Name Your Price

by Barbara Mccauley

  Trust.

  But despite everything, she’d never believed that Trace was like his father. How could she have fallen in love with him if he was?

  She’d let herself get close to him again, let herself fall in love all over again.

  And this morning, like his father, Trace had tried to buy her.

  A dull, heavy pain squeezed her chest, made it difficult to breathe.

  He hadn’t even been subtle about it, she thought miserably. He’d thought he could “hire her,” have her move to Napa and she’d be available whenever he snapped his fingers for a quick roll in the hay. Her hands tightened around the steering wheel. This Trace, she thought, was a man she didn’t know at all. A man she didn’t want to know.

  And still, idiot that she was, she loved him.

  She didn’t try to fight the tears. What use was it? They would come sooner or later and she’d just as soon get it out of the way.

  Because this time, she thought, setting her teeth, she wouldn’t run. This time she would face him. This time, she’d look him in the eye, rant and yell if she felt like it, and she’d tell him exactly what she thought.

  Trace knocked on Elaine Marshall’s front door, then rang the doorbell twice. It was barely nine o’clock and he knew Becca’s mother would be sleeping. He didn’t care. When the door finally opened, Elaine stood on the other side. She tugged on the belt of her blue robe, then ran her fingers through her rumpled hair and frowned at him.

  “Becca’s not here.” Her voice was rough with sleep.

  “I’m not here to see Becca, Mrs. Marshall.” Tension crackled off his words. “I’m here to see you.”

  “What’s wrong?” Elaine quickly looked past Trace, then narrowed her eyes with concern. “Is Becca all right?”

  “Physically, I’m sure she’s fine.” He prayed she was, anyway. He couldn’t get the image of her eyes, like an injured animal’s, out of his mind. “I need to talk with you.”

  Shaking her head, Elaine started to close the door. “I’m sorry, Trace, but this isn’t a good time.”

  Trace put his hand on the knob to hold the door, then reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the check. “I doubt there is a good time, Mrs. Marshall.” He held the check close to Elaine’s face. “We’ll talk now.”

  Her eyes widened a fraction, then her lips pressed into a thin line. Nodding slowly, she stepped aside and opened the door.

  “Why don’t we go in the kitchen?” she suggested.

  “I just talked to my mother,” he said following her. “I know the truth.”

  Elaine dragged in a long, slow breath, then moved to an end cupboard and pulled out a bottle of bourbon and a glass. “Can I offer you something?”

  “No.”

  She poured two fingers, then took a swallow and turned back to face him. “It was five years ago, Trace. Why don’t we just leave it alone?”

  “Leave it alone?” Rage swelled in his chest. He was still trying to absorb what his mother had told him, and now Becca’s mother had the nerve to tell him to leave it alone? “Like hell we will.”

  “You don’t understand, Trace.” Elaine closed her eyes. “Until you’re a parent, you can’t understand the need to protect.”

  “You call what my father and mother did, what you did, protection?” He struggled to rein in his anger. “Bribery, lies, manipulating. How the hell is that protecting someone you say you love?”

  “Don’t you dare question my love for my daughter.” Elaine slammed her glass down on the counter. “You were both too young, from two different worlds, living in fantasyland. Once the lust faded, you would have grown tired of her. I’m not sorry for what I did. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat if it would keep my baby safe.”

  “What would you do, Mom?”

  Trace turned at the sound of Becca’s voice behind him. Thank God she was all right. As desperately as he wanted to snatch her into his arms, he knew that right now she would only push away from him. There was nothing he could do to stop this, wouldn’t even if he could. As hard as it was, for the first time in five years, both he and Becca would know the truth.

  Trace looked at Elaine, watched her eyes widen as Becca moved into the room. Grabbing the lapel of her robe, she forced a smile. “Becca, there you are, honey. Trace and I were worried about you.”

  Becca kept her eyes on her mother. “What did you do?”

  “We should talk about this later.” Panic edged Elaine’s voice. “Wait for things to calm down.”

  “We’ve waited long enough.” Trace laid the check on the stovetop. “Tell her.”

  Becca glanced at the check, and her face turned ashen. “Where did you get that?”

  “My father gave it to me five years ago.”

  “He gave it to you?”

  He nodded. “The day you left.”

  “So you knew what he’d done,” she whispered. “You knew?”

  All those days, weeks, she’d waited for him, she remembered. Even in Italy, she’d imagine she saw him in a crowd, or sitting in a restaurant. Every time the phone rang, her pulse raced, every knock on her door, her stomach would twist. She’d hoped, prayed, it would be him. But it never was.

  She looked at him, waited for him to answer her, realized that he was staring at her mother.

  “Tell her,” Trace said tightly.

  “Tell me what?” Becca watched her mother reach for the glass on the counter and take a drink. Why was her hand shaking so badly? “Mom, what did you do?”

  When Elaine swiveled her face away, Trace turned the check over. Becca moved closer, saw the signature. Her signature, she realized.

  “I—I never signed this.” She frowned darkly and looked at Trace. “I don’t understand.”

  “You threw this back in my father’s face,” he said quietly, “and you told your mother what he’d done.”

  “I was crying when she came home. She knew something was wrong.” Becca closed her eyes and rubbed at her temples. “I had to tell someone, but I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you or cause more problems.”

  “Trace, for God’s sake, can’t you see you’re upsetting her?” Elaine moved toward Becca. “Sweetheart, I can see you’re exhausted. Rest for a while and then we’ll—”

  “No!” Becca held out a hand and stepped back from her mother. “Tell me what you did.”

  Elaine’s face twisted with fear. She clutched a hand to her throat and slowly met her daughter’s gaze. Her voice was barely audible, but in the tense silence, her words thundered. “I went to Spencer.”

  “You went to Trace’s father?” Becca narrowed her eyes in confusion.

  Elaine nodded. “I took the check and deposited it in an account I’d set up for you when you were little.”

  The admission was like a slap in her face. Gasping, Becca lifted a hand to her cheek. “And you—you signed my name?”

  Elaine nodded stiffly. “Yes.”

  Becca’s mind raced back to that awful day. Spencer offering her money. Her mother coming in and hugging her, telling her that Trace didn’t deserve her, that his family would never let them be happy. “So when you told me I should go to Europe and forget Trace, that you had money put away my grandmother had left me…”

  “I’m sorry, baby,” Elaine said raggedly. “I lied to you.”

  Oh, God. Becca squeezed her eyes shut. “How could you?”

  “Because I agreed with him.” Elaine lifted her chin. “You and Trace are from two different worlds. You might have been happy for a few months, but then I knew you’d be miserable.”

  “You knew I’d be miserable?” Becca stared at her mother in disbelief. “That’s what you honestly believed?”

  “Everyone knew what kind of man Spencer was.” Disdain dripped from Elaine’s voice. “Why would his son be any different? He didn’t deserve you.”

  “Trace loved me,” Becca whispered. “I loved him.”

  “Love.” Elaine spat the word. “Baby, believe me, it does
n’t exist. You were infatuated. He was in lust. It would only be a matter of time before he broke your heart and crushed your spirit.”

  “Is that what my father did to you?” Becca asked quietly. “Crushed your spirit?”

  “Your father has nothing to do with this.”

  Elaine reached for the bottle of bourbon and started to pour herself another drink. Becca moved across the kitchen, gently took the bottle and glass away and set them on the counter.

  “Yeah, Mom.” She looked at her mother. “I think he has everything to do with this.”

  Elaine met her daughter’s steady gaze, then her face slowly crumpled and she dropped her head into her hands with a sob. “I gave him everything. My heart, my soul, my body. When he found out I was pregnant, he ran off with my cousin.”

  Part of Becca wanted to hold her mother, to comfort, but the other part of her, the part that was too raw, the part that was angry and hurt, wouldn’t let her.

  “Sweetheart—” Elaine reached out and cupped Becca’s face in her hands “—I took that money for you. So you could make a life for yourself away from here. I just wanted what was best for you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  Shaking her head, Becca removed her mother’s hands from her face. “You had no right.”

  “I know.” Tears streamed down Elaine’s cheeks. “I know. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m going outside to talk to Trace.” Becca had to swallow the thickness in her throat before she could speak again. “I’d appreciate it if you’d give us some time.”

  Elaine nodded, then glanced at Trace. “I—I’m sorry.”

  His face was a cold, hard mask. He said nothing, just turned and followed Becca onto the front porch, then sat down beside her on the front step.

  Without touching, they sat shoulder to shoulder, neither one of them speaking. The morning air was cool; a breeze shivered through the tops of the elm trees across the street. Two young boys rode their skateboards down the sidewalk while a black labrador trotted behind.

  Her entire life had been shattered, and still, life went on.

  She stared at the house across the street, wondered why she’d never noticed their front door was painted blue. “You thought I took the money.”

  “I saw your signature,” he said stiffly.

  “And you thought I took the money.”

  “Yes.”

  She wouldn’t have thought it possible to hurt any more than she had this morning. Now, after her mother’s confession, and knowing that Trace had believed she’d been bought off, she knew it was possible. The pain, black, intense, razor-sharp, sliced through her.

  “I wondered why you never came after me.” It felt as if she’d left her body, as if she were standing several feet away, looking at two people she didn’t even recognize.

  He picked up a stone from the dirt and rolled it in the palm of his hand. “I wondered why you left a note, why you couldn’t face me and say goodbye.”

  “I was afraid.”

  “Of me?”

  “Of everything.” Lord, she was exhausted. Every word felt like an effort. “Your father, your money. That we were too different. That one day you would leave me. If I had seen you after your father tried to give me that check, you would have known something had happened. I couldn’t tell you what he’d done, it would have only caused more problems, more grief. Where would we have gone from there?” She took in a deep breath and turned her head to look at him. “So I left.”

  “And you stayed away.”

  “Two months later I saw your picture in a wine and food magazine, taken at a charity event for cancer. You were with a gorgeous blonde and the article hinted you were engaged. I figured if you were already with someone else, that maybe our parents were right about us.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “My mother orchestrated the date and the article. I wasn’t happy about either one.”

  “It took me five years to find the courage to come back here,” she said. “I’d convinced myself that I’d moved on, that my feelings for you were in the past. And then I saw you and I knew they weren’t.”

  “Becca, this morning…”

  “It doesn’t matter.” She stood, looked down at him. “I was fooling myself into thinking we might have another chance. Five years ago, now, it’s the same. We just can’t seem to get it right.”

  “Come with me.” His mouth pressed into a hard line, he rose from the step. “We’ll go back to my place and figure this out.”

  When he reached for her, she shook her head and stepped back. “It might take me a while, but I intend to pay back every penny my mother took.”

  “Dammit, Becca.” Anger iced over his eyes and tightened his jaw. “This isn’t about money.”

  “No, it’s not.” She moved backward toward the door, prayed her knees wouldn’t give out before she got inside. From somewhere deep inside herself, she found the courage she’d never had.

  “Goodbye, Trace.”

  Inside, she closed the door with a quiet click, then pressed her forehead to the cool wood. When she heard his car start, then drive away, she sank to the floor and cried.

  Ten

  A shovel in his hands, mud up to his knees, Trace stood in the rain and tunneled through the soaking wet mound of dirt. For every scoop of earth he dug and tossed aside, it seemed as if two took its place. When his shovel thunked against a football-size rock, the reverberation sang smartly up his arms.

  Dammit to hell! He hooked the shovel under the rock and loosened it, then bent and heaved it aside with the growing pile beside the road.

  The persistent rain had started two days ago, hard enough to block up a culvert running under one of the roads that wound through the vineyards. The ensuing flood had nearly washed out the road and created one hell of a mess.

  He might have brought one of the field hands to help, but he’d wanted to be alone with his dark mood, and he figured the physical labor would help work off some of his tension.

  So far, he’d only become more frustrated.

  Becca had gone back to Los Angeles five days ago. Every day, he’d picked up the phone to call her. Every day, he’d hung it up before it rang.

  And if he had let it ring, if she had picked up, what the hell would he have said? I’m sorry I tried to buy you like my father had?

  He’d let her down, her mother had let her down. It seemed that he’d only brought her more hurt by being in her life than being out of it.

  How could he have ever believed she’d taken money from his father? His family’s money and name had never been important to Becca. If anything, it had made her uncomfortable.

  Why hadn’t he trusted her?

  Rain battered the slicker he wore, pounded on the ground, pooled around his feet. He tossed another shovel of mud aside, cursed the damn rain, cursed the damn mud and cursed himself. Elaine Marshall had been right about one thing, Trace knew. He didn’t deserve Becca. He never had.

  She was better off without him.

  The single story guest house sat comfortably on the east corner of Louret Vineyard. With its peaked slate roof and wooden sides, the structure had a storybook feel to it: lazy vines of English ivy, granite-edged flower beds, a smoke-billowing stone fireplace chimney. A small lake and stand of olive trees in the distance completed the postcard-perfect picture. Parking his truck in the driveway, Trace shut off the engine, resisted the urge to start the motor up again. You called her. She knows you’re coming and you’re here, he told himself. Now get your ass out of the car.

  He grabbed the brightly wrapped box on the seat beside him and climbed out of the truck, then pulled up his collar against the light mist of rain. The worst of the storm had finally passed, but the lingering clouds seemed determined to keep the sun at bay.

  The scent of woodsmoke mixed with the fragrant aroma of the pine and cedar holiday wreath hanging on the front door, a clear reminder that Christmas was only two days away.

  Not that he was in much of a holiday mood. He di
dn’t feel like celebrating, and as far as he was concerned, he’d just be glad when Christmas was done and gone and he could move into the New Year.

  From the other side of the door, Trace heard the sound of a child’s laugh, then a puppy’s shrill bark. He listened for a moment, frowned when he heard the distinct cry of a woman in distress. He knocked, waited anxiously, then knocked again.

  He was reaching to open the door when it flew open.

  Anna stood on the other side, looking more than a little frazzled. From the top of her short auburn hair, down to her green silk blouse and black cotton slacks, she was covered in what appeared to be flour.

  “I am so sorry,” Anna sputtered. “We just had a mishap in the kitchen.”

  At the sound of a happy shriek and frenetic barking, Anna spun around and ran off.

  Not sure what to do, Trace glanced around, then stepped inside the house and closed the door behind him.

  The cottage had a warm, homey feel to it, Trace thought. The furniture in the living room was roughhewn and appeared to be hand-crafted, the sofa covered with fat pillows and handmade quilts. A Christmas tree decorated with shiny glass ornaments and silver garland brightened one corner, and on the dining room table, a trio of colorful nutcrackers stood guard beside a bright red poinsettia.

  Trace set the present he’d brought on the living room floor, then followed the sound of the commotion into a small kitchen. In the middle of the floor, a once black puppy ran circles around a giggling, flour-dusted little boy.

  “Cabo, no, stop!” Anna tried desperately to grab the excited puppy, but the animal was too quick for her. Trace stepped in and grabbed the overgrown puppy by its collar, then held on tight when the dog squirmed and wiggled.

  “Bless you,” Anna said, then groaned when she looked at the child sitting on the floor. “Jack, look at you!”

  “Mamma!” Jack grabbed handfuls of flour and tossed it in the air. “We made snow!”

  Flour covered the boy’s red curls, chubby cheeks and jean overalls. Anna lifted Jack up from the floor and set him on his feet, then looked at Trace apologetically.