by Janet Dailey
“Aren’t they?” Brad mocked bitterly. “Now that your parents know we want to get married, they’re going to try to poison you against me. They’ll pay people to tell you lies about me until you believe them. Wait and see.”
“That’s not true. My parents aren’t like that.”
“I suppose they are as pure and lily white as you are.” Scorn was etched in the line of his mouth, contemptuous and vaguely savage.
“They certainly aren’t the monsters you are painting them to be,” Sheila snapped.
“You are either blind or incredibly naïve. I—”
The sentence wasn’t finished as an impatient male voice called, “Brad!”
Brad didn’t attempt to disguise his annoyance at the interruption. “What do you want, Tom?” he glared at the intruder, the same co-worker as before.
“I can’t cover for you all night,” he said. “You’d better get in there before you are fired.”
“I’ll be right there,” Brad agreed with an irritated sigh.
“You’d better be,” came the parting shot.
Sheila was glad for the interruption. She couldn’t bear Brad’s sarcastic comments and his unjustified accusations against her parents. She felt sick at heart and wanted only to get away and sort things out for herself.
“Go on in, Brad,” she murmured dispiritedly. “It’s time I left, anyway.”
“Don’t go, Sheila.” He held her fast and placed a hand on her other shoulder to turn her back to him.
She continued to avoid his gaze. “There isn’t any point in staying. There is nothing left to say.”
“Sheila.” He seemed to search desperately for a reason, then laughed shortly. “I think we’ve just had our first real quarrel.”
“I certainly didn’t start it.” She could find none of the twisted humor that Brad had in the discovery.
“It’s miserable, isn’t it?” he said. Releasing her arm, he started to stroke her cheek in a soothing caress, but Sheila drew away from his touch, unable to make the same sudden transition from anger to affection. “I never meant for us to quarrel like this,” Brad murmured apologetically. “I just lost my head, that’s all.”
“That was enough,” she answered tightly.
“Sheila, look at me.” When she didn’t obey, he caught her chin and forced her to comply. His handsome, golden features pleaded for her forgiveness. “How can I make you understand the way I feel?”
“You have,” Sheila assured him. “You’ve made it clear that you don’t believe I really love you and you think my parents are conspiring against you.”
“No, that’s not it at all. Don’t you see?” Brad gazed earnestly into her wary eyes. “You are the only thing in my life that means anything to me, Sheila. I’m afraid of losing you. I—”
A frown of concern creased his forehead, disappearing beneath a lock of blond hair. His sincerity reached out to invisibly touch Sheila.
“Brad,” she whispered, responding to his plea.
Amusement born of self-derision glittered briefly in his velvet-brown eyes. “You don’t understand, do you? You think I’m wrong to feel that way.”
“No one can take me away from you.” A half-smile curved her lips.
“I’ve asked you to be my wife, Sheila,” he began.
“And I have accepted,” she reminded him.
“Yes.” Brad nodded. “But I don’t have anything to offer you except my love. I’m asking you to give up everything for nothing.”
His thumb was caressing her collarbone in rhythmic circles. Sheila felt the magic of his touch begin to take effect.
“It isn’t such a bad exchange, darling.” She smiled.
“Love can’t put a roof over our heads or food in our mouths,” he reminded her. “It takes money, which I haven’t got.”
“Ssh!” Sheila pressed silencing fingers against his lips. “I don’t want to hear that word again.”
Brad kissed her fingertips, then held them lightly in his hands. “I don’t want to say it again, but money is one of the unchangeable facts of life. It can’t be avoided simply because it’s unpleasant.”
“I don’t care.” Sheila slipped her fingers from his hand and softly brushed the hair from his forehead. “Tell me you love me, Brad.”
“I love you.” He kissed her long and hard to reinforce his words. “A year,” Brad groaned when he lifted his head. “I can’t wait a year.”
Sheila rubbed her forehead against his jaw in a feline gesture and sighed. “I know.” Reluctantly, she strained against his embrace. “And you can’t stay out here any longer or you will lose your job.”
He withdrew his arms from around her, briefly kissing her once. “If it’s not busy at the desk, I’ll call you tonight.”
“I’ll be home,” Sheila promised.
“And you’d better be there alone.” Brad growled the mock threat.
“I’ll think about it.” She laughed and moved away without kissing him again. It would only have prolonged a moment that had already stretched too far.
As Sheila slid behind the wheel of her Thunderbird and started the motor, Brad was still standing where she had left him. He raised his hand in a good-bye when she reversed out of the stall. Sheila waved back, feeling very contented.
Driving onto the street, she was surprised to discover she was humming the tune of a sad love song. The melancholy lyrics were about a love that had gone wrong. Sheila gripped the steering wheel in irritation, blaming the song for reminding her of the argument instead of its satisfactory conclusion.
Money. What a stupid thing to argue about, she thought. Sheila wondered if poor people were naturally prouder, or if Brad was simply obsessed by it. For a few minutes during the quarrel, she had thought he was paranoid and had felt a twinge of uncertainty.
The car windows were rolled down and Sheila shook her head, leting the wind play over her face. Everything was going to be all right. She was positive of it. Brad was a rough diamond in need of some polishing to fit into her world. That was all. Once she accomplished that, they would make such a stunning couple. With her money and her parents’ connections, the sky would be the only limit to their future. Bright, shining, and cloudless.
Chapter 2
Stepping through the front door, the heels of her sandals sank into the thick pile of the cream-colored carpet. By most standards, her parents’ ranch-style house was a near mansion, but to Sheila, it was simply her home.
A maid quietly appeared in the foyer. Sheila handed the woman her purse and the expensive leather case containing her college books and papers.
“Would you put them in my room, Rose?” she requested, expecting the affirmative nod before it was made. “Is my mother home?”
“Mrs. Rogers is in her sitting room.”
“Thank you.”
The thick carpet silenced Sheila’s footsteps as she walked to the wide hallway leading to her parents’ bedroom and its adjoining sitting room. Outside the door, she knocked once, then walked in.
“Is that you, darling?” came her mother’s questioning voice from the bedroom beyond.
“It depends which darling you mean—me or Dad?” Sheila laughed.
“I was referring to your father.” Constance Rogers appeared in the connecting doorway, belting the long, desert-sand robe she wore. “We are hosting that political dinner this evening and I asked him to be home early. But you are equally welcome, Sheila, although I did expect you home sooner.”
Constance Rogers was an older, more elegant version of her daughter. Her blonde hair was styled in a shorter, more sophisticated cut, its shade lightened by the invasion of strands of white. Her figure, too, was slender and firm, but it lacked the ripeness of Sheila’s curves.
“I stayed for a while after my last class,” Sheila explained.
Shrewd, almond-brown eyes swept over her, missing nothing. “Your lipstick needs freshening. You also saw Brad before you came home,” her mother concluded with a hint of displeasure in her v
oice.
Sheila moved farther into the room, avoiding for the moment her mother’s astute gaze. She never made the mistake of underestimating her mother. While seeming to stand in her husband’s shadow, Constance Rogers was a power in her own right. It was her intelligence and social acumen, as well as her flair for public relations, that had enabled her husband to become so successful and powerful.
“Yes, I saw Brad,” Sheila acknowledged, sitting down on the velvet-covered loveseat. “I’d like you to talk to Dad about him.”
“Why?” her mother countered with a beguilingly curious smile that didn’t fool Sheila for an instant.
“To persuade him to give up the idea that Brad and I have to wait a year before we get married,” she answered smoothly.
“But I see nothing wrong with the idea.” Constance Rogers walked to the wing-backed chair near the loveseat, spreading out the long skirt of her robe as she sat down.
Crossing her legs, Sheila challenged, “Are you against my marrying Brad, too?”
“Darling, I wouldn’t dream of driving you into that man’s arms by forbidding you to marry him,” her mother declared with a throaty laugh. “For the life of me, I can’t understand what it is that you see in him. There are so many men in Texas who could offer you much more and would be much more suitable. And you could have any one of them you wanted.”
“I don’t want them. I want Brad,” she insisted. Her fingers impatiently plucked at the corner of a throw pillow.
“Why, when there are so many others, do you want him?” Constance sighed, the corners of her perfectly outlined mouth turning upward in a sad smile.
“Because he’s a challenge to me.” Sheila blurted out the truth without thinking.
She was never entirely sure of him. He would not indulge her every whim, nor treat her with the adoration she was accustomed to receiving almost from birth. Their relationship had been a constant struggle between two equally strong personalities with either the certain winner. This provided the spice, but it wasn’t the reason Sheila wanted to marry him.
“What I don’t understand,” Sheila continued, “is what you and Father have against Brad.”
Her mother hesitated, then answered with equal frankness. “He is overbearing and abrasive.”
Sheila relaxed against the cushions, a gleam in her cat-gold eyes. “Isn’t that what your parents said about Dad before you eloped with him? He lacked culture, social refinement, and political insight, and look what influence you have had on him. You made Dad the man he is today.”
“You can’t compare the two,” her mother insisted.
“Why?” Sheila argued. “Brad is ambitious.”
“I think the correct adjective is money-hungry.” Just then Sheila’s father entered the room, pausing beside his wife’s chair to kiss her upturned cheek.
Recovering from her momentary surprise at his appearance, Sheila flashed a reply. “I don’t believe that is a bad trait. After all, Dad, aren’t you always looking for a means to turn a profit?”
“The difference is that I’m willing to work for it. Your boyfriend prefers to get it the easy way,” he responded calmly.
“How can you say that?” Sheila smouldered indignantly. “Look at how he’s worked and struggled to obtain his degree.”
The character lines in her father’s sun-tanned face crinkled in an absent smile. “Yes, I’ve often wondered why a political science major would be working in a hotel. Since he lives here in the state capital, it’s always seemed to me that if he were truly interested in his proposed profession he would be working in a government office.”
“An excellent point, E.J.” Constance Rogers patted her husband’s hand that rested affectionately on her shoulder.
“Brad has worked in government offices before, but the hours conflicted with his classes,” Sheila defended.
“Really?” her father drawled in dry disbelief. “I pride myself on my ability to judge people, and you are seeing qualities in this man that simply don’t exist. I don’t like the idea of my little girl being hurt.”
Elliot John Rogers was a strong-willed man, and Sheila was in every way his daughter. Standing, she faced the pair without flinching.
“Neither of you understands Brad,” she accused. “You simply don’t know him the way I do. Furthermore, you don’t want to know him, in case I prove that you are wrong.”
“Sheila, that is not true,” her mother protested, but Sheila was already leaving the sitting room.
There wasn’t any point in continuing the discussion, not with her father present. Sheila could reason with her mother, but her father was positively rigid in his opinions, listening to no one, with the exception of his wife. Sheila retreated to her room to think. Obtaining her parents’ approval was not going to be easy.
The problem was at the back of her mind all evening, through the meal she ate alone and the textbook pages of her reading. She waited for Brad to phone, almost needing the reassurance of his voice. When she slipped between her silk sheets around midnight, he still had not called. Sheila closed her eyes, hoping sleep would provide an answer.
Something was trying to awaken her. Her head moved against the pillow in protest, but the sensation persisted. Drowsily, Sheila opened her eyes, fighting through the waves of sleep trying to drag her back.
The bedroom was pitch-black. The only item her eyes could focus on was the luminous dial of the travel clock next to her bed. The glowing hands pointed to a few minutes past three o’clock, which drew a groan of tiredness from Sheila as she snuggled deeper beneath the covers.
A light rapping disturbed the silence. It sounded like someone tapping on glass. Propping herself up on an elbow, Sheila listened, every sense alert, uncertain whether she had heard the sound or simply imagined it.
It came again. Someone was tapping on the sliding glass door leading from her bedroom onto the backyard patio. No criminal would knock before entering. Sheila tossed back the covers and slid from the bed, knowing it had to be Brad. No one else would be knocking on her door at that hour of the night.
Barefoot, Sheila padded to the glass door and pulled the cord to open the floor-to-ceiling drapes of jade-green. Moonlight bathed the tall figure standing outside, blond hair gilded in the silvery light. Snapping off the lock, Sheila slid the door open to admit Brad.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered as he entered. “It’s three in the morning.”
The same moonlight that had outlined his masculine form now streamed through the glass door to illuminate Sheila. Her bare legs gleamed with a silken sheen, the red material of her mock nightshirt ending just above her knees. Brad’s gaze made a sweeping inspection, drawing Sheila’s attention to her ample, if suggestive, attire and the gaping, unbuttoned front of the shirt-gown. Her fingers moved immediately to clutch the front.
“I know what time it is,” Brad answered, smiling as he moved toward her. “I just got off work and I had to see you.”
“You could have phoned.”
His hands settled on her shoulders and Sheila tensed. It didn’t seem right for Brad to be in her bedroom at this hour, even if she was planning to marry him.
“You can’t do this over the telephone.” His mouth claimed hers in a long, sweet kiss, but he didn’t attempt to draw her into his arms. “Do you still love me, honey?”
“You don’t think I would stop loving you so soon, do you?”
It suddenly seemed romantic that Brad had come halfway across Austin on his motorbike to see her and assure himself she still loved him.
“Have you?” Brad persisted, wanting to hear her speak the words.
“No,” Sheila answered with a small shake of her head. “I still love you.”
He swept her into his arms, holding her tightly, his chin resting atop her dark gold hair. The embrace made her feel cherished and safe. There was no demand for passionate kisses. He seemed to want only to have her in his arms.
With her head resting at the base of his throat, Sheil
a fingered the lapel of his blazer. A bliss-filled sigh slid through her lips while her lashes fluttered down in contentment.
“You took such a risk coming here at this hour,” she murmured as his chin rubbed the top of her head. “My father doesn’t trust you as it is. You really should have called, instead.”
“It’s worth it just to hold you in my arms and know you still want to marry me. You do, don’t you?” His mouth moved against her tousled hair.
“Yes, I want to marry you. Or do you think I make a habit of admitting men into my bedroom in the middle of the night?”
“I hope not,” Brad answered with mock gruffness, then continued in a more serious tone. “I probably should have called you, but your parents would undoubtedly have heard the telephone ring and picked it up to see who was calling. I couldn’t take the chance that they might overhear our conversation.”
Her eyebrows drew together in a puzzled crease. “Why?”
Brad didn’t answer immediately as he lifted a hand to cradle the side of her face in his large palm.
“You are very beautiful, do you know that? Having you for my wife isn’t going to be so bad after I teach you a few things.”
“Mmm, and you might make a fairly decent husband,” Sheila said, countering his jesting comment, “but you’re getting off the subject. What did you want to talk to me about?”
“Maybe I should have phoned.” There was a flash of white teeth as he smiled. “It’s too difficult concentrating when I’m holding you in my arms. I keep getting sidetracked by the soft shoulders and dangerous curves.” His hands glided over the silky material of her long sleeves to grasp her hands. “Come on. Let’s go over and sit down where we can talk.”
Retaining a light grip on her left hand, he led her to the bed. Sheila sat near the foot, curving her legs beneath her. Brad released her hand to switch on the small lamp on the bedside table. Its soft glow cast a small pool of light over the bed.
“You’re making this all seem very mysterious.” Sheila masked her bewilderment in a teasing murmur as Brad sat on the edge of the bed an arm’s length from her.
