The Secret Daughter

by Catherine Spencer

  “If you didn’t like the idea, why did you go along with it? Did it never occur to you to stand up to her and tell her that it was your life and you’d damned well live it the way you saw fit?”

  “At the time,” she replied, stung by the scorn he made no attempt to hide, “it was all I could do to get from one day to the next without falling apart. I’d been through a pretty traumatizing experience, in case you’ve forgotten.”

  “Yeah, well...” His glance slid away and settled on the distant hills. “As you said earlier, you can’t go back and change the past.”

  She knew then he’d never had the slightest intention of pursuing the relationship. What she had perceived as the beginning of something wonderful hadn’t been anything more than a one-night stand for him, one he’d have preferred to avoid if he’d had the chance.

  “You never really cared about me, did you, Joe?”

  “I was there when you needed rescuing, wasn’t I?”

  “Yes. But you’d have done the same for anyone.”

  “Not quite, Imogen. I like to think I’m civilized enough to defend a woman without expecting her to reward me with her sexual favors.”

  “Then what made me so attractive all of a sudden? You’d seen me around town before and never shown any interest in pursuing me.”

  “I was five years older than you, for crying out loud! And even if the age difference hadn’t mattered, you were hardly the girl next door. You don’t need me to point out that we had nothing in common.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question. What made that night different?”

  “Damned if I know how to put it in words.” He shrugged helplessly. “You were so fine, so...fragile. I thought you were going to break. And I wanted to hold you together somehow.”

  “Are you saying you felt sorry for me?”

  He looked at her, his eyes somber in the night. “Yes.”

  She recoiled before his bluntness. “Oh!” she whispered, and spun away before he saw how his reply had wounded her. She had given him everything. Everything! Her heart, her body, her soul. And all he’d been able to offer her in return was his pity.

  He came up behind her and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Look, I wasn’t trying to hurt you then and I’m not trying to hurt you now. I’m being honest. Isn’t that what this evening’s all about, telling each other the truth?”

  “Yes,” she said, shrugging off his touch. “And now that we have, I see no need to prolong things. If you don’t mind, I’d like to go home.”

  He might never have betrayed a moment’s concern for her feelings. “I do mind, princess. You’re only halfway through your story, and I haven’t begun to give my account, so finish what you started, unless you want to spend the rest of the night out here.”

  She stared at him mutinously.

  He folded his arms and stared back. “I’m waiting, Imogen.”

  “There’s nothing more to tell. I got pregnant When my mother found out, she shipped me off to stay with her second cousin.”

  “Where?”

  “What does it matter?” she asked bitterly. “It’s enough that I wasn’t walking around Rosemont sticking out a mile in front and shaming her in front of her golfing friends and bridge partners at the club.”

  “Where, Imogen?”

  She spat out the words like bullets. “Ferndale, a little town near Niagara Falls. I stayed there for the pregnancy, went into labor on February the eighteenth and gave birth on the nineteenth. As soon as I was well enough to travel, I picked up where I’d left off before I so inconsiderately got myself in trouble and went to school in Switzerland for a year. I never came back to Rosemont.”

  “Why not?”

  “There was nothing to come back to, except a lot of unhappy reminders. I decided to see the world instead. I’d done Europe already, so I traveled to the Far East and New Zealand, then made my way back to Canada and settled in Vancouver, where I’ve lived ever since. End of story.”

  “What brought you here now?”

  “Miss Duncliffe’s retirement—and the hope that I could establish some sort of adult relationship with my mother.”

  “Why? You say she felt you betrayed her, but it seems to me the shoe’s on the other foot. Where was she when you needed her?”

  “Where were you?” Imogen challenged. “Don’t you see? You’re the only one who could have made a difference. If you’d been there—”

  “Are you suggesting it’s my fault the baby died?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. Who’s to say how much my state of mind during the pregnancy might have affected the health of my baby?” She was crying and didn’t care—not that he was seeing her at her worst or that what came spilling out of her mouth served no purpose except to hurt him as he’d hurt her. “Maybe she knew her father didn’t want her so she just didn’t bother to live.”

  “Imogen!”

  She heard the dismay in his voice and spun away, embarrassed to hear herself sobbing uncontrollably but unable to stop it. She hadn’t wept like that in over eight years, not since the day she’d walked out of the clinic in Ferndale feeling more alone and unloved than any human being ever should. Having found a crack in the dam of her defenses, all the grief she’d repressed for so long rose up and poured through, overwhelming her.

  “Leave me alone,” she wailed. “Go away!”

  “Sure,” he crooned, his hands gentle on her shoulders. “Whatever you say, princess.”

  But instead of letting her go, he turned her around, cupped her face between his palms and with the ball of both thumbs trapped the tears pooling along her lashes and streaming down her cheeks. And then he closed his mouth over hers and stopped her sobs with a kiss.

  The pressure of his lips was light, soothing, comforting. A friend’s kiss. Slowly, the hard lump of misery inside her melted. Her fists unclenched against the solid warmth of his chest. The aching tension drained out of her throat, leaving her neck as supple as a daisy stern bending in a breeze.

  But then everything changed. Imperceptibly, the way mist can creep up to obscure all the sharp, clear lines of a scene until the view becomes blurred and softened, his embrace crossed the boundary separating friend from lover.

  He slid his fingers away from her face to trace her throat and the angle of her collarbone. His knee nudged her legs apart, a subtle, persuasive invitation. One arm swept around her waist. And the kiss that had begun so quietly rose to a thundering crescendo, wild and insatiable.

  She should have expected what came next. It was not, after all, her first experience with him. The combination of summer scents, shadows and Joe Donnelly looming tall and dark against her took potent effect. Helpless to fend off the heat coiling within her, she leaned into him, swayed against him.

  Her arms found their way around his neck. Her fingers buried themselves in his hair. So silky it was, so soft and thick. And he was so...hard.

  The heat shot through her, liquid satin, sapping her of the will to resist, intent only on sheathing his strength. What might she have done if he had not put an end to things?

  She knew and was horrified. At eighteen, she could blame her innocence. At twenty-seven, she could blame only herself. If he had not pulled away and held her firmly at arm’s length, she would have sunk down with him at the water’s edge where the rocks gave way to powder-fine sand and she would have made love with him. She would have risked everything again just for the fleeting ecstasy of being possessed by him one more time. Oh, God, would she never learn?

  But he had learned all too well. Thrusting her away, he said, his voice like gravel, “I’m taking you home. Now.”

  When she sagged against him, deflated, demoralized, he caught her in his arms, strode to the bike and plunked her on the pillion as if she were a wilful, disobedient child being banished to the naughty chair.

  “Put this on,” he said, shoving the helmet at her, and before she’d had time to collect herself, he was revving the engine as if he intended to soar clear of the
earth and deposit her on some far-flung planet.

  Too soon, they were at Deepdene and he was towing her past the greenhouses and along the path beside the vegetable gardens, so anxious to be rid of her that it was all she could do to keep pace with him. Until he came into the glade where the cottage stood, and then he stopped dead, apparently mesmerized by the sight of the moon-dappled path leading to the front door.

  “Remember this place?” she taunted softly. She couldn’t help herself. Once upon a time, those walls had closed around them and shut out the ugliness. Under the protection of that roof, they’d made magic out of mayhem—together. Two hearts, two bodies, two souls. How could he claim to have been motivated solely by compassion ?

  “I remember,” he said, dropping her hand as if it were a live coal and wheeling away from her. “You can find your own way from here.”

  Wraithlike, he merged with the shadows and within seconds had disappeared. But the feel of his arms around her, the touch of his mouth on hers, lingered, kept alive by the surge of emotion that had flared between him and her. He could protest all he liked, but out there on that beach, when he had kissed her and held her, it had not been because he felt sorry for her. Her experience might be limited, but she knew enough to recognize the signs of a man tormented by passion and driven by desire. The racing heart, the labored breath, the proud thrust of masculine nesh—they weren’t conjured by sympathy. For a few delirious moments, he had wanted her.

  As for herself—oh, she was a mess! It was one thing to realize that facing up to memories was the only way to strip them of their power. But he had pushed her one step further and made her see that the careful, no-risk, no-pain adult life she’d built for herself was just as much a prison as the claustrophobic confines of Deepdene had been when she was growing up. And without meaning to, he’d once again come to her rescue and set her free. Free to feel, to care, to hunger. To love.

  Why was it, she wondered, wending her way to the house, that of all the men she knew, he was the only one who could ease the starving, empty places in her heart? Why not someone easy and straightforward instead of this difficult, unpredictable, untamable man?

  It was after midnight when she let herself in, and the house was filled with the deep silence of people peacefully sleeping. Quietly, she crept upstairs.

  The first thing she saw in her room was the diary, lying on the floor where she’d dropped it when Joe had phoned. It struck her as prophetic that it had fallen open at an entry dated in the spring of her sixteenth year.

  May 20

  Dear Diary, Went to the long weekend beef barbecue at the beach with Rick Aldren this afternoon. Joe D. showed up on his Harley, with his date hanging on behind. He was wearing denim cutoffs and a shirt open practically to the waist so that the hair on his chest showed. He’s gorgeous. And so sexy. Wonder what it would be like to have him for a boyfriend but I guess I’ll never find out.

  And you never did, Imogen thought, slapping the diary closed. But you found out only too well what it felt like to have him dump you once he’d had his way with you, so if you must keep dipping into the past, at least have the good sense to learn from it, and don’t make the same mistake again.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  AFTER leaving her, Joe rode through the countryside for hours, skirting the small towns and sticking to the narrow, winding side roads, with nothing but the waning moon for company. Some time between three and four in the morning, he pulled over and walked for a spell beside a creek. Usually, a spin on the bike cleared his head, but not tonight. Tonight there was no escaping the thoughts swirling through his mind. He was going to have to wrestle them into order.

  Ahead, an outcropping of flat rock overhung the water. Making his way to the end, he sat down, planted his feet apart, rested his elbows on his bent knees and stared moodily into space.

  He wasn’t normally a man given to retrospection. The way he saw it, what was done was done. He liked to think he’d learned a few things over the years—to respect courage, to value loyalty, to despise cruelty. And to live with the knowledge that he’d killed a man, albeit accidentally.

  To learn some eight years after the fact that he had another’s blood on his hands—his own child’s, God help him!—almost destroyed him. Not because he was arrogant enough to think he could have altered the outcome of the birth, but because he could and should have prevented the conception. He couldn’t shift responsibility elsewhere. The blame sat squarely on him.

  “Do you remember?” Imogen had asked.

  Hell, yes, he remembered! All too well.

  Smuggling booze into the prom was as much a part of the hoopla surrounding the event as the fact that a few of the grads—guys, as a rule—ended the evening with their heads down the nearest toilet and nothing but the mother of all hangovers the next morning to remind them they were supposed to have had a blast the night before.

  Nothing had changed from the time Joe had graduated, five years earlier, which was why he offered to be there when the bash ended, to make sure his sister got home safely.

  The dance had been held at the Briarwood. He left his Harley at the end of the parking lot near the hotel gardens, figuring he had time for a cigarette before Patsy showed up. He’d been a fool in more ways than one back then. Smoking, speeding, womanizing. But that night had changed everything. He’d never been the same since.

  At first he hadn’t paid attention to the muttered exchange taking place on the other side of the tree he was leaning against. Had, in fact, been on the verge of distancing himself from the sound of heavy breathing punctuated by the rustle of clothing being shoved aside. He saw enough action of his own, and got no thrill from listening in on some other guy putting the moves on a girl.

  But then he realized something wasn’t right. If the hysterical edge in the girl’s voice as she begged, “Don’t, please...please, stop it!” hadn’t been enough to alert him, the sound of fabric tearing, followed by muffled tears, had.

  Tossing the cigarette aside, he plowed through the fancy shrubbery, no doubt leaving a trail of destruction in his wake, and come upon Philip Maitland, son of the mayor, slobbering drunkenly all over the Palmer princess. There was enough of a moon for Joe to see the dress hanging off her shoulder, the half-bared breast, the glimpse of thigh exposed by Maitland’s obscene groping. And the tears pouring down her face as she struggled to get away.

  Given all that, he’d hardly been left with a choice. Hurling himself forward, he grabbed Maitland in a full nelson, spun him around and, for good measure, gave him a boot in the butt that sent him sprawling face first in a flower bed. The last time he bothered to look, the mayor’s son had been bent double, retching over a bed of petunias.

  The girl hadn’t been in much better shape. It was less her pitiful attempts to cover herself than the look of blank terror on her face that had moved him to go to her, haul her upright and wrap his arms around her.

  She quivered in his hold, her breathing, as rapid and shallow as if she’d run a three-minute mile, fluttering against his throat. And her eyes—wide open, unblinking, unfocused—had stared through him to a horror only she could see.

  “Here,” he said, shucking off his jacket and trying to drape it around her shoulders without touching her. A guy didn’t need a degree in psychology to see that her panic was merely in a holding pattern, waiting to attack again at the slightest provocation. And he wasn’t at all sure she knew he was there to help her, not hurt her.

  She stood passively, helpless as a kitten caught in a storm.

  “Is there someone you’d like me to call?” he asked. “Your mother, perhaps, or a taxi?”

  She jerked to life then, rearing away from him as if he’d threatened to run a picture of her, all torn and disheveled, on the front page of the Daily Herald. “No!” she exclaimed in a shocked whisper. “No one must see me like this! Please, please, couldn’t you take me home?”

  There wasn’t room for two to ride pillion on the bike, and Patsy, who had an eleven-thir
ty curfew, would be looking for him any minute. But he could hardly walk away from the princess. “Sure,” he said. “Just wait here while I take care of a couple of things.” Then, seeing the terrified way she glanced at Maitland groveling in the dirt, added, “Don’t worry, he’s one of the things I’m taking care of. He won’t be bothering you again tonight.”

  “Thank you,” she whimpered. He guessed that being polite, even in the face of disaster, came as naturally to her as cursing did to him.

  He yanked Maitland to his feet and frog-marched him through the gardens to an ornamental pond where carp swam. “Sorry about the company, kids,” he told the fish, and pitched Maitland headfirst into the drink before going inside the hotel to find a phone and arrange for Sean to come and pick up Patsy.

  Five minutes later, he was at the spot where Imogen waited. By then, reaction had set in and her teeth were rattling as if she’d been left out all night in a winter storm. “Hey,” he said softly, “it’s over. Everything’s okay now.”

  But they were empty words, and he knew it. She’d been violated, and he wasn’t sure she’d ever be over it. “How could I have been so stupid?” she whispered brokenly.

  He’d wondered that himself. He was damn sure Patsy knew better than to wander off in the dark with a drunk. “Couldn’t you tell he was three sheets to the wind?”

  “No! How could he be? There was no alcohol served at the dance. We’re all underage.”

  The shock with which she made that remark had shown the extent of her innocence, which made his own behavior all the more unforgivable. If he’d had any idea how the evening would end, he’d have walked away from her and let someone else play knight-errant.

  Even in those days, though, he had a knack for leaping into a situation without weighing the risks and possible consequences. So he hoisted her on the back of the Harley, handed her the spare helmet and drove her to her fancy mansion at the top of Clifton Hill.