by Nicola Marsh
She’d learned to listen to her inklings. With George, she’d been right. But Hank was nothing like George and she needed to trust him. It wasn’t his fault her trust had been annihilated by her philandering ex.
If there was a problem with his business or something else bothering him, he needed to discuss it with her. They were partners now. Full disclosure, like they’d agreed when he proposed.
This time, she wouldn’t settle for anything less.
Determined to confront Hank on his return, she turned away from the window, only to fly back and rip the newly hung shantung curtains aside the second she heard a car engine.
To her disappointment, Hank hadn’t returned. Marc’s Jag pulled up in a spray of gravel and she frowned, wondering what had put her son in a mood. He never drove like a maniac unless he was upset about something. He’d mellowed so much since he’d come to Love, and fallen into it if she weren’t mistaken.
Sierra had captured his heart and Liv couldn’t be happier. With any luck he wouldn’t sabotage this relationship like the rest.
Guilt swamped her every time she thought about how her disastrous marriage had such a detrimental influence on Marc. She hated it, blaming herself for his apparent clueless-ness in long-term relationships.
He’d learned by observation that marriage was the pits, had obviously taken baggage into his own short-lived marriage with Annie and while she couldn’t shoulder all the blame, seeing her only child flounder his way from one fling to another irked.
At last, life was looking up for her workaholic son and she could marry Hank secure in the knowledge Marc would be well looked after by a woman who loved him. Hank had confirmed her suspicions the last time Sierra had been out here and as much as she wanted to ask Marc how he felt, she knew that would push him away.
So she’d bide her time and here he was, though by his thunderous expression he wasn’t in a mood to talk.
She opened the door, startled by how much worse he looked close up. “Nice to see you, Son.”
He wasn’t angry, he was ready to explode, the mutinous expression accentuating the lines around his eyes, lending a haggard quality to his handsome face.
“Hey, Mom.”
“Come in. I’ll make tea.”
He shook his head and didn’t move. “I’m not staying. Just passing through on my way back to LA.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve got a ton of work waiting for me. Can’t ignore it any longer.”
He averted his gaze and she knew there was more to his sudden departure than work. Had to be a lover’s tiff, though how would the youngsters sort it out with him heading home? Time for some of that matchmaking she’d intended from the start but hadn’t had much of a chance to do.
The longer she talked the more he’d divulge, as long as she kept her voice devoid of the curiosity burning her up.
“I thought you’d been working here?”
“Not hard enough. Don’t worry. I’ll be back for the wedding.”
She smiled, hoping he’d return it. He didn’t.
“Does that mean you approve of Hank now?”
“He’s a good guy. Besides, what’s not to like now I know for sure he isn’t out to fleece you of every penny?”
“Know for sure?”
Being Marc, she’d bet he’d had Hank investigated. Not that he would’ve discovered much, but enough to allay his ill-founded fears, thank God. Having her two favorite men in the world get along meant a lot, would be one less thing to worry about now it looked like Marc was having problems with Sierra.
“No need to pretend anymore, Mom. I know. You’ve had me going long enough, laughing behind my back about Hank’s fortune when I was blustering on about his lack of it.” He shook his head, managed a rueful smile. “You should’ve told me at the start.”
“Told you?”
She couldn’t help sounding vague. She had no idea what Marc was talking about.
“You want me to grovel? Fine. I’m sorry for doubting your choice of husband, even if the first one sucked. I should’ve known you’d be wise enough to choose a man more your equal in every way, including economically, this time. I had no idea Hank Steven Warner was the man behind Warner Haulage. Nice touch by the way, him using his second name as a surname to throw everybody. Bet you had a laugh over that.”
“Yes, laugh.”
She managed a half-hearted chuckle that wouldn’t have fooled Marc if he’d been in the right frame of mind. As it were, he obviously wanted to leave town ASAP and wasn’t paying attention to her reaction. Otherwise he’d have known she had no idea what he was talking about, especially the part about her fiancé having a surname she’d never heard of.
“You’ve chosen well, Mom. Take care and I’ll see you soon.” He dropped a peck on her cheek. “Love you.”
“Love you too,” she said, watching him get into his car and waving mechanically as he sped down the drive.
Hank Warner.
She didn’t know a Hank Warner.
In fact, it looked like she didn’t know the man she’d been about to marry at all.
She stumbled to the nearest chair and fell into it, her hands trembling as she fumbled for her cell.
There had to be some reasonable explanation behind this, some perfectly legitimate reason why her fiancé had morphed from a simple farmer living comfortably off his earnings to a multi-millionaire who’d lied to her.
He’d lied to her.
She pressed her knuckles into her eyes, desperate to obliterate the images flashing across them: meeting Hank for a coffee at the Love Shack for their first date, curling up in front of To Catch a Thief on his comfy sofa, ribbing each other over his crush on Grace Kelly and hers on Cary Grant, snuggling under his duvet with rain beating a soothing rhythm on the tin roof.
She’d taken a mental snapshot of every precious memory, storing them away, hoarding them to replay at will, captivated that every memory they shared was a good one.
Not any more.
He’d lied to her, making a mockery of their full disclosure agreement.
And she’d never forgive him for it.
Will had just left when Flo heard raised voices coming from over the garage. Correction, Sierra’s raised voice screaming at Marc like she hated him, which couldn’t be true as the youngsters had been getting along famously.
She’d seen them at Love Fest earlier, hand in hand, Sierra laughing at something Marc said, her head resting against his shoulder. The sight had warmed her heart and Liv would be thrilled.
Looked like Love had come through for them all, including her sorry bag of bones. Will wanted to continue visiting, to develop their friendship, whatever that entailed.
It had been too long since she’d done this and had no idea if having a male friend meant sharing a cuppa or something more; she definitely hoped it was the latter.
Will’s eyes had nearly popped out of his head when he’d first seen her all dolled up and she’d caught him sneaking glances at her while they strolled around the fair. He’d flirted with her too and she’d giggled like a schoolgirl, wondering what a classy codger like him saw in an old bag like her.
Sure, the clothes and makeup improved her appearance but inside she was the same old broad with the same old sense of humor. Most men ran screaming from her sharp wit, her Aussie-isms as Sierra liked to call her sayings, but not Will. He wanted to be her friend and that was fine with her.
When the voices above the garage stopped she peeked out the window in time to see Sierra running across the yard, tears streaming down her face.
Grabbing her keys, Flo prepared to follow when Marc appeared shortly after, making several journeys to load his car with belongings.
Uh-oh. This didn’t look like a couple in love. It looked like love on the rocks hold the ice.
Marc didn’t knock on her door before getting into his car. If he were truly leaving she expected him to hand over his key and try to press rent money on her, not that she would take it. Instead,
he reversed out of her drive as if the devil himself were on his tail without a backward glance.
Curious, she climbed the stairs to the apartment over the garage and unlocked the door. The place was cleaned out. Young Marc had left the building. And he’d left her a note on the table, next to a pile of hundred dollar bills and the spare set of keys.
She scowled at the money, her frown deepening as she read the note.
Dear Flo,
thanks for your hospitality. As you Aussies would say, you’re ‘one bonza sheila’. I hope the money covers the rent. See you at the wedding.
Take care, Marc.
He’d added a PS, which lessened her frown.
PS. William has good taste in women. Be gentle with him.
“Smooth,” she said, smiling despite the heaviness in her heart.
Marc had gone and Sierra wasn’t too happy about it.
She left the note and money, locked up the apartment, crossed the back lawn, slipped through the hole in the fence and headed for Sierra’s back door.
Sierra had to be in a bad way because Ripley didn’t come bounding as usual. He lay sprawled across the back door mat with a hangdog expression, as if sensing his master was upset.
“Don’t worry, old boy.” She bent to pat his giant head after knocking at the door. “Everything will be okay.”
When Sierra didn’t answer she peered through the window. At least she was assured of not getting an eyeful this time.
“Sierra? It’s me. Open up, darlin’.”
She could make out a slumped figure on a chair in the living room, as if the person didn’t have the energy to raise her head.
The fight must’ve been a doozy to knock Sierra for a six. She never let a man get the better of her. Though hadn’t Flo known from the start this one was different, had said as much when she’d seen Marc leaving the house that first morning? Sierra didn’t bring men home, not unless they meant something and looked like Marc meant a whole damn lot.
Flo tried the door, found it unlocked and slipped into the kitchen. “Sierra? Fancy a cuppa?”
Sierra raised her head slowly and squinted, blinking as if coming out of a coma.
“What?”
Ah, hell. The girl looked terrible, red blotches on her cheeks, puffy eyes and a nose scraped raw by a handful of tissues. She’d cried a bucketful and by the sheen in her eyes looked like the waterworks wouldn’t stop for a while yet.
“Cup of tea?”
Sierra shook her head. “I’d kill for a brandy though.”
Flo didn’t argue and headed for the sideboard, pouring them each a healthy shot. She downed hers in one gulp and Sierra followed suit.
“Better?”
“Give me the bottle and I’ll let you know in a minute.”
Flo sat opposite, searching for the right words before settling for her usual direct approach.
“You and Marc have a tiff?”
“It’s over.” Sierra rubbed her eyes, as if trying to erase a bad image. “The guy’s a bastard.”
“Aren’t they all?” She tried for levity but Sierra didn’t laugh.
“A rotten, conniving, lying bastard.”
Flo’s heart almost broke at the desolation in the youngster’s eyes.
“He used me. Needs Love Byte to secure some deal, thought cozying up to me was the way to do it. And I fell for it.”
Sierra’s voice rose and she jumped up, pacing the room like a fierce tawny cat ready to claw Marc Fairley’s eyes out.
“I was thinking happily ever after and the jerk was stringing me along. God, I could kill him.”
Sierra’s hands clenched and Flo had no doubt if a knife were handy she’d have made good use of it by practicing several masterstrokes in preparation to carve Marc up.
“How did you find out?”
“In the newspaper.” Sierra dropped into her seat again, flung her head back and closed her eyes. “I’m going to be a freaking laughing stock.”
There had to be some kind of mistake. Flo knew she didn’t have the face of an angel or the mind of Einstein but if there was one thing she did well it was read people. She’d had lots of practice waitressing over the years and wasn’t often wrong in her summing up.
In this case her gut told her she hadn’t pegged Marc Fairley wrong. The young man was a decent human being and though ruthless in business from what Liv said, he’d never intentionally use a woman to get ahead. Would he?
“Did he admit it?”
If Sierra answered affirmative, she’d grab a few knives of her own and head to LA. Marc was dead meat if he’d deliberately duped Sierra.
“No. Though he didn’t deny it either.”
Tears trickled down Sierra’s face again and Flo decided a top up brandy was in order.
“Did you give him a chance to explain?” She handed Sierra a refill. “I heard an awful lot of shouting and it sounded pretty one-sided.”
Sierra’s eyes snapped open and fixed her with an accusing glare. “Meaning?”
“Meaning you’ve got one hell of a temper, girlie, and once you get started you don’t exactly give the other person much room to move.”
“It was in the bloody newspaper!”
“You believe everything you read?”
Flo sipped the brandy this time, savoring the husky sweetness as it slid down her throat. She’d have to buy some of this good stuff in case Will wanted a nightcap after popping in for a friendly visit.
A flicker of doubt flashed across Sierra’s face before her usual stubbornness replaced it.
“Reporters don’t make stuff up.”
“Oh yeah? What about Jennifer Aniston having that alien baby? What about Ben Affleck dumping his wife for Matt Damon? What about—”
“I’m talking about the LA Times, not one of your trashy tabloids.”
“My point is reporters write what they want to write in order to sell newspapers. Who’s this reporter anyway?”
“Jeff somebody. Can’t remember his last name. Sort of got lost when I spied the headline about City Boy taking me for a ride.”
“City Boy?”
“Affectionate nickname, though I’m feeling none too affectionate now. Should replace it with Rat Boy or Scum Boy.”
Flo chuckled, pleased to see Sierra’s sense of humor return. “Bet this Jeff person got it wrong.”
“There’s always a bit of truth to what they write.” Sierra sighed and cradled the almost empty brandy balloon in her hands. “We wouldn’t have worked out anyway. Better we end it now.”
Flo shook her head. “You’ll be seeing him again at the wedding. You need to patch things up before then.”
“No way. I’m not speaking to him even if he crawls on his slimy belly over a bed of nails to apologize.”
“Is that likely to happen? What’s the last thing you said to him?”
“Fuck you.”
“Beg your pardon, young lady?”
“Not you, him. That’s the last thing I said to him.”
“Oh.”
Flo downed the rest of her brandy, set her glass on the table and stood. “In that case you’re the one who needs to do some serious crawling, not him.”
“Like hell.”
Tut-tutting, Flo headed for the door. “Think about it.”
While young Sierra stewed, there was only one thing to do. Discover the truth, ring Liv, start planning to reunite the star-crossed lovers and hope to God they did a better job of getting the two together this time around.
Hank unlocked the back door and eased it open, not wanting to wake Liv. He’d been on the road for three hours straight, eager to get home to Liv, but as he’d turned in the drive and seen the house in darkness he’d been surprised she’d gone to bed at nine. The only time they retired that early was when they canoodled.
Perhaps that’s where she was, in bed reading one of those spy novels she devoured by the boxful, waiting for him to slip in beside her.
Intent on heading to the bedroom, he almost trippe
d over a box next to the kitchen table, bruising his shin and cursing as he stumbled around it.
“You’re home.”
The overhead light flicked on, blinding him.
“Liv?”
As his vision cleared, he saw her for the first time, fully dressed, car keys in hand, and suitcase at her feet.
“What’s going on—?”
“This is your home? Or is it another lie too, Mr. Warner?”
Bloody hell.
He’d been unable to reach Eric all afternoon, had prayed he hadn’t spoken to Marc yet. While he’d concluded business at the farm as fast as possible he’d convinced himself even if Eric got onto Marc it wouldn’t necessarily mean he’d see his mother today let alone mention his news.
Looked like his prayers had been in vain.
“I can explain—”
“I’m sure you can. Pity I’m not interested in hearing it.”
“I was going to tell you everything this afternoon before I got called away. You have to listen to me—”
“I don’t have to do anything of the sort.”
She cut him off again, the polite woman who never interrupted replaced by a flinty-eyed, steely-voiced stranger.
“You knew how important trust is to me. Full disclosure, remember?” Her glacial glare froze his heart. “After what I’ve been through I need to trust you’ll always tell me the truth.”
“I’ve been trying to tell you—”
“Let me guess.” She held her hand up as if warding him off, her anger evident when it wavered. “Business, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“It always is with you men. I’m sick to death of it.” She shook her head, sadness pinching her mouth. “Heard it all before.”
Hank rarely lost his temper. However, when Liv lumped him in the same canoe as her no-good son-of-a-bitch ex-husband, he saw red.
“You’re saying I’m like George?”
She shrugged and he didn’t know what terrified him more. Her coldness or her nonchalance. “He always said it was business too.”
He heard the bitterness in her voice, the resignation, and anger slashed through his desire to explain. “I’m nothing like him.”
“Why should I believe you’re any different?” She fixed him with a stare filled with doubt. “You’ve lied to me about your identity, why not business?”
