This was crazy, she thought. Absolutely crazy. There was nothing in the world she would have wanted more than to marry him—but only under the right conditions. And right now, they weren’t right. They weren’t right at all.
“I never thought I’d ever hear myself say this, but yes, I’m turning down your marriage proposal.”
Maybe that fall had addled her brain, Whit thought, unable to understand why she would turn him down—if for no other reason then to secure the child’s future. “Elizabeth—”
“Please take me home,” she requested, gesturing toward the path that lay in front of his car. “I think I’d like to get some rest now, like the ER doctor suggested.”
“This isn’t over,” Whit told her stoically, starting up his car again.
“No,” she agreed quietly, looking down at her still very flat abdomen, “it’s not.”
* * *
“I’d like to keep this just between us for a while,” Elizabeth said as Whit pulled up in front of his family’s house. When he looked at her, one eyebrow arched in a silent query, she specified, “You know, the part about the baby.”
Did she really think that she could keep her pregnancy a secret? Didn’t she realize that it was just a matter of time?
“That’s not exactly something that you can hide indefinitely,” he told her, pulling up the hand brake and turning the engine off.
Her eyes locked with his. “You’re assuming that I’m going to be living at the ranch from here on in, and I’m not.”
This point was nonnegotiable as far as he was concerned. “You are as long as my father’s killer is out there,” he informed her. There was no arguing with his tone of voice.
She ached and was more than weary. Too weary to argue with Whit about this now. But she would later. She wasn’t about to become a prisoner in this house. She really liked Landry, and Carson was very likable, as well. The household staff treated her not just politely but with kindness. If they were the only ones living here, there would be no problem. But being around Whit, wanting him to love her and knowing that he didn’t—or couldn’t—that was asking just too much of her. Everyone had a limit and that was definitely hers.
She’d iron all this out later, when she was more up to it, Elizabeth told herself as she slowly eased herself out of the car.
Whit had already rounded the sports car and was at her side, waiting. He took her elbow, determined to help her up the steps.
Elizabeth pulled her arm back. “Don’t worry, I can manage. I’m not going to fall down—or up—every step I encounter.”
“Humor me,” Whit told her tersely. Taking her arm again, he escorted her to the front door.
It seemed to Elizabeth that the moment they walked into the house, people converged from all directions, gathering around them, firing questions.
The household help seemed just as concerned as Carson and Landry appeared to be.
Carson raised his voice slightly to be heard above the others. “Are you all right?”
Landry came to her other side. “Did you break anything?” she wanted to know, her eyes sweeping over Elizabeth, obviously looking for a cast of some sort.
“Why aren’t you in the hospital for observation?” Carson wanted to know.
“She’s fine,” Whit told his siblings authoritatively, thinking to satisfy their questions as well as the questions coming from some of the staff members who were showing their concern. It was obvious to him that during her short stay here, Elizabeth had touched lives and made quite an impression. He went on to tell them, “There’s nothing broken or fractured and she didn’t want to stay overnight for any further observation.” His mouth curved slightly as he said, “It was all they could do to keep her there long enough for X-rays to be taken.”
It was at that moment that Patsy regally swept into the gathering, cutting a path for herself with every step she took. Her attention was clearly fixed on Elizabeth.
“Perhaps you should have stayed at the hospital overnight, dear. We all know that tests aren’t always accurate. Perhaps they missed something important.” Whit’s mother slowly circled her.
The image of a white tiger toying with its prey seemed to burn itself into Elizabeth’s brain.
“You do look very shaken up and pale, dear. A little extra time in a hospital bed might be just what you needed. I would cover the cost, of course, since you fell down stairs that were in my house,” Patsy informed her grandly.
“She’s an adult, Mother,” Whit pointed out, struggling to keep his temper in check. Since his father’s murder, he found himself growing less and less tolerant these days. “And quite capable of making up her own mind.”
“I’m sure she is. No one said she wasn’t,” Patsy replied loftily with a dismissive wave of her hand. “Just, sometimes, when you get banged around the way Elizabeth clearly did, you’re not always capable of clear thinking. I was just trying to be helpful,” Patsy said, smiling up into her houseguest’s face.
“I appreciate that,” Elizabeth said, doing her best not to clench her teeth.
As she said the words, Elizabeth winced inwardly. Now she was playing games, just like Patsy was, saying things she didn’t mean.
But there was more. Being in the woman’s company for even an instant had convinced her that Whit’s mother was the one who’d pushed her. She couldn’t be mistaken about that perfume. No one else here wore it or anything close to it. Not Landry and certainly not any of the female household staff.
She slanted a glance toward Patsy. Just why did the woman hate her so much? Was it just the way she reacted to every woman whose path had crossed the late Reginald Adair’s, or was there something more personal involved here? She had no way of knowing.
Elizabeth’s head began to hurt again.
“If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just go to my room and lie down for a while,” Elizabeth said to the group in general and to Whit specifically.
“Excellent idea,” Patsy declared, beaming at her with satisfaction as if she had just beaten her in a tricky chess maneuver. “You go right ahead and do that, dear. And let me know if you need anything from the staff, anything at all,” she added, playing the benevolent hostess up to the hilt.
“I will,” Elizabeth heard herself saying just as she walked away from the poisonous woman.
* * *
She did not belong here, Elizabeth thought a little while later. Maybe Whit meant well, wanting to watch over her until whoever had killed his father was caught. But all things considered, she didn’t think she was going to fare all that well here if she was forced to stay. There were a number of reasons she felt that way, not to mention that his mother seemed to really have it in for her, and who knew what else the woman was capable of doing?
Her safest bet was to get her things together as soon as possible and to leave—she’d sneak out in the middle of the night if she had to, Elizabeth decided. The safety of her baby came above all else and she was afraid that the baby wasn’t safe here.
The knock on her door had Elizabeth stiffening and all but jumping out of her skin.
Relax, Lizzy. The witch doesn’t know how to read minds.
The second knock had her responding, “Yes?” as she looked around the room for something to use as a weapon—just in case she needed to defend herself.
Rather than someone talking to her through the door, she saw the guest room door opening. Her heart sped up tenfold. The next moment, she realized that it was Whit—and he was carrying a tray.
“I thought you might be hungry. As far as I can remember, you didn’t have lunch or dinner today,” he told her, carrying the tray over to a side table.
He was right, she hadn’t eaten, but food was the very last thing on her mind right now.
“You didn’t have to do this,” she told him, indicating th
e tray. “I know where the kitchen is.”
Whit drew the table over to her bed for her convenience. “Knowing where it is and going there are two separate things. I can’t have you starving to death just because you’re stubborn.”
“I’m not hungry.” It was a lie. Now that she gave it some thought, she realized that she actually was hungry. But she was also going through some major conflicting feelings.
And Whit definitely figured into all of them.
“Then do it to keep your strength up—for the baby’s sake,” he coaxed.
She opened her mouth to argue and to tell him that he fought dirty. But Whit really was making sense. To oppose him in this case made her seem unreasonable and combative for its own sake.
With a shrug, she gave in.
“Mind if I stay?” he asked her. “I can go if you want me to,” he added so she wouldn’t think he was just being rhetorical, asking her if she minded his presence. He didn’t want her to feel as if he was forcing his company on her.
“No, that’s all right,” Elizabeth quickly conceded. “You can stay.” She looked at the tray of food he’d brought in for her. “You can help me finish this.”
“You need help?” Whit asked, amazed. “There’s hardly anything here,” he pointed out. And, in his estimation, thinking like a man with a man’s appetite, there wasn’t. “A dove would be hard-pressed to sustain itself on just this.”
“A dove, huh?” That struck her as an odd choice for a comparison. “Why a dove?” she wanted to know.
“First thing that came to mind.” He shrugged. “A dove is pretty, gentle, elegant when it flies.” He looked at her. “There’re a lot of similarities between the two of you.”
“I’m just a little larger,” she said wryly.
“Just a little,” he agreed.
“And I don’t fly,” she added, an amused smile curving the corners of her mouth.
“Minor detail,” he replied.
Silence ensued for a couple of beats, and then Whit said what had been on his mind ever since he’d found out about his unborn child. “I’m glad you never slept with my father.”
“You actually thought that I had?” Elizabeth questioned, both surprised and upset that he had even entertained such a thought. His mother was just a vicious, exceedingly jealous person, but he should have known better. That he didn’t hurt her.
“Why?” she wanted to know. “Did you think so little of me?”
“No, just the opposite,” Whit was quick to assure her. “The first time I saw you, you were so regal-looking, you all but melted my knees. I wasn’t sure if I would be able to walk away.”
The words were very pretty—she hadn’t thought him capable of giving voice to something like that—but it still didn’t change the way things were. “You hardly talked to me,” she reminded him.
In five years, Whit had never asked her a single personal question. And when they did talk, it was always about work. Had that fateful night in Nevada not happened, she would have sworn that he wouldn’t have been able to pick her out of a lineup.
“Because I thought you and my father—” Whit stopped, struggling to find the right words to use, words that would explain but not offend. He tried again. “I couldn’t see him not wanting you. You were everything he always valued in a woman. You were—and are—beautiful, smart and extremely sharp.”
Again, lovely adjectives, but at bottom was an insult he was attempting to distract her from recognizing. “And you thought that all your father had to do was beckon and I’d fall into bed with him?”
“Not in those words, but—” He was definitely struggling with this explanation. It just wasn’t coming out right. “That would be the end result, yes,” Whit conceded.
“Well, I didn’t fall into bed with him, not even once,” she replied primly. “I wouldn’t. And I think he knew that, because your father never propositioned me.” She smiled to herself as she thought over her work environment. “I think he valued my brain more than my looks.”
But Whit wasn’t ready to let this go just yet. They’d gone this far with it, he wanted to go all the way. “And if he had propositioned you?”
Her eyes met his. Hers had a look of angry defiance in them. “I still wouldn’t have gone to bed with him. I have to feel something before I make love with a man,” she informed Whit.
“But you went to bed with me,” Whit reminded her. There’d been no in-depth conversation, no protestations of feelings or declarations of love. Not even fleetingly. They had talked over dinner—a fairly liquid dinner—and then they’d made love as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
She looked down at her tray. The little bit of food he had brought her was almost all gone. She hardly remembered eating it.
“I refer you to my last statement,” she told him quietly. Looking up, she saw that Whit appeared somewhat puzzled. “In case you weren’t paying attention, I said that I have to feel something for the person I’m going to bed with. Something that amounts to a lot more than a whim, or because there’s nothing interesting on any of the cable channels,” she informed Whit cryptically. “I’m finished,” she announced.
A sense of anxiety surged through him. Was she saying she was finished with him? With the family? With remaining here, under his roof? Or was she saying something even more ominous?
“What?” he pressed, lost. “What are you finished with?”
“Eating,” she supplied, indicating the tray. “I’m finished eating. You can bring the tray back to the kitchen if you like. Or leave it here and I’ll take it there in the morning.”
She wasn’t sure why, but her words suddenly felt rather heavy, weighing down her tongue, sticking to the roof of her mouth as she uttered them.
Maybe it had to do with the look in his eyes. He was looking at her as if he had never really seen her before this moment.
Whit moved the tray and the table under it off to the side. Instead of carrying the tray out as she’d suggested, Whit moved in closer, occupying the space that had been taken up by the side table a moment ago.
“I’m sorry,” he told her, his voice low, sensual.
Her heart rate was beginning to speed up. She could feel it as it started to race. His eyes were now locked with hers.
“For what?” she asked.
“That I can’t be what you want me to be. If I could, I would.”
This was tearing at her heart, but she didn’t give in because she knew there was more to be had than what he believed there was. Everyone could feel love—they just had to want to feel it.
“If you wanted to be,” Elizabeth informed him, “you would be. We are all masters of our own destinies,” she told him quietly. “Even if we don’t think we are.”
Whit took her chin in his hand, looking into her eyes. Thinking just how beautiful she was.
There was a glow to her, he realized. Had pending motherhood done that?
Or was it just his own desire that painted her in golden hues?
He didn’t know and right now, it didn’t really matter. All that mattered was this all-consuming ache for her that he felt inside of him. He needed to appease it, to silence it. To make it go away.
Whit brought his lips down on hers.
Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t pull away.
Chapter 14
The little voice in her head that was screaming “Mayday” was growing fainter and fainter, drowned out by the triple beat of her heart as well as suppressed by the size of her desire.
Elizabeth hadn’t really known how much she’d wanted this—or how much she really wanted him—until Whit had come to her room and kissed her like this.
The last time he’d kissed her, she had felt aroused, but that surging feeling had been cut short and she’d known that
nothing was going to come of it.
Nothing should have come from it.
There was no such sensation now.
Now she had a very strong feeling that Whit would make love with her unless she herself put a stop to it. It was all up to her how this would go—or didn’t go. All completely in her hands.
Elizabeth was well aware of that.
The first time they had made love, it had practically been a matter of spontaneous combustion.
But even then she’d known that if she wanted it to go no further, to stop before they became totally, hopelessly intimate, Whit would have stopped. He was not the type of man who forced himself on a woman, not the type of man who would claim that once uncorked, the champagne bottle could not be recorked and put away, seemingly intact.
Elizabeth was not sure of many things in this life, but she would have bet her soul on that.
This time, just as on that very fateful night, she had no desire to stop, no desire to step away from the center of all this passion and pretend nothing was going on.
Whit might not love her, she conceded, but right now, he wanted to make love to her and with her. Right now, because of the way she ached inside, the way she suddenly, desperately wanted him, she would settle for that.
If he couldn’t love her, she was willing, just this one last time, to go that route. Accepting his marriage proposal would be equivalent to living an endless lie, but making love with him, that was living in the moment. And right now, all that counted to her was the moment.
Whit had forgotten just how very sweet her lips could taste. Forgotten just how much she could stir him up with the slightest touch of her hand.
His head was spinning and he could feel his gut twisting almost into a knot for want of her. He wanted to make love with her.
The forbidden fruit label had been peeled off. She wasn’t forbidden to him anymore. Elizabeth hadn’t been his father’s mistress.
She denied ever having slept with his father, and he believed her. Heaven help him, he believed her. Whether it was because he wanted to so badly or because he trusted her not to lie, he wasn’t really able to say. But the end result was that he felt Elizabeth was telling the truth when she said she had never been one of his father’s playthings.
Carrying His Secret Page 15
