She would lose Davencourt. She had blocked her emotions, hadn't let Lucinda see the pain and panic that had threatened to break through her protective barrier. She was human; she would regret losing the money. But Davencourt was worth more to her than any fortune. Davencourt was home, sanctuary, dearly beloved, and every inch familiar. It would tear her heart out to lose Davencourt, but she had no illusion that she would be welcome there if Webb inherited. He would want all of them out, including her.
But he could better care for it than she could. He had been raised with the understanding that, through his alliance with Jessie, Davencourt would be his. He had spent his youth and his young manhood training himself to be the best custodian possible for it, and it was
Roanna's fault that he'd lost it.
What price atonement?
She knew the price, knew exactly what it would cost her. But there was Lucinda, desperately wanting to see him before she died. And there was Webb himself, the exiled prince. Davencourt was his rightful place, his legacy. She owed him a debt she could never repay. She would give up Davencourt to get him to return. She would give up anything she had.
Somehow, her body moving without conscious will, she found herself on her feet and walking through the swirling smoke. She stopped behind him and to the right, her gaze fevered and hungry as she stared at the hard line of his cheekbone, his jaw. Hesitantly, both yearning for the contact but dreading it, she lifted her hand to touch his shoulder and draw his attention. Before she could, however, he sensed her presence and turned his head toward her.
Green eyes, narrowed and cool, looking her up and down. One dark eyebrow lifted in silent question. It was the look of a man on the prowl assessing a woman for availability, and desirability.
He didn't recognize her.
Her breath was rapid and shallow, but she felt as if she wasn't drawing in enough air. She dropped her hand, and ached because the brief contact she had so dreaded had been denied her. She wanted to touch him. She wanted to go into his arms the way she had when she was little, lay her head on his broad shoulder, and find refuge from the world. instead she reached for her hard-won composure and said quietly, "Hello, Webb. May I talk to you?"
His eyes widened a little, and he swiveled on the bar stool so that he faced her. There was a brief flare of recognition, then incredulity, in his expression. Then it was gone, and his gaze hardened. He looked her over again, this time with slow deliberation.
He didn't say anything, just kept staring at her. Roanna's heart pounded against her ribs with sickening force.
"Please," she said.
He shrugged, the movement straining his powerful shoulders against his shirt. He pulled a few bills from his pocket and tossed them on the bar, then stood, towering over her, forcing her to step back. Without a word he took her arm and steered her toward the entrance, his long fingers wrapped around her elbow like iron laces. Roanna braced herself against the tingle of delight caused by even that impersonal contact, and she wished she had worn a sleeveless blouse so she could feel his hand on her bare skin.
The door of the squat building slammed shut behind them. The lighting inside had been dim, but still she had to blink her eyes to accustom them to the darkness. Haphazardly parked vehicles crouched in the darkness, bumpers and windshields reflecting the blinking red neon of the BAR sign in the window. After the close, smoky atmosphere of the bar, the clear night air felt cold and thin. Roanna shivered with a sudden chill. He didn't release her but pulled her across tie grit and sand of the parking lot to a pickup truck. Taking his keys out of his pocket, he unlocked the driver's side door, opened it, and thrust her forward.
"Get in."
She obeyed, sliding across the seat until she was on the passenger side. Webb got in beside her, folding his long legs beneath the steering wheel and pulling the door shut.
Every time the sign blinked, she could see the iron set of his jaw. In the enclosed cab she could smell the fresh, hard odor of the tequila he'd been drinking. He sat silently, staring out the windshield. Hugging her arms against the chill, she too was silent.
"Well?" he snapped after a long moment when it became evident she wasn't exactly rushing into speech.
She thought of all the things she could say, all the excuses and apologies, all the reasons why Lucinda had sent her, but everything boiled down into two simple words, and she said, "Come home."
He gave a harsh crack of laughter and turned so that his shoulders were comfortably wedged against the door and the seat.
"I am home, or near enough."
Roanna was silent again, as she often was. The stronger her feelings, the more silent she became, as if her inner shell tightened against any outbreak that would leave her vulnerable. His nearness, just hearing his voice again, made her feel as if she would shatter inside. She wasn't even able to return his gaze. Instead she looked down at her lap, fighting to control her shivering.
He muttered a curse, then shoved the key into the ignition and turned it. The motor caught immediately and settled into a powerful, well-tuned hum. He pushed the temperature control lever all the way over into the heat zone, then twisted his torso to reach behind the seat. He pulled out a denim jacket and tossed it into her lap.
"Put that around you before you turn blue."
The jacket smelled of dust and sweat and horses and ineffably of Webb. Roanna wanted to bury her face in the fabric; instead she pulled it around her shoulders, grateful for the protection.
"How did you find me?" he finally asked.
"Did Mother tell you?"
She shook her head.
"Aunt Sandra?"
She shook her head again.
"Damn it, I'm not in the mood for guessing games," he snapped.
"Either talk or get out of the truck."
Roanna's hands tightened on the edges of the jacket.
"Lucinda hired a private detective to find you. Then she sent me out here." She could feel his hostility radiating from him, a palpable force that seared her skin. She'd known she didn't have much chance of convincing him to return, but she hadn't realized how violently he disliked her now. Her stomach twisted sickeningly, and her chest felt hollow, as if her heart no longer lived there.
"So you didn't come on your own?" he asked sharply.
"No."
Unexpectedly he reached out and caught her jaw, his fingers biting into the softness of her skin as he wrenched her head around. A purr of soft menace entered his voice.
"Look at me when you're talking to me."
Helplessly she did so, her eyes eating him, tracing every beloved outline and committing it to memory. This might be the last time she ever saw him, and when he sent her away, another piece of her would die.
"What does she want?" he asked, still holding her face in his grip. His big hand covered her jaw from ear to ear.
"If she simply missed my smiling face, she wouldn't have waited ten years to find me. So what is it she wants from me?"
His bitterness was deeper than she'd expected, his anger still as hot as it had been the day he'd walked out of their lives. She should have known, though, and Lucinda should have, too. They'd always been aware of the force of his character; that was why, when he'd been only fourteen, Lucinda had picked him as her heir and the custodian of Davencourt. Their betrayal of him had been like pulling a tiger's tail, and now they had to face his fangs and claws.
"She wants you to come home and take over again."
"Sure she does. The good people of Colbert County
wouldn't dirty themselves by doing business with an accused murderer."
"Yes, they would. With Davencourt and everything else belonging to you, they'd have to, or lose a lot of their own income."
He gave a harsh bark of laughter.
"My God, she must really want me back if she's willing to buy me! I know she's changed her will, presumably in your favor. What's gone wrong? Has she made a few bad decisions, and now she needs me to pull the family's financial ass out of the fire?"
Her fingers ached to reach out and smooth away the anger that lined his forehead, but she restrained herself, and the effort it cost her was reflected in her voice.
"She wants you to come home because she loves you and regrets what happened. She needs you to come home because she's dying. She has cancer."
He glared at her in the darkness.. then abruptly released her jaw and turned his head away. After a moment he said, "God damn it," and viciously slammed his fist against the steering wheel.
"She's always been good at manipulating people. God knows, Jessie came by it honestly."
"Then you'll come?" Roanna. asked hesitantly, unable to believe that was what he meant.
Instead of answering, he turned back to her and caught her face in his hand again. He leaned closer, so close she could see the glitter of his eyes and smell the alcohol on his breath. Dismayed, she abruptly realized he wasn't exactly sober. She should have known, she'd watched him drinking, but she just hadn't thought' What about you?" he demanded, his voice low and hard.
"All I've heard is what Lucinda wants. What do you want? Do you want me to come home, little-Roanna-all grown-up? How did she get you to do her dirty work for her, knowing that you'll lose a lot of money and property if you succeed?" He paused.
"I assume that's what you meant, that if I go back she'll change her will again, leaving it all to me?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Then you're a fool," he whispered derisively in return, and released her face.
"Look, why don't you trot on back, like the good little lapdog you're turned into, and tell her you gave it your best shot but I'm not interested."
She absorbed the pain of that blow, too, and shoved it into her inner shell where the damage wouldn't show. The expression she turned to him was as smooth and blank as a doll's.
"I want you to come home, too. Please."
She could feel his intensifying focus as it settled on her, like a laser beam finding its target.
"Now, why would you want that?" he asked softly.
"Unless you really are a fool. Are you a fool, Roanna?"
She opened her mouth to answer but he laid one callused finger across her lips.
"Ten years ago you started it all by offering me a taste of that skinny little body. At the time, I thought you were too innocent to know what you were doing, but I've thought about it a lot since then, and now I think you knew exactly how I was reacting, didn't you?"
His finger was still covering her lips, lightly tracing the sensitive outline. This was what she had dreaded most, having to face his bitter accusations. She closed her eyes and nodded.
"Did you know Jessie was coming down?"
"No!" Her denial moved her lips against his finger, making her mouth tingle.
"So you kissed me because you wanted me?"
What did pride matter? she thought. She had loved him, in some form, her entire life. First she had loved him with a child's hero worship, then with an adolescent's violent crush, and finally with a woman's passion. The last change had, perhaps, taken place when she had watched Jessie cheating on him with another man and knew she couldn't tell, because to do so would hurt Webb. When she'd been younger, she would have been gleeful at the prospect of getting Jessie in trouble, and told immediately. That time she had put Webb's welfare above her own impulses, but then she had surrendered to another impulse when she kissed him, and he had ended up paying the price anyway.
His finger pressed harder.
"Did you?" he insisted.
"Did you want me?"
"Yes," she breathed, abandoning any scrap of pride or self-protection.
"I always wanted you."
"What about now?" His voice was hard, inexorable, pushing her toward an end she couldn't see.
"Do you want me now?"
What did he want her to say? Maybe he just wanted her complete humiliation. If he blamed her for everything that had happened, perhaps this was the price he wanted her to pay.
She nodded.
"How much do you want me?" Abruptly his hand slipped inside the jacket and closed over her breast.
"Just enough to give me a feel, tease me? Or enough to give me what you offered ten years ago?"
Roanna's breath wheezed to a stop in her chest, frozen with shock. She stared helplessly at him, her dark eyes so huge that they dominated her pale face.
"Tell you what," he murmured, his big hand still burning her breast, lightly squeezing as if testing the firm resilience of her flesh.
"I paid for this ten years ago, but I never got it. I'll go back and take care of business for Lucinda-if you'll give me what everyone thought I'd had then."
Numbly, she realized what he meant, realized that the years had made him even harder than she'd suspected. The old Webb never would have done such a thing-or perhaps he'd always had the capability for such ruthlessness but hadn't needed to use it. The iron was much closer to the surface now.