by Sharon Sala
A door slammed downstairs, jolting Honor’s wayward thoughts back to the present. She frowned. It was too much. For the time being, she gave up trying to sort everything out. There were still too many unknowns.
Honor pulled a loose curl from her forehead and tried to push it back into place. It was no use. Her hair was behaving much in the same fashion as her thoughts: with abandonment and no regard for order. She sighed, stuck out her tongue at her reflection in the mirror, and took a long, last look at her appearance. She would do.
She needed to make a favorable impression, not for herself, but for her mother. She knew she would be judged by the way Charlotte O’Brien had raised her.
Her dress was short, and came just above her knees. The low, rounded neckline dipped daringly close to the lush swell of breast pushing defiantly against the confines of the soft, silky fabric. The bodice wrapped snugly around Honor’s slender waist, while the skirt danced around her hips in a teasing flare.
But it was black.
And Honor knew you could never go wrong with black. It could be simple or classy. Tonight, Honor wanted class. That was why the only jewelry she was wearing were her mother’s diamond earrings. They were two-carat studs and had been a gift from Rusty to Charlotte, on her fortieth birthday. They were Honor’s most treasured possessions.
She pushed back her hair, tilted her head first one way then the other, watching the light catch in the brilliant cut of the stones, and smiled. They were big. But after all, she was from Texas. There, everything was larger than life.
She sprayed a touch of perfume, gave herself one final glance in the mirror, and started toward the closet to search for her shoes when a knock on her door made her turn.
Trace!
“I was going to ask if you’re ready,” Trace drawled, letting his eyes feast on the elegant beauty of the tall woman glaring at him with less than her usual venom. “But, that seems a bit weak. You don’t look ready, Honor. You look dangerous. You’ve got my vote, lady. Actually, you’ve got more than that, but I don’t think now’s the time to discuss it.”
“I suppose you have a good excuse for coming to my door. You could have waited downstairs with the others,” she grumbled, caught off guard at seeing him standing so devastatingly close.
It was all she could do to ignore how well he wore clothes. The black dinner jacket and pants, obviously tailor-made, fit his tall, muscular frame to perfection. Honor sighed. If he was only ugly. Or bit his nails and picked his teeth. She’d have a much easier time remembering she was supposed to be angry and betrayed if she wasn’t attracted.
“I know I could have waited,” he said softly, as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. “But, I thought a friendly escort would be welcome.”
Honor flushed and looked away. Here he was, being nice and considerate again. How did he know she was dreading a repeat of this afternoon? She’d managed the meeting with J. J. but that was just one man, one time. Tonight she was facing the rest of the family, and knew all too well that everyone would be watching every move she made. Just because J. J. was glad to see her didn’t mean the rest of the family would feel the same.
“Oh, well,” she muttered. “Under the circumstances, thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Trace said, masking his urge to smile.
She was the most vexing, taxing mix of femininity he’d ever encountered. Honor O’Brien was honest, independent, aggressive and compassionate. She was like Texas’s state flower, the bluebonnet. Beautiful, sturdy.
“Well, I guess it’s now or never,” she said, and looked around, trying to remember what she’d been about to do when Trace had appeared.
“Don’t you think you better put on shoes,” Trace said, watching Honor’s face flush an even darker shade of red.
“I was going to,” she grumbled, and headed for her closet. “You interrupted me.”
“Need any help?” Trace drawled again, watching with extreme interest as Honor bent over, digging furiously through the bag on the closet floor.
“I don’t need anything else from you, mister,” Honor said, glaring back at the smirk on his face as she realized just what an interesting view she’d given him. “And just for the record, a gentleman would have turned around.”
Honor watched Trace’s eyebrows quirk, and watched in reluctant fascination as that damn sexy mouth of his twisted into a seductive smile.
“Who said I was a gentleman, Honor? You’ve called me everything else but.”
Honor glared, stepped quickly into three-inch sling-back pumps, looked him squarely in the eyes from her elevated height, and started to sweep by him in queenly fashion.
Trace slid his arm around her waist, guided her back around to face him, and whispered softly against her mouth.
“Since you’ve branded me a deceitful liar, I guess one more black mark against me can’t hurt.” He tasted the mutinous pout forming on her lips and groaned softly. “It can’t hurt you, and will damn sure help me, lady.”
His mouth slid hard across her lips and stopped her protest.
Honor was shaken. She’d wanted to object, but the kiss was so familiar and so devastating, she forgot to push away. Instead, she found herself being pressed between the wall at her back and the hard, muscled body of the man at her front. The man who was slowly but surely taking away her sanity. She moved against him. It was instinct that guided them together, but it was memories that tore them apart.
Honor splayed her hand across his chest and moaned, desperately tearing herself away from this big man’s touch before it was too late.
“Honey, don’t fight me. Not now, please,” he begged softly.
Honor shook, blinking away tears of frustration as she sighed, allowing his hands to slide down the sides of her rib cage in a slow, teasing caress, meeting just long enough at the base of her spine to send cold chills rocketing through her system.
Trace felt the intake of her breath against his chest as she struggled with his audacity and knew he’d reached her limit…and his.
“Damn you, Trace Logan,” she said thickly.
“I already have been,” he answered quietly.
Trace pulled away, reluctantly releasing his hold on her tender curves. He traced the remnants of his onslaught on her carefully applied makeup, using his forefinger as a marker, then rubbed his thumb beneath her lower lip, removing the last little smear of lipstick he’d disturbed.
Honor stared, mesmerized by the look in his eyes and the touch of his hands, and tried to convince herself she still needed to hate. His deceit! His lies!
But the feeling wouldn’t come. The only thing she could produce was an overwhelming sadness for the waste of what might have been. She flashed Trace a look he couldn’t interpret and then muttered, “You need to do a little repair on yourself, mister.”
Trace grinned rakishly, refusing to be daunted by her anger. She meant too much to him. He slipped his handkerchief from his pocket, wiped it across his lips, and then started to stuff it back when Honor took it from him and sighed.
“Be still,” she ordered, rubbing at a spot he’d missed at the corner of his mouth.
Trace stood quietly, reveling in the feel of her hand on his face, inhaling the fleeting scents that emanated from her tall, elegant beauty, and resisted the urge to lay her down on the carpeted floor and lose himself in her mystery.
“Here,” she said, as she handed the handkerchief back to him. “And don’t push your luck again.”
She flashed him a warning look as they walked carefully down the stairs. Her thoughts were whirling as they neared the sound of angry voices rising with increased volume. She took a deep breath, and pushed open the double doors with one motion. The angry tones evolved into understandable words as the door slid silently open.
“Father,” the woman was arguing, lost in her tirade. “How could you be so foolish? This is probably nothing more than a scam to obtain money or social standing. You and I both know that Johnny’s daughter
is gone. Gone for all these years! These silly chases of yours had stopped. What made you start this futile search all over again? And what made you think for one moment that this horrible woman’s letter was even genuine?”
Honor felt her ire building as she heard her mother’s name being slung about with hateful abandon. It was nothing more than she’d expected. She pulled herself to her full height, tilted her chin in a position of defense, and gave it her best Texas drawl.
“Maybe I should have knocked.”
Chapter 5
Honor watched the woman who’d been arguing so vehemently step backward in shock, then grope blindly behind her for the nearest chair. She sank weakly into its cushiony depths.
The tall, middle-aged man with a receding hairline pulled at his collar, calling Honor’s attention to his clerical attire.
So this priest is my uncle, Honor thought, and watched him make the sign of the cross as he stared blankly at her presence. He turned in shock and gazed for a long moment at the portrait above the fireplace, before he turned his attention back to Trace and Honor. He was the first to speak.
“Dear Lord!” he whispered prayerfully. “She looks just like Mother.” He looked angrily at his father, who was wearing an expression of triumph. “You might have warned us,” the priest said in an accusing tone. “It’s quite a shock for Erin, as well as for me.” Then he caught himself, ended his rebuke with a sigh, as if he’d done this many times in the past and knew it was as futile now as it had ever been. Their father, J. J. Malone, was a law unto himself.
The priest turned to Honor with a belated welcome and came toward her with outstretched arms.
“My dear niece. Found at last! What can I say? There are no words to express our joy. You must forgive our reticence, but I’m sure you understand. This is quite a shock! Quite a shock! Welcome home!”
For Honor, it was a bit too much, too late, but she graciously allowed the man his effusive welcome. She realized that because of her appearance, she was less of a stranger to them than they were to her.
“Thank you,” Honor said, carefully extricating herself from the overwhelming exuberance of his hug. “You must be Father Andrew. What do I call you? Father, or Andrew, or…”
She looked to Trace for assistance, but he was no help. He’d pulled himself away from the center of attention, leaving Honor alone in the middle of the library to cope.
“Please, you must call me Uncle Andrew. I suppose you’re used to calling your own parish priest, Father. But this is family and a time of rejoicing.”
“I don’t have a priest,” Honor drawled, sensing this might become another small bombshell. She hadn’t realized, but of course this was a very Irish, very Catholic, family.
Trace had an urge to grab Honor and dash out into the night. This was going to be a long, grueling evening, and from the signs so far, it was not going to be friendly. He ached for her. He knew how confused and strange all this must seem. Yet he knew Honor could stand up for herself. He saw J. J.’s expression darken as he absorbed Honor’s announcement regarding her religious upbringing.
J. J. frowned. His voice boomed out into the awkward silence. “What do you mean, you don’t have a priest? What’s the matter, girl? Did that blasted woman raise you as a heathen?”
Honor gasped. J. J.’s frown would have frozen the feathers off a buzzard. It made her own ire rise magnificently to the occasion. “No, I’m not a heathen,” she snapped. “I’m a Baptist.”
“Practically the same thing,” J. J. mumbled.
“Father!” the woman in the chair rebuked, as she rallied and pulled herself to her feet. She came toward Honor with a guarded expression on her face. “I’m sorry,” she said politely. “Malones are not known for their tact. I’m certain this is not the welcome you were expecting.”
“I wasn’t expecting anything.” Honor returned the delicate thrust of the woman’s statement with a painless jab of her own.
The carefully groomed and formed eyebrows on Erin Malone’s forehead rose to amazing heights as she let Honor’s words soak in. She smiled a less than friendly smile and leaned forward, touching Honor’s cheek with her own in an antiseptic welcome.
“Dear Megan…I’m your Aunt Erin. But please, call me Erin. Aunt is so formal, and,” she smiled coquettishly, and looked back at her escort, “it’s so aging.”
“Please call me Honor,” she replied, not willing for anyone to mention legal names at this point. She had been raised as Honor, she wasn’t ready to answer to any other name.
Erin looked as if she were about to argue when J. J. frowned, realizing that he’d almost let his little surprise get out of hand. Now that the shock of Honor’s appearance had worn off, he was eager to get on with the evening. He’d also intercepted more than one angry look from Trace and knew it wouldn’t take much more before he intervened.
“Of course, we’ll call you by the name you were raised with, although it’s not the one you were given at christening,” he couldn’t resist adding. He ignored Trace’s look of warning as he stepped aside to introduce his daughter’s escort.
“This is Hastings Lawrence. He’s our family lawyer, as well as your Aunt Erin’s fiancé. Call him Hasty. He usually is.”
J. J. slapped his leg and laughed aloud. By the expression on everyone’s face, he was obviously riding an old joke to death.
Hastings Lawrence stepped forward, extending his hand in welcome. Honor had an instant impression of someone of whom to be wary. There was a forced joviality about the man that she didn’t like. He slid her hand between his own and held it moments too long for propriety’s sake.
He was several years Erin Malone’s junior, but had done nothing to retain his boyish charms. He was soft, inclined to the pudgy side, and his perfectly groomed hair almost hid a large balding spot on the crown of his head. It was obvious that he didn’t like looking up at Honor as they were introduced.
“Mr. Lawrence.”
She pulled her hand away from his grasp as she turned and spoke to all assembled. “As I told J. J. earlier today, I know this is awkward. But maybe if we all do our best, we’ll survive this visit as new acquaintances, if not friends.”
“Visit?” J. J. bellowed. “You just arrived! I don’t want to hear any hint of leaving tonight.”
Honor ignored his remark, then silently thanked the fates for intervening as Trudy loudly announced that dinner was ready to be served.
Trace quietly took her arm and escorted her into the dining room before anyone else could volunteer. He privately thought that this evening was going to hell in a handbasket. He feared that Honor was feeling much the same way and had no intention of leaving her stuck between the family’s constant bickering.
The meal was interminable. It was obvious to Honor, as the evening progressed, that Erin was spending the entire time trying to get her father to notice her. Honor knew Erin Malone had to be close to forty years old, but she’d obviously spent a good deal of time and money trying to hide the fact.
She was of average height, and the shortest person in the room by several inches. Her long dark hair was combed back away from her nearly round face in a severe, ultraconservative chignon that nestled at the back of her head. Her choice of clothing contrasted painfully with her hairstyle and makeup. It was soft, ruffly, and very feminine. The dark red slash of lipstick on her face made her other features fade in comparison. Honor thought Erin’s eyes were hazel, but it was hard to tell because they were never still. Their gaze darted from Hastings, to her father, and then back again to her fiancé. Honor fancied she could almost see the wheels turning in her busy brain. Erin also totally ignored the fact that Trace existed, and only granted her brother Andrew and Honor an occasional crumb of conversation.
Honor felt Trace’s presence, even without looking for him. It was solid and quiet. Because of him, she was able to field the probing line of questions thrown at her throughout the evening. Somehow, she knew if she fell flat on her face that he’d be there to pick
her up. Even if she was mad at him. Even if she didn’t like him.
Erin was passing on some obviously choice gossip about people Honor didn’t know, and from the sound of the story, wouldn’t care to. Honor turned to Trace as he sat quietly in obvious boredom and whispered very, very softly, “She doesn’t like you a bit, does she?”
Her astute observation startled him. How did she do it? Honor invariably got to the heart of a subject with as little conversational clutter as anyone he knew. He couldn’t resist a chuckle as he cocked one eyebrow at her in a rakish glance.
“You don’t miss a thing, do you, lady?”
Honor grinned in spite of herself, and then realized it had grown exceedingly quiet. She looked up. Everyone was looking back. She shrugged.
“Sorry,” she said, although she didn’t mean it. She watched Erin mask her disapproval at Honor for taking the focus of attention away from herself.
J. J. smiled. He felt satisfied and complete now that his family was gathered about the table. If only his Meggie could be here to see this.
He’d watched for years as the Malone family dwindled in size instead of expanding as most families do. His daughter had foolishly let her reproductive years get away from her just for the sake of a career. There could be no children from Andrew, either. His long-lost granddaughter was going to be the answer to his prayers. She would put new blood into this moldering family. And from the looks of her, it would be a strong, spirited infusion. He also saw that Trace and Honor were back on speaking terms. Good! Good! he thought. He pushed himself away from the table, reached for his cane, and announced, “This is a nice night. Not too cool. There won’t be many more like it this year. Let’s have our brandy out on the terrace to cap off the evening. What do you say?”
It was obvious that no one ever argued with J. J.’s suggestions. They all filed dutifully outside without voicing an opinion.
