He marched across the grand porch, then down the wide sidewalk. She didn't move or smile or wave. With a deadened curiosity, she simply watched him approach.
If he suffered a vain thrill that she'd missed him enough to seek him out, he ignored it. If he was suffering from a wild urge to kiss her senseless, he ignored that, too.
"Amy," he said as he neared, "what are you doing here?"
"Pamela told me you were in Denver, but I didn't believe her."
"My mother had a party last night." Stupidly, he added, "She has it every year. It's an annual event."
"You weren't going to call me, were you? You weren't going to drive up to Gold Creek to see us?"
He flushed bright red. "No. I'm having breakfast, then I'm off to LA."
An awkward silence ensued, and he wished he'd never come outside.
"Why are you acting like this?" she finally said.
"Like what, Amy?"
"I thought you cared about us. I thought you cared about me."
"I do care about you." It was a pitiful comment, and he was ashamed that he'd uttered it.
"You could be a stranger. You look like someone I never met before. You were trapped in my house for four days during a blizzard, and I don't know who you are. I thought we were friends."
"We are friends."
She shifted her gaze over his shoulder, peering across the lengthy expanse of yard to the pretentious mansion perched behind him.
"You'd never invite me in, would you?" she said.
"My mother is here, and she's not the most pleasant person."
"Goodness no, we wouldn't want me to meet your mother."
"She'd insult you, Amy. She'd be rude, and she'd hurt your feelings."
"Would she be more rude than you're being? Would she hurt me more than you're hurting me?"
He reddened further. "I deserved that, I suppose."
"Pamela told me something else about you."
"What was it?"
"She claimed that you're still proceeding with the sale to Chad."
"Oh…"
"That's why I borrowed Marge's car and drove to Denver. I had to ask you to your face. I had to look into your eyes when you answered me. Are you proceeding with the sale?"
He blew out a heavy breath. "Yes."
"You promised me you wouldn't."
"I didn't mean it," he murmured. "I'm sorry."
"You promised!"
He shrugged. "I'm not very trustworthy. You haven't known me very long, or you'd understand that about me."
"You said we could work out some other solutions."
"I'm not interested in other solutions."
"You swore it to me. It was the last thing you said to me before you left."
She started to cry. Huge tears fell down her cheeks. She swiped at them with the back of her hand.
He couldn't bear to see her so sad. He wasn't worth all this emotion. Her tiny apartment in Gold Creek wasn't worth it. Her dreary, rundown town wasn't worth it.
He had no idea how to help her. He'd never bonded with a woman to the point where tears would be necessary. If a female spent any extended time in his presence, she ended up loathing him. She didn't end up weeping on his sidewalk.
"Don't cry," he said. He reached for her, but she slapped him away.
"Do you think," she seethed, "that you can hug me and my anger will magically disappear?"
"I just hate that I've made you so miserable."
"Then change your mind."
"I don't want to change my mind."
"You could move to Gold Creek"—the tears were falling faster—"and we could turn the town into a great place. You'd be so happy there with us."
"It's a pipedream, Amy. It could never have happened."
"We could begin with the two mansions. We could save your heritage. We could strip and sand and paint and refurbish them so that they could be—"
She cut off and stared up at the sky as if seeking divine intervention.
"Listen to me," she sputtered, "begging you! I'm so pathetic. I don't know why I came here. I don't know what I expected."
"I'd do it for you if I could."
"No, you wouldn't. You don't care about Gold Creek or me or…anything."
"No, I don't," he was forced to agree.
It was a harsh reply, and she winced—as if she'd assumed he'd deny being the man he was. But he couldn't deny his true character.
He didn't fit into any fantasy scenario where they ended up together in Gold Creek, where they passed their days sanding floors and painting walls. It simply wasn't in him to behave that way, and he wouldn't pretend for her.
"Goodbye," she said.
She spun and huffed toward her car, and he suffered a wave of panic that it might be the last time he ever saw her.
"Amy!"
She whipped around. "What?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"Nothing, Dustin. Just don't call me again. Don't come to Gold Creek. Don't save your heritage or stay with the people who love you."
"You don't love me. Don't tell me that."
"You're right. I don't love you. I could never love you. What was I thinking? I have no idea."
Chantal took that moment to arrive. Not in a cab, though. In a limo, complete with uniformed chauffeur.
Amy watched as the man pulled past her, parked, then exited to open the rear door.
Chantal climbed out, looking like the model she was, in a white fur coat and hat, red slacks and high-heeled white boots. She could have just stepped off a fashion runway in Milan.
Her attire was almost an affront to Amy who stood there in her scuffed snow boots, faded jeans, puffy parka, and mittens.
He gazed from Chantal to Amy to Chantal, and even though Chantal was tall and slender and gorgeous, Amy was—in his eyes—so much prettier.
"I hope I'm not late," Chantal called down the long driveway to Dustin.
"No, you're not late." He gestured to the house. "Go on in. Mother's expecting you. I'll be in in a minute."
Amy peered over at him and asked, "Are the two of you having breakfast with your mother, Dustin? How nice that Chantal gets to meet her. How nice that you have a female companion who is up to your mother's lofty standards."
He felt horrid and unbelievably snobbish, when he hadn't meant to insult her, at all. She was too kind, too decent, and he would never subject her to his mother's vitriol. He was the lowest form of vermin, like something she'd wipe off the sole of her boot.
"We're having a quick bite," he tried to explain, "before we leave for the airport."
"I'm sure the meal will be superb. Have a good trip home."
She rounded her car and opened the door, and he suffered another wave of panic that was much more intense than the first one had been.
Several alarming visions popped into his head, of himself living out his life as his mother would: alone and despised by all who knew him. Is that what he wanted? A solitary existence in LA? With Chantal? Or if not Chantal, with a steady stream of other vapid, vain beauties who were exactly like her?
He could have Amy. He could move to Gold Creek and be surrounded by people who loved him, people who would accept him as he was.
"Would you just…wait?" he pleaded.
"For what? For you to be a better man? For you to be someone else? For you to keep your promises? For you to grow up? I don't have that much time."
"I need to…to…"
To what? Talk to her? Lie to her? Defend himself?
Conversation was pointless. He could talk to infinity and never tell her what she was desperate to hear.
"I'm sorry," he said again. It was the only thing he
could
say.
"I'm sorry, too," she retorted, "but only that I wasted so much gas in coming here."
Chantal crept up behind him, and he whirled toward her, frowning. She hadn't proceeded into the house as he'd suggested, but had sauntered down to join him on the front walk.
She slipped her arm into his and snuggled herself to him in a possessive way.
"Let's go in," she said. "I hate to have your mother waiting on me."
"Yes, Dustin," Amy spat, "don't let your girlfriend keep your mother waiting."
He nearly replied with,
She's not my girlfriend,
but had the good sense not to.
"Let's go," Chantal repeated, ignoring Amy, tugging him away.
He felt like a puppet on a string, like a robot that didn't have a mind of its own.
Would he snub Amy and stroll off with Chantal? Obviously, he was about to choose between them and he was choosing Chantal. Why was he positive it was the wrong decision? Why couldn't he fix what he'd done? Why couldn't he ever make anybody happy?
He was anxious to stay with Amy, to apologize and calm her, but what was the use?
Still, he said, "I'll call you when I'm home."
"Don't you dare," she fumed.
"I will. We'll figure this out."
"I'll shut off my phone. I'll get an unlisted number."
"Amy…"
She leapt into her car and sped away.
If Chantal hadn't been gripping him so tightly, he might have raced over to his own car and chased after her.
He almost did. He almost yanked away and did exactly that.
But sanity returned with a vengeance.
There was no reason to follow Amy. There was no reason to pursue a relationship with her. Where she was concerned, there was no reason for anything.
"Look," Chantal beamed, "there's Jacquelyn in the window. She's seen us."
Chantal smiled and waved at his mother.
Dustin took a deep breath, spun away from the street, and escorted her inside.
CHAPTER TEN
Pamela tiptoed into the house and scooted through the living room like an intruder.
Chad would be back in Gold Creek for supper, so she'd stopped at the liquor store to pick up some wine. Yet no matter what she purchased, he would hate it.
For the last few days, she hadn't been able to do anything right. Ever since the party in Denver, he'd been a grouch. He'd been quiet and preoccupied, and whenever she tried to probe his thoughts, he'd insist he was fine.
Fine…
The kiss of death in a relationship.
She hung up her coat and arranged the room for an intimate evening. He'd gone to Steamboat Springs and was supposed to return by five. It was already half past, but his car wasn't in the driveway.
She dimmed the lights, lit some candles, then went to the bedroom to change. As she walked in, she frowned.
Chad's suitcase was on the bed. She lifted the top and peeked in. All of his clothes were packed.
When he'd left for Steamboat, it had just been for two nights, and he'd used a small duffle. Obviously, he'd come back while she was out. Obviously, he was leaving and taking his things.
She had no idea where she fit in that scenario, but she didn't think she'd wind up on any side that would benefit her.
Hands shaking, she hastened to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine. She was sipping it as the front door opened. Chad bustled in, and she pasted on a smile and rushed out to greet him.
"Hello, darling," she cooed, concealing any hint of what she'd just discovered. "How was the drive? I hope the roads weren't too bad."
He scowled as if he didn't know why she was in his house.
"Pam, oh." He looked distracted. "You were out when I arrived. I was going to write you a note."
"About what?"
He took her glass of wine for himself and downed the contents.
"I need to ask you a question," he said.
"About what?" she repeated.
"Are you Amy's mother?"
She barely had time to mask her panic before she scoffed and replied, "Don't be ridiculous. She's my sister."
"Then let me ask you this: Have you ever been married?"
"No," she answered more vehemently.
His chuckle was spiteful and snide. "You're good, I'll give you that."
"What do you mean?"
He reached into his coat and pulled out a piece of paper. He thrust it at her, and she saw that it was a police booking photo from when she'd been arrested many years earlier for a DUI. It wasn't the most flattering photo, but there was no doubting it was her.
"It's amazing," he sneered, "what you can find out on the internet."
"So I had a DUI years ago. Sue me."
"How old are you, Pamela?"
"Thirty—the same age as you."
He pointed to a line on the paper that showed her birth date.