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

by Lisa Jackson

  “I’ll stop by tomorrow,” Carlie promised as she dashed through the rain, sidestepping puddles on the way to her Jeep. She rammed the rig into reverse, turned around and tried not to let her father’s depression settle on her shoulders. It was times like these when she wished she had a sister or a brother to share the load. She envied Rachelle and Heather. Even though they’d fought like cats and dogs while growing up, the bond between them was deep and when the family had split up, the two sisters had rallied together.

  Carlie stared through the raindrops gathering on the windshield and flipped on the wipers. Even Ben had Nadine, a sister who was as stubborn as he was bullheaded. Though Kevin was dead and their family had been ripped to shreds, brother and sister were still friends, still staunch allies.

  Nadine’s marriage to Hayden Monroe had been a strain on the relationship, but it seemed as if Ben was now grudgingly accepting his new brother-in-law.

  Carlie blew her bangs out of her eyes as she thought of Ben. Despite everything she’d told herself about protecting her heart, about avoiding him because he was trouble with a capital T, about staying away from a man who was as dangerous as a loaded gun, she still found excuses to be with him.

  He’d called and invited her to a movie. She’d accepted and though the picture had been dull, they’d laughed about it together. They’d met for lunch in Coleville twice in the past week and they’d even bumped into each other at Fitzpatrick Logging where Ben had been contracted to restore some of the company buildings that needed work. Thomas had told her not to take any photographs of the buildings until Ben’s crew had given the offices a “face-lift.”

  They hadn’t so much as kissed since the night she’d found him in her apartment, hadn’t even touched. Nor had he surprised her again in her own home. She’d met a couple members of his crew, subcontractors hired to update the plumbing and wiring, others who were scheduled to paint and refinish the floors, but Ben himself hadn’t been around and she was surprised at the disappointment she’d felt that he hadn’t bothered to stop by.

  “That’s the way you wanted it,” she told herself as she got home and unlocked the door of her apartment. Shrugging out of her coat, she dropped her purse on the floor before sifting through her mail. Bills. Receipts. Advertisements. Investment opportunities. And one handwritten envelope with the return address of Fitzpatrick.

  Her own personal invitation to Toni Fitzpatrick’s engagement party, which was slated for the weekend of February fourteenth, near Valentine’s Day.

  Wonderful. Another way to remember romance and the celebration of love. She tossed the invitation onto the counter and watched the raindrops sheet down the window over the sink. Would Ben be invited? If so, would he bother to attend a formal party? Even though he worked for Fitzpatrick, there was no love lost between Ben Powell and Thomas Fitzpatrick, the man who had a stranglehold on the town of Gold Creek.

  Time would tell.

  * * *

  BEN SLID THE finished blueprints across the kitchen table. “Voilà.”

  While his crews were out hauling debris and preparing the site for Nadine’s cabin, or scraping the peeling paint off the old Hunter house or checking the wiring, insulation and roofing at Fitzpatrick Logging, he’d put in hour after hour at the computer. Finally, after his rough draft was complete, he’d met with an architect-friend again, made sure that the building was as sound as it was eye appealing, then made the final revisions to his plans.

  Nadine, her green eyes twinkling, slowly unrolled the plans. As she looked at the front elevation of her new cabin, she shook her head. “This is a little more elaborate than I had in mind.”

  “Hayden insisted on his input, as well.”

  She sighed, but smiled at the drawings as she flipped through the oversize pages. “Three bedrooms, and a loft, plus a den with sewing alcove. And what’s this—four—no, three bathrooms.”

  “A concession to you.”

  “The original cabin only had one.”

  “Resale value.”

  Her lips compressed. “I’m not reselling. Not ever.”

  Ben laughed. “Why do you want it, Nadine? You’re married now. You live in a damned mansion—” He swung his arm around the kitchen of the Monroe Manor, trying to impress upon her the width and breadth of the house. “And you’re rebuilding right across the lake? I hate to be the one to tell you this, sister, but it doesn’t make a whole lotta sense.”

  She bristled slightly, her pencil wiggling in agitation between her fingers. “That cabin was the only security my boys had, and now, with Sam still out of work...” She frowned at the thought of her ex-husband who was still recovering from the burns that covered his hands and upper arms, burns that were the result of the fire he’d inadvertently started, the fire that had destroyed Nadine’s house. “I want to make sure John and Bobby and whoever—” she said, patting her still-flat tummy, as if she were caressing the baby growing therein “—aren’t robbed of their education.”

  “Hayden would never do that,” Ben said, standing up for the brother-in-law he’d sworn to hate.

  “I don’t think so, either, but I hate to be dependent.”

  “The man’s a multimillionaire, Nadine, and unless you signed some god-awful prenuptial agreement, I don’t see how you’re ever going to end up destitute!”

  “I didn’t sign anything.”

  “There you go.”

  Nadine’s green eyes darkened with memories. “I just don’t want what happened to Kevin and you and me to happen to the boys.”

  “It won’t,” Ben said and though there had been a time when he hadn’t trusted Hayden Monroe, he knew that the man adored Nadine and the boys. He hated to admit it, but Monroe seemed to be one helluva good husband and stepfather. The kids, and Nadine, couldn’t have asked for more. Though it galled Ben to concede that Hayden had proved himself to be a stellar kind of guy, he couldn’t deny what was so damned obvious. “Besides, I heard somewhere that your little jewelry and clothing business is really picking up.”

  “I guess I’d better remind you that it’s not a ‘little business’ or a hobby or something to fill my hours. I’ve got more orders than I can handle and have thought about hiring someone to help.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” With a cat-that-ate-the-canary smile, Nadine studied the blueprints as Ben poured himself a cup of coffee from the pot simmering on the coffeemaker. She made a few notes with a red pencil, chewed on the inside of her lip and finally said, “You know, you really are brilliant. I can’t find much wrong with these.”

  Ben nearly choked on his coffee. Praise from his kid sister was unusual. “Good.”

  “Just put in another dormer in the loft and add a ceiling fan, shore out the back porch two feet and change the bath tub to a shower for the boys.”

  “Anything else?”

  “That’s it for now.”

  “Thank God.”

  She started to roll up the plans, but he said, “Keep ’em. I’ve got copies. I’ll make your changes, file one with the county, make sure the permits are all in order and then we’ll start excavation, so—”

  “I know. If there are any more changes, I should let you know yesterday.”

  “You got it.” Ben swallowed the rest of his coffee and set his empty cup in the sink. He then moved to leave.

  Nadine shooed her black-and-white shepherd off the rug near the front door. “Move, Hershel,” she commanded and the dog cocked his ears without budging. She opened the door and finally Hershel got the message. He bounded outside to join the grizzled yellow Lab who was standing guard near the rhododendrons. “Did you get an invitation to the big party?” Nadine asked.

  “If you’re talking about the Fitzpatrick extravaganza, the answer is yes, but I don’t know that I have the stomach to go.”

  “Come on, Ben. Be a sport. He’s practically family now,” Nadine said with a gleam in her eyes. “Besides, you can take Carlie. I heard you were seeing her again.”

 
“This damned town.”

  “Is it a secret?”

  He studied his sister intently. “I just like to keep things private.”

  She laughed and waved as he climbed into the truck. “Then you shouldn’t have moved back to Gold Creek.”

  “You’re telling me,” Ben grumbled, stepping on the throttle a little harder than he’d planned. Just the mention of Carlie set his teeth on edge. It was true, he’d been seeing her and he’d tried like hell to keep his hands off her. But it had been a losing proposition because it was driving him out of his mind.

  He told himself that he was going straight home, but then he conjured up an excuse to stop by the Hunter house to see if the electrical crew had shown up.

  As he walked up the front steps he caught sight of Mrs. Hunter peeking through her curtains. She met him in the vestibule, her eyes shining.

  “Good news. I won’t have to rent the studio to you.”

  “You must’ve heard I inherited a dog,” he said with a wink.

  “Oh, my, no. I love animals, but you haven’t even finished your work around here and it looks like I might have a buyer for the house,” she said, beaming brightly. She was wearing a pair of her deceased husband’s overalls, a faded red flannel shirt and a smile that wouldn’t quit.

  “Looks like all this remodeling worked.”

  “Well, the deal isn’t signed yet, but when Thomas Fitzpatrick says he’s going to do something, he usually does.”

  “Fitzpatrick?” Ben said, his guts clenching. “He’s the buyer?”

  “If things go as planned.” She picked up a pair of rubber boots she’d left by her door. “Wish me luck.”

  “You got it.” Ben climbed the stairs and told himself it didn’t matter who was buying the place. Mrs. Hunter wanted to sell the old house and Fitzpatrick had the money. They were working on a deal. So what if Fitzpatrick’s name was on everything in town? Who cared if he was going to be Carlie’s new landlord?

  Nonetheless his good mood was destroyed, and when he rapped on Carlie’s door, he fidgeted, anxious to be away from the cloying grasp of Fitzpatrick. His feelings were irrational he realized. Just because Fitzpatrick had been part of the scheme with H. G. Monroe III that had forced the Powell family into near bankruptcy didn’t mean that Ben should hold a grudge. Oh, hell, why not?

  Carlie opened the door and smiled at the sight of him. “I didn’t know you were coming over.”

  “I’m not. I thought we’d go out.”

  “Are you sure? I could cook—”

  “I’ll cook,” he said, anxious to leave. He wondered if Fitzpatrick had a key. Surely not yet. Nonetheless he wanted Carlie out of there.

  She was laughing, staring at him as if he’d said he was going to fly to Jupiter. “Ben Powell, chef extraordinaire?” she teased.

  “You’ll be surprised.”

  “It won’t be any of that army stuff, will it? You know...what do they call it...something on shingles?” Her blue-green eyes twinkled and he was reminded of sunlight refracting on a tropical sea.

  He laughed despite himself. “Believe me, you’ll love it.”

  “Just let me get my jacket.”

  He followed her into the apartment and wondered why it seemed like home. He looked around at the smattering of antiques, modern pieces of art and the cork bulletin board with notes pinned haphazardly on it. And everywhere, on the walls, propped against the floor, stacked on an old bookcase, were her photographs. All different. They hadn’t been here before. “What are these?”

  “My work. I had them stored at the studio, but I decided I needed a few pieces around here. You know, to show off a little.”

  As she walked to the closet near the daybed, he looked through a stack of black-and-white pictures of Native Americans in Alaska. A kayak with a single oarsman on a vast sea, whales breaching...

  “Ready?” she asked.

  “Not quite.” He was fascinated with the pictures. “I don’t know much about photography, but I like these.”

  “Do you?”

  He saw the hint of her smile and his gut tightened. “Maybe we should go—”

  The phone jangled and Carlie ignored it. “The machine’ll pick up,” she explained as she slid her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. After a few rings and a slight pause, a woman’s shrill voice rang from the speaker.

  “Carlie? Are you there? It’s Constance. Come on, I know you’re probably working in that damned darkroom or something.... Look, I know you’re not all that interested in trying to reestablish yourself, but Cosmos Jeans is doing a retrospective, wants all the women who have posed for their ‘out of this world’ commercials. They’re willing to pay and...if you want to launch that career again, this would be the perfect time. Well, think about it. You know my number. Can’t wait to hear from you.”

  There was a loud click and Ben watched Carlie’s face as it lost all of its animation. “Let’s go before she calls back.” Grabbing her purse, she opened the door.

  “Your agent?” he asked.

  “Owner of the agency I worked for.” She locked the door behind them and hurried down the stairs.

  “In New York?”

  “She’s there, but there are offices in L.A. and London and Paris.”

  “Big time,” he said.

  “I’m not going.”

  “Sounds like quite an opportunity.” He couldn’t hide a trace of mockery in his voice.

  “It is. I just don’t want it.”

  “You did once.”

  “A long time ago.” She shoved open the door and stepped outside. The night was clear and cool and a soft breeze tugged at Carlie’s hair. She didn’t want to think about Constance, or New York, or the fact that she could really use the extra money modeling could provide. She was getting older; not too many more opportunities would come knocking on her door. And yet...she’d come back home because she was through with the fast lane.

  Wasn’t she?

  As Ben started the truck, she stared out the window. He was suddenly silent, wrapped in his own thoughts as he drove into the heart of town. She didn’t know what to expect from this night, but she didn’t really care. She slid a glance at him from the corner of her eye. Despite the call from Constance, being with Ben gave the evening a tingle of excitement and she let herself think about falling in love with him again.

  Don’t! She couldn’t let herself start thinking about anything so foolish as falling in love. Especially not with Ben.

  * * *

  “THIS IS CHEATING,” she said as she struggled with her chopsticks. They sat at a small table in the kitchen of his house. White cartons and sacks from a local Chinese restaurant littered the tabletop.

  “Why?”

  “I definitely heard you say ‘I’ll cook,’ not ‘I’ll order out.’ Big difference, Powell.” She wagged a chopstick at his nose.

  “Next time,” he promised.

  “I’ll hold you to it.” She started to shove her plate aside but his black shepherd, seated next to her, barked and wagged his tail, hoping for a tidbit. “He likes chop suey?” she asked.

  “He likes anything but me.”

  The dog, as if on cue, placed his head in her lap. She ruffled him behind the ears and he yawned, displaying pink gums and sharp white teeth. “I think he knows a sucker when he sees one,” she said, giving the beast a piece of ginger chicken.

  Ben grinned. It was funny how comfortable he felt with Carlie in his home, almost as if she belonged. He’d expected her to wrinkle her nose in distaste at the furnishings in his austere house: a single leather couch that he’d bought secondhand, desk, table and chairs from garage sales. No warm, soft rug, no throw pillows, not an afghan in sight and not one picture on the walls.

  But she didn’t seem to mind and he was surprised. Although she’d grown up with humble roots, she’d always dreamed of escaping Gold Creek to the fame and glitter of Manhattan. She’d planned to model, had even considered acting and felt that she might end up in L.A., so it amused
him to see her sit, jean-clad legs tucked beneath her on his couch. She swirled a glass of wine as he built a fire and he imagined how easily she could fit into his life, into his routine.

  “So why’d you quit the army?” she asked, when he settled back on his heels and watched the mossy logs ignite. The fire crackled and spit.

  “It was time.”

  “Because you were wounded.”

  He sighed and rubbed the wood dust from his palms. “I joined to get out of town, just like you took off for New York. Kevin was dead, my family was splitting up—I just needed time away. I wanted order and discipline and...adventure, I guess.” His eyes darkened. “I liked it at first. I felt duty-bound and patriotic and felt that I was important, but... Oh, hell, I don’t know, I just got older. I saw some of my friends get killed and it all seemed so useless. When I was wounded I was offered a discharge. I took it. Seemed like it was time for something else.” He snorted. “Time to grow up, I suppose.”

  “And that something else was Gold Creek?”

  “It’s home, Carlie.” He stood and reached for his beer on the mantel. “And you can’t run away forever.”

  “Are you talking about yourself or giving me advice?”

  “A little of both, I suppose.” He drained the beer and walked over to her. She wasn’t a tiny person, but she was thin, and curled up on the couch, her eyes wide and luminous, her hair gleaming black, he found her irresistible. He’d kept his hands off her for a couple of weeks, ever since their passion had exploded in her apartment, but now seeing her beautiful face tipped up to his, her lips parted in an inviting smile, he couldn’t stop himself.

  In two swift strides he closed the distance between them and took her into his arms. His mouth covered hers and he tasted the wine on her lips, heard the weak little moan from the back of her throat. Her skin smelled of lavender and felt like warm silk against his fingertips. Heat pulsed through his body and his mind shut off any protests. He didn’t care about the past, didn’t want to remember that he’d told himself for years he couldn’t trust her, wouldn’t think of the ramifications of making love to her. All he knew was the want that started hot and hard in his loins and swept upward through his body.