by Lydia Grace
Lauren stared at her in shock. “But I can’t accept this—this is conscience money!”
Lucy’s mouth dropped open. “Can’t accept it? Conscience money? I should damn well think it is. Listen here, my girl. You’ve lost everything you owned, not once, but twice thanks to Rush Co.’s shenanigans. To say nothing of all sorts of emotional grief and nearly being killed into the bargain. Now, you’ve got to start your life all over again, so there’s enough cash here to allow you to start in style. They owe you at least this much.”
“They don’t owe me anything,” Lauren said, her voice little more than a whisper. “This is Jon’s doing, and I won’t have his pity!”
*
A few days later, Lauren ventured out to take a closer look at the rubble-dotted hole in the ground that was all that remained of her cottage and was startled to find that a construction team was on the site. Two men in hard hats, deep in conversation, were studying a set of blue prints but they broke off as Lauren approached.
“We’re putting in a new facility, dependent on planning permission, as part of the plans Rush Co. have for developing the site here,” the men told Lauren, exchanging glances as she pressed for more details. “Sorry, lady, we’re supposed to keep quiet about the exact type of facility, at least for the moment. But you’ll all see, soon enough.”
Furious, Lauren spun on her heel, marching over to the tree shaded spot where Jon’s vintage truck still stood. How could Rush Co. try to sneak in and take advantage of the recent tragedy to make a start on their fancy health spa? Did they think they could turn it into a fait accompli before anyone at Haverford Castle could guess what they were up to?
For a few moments, Lauren felt alive again as a righteous fury coursed through her veins. But then, touching Jon’s truck, the anger dissipated in a flood of memories. Jumbled through her head were the terrible pictures of those last days, and she shoved them aside, instead allowing the memories of the nights she and Jon had spent, first at his home and then in her now-destroyed cottage, to rush in. Her pulses went into overdrive as she remembered the feel of his strong, hard body on hers, the thrill of seeing desire for her darken his blue eyes until they were almost black, the heights they’d brought each other to in the shared need that had felt so much like love…
Lauren slammed a bandaged fist against the truck door, welcoming the pain the action brought as it dispelled the longings her memories had flooded through her.
“Why, now, that’s no way to treat such a lovely old vehicle,” a voice behind her complained, and Lauren’s nerves jumped as she turned around. Tom Perry, the young police officer who had stood guard at her door for long hours before that fateful evening, reached out to gently pat her arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you, which was pretty stupid of me, considering all you’ve been through,” the young man said awkwardly, shuffling his feet.
“That’s okay, Tom. I am a bit jumpy and I didn’t hear you come up,” Lauren assured him. “My, I’d hardly have recognized you out of uniform. Is it your day off?”
“Yep, Miss, it is. The chief’s feeling a bit more mellow now that everything’s been sorted out here, and so he’s loosened his death grip on the duty roster!”
Lauren smiled. “So, you like this old truck?”
“Lord, yes, she is a real beauty. Mind if I take a look under the hood?”
Lauren waved her hand, indicating he should go ahead. From all the ooh’s, aah’s and grunts which followed, she gathered he liked what he saw. When he came up for air, exclaiming about the quality of workmanship, she laughed and said, “I guess it’s a man thing—engines and whatever.”
“Believe me, Miss Stephens, no one with an eye for beauty could fail to appreciate this truck—and it’s been so well restored! A real labor of love for whoever did the work, let me tell you!”
Lauren drew in a sudden breath as Jon’s face filled her mind. A labor of love indeed. She wondered at the hours he must have spent, locked away in his garage at the farm, transforming what Warren Dillon had described as a sad old wreck into this thing of beauty. Her throat ached at the thought of his competent hands busy on the engine, the bodywork, his fine mind turning over problems of horsepower and tuning, spare parts and authenticity.
Then, filled with a sudden inspiration, she asked, “How’d you like to drive this truck?”
Tom’s boyish face filled with amazement. “Me? Drive this vehicle? Ma’am, I’d be your slave for life!”
“No, Tom, that’s okay, just the next few hours. It really should be returned to its owner and I’m still a bit too sore for driving,” Lauren explained, holding her still bandaged palms out in front of her.
The young man’s face clouded in an instant. “God, yes, I can imagine. You were pretty lucky to get out of there. Mind you,” he added with a mischievous grin, “it was pretty darned lucky this beauty wasn’t hurt in the fire, too!”
Lauren muttered a nasty phrase at him, causing him to grin even more, then told him to climb into the driver’s seat. “I’ll be right back,” she promised, rushing into the house to find Lucy.
“How are you fixed for that great shopping trip?” she asked, pleased to see the startled expression of delight on the other woman’s face.
“I can be ready just as soon as my better half can get into his city clothes and bring the car around,” Lucy beamed.
“Well, I’ve got Tom Perry outside, raring to drive Jon’s old truck, so I thought maybe you’d follow us, we’ll get the truck back to its rightful owner. Then Paul can drop us at the GO station and we’ll get the train into Toronto while the men folk come on back here. Let’s stay overnight—my treat!” It was worth the effort it took to be cheerful, just to see Lucy’s relieved and happy face as she agreed to the plan.
In the Howard’s spare bedroom, Lauren pulled a brush through her hair, swiped on some lipstick, and threw some essentials into an overnight bag. Then she took the check sent to her by the Rush Co. lawyers from its envelope and stuffed it into her jeans’ pocket. She checked that her credit card and checkbook were in her purse. They’d have a shopping spree, after all, she couldn’t hang around in cast-off clothing forever, but she was damned if they’d do it with Jon Rush’s money!
Lauren enjoyed Tom Perry’s company, taking pleasure in his sheer enthusiastic delight at the experience of driving the restored truck, and they were laughing as they pulled up in front of Jon Rush’s magnificent old farmhouse.
Tom, wearing the young person’s uniform of flannel shirt not tucked in, hooded sweat top, and jeans, scarcely looked old enough to be out of high school, let alone be an officer in so staid an organization as the West River police force, one of the few remaining independent municipal police forces in Canada.
“So, what happens to you guys when the municipal council finally decides to join everyone else and hand over the reins of policing duties to the Ontario Provincial Police?” she asked.
“Well, whenever that happens—and with this year’s budget going up again, I guess it gets likelier to happen all the time—then me and the other guys get new uniforms and a big pay hike. Not to mention all sorts of fancy crime-fighting equipment. It’ll be a real hardship, ma’am, it truly will,” Tom said with a disarming grin, as he swung down from the cab and rushed around to open Lauren’s door.
At that moment, a tall figure leading a beautiful Palomino stallion came around the side of the house, and Jon greeted his visitors with a sardonic, “Hello, Lauren.”
She couldn’t see his eyes, shadowed as they were under the brim of his Stetson style hat, but Lauren knew there was no welcoming in his voice. Her heart sank, but still she managed to speak. “Hello, Jon. I just thought it was time to bring the truck back. Thank you for the loan of it.”
“This is your truck, sir?” Tom seemed about ready to wriggle in puppy-dog delight and completely oblivious to the undercurrents passing between the man and woman alongside him. “It’s one the best restoration jobs I’ve ever seen!”
; Jon reached into a pocket, pulled out a ring of keys, and tossed them to Tom. “Why don’t you take the truck around the back of the house and open up the garage. You can store her in there and take a look at the Edsel I’m working on, if you like.”
Tom’s face filled with delight, and with a yell of thanks, he threw himself into the truck and took off in a swirl of exhaust.
“Needs some fine tuning,” Jon said obscurely, pushing the hat back off his head.
Lauren’s heart twinged at the signs of strain that had appeared on his face in the few weeks since Stephen’s funeral.
“Do you mean the boy, or the truck?” she asked with a smile.
“The truck. You’re the one who’d know if the boy needed tuning. My, my, but it didn’t take you long to find yourself another lover, but I’d have thought he was a bit on the young side for you.”
Lauren flinched in shock, her eyes drawn to his tight, angry face and white-lipped mouth.
“What the hell are you trying to say, Rush? That you think Tom and I are lovers?”
“If that’s how you want to put it.”
He couldn’t help himself. He’d burned with jealousy the moment he’d seen her laughing with the boy and he admitted to himself her companion was little more than a boy, and even though her reaction had made him feel ridiculous, pride wouldn’t let him back down now.
Lauren’s hand went back, aiming to knock the contemptuous smile off his face, but his hand was faster, grabbing her by the wrist.
“Don’t,” he ground out tightly. “We wouldn’t want you to be hurt any more.”
“You’re right,” Lauren said, shrugging his hand off. “I think I’ve suffered quite enough from the Rush men. More than enough to last a lifetime.”
Jon’s eyes were on her bandaged hands and the raw emotion on his face stilled her tongue from further caustic comments. His look rose to take in the purple bruises, fading to green and gray that still marked her face.
“How are you, Lauren?” he asked quietly, his body so close to hers that she could feel his breath on her face as he spoke.
“The cuts and bruises are healing, Jon,” Lauren said with deliberate calm. “The doctor says I should be able to paint again, if I ever want to, that is.”
She tried to meet his eyes, but failed, afraid her own would betray her feelings. Then Jon tilted her chin gently with his forefinger so he could search her face, and his stomach contracted as he read the pain in her eyes and read the quiet desperation in her voice.
“And why wouldn’t you want to?” he asked.
But he knew. Lauren’s spirit glowed and throbbed through her work, her luminosity of vision turning paint and canvas into a living, breathing thing of beauty. It didn’t take a genius to see, from her pale face and sad eyes, that her spirit was at low ebb indeed. And Jon knew whose fault that was. Goddammit! It took every ounce of his willpower not to pull her into his arms, to plead and beg for forgiveness, to ask her to have him back, at any price.
Yet he couldn’t do it. Not because he wasn’t capable of swallowing his pride—one look into those gorgeous eyes of hers and he’d be willing to crawl on hot coals—but because he couldn’t bear to see her get hurt when she realized he could not provide her with what she needed. What any woman needed. A loving, attentive man who could do more than focus his every living breath on business.
Yet Lauren was soothed to her very soul just by this man’s presence. Involuntarily she found herself leaning ever so slightly towards him, wanting desperately to raise her head and meet his eyes with hers, to drink deeply of his lips and obliterate all that had passed between them at their last meeting. Yet it couldn’t be. Instead, she summoned up anger and outrage from her inner reserves. Yanking the check from her jeans pocket, she almost hurled it at him.
“I don’t need anything from you,” she hissed quietly. “You can keep your conscience money.”
“Conscience money?” Jon was genuinely puzzled until he smoothed the check from its folds and saw the name of his company lawyers. God, he hadn’t meant to offend her. “Lauren, it’s only right that you should have this. It’s little enough to cover what you’ve lost, and I know you don’t have insurance.”
“Go to hell, Jon, and take your money with you,” Lauren gritted through teeth she had to keep clamped shut to prevent howling with the pain she felt. “I thought, that day in the woods when we talked, that you were different. That you were man enough to have a life outside your business and your bank account. That you knew that not everything had a price tag. But I was wrong. Sorry, my mistake.”
Hearing a car coming up the driveway behind her, Lauren turned on her heel and marched away, pausing at the corner of the house to call for Tom Perry. Without a backward glance, her spine ramrod straight, she marched over to Lucy and Paul’s car and got in.
“So, everything all right?” Lucy asked brightly as Tom climbed in beside Lauren and slammed the door.
“Just drive, Paul. Let’s get out of here,” Lauren ground out, struggling to hold back the tears.
Jon watched her go, standing beside the palomino and gently stroking the horse’s soft muzzle. At least she was angry. If she was angry, maybe she was on her way to getting over their affair. Jon sighed. He wished he could say the same for himself.
Chapter 19
Lucy and Lauren made their first stop in Toronto at an upscale sandwich bar in the exclusive Yorkville district for coffee and a snack while they planned their shopping campaign.
“I guess I need just about everything, but let’s start with basics,” Lauren said brightly, trying for Lucy’s sake to be enthusiastic when she really wanted to run back to the little spare room in Haverford Castle, pull the covers over her head, and wail.
“Okay, so Victoria’s Secret for underwear—or are you a Marks and Spencer’s cotton-lined gusset girl?” Lucy asked her eyes mischievous.
“No, I’m a middle of the road, comfort first but a touch of silk is nice, type,” Lauren replied. “And anyway, Marks and Spencer’s is closed.”
“Oh, no—wherever will my Paul get his flannelette pajamas?” Lucy declared in mock horror, and Lauren really did have to laugh.
“I doubt Paul has ever worn flannelette p.j.’s in his life,” she retorted, and Lucy gave a knowing leer which reduced them both to a fit of the giggles.
“My God, just look at the two of you—like a couple of schoolgirls in town for the day,” a familiar voice said, and Lauren wheeled around to see her friend Jane Rollands.
“Is this a private giggle, or can anyone join in?” the lawyer asked.
“You’re more than welcome to join us. This is my good friend Lucy Howard, and we’re in town to replenish my wardrobe,” Lauren told her.
“Lucy Howard? Of Robin the Rook fame?”
“Guilty,” Lucy said.
“My niece just adores your work. We’ve got to get to a bookstore so that I can get you to autograph one of your books for her,” Jane declared. Turning to Lauren, she looked more serious as she asked. “How are you doing? Are you healing—spiritually as well as physically?”
Jane and Lauren had renewed their friendship with long hours on the telephone in recent days, and Jane knew about the nightmare Lauren had lived through, including the way her relationship with Jon had ended. She had been delighted at first to see her friend laughing. But now, on closer inspection, she saw the strain and unhappiness on Lauren’s face, and guessed the other woman was merely putting on a brave show.
As they finished their coffee, Lauren reached into her back pocket to find change to pay the bill—and pulled out a crumpled envelope.
“Gosh, this came with the blood money from Rush’s solicitors, and I guess I forgot about it,” Lauren explained, slitting the envelope open with her thumb.
“Blood money?” Jane inquired, her eyebrows rising into the cover of her fringe. “Do tell what this is about?”
So the second letter had to wait until the details had been filled in, with Lauren editing as
she went along to keep the more painful details to herself. Then she smoothed the letter flat on the table and gave a little whoop of pleasure.
“You know how the Harrison Gallery sponsors an annual arts awards contest? Well, it looks like your favorite artist has been chosen to receive the award in the wildlife category!” she announced to her friends and momentarily felt her depression lift as they congratulated her.
“Oh, God—would you believe the ceremony is only two days away? Looks like the letter must have gone to my studio and been returned as undeliverable—then someone at the West River Post Office who knew I was staying at Lucy and Paul’s place snagged it and sent it on,” Lauren said.
“Well, in that case, thank your lucky stars that we’re shopping. After all, that’s not much time to get ready.” Lucy was positively glowing with anticipation.
“I hate to burst your bubble, my dear, but there’s no way I can go to a fancy dinner ceremony. Look at me, I’m bruised and battered and bandaged, and definitely not in the mood!”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Lauren, of course you must go! If we don’t acknowledge and celebrate our own achievements, no one else will do it for us,” Jane declared firmly.
“No.”
Jane cocked an eyebrow, looked at Lucy, and then back at Lauren. “So, afraid Jon will be there, are you? Plan to spend the rest of your life in hiding because some creep of a mere male has jerked you around?”
Lucy spluttered through her coffee, and Lauren, too, had to laugh.
“Okay, you win. A couple of pairs of jeans, some sweats and undies, from a not-too-expensive store…and then we’ll go look for something sensational enough to dazzle people into not noticing what a wreck I look!”
“With the check you got, you can do something really sensational,” Lucy said contentedly.
“I, er—I gave the creep his check back,” Lauren admitted.
