The Quiet Seduction (8 page)

She twiddled with the coffee spoon, not meeting his
eyes, which wasn't like her, so he waited a couple more beats. He'd discovered that it was an effective tactic.

“What makes you think I wasn't glad to see him?”

“You weren't exactly rolling out the Welcome mat. The man came bearing gifts, yet I'm the one who had to invite him inside for refreshments.”

“I was…surprised, that's all.”

“That's not all, Ellen, but you're right—it's none of my business. Point conceded.”

She managed to smile, looking closer to tears than amusement. Or maybe he was reading too much into nothing. That was the trouble with straining to read a blank slate, you were apt to read all sorts of mysterious implications in a scratch or a flyspeck.

“Look, my father and I are…estranged. And if you must know, Greg's the man I was supposed to marry.”

His spoon clattered into the saucer. “What? You were engaged to that…that stuffed shirt?”

This time her smile was genuine. “Actually, we never quite got that far. I was supposed to graduate first, at which time my family would announce the engagement with proper fanfare. Then, after a suitable period, we were to marry. A small exclusive wedding, no more than three or four hundred carefully selected guests, followed by a couple of weeks in Bermuda or maybe Paris. After that, Greg would be made a full partner and I would take my place among Austin's young married set, with all that entailed.”

An edge of bitterness colored her voice. He'd heard weariness before—weariness, suspicion, tenderness and amusement. The bitterness was new. He didn't like it.

“But then I ruined everything by not following the
rules,” she said with a whimsical little half smile that tore something inside him.

“I take it you met someone else. Jake?”

Ellen turned her cup in her hands. Callused hands, the short nails clean but unpolished. He waited. Sometimes you had to prime the pump, sometimes you didn't. It all depended on how much pressure had built up.

“You have to understand how it was. Daddy wasn't always so paranoid, but after the son of one of his closest friends was kidnapped and held for ransom, my freedom was cut off like you wouldn't believe. No more tooling around town in my own car, I had to be driven everywhere. To the mall, to the club—even to the dentist.”

Her soft bleat of laughter held little amusement. “Know what? I discovered a talent I didn't even know I possessed. I got to be an expert on slipping my leash. It never once occurred to Daddy that I might not obey his rules, which only proves he didn't know me at all.”

She fell silent, and it was all Storm could do not to lead with a question. A few moments later she continued. “But then, I didn't know him very well, either. After my mother died, he waited less than six months to start dating again. If you can call it dating. It was more like he'd take these trips, you know? I was never invited, not that I'd have gone—I mean, what girl needs to watch her father make out? Still, it would've been nice to be asked. They usually started with Paris. All Daddy's girlfriends liked to shop there.”

Storm let the words flow over him and found to his surprise that he was able to visualize a lot of what she described. Not that he thought he'd had an overprotec
tive father. Hell, he didn't know if he'd had one at all, other than biologically.

He learned more about Jake—about the man in the snapshot she had framed and placed on her mantel. And yeah, he thought again that he would have liked him, although they probably wouldn't have had much in common.

Except for Ellen. Except for a taste for women whose subtle, understated beauty would long outlast the high-maintenance kind that probably appealed to jerks like Greg Sanders.

“Looking back, I'm pretty sure the only reason Greg agreed to get engaged to me was because he wanted that partnership. I guess I sensed it even then. He and Daddy had pretty much the same kind of taste when it came to women. Young, blond, gorgeous and sophisticated, all of which I was not. Except for young, I suppose. Too young in some ways.”

“Did you resent it? Your father's other women, I mean?”

After a few seconds she said, “You know, I'm not sure. We were never close, but I suppose I'd have resented any woman taking my mother's place, even though I can hardly even remember her. If you mean did I resent Greg's women, I honestly don't know. I knew he was seeing others even when we were about to become engaged. I guess if it had really bothered me I'd have tried to do something about it.”

“Such as?”

“Well, what woman doesn't want to be beautiful?” Her smile was droll, self-deprecating. “The trouble is, bleached hair takes too much maintenance and I'm afraid of the knife, so plastic surgery was out. I'm stuck with plain brown hair, a nose that's too short and a
mouth that's too big. Not to mention the lack of a few strategic implants.”

“Oh, lady, you underestimate yourself,” he said softly, and she wrinkled her nose at him.

Tilting back her chair, she exhaled as if sharing the load had relieved some of the pressure that had built up inside her. It occurred to him that every woman needed one close friend to talk to, to share with, to confide in. He had to wonder if there was anyone like that for Ellen.

“I take it you and your father haven't yet buried the hatchet?”

“The last time I saw my father was nearly ten years ago. I read about him occasionally, but we don't really communicate.” She fell silent.

He watched her for a while, and then said, “Ellen?”

“It's almost time for the schoolbus. I'd better—”

She started to rise, but Storm blocked her way. Gripping her shoulders, he said, “Ellen, I'm sorry. For what it's worth, I'm really sorry.”

Her eyes were suddenly too bright. “Why? It's hardly your fault.”

“No, it's not, but I'm sorry all the same. Can't friends empathize?”

“Friends,” she said, and then the dam broke. The tip of her nose turned red, her eyes overflowed, and by the time the first sob escaped, his arms were around her and he was holding her, rocking her gently from side to side, murmuring wordless sounds meant to comfort, to soothe.

He had a feeling it wouldn't last long, her need for comfort. All too soon she'd be back to worrying about things like fence posts and bank balances, and roofs with shingles that were beginning to curl. And gifts
from her wealthy father that pride alone would not permit her to accept.

His chin brushed against her silky hair. His body responded with embarrassing enthusiasm. He wondered if she'd thought as much about sex as he had over the past few days…and nights. Had she taken a lover since she'd become a widow?

He told himself that holding her was enough, feeling the warmth and strength of her body, her arms clinging to his waist. But this time it wasn't going to work. His lips brushed her cheek and the tip of her ear, and she turned her face ever so slightly so that her eyelashes brushed against his lips. Every cell in his body went immediately to standby alert.

Did she feel it, too? Was she ready for more than simple comfort? More than friendship? Could she possibly be seeking what he was so eager to offer?

The sound of footsteps pounded up the front steps. The door clattered against the wall as Pete came bursting inside. “Hey, guess what?” he yelled, shedding his coat on the floor, slinging his books in the general direction of the hall table. “I passed my—”

And then he was standing in the kitchen doorway. “Mom? What's wrong?”

T
hey were working together in the barn, finishing up the stalls and leading the horses inside. Pete continued to cast Storm questioning looks from time to time, but at least the boy was no longer scowling.

“Did you know that guy? That friend of my mom's?”

They had told him only that an old friend of his mother's from her hometown had stopped by for a brief visit, and that his mother had been feeling homesick.

“Like when I used to have to change schools in the middle of the year and I always hated it?” he'd asked.

“Something like that,” Ellen had conceded, and Storm had nodded in silent agreement. He wasn't nearly as embarrassed as he probably should have been.

“I'd never met him before,” Storm said now as he pitched in a forkful of clean hay and let the boy spread it. The work should have been done by the two hired hands, but they were still out working on the fence—as far as anyone knew.

“I pro'ly wouldn't have liked him.”

“Probably not.”

“Yeah. Okay, but don't you dare make my mom cry or anything like that. I take care of my mom.”

“I never doubted it for a moment,” the tall, solemn man said gravely.

As the last of his doubts dissipated, Pete shot him a
grin full of eight-year-old charm. “Boy, that was one hell of a storm you and me got caught in, wasn't it? This kid at my school says a tractor trailer full of grapefruit turned over real near his house and all these cars skidded in the gunk and man, was it a hell of a mess!”

Ignoring the profanity, Storm spoke thoughtfully. “I'm not sure if a tornado is classed as a storm. Now, you take a hurricane—”

“You ever been in one of them? A hurricane?”

“Ah…”

“Oh, yeah. You don't remember. Joey's been in lots of hurricanes. He used to live in Galveston. Joey says you have to take pre—pre—”

“Precautions?” Storm filled in. As Ellen brought in the two geldings, he stepped forth and took one of the lead lines, moving the horse into the stall they had just finished cleaning. It never occurred to him that he might not be able to handle horses, he simply did it.

“Yeah, that's it,” Pete picked up where he'd left off and went on to regale the two grown-ups with the wisdom of his hurricane-wise friend. “Joey's got three cats, only two of them are babies. Mom, did you know cats can swim?”

“No, I didn't know that.” Using a pick, she was cleaning out one of the mare's hooves.

“I'd rather have a dog, but I wouldn't mind having a pet cat?” It was a question. Storm waited to see how she'd answer it. There were cats slinking around the barn, but none seemed particularly friendly.

Why not a house cat? he wondered. Or better yet, a pup? He'd have to remember to inquire sometime when Pete wasn't around. It might be an issue between them, one that could do without outside meddling.

The geldings were calm. The mare called Miss Sara
was feeling frisky, but Storm found he could handle her easily. Unselfconsciously, he began to talk to her, stroking her long, sleek neck. When she responded by nudging his shoulder, he promised her a treat.

“She likes apples,” Pete said. “Mom said she likes carrots, too. I tried her with broccoli. Yuck! She hates it.”

Storm cuffed the boy's head gently. “Better not let your mom see you palming off your vegetables on the horses. She'll double your rations.”

“Double yuck,” the boy said, grinning to show a pair of oversize front teeth.

“Is Zeus's stall ready?” Ellen called through the door. “I'm going to raise the dickens with that lazy pair of no-goods when they get back from mending that fence. They know what's supposed to get done first, and they didn't muck out a single stall this morning.” She brought in the stallion, whose disposition matched his name.

Pete measured out oats. He said, “I know what precautions means. It means putting everything up where the tide can't reach it, and the wind can't blow it away. Joey says—”

With half an ear, Storm listened to the secondhand wisdom while he waited for Ellen to maneuver the big stallion into his stall. She wasn't entirely comfortable with him, but she remained firm. Treated him, in fact, much the way she did her son. She had already brushed him down outside. “I haven't cleaned his hooves yet, but Clyde can do it when he gets in. Believe it or not, he's pretty good with horses.”

“Racetracks.”

“Pardon?” She dropped the bar across the bottom
half of the double door and glanced around the barn to see what else needed doing.

“Nothing—he just struck me as the type to hang around the track, doing odd jobs. There's a name for them, but for the life of me, I can't remember what it is.”

“But you know about it—about racetracks. That's something, at least.”

Stroking the nose of one of the mares, he looked thoughtful for a moment. “What about it? Think I'm too big to be a jockey?”

“About twelve inches too tall and fifty or sixty pounds too heavy. How about a trainer? There's no weight limit there.”

He considered it. Actually thought about it, then slowly shook his head. “I don't think so. I'm pretty comfortable around these hay processors, but it doesn't feel quite right.”

On the other hand, there was a lot of loose money floating around racetracks. And lots of guys who answered the description of that pair who'd come looking for him. One more reason to lay low until he knew which way the wind blew.

“An owner, then. Actually, you were dressed more like an owner when I found you. Except for the mud, of course.”

He liked the way she could joke about it. Any day now, he figured, things would start to come back. Maybe it would all pop into focus at once, and then he'd be on his way to…wherever.

But he'd be back. He would make a point of returning because if ever he'd met a lady who needed a friend, it was Ellen Wagner. He could be that friend. He would like to be that friend. Who knows, he mused,
leaning against the handle of the pitchfork in the warm, uncomplicated ambience of the big old horse barn, maybe they could even be more than friends.

Right. And maybe he had a wife and kids waiting for him to come back from wherever—a business trip, more than likely.

“Mom, I've finished my chores, so can I go over to Joey's? We're gonna bat some balls. Did you know Mr. Ludlum used to play first base in Triple A?”

“Have you done your homework?”

“Aw, Mom…”

“Spelling and math. Do those and then we'll see.”

“Will you take me in the truck?”

“If you get busy on your homework right now, I'll drive you over. You'll have an hour before dark.”

After Pete raced out, Storm lifted the wheelbarrow and started out to dump the last load on the manure pile. “Does he usually walk? I thought it was a couple of miles.”

“It is. He usually rides his bike, but of course…”

“Right. When's his birthday?”

“September.”

“I guess it'll have to be Christmas, then. Unless you had bike insurance?”

 

By the time Ellen returned from dropping Pete off at his friend's house, Storm had supper under way. Somewhat to his surprise, he seemed to know his way around a kitchen pretty well. He knew the basics, at least: thawing and microwaving.

She dropped into a red-enameled chair that had been painted to match the trim on the white cabinets. If the kitchen had ever been redecorated, it hadn't been recently. More of Pete's art was pinned to the checkered
curtains. “You didn't have to do that,” she said, but he could tell she was tired. The unexpected visit from an old acquaintance and the run-in by proxy with her father had evidently been the last straw in a day filled with last straws.

It struck him that after long days of mucking out stalls, wrestling with heavy bales of hay and playing nursemaid to a bunch of animals that did nothing so far as he could tell except eat their fill—not to mention letting out hems on Pete's Sunday pants, hearing his homework and then tackling the paperwork that went along with running even the smallest operation—she needed something more. Something for herself.

He would like to take her out for a night on the town. Dinner, a movie—maybe a bit of dancing. Oh, yeah…with Ellen wearing silk and pearls and him in his borrowed jeans and his ruined shoes.

He'd never even seen Ellen wearing a dress. She'd be a knockout, though. He'd lay odds on that. She was a knockout in baggy jeans, scuffed boots and her husband's old shirts.

Idly, he wondered what kind of frivolous interests she would pursue if she had the time, the freedom and the money. Tennis? Bridge? Shopping sprees? He had an idea it would be more on the order of charity drives and volunteer work.

There was a field full of stubble where hay had recently been cut and baled. Booker and Clyde must have extended themselves at some point in their good-for-nothing lives, because he couldn't see Ellen up on that old tractor.

Or maybe he could. Hell, he didn't know what she was capable of. She kept on surprising him. First with
her strength, then with her vulnerability. It was a tricky combination.

“Supper's ready in ten minutes,” he announced. “You want to pick up Pete first, or will Ludlum bring him back?”

“I'll get him. I hate to ask the Ludlums to do it. Mr. Ludlum has a handicapped tag, although he seems to get around pretty well. I've never even met Mrs. Ludlum. They keep to themselves.”

“Next time you might want to pick nosier neighbors.”

“Why, so they'd help us find out who you are and where you belong?”

He was reading the instructions on the back of a box of rice—part two of the three-part meal he was concocting. “So they'd check on you after a disaster to see how you fared. Only common courtesy.”

“I told you they called.” Ellen placed three plates on the table and grabbed a handful of cutlery. “Storm, why won't you let me see what the library has on amnesia? You could hold back supper and I could go on into town after I pick up Pete.”

He rummaged around in a drawer and came up with a set of measuring spoons. “I'm not sure. I guess I thought I'd have snapped out of it by now.”

“Or you're afraid of what you might find out,” she suggested.

His bleak look said it all. “There you go.”

“But what harm could it do just to read about the causes, the possible treatments—maybe the possible duration?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe amnesia is a means of avoiding something I'm not ready to con
front.” It was only one of the things he had considered. There were others, each scarier than the last.

The cutlery clattered onto the table. “And maybe that's a big bunch of bologna. You had a knot on your head the size of a turnip. It was physical, not some psycho hoodoo you worked yourself into believing to keep from facing something you're not ready to deal with. If there's one thing I know about you, Storm Hale, or whoever you are, it's that you're not a coward.”

“Oh, yeah? Since when did you get to be such an expert? And for your information, my knot was the size of a cantaloupe, not a turnip. Which pan do you use for rice?”

She bent and jerked a stainless-steel pot from under the counter while Storm stared at the ridge of her panties clearly visible under her worn jeans. He could visualize each layer all too clearly—right down to the motherlode.

Damn it, he was no better than that beer-swilling pothead of a hired hand.

Plunking the stainless-steel boiler down on the counter, she said, “This one, the lid fits tight enough. Do you know how to cook rice?”

“Why not ask me something simple, like why the sky's blue?”

“I already know the answer to that one.”

He measured out a cup and a half of water, then reached for the box of rice. “Oh, yeah?”

“Dry the cup before you measure the rice, else you'll never get it all out. It's called turbid media.” On another woman, her smile would have been called a smirk. On Ellen, it was…a smirk.

“Smarty pants,” he muttered, holding the cup up to
eye level to check the measurement. “You're just dying for me to ask what that means, aren't you?”

“No I'm not,” she said, all innocence. “I'd better go get Pete before he wears out his welcome.”

 

The chicken and vegetables—more of the latter than the former—was rubbery. He'd forgotten to salt the rice, but it was edible. Pete wasn't hungry. Storm couldn't much blame him. From now on, maybe Ellen should do the cooking.

Along with everything else, he thought guiltily.

She said something. He wasn't paying attention. She tilted her head to stare at him while Pete shoved his supper into a neat pile and compacted it with the fork. “What is it? What's wrong? Are you starting to remember?” she asked.

“I'm not sure,” he said slowly. “Almost. I think. Something just popped into my head, but when I tried to grab it, it was gone.”

“A name? An S name or an H name? The monogram, remember? How about Storm Harrison? Harrison Storm? Harry Smith?”

“How 'bout Kevin Costner?” Pete offered. “It's got a s and h in it.”

“Sorry, partner, no h. Your spelling grade just slipped another notch.”

It was like trying to race over a patch of quicksand. No matter how fast you ran, you got sucked down. He remembered once when…

“'Scuse me,” he said, raking back his chair.

“Storm?”

“It's okay, I just feel like getting some air. Save the dishes, I'll do 'em later.”

She rose and came after him. “You'll do no such
thing. Tell me what's wrong, and don't tell me it's your cooking, it really wasn't all that awful.”

“Damning with a bit of faint praise?” Shoving his arms into Jake's flannel-lined denim coat, he turned toward the door.