“I could ask you the same thing,” Brenna suggested thoughtfully. “I was under the impression that you hated this town and everything it stood for. Why did you decide to come back?”
“I always knew you felt the same way about this lousy place as I did,” he went on without bothering to answer her question.
“Yes, I did for a long time.” She sighed; the words came from her almost unconsciously. “I suppose it was finally a question of survival. I couldn’t go on hating an entire town for the rest of my life. However much of a cliché it might seem, Garrett, hate is a very self-destructive force.”
That produced a flash of white teeth. “How long did it take you to reach that profound conclusion?”
“Laugh if you must, but it took me four years of undergraduate study in psychology before I realized the extent of the damage I’d been inflicting on myself,” she replied with quick pride. “I got my yearbook out once—Oh, it would be years ago now—and flipped through the pages, reading the captions under the pictures. You know, things like ‘most likely to succeed,’ ‘best looking,’ ‘best personality.’ I remember wondering then if any of them had managed to live up to the pretty little phrases we’d printed beside their names.” Brenna faced him, smiling but quite serious. “And I confess I’ve wondered if Rose Jackson ever had her nose fixed, and if Marla ended up marrying that football player from Notre Dame she was going with.” She hesitated for a moment, then went on. “But I suppose what I wondered most of all was how I would feel about coming back to Mansfield. You see, somewhere along the way I found out that what I really hated about this place was myself.”
After a long pause, Garrett spoke, his eyes taking on a hard look. “Hate isn’t always destructive, Brenna. Sometimes it gives you the strength and determination to do things you might not otherwise. A town like Mansfield can punish someone who’s different, someone who refuses to live by its smug, self-righteous little standards. They pin a label on you from the beginning and somehow it always sticks. Hate—” his voice vibrated with the word—“hate has been known to make some people strong.” Then he drew a breath and reached out with his hand, gently cupping her chin in the palm. “But, as you say, curiosity can be an equally strong motivation. I admit I was curious about how it would feel to come back here, too, after all these years.”
“And how do you feel?” Brenna asked, her voice sinking almost to a whisper.
Garrett gradually withdrew his touch. “I’m not sure yet,” he said, weighing his words carefully. “I’ve come a long way since Mansfield, Indiana. I like to think I won’t care one way or the other about it.”
“But our memories haven’t changed, even if we have,” she pointed out with gentle sadness.
“I don’t deny the existence of the past,” he said thoughtfully. “It’s a part of what we were, a part of what we’ve become. But our memories can’t hurt us, Brenna, unless we allow them to. I don’t believe this town or its people have the power to hurt either one of us now.”
“I hope you’re right, for your sake as well as mine,” Brenna murmured, her voice low and fervent. “Oh, good Lord,” she added hurriedly, glancing at the slim gold watch on her wrist. “I was supposed to join Susan and Robert Whitfield at their table for dinner. They probably think I’ve skipped town by now.”
Garrett’s dark, liquid eyes filled with pleasurable malice. “Not a bad idea, now that you mention it I don’t suppose you’d give it serious consideration?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scoffed. “Now that I’m here I wouldn’t dream of missing a single moment of this reunion. I want to be right there in the front row when they announce the grand prize for the couple with the most children. It may prove to be the high point of the entire evening,” she said, suppressing a smile.
“Don’t count on it,” Garrett said on a quietly suggestive note. “After all, the evening is still young.”
She wisely decided to let that pass without any comment. “I’m sure there will be an extra seat or two at our table. Why don’t you join us?”
“Thank you, I’d like that,” he drawled as he slipped a guiding hand beneath her elbow.
“I feel it’s only fair to warn you,” Brenna added, measuring her words. “The gossips will no doubt have a field day if we walk in together.”
Garrett’s lips compressed in a thin line. “In that case, Mrs. Richards, lead the way.” Then he looked down at her, the strain fading from his expression. “We wouldn’t want to disappoint them, now would we?” He smiled, a smile that dared her to accept the challenge he was offering.
“No, I guess we wouldn’t,” she concurred, attempting a smile in response to his.
They were saved the embarrassment of finding out by the appearance of a rather anxious Susan Whitfield. She came bustling up to them just as they reached the doorway of the large banquet room.
“There you are, Brenna!” she clucked like a mother hen discovering her missing chick. “I’m so glad I found you. Robert and I were beginning to wonder if something had happened to you,” she said, not letting herself be interrupted. “Dinner is going to be served any minute. In fact, the waitresses were putting the fruit cups on the table when I left to come look for you.”
Fruit cups? Brenna was forced to bite her lip as she glimpsed Garrett’s mouth twitch in an effort not to laugh.
“I’m sorry, Susan,” she managed at last. “I ran into Garrett and we got to talking and I’m afraid I lost track of the time.” Suddenly conscious of the subtle pressure the man was exerting on her arm, she remarked, “You remember Garrett Forsyte, don’t you?”
Visibly flustered by his unexpected appearance, Susan finally stammered, “Yes, of… of course I do.” Then she recovered rather admirably. “It’s nice to see you again, Garrett If you don’t have other plans, why not join us for dinner? We have room for one more at our table.”
“Why, thank you, Susan. As a matter of fact, I don’t have any other plans and I’d be delighted to join you,” he responded without cracking a smile.
They obediently followed in Susan’s footsteps as she led the way across the large banquet room. As they approached the corner table where Robert Whitfield was keeping a solitary vigil over their fruit cups, Garrett purposely leaned over and whispered close to Brenna’s ear. “By the way, I think it’s only fair to warn you.”
“Warn me about what?” she whispered back, more than a little reluctant to ask. Some basic instinct told her she was making it too easy for him, taking the bait—hook, line and sinker—as she was.
Brenna could almost feel him “reeling her in” as a soft, teasing laugh came from the back of his throat. “You were right on one count I am single, very single. And very available.”
“I’ll just bet you are,” she muttered under her breath, fighting off the temptation to deliver a well-placed blow to his shins. “Now behave yourself, Garrett Forsyte!” she scolded in a furious whisper as they approached the table where Robert awaited them. “We have an entire dinner and the announcement of prizes to get through before the night is over.”
“That’s when this night begins,” Garrett insisted, his voice dangerously quiet. “Just wait until I have you alone, lady,” he growled, but the look he gave her was innocence itself. “I mean on the dance floor, of course….”
“Of course,” Brenna repeated with acid sweetness, trying to stem the tide of color that washed over her face. But, oh God, she had a rapid sinking feeling it was going to be a very long night indeed.
“You don’t think Susan and Robert mind that we’ve deserted them, do you?” she was saying as they sat at a small table in one corner of the club’s ballroom, sipping an after-dinner drink.
“Don’t worry about it,” Garrett assured her. “We haven’t even been missed yet. The Whitfields have been talking to that winning couple with the eight kids ever since the prizes were handed out.”
“Can you imagine having eight children by our age?” Brenna asked the purely rhetorical question with
what sounded suspiciously like a giggle. “They obviously put their minds to it.”
“I don’t think their minds had anything to do with it,” he commented, knowing it would bring that sweet rush of color to her face once more. He wasn’t disappointed. “You know, for a woman who’s been married and reached the age of thirty-three, you blush beautifully,” Garrett observed, looking at her intently.
“I am not!” Her retort was vehement.
His face went blank for a moment. “You’re not what?”
“I’m not thirty-three years old,” Brenna declared, determined to set the record straight. “In fact, I was just thirty-two last month. I skipped third grade,” she added, as if that would somehow explain everything.
Garrett moved closer, resting both elbows on the edge of the table, his fingers intertwining to support his chin. “I’ve never known anyone who skipped the third grade before.”
“Now I know you’re making fun of me,” she mumbled, meeting his gaze over the rim of her glass. Brenna plunked it down on the table and randomly looked around her. “Whew! It’s warm in here.” She grimaced, trying to fan herself, first with her hand and then with a slightly soggy, cocktail-size paper napkin. “I think I’ll have another drink.”
Garrett gave her a long, measuring look. “I’ll get it for you,” he offered, stretching his long legs under the table for a moment before getting to his feet. “Don’t go away,” he ordered ever so softly. “I’ll be right back.”
Brenna bit back the retort that was on the tip of her tongue. Garrett was certainly bossy all of a sudden! In fact, he was acting downright possessive of her. Which was rather ridiculous, considering they’d just met again after a fifteen-year hiatus. And she’d like to know where in tarnation he thought she’d go anyway! Good grief, she was beginning to sound like Robert Whitfield. “Tarnation” seemed to be the man’s favorite word. Really, Robert was a dear, but she’d thought she would choke on her prime rib when he produced snapshots of his new tractor at dinner. She had to admit she owed Garrett for that one. He’d been the epitome of politeness, making all the appropriate comments without once losing his self-control. Brenna was afraid she couldn’t say the same for herself.
In truth, the dinner with Susan and Robert would have been a crashing bore if Garrett hadn’t been there to act as a buffer between her and the devoted couple. She had honestly tried to act interested in Susan’s endless string of anecdotes about their three children and an apparent menagerie of cats, dogs and assorted livestock; but she had to confess her attention had wandered at times. She could only hope that she had laughed in the right places. And at that, Brenna heard herself chuckle again.
“You seem to be having a damn good time all by yourself,” came a man’s voice from somewhere in the vicinity of her right shoulder. Brenna turned to find Lance Clarke standing there beside the small table, gazing down at her. “Do you mind if I join you?” he inquired, slipping into the chair only recently vacated by Garrett.
Brenna shook her head. There was little else she could do under the circumstances. Besides, there was a kind of poetic justice in having both these men seek her out when neither had once had the time of day for her. It was a shame, really. She would have enjoyed all of this so much more as a girl.
“How are you, Lance?” It was trite, perhaps, but she was close to exhausting her supply of small talk.
“I’m fine,” he replied, absently stroking his mustache. “You’re looking good, Brenna. In fact, you’re looking great,” he amended appreciatively. “I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw you walk in tonight. Who would ever have thought…” He wisely left the rest of the sentence to her imagination.
“Yes,” she muttered in a droll tone that went sailing over his head. “Who would have thought?”
Lance instilled the hushed and rather mournful note into his voice that she had heard a dozen times already in the course of the evening. “I understand you’re a widow, Brenna.” Then he patted her hand solicitously.
“Yes, well, you know how good news seems to travel fast, especially at a reunion,” she said sarcastically. “I’m sorry, Lance,” she quickly relented. “It’s just that my husband has been dead for some time now and yet everyone is acting as though it happened last week. It’s been something of a strain, to put it mildly.”
She reached for her glass and then remembered it was empty except for one small ice cube. And that seemed to have melted. Where was Garrett, anyway? Since it seemed to be his lot to go around rescuing her, there was no reason he should suddenly stop now. That was the trouble with modern-day Sir Galahads. They were never around when you really needed them.
Brenna looked back at Lance, only to discover he was holding his hand out to her. “I … I beg your pardon,” she stammered, somewhat taken aback.
“I said, would you like to dance?” the man inquired, apparently for the second time.
It was only then that Brenna realized the small orchestra positioned at the front of the room had indeed begun to play. “Well, I… I…”
“I think what the lady’s trying to say is she promised this dance to me.” Garrett was suddenly there, shining armor and all, interceding on her behalf once again.
The two men faced each other—the one tall, dark and lethal; the other slightly shorter and fair and relatively harmless in comparison. It could be seen at a glance that it was an unfair contest.
Lance Clarke might not have been the most intuitive of men, but he seemed to recognize when he was outclassed. “Garrett Forsyte, isn’t it?” he said in a conversational tone as he extended his hand.
Garrett took his own good time setting their drinks down on the table before he reciprocated. “Hello, Clarke.”
Brenna knew it had to be her imagination, but in spite of his easygoing manner and relaxed stance, there was something vaguely threatening about the man. And she knew that Lance Clarke sensed it as well. Garrett had a smooth, graceful, almost catlike way of carrying himself that spoke of a man who could move through the jungle without making a sound. Such a man was dangerous, indeed. Perhaps even deadly.
“Maybe we’ll have a chance to talk later,” he was saying to Lance as he came around the table to collect her. “But you will excuse us right now. I’ve been looking forward to dancing with Brenna all evening. I’m sure you understand.” Then Garrett caught her about the waist and off they went, leaving Lance to his own limited devices.
They moved around the dance floor for some minutes in a silent duel of wills. Stirring within the confines of his embrace, Brenna was the first to speak. “It was dancing you had in mind, wasn’t it?” she taunted. At least she hadn’t lost her sense of humor entirely. “I thought so,” she went on when it became apparent Garrett wasn’t going to respond. “To my knowledge, jousting went out with the Middle Ages.”
Garrett speared her with a long stare. “I thought I told you to stay put.”
“I was staying put,” she shot back in protest. Why was she bothering to defend herself to this man? She didn’t owe him any explanations. If she had any gumption at all, she would inform Mr. Garrett Forsyte where he could put it!
“I’m gone a grand total of five minutes, and when I come back I find you about to take off somewhere with ‘lover boy.’ You may call that staying put in your book, lady, but it sure as hell isn’t in mine.”
“I wasn’t about to take off anywhere with Lance. The man simply asked me to dance,” she stated, gritting her teeth, her patience exhausted. “And, for your information, I was about to refuse him. I think I have better manners than to accept a dance with one man while another one has graciously offered to get me a drink.”
Ever so slightly, Garrett relaxed his hold on her. “Then I apologize for jumping to the wrong conclusion,” he growled in a husky masculine tone.
“And I accept your apology,” she finally said without looking at him.
Slowly, Brenna began to relax in his arms, soothed perhaps by the soft, subdued music, the graceful movement of Gar
rett’s body as he expertly maneuvered her around the dance floor. He was a superb dancer; there was no denying that Just as there was no denying the way he aroused her feminine curiosity. She wondered if he did everything equally well.
She started to move away as the song ended, only to find herself still cradled against his chest. Then she felt a tiny shiver of excitement run through her which she was at a loss to explain.
“No—” Garrett softly protested, urging her back into the full circle of his embrace. “I like the way you feel in my arms, the way your lovely body fits mine as if you were somehow made for me.”
“Garrett—” Brenna put her head back, pressing one hand to his mouth in an effort to silence him. His lips were surprisingly soft, yet firm beneath her touch. She fought against the mutinous urge to explore them further, to discover for herself what other surprises they might hold in store for a woman with courage enough to find out.
“All right I won’t say it if you don’t want me to. But it’s true, and you know it as well as I do, lady,” he murmured, brushing his lips along her fingertips.
Brenna jerked her hand back as if she had been burned by a red-hot flame. She was shaking suddenly, and her skin was oddly damp. The thought crossed her mind that she might be running a fever, but she knew herself to be the picture of health. There was only one explanation, and Brenna Richards didn’t like that one!
Good Lord, and here she’d always been so proud of her self-control. Well, where was that marvelous control of hers now when she needed it? It wasn’t as if she were an inexperienced teenager encountering the first handsome face and pair of broad shoulders to come her way. She may have been a slow starter, but she was a damned quick learner. And she was thirty-two years old—as if she could ever forget that.
Only This Night (Silhouette Reissued) Page 3
