Maria slowly transformed from a nervous girl to a young woman with some power. Some bearing.
Celeste stepped up to Maggie, the forty-year-old redhead covered in freckles, whose blue eyes rivaled the Texas sky in summer. Again Celeste smiled, and Maggie grinned.
“You don’t scare me,” Maggie said, and Tara snorted. Maggie was the mother of six boys and she rehabilitated horses in her spare time. Nothing scared her.
Celeste put a hand under Maggie’s chin and amazingly, Maggie didn’t bite her. “That is because you are magnificent. But you could use a better bra.”
Tara Jean watched with a strange wonder as Celeste came back to stand in front of her.
“So help me,” Tara raised a finger, “if you touch me or talk about my bra, we’re going to have words.”
Celeste laughed, the sound a surprising bark. Very un-Celeste-like.
“My son may not care.” Celeste tipped her head sideways, the look on her face unreadable, and Tara wondered if that was French. It seemed French. “But I find I am … interested.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m not. And I have no intention of interfering, but perhaps an … opinion.” She arched an eyebrow. “When it’s required?”
Tara waited for a second. And then another. The truth was, Celeste had been a high-fashion model; any involvement she might have in this company could only be a good thing. In terms of sales, of course. And maybe design.
Oh no! the demon said. No you don’t, honey, we don’t need her. You can do this by yourself, remember? With my help, you don’t need anyone else.
Tara ignored the demon.
Having Celeste here could be interesting. Unless … well, unless Celeste thought her opinion was required more often than it really was.
“You have no stock in this company,” Tara Jean felt obligated to remind her. Actually, she felt obligated to mark her territory, but she wasn’t sure where to pee in this situation.
Celeste agreed. “None at all.”
“So, if you stay, it’s at my discretion. If I ask you to leave …”
“Off I go.”
“I’m the boss.”
“I understand.”
Tara Jean shook her head in astonished envy. Celeste managed to agree with her mouth, but her whole demeanor said otherwise. No one was this woman’s boss.
“I’ll sic Maggie on you if you give me grief,” Tara Jean said, and Celeste laughed.
“That will not be necessary.” Celeste walked over to one of the stools at the high counter. “I will sit here and be quiet.”
No! the demon cried. We don’t need her. We don’t need anyone. It’s you and me, baby.
Deep down, past her guilt and her shame over the memories of her major and minor crimes, was the memory of her mother saying that. Tara Jean had already met Dennis, and Momma had been too late.
Luc slammed the truck door shut and leaned against it, letting the metal take the weight off his battered bones, his sore muscles.
“Christ, Luc.” Billy limped by. “I didn’t even skate the workout and I hurt.”
That’s the point, he thought, but didn’t say. The point was to hurt now, so that in October in some overtime game against the Sabres, he’d still be fast, still be strong.
But, good lord, the headache! He was going to give this headache a name, try to befriend it, because as an enemy, it was kicking his ass.
“It was a good call getting that Jenkins kid on the ice, he’s fast, but—?”
“His temper.” Luc nodded. Tyler Jenkins had been easing closer and closer to the ice every day. He rarely said anything, just sat in the bleachers, his quick eyes missing nothing. Yesterday, tired of working out by himself, Luc had asked him to get on the ice.
And this morning Tyler was there again. Already dressed.
The kid had been eager to show off, but when Luc stripped the puck off him, the kid had gotten mad. And it got worse every time Luc outskated him until the kid had tried to check him into the boards.
“I can handle it,” Luc said. “He’s just a kid.”
“What about the peewees?”
“They’re fun, aren’t they?” Luc asked, and Billy shook his head.
“You’re supposed to be training, Luc.”
Not really, he thought. I’m not supposed to be training at all.
“It’s an hour a day, Billy. It’s hardly a distraction.”
“Fine, but you were the one talking about no distractions a week ago.”
He’d been talking about Tara Jean, who was still a distraction, but Luc wasn’t going to discuss it.
“I’m gonna let Ruby know we’re home, see what she can put together for lunch,” Billy said, and stepped into the house.
Luc waited until his friend was gone, because there was a chance that when he stepped forward on his noodle legs he was going to fall flat on his face.
Finally, bracing himself, Luc pushed himself away from the truck and turned, coming face to face with the greenhouse. Silhouette figures crowded the windows, lifting their arms, turning on command.
He heard Tara’s laugh, not the flirty one or the fake one. The real one, deep and rich, a sound with the smell and heft of dark coffee.
That laugh stirred a reaction in him. Lust and sympathy. Curiosity. Unwanted concern. Pride.
But he didn’t have to be told a third time that his opinion, his help, hell, his very presence weren’t needed and so he’d stayed away. From the ranch. From her.
Tara laughed again, and this time it was followed by the sound of Celeste’s voice.
Luc would have lifted his eyebrows in surprise if they didn’t hurt. The queen and the girl from the wrong side of the tracks were swapping jokes. Go figure.
A shadow detached from the darkness surrounding the door and began to walk toward the house. It took him a few seconds before he realized the shadow was his sister, her hands holding the deep V neckline of her sweater closed.
“Vicks?”
She jumped, her hand slipping. He looked away quickly, but he could still see that his sister, always perfectly dressed in layers of silk and cashmere, didn’t have anything on under the sweater.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Getting back from practice.” He shook his head, wishing he could think clearly past the pain in his head and his body. “What are you doing?”
She glanced quickly over her shoulder and then flashed him a bright smile. “Nothing,” she said. “In fact, I’m heading into Dallas later tonight. I have a date.”
Yesterday, the investigator had found Dennis in a sublet apartment outside Dallas. A shabby low-rise totally at odds with the man’s act.
Luc was having Thiele watch the man while he tried to figure out what to do with this information.
“With Dennis?”
“What’s wrong with Dennis?”
“Tara told you about him.”
“And I am not about to take the word of a known liar.”
She was so fiercely proud, her eyes daring him to hurt her, to take what he knew about that asshole and use it to break her all over again.
He opened his mouth, but the words … he’s lying to you. He’s playing you because you’re so desperate and blind and the cops have a file on him an inch thick … didn’t come out.
He would protect his sister another way. Another way that would hurt so much less and might, in the end, actually convince her. Because bringing up Tara Jean and a restraining order would send Victoria through the roof, and undoubtedly, right toward Dennis.
“Invite him here.”
“What?”
“Look, Vicks, if you really like him, I believe you. But I feel like maybe I should get to know him a bit better. Just so I can rest easy.”
For a moment he felt bad preying on that approval she always needed, but he knew she wouldn’t be able to resist the chance to get his blessing.
“You would?” Her smile put rocks in his stomach.
I’m just
trying to keep you safe, he thought, rationalizing the guilt. When you’re hell-bent against it.
“Absolutely. We’ll put some steaks on the grill. Just let me shower. Give me two hours.”
“Okay. I’ll call him.” Slowly she began to smile, a weak sunrise through clouds. She walked away and reproach ate at him. He was setting her up for disappointment. Either way this panned out, Victoria was going to get hurt.
He grabbed his bag from the back of the truck and turned for the house, but was stopped by the sight of Tara Jean standing in the open door of the greenhouse.
As much as he hadn’t been seeing Tara Jean, he’d been thinking about her plenty. But somehow, in all of his thoughts, he never did her beauty justice.
She was, quite simply, breathtaking.
Her hair was pulled back in a sloppy bun, and the sun hit the gold and turned it white in places, light red and brown in others.
Even her hair wasn’t what it seemed.
His stomach growled and his head floated for a second, pushed off his neck by hunger and fatigue.
“Are you okay, Luc?” She stepped forward, and then stopped when he scowled.
“Why is everyone asking me that?”
“Because you look like shit.”
“It was a hard workout.”
“You’re training a lot these days, aren’t you? I mean … I haven’t seen you here. Much.”
“I got the impression you didn’t want me around. Much.”
Silently, she licked her lips and he nearly moaned—it felt like Lashenko had taken a slap shot to his skull.
“Your head … is it bothering you?”
He dropped his hand, not even realizing he’d been rubbing his forehead. “I think this staying-out-of-each-other’s-business thing works both ways.” He slammed the car door shut.
“You don’t have anything left to prove, Luc,” she said. “You’re the best—”
“I thought I was a washed-up hockey player too stupid to know when to retire.”
“Well, you’re that too,” she said with a half-smile that unbelievably made him laugh.
Maybe it was because he was so tired, worn thin in so many places, but for a moment, a second, he wished he didn’t have to work so hard anymore. He wished he could sit back and look at what he’d done, what he’d achieved, and feel the pride he knew he should. That anyone in his right mind would feel.
The woman in front of him, with all her complications, was looking at him with both pride and worry. He wondered what she saw. And why he couldn’t see himself the same way.
But he couldn’t. There was some engine at work in him and it wouldn’t let him rest. Wouldn’t leave him alone.
“Luc, honestly, are you okay?”
“Tara, you keep acting so concerned, I might get the wrong idea.”
“You seem to get those anyway.” Again, that slight smile, and the distance between them shrank to nothing.
As angry as he was, as confused by her actions and stunned by her lack of trust—under all of that was the hard truth.
He liked Tara Jean Sweet. It wasn’t just desire, or curiosity.
He liked her. In a way that he didn’t like a lot of people.
“Was Victoria here?” she asked, looking puzzled and so beautiful that his body, weakened by too much exercise, got hard in the space of a heartbeat.
He nodded, and her shoulders fell slightly. “Why’d she go?”
“She and Dennis had a date, but I convinced her to invite him here.”
“He can’t come if I’m here,” she said on a sputter. “The restraining order—if he comes within five hundred feet of me, he’ll get arrested, and he’s been served. He knows that. He won’t come.”
“I know that. But Victoria—”
She sighed and looked up at the big house, where he knew his sister was going into supreme hostess mode. “Oh, Luc,” she sighed.
“Everything I say bounces off of her. I can’t convince her. I haven’t been able to convince her of anything since her husband ruined her life. But if Dennis shows her what an ass he is … maybe then she’ll believe me.”
“This is going to hurt her,” Tara said softly, her voice flush with sympathy, and Luc nodded.
“What else can I do, Tara?”
No one ever asked her opinion. Not unless it was about the width of a leather strap. Just like no one had ever expressed being proud of her. Or offered her something without expecting something in return—and yet Luc had done it over and over. A place to stay. Offering to sell the company.
And she didn’t even know how to show him how grateful she was.
Not without getting naked.
That’s sick, she thought, watching his lean face crease into a grimace. Something was bothering him and she wondered if other women—normal women—would know how to make him feel better. Without getting naked.
She’d never recognized the careful fence line Lyle had put up around her when she first moved out here four years ago. He had given her this environment where she worked, she played … what had Jacob called her? Bimbo Barbie? Perfect. She played the part of Bimbo Barbie with such skill that even she looked in the mirror and was fooled.
And she had thrown herself into Baker Leather. Everything else was scrub brush and dirt on the other side of the fence. How to be something other than a con artist? How to feel about men, and the past? Relationships, being alone? How to feel about Jane Simmons? All of that had been gratefully pushed away. It was as if Lyle had understood how her head hurt, how her battered heart just couldn’t take it anymore. And so she had lived four years inside this fence, and now … having told the cops about her past, having gotten rid of the Dennis threat … she realized she wanted more.
Not a husband or a bunch of kids burping on her clothes … but a life. A real one. A chance to figure out who she was between Tara Jean Sweet and Jane Simmons.
And what better way than with Luc?
She was safe with him. As safe as she wanted to be, and he was leaving in five months to go back to his life.
He could be her training wheels.
“Can I … can I help?” she asked, and his eyes opened wide. “I mean it’s not like she believes me, but—”
“You want to come? Eat dinner with my family?”
She took a deep breath and slapped down every rogue fear, every lingering ghost, and took that first step outside the fence she lived behind.
“If that’s what you’re doing.” She smiled, but nerves quickly chased the smile away. He watched her, his eyes level and unreadable, and her stomach curled with humiliation.
He was going to say no; she’d pushed him away too many times. He knew … holy hell, he knew too much about her. Why in the world would he even consider having her at his family dinner? She was the poison. He knew that.
“Never mind—”
“Yes.”
“But … you know what I did.”
“Yeah.”
“And you still want me there?”
“I still want you, Tara.”
chapter
21
This was a nightmare of epic proportions. Three hours ago, Dennis had been excited about coming to the ranch and she’d set the table with such care, her heart on fire with hope, setting out the good crystal so that it caught the end-of-day sunlight and threw prisms across the formal dining room.
But then the sun set behind the trees. And six o’clock came and went.
And she stood in the dark dining room unable to turn on the lights feeling the weight of everyone’s expectation and disapproval pushing nails into her skin.
“Vicks?” Luc called from the kitchen, his footsteps coming down the small hallway toward her. She couldn’t face him. Couldn’t face any of them. Not like this.
“Put on the steaks,” she cried and ran to the bathroom, her cell phone gripped in her cold, clammy hands.
Locking the door behind her she sat on the stool, grabbed the bluebells she’d put on the windowsill in an e
ffort to make everything lovely for Dennis, and dumped them in the garbage.
And then she took a deep breath and called him.
“I’m sorry,” Dennis said, answering after the second ring. “I’m so sorry. Something came up.”
“Will you be here soon?” she asked, trying not to sound desperate but failing, at least to her own ears.
“I’m sorry, Victoria. But I just can’t get away. We’ve had some developments on that land deal outside Phoenix and I have to drive down there tonight. I’m on the road.”
“Phoenix? Now?”
“It’s the nature of the business, Victoria. You wouldn’t understand.”
His tone, his words rankled, setting loose the small beasts left over from her marriage. Do. Not. Condescend. To. Me.
But, because she had the practice, had gotten so good she didn’t even realize she was doing it until it was too late, she swallowed her protests, like a swarm of angry bees.
“How long will you be gone?”
“A week. Two at the most.”
She’d been down this road before with Joel, and arguing, begging, and pleading for attention only got her less.
“I am sorry,” he said. “Really. I was looking forward to spending more time with you.”
She licked dry lips. “It’s … it’s okay.”
“I’ll talk to you later tonight.”
It was her brother’s fault, Tara Jean’s fault, but suddenly she felt suspiciously played. Orchestrated.
“We’ll see,” she whispered and hung up.
Victoria carefully smoothed back her hair and ran a hand down the front of her ivory silk shell, as if it were the combination to a lock. Hair in place, clothes orderly, life in control.
She splashed some water over her face and then carefully applied lipstick, a little more blush.
With hands that shook.
He could be lying, she knew that. She was in fact terrifyingly aware that he probably was, but she couldn’t help wanting to believe him. She couldn’t help wanting his words to be real.
Can't Buy Me Love Page 21
