by Nora Roberts
"It doesn't matter. It won't make any difference." Tears came closer to the surface. "You won't do anything about it."
It hurt, but then, this recent distrust from Ali always hurt. "Why don't you tell me, then we'll see. I can't do anything about it if I don't know what it is."
"They're going to have a father-daughter dinner at school." The words burst out, full of anger and pain. "They're all going to bring their dads."
"Oh." No peace here, Laura admitted and touched her daughter's cheek. "I'm sorry, Ali. That's hard. Uncle Josh will go with you."
"It's not the same."
"No, it's not the same."
"I want it to be the same," Ali said in a furious whisper. "Why can't you make it be the same?"
"I can't." There was relief when Ali went unresisting into her arms. And there was grief.
"Why don't you make him come back? Why don't you do something to make him come back?"
Now there was guilt to layer on top of grief. "There's nothing I can do."
"You don't want him to come back." With her eyes bright and hot, Ali jerked back. "You told him to go away, and you don't want him to come back."
This was a thin and shaky line to travel. "Your father and I are divorced, Ali. That's not going to change. The fact that we can't, and don't want to, live together anymore doesn't have anything to do with you and Kayla."
"Then why doesn't he ever come?" Tears poured out again, but they were hot now, and angry. "Other kids have parents that don't live together, but their dads come and they go places together."
The line got shakier. "Your father's very busy, and he's living in Palm Springs now." Lies, Laura thought. Pitiful lies. "I'm sure once he's more settled, he'll spend more time with you." When did he ever?
"He doesn't come because he doesn't want to see you." Ali turned away. "It's because of you."
Laura closed her eyes. What good would it be to deny it, to defend herself and leave her child vulnerable? "If it is, I'll do what I can to make it easier for him, and for you." On legs that weren't quite steady, Laura rose. "There are things I can't change, I can't fix. And I can't stop you from blaming me for it."
Fighting to control both grief and temper, Laura took a slow breath. "I don't want you to be unhappy, Ali. I love you. I love you and Kayla more than anything in the world."
Ali's shoulders slumped. "Will you ask him if he could come to the dinner? It's next month, on a Saturday."
"Yes, I'll ask."
Shame eked through the anger and misery. She didn't have to look at her mother's face to know she would see hurt. "I'm sorry, Mama."
"So am I."
"I'll tell Kayla I'm sorry, too. She draws really good. And I… I can't."
"You have other talents." Gently Laura turned Ali around, cupped her shoulders. "You dance so beautifully. And you play the piano so much better than I did at your age. Better than I do now."
"You never play anymore."
There were a lot of things she didn't do anymore. "How about a duet tonight? We'll play. Kayla can sing."
"She sounds like a bullfrog."
"I know."
And when Ali looked up, they grinned at each other.
Another crisis averted, Laura decided, as she settled down with her family after dinner. There was a cheery fire blazing in the hearth and rich, creamy cake to be devoured. The curtains in the parlor were opened to a starry night. And the lights inside glowed warm.
Birthday presents had been unwrapped, opened, and admired. The baby was sleeping upstairs. Josh and Byron were puffing on cigars, and her daughters, fences mended for the moment, were at the piano. Kayla's booming frog of a voice competed with Ali's skillful playing.
"Then she went for the Chanel bag," Margo was saying, comfortably curled on the sofa as she talked shop. "It took her more than an hour, and she just kept piling up stock. Three suits, an evening gown—your white Dior, Laura—four pairs of shoes. Count them, four. Six blouses, three sweaters, two silk slacks. And that was before she started on the jewelry."
"It was a red-letter day." Kate propped her bare feet on the Louis XIV coffee table. "I had a hunch when the woman pulled up in a white stretch limo. She'd come up from L.A. because a friend of hers had told her about Pretenses."
Kate sipped herbal tea, hardly missing the punch of coffee. "I'm telling you," she went on, "this woman was a pro. She said she's buying a country home and she's going to come back and choose some of the furnishings and whatnots from the shop. Turns out she's the wife of some hotshot producer. And she's going to tell all her friends about this clever little secondhand shop in Monterey."
"That's wonderful." So wonderful, Laura could almost accept not being in on the kill.
"It's making me wonder if we shouldn't think about expanding sooner. Maybe in L.A. rather than Carmel."
"Hold it, hotshot." Kate eyed Margo narrowly. "We're not talking seriously about another branch until we've been in business two full years. Then I run some figures, do some projections."
"Always the accountant," Margo muttered.
"You bet your ass. So, what did you do with your day off, Laura?"
"Oh, a little gardening." A little bill paying, closet cleaning, moping.
"Is that J.T.?" With a mother's superhearing, Margo tuned in to the sounds whispering out of the baby monitor beside her. "I'd better check on him."
"No, let me." Laura rose quickly. "Please. You get to have him all the time. I want to play."
"Sure. But if he's…" Margo trailed off, glancing toward the two young girls at the piano. "I guess you know what to do."
"I think I have a pretty good idea." Aware that Margo might change her mind, Laura hurried out.
It was amazing and gratifying to see the way her impulsive, glamorous friend had taken to motherhood. Even two short years before, no one would have believed Margo Sullivan, supermodel, the rage of Europe, would be settled down in her hometown, running a secondhand shop and raising a family. Margo certainly wouldn't have believed it herself, Laura mused.
But fate had dealt her a tough hand. Rather than fold and run, she'd stuck. And, with determination and flair, had turned fate on its ear.
Now she had Josh, and John Thomas, and a thriving business. She had a home she loved.
Laura hoped that somehow, someday, she could deal fate the same blow.
"There he is," Laura cooed as she approached the antique crib that she and Ann had hauled out of storage. "There's the darling. Oh, what a handsome boy you are, John Thomas Templeton."
Truer words were never spoken. He'd had a rich gene pool to choose from, and he'd chosen well. Golden hair grew thick around a glorious little face. Round with babyhood it was, with his mother's stunning blue eyes, his father's well-sculpted mouth.
His fretful whimpering stopped the moment she lifted him. And the feeling, one that perhaps only a woman understands, soared through her. Here was baby, beginnings, beauty.
"There, sweetheart, were you lonely?" She walked him, as much to pleasure herself as to soothe. She'd wanted more children. She knew it was selfish when she had two such beautiful daughters. But, oh, she'd wanted more children.
Now she had a nephew to spoil. And she intended to do so, lavishly. Kate and Byron would have children, Laura mused as she laid J. T. on the changing table. There would be more babies to cuddle.
She changed him, powdered him, tickled him to make him giggle and kick his legs. He grinned at her, wrapped a fist around a curl and tugged. Laura went with the pull to nuzzle his neck.
"Bring back memories?" Josh asked as he stepped inside the nursery.
"Does it ever! When Annie and I were putting this room together for his visits, we wallowed in memories." She lifted J. T. high over her head, where he could gurgle in delight. "Both my babies slept in that crib."
"So did you and I." He ran a hand over the curved rungs before moving to his son. Josh's fingers itched to hold him, but he held back, allowed Laura to cuddle the baby.
"E
veryone who's been there says it, but I can't stop myself. The years go so fast, Josh. Treasure every second of it."
"You did." He touched her hair. "You are, and have been, the most incredible mother. I've admired you for that."
"You're going to make me sloppy," she murmured, and buried her face in the sweet curve of J.T.'s neck.
"I figure you and I had the best possible examples to follow. We've been lucky, Laura, to have people like Mom and Dad for parents."
"Don't I know it. I know they're in the middle of negotiating the construction of the new hotel on Bimini, but they called today just to wish me happy birthday."
"And Dad told the story of how he drove Mom through the worst winter storm in the history of central California when she went into labor with you."
"Of course." She lifted her head and grinned. "He loves telling that story. Rain, floods, mud slides, lightning. All but an appearance of the Angel of Doom and the seven plagues of Egypt."
"'But I got her there,' " Josh quoted his father. " 'With forty-five minutes to spare.' " He stroked his son's hair. "Not everybody's as lucky. Do you remember Michael Fury?"
Images of a dark, dangerous man with hot eyes. Who could forget Michael Fury? "Yes, you used to hang around with him and look for girls and trouble. He went into the merchant marines or something."
"He went into a lot of things. There were some problems at home—an unpleasant divorce. Well, two actually. His mother got married for the third time when he was about twenty-five. This one seems to have stuck. Anyway, he came back to the area a few weeks ago."
"Oh, really? I didn't know."
"You and Michael never ran in the same circles," Josh said dryly. "The thing is, he took over the old place, where he grew up. His mother and stepfather relocated in Boca, and he bought the property from them. He's raising horses now."
"Horses. Hmm." Not terribly interested, she began to walk the baby again. Josh would get to his point eventually, she knew. Sometimes he was such a lawyer, caging the meaning with words.
'Those storms we had a couple weeks ago?''
"Oh, bad ones," she remembered. "Almost as bad as the fateful night of Laura Templeton's birth."
"Yeah, more mud slides. One of them destroyed Michael's place."
"Oh, I'm sorry." She stopped walking and tuned in. "I'm really sorry. Was he hurt?"
"No. He managed to get himself and his stock out. But the house is a loss. It's going to take some time to rebuild, if that's what he wants to do. Meanwhile, he'll need temporary lodgings for himself and his horses. Something he could rent, you know, for the short term. And I was thinking, the stables and the groom's apartment above them aren't being used."
Alarm came first. "Josh."
"Just hear me out. I know Mom and Dad were always a little, well, wary of him."
"To say the least."
"He's an old friend," Josh returned. "And a good one. He's also handy. No one's done any maintenance or repairs on that building in years, not since-" He broke off, cleared his throat.
"Not since I sold off the horses," Laura finished. "Because Peter didn't care for them, or the amount of time I put in with them."
"The point is, the building should be looked after. Right now it's just sitting there empty. You could use the rent, since you refuse to dip into Templeton capital to run this place."
"I'm not going over that ground again."
"Fine." He recognized that set to her mouth and didn't bother. "The rent from a building you're not using would help you out. Right?"
"Yes, but-"
He held up a hand. He would cut through the logic and practicalities first. "You could use someone around here, in the short term, to do some heavy work, to put the stables back in shape. That's something you simply can't do yourself."
"That's true, but-"
Now, Josh thought, for the clincher. "And I have an old friend whose home has been washed out from under him. I'd consider it a personal favor."
"Low blow," she muttered.
"They're always the most effective." Knowing he'd scored, he gave her hair a quick, affectionate tug. "Look, it should work out for everyone, but give it a couple of weeks. If it's not working, I'll find an alternative."
"All right. But if he starts having drunken poker parties or orgies-"
"We'll try to keep them discreet," Josh finished and grinned. "Thanks." He kissed her and took the baby. "He's a good man, Laura. One you can count on in tight squeezes."
Laura wrinkled her nose at his back as he carried J. T. out of the room. "I don't intend to count on Michael Fury, particularly in a tight squeeze."
Chapter Three
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The last place Michael Fury had expected to take up residence, however temporarily, was on the great Templeton estate. Oh, he'd visited there often enough in the past, under the subtly watchful eyes of Thomas and Susan Templeton and the not so subtly watchful eye of Ann Sullivan.
He was well aware that the Templeton housekeeper had considered him a mongrel let loose among her purebreds. And he assumed that she'd been worried about his intentions toward her daughter.
She could have rested easy there. As lip smackingly gorgeous as Margo was, and always had been, she and Michael had never been more than casual friends.
Maybe he'd kissed her a couple of times. How was a red-blooded man supposed to resist that mouth? But that had been the beginning and end of it. She'd been for Josh. Even that long ago and despite the shortsightedness of youth, he'd realized that.
Michael Fury didn't poach on a pal.
Despite their different backgrounds, they had been friends. Real friends. Michael didn't consider many people real friends. He would, and had, gone to the wall for Josh, and he knew he could depend on the same.
Still, he would never have asked for the favor and would likely have refused it but for his horses. He didn't want them boarded any longer than necessary in a public facility. He'd gotten sentimental over them, and he wasn't ashamed of it. In the last few years they'd been one of the few constants in his life.
He'd tried a number of things. He'd drifted. He liked to drift. Joining the merchant marine had been an escape, he'd reveled in it. He'd seen a lot of the world, and he liked some of it.
It had been cars for a time. He still had an affection for them, liked to drive full out. He'd had some success on the race circuit in Europe, but it hadn't satisfied him in the long term.
In between the sea and the cars, there had been a brief stint as a mercenary, during which he'd learned too much about killing and warring for profit. And maybe he'd been afraid he was too good at it, afraid it would satisfy him too well. It had fattened his wallet but scarred his heart.
He'd been married once also, only briefly, and could claim no success from that experience either.
It was during his stuntman stage that he fell for horses. He'd learned that craft, gained a reputation, broken several bones. He jumped out of buildings, rioted in staged bar fights, was shot off roofs, set on fire. And he tumbled off of countless horses.
Michael Fury knew how to take a fall. But he wasn't able to roll when he fell in love with horses.
So he bought them, and bred them, and trained them. He had put down a sick horse and labored through the birth of a foal.
Though he knew the odds were long, he thought he'd found what he'd been looking for.
It seemed like fate when his stepfather called, telling Michael that he and Michael's mother were going to sell the property in the hills. Though he had no sentiment for it, Michael heard himself offering to buy it.
It was good horse country.
So, he'd come back, and nature had delivered a hard backhanded Slap in welcome. He didn't give a good damn about the house. But his horses—he would have died saving them, and he'd come dangerously close as those acres of mud tumbled down.
There he was, filthy, exhausted, alone, looking at what had been his next start. The oozing rubble of it.
T
here had been a time when he would have simply cut his losses and moved on. But this time he was sticking.
Now Josh had offered him a hand, and weighing his pride against his horses, Michael had accepted.
As he swung up the drive toward Templeton House, he hoped he wasn't gambling on the wrong roll of the dice. He'd always admired the place. You couldn't help it. So he stopped in the middle of the drive, got out, and took a long look.
He stood in the mild winter air, a rangy man with an athlete's disciplined body, a brawler's ready stance. He was dressed in black, his most usual attire, because it saved him from thinking when he reached for clothes. The snug black jeans and sweater under a scarred leather bomber jacket gave him the look of a desperado.
He would have said it wasn't far from the truth.
His black hair danced in the breeze. It was longer than practical, sleek and thick by nature. When he was working, he often pulled it back in a stubby ponytail. He hated the barber and would have suffered torments of hell going to what they called a stylist.
He'd forgotten to shave—he'd meant to, but he got involved with the horses. The stubble only added to the dangerous appeal of a rawboned face. His mouth was surprisingly soft. Many women could testify to its skill and generosity. But whatever softness was there was often overlooked when the observer was pinned by hard eyes the color of ball lightning.
Over them, his brows were arched, the left one marred by a faint white scar.
He had others on his body, from car wrecks, fights, his stunt work. He'd learned to live with them, just as he lived with the scars inside.
As he studied the glinting stone, the spearing towers, and glinting glass of Templeton House, he smiled. Christ, what a place, he thought. A castle for modern royalty.
Here comes Michael Fury, he thought. And what the hell are you going to do about it?
He chuckled to himself as he drove up the winding lane, cutting through rolling lawns accented by stately old trees, shrubs waiting to burst into bloom. He didn't imagine that the reigning princess was too happy about his impending stay. Josh must have done some fast talking to persuade his proper society sister to open even the stables for the likes of Michael Fury.
