The declaration hung heavily in the air.
He hadn't meant to reveal so much, but her persistence had pushed him over some edge, and he felt as if he were hanging on to his discretion by the slimmest of threads.
Hattie promptly yanked on that thread. "You love her, don't you?"
He shut his eyes, struggling. "Yes," he whispered.
Surprisingly she had the sensitivity to fall silent as he worked to unclench the muscles in his throat. The silence didn't last nearly long enough. "Did you tell her?"
"No."
"Why not? Call her. Tell her."
His annoyance flared, coming to his rescue. "What good do you think it would do to call her?" he demanded harshly. "It wouldn't matter what I'd say. She'd only think I was after something—more photos, or her money."
"Neither sounds too bad to me. A billion dollars is nothing to sneeze at, T.K."
"A billion dollars," he repeated with loathing. "Know what I think of those billion dollars? If she had a weenie roast and burned the whole damn wad, I'd dance around the bonfire."
Hattie drew on her cigarette and blew out a few smoke rings.
"If she didn't have all that money," he went on, the anguish building inside of him, "there'd be nothing barring my way. I'd do whatever it took."
"To what?"
Embarrassed by what he'd already admitted, he turned away from Hattie's gaze, which suddenly struck him as somewhat calculating. As she ground out her cigarette, Tyce noticed another oddity—a small black hole in the side of the cardboard beer carton. Narrowing his eyes, he leaned forward to get a better look.
It wasn't just a hole, he realized. It was a glassed-in hole. Like … a camera lens.
With a growl, he launched off the sofa and grabbed the beer carton. Hattie let out a shriek and threw herself at him, trying to tug the weighty six-pack out of his hands. "Don't break the camera, T.K. It cost me a fortune!"
"Camera, hell! I should break your damn neck! Don't you have any decency at all? I can't believe that even you—"
"I had to do it, T.K.!"
"Had to do what?" he demanded. "Sell me out to a television tabloid? Freeze a few frames for your front page?" In tight-lipped disgust, he let go of the carton, allowing her to snatch it to her chest and stagger backward into the armchair. Lurching toward the front window, he jerked the draperies aside and peered through the summer twilight. Just as he'd suspected, a minivan with dark, tinted windows was parked across the street, beyond Hattie's car in his driveway.
A surveillance van, he had no doubt.
Cold with fury and the pain of betrayal, he strode across the living room, flung open his front door and marched across the lawn. Hattie followed him at a cautious distance. "Calm down, T.K. It's not what you think. You'd better let me explain."
He was beyond listening to explanations. She'd betrayed him in a way he'd never forgive. He'd laid open his heart and given her just what she'd need to send the media into another frenzy over Claire. They'd have new reasons to hound her now … and to keep her name in the tabloid headlines.
He hadn't been lying. He'd rather tear out his heart…
Intending to toss aside whomever he found and destroy the video with his bare hands, he yanked open the side door of the van. A pale, wide-eyed woman loomed up before him, and he came to a sudden halt. His very heart thudded to a halt.
Good Lord… Had he become delusional?
Claire stood in the doorway of the van, her violet-blue eyes and spiky lashes glistening with tears in the dim light cast by a television screen.
He couldn't, for the life of him, move a muscle … or make sense of the bizarre situation. "What … what are you…"
"Turnabout's fair play," she whispered, dashing a single tear from the corner of her eye. "You spied on me—" her gaze caressed his face "—now I've spied on you."
A jumble of emotions clogged his throat as he struggled to believe it was true. She was here, in person, smiling at him through glistening tears, speaking in a voice as soft and tender as one of her kisses.
"Claire," he breathed, his hands sliding around her slender waist entirely of their own accord.
"I was thinking of holding a weenie roast," she whispered, twining her arms about his neck. "You know, burning my 'whole damn wad.' Thought you might like to come and, uh, dance around my bonfire."
The full implication sank in as the fog in his brain cleared away. She'd heard everything he'd said tonight—all the things he'd been longing to tell her.
"I'd burn all my money," she swore, "if I thought it was stopping you from loving me."
"Nothing can do that," he uttered fervently. "Nothing."
While emotion swelled too tightly in his chest to allow him to say anything more, he lifted her down from the van, locked her solidly into his arms and kissed her with all the gladness thrumming through him. Her response ignited an instantaneous heat, and he had to force himself to pull back from her to regain some semblance of control.
When finally he was able to talk, he whispered, "I've been meaning to speak to you about your last name. You've tried Richmond, and you've tried Jones. How about 'Walker'?"
She raised her brows in question. "You mean as in 'Mrs.'?"
"As in, Mrs. Tyce Walker."
She pretended to consider it, then pronounced, "It's me!" Her smile brimmed with love and joy and everything he'd ever wanted out of life. "It says everything I want my name to say."
He caught her to him in a vital kiss. She weaved her fingers through his hair and angled her face to pull him in deeper. He pressed her back against the van, provoking an even greater urgency between them.
She'd found love! she realized, dazed by her miraculous good fortune. She loved him completely, without reservation, without the slightest doubt that he loved her, too.
Her prayers at last had been answered.
"Come inside with me," he beckoned hoarsely, his body hard and needful of her. "I think we'd better do a body search to make sure you're not tagged. A very thorough search."
From the fire in his gaze, she knew he intended more of a "search and seizure." She liked the idea immensely.
He swept her off her feet and carried her into the house. Neither he nor she gave a thought to the queen of the tabloid press, armed with a loaded camera.
No reason that they should.
She'd already left … and without a single shot.
* * * * *
THE PRINCESS AND THE P.I. Page 16
