Confessions: He's the Rich BoyHe's My Soldier Boy

by Lisa Jackson

  His sullen face broke into a smile. “Would you?”

  “You bet. Can I bring my dog?”

  “You’ve got a dog?” Randy’s eyes widened and all evidence of his pained expression disappeared. “What kind?”

  “A mean one.”

  “Really.”

  “I call him Attila.”

  Tracy’s lips tightened.

  “He just showed up at the office with his belly sliced open.”

  Randy’s eyes were wide. “Wow!”

  “He’s a German shepherd—a black long-haired one.”

  “Cool!” Randy said, grinning ear to ear.

  “You’re allergic to dogs, Randy,” his mother reminded him gently as she nudged him back down the hallway. “And so am I—at least I’m allergic to big dogs that shed.” She walked with Ben to the front porch and Ben felt as if she expected something from him, something he couldn’t give her.

  “Thanks for dinner. It was great.”

  “We could do it again,” she suggested, her lips curved into a satisfied smile.

  “I’ll let you know.” He felt a jab of guilt when he recognized the hope in her eyes.

  “Good night, Ben,” she said as he started across the parking lot. “Call me.”

  He didn’t bother to turn around and lie to her. He wasn’t about to start a romance with Tracy and he felt that whether she realized it or not, Tracy hoped to use Ben as a replacement for his dead brother.

  “What a mess,” he growled as he climbed into his truck and let out the clutch. He thought of Carlie again. Beautiful Carlie. Seductive Carlie. Lying Carlie.

  The old Dodge leapt forward and he flicked on the windshield wipers. Women, he thought unkindly. Why were they so much damned trouble?

  Chapter Eight

  “WHEN YOU LEFT town, you thought Carlie was pregnant—with Kevin’s baby?” Nadine was clearly astonished. Hauling a huge suitcase out of her new Mercedes, a wedding gift from her husband, she shook her head, then slammed the door shut with her hip.

  “That’s what the letters said.”

  “No way.” Shaking her head in disgust, she unlocked the front door. “Sometimes, Ben, I don’t understand you. Come in. I think we need to talk. But first things first. Bring in those other bags, will ya?” She tossed him her keys and he found two suitcases in the backseat. “Hayden will park it in the garage later—there’s some stuff he’s got to move around in there—things left over from the wedding.”

  Ben grabbed the other two bags, locked the sleek car and walked back into the house. The Christmas tree was still standing in the corner but some of the lights had been stripped from the stairs and all the flowers had begun to wilt.

  Nadine sighed loudly as she walked to the den, dropped her large case and kicked off her shoes. “Oooh, that’s better. I’ve been dragging my latest inventory all over the place. Heather Brooks hooked me up with some art dealers who are expanding into jewelry and jackets, you know...‘wearable art.’ Now I’m afraid I’m going to end up with more orders than I can fill.” She led him into the kitchen where she opened the refrigerator door and peered at the contents. “How about some sparkling apple juice?”

  “I don’t think so,” he said with more than a trace of sarcasm.

  “Might brighten your mood.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “A cola?” She didn’t bother waiting for an answer, just grabbed two cans and handed him one. As she sat in one of the kitchen chairs and popped the lid, she rested her heel on one of the empty chairs and said, “Now let’s start over. You thought Carlie was pregnant—by Kevin, right?”

  Was she deaf? “We already discussed this.”

  “But why, Ben?”

  “Because of the letters.”

  “The letters?” she repeated, then caught on. “Oh, we’re talking about the letters you found in Kevin’s bedroom, right?”

  “Yep.” He didn’t like talking about the subject, but knew there was no other way to get to the truth. Ben had been seated in his pickup, waiting for Nadine, brooding about Carlie for over an hour, wondering what was truth and what was fiction.

  “Are you serious?” She actually had the gall to laugh.

  “This isn’t a joke.”

  “Yes, it is!” Rolling her eyes, she took a long swallow of her drink. “You really thought—”

  “Yes, I did. Now what’s so damned funny?”

  “It’s pathetic really.” Her green eyes turned sober. “I think you read too much between the lines.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, surprised at the hope leaping in his heart.

  She massaged her foot as she shook her head. “I read those letters and yes, Kevin was in love with Carlie—that much was obvious. He was really hurt that she was seeing you and he felt betrayed by both of you.”

  The old pain knotted Ben’s stomach, but he’d expected as much. Nadine never pulled any punches. You asked her a question, she gave you a straight answer.

  She was still talking. “...but the pregnancy he wrote about had to have been Tracy’s.” Nadine reached across the table and touched the back of Ben’s hand. “Don’t you remember? Tracy was pregnant. Not Carlie. And the abortion you read about was just hopeful thinking on Kevin’s part,” she said with a twist of the lips. “He didn’t want the baby. We’re talking about Randy, you know. It took a lot of guts for Tracy to have that baby and raise him on her own. Kevin was dead and the tongues in this town were wagging like crazy. But she did and Randy’s a super kid. In fact,” she said wryly, “with his grades and all, he certainly shows mine up, not that I’d change anything about John and Bobby. My boys are just more...trouble.”

  “Like their mother,” Ben said, though he didn’t feel much like joking. Had he been so blind? For all these years. “Those letters were addressed to Carlie.”

  “But never mailed. They were just a way for Kevin to let off steam, or maybe someday he would have had the nerve to send them to her, I don’t know, but you turned everything around in your head.” She took a long swallow of her soda and settled back in her chair.

  Was that possible? Had he been so much a fool? So quick to judge? Blaming Carlie for something that wasn’t her fault? He lapsed into dark silence and his thoughts were like demons in his head, poking and prodding with painful memories.

  “Look, it was a rough time for all of us,” she said, “but if you’ve been hating Carlie because of those letters, you’d better let it go. It’s just not fair.”

  “That’s what she said,” he admitted, remembering her fury.

  “Oh.” Nadine’s breath whistled through her teeth. “You didn’t go charging over there half-cocked and accuse her of all sorts of vile deeds, did you?” When he didn’t answer she rolled her eyes again. “Oh, Ben, why? I wanted to blame her, too. She was an easy target, but the fact of the matter is, Kevin took his own life. It’s a damned shame. God, I still miss him. But that’s what happened.”

  At that moment Hayden and the boys arrived home. The back door banged open and two dogs, muddy feet and all, bounded into the kitchen in a swirl of rain-dampened air.

  “Hershel—Leo—out!” Nadine commanded, but the animals paid no heed. They raced through the kitchen and down the hallway leading to the foyer. “That’s what I like about this place, the way I have absolute control,” she muttered under her breath.

  John and Bobby barreled in through the back door. They were hurling insults at each other at the top of their lungs.

  “Nerd!”

  “Baby!”

  “At least I didn’t kiss Katie Osgood!” Bobby said, tossing Nadine a superior glance.

  “You kissed—”

  “Aw, Mom, she kissed me!” John said, his face mottling red.

  “So much for peace and quiet,” Nadine said, reaching for Bobby as he tried to race out of the room. She captured him and planted a kiss on his cheek. He giggled loudly. “That’s what you get, mister, for not even saying ‘hi’ to your mom.”

  He smiled and
nuzzled her cheek. “Hi.”

  “And you—” She turned to John but he was backpedaling out of the room.

  “I’m too old for that sissy stuff,” he said, disappearing into the hall.

  “Yeah, that’s because you got enough kissing for the day,” Bobby crowed.

  “Not me. I haven’t had nearly enough sissy stuff!” Hayden leaned over and kissed his wife’s crown. “The older I get the more of the ‘sissy stuff’ I want.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “And you’re irresistible.” He kissed her again, then glanced up at Ben. “Hi—I suppose you came with the blueprints,” he said, obviously hopeful to see how the plans for Nadine’s cabin were progressing.

  “Nope, he just brought the blues,” Nadine quipped. “But I think I can twist his arm and convince him to stay for dinner.”

  “With your wild bunch? No way.”

  “Come on—”

  “Not tonight,” Ben said, draining his can and shoving his chair away from the table.

  “Got a lot to think about?” she asked, shooting him a knowing look.

  “Too much,” he admitted as he walked out the back door and cut through the breezeway to his pickup. He climbed in and fired up the old truck.

  Somehow he had to figure out the truth. Had he been so naive, so insensitive that he hadn’t realized that he was making love to a virgin? Had he just assumed that she’d been experienced and then ignored the signs of her own naiveté?

  He felt like a fool. He remembered their night of lovemaking in the rain. He still felt a wonder at the thrill of it.

  Never had he felt so alive and never, with the women he’d been with since that fateful night, had he ever felt so completely undone. The joining of his body and Carlie’s had been unique and earth-shattering and passionate. Even Kevin’s death hadn’t turned that spectacular memory bitter.

  He’d blamed Kevin’s death for his inability to feel the same exhilaration with a woman, but now he knew differently. The reason sex had never been the same was that he’d never again allowed himself to become so emotionally attached to his partner.

  Fool! he told himself as he drove home through the misting rain.

  He hadn’t even realized that she’d been a virgin. He’d been so caught up in his own pleasure that he hadn’t noticed any sign of her discomfort, or any breakage of tissue or any pain.

  “Damn it all.” He felt like a complete idiot. An idiot who had falsely blamed a woman for too many years. “Hell, Powell, who did you think you were?”

  Never had he considered Carlie’s feelings. After Kevin’s death, he’d turned her phone calls and letters callously away, never once explaining, refusing to listen to her side of the story. He’d just blamed her for Kevin’s death and condemned her to his family and friends. And when he’d joined the army, he’d run as fast and as far away from her as possible.

  The truck bounced along the rutted drive to his little rental house, a house he’d hoped to share with a woman someday.

  He wondered if Carlie would ever be that woman and snorted at the thought. She’d be out of her mind to trust him again.

  * * *

  THOMAS FITZPATRICK’S OFFICE was quietly understated. Located on the third floor of one of the oldest buildings in town, the original Gold Creek Hotel, the offices of Fitzpatrick, Incorporated were plush without being ostentatious.

  Carlie was seated in a chair near the window and Thomas was speaking, his even voice well modulated from years of public oration.

  “...So I don’t want any studio shots or pictures that are obviously posed. I want to show the men at work, doing their jobs, the American worker at his best.” Thomas Fitzpatrick leaned back in his leather chair, seemingly pleased with his eloquence. His hands were tented under his chin and, from the far side of his desk, he watched Carlie over his fingertips. His gaze was speculative and thoughtful and it bothered Carlie more than it should.

  She didn’t know why she felt like a bird with a broken wing under the fixed stare of the neighborhood tomcat. She shook off the feeling. He was a man, a wealthy man, but he had no power over her.

  Carlie hoped her smile didn’t look as brittle as it felt. “No mugging for the camera?”

  “Absolutely,” Thomas said, a smile curving beneath his clipped mustache. “Now, mind you, I don’t want anything that looks the least bit...dangerous...or uncomfortable for the men. I want to show the logging company as an exciting but safe workplace, where we, at Fitzpatrick, Incorporated are concerned with the environment and working conditions as well as the bottom line.” He raised his eyebrows as if expecting her to comment.

  “Is that possible?”

  His lips twitched. “I think you can make it possible, Miss Surrett.”

  She wanted to tell him that she was a photographer, not a magician, but she decided discretion was the better part of valor in this case. “I’ll give it a shot,” she agreed, feeling like a traitor.

  “Good. Now tell me, how is your father?” He had the decency to look genuinely concerned.

  “Better. He should be going home in a couple of days.”

  Thomas sighed heavily. “When he’s up to it, have him call me. I’ve already talked to the corporate attorneys and accountants about the possibility of his early retirement, but I wanted to speak to Weldon again first.”

  “That’s a good idea,” she said stiffly.

  “Look, he knows that there are desk jobs available, but—”

  “He doesn’t want your charity, Mr. Fitzpatrick. Nor your pity.” Deciding she shouldn’t discuss her father’s health with the man who was stripping away all of Weldon’s dreams, she slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder and stood. “I can start working at the logging company offices at the beginning of next week.”

  “Perfect. Just check in with Marge, the secretary over there, and she’ll let Brian know what’s going on.”

  She started to turn to leave, but his voice stopped her. “There are a couple of other things.”

  She tensed, but willed her body to relax as she turned to face him again.

  “My daughter, Toni—you know her, I believe.”

  “We’ve met.”

  Thomas’s face clouded over. “She may be getting married soon—within the next couple of months—and we might need a photographer for the wedding. I wondered if you’d be interested.”

  She wanted to tell him no, that she was already regretting working for him, that she didn’t want anything more to do with the Fitzpatricks and their money, but she couldn’t. She was too practical and until her father was home, the hospital and doctor bills paid, and his future a little more certain, Carlie couldn’t afford to turn down any offers. “I’d be very interested,” she said. “Have Toni give me a call.”

  “I will. Now the other.” He set his feet on the floor and placed his elbows on the desktop. “It’s more personal. I was hoping you could find time in your busy schedule for dinner. With me.”

  Uncertain she’d heard correctly, she hesitated for just a heartbeat. “I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”

  His grin was self-deprecating. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Ms. Surrett. This would be strictly business. I am, after all, still married.” A dark shadow passed behind his eyes for just a second, then disappeared.

  “As long as we understand each other.”

  “Absolutely. How about a week from Friday? Seven?”

  Carlie felt uncomfortable. She was used to handling passes from men of all ages; she’d had more than her share of offers when she was modeling, but she couldn’t afford to offend Fitzpatrick. “Let me check my calendar.”

  “Fine. I’ll give you a call,” he said, as she made her way out of his office and into his secretary’s, Melanie Patton’s, sanctuary. Melanie hardly glanced up as Carlie breezed by and swept through another set of doors to the reception area where a young girl was talking on the phone. The elevator took her down three floors to the foyer of the elegant old hotel.

>   Thomas Fitzpatrick had done the town one good turn, she decided. Rather than call in the wrecking ball, he’d spent the money necessary to restore one of the oldest buildings in Gold Creek and returned the gold-brick building to its original charm. Thick Oriental carpets covered glossy floors and, three stories over the lobby, a skylight of stained glass allowed sunlight to pool in muted shades upon the walls and floor.

  However there wasn’t enough charm in the building to alleviate her distaste at dealing with the man. He was too smooth, almost oily, and she had the gut feeling that anything he did was with one sole intention: the promotion and profit of Thomas Fitzpatrick.

  She had lunch with her mother at the drugstore, visited her father for the remainder of her lunch hour, then spent the rest of the day at the shop. By the time she was finished with a studio sitting with four-year-old triplets, it was nearly seven and she was exhausted.

  The last person she wanted to deal with was Ben Powell, but as she pulled into the parking lot, she recognized his truck parked in between the twin spruce trees. “Great,” she muttered, remembering the disaster of the night before. She was tired and cranky and didn’t want to face him.

  Hopefully, he was working in another apartment.

  No such luck.

  When she shoved the door to her unit open she found him, sprawled across her old sofa, his shoes kicked off, his head propped against the overstuffed arm. As if he belonged. As if she’d invited him. As if she wanted him.

  “I’d about given up on you,” he drawled.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  His smile was slow and sexy. “Waiting for you.”

  “So you could come back and insult me again?” she asked, all the old anger chasing through her blood. “No way. I’m tired and I don’t think I should have to make a nightly ritual of throwing you out of my apartment. So why don’t you take the hint and I won’t have to get rude?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “Talk? I don’t think so. We said plenty last night. More than we should have.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong.” He swung his feet to the floor and stood, studying his fingernails for a second. “We’ve got a lot more to say to each other.”