by Sharon Sala
Erin glared as she watched Hastings actually scrape his dessert plate for the last crumbs of his cherry cheesecake. She told herself that her imagination was just playing tricks. There was no way Honor could know what she had planned. It wasn’t much, but Hastings had agreed it was a good idea. And it was all she could think of on short notice. For her piece of mind, it had better work and it had better be good. She was intent on making Honor’s stay as short and uncomfortable as possible. She wanted her world back the way it had been before they knew Johnny Malone’s daughter still existed.
Hastings Lawrence had agreed with alacrity to helping Erin with her little scheme. In fact it had been his sly innuendoes that had given Erin the idea. Anything that removed Honor O’Brien from the picture could only help him. If he couldn’t think of something fast, he’d be unable to stall the audit. It was only a matter of time before J. J. asked him about its progress.
Hastings didn’t have much time to cover the tracks he’d been carelessly leaving for years. Ideally, just calling off the audit would solve everything. But if the possibility existed of causing a permanent rift between J. J. Malone and his newfound granddaughter, he was willing to pursue it. He needed time to hide the tracks of his greed.
Erin signed for the check and without further delay, led the way from the restaurant. They had no sooner exited when a crowd of people started shouting the Malone name. They pressed forward, some armed with flash cameras, some with video equipment, all intent on the same thing: a scoop on the resurrection of Mary Margaret Malone.
Honor stood numbed with shock as they trapped her against the outside wall of the restaurant. She couldn’t move and she wanted to scream. This was no more than she deserved for trusting someone her instincts told her was false.
Honor turned her head slightly, searching the crowd for her aunt. When their eyes met, Honor knew by the expression of glee on Erin’s face that she’d planned this. And by the look on Hastings’s face, he’d helped, too.
Honor smiled a slow, secretive smile that wiped the pleased expression from Erin’s face. She’d expected Honor to panic and run. But she’d underestimated her niece. Honor might be a Malone by birth, but she’d been bred a Texan. And they didn’t run from trouble.
Honor turned back to the shouting crowd of newsmen and photographers. “Excuse me,” she said calmly, and began forcing her way through the crowd toward the curb, ignoring the shouted questions and microphones shoved in her face.
Erin panicked, unable to hide her surprise as her niece began to leave. She followed suit, desperately pushing her small self through the tight fit of bodies who kept angling for a picture or a statement. Honor reached the curb, hailed a passing cab, and then stood in wait until Erin and Hastings had worked their way to the street.
Believing that Honor was holding the cab, Erin started off the curb when Honor raised her hand and spoke to the crowd. They quickly hushed, waiting for the words from the long-lost heir that would give them their scoop.
“Gentlemen…and ladies.” Honor lingered on her choice of words, since the behavior of the crowd suggested they were obviously anything but. “If you’re so desperate for a story, I suggest you interview my dear aunt and her fiancé. He’s also the family lawyer. I’m sure they have plenty to say with regard to my appearance.”
Erin’s mouth went slack as a red flush of anger spread from the neck of her dress upward into her plastered hairline. Her niece leaned forward and whispered in her ear.
“It’s all yours, sweetie,” Honor drawled. “And you’d do well to remember the Alamo. Texans don’t run, they fight.” She slid into the cab with one smooth movement and closed the door in their faces.
The cabdriver moved into the stream of traffic as the crowd of people swelled around Erin Malone and her fiancé. One thing Erin did note in her fury before she was engulfed by the clamoring crowd: Honor O’Brien had never looked back.
* * *
“Do you have all the papers?” J. J. asked, as he continued to dig through the stack on his desk.
“Yes,” Trace answered, and snapped the lock shut on his briefcase.
He had less than two hours to go home, pack a few clothes, and make his flight to Washington, D.C. But he needed to hear Honor’s voice before he left, assure himself that she wasn’t still angry. He still had not been able to get a phone call through to her and couldn’t stop the sensation of dread that overwhelmed him when he thought about leaving Colorado without making peace with her.
He could barely face the thought. But if she couldn’t see past her anger to the relationship they’d begun to build before she’d discovered her mother’s secret, then maybe, as much as Trace hated to admit it, she’d never be able to forgive him. And if she couldn’t forgive him, there was nothing on which to build a relationship. Yet Trace refused to consider that possibility. In this short space of time, Honor had become more important to him than any woman he’d ever known.
From the first time they’d met when she’d collapsed in his arms in tears until yesterday when she’d turned away and stormed out of his office without a word, he’d been in a fog. And if he didn’t pull himself together, Malone Industries was going to lose a very important contract.
That was the reason for the hasty trip to Washington, D.C. If he didn’t go soothe a few feathers, Malone Industries was going to lose a tremendous amount of revenue. The loss would be staggering. Trace had no choice but to leave.
His exit from the office was abruptly halted at J. J.’s shout of anger. “What’s the…” he began, but didn’t have to finish his question. He could see for himself. The television was on, and Honor’s distress as she faced the crowd of reporters filled the entire screen. Someone had captured her on film from the moment she’d exited the restaurant until she’d disappeared in the cab. The camera caught the look that passed between the two women as Honor leaned over and whispered in Erin’s ear. There was no audio with the film, but it was unnecessary. The expressions were there on their faces for the world to see.
The string of oaths that erupted from J. J.’s lips were echoed in Trace’s heart. They both knew who was responsible.
“Oh, my God!” Trace muttered. This would just about be the last straw for Honor. He cursed the day he’d ever persuaded her to come back to Colorado with him.
“Irene!” J. J. yelled into the intercom. “Get Erin and Hastings in here. I don’t want excuses. I want warm bodies—in my office now!”
“Yes, sir!” she replied, and hastened to do his bidding. Whatever those two had done now, she wouldn’t want to be in their places for anything.
“You’ll miss your flight,” J. J. growled, as he paced behind his desk.
“I’ll get another,” Trace said quietly. “I’ll make the meetings tomorrow. But I’m not leaving…not just yet.”
J. J. turned, his sharp eyes missing nothing of the blank, expressionless look on Trace’s face. He felt a twinge of remorse for Erin and then stifled at the thought. Daughter or not, he knew just how Trace felt and nodded his approval for what he knew would probably amount to a verbal holocaust. He’d seen Trace Logan in action before, and he was deadly.
Both culprits of the media leak worked in the Malone Building but on different floors; Erin on the second floor in Marketing, and Hastings on the ninth floor in Legal. But they’d obviously conferred before walking into J. J.’s office because they arrived together.
Erin entered wearing a belligerent expression; Hastings more prudent with an innocent, expectant air. Both came to an abrupt halt as Trace stepped in front of them. The low, ominous tone of his voice did nothing to ease their nervousness.
“I caught your little act on television today,” he growled, and then forestalled Erin’s interruption with a single look.
Erin shivered in spite of herself at the cold, flat expression of distaste in Trace’s eyes. Wisely she refrained from defending herself and settled for glaring back at him instead.
Trace turned his attention to Hastings.
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The lawyer’s nervous behavior was evident as he ran his finger inside the collar of his shirt and looked around for someone to step in and stop this conversation from happening. No one moved. The balding spot on the top of his head turned bloodred and he began to sweat.
“Listen, you sonofabitch,” Trace said. “I’m on my way to D.C., and while I’m gone you better pray that nothing like what just happened to Honor today ever happens again. You better hope to God that she doesn’t so much as get a hangnail. Because if she does, I’m holding you responsible.” He touched the lawyer’s shirt front with his forefinger, jabbing the button just over Hasting’s heart with repetitive regularity. “Do you hear me? You don’t want to ignore what I’ve said. You don’t want to make me mad.” His words got quieter and quieter, until his last sentence was barely above a whisper. Hastings looked like he was going to be sick.
“How dare you!” Erin gasped, and looked to her father, trying to judge his reaction to Trace’s threat. Her heart sank as she saw him frown. He wasn’t looking at Trace, he was looking at her.
“Shut up,” Trace ordered, barely sparing Erin a glance.
Erin shook with rage. She wasn’t used to being thwarted.
“You’ve no right speaking to me like that,” Erin cried, as indignation and fury warred with each other inside her trembling body.
“You’re right,” Trace said quietly, “I don’t have the right. I’ll leave that to your father.” He gave Hastings a last, long look of warning, ignored Erin’s existence, gathered his belongings, and left.
“Close the door,” J. J. ordered.
Hastings hurried to comply.
* * *
Honor arrived at home only to find more journalists camped at the edge of the Malone estate, hoping for a glimpse of J. J. Malone’s granddaughter. Ignoring the requests for an interview and the shouted questions, Honor paid the cabdriver and quickly hurried inside the house. This was definitely something for which she’d been unprepared. But she knew that if she’d just thought this whole trip through, she should have expected it.
The atmosphere inside the mansion was not much better, but for different reasons. Honor found Trudy in the library, distraught from the news that her only sister, who lived in a retirement village in Denver, had been in an accident. She was near tears, torn with the need to be near her sister, yet aware of the impending mess that the Malones were going to have to face in the coming days. She’d also seen the film clip and was well aware of the reason for the news-people outside the home. She didn’t know what to do but burst into tears. So she did.
Honor took the decision out of Trudy’s hands by making a phone call. Within the hour she had booked Trudy on a flight to Denver, helped her pack, and called a cab to take her to the airport.
“I don’t know what Mr. Malone will say,” Trudy sniffed, as she clutched her bag and watched out the window for the cab’s arrival.
“I do,” Honor replied. “He’ll say, Have a safe trip and call when you get there. And that’s what I expect you to do. Please,” Honor urged. “Don’t worry about this mess here. It was to be expected. And don’t worry about J. J. I can cook. Lord knows I’ve had enough practice at that. As for the rest of this…” She shrugged. “It’ll soon blow over. I’m just a seven-day wonder that will soon be forgotten.”
“Well,” Trudy muttered, embarrassed that she’d allowed herself to come undone in front of Honor. “I won’t soon forget you, dear,” she said with vehemence. “I don’t know what I’d have done without you. I couldn’t seem to make a decision.”
“I understand,” Honor said, giving Trudy a gentle hug. “Tragedy does that to a person. Believe me, I know.”
Trudy looked startled, then nodded and blew her nose loudly before proclaiming, “Here comes my cab. I’ll call.”
Honor watched as the cabdriver deftly maneuvered through the people and vehicles congregated at the boundary of the Malone estate. Then it disappeared.
She stared at the mass of news vans, photographers, and passersby and promptly burst into tears. My God, Momma! Look what you have done to me!
* * *
Trace took the curve into the Malone estate in dangerous fashion. He didn’t even slow down for the photographers standing in the street, ogling through cameras outfitted with telescopic lenses for a one of a kind shot of the resurrected heiress. He ignored their startled expressions and angry words as he drove rapidly to the house.
The front door was locked, and no amount of ringing on the doorbell got him an answer. He headed for the service entrance. It was unlocked, but Trudy was nowhere in sight. What in the world had happened to this family?
“Honor!” His voice echoed frantically throughout the entire downstairs as he ran from room to room. But she was nowhere to be seen. Had she and Trudy simply vanished? There was nowhere left to look but her bedroom. If she wasn’t there, he was calling J. J. and then he was calling the police. If he’d obeyed his first instincts when he’d seen the tape on the television, he’d have done it then. She needed protection. He headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time.
* * *
Honor rolled over on her back, swiping quickly at the fresh set of tears that had just begun to fall. She staggered from her bed as she heard her name being called. The tone of voice was frantic, but it was too faint for her to tell who was searching for her. She opened the door to her room just as Trace bounded to the top of the stairs.
Thank God! he thought, and then his stomach took a dive toward his heels. She’s been crying.
“Trace?” Honor’s shaky voice was his undoing.
“Honey? Are you all right?” he asked.
She took a deep breath as another stream of tears slid from her eyes. “No.”
The quiet, broken word was all it took. She was in his arms. “Where’s Trudy, sweetheart?”
“Gone. Her sister had an accident.”
Trace’s heart twisted at the forlorn look in her stormy gray eyes. That beautiful, expressive mouth, so often laughing, was knotted in an expression of defeat. He couldn’t bear it. He lifted her into his arms, carried her to her room, and kicked the door shut behind him.
“I’ll take you home.”
The statement was what she’d been waiting to hear. It was the ultimate gift of his feelings. He wanted her happiness first, before his job, before his boss’s desires. He would take her home!
And then his arms tightened around her shoulders as he carried her to the bed and turned and sat, holding her lightly across his lap, gentling her with softly whispered word and touch. A slow warming swept over her. Honor knew that no matter where she went or how long it took her to get there that she’d never be home unless she was in Trace Logan’s arms.
“Oh, Trace,” she whispered, and pressed her mouth against the wild, angry pulse in his neck. “As long as I’m with you, I’m already home.”
He was stunned. Her words had come at a time when he’d feared that she would never speak to him again. He was overwhelmed. He was in love.
“My God!” His deep, harsh groan swept against her cheek as he fell backward upon her bed, taking her with him.
Honor stared down at his eyes, melting with an emotion that sent shivers of anticipation sweeping through her system. Suddenly she was aware of being aligned face to face, breast to chest, stomach to…
Trace was hard. Instantly…achingly. His hands slid up across her shoulders and cupped her face. They stared for one long single moment. Not speaking. Barely breathing.
“You know what’s about to happen?”
His voice was harsh, his touch gentle.
Honor sighed, laid her head upon his shoulder, and closed her eyes. “It’s been a long time coming, Trace. And I think I’m tired of waiting.”
“No more,” he whispered. “No more waiting.”
Clothing slid away. Piece by piece. First hers, then his. Sometimes gently, sometimes too slow. But when Trace slipped the last piece of lingerie from her hips and leaned back
on one elbow to look at what he’d uncovered, he was overwhelmed.
She was so much more than what he’d imagined, and he’d imagined perfection. Every curve of her body accentuated and highlighted the next. And when his eyes slid down past her stomach to the temptation awaiting him, he groaned.
Honor feasted her eyes on his broad, muscular shoulders, the hard, flat belly, and the symbol of his need for her. He was so much man and she was so ready to belong.
“Trace, I’m afraid.”
“No,” he muttered, and buried his face in the valley of her breasts. “Please don’t be afraid of me. I’d die before I’d let anything hurt you.”
“No, darling,” she whispered, as her hands slid across his back and down his hips. “I’m not afraid of you. I’m afraid that when this happens, I’ll never be able to let you go.”
“Let me go? You don’t have an option, sweet lady. You couldn’t lose me if you tried. You’re the one who better be sure, because I keep what I take.”
Honor gasped, as he slid over her and then between her legs. His weight marked his possession as he pressed her into the mattress at her back. His hands swept across her body as he captured her lips with a groan. Suddenly the need for talking had ended and the time for loving had begun. She was caught up in a world where only she and a man’s hands, a man’s mouth, and a man’s body existed. And then that world exploded with one uplifting motion that sent the two separate lovers into one downward spiral of completion.
* * *
Trace groaned. He heard a clock down the hall chime the hour and knew that he would have to leave. He could hardly bear the thought. Honor had given herself so completely that he knew he’d never be the same. She was in his blood.
“Honey?” His soft whisper against her ear turned her toward him with a quiet sigh.
“I love you, Dick Tracey.”
