by Mary Campisi
Destiny had delivered Tate Alexander to her. The circumstances were tragic, but she could provide him comfort; she could be there for him, help him through his grief. She wanted to do it. Finally, she could show him what it meant to be truly loved. When he began to nuzzle her neck, she didn’t pull away, and when his hand trailed up her thigh, stroked the flesh beneath her jogging suit, she let out a tiny moan.
Oh, Tate. Yes! He traced the column of her neck with his tongue, sucked. Charlotte let out another moan, this one more urgent. More. Tate Alexander did not disappoint. He kissed her neck, worked his way to her chin, her jaw, so close to her lips.
And then he pulled back, his silver eyes burning into her.
Tate? What’s wrong?
He untangled her hands from his neck, placed them in her lap, and stood. The pain and sadness she’d seen earlier were still there, but now she saw something else as well. Regret.
Go home, Charlotte. He backed away, one step, two. Go home, he said again, seconds before he turned and walked away.
Tate was wounded and grieving the loss of his mother, and Charlotte should have never permitted the touching to get physical. Now he regretted what he’d done, but he hadn’t done anything, not really…at least, not anything she hadn’t wanted him to do. And just because she was Rogan’s sister did not mean she was off limits. She was an adult, capable of making her own choices and decisions. Maybe she’d tell him that and see what his reaction would be.
But her opportunity to tell him anything evaporated two days later with the morning dew and her mother’s words. Tate Alexander left Reunion Gap yesterday, and nobody knows where he went or if he’s coming back.
Charlotte hadn’t seen the man in almost six years, but that didn’t mean he didn’t haunt her. He was the reason she couldn’t have a decent relationship, or fall in love, or trust anyone. Her family thought it had to do with her impulsive nature, but that wasn’t it at all. It was that damn Tate Alexander and his come-closer smile.
Why on earth had she tracked him down in Chicago all those months ago and slept with him? Oh, right. She’d decided it was necessary so she could get on with her life. Another of Charlotte’s impulsive moves that proved disastrous. At the time, she’d thought it was the only way out of her Tate Alexander obsession. She’d believed if they slept together, one of two things would happen: he’d turn out to be the player people said he was, or he’d reveal himself as the caring man she’d seen that day in the park. If it were the first, maybe she’d finally be able to erase him from her brain. If it were the second, well, that could lead to anything and everything!
What a fool she’d been. One night with that man would never be enough, and if she were honest about it, which, of course, she wasn’t, she’d do it again. And again. But that wasn’t going to happen because the man had already done enough damage to her heart and her self-esteem. She’d thought she had it all figured out, but she’d neglected to factor in the possibility that once she slept with him, her obsession would escalate, even if he proved to be a player whose only interest was in the next conquest.
Why couldn’t Tate Alexander have been who she thought he was?
What did it matter? She couldn’t change who he was, but she’d make darn sure she didn’t let him close enough to hurt her again.
Chapter 3
“How was the wedding?”
Frederick Strong leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest as though preparing for a play-by-play of Rogan and Elizabeth’s wedding, complete with the verbal exchange between Tate and Rogan. If the man only knew Rogan wasn’t the one causing issues for Tate, he’d settle in for the day and demand the details.
Tate shrugged. “Same as any other wedding, with all the confection and promises.” Except it wasn’t. This couple had written their own vows, and when they recited them, even a guy like himself had bought into the happily-ever-after tale. Actually, he did believe it was possible, but not without a lot of work from both parties, and that’s where it got tricky. That’s where couples fell apart.
“So, no highlights?”
Another shrug. The only highlights he cared about involved Charlotte Donovan in her body-contouring dress, tossing out sharp comments. The woman had a wit about her, and dang if he didn’t love it. And then there was that laugh, and those eyes…and the smile…rare, but still…and the neck, perfect for kissing…the breasts…perfect…
“Tate? You can’t expect me to believe you attended a wedding you weren’t technically invited to, and everyone welcomed you with a smile and a glass of champagne.” He let out a huff and a sniff. “I’m not buying it.”
Fred took issue with stories that lacked drama and detail, saying there was no sense telling them if they didn’t have flash and flare. No doubt the man had developed these tastes from the classic movies he watched with his ailing mother every week. Jimmy Stewart’s Rear Window, Humphrey Bogart’s Casablanca, and Gregory Peck’s Roman Holiday. But one day, the man should consider a life that stretched beyond classic movies and funding college educations for his nieces and nephews. In all the years he’d known Fred, had Tate ever heard of a significant other? No, he couldn’t say he had. “Rose Donovan is a sweetheart; she’d welcome a pack of stray cats if they looked hungry.”
“Ah.” The man smiled, nodded. “So, you brought your appetite and your manners. Interesting.”
Tate laughed. “I even used the right utensils.”
“Now I am truly impressed. Maybe once Rogan settles down and has a family, he’ll forgive you for that business with Marybeth Caruthers—” he shifted in his chair, raised a brow “—and the one involving his new wife.”
Okay, so Tate had been harsh with Elizabeth when he learned her real identity, and he’d been a bit strong in his opinion that she not tell Rogan until the factory opened. Maybe he could have toned it down a bit, tossed in a smile and a feel-good comment, but he’d been protecting the guy. As for Marybeth, well… “I’ve apologized about Elizabeth, but the guy’s not interested in anything I have to say. In fact, he said he’d break my nose if I tried anything like that again.” Tate picked up a paperweight with The Alleghenies scrawled on it. “And you know I had nothing to do with Marybeth.”
Fred nodded, leaned forward. “Indeed, I do. I tried to talk your father out of his scheme, but he wouldn’t listen; said there was only one name that ruled this town, and it was not Donovan.”
“It was a football team, not a run for mayor. I would have survived not making first-string quarterback.”
“But your father wouldn’t have, not if Rogan Donovan was in that spot. He’s always believed in squashing the smell of a threat before it became one. Of course, it’s wrong, but...”
“Wrong? It’s sick.” Tate set the paperweight on the desk, pushed back his chair, and stood. This was his father’s office, and some days he almost felt like the old man was looking over his shoulder, watching, waiting. But for what? If he thought Tate would imitate his business tactics and control with a ruthless vision toward acquisition and the bottom line, he could think again. Not happening. Ever.
“I thought I’d stop by and see him today.”
“Sure.” Tate paced the room, wished for a half second he were back in Chicago, living a stress-free life hundreds of miles from his past. But he could only run for so long before he had to face the scars his father’s existence had left on him. Even his mother, kind and gentle as she’d been, had left her own brand of damage by enabling Harrison to treat them all as possessions: told what to think, what to feel, what to be. How was a guy supposed to have a half-normal relationship? Show fear and sadness? Or love?
Tate was learning his way one step at a time, but he had a lot of work to do before he could offer the woman who owned his heart a real future. Charlotte Donovan was not impressed with the cool-guy attitude he used when he was around her, and one day he’d have to let her see the real him—the one full of imperfections. That last thought made him queasy. Okay, she didn’t need to see al
l of them at once, maybe just a few. And the other piece of accepting his past had to do with his father. That was a big one. He supposed he’d have to forgive the old man for ruining lives, manipulating people and situations, cheating on his marriage and the people of this town, trying to destroy the Donovans, and being an overall terrible human being. Could he do that? The self-help gurus said it was essential to unload the baggage in your life in order to move on.
Still, that was a lot to forgive.
But could he do it for a chance to draw a clear breath and accept who he was—fears, inadequacies, and all? And for a chance to have a life with the one woman he’d never forgotten? Of course, she’d have to give up the boyfriend who didn’t seem like a boyfriend at all and might be more fiction than reality. Even so, could he do all of that?
Yes!
The answer burst through him as he stared at the family portrait on the wall. Harrison and Marguerite Alexander sat on high-backed chairs, their children next to them. Tate had been twelve, and he’d hated the bow tie, the vest, the slicked hair parted on the side, but he didn’t dare refuse his father. It had taken six tries to get the smiles just right. Meredith had complained her lips hurt. Neal stuck out his tongue after the third try, which earned him a slap across the face. But Tate had squared his shoulders and forced that smile in place as though he’d lose his oxygen if it slipped. Maybe, after all these years, it was finally time to let the smile slip and reveal the real Tate Alexander.
And maybe Charlotte could help him do just that.
“Wasn’t yesterday lovely?” Rose Donovan lifted her coffee mug, let out a long sigh. “Rogan and Elizabeth make such a beautiful couple. And with a baby on the way? Could life get any better?”
That depended on one’s opinion of whether an unexpected pregnancy and a rushed marriage made life look better. Umm, Charlotte didn’t think so. Too many variables, and what about the big unknowns? What if the guy weren’t 100 percent ready to marry, but the positive pregnancy test pushed him to make the offer? Would he regret it? Would he admit it if he did? Probably not, and that’s when the whole part about withholding truths became a wedge that eroded the relationship. She’d seen it with her friends and heard about it so much that the idea of trusting another person who wasn’t her family sucked the air from her brain.
Could she ever do that?
Doubtful.
“They do seem perfect together,” she said, not because she wanted to appease her mother, but because it was true. Rogan looked like he’d found a part of himself that had been missing. After the turmoil of these past few years, her brother deserved to find peace, and she was glad he’d found it with Elizabeth. Apparently, there had been an issue that pulled the couple apart for a while, but nobody was talking, and Charlotte knew better than to ask too many questions. She’d learn the truth in her own time, like she always did. Her family thought she didn’t pay attention to the comings and goings in Reunion Gap, but just because she flitted in and out of town didn’t mean she was oblivious to the people or their situations.
And the one family she wished she could ignore—the Alexanders—seemed to be the one that kept getting hurled at her, especially the oldest son. Tate Alexander. Personal pain in her butt.
“You and Tate certainly looked cozy out there on the dance floor yesterday.”
There it was, tossed right in her face. If Rose Donovan had her say-so, Charlotte and her nemesis would be picking out china patterns next week. Not. Going. To. Happen. But there had been that night in Chicago… She shoved the memories from her brain, willed herself to remain calm as she met her mother’s gaze and said in a casual manner, “Mom, you have a strange definition of cozy. You forced me to dance with him.” She picked up a cinnamon roll, studied the swirls of thick frosting. “And why on earth Aunt Camille thought it appropriate to invite him to Rogan’s wedding is something I will never understand.”
Of course, that wasn’t exactly true. Charlotte understood why her aunt had extended the invitation. The woman was trying to match them up, as if that were going to happen. She’d tried years ago, and it looked like she hadn’t given up. You two are meant to be together, she’d said the first time she tried to arrange a date between them. Just wait until you spend time with him. Tate’s kind and generous and he has a rather wicked sense of humor. He’s not like the other Alexander men. You’ll see. Oh, she’d seen all right. The jerk had stood her up!
“I saw the way Tate was watching you, as though he thought you were a piece of confection he wanted to devour.” Her mother’s blue eyes sparkled, and a tiny laugh escaped her lips.
It had been a long time since Charlotte had seen her mother anywhere near happy. Why couldn’t life be the way it used to be, when her father was alive? He’d seen to their mother’s happiness, made sure that smile never left her face. They were good together; the perfect couple. But then it had all fallen apart.
After Gordon T. Haywood destroyed their family, Rogan came home and tried to help, but their father refused to forgive himself for his bad choices, even though his worst fault was being too trusting. The Alexanders would never have believed the tales of a man like Gordon T. Haywood. Maybe because they were swindlers themselves. Okay, maybe she couldn’t include Tate in that comment, but his father and grandfather? No doubt about it.
“Charlotte, are you sure you don’t mind staying here? I know you like your space, and Camille has offered her house.” Another laugh. “Or, should I say her mansion? There are so many rooms in that place, I’ll bet you can roam around there for a week and not run into each other.”
True, but then she might run into Camille’s husband, a man she refused to think of as an uncle. Womanizer? Cheater? Liar? Those were more appropriate terms. She couldn’t stand the guy, couldn’t stand his good looks, his sly smiles, usually aimed at women under thirty, including Charlotte. Seriously? Poor Camille. “I want to stay here, Mom. It’s home.” And if she closed her eyes, some days she could pretend she was a kid again, with nothing more to think about than finding ways to make Tate Alexander notice her.
The night in Chicago flitted through her brain, stole her breath. She’d finally gotten her wish after all these years. Oh yes, he’d definitely noticed her, and now she wished he hadn’t.
Her mother’s next words sent the memories scattering. “You know I love that you’re home, and you can stay as long as you want, but…”
She’d been poking around with questions like that since Charlotte rolled into Reunion Gap almost three weeks ago in her new sports car. That is one fancy car, she’d said. It must be expensive. And then, there’d been the slightest hesitancy in her voice before she added, Is it affordable? I’m only asking because every now and then I still get calls from collection companies asking for you… Okay, so she’d made a few questionable money choices that cost her a decent credit score, and she’d had to borrow money from Rogan once or twice. That didn’t make her an idiot. Not everyone was a whiz with numbers and budgets like her oldest brother. She bet Luke had a worse credit score than she did, and she bet he didn’t pay his bills on time either. Charlotte scratched her head, clutched her coffee mug. Was she really comparing herself to Luke, the brother who ate fifteen hot dogs just because someone challenged him?
“If you don’t want to talk about it, I’ll respect your wishes.”
Hurt smothered her mother’s words and made it impossible for Charlotte to continue avoiding questions without bold-faced lying. She wouldn’t do that; however, she could massage the truth a bit, soften the edges so they didn’t appear so jagged and disappointing. Rose Donovan would accept that because she’d never been one to handle the truth without a healthy dose of sugar piled on it. Their father had been the one who’d dealt in facts and reality. Their mother received the reworked truths, and she’d been just fine with that. In fact, the few times Charlotte or her brothers had gone to Rose with a problem, she’d pleaded a headache and told them, Your father is much better at problem solving than I am, so wait to talk t
o him.
But it wasn’t that at all, and it didn’t take Charlotte past the age of fourteen to realize it. Rose Donovan didn’t have the emotional capacity to handle issues that created conflict and unrest. Their father knew it and protected her. When that horrible Haywood man came to town and ruined him, he’d been incapable of protecting Rose any longer. That’s when she’d turned to the pills and Rogan for support. But Rogan was married now with a baby on the way, and the poor guy deserved a slice of happiness. He’d given up a lot to come home, and while it might have been the best thing that ever happened to him, the truth was, Charlotte and Luke had bailed on him. Sure, she might have come back a few weeks ago to reassess her own life and her goals, but she’d also returned out of guilt for deserting her oldest brother.
“Charlotte, just tell me. What happened in Nashville? Did you lose your job again?” Her mother’s blue gaze settled on her, clear, focused, a sign she hadn’t taken any pills yet. That would come soon, though, and then her eyes would lose their sharpness, her attention would shift, and she’d grow calm. Too calm.
Bits of truth slipped out. “I’m not sure it was an actual firing, but a mutual decision.” Rose didn’t have to know the client she drove every week to the airport had offered her boss a one-year contract for exclusive rights to Charlotte’s services. There’d be a bonus, too, and all she had to do was accompany him on trips as his driver and take care of things as the need arose.
Right. As the need arose? What an interesting choice of words. Of course, Charlotte had flat-out refused the offer, and of course, her employer had seen no issue with the offer. Take it, Charlotte. He’s a powerful man; he’ll take care of you.
I won’t be owned by any man, certainly not some eccentric who’s old enough to be my father.
There’s a difference between being owned and letting a man take care of you. Can’t you see that? It’s called a mutually beneficial proposition.
