Holding the Dream (7 page)

“Nothing,” she said to herself. “There's just nothing.”

* * *

At the last minute she stopped herself from running to Templeton House. To Laura, to Annie, to anyone who would fold her in comforting arms and take her side. She swung her car to the side of the road rather than up the steep, winding drive. She got out and walked to the cliffs.

She could stand alone, she promised herself. She had had shocks, survived tragedies before. She'd lost her parents, and there was nothing more devastating than that.

There had been boys she'd dreamed over in high school who had never dreamed back. She'd gotten over it. Her first lover, in college, had grown bored with her, broken her heart and moved on. She hadn't crumbled.

Once, years before, she had fantasized about finding Seraphina's dowry all alone, of bearing it proudly home to her aunt and uncle. She had learned to live without that triumph.

She was afraid. She was so afraid.

Like father, like daughter. Oh, dear God, would it come out now? Would it all come out? And how much more damning then? What would this do to the people who loved her, who had had such hopes for her?

What was it people said? Blood will tell. Had she done something, made some ridiculous mistake? Christ, how could she think clearly now when her life had been turned upside down and shattered at her feet?

She had to wrap her arms tight around her body against the spring breeze, which now seemed frigid.

She'd committed no crime, she reminded herself. She'd done nothing wrong. All she'd done was lose a job. Just a job.

It had nothing to do with the past, nothing to do with blood, nothing to do with where she had come from.

With a whimper, she eased down onto a rock. Who was she trying to fool? Somehow it had to do with everything. How could it not? She'd lost what she had taught herself to value most next to family. Success and reputation.

Now she was exactly what she'd always been afraid she was. A failure.

How could she face them, any of them, with the fact that
she'd been fired, was under suspicion of embezzling? That she had, as she always advised her clients not to, put all of her eggs in one basket, only to see it smashed.

But she would have to face them. She had to tell her family before someone else did. Oh, and someone would. It wouldn't take long. She didn't have the luxury of digging a hole and hiding in it. Everything she was and did was attached to the Templetons.

What would her aunt and uncle think? They would have to see the parallel. If they doubted her . . . She could stand anything, anything at all except their doubt and disappointment.

She reached in her pocket, chewed viciously on a Tums, and wished for a bottle of aspirin—or some of the handy tranqs Margo had once used. To think she'd once been so disdainful of those little crutches. To think she had once considered Seraphina a fool and a coward for choosing to leap rather than stay and face her loss.

She looked out to sea, then rose and walked closer to the edge. The rocks below were mean. That was what she'd always liked best about them, those jagged, unforgiving spears standing up defiantly to the constant, violent crash of water.

She had to be like the rocks now, she thought. She had to stand and face whatever happened next.

Her father hadn't been strong. He hadn't stood, he hadn't faced it. And now, in some twisted way, she was paying the price.
 

Byron studied her from the side of the road. He'd seen her car whiz past as he was leaving Josh's house. He wasn't sure what impulse had pushed him to follow her, still wasn't sure what was making him stay.

There was something about the way she looked, standing there at the edge of the cliff, so alone. It made him nervous, and a little annoyed. That vulnerability again, he supposed, a quiet neediness that called to his protective side.

He wouldn't have pegged her as the type to walk the cliffs or stare out to sea.

He nearly got back into his car and drove off. But he shrugged and decided that since he was here, he'd might as well enjoy the view.

“Hell of a spot,” he said as he walked up to her. It gave him perverse pleasure to see her jolt.

“I was enjoying it,” she muttered and kept her back to him.

“Plenty of view for two to enjoy. I saw your car, and . . .” When he got a look at her, he saw that her eyes were damp. He'd always been compelled to dry a woman's tears. “Bad day?” he murmured and offered her a handkerchief.

“It's just windy.”

“Not that windy.”

“I wish you'd go away.”

“Ordinarily I try to comply with women's requests. Since I'm not going to in your case, why don't you sit down, tell me about it?” He took her arm, thinking the tension in it was edgy enough to cut glass. “Think of me as a priest,” he suggested, dragging her with him. “I wanted to be one once.”

“To use some clever phrasing, bullshit.”

“No, really.” He pulled her down on a rock with him. “I was eleven. Then puberty hit, and the rest is history.”

She tried and failed to tug free and rise. “Did it ever occur to you that I don't want to talk to you? That I want to be alone?”

To soothe, because her voice was catching helplessly, he stroked a hand over her hair. “It crossed my mind, but I rejected it. People who feel sorry for themselves always want to talk about it. That, next to sex, was the main reason I decided against the seminary. And dancing. Priests don't get lots of opportunity to dance with pretty women—which, I suppose, is the same thing as sex. Well, enough about me.”

He put a determined hand under her chin and lifted it. She was pale, those long, spiky lashes were wet and those deep, doe's eyes damp. But . . .

“Your eyes aren't red enough for you to have had a good cry yet.”

“I'm not a sniveler.”

“Listen, kid, my sister highly recommends a good cry, and she'd deck you for calling her a sniveler.” Gently, he rubbed his thumb over Kate's chin. “Screaming's good, too, and throwing breakables. There was a lot of that in my house.”

“There's no point—”

“Venting,” he interrupted smoothly. “Purging. There aren't any breakables around here, but you could let out a good scream.”

Emotions welling up inside her threatened to choke her. Furiously she jerked her face free of his hand. “I don't need you or anyone to charm me out of a mood. I can handle my own problems just fine. If I need a friend, all I have to do is go up to the house. Up to the house,” she repeated as her gaze focused on the towering structure of stone and wood and glass that held everything precious to her.

Covering her face with her hands, she broke.

“That's a girl,” he murmured, relieved by the natural flow of tears. “Come here now.” He drew her close, stroking her hair, her back. “Get it all out.”

She couldn't stop. It didn't matter who he was, his arms were strong, his voice understanding. With her face buried against his chest, she sobbed out the frustration, the grief, the fear, let herself for one liberating moment be coddled.

He rested his cheek on her hair, held her lightly. Lightly because she seemed so small, so fragile. A good grip might shatter those thin bones. Tears soaked through his shirt, cooled from hot to cold on his skin.

“I'm sorry. Damn it.” She would have pulled away, but he continued to hold her. Humiliated, she squeezed her aching eyes shut. “I never would have done that if you'd left me alone.”

“You're better off this way. It's not healthy to hold everything in.” Automatically, he kissed the top of her head before easing her back to study her face.

Why it should have charmed him, wet, blotchy, streaked with mascara as it was, he couldn't have said. But he had a terrible urge to shift her onto his lap, to kiss that soft, sad
mouth, to stroke her again, not quite so consolingly.

Bad move, he cautioned himself, and wondered how any man faced with such sexy distress could think like a priest.

“Not that you look better.” He took the handkerchief she'd balled up in her fist and mopped at her face. “But you should feel better enough to tell me why you're so upset.”

“It has nothing to do with you.”

“So what?”

She could feel another sob bubbling in her chest and blurted out the words before it could escape. “I got fired.”

He continued calmly cleaning and drying her face. “Why?”

“They think—” Her voice hitched. “They think I—”

“Take a breath,” he advised, “and say it fast.”

“They think I stole money out of client escrow. Embezzled. Seventy-five thousand.”

Watching her face, he stuck the ruined linen back in his pocket. “Why?”

“Because—because there are duplicate 1040s, and money missing. And they're my clients.”

And my father—my father. But she couldn't say that, not out loud.

In fits and starts she babbled out the gist of her meeting with the partners. A great deal of it was incoherent, details crisscrossing and overlapping, but he continued to nod. And listen.

“I didn't take any money.” She let out a long, unsteady breath. “I don't expect you to believe me, but—”

“Of course I believe you.”

It was her turn to gather her wits. “Why?”

Leaning back a little, he took out a cigar, shielding the flame on his lighter with a cupped hand. “In my line of work, you get a handle on people quickly. You've been around the hotel business most of your life. You know how it is. There are plenty of times with a guest, or staff, that you have to make a snap judgment. You'd better be accurate.” Puffing out smoke, he studied her. “My take on you, Katherine, in the first five minutes, was—well, among other things—that you're
the type of woman who would choke on her integrity before she loosened it to breathe.”

Her breath came out shaky, but some of the panic eased. “I appreciate it. I think.”

“I'd have to say you worked for a bunch of shortsighted idiots.”

She sniffled. “They're accountants.”

“There you go.” He smiled, ran a finger down her cheek when she glared. “A flash there in those big brown eyes. That's better. So, are you going to take it lying down?”

Rising, she straightened her shoulders. “I can't think about how or what I can take now. I only know I wouldn't work at Bittle again if they came crawling on their hands and knees through broken glass.”

“That's not what I meant. I meant someone's embezzling and pointing the finger at you. What are you going to do about it?”

“I don't care.”

“You don't care?” He shook his head. “I find that hard to believe. The Katherine Powell I've seen is a scrapper.”

“I said I don't care.” And her voice hitched again. If she fought, looked too close, demanded too much, they might uncover what her father had done. Then it would be worse. “There's nothing I can do.”

“You've got a brain,” he corrected.

“It doesn't feel like it at the moment.” She put a hand to her head. Everything inside was mushy and aching. “They can't do anything else to me because I don't have the money, and they'd never be able to prove I do. As far as I'm concerned right now, finding who's skimming is Bittle's problem. I just want to be left alone.”

Surprised at her, he stood up. “I'd want their ass.”

“Right now, I just want to be able to get through the next few hours. I have to tell my family.” She closed her eyes. “Earlier today, I actually thought, hoped, that I was going to be called in and offered a partnership. Signs indicated,” she said bitterly. “I couldn't wait to tell them.”

“Brag?” But he said it gently, with hardly any sting.

“I suppose. ‘Look at what I did. Be proud of me because . . . ' Well, that's done. Now I have to tell them that I lost it all, that the prospects of getting another position or finessing any clients are nil for the foreseeable future.”

“They're family.” He stepped toward her and laid his hands on her shoulders. “Families stand by each other.”

“I know that.” For a moment, she wanted to take his hand. He had such big, competent hands. She wanted to take it and press it to her cheek. Instead she stepped back, turned away. “That makes it worse. I can't begin to tell you how much worse. Now, I'm feeling sorry for myself all over again.”

“It comes and goes, Kate.” Well aware that they were doing a little dance and dodge of physical contact, he draped an arm around her shoulders. “Do you want me to go up with you?”

“No.” She was appalled, because for an instant she'd wanted to say yes. To lean her head against that broad shoulder, close her eyes, and let him lead. “No, I have to do it.” She slipped away from him again, but faced him. “This was awfully nice of you. Really. Nice.”

He smiled, his dimples deepening. “That wouldn't have been insulting if you hadn't sounded quite so surprised.”

“I didn't mean to be insulting.” She managed a smile of her own. “I meant to be grateful. I am grateful . . . Father De Witt.”

Testing, he lifted a hand, skimmed his fingers through her short cap of hair. “I decided I don't want you to think of me as a priest after all.” His hand slid down the back of her neck. “It's that sex thing again.”

She felt it herself—inconvenient little hormonal tugs. “Hmm.” It seemed as good a response as any. And certainly safe. “I'd better go get this done.” Eyes warily on his, she backed up. “I'll see you around.”

“Apparently you will.” He stepped forward, she backed up again.

“What are you doing?”

Amused at both of them, he raised his eyebrows. “Going to my car. I'm parked behind you.”

“Oh. Well.” As casually as possible, she turned and walked to the car as he fell into step beside her. “I, ah, have you seen the house yet, the one on Seventeen Mile?”