A Treasure Worth Seeking

by Sandra Brown

  “Hello, Erin,” he said.

  She should stand and walk toward him and take his hand, but she was afraid to leave her hiding place behind the desk. If she stood, he might detect her pregnancy.

  “Hello, Lance,” she returned warmly. Her lips were quivering, but she was determined to appear cordial, as if greeting an old friend. “Come in and sit down.” She indicated the chair in front of her desk. “This is a surprise.”

  He was just as aloof as she as he crossed the room, taking in the environs of the office with those penetrating eyes. There was no escaping them. She would stick to her wise decision and stay seated behind the desk.

  “This is very nice, Erin,” he said, indicating the office with a sweeping gesture of his hand. “I’m impressed.”

  He smiled at her as he took his seat, and her heart did an erratic dance. His teeth flashed whitely against his dark skin. He was devastating.

  “Thank you. This isn’t our busiest time of year. Things slow down in the summer. We won’t be really active again until our clients start having fashion shows in the fall for the Christmas season.” She would be very pregnant by then. How would she manage that hectic pace?

  “I probably should have called before I came, but I thought it would be better to see you in person.”

  His words were almost verbatim what she had said to him when she arrived at the Lyman residence. He looked up at her. Did she remember? She did. They smiled at each other.

  “You were right. I’m glad you came straight here,” she parroted what his response had been. Then they both laughed self-consciously. For a moment there was a tense silence as they looked at each other. Lance unbuttoned his coat and that triggered Erin’s next comment. “You look different.”

  “How?”

  “Your clothes. They’re not as… conservative as what you wore before.”

  He had noticed her pause and smiled that sardonic smile that she well remembered. “You mean not as dull, don’t you?”

  She laughed and admitted, “Yes, dull. Has the Treasury Department issued new uniforms?”

  He shrugged and, watching her reaction to his words, said, “I don’t know. I don’t work for it anymore.”

  She was stunned. “What?” Her eyes were wide with unasked questions.

  “I resigned a while back. Actually I’m here today on my last official duty. I’ve gone into business for myself with another guy.”

  “Lance…” she groped for words. “I don’t know what to say. Are you happy? Is that what you want? You were so good at your work.”

  “Thank you.” He smiled. “I’m using my past experience for what I’m doing now. This friend of mine quit the department several years ago and started his own company. He goes into banks, businesses, whatever, and holds seminars on how to prevent and detect internal white-collar crimes. He also trains employees of said business on how to handle a criminal, like during a robbery or something.”

  He raised the ankle of one foot to his opposite knee. “Anyway, he called me a few months ago. His business has gotten out of hand. He couldn’t handle all his clients and wanted to know if I’d be interested in joining him. It had been a while since he’d been out in the field and could use some of my expertise to update his material.”

  He dropped his leg back to the floor and leaned forward, emphasizing his next words. “Erin, I’m amazed at how lucrative this business is. Corporations are willing to pay us a tremendous amount of money in order to save themselves much more. We’re making a lot of money and providing a valuable service at the same time.”

  His enthusiasm was contagious and Erin was happy for his success. He was so much more relaxed, less wary, than she had ever seen him.

  “To tell you the truth,” he said, “I grew disenchanted with my work after… San Francisco.” His voice had lowered in pitch and volume with his last two words and his eyes pierced through her from under the golden eyebrows.

  It had been five months, yet any reference to Ken still brought a lump to Erin’s throat. His death before she could ever meet him was still a wound that opened frequently. She murmured, “I think I can understand that.”

  “Do you hear often from Mrs. Lyman?”

  Erin’s face brightened considerably. “Yes, Melanie moved to Oregon and got a job with a florist, which is a natural for her. I get frequent letters. She sold the house in San Francisco and loves her work and small apartment. Last week she called me, and I’m convinced she’ll be happy.” Erin was smiling mysteriously.

  “Why?” he asked with a curious grin on his face. He was really interested.

  “Well, as it happens there is a Mr. Alan Carter who owns a nursery that sells plants to the florist. He is a ‘sweet, nice man in his late twenties.’ ”

  They both laughed over Melanie’s description. “He was widowed when his wife was suddenly and tragically killed a year and a half ago, and he was left with a two-year-old son.”

  “Aha!” said Lance.

  “Melanie called last week to ask me if I thought it was too soon after Ken’s death for her to go to dinner with Mr. Carter. ‘Of course, it won’t really be a date. Just two lonely people having dinner together. And his little boy, who is so precious, will come, too.’ I think that’s an exact quote.”

  “She’s a terrific lady. I hope she’s happy,” Lance said seriously.

  “I think Mr. Carter, or someone like him, is just what she needs. I’m only thankful that she’s not in San Francisco with her parents.”

  “Amen to that.”

  Silence stretched between them again. They avoided looking at each other, though their awareness hadn’t diminished at all. In fact they were captivated with each other. Every gesture was noted. Each breath was cataloged. The tiniest inflection of voice was heard. The air was redolent with tension.

  He had said he was on his last official duty for the Department of the Treasury. Partially out of curiosity and partially out of a need to break the palpable silence, Erin asked, “Why did you come to see me? Has it something to do with Ken? You said it was official.”

  “Yes. I have something for you.” Reaching into the breast pocket of his jacket he stood up. “Why don’t you come over here?” He was walking toward the pastel sofa near the wide picture window. He apparently expected her to follow him.

  She would have to stand up and expose herself to his uncanny perception. But refusing to budge would only draw more attention to her, and that was to be avoided. Sucking in her breath to flatten her stomach as much as possible, she stood up on unsteady knees.

  With trepidation that at any moment he was going to realize her condition, she crossed to the sofa where he was waiting. Only after she sat down did he take a seat at the opposite end.

  “Erin, I’ve had this for several months.” He indicated an ordinary white, letter-sized envelope. “Before Mrs. Lyman sold her house, she sorted through drawers and files. Anything she thought I might use to complete my report, she sent to me in Washington.”

  He paused and looked deeply into her brown eyes. “I don’t think she intended to send this. She probably didn’t even know it was in with the other papers and documents. I guess I should have sent it back to her, but I knew you would want to have it, and I think she would want you to.”

  Her curiosity knew no bounds. If his intention was to pique her interest, he had succeeded. He handed her the envelope. It was several seconds before her eyes dropped from his and looked down at what she held in her hand.

  She lifted the flap and reached inside. Her fingers closed around the edges of a stiff piece of paper. Taking it out she saw that it was a black and white photograph, yellowed with age. Her heart began to pound and there was a roaring in her ears as her throat went dry.

  From the clothes that the three people in the picture wore, she could tell that the time period captured was about thirty years ago.

  A young woman sat on a stone bench in a surrounding that looked like a city park. Standing shyly next to her knee was a small bo
y, still a toddler. On her lap she held a baby. Round, dark eyes looked out from behind a lacy bonnet on the infant’s head.

  The woman stared directly into the camera, but she wasn’t smiling. It was as if she didn’t really see the photographer. Her mind seemed to be far away. Her eyes were sad, but very much like those of the young boy and the baby. Her features were delicate, almost fragile, as though she had a tenuous hold on her life. Her impermanence was evident in the way she held her head, in the way she clutched the baby to her, and the tender hand she rested on the small boy’s shoulder. She seemed to bespeak a certain desperation. Only the softness of her features revealed her resignation to whatever tragedy had beset her.

  Tears had long since blinded Erin’s eyes, yet she continued to stare down at the photograph. The minutes ticked by as she assimilated every detail of the picture, trying to pierce the flat surface and see into the third dimension, into the woman’s mind. Lance didn’t interrupt. He didn’t move. He scarcely breathed.

  Finally, she looked up at him. God, she was beautiful, he thought. Even though her face was wet with tears, she was the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen. It had taken almost more nerve than he could muster to walk through the door to this office. The last time he had seen her, she was throwing poison darts at him with those dark eyes. A rational man would have retreated from where he wasn’t wanted and left well enough alone.

  But not him. Not Lance Barrett. No. He was a glutton for punishment. He had to see her one more time. He had to convince himself that what happened in San Francisco was only a fleeting fancy. Affairs like that were doomed to be short-lived. Too hot not to cool down. Wasn’t that how the song went? He’d see her and then he could banish her ghost forever from his haunted mind.

  But he knew it wouldn’t be that way, and it wasn’t. Something had happened to him last February and he hadn’t been the same since. He had fallen in love.

  He argued that he was too old to be acting like such a damn fool over a woman. He snapped at his men for the least petty aggravation, venting his short temper on them. One had awakened with a cracked jaw after suggesting that a toss with a winsome wench might improve Lance’s irascibility. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat. His family and friends grew to despise him. But no more than he despised himself.

  Erin had once commissioned him to hell. Well, he had been, and he didn’t like it. The only bit of heaven he had glimpsed for the last five months was the sight of her face as he walked through the door of this office.

  Dammit! He was worse off now than ever before. He was quaking inside from being this near her, wanting to proclaim his love, yet not daring to.

  She smelled delicious. Her complexion glowed from some inner source. Her lips were moist and parted. He could see her dainty pink tongue resting behind the row of perfect white teeth. God, he wanted to feel it against his lips, in his mouth, taste her.

  Looking up at him now with those tear-flooded eyes, it took all his control to keep from crushing her against him and never letting go. She was different and yet painfully familiar. She was the woman who had loved him so completely, fit him so uniquely. She was Erin O’Shea. His Erin.

  ‘But there was something…

  “There’s an inscription on the back,” he told her gently.

  Turning the picture over, Erin read aloud, “ ‘Ken’s mother, Mary Margaret Conway, and his sister. Died two weeks after picture taken of tuberculosis. Little girl already adopted when we got Ken. God bless them.’ ” It was dated and signed MRL.

  “Those were Ken’s adoptive mother’s initials. My guess is that she got the photograph when she adopted Ken. I found it in a manila folder marked in Ken’s handwriting as ‘Mother’s papers.’ He probably didn’t get this until after she died.”

  “Then he knew about me.”

  “I suppose so.”

  The tears were flowing again. “Lance, this is my mother,” she whispered, smoothing her fingers across the face in the picture. “Mary Margaret Conway. I know her name.”

  “And she loved you. She probably knew that she was about to die and took you to the orphanage to see that you were taken care of.”

  “My father?” She looked up at him expectantly.

  He only shook his head sadly. “I don’t know, Erin. But now you have a name. That’s a lead if you want to start from there.”

  She sighed, but it wasn’t out of sadness. It stemmed from a sense of peace and well-being. “I don’t know. Maybe sometime. For right now, this is enough. More than enough. I…” She choked on the emotion clogging her throat. “I don’t know how to thank you.” Slowly she raised her eyes to his. She saw a strange shine glossing over the blue irises.

  “It was the least I could do, Erin. I felt responsible for your losing your brother. When I saw this, I wanted to bring it to you. I don’t think Mrs. Lyman will mind.”

  Imperceptibly they moved closer together. Each was caught up in a maelstrom of whirling emotions. His clean, masculine scent filled her head and numbed her brain. His hard, strong body promised solace for someone who wanted and needed support. Someone who was troubled by problems that seemed insoluble. Someone whose heart had been shattered five months ago and still continued to be chiseled away a little each day.

  “Erin,” he said gruffly. “Erin—”

  The door was flung open and Bart barreled into the room. “Sugar, are you okay?” He glanced quickly to Erin before glaring at Lance, who had flown off the sofa and stood facing Bart dangerously. “What in the hell are you doing here?” Bart demanded.

  “None of your damn business,” Lance said with a deadly calm.

  “Like hell it’s not,” Bart challenged. “I ought to pound the everlovin’ crap out of you.”

  “You might try,” Lance said placidly.

  Erin remained on the sofa, too overwrought to stand and fight them both. Her head was splitting and her mouth had a sour taste in it. “Please, please. Both of you.”

  “Has he upset you, honey? You’ve been crying.” Bart folded his immense bulk into the ludicrous facsimile of a squat in front of the sofa and covered Erin’s cold hands with his.

  “No, he—” Erin began.

  “What I had to see Erin about was private and no concern of yours, Stanton,” Lance barked.

  “Everything about her concerns me,” Bart declared, standing up to his full height.

  “Not what she and I say to each other.” Erin knew that tone of Lance’s. He was furious, and the cold, brittle voice rained on them like shards of glass. His eyes were frigid as they locked with Bart’s.

  Bart was no coward, but he recognized a worthy opponent. He backed away slightly. “Then we’ll leave it up to her.” He took his eyes off Lance for only a split second to look down at Erin. “Sugar, do you have anything more to say to Mr. Barrett?”

  The import of the question wasn’t lost on her. She knew what he was asking. Did she want to tell Lance about their baby? God, what was she to do?

  She wanted to tell him. To see a glow of happiness and love replace that fearsome glint in his eyes would be the most beautiful sight in the world.

  But dare she take the risk? What if he looked at her with disgust? Suppose he berated her for not practicing birth control? Could she bear a patronizing attitude born of guilt and a sense of responsibility? Would he feel obligated to do the “right thing” by her?

  Don’t ever be afraid of me, Erin. Never…

  No. She couldn’t trap him by announcing her pregnancy. As much as she wanted him, she wouldn’t take him on those terms. Scheming women had used that resource since history began. It was the ultimate weapon to assure victory—the trump card.

  She loved Lance. That was an undeniable fact. But he had never expressed love for her. In all those passion-laden hours they had shared in San Francisco, he had never made any allusions to loving her.

  Perfect, perfect… I’ll wait…

  Her appeal to him was strictly physical. True, it was consuming. But to Erin, who had always
wanted the strong bonds of a family based on love, it wasn’t enough.

  I don’t know what’s happening to me…

  Looking up at him, she fell under the full power of his eyes. They seemed to touch her soul and ignite her spirit. She looked at him deep and long, for she knew that this might be the last time. It might have to last her for the rest of her life.

  You have two very feminine habits, Erin O’Shea…

  Finally, she lowered her eyes and shook her head. “No. I have nothing more to say.”

  There was a heavy silence in the room so complete that they could hear the traffic several stories below them on the Houston streets. She closed her eyes against the pain in her heart when she heard Lance turn on his heels and stalk to the door. The clicking sound of the closing latch was like a bullet that ended her life.

  She collapsed on the sofa, succumbing to her misery. The spasm of heartbreak lasted for so long that Bart became genuinely concerned for her health. He tried in his endearing, clumsy way to comfort her, but was unsuccessful. Finally, his desperation bordered on anger and he commanded, “Look here, Erin, I don’t want you to lose that baby of yours, so straighten up!”

  More than what he said, it was his use of her name that caused her to sit up and choke back lingering tears.

  “That’s more like it,” he grumbled.

  “You called me by my name, Bart.”

  “Don’t I always?” he asked with a puzzled expression.

  She smiled and fondly touched his cheek. “No,” she whispered.

  He stood up and took a few steps away from her. “Sugar, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to say, but here goes. You should tell Barrett about the baby. The way he looked at you, for a minute there, I thought, well… it was like… you know. Like he might love you. Let me go after him.”

  “No, Bart. I can’t tell him.”

  Quietly, hesitantly he said, “He has a right to know, darlin’. That baby is his too, you know.”

  She sighed. She had thought of that. “Yes. He’ll have to know, of course, but not now. Maybe when the baby’s born, my lawyers or something…” Her voice trailed off. She had no energy left.