Coming Home to You

by Fay Robinson

  “Manual labor builds character.”

  “And muscle,” she said, poking his biceps with one finger.

  “Yeah. The place was pretty rough when I bought it. The house had been vacant for about five years, and kudzu had nearly covered it. But I knew it had potential the minute I saw it. Fate brought me down this road.”

  “Did you come here to find your family’s old homestead?” She lay down on her side, facing him, her head propped on her hand.

  “That, and just looking around. I liked the town and decided this farm was as good a place as any to live while I built a house. I had a little money stashed away. Not much, but enough for a down payment on this property and the other one.”

  “Did James give—?” She waved the thought away with her hand. “Never mind.”

  “James didn’t buy it for me. That’s what you were going to ask, wasn’t it?”

  “I thought he might have given you the money.”

  “Kate, I wasn’t always the most reliable person when I was younger, and I admit I went through a few jobs before I found something I love—horse breeding. But I’ve always worked and I’ve always paid my own way.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I didn’t depend on James to take care of me. He’d probably have given me the money, but it was his money, and I didn’t feel I was entitled to it.”

  “Is that why you and your family set up two foundations and donated all his millions to charity? You don’t feel you’re entitled to the money?”

  He looked away momentarily. Damn! He’d expected her to find out eventually, but still he was unnerved and had to fight to keep it from showing. He kept forgetting who she was, how dangerous she was. That sweet face had a way of lulling him into thinking she was like everyone else, that she didn’t have the power to destroy all their lives if he slipped up and said the wrong thing.

  “Why have you been looking at my finances?”

  “Because you obviously aren’t living on the money you inherited. I was curious about where it went.”

  “You could have asked me.”

  “Okay, I’m asking now. Why have you given all of it away? And why set up a separate foundation to do it? Isn’t the money coming from James’s royalties?”

  “I didn’t use the money for myself because I didn’t want to profit from my brother’s death. And yes, the money comes from James’s royalties. But my mother and I have different ideas about how it should be used, so rather than battling each time one of us wants to support a project, we came up with this split. That’s the reason we have two foundations. She and Ellen fund their charities and I fund mine. They have no problems with the arrangement, so you shouldn’t, either.”

  She nodded, but he could almost hear her brain working, weighing his explanation against what she knew. He could tell his answer bothered her. Or maybe, he thought with alarm, there was something else she hadn’t mentioned.

  “We’re talking about him again,” he said. “Somehow the conversation always gets back to my brother, regardless of what subject we start out with. Now how do you suppose that happens?”

  “I’m sorry. When I’m working on a book, I tend to let it take over my thoughts.”

  “Maybe you need a diversion.”

  She glanced at him suspiciously. “What kind of diversion did you have in mind?”

  “Fishing.”

  “Oh,” she said, visibly relaxing.

  Quickly, while her guard was down, he closed the few inches between them and covered her mouth with his, taking advantage of her surprise to slip his tongue inside her slightly parted lips. She stiffened, but he refused to let her pull away, and gradually her lips softened under his, opening wider. Damn, she tasted good. Why hadn’t he done this an hour ago?

  He used pressure on her lower back to bring her body into contact with his, reveling in the feel of her soft breasts against his chest, her stomach pressed against his own. Arousal, warm and potent, wound its way from his head to his belly.

  For several minutes his mouth continued its expert assault while his hand moved lazily over her hip and back. When he grew bolder, moving his hand between them to touch her breast, she dragged her mouth from his and gasped for air. “This is not fishing.”

  “No, but it’s a lot more fun.”

  He bent and put his mouth over her nipple, teasing it through the cotton of her shirt until it was rigid and she began to moan and squirm. Her hand went to the back of his head and held him in place. “We can’t do this,” she whispered.

  “We already are.”

  He kissed her again, rolling her onto her back where his hands could have better access to the places he longed to touch. Her own hands began to move, tormenting him as they skimmed his back and buttocks, working their way under his shirt to touch his bare skin.

  He quickly pulled the shirt over his head and discarded it so she could touch him more easily. When he unhooked the clasp on her bra, she didn’t protest.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he said, taking off her shirt and bra to look at her. Her lips were red and swollen with his kisses, her nipples hard with arousal. The hunger in her eyes—hunger for him—was blatant.

  He put his hand between her legs, stroking her while he watched the play of emotions on her face: the surprise turning to passion, the passion to white-hot fire that threatened to burn her alive. But it wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to touch her without the barrier of her clothes. He wanted to put his mouth there and drive her mad until she climaxed a hundred times and screamed his name with every one.

  He slipped his hand under the elastic waistband of her shorts and inside her underwear. The curls between her legs were the gateway to a tantalizing array of surfaces and temperatures, and he wasted no time in exploring everything. She writhed beneath his hand as he stroked the swollen nub, and she arched into him in a gesture of supplication.

  “Oh, James…”

  His heart stopped and his hand stilled.

  “What did you call me?”

  She opened her eyes and blinked in confusion. “What?”

  “He’s not the one making love to you. I am. Can’t you forget him for five seconds?”

  For a moment nothing registered on her face, and then the realization of what she’d said hit her. Horror distorted her perfect features. “I wasn’t…I swear I wasn’t thinking about anyone but you.”

  He sat up and reached for his shirt, tugging it on in anger. The passion he’d felt had died instantly with the whispered name.

  “Bret, I’m sorry.” She tried to touch him, but he pulled away.

  “Put on your clothes,” he snapped.

  “Bret—”

  “Put on your clothes! I don’t want to hear any explanations.”

  She hurriedly dressed, then drew on her shoes.

  “Go to the house,” he ordered.

  “Are you coming?”

  “No! I’m too angry to be with you right now.”

  Her bottom lip trembled and tears slid silently down her cheeks. But she said nothing else. She stood, walked to where he’d earlier thrown her notebook and picked it up.

  “Yeah, don’t forget that,” he said, his voice cracking with pain. “I wouldn’t want you to miss out on getting one more detail about my brother for your book.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, then apparently thought better of it. Turning, she started toward the house with Sallie close on her heels. When she was crossing the yard, he thought he heard her sob but he wasn’t sure. And he didn’t care. She’d wounded him in a way she could never begin to understand.

  For a long time he stayed by the pond, until his anger left him and he thought he could talk to Kate without screaming. Night had fallen and the mosquitoes were threatening to eat him alive, so he walked slowly back to the house. As he entered, he heard no sound. Only a pale light came from the living room.

  He hobbled to the doorway. Kate was on the couch in the dark, illuminated only by the light of the television screen. Th
e volume had been turned off, and she appeared to be so entranced by the picture that she didn’t know he was there. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  He came forward to where he could see the TV, but he knew already what he’d find. The face of James Hayes stared back at him.

  “Damn,” he said with disgust, finally drawing her attention. “Now I understand why you don’t want me. You want him. You’re in love with a dead man.”

  BRET HAD LITERALLY RIPPED the tape out of the VCR and thrown it across the room. He stood before her now with his face twisted in anger. It hurt her to know she’d caused it.

  “Bret,” she said calmly, more calmly than she felt. She stood and put her hand on his arm. “You’re angry and I can’t—”

  “You’re damn straight I’m angry! How do you expect me to feel?”

  He pulled away, backing up. Had her touch become offensive to him? She couldn’t stand to think that. Down by the pond she’d wanted to make love to him, show him she cared for him. She wanted to touch him now. To hold him. To soothe him. To let him know he was every bit as important to her as James had been.

  “Bret, please. You don’t understand.”

  “What don’t I understand, Kate? You tell me. Explain to me why you moan his name when I touch you. Explain to me why you’re sitting here in the dark crying over a man who’s dead and never coming back.”

  She wiped the tears from her cheeks. Until that moment she hadn’t realized they were even there. “I admired him. I’ve told you before. He was special.”

  “Yeah, he was special,” Bret said sarcastically. “He drank and screwed his way across the country and pumped himself so full of drugs that half the time he didn’t even know what was going on.”

  The words hurt her. But then, he knew that, didn’t he? That was why he’d thrown them at her.

  “Don’t,” she warned.

  “Don’t what? Remind you that he wasn’t worthy of this admiration you feel for him?”

  “Don’t make up lies to hurt me.”

  “You don’t get it, do you? You’ve created this huge fantasy about him and now you believe it’s the truth. Do you know what you are? I’ve just realized it. You’re the ultimate groupie. Only, you’re worse than all those women who used to hang around the motels hoping to go to bed with him. They, at least, gave him up when he died, but you’re still obsessed with him. And you’re using this book as a way of keeping your obsession alive. It has nothing to do with trying to restore his reputation.”

  She tried to close her heart against the verbal blow, but it still struck and gravely wounded her. Without a word she walked to the kitchen, shut down her computer and packed everything in her briefcase. She had so much she wanted to say to him, but it wouldn’t do any good.

  He was determined to make something dirty and sick out of her feelings for James.

  “Go on. Run away, rather than face the truth,” he said from the doorway.

  “I think we’ve said it all.”

  “I’m not finished.”

  “Well, I am. Completely. I’ll be returning to Chicago in the morning.”

  “What about your promise?”

  “I see no reason to stay here.”

  His jaw moved back and forth as he ground his teeth. “No, I guess not.”

  “I’ll mail you a copy of the final manuscript when it’s done.”

  “Don’t bother. It’s fiction and there’s nothing in it I want to read.” He turned and limped down the hall to the bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

  Kate picked up her briefcase and went out the front door, but she only made it as far as the steps before she broke down. She collapsed, put her face in her hands and wept. How had she made such a mess of things?

  She couldn’t blame him for being angry. If he’d called out Lauren’s name during their lovemaking, she’d have been just as hurt and angry. James’s name had come out of nowhere.

  A wet tongue with the feel of sandpaper touched her knee and made her raise her head. Surprised, Kate lifted her arm, and Sallie wriggled next to her, covering her tear-streaked face with licks.

  Kate put her arm around her and hugged her close. “Oh, great. Now that I’m leaving, you’ve decided to like me.” She rubbed her hand across the dog’s back one last time. “Take good care of him, girl. Love him for me.” Standing, she retrieved her briefcase and walked to her car. She started the engine and, with a final glance at the darkened house, drove away.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Chicago

  SHE’D BEEN STARING at the computer screen for almost two hours and hadn’t written a single decent sentence.

  Highlighting the last paragraph, Kate hit “delete” and zapped it into oblivion, thinking that was where the entire chapter needed to go, if only she had the guts to send it there.

  Outside, the rain had started again, and she watched the water stream in rivulets down her office window, finding it much more interesting than work. Everything seemed more interesting than writing today—opening the mail, fielding requests for interviews, answering letters from readers.

  The whole day had been a bust as far as writing went, like the rest of this week and the week before. She was having trouble reconciling her research with what Bret had told her, and the more she struggled with it, the harder it became to write. If she didn’t understand the inconsistencies, how could she hope to present James’s story in a way that readers would understand?

  She used the pencil beside the keyboard to put another x on the desk calendar. Six weeks. Bret hadn’t tried to get in touch with her once.

  He’d accused her of being in love with his brother, but the idea was ludicrous, especially since it was Bret who occupied her thoughts all day.

  Going to Alabama had been a huge mistake. Starting to fall for him had been an even bigger one, and now she was paying dearly for her foolishness. She couldn’t work. She had trouble sleeping. Her dreams were a tumble of images of both brothers that seem to swirl and intertwine.

  It was almost as if… No, the idea was insane, physically impossible. Forensic reports don’t lie.

  She got up and walked to the window, unable to sit still. Her office was thirty-three stories high, and on a gray and rainy day like today, she was literally in the clouds. Her only view was the drab uninteresting building across the street.

  Looking at the steel and glass, she thought immediately of Pine Acres and how the hay in the pastures moved in the wind. The trees would be clothed in their autumn colors and the children would be preparing for Halloween, a few days away. She thought of Henry. Was he old enough to enjoy dressing up to go trick-or-treating? Would Bret take him? In the short time she’d been with the little boy, she’d come to care about him deeply.

  A knock sounded and the door opened. “Here are all the clippings we’ve got on Lauren’s death,” Marcus said, bustling in without waiting to be invited. “I’ve included the autopsy report, the disposition of her property and the interviews with her sister. What else do you need?”

  “Nothing right now, thanks,” she said without turning around, hoping he’d leave. No such luck.

  “How’s that chapter coming?”

  “Okay.”

  He walked up beside her and stared out. “Nasty day.” When she didn’t say anything, he said, “You’re still coming over to Dad’s tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Kate, it’s ages since we’ve all been together. Dinner won’t be the same if you’re not there.”

  “Mmm,” she said noncommittally. Spending time with her rowdy brothers and their families wasn’t exactly what she needed right now.

  He sighed with impatience. “Okay, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something is. You’ve been like a zombie ever since you got back from that trip south. You come in every morning with dark circles under your eyes, so I know you aren’t sleeping. And you spend the day looking out the window when you’re supposed to be working. What happen
ed to you in Alabama?”

  “Nothing happened. I’m simply finding it a little difficult to get focused, that’s all.”

  “That’s strange, considering how obsessed you’ve been with finishing this book.”

  Obsessed. There was that word again.

  “I’m not obsessed. Just because I’m conscientious about my work and I want to give a fair account of the life of a man I respected, that doesn’t make me obsessed. And I’m damn tired of people telling me I am!”

  Marcus raised one blond eyebrow, obviously shocked by her outburst. “Okay, okay, don’t get all bent out of shape. You’re being conscientious. Fine.”

  “I’m sorry, Marcus. I’m a little tired today.”

  “Come to Dad’s tonight. I think you need to get away from this book for a while.”

  “I’ll try, but I won’t promise.”

  Marcus started for the door. “I’ve got to take Cindy to the pediatrician this afternoon, so I’ll be out of the office. Oh, and I finally found that information on drug allergies you asked for. Bret doesn’t have any, but as a child James almost died from a reaction. I’ll type up my notes in the morning.”

  “Wait!” Kate’s heart had plunged to her knees, but she tried to present a calm exterior. “A reaction to what?” she asked evenly.

  “Penicillin.”

  THE CAR STOPPED at the curb and Kate got in.

  “Get down in the seat,” the burly man said.

  “Afraid someone will recognize me?”

  “Don’t want anybody seein’ me riding ’round with a white woman.”

  Kate stifled a laugh and slid farther down. Midnight had come and gone, and it was unlikely another cop would see them at this hour, but Flapjack enjoyed playing the game. And discretion was called for. Her old buddy could get into serious trouble if anyone found out what he was about to do.

  She hated asking for the favor. During her stint as an investigative reporter, she’d solicited his help and not worried about it. Cops and reporters swapped information under the table all the time while pretending publicly not to like each other. But this was different. She wasn’t a reporter anymore; she was a private citizen.