stared out at the ocean and shrugged. “But I can see you don’t want to listen. You should’ve waited, you know. I did have an explanation.”

Whitney expelled a long-held breath and rose to her feet, too. “You can’t explain being in bed with another woman two days before our wedding.” Not to mention what Tanya had told her. “And even if you could, I don’t want to hear it.” She moved to usher him out. “You’re a jerk, and if that’s all you came here for, then you better leave. I’m busy.”

Brock’s expression twisted into an ugly knot of contempt. “Busy doing what?” he spat out. “Busy running back to the mountains and your greaser friend? Does he know why you’re there?”

She caught her breath.

“Oh, got your attention now?” He smirked. “I mean, does your biker friend know you intend to take your sister’s brat with you? Does he know all that?”

She winced but said nothing. Of course Brock knew about SaraJane and the plan to gain custody. They’d been engaged when she’d learned about her niece. But how did he find out that it had anything to do with Rhys?

“I didn’t think so,” Brock said. “Anyway, since you aren’t interested in my explanations, I’ll make a deal with you, instead.”

Whitney’s anger mounted.

“Yes,” Brock continued. “And it’ll only cost you what it takes to produce my film.”

When she still didn’t speak, he said, “You finance the film and I’ll stay away from your motorcycle man. You know, darlin’, the film I’d planned to do after we were married.” His lips thinned. “And I can see you’re just so overwhelmed with my generosity you need a little time to think about it.”

He crossed to the sliding door. Just then, Tanya yanked it open from the other side. “I’ll call you tomorrow night, Whitney…darlin’.”

“Get out.” The voice that came out of Whitney’s mouth was dangerously quiet. “Get out of my house.”

Brock feigned a look of hurt, but on the way out, he gave her a triumphant sneer. “Shall we say about eight?” And then he was gone.

Whitney gripped the back of the chair so tightly she broke a fingernail. But if she didn’t hang on, she was sure her legs would buckle.

“You did the right thing,” Tanya said, rushing outside. “Whatever you said, it ended the right way.”

Whitney lowered herself into the chair, feeling as if she’d been punched in the stomach. The pain in her chest yesterday was nothing compared to the despair she felt right now. “I’ve got to tell him,” she whispered. “Today.”

“Tell who? What?”

“Darlin’ Brock wants money,” she said flatly. Whitney closed her eyes and tipped her head back.

Tanya came over and sat on a chair facing Whitney. “And you told him to drop dead. Good for you.”

“He wants money to keep quiet about my sister’s baby.”

Tanya stared at her, apparently confused by what Whitney had just said. Tanya already knew most of the story, although she didn’t know that Rhys wasn’t the baby’s father and that his son was in prison.

Unable to keep it to herself any longer, Whitney blurted out the whole story. At first Tanya registered surprise that Whitney had waited so long and, in fact, hadn’t even started custody proceedings.

Then studying her friend’s face, Tanya said, “Uh-oh. There’s more going on here, huh? Boy, am I dense.” She slapped a hand to her forehead, then leaned forward in her chair, elbows on her knees, eyes focused in a tell-me-the-truth look. “Are you in love with him?”

“Tanya, I can’t let Rhys hear the truth from Brock. I’ve got to tell him.” Whitney buried her face in her hands. Finally she raised her head. “I should’ve told him a long time ago.” She sighed and bit the soft skin on the inside of her lip.

“Does he love you?” Tanya tried again.

“He’ll hate me. So will Gretta and Johnny.”

Tanya wrinkled her nose. “Gretta and Johnny?”

“The grandparents. They’ll die if I take SaraJane away. They’ll all be crushed, brokenhearted. God help me. I don’t know how I can do this.” She sobered. “But I have to.”

Though she’d tried her damnedest to come up with a viable solution, Whitney knew what the result would be—and she knew, without a doubt, Rhys would never forgive her.

“But if you love each other,” Tanya said, reducing the problem to its basics, “why don’t you just get married and raise the kid together. That’s the best solution possible. The two of you could get custody, adopt the baby and live happily ever after.”

Whitney looked incredulously at her friend. “Happily ever after? Are you serious?”

Tanya took a breath. “You’ll never know what could happen if you never take the chance.”

Whitney let out a tiny helpless laugh. Coming from Tanya—the last person in the world to take a chance on anything personal—that was a joke. Not to mention that Rhys would find her lies or, rather, omissions unforgivable. And even if he somehow had it in him to understand her reasons, he wouldn’t take the child away from his son. Not ever.

Rhys didn’t know the whole truth about R.J. Neither did Gretta and Johnny. Or if they did, they didn’t believe it.

“You’re scared,” Tanya said. “Scared to let yourself care.”

Whitney frowned at Tanya. “That’s ridiculous.”
But true.
She was scared to death. The thought of loving someone terrified her. Especially
this
someone.

It meant opening herself up, being vulnerable. It meant she risked being hurt. And it meant she risked hurting Rhys.

Right now the only thing she knew for sure was that she had to tell Rhys the truth—before he found out from someone else. She owed him that much.

And she’d have to live with the consequences.

***

Sarajane flew into Whitney’s arms the second she stepped from the car. Whitney knelt, hugging her niece hard, knowing there might only be a few more times like this—for a while, anyway. Once she talked to Rhys, he would ask her to leave, and she wouldn’t see SaraJane again until a court decided who should have custody.

Whitney pressed a kiss to SaraJane’s forehead. “I’m surprised you’re still up, pumpkin.”

“We got flowers for you.” SaraJane’s chubby cheeks dimpled. “Me and Poppy bought them from the store ’cause it’s too cold outside to grow anymore.”

Whitney’s regret multiplied as she stood, cradling SaraJane in her arms. She held her a little longer, inhaling deeply. SaraJane smelled little-girl-sweet, like cookies and milk, and fresh air and grass.

Rhys stood apart from them, his handsome craggy face beaming, his eyes soft with understanding. The way he looked at her made Whitney shake inside with excitement—and dread.

Gretta waved from the kitchen window and Johnny came up to stand in the doorway behind Rhys.

“Welcome back.” Rhys wrapped an arm around both Whitney and SaraJane, directing them into the house through the back door. “We didn’t expect you so soon. Guess that’s a sign everything went well, huh?”

Before Whitney could answer, Gretta said, “I’ve made tea and scones,” and with Johnny’s help, she carried the things to the table. Whitney planted another kiss on SaraJane’s forehead and set her down. Rhys took Whitney’s coat and hung it in the closet with the rest of the family’s.

His gaze followed SaraJane as she led Whitney by the hand, showing her the finger painting she’d done yesterday and the new dress Poppy had bought for her doll, Miss Agatha.

“And we put more daisies in your room,” SaraJane said proudly.

Gretta asked for them all to sit for tea. “Come on over here, young lady, and let Whitney catch her breath. My Lord, the child acts as if you were gone for weeks.”

Whitney grinned, squeezing SaraJane’s small hand in hers before the little girl skipped off into the sunroom to play with her toys. Rhys offered a chair next to him, and she felt a sensation unlike any other. One she suspected most people felt when coming home. Everyone was happy to see her, glad she was back, and they wanted nothing from her.

They’d opened their hearts and accepted her as if she was family. Such a simple welcome, and maybe…maybe she could pretend to be part of it for just a little while longer—until she was alone with Rhys. Because she couldn’t tell him now. Not in front of his family.

If she could enjoy the homecoming…for just a little while…

For another hour, they took turns catching up on the local news. No one asked why she’d gone to California, but Whitney figured they had to know. She hadn’t sworn Rhys to secrecy, and it would be perfectly normal for him to share the information with his parents.

That was the kind of support they gave each other, and now they were there for her, too. Just thinking about it filled her with warmth.

When they finished their tea, it was nearing SaraJane’s bedtime. Rhys gathered up her things and, just as he was leaving, pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. “I forgot. Someone called for you. He called me at the shop today and left this number. Said you’d know what it was about.”

Whitney clamped trembling fingers over the note. She didn’t need to look at the number to know whose it was. No one but Brock would call the shop for her.

She mustered a tentative smile. “Right.” And before she could turn away, Rhys placed a fingertip under her chin as he searched her eyes.

“Everything okay?”

No. Everything was not okay!
She wanted a family like the one she’d been part of tonight. She wanted not to see the look in Rhys’s eyes when she told him she’d lied to him. She wanted not to hurt him or Gretta or Johnny. She wanted her mother and father not to be alcoholics—and she wanted Morgan to still be alive.

She wanted Rhys to love her as she loved him at this moment.

“Sure. Everything’s fine.”

His probing gaze made her step back, avert her eyes. It would only take a second for her to lose all control.

“Sweetheart,” Whitney said to SaraJane as she bent down to the small arms clutching her around the knees.

“Better button up. It’s getting colder and colder out there.”

“Pretty soon it will snow. Will you make a snowman with me when it gets re-e-e-eally cold?”

Whitney ruffled Sara’s hair. “Sure. Anything your little heart desires.”