Her heart felt like lead in her chest as she returned to the table where she normally did her work. She stared at the canisters of various ingredients, not re ally seeing them. She was drained. More than that, she felt as if someone had just kicked her in the stomach.
Damn it, why had he pulled this vanishing act on her? She hadn’t been counting on forever. She was a big girl and knew better than that. But she had thought that they had something special going on. A spark. Something that would cause him to treat her like a person rather than a nameless, disposable body in the dark.
Had she done something wrong?
How could he just go away like that without saying a single word to her?
Easy, because there’s nothing between you. He enjoyed himself and now he’s moved on.
Wendy pressed her lips together, hurt and angry as hell at the same time. She thought of the resignation she’d penned last week. It was still in her purse. She’d done it then so that he would sleep with her. But now it took on a whole different reason for existing.
Maybe she should just give it to Enrique. If Marcos could move on so effortlessly without a backward glance, well, then, so could she.
Not move on, quit, a voice in her head mocked. Are you going to go back to being a quitter after you’ve come so far?
Wendy drew in a shaky breath, trying unsuccessfully to shut the voice out.
And then, suddenly, she squared her shoulders as fire came back into her veins.
No, damn it, she thought abruptly, I’m not.
She was through being a quitter. That was the old Wendy. The one who didn’t have any real self-esteem to speak of. But she’d evolved past that, she told herself. Not just evolved, she’d developed a talent. For the first time in her life, she was good at something other than picking out flattering clothes, and nobody was going to take that away from her. Not even a mercurial man with a lethal mouth and the morals of a degenerate alley cat.
“Something wrong?” Enrique asked sympathetically, coming up behind her.
Wendy had been so engrossed in her internal struggle, she hadn’t even heard the chef approaching. Startled, she quickly collected herself, raised her head and flashed him a quick smile.
“No, nothing’s wrong. Everything’s fine.” She used her work as a cover. “I’m just trying to visualize a new dessert, that’s all.”
“You know,” he told her gently, “we can serve something more than once here. You’ve already come up with more different desserts than most chefs create in a year—if not longer. There is no shame in a rerun,” he informed her.
Wendy could see she surprised him by agreeing with him wholeheartedly. “No, there isn’t. From now on, why don’t we do this? We’ll offer one old dessert and one new one on each menu.”
Enrique nodded, giving his approval to this new approach. “Sounds good to me.” And then he decided to stop sidestepping around the elephant in the room and address it instead. He looked at her with concern. “Are you all right, Wendy?”
“I am terrific,” she informed him with genuine enthusiasm.
And she meant it.
She had made up her mind right then and there that she wasn’t going anywhere. If Marcos—whenever he did come back—wanted her to leave, he was going to have to show her the door himself, then brace himself for one hell of a battle because she wasn’t about to quit and run away anymore.
One way or another, she was here to stay and he might as well make his peace with it. And if he didn’t, well, that was his problem.
Contrary to what he’d told Enrique when he’d called the chef at his home that morning, Marcos wasn’t going to Los Angeles. It was a handy excuse to keep anyone—specifically Wendy—from coming to look for him. Rather than take off for California—or parts unknown—he’d remained in Red Rock. But rather than his own home, he’d gone to stay with Rafe.
Accustomed to his own counsel and working things out for himself, Marcos had to admit that this time around he needed a sounding board. He needed someone near his own age to talk to and help him sort out the confusion that had swallowed him whole.
Because from where he was standing, the turmoil wasn’t over yet.
So he’d come to Rafe for some brotherly advice. And, if possible, to be talked out of what he was feeling before he allowed his emotions to make him do something stupid. Something he was afraid he was going to wind up regretting.
Rafe hadn’t even tried to hide his surprise at seeing his younger brother on his doorstep. Instead of the confident go-getter he was accustomed to, Marcos looked as if he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.
And it was about to break him.
“Didn’t think I’d be seeing you again so soon. Is there a problem with the booking?” He guessed at the first thing that occurred to him.
“The booking?” Marcos echoed blankly.
“For my wedding reception,” Rafe prompted.
“Oh.” Marcos felt like a fool for forgetting about something so important as his brother’s wedding.
“No, no problem,” he assured Rafe. “This isn’t about you.”
Rafe gestured toward an overstuffed, wine-colored armchair. He took a seat opposite it. “What is it about?” he asked, purely for form’s sake, having a feeling that the out-of-kilter look in his brother’s eyes had to do with a woman. Obviously not an ordinary woman, as he’d never seen Marcos like this before.
“It’s about me. And a woman.” It was coming out choppy and he didn’t want it to. But his eloquent tongue had deserted him—along with his common sense, Marcos silently jeered.
“Does this woman have a name?” Rafe asked.
Marcos debated using a false name, but he hadn’t come here to Rafe to lie. It had taken a great deal for him to seek help and he had to be completely truthful if he ever hoped to resolve this in some kind of satisfactory manner.
“Wendy,” he finally said. “Her name is Wendy Fortune.”
“The albatross tía and tío saddled you with.” At least, that had been the last report he’d received from Marcos.
“Not so much an albatross,” Marcos allowed. “She turned out to be rather talented.”
“In or out of the restaurant?” Rafe queried.
“Both,” Marcos admitted. He took a breath, then let it out. That was followed by another.
“Did you come here to tell me what’s wrong, or to hyperventilate?” Rafe wanted to know.
Bracing himself, Marcos began.
The revelation took more than several minutes, with Marcos tripping over his own tongue, something that caught Rafe completely by surprise. Rafe was the older brother, but Marcos was definitely the smoother one, the one who could talk a nightingale out of its feathers. This uncertain Marcos was someone he was not expecting or accustomed to.
Rafe listened and did his best to hold his tongue, even though he wanted to jump in and finish Marcos’s sentences for him. It took patience.
Even so, it wasn’t easy. When his brother paused, either for breath or because he was finished for the time being, Rafe took his opportunity. He didn’t bother hiding his surprise.
“So you’re telling me that, completely unintentionally, you’ve found what everyone in this world is looking for—and you’re trying to turn your back on it?” When Marcos made no denial, Rafe assumed that he’d guessed right. His next words caught Marcos off guard. “Are you crazy?” Rafe demanded, stunned. For the life of him, now that he was so deeply in love himself, he couldn’t see Marcos’s problem. “Do you know how many people never find what you just stumbled onto?”
Marcos lifted his shoulders in a vague shrug and then dropped them.
“No,” he lied.
“A lot,” his older brother assured him. Rafe sighed, shaking his head. He would have never believed that Marcos could suddenly become so uncertain. “Just what is it that you’re afraid of?”
That, at least, he could answer, Marcos thought. “Being trapped.”
“That,” Raf
e said, “is just a cop-out. You can be just as ‘trapped’ being alone as you can in a relationship. More, actually. And if it’s the right relationship,” Rafe told him, “you’re not trapped at all. You’re sheltered.”
Marcos was shaken by his brother’s words. He’d been so busy trying to escape, he hadn’t thought of it that way.
“Is that how you feel about Melina?” he asked.
“That’s how I feel,” Rafe replied. “That, plus I feel damn lucky. I could have gone my whole life, drifting from one meaningless encounter to another, never feeling as if I’d made any real contact at all. Instead, with Melina I find that we can talk for hours and never even come close to reaching an end. There’s so much more to explore, to learn about each other, even though we’ve known one another for years.”
Rising, he drew closer to Marcos and put an arm around his younger brother’s shoulders. “Hey, I know. Love’s a scary proposition. But do you know the only thing that’s scarier?”
Marcos shook his head. “What?”
“Not having love,” Rafe said with feeling. His eyes searched Marcos’s face. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Marcos’s sigh was more of a cleansing breath. “Yeah, I think I do.”
Rafe’s eyes probed deeper into his. “And?” he asked, waiting.
Marcos reflected and laughed shortly. “And I guess I’m an idiot,” he admitted. “An idiot for choosing to run away instead of taking advantage of what’s right there in front of me.”
Rafe grinned broadly, satisfied. “Okay, as long as you know.” He gestured toward the door. “Now, get out of here. Some of us have work to do.”
“Yeah, we do,” Marcos agreed. And he’d let both his work—and Wendy—slide for too long. “Thanks.”
With a nod, Marcos turned to cross to the door and let himself out.
“And, Marcos,” Rafe called after him. Marcos paused, looking over his shoulder. Rafe grinned broadly. “Welcome to the club.”
Marcos flashed the same grin back at him. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Now that he’d made up his mind and finally had his head on straight, Marcos couldn’t wait to get back to Red. Back to Wendy.
But an uneasiness gnawed away at his gut. He was afraid that it might already be too late. He knew Wendy, knew the way she reacted. His brush-off might have just made her decide to walk out on this latest venture in her life. After all, she’d certainly done it before.
Hell, she’d already offered to quit because she’d perceived their working together as an obstacle to their coming together. But he’d left her bed as if he was abandoning her. There was no telling what was going on in her head. If for some reason she decided that he’d just used her for his own pleasure, then dumped her, she would think nothing of walking away for good.
And whose fault is that? he silently demanded.
Didn’t matter whose fault it was, it had to be undone. If she walked out on Red—and him—he was just going to have to work harder at getting her back. Because, now that he thought about it, really thought about it, the idea of spending the rest of his life without Wendy left him with an incredibly hollow feeling.
A man couldn’t live with that kind of emptiness inside him.
With one eye in the rearview mirror, watching for any sign of the police, Marcos flew through yellow lights and busy intersections, bobbing and weaving from one lane to another, switching as if his car was a bouncing ball, until he finally reached Red.
Feeling suddenly breathless, despite the fact that he hadn’t run so much as an inch, Marcos bolted from his sedan and entered the restaurant through the rear double doors.
When he walked into the kitchen, he felt his stomach lurch, then fall.
Wendy wasn’t there.
Chapter Sixteen
Okay, now what?
Exiting the medical building, Cooper Fortune frowned as he looked at the DNA report in his hand. He’d picked it up less than five minutes ago at the laboratory that had been steadily ruling out one by one, the various male members of the Fortune family as being baby Anthony’s biological father.
Until him.
“We have a winner,” Cooper murmured under his breath, still stunned at this newest twist in his life.
He was Anthony’s father.
It wasn’t that he was too young to be a father. Hell, at forty-one, if anything, he would have said he was too old to be responsible for a four-month-old infant and all that entailed. Besides, he wasn’t exactly a pillar of the community. Until Ross had tracked him down, he’d been drifting from state to state, picking up work and women as each came his way. And nothing permanent had ever come of either.
Until now.
Standing outside in the street, Cooper was still having trouble believing it. It all just felt too surreal.
He was a father.
What did he know about being a father? For two cents—less—he could just turn around and disappear again, the way he had for so much of his life.
But there was the kid to think of. Anthony hadn’t asked to be born.
Hell, he hadn’t asked to be a father, either, but the kid really had absolutely no responsibility for being born. And he had already received one blow. He’d been abandoned by his mother. Having his father run out on him as well just didn’t seem right.
No matter how much he wanted to put this behind him. Cooper folded the report twice over and stuffed it into his back pocket.
The single word throbbed over and over again in his brain.
Father.
How could such a small word feel so damn heavy? And the label came with strings. He’d never been one for strings, had lived most of his life avoiding them and entanglements in general.
Looks like that’s going to have to change, Coop, he told himself.
A lot of things were going to have to change, he thought. Namely his lifestyle. He was going to have to clean up his act, settle down. Find some kind of steady work. It wasn’t just him anymore.
Even without a clue about all the things that being a parent involved, he figured he’d have to do a better job than his mother had with the four of them. For all intents and purposes, he, Ross, Flint and Frannie had raised themselves. They’d had to. Their flirt of a mother was too busy charming the pants off whatever man had caught her fancy at the time. Everyone in the family said that Cynthia Fortune had a hell of a track record: four husbands, one of whom at least had had the good sense to die. The others she’d divorced.
He thought of his only sister, the so-called baby of the family. Frannie had a couple of kids of her own. Maybe she could give him a few pointers and help out a little until he got the hang of all this.
Cooper shook his head as he started walking toward his car. He wasn’t one to look into the future. Hell, he hardly even thought beyond the end of the week, a paycheck and being free until Monday. And never once in all that time had he ever thought of himself as being someone’s father.
Well, he was now.
“Marcos,” Enrique exclaimed as he came out of the walk-in refrigerator, “when did you get back?”
The chef had his hands full, carrying a fresh rack of lamb in a large, well-used shallow pan. He set it on the stainless-steel counter and crossed over to Red’s manager. Enrique looked genuinely pleased to see him.
But there was only one person’s reaction that Marcos cared about.
Rather than explain to the chef that he’d actually never left town, Marcos merely shrugged and murmured a vague, “Just a while ago.”
Nodding, Enrique’s smile was broad as the man’s eyes met his. “Good trip?”
“You might say that.”
At least, in the sense that Rafe had made him see things clearly for perhaps the first time in his adult life. But he didn’t want to continue talking about the trip that wasn’t. There was something far more important that needed his attention.
“Is Wendy here?” Marcos wanted to know, cutting through any more chitchat.
“Right beh
ind you, Marcos.”
The second he heard just the first syllable of the melodic Southern drawl, Marcos could feel his heart accelerating. It seemed almost inconceivable to him that the same voice had annoyed him so much just a short while ago.
He swung around to face her only to see that Wendy had already walked over to the table that had become her workstation since she’d taken on the role of pastry chef.
For a moment he just stared at her, drinking in the sight of her. Absorbing every last nuance. She hadn’t quit and left town the way he’d been afraid she would. He’d acted like an idiot but she was still here.
Somebody up there had to like him, Marcos thought, as wave after wave of relief washed over him.
“I need to talk to you,” he finally said.
She slanted a glance at him as she continued to measure out the ingredients she’d decided she was going to need in concocting today’s dessert. Cups and measuring spoons began lining up like tiny confectionary soldiers.
“Talk fast, then,” she instructed matter-of-factly. “I’ve got a lot of things to do.”
He glanced toward Enrique. So far, because of the early hour, the chef was still the only other occupant in the kitchen.
“I need to talk to you alone,” Marcos qualified.
Part of her just wanted to throw her arms around him, to hold on to him and that exhilaration she’d felt when she’d walked in and seen the back of his head. When she knew he’d come back and was asking for her, instead of stretching out his vanishing act.
The other part of her wanted to hit him upside his head and demand to know why he’d left her bed like that to begin with. Why he’d made her feel as if she didn’t matter.
She compromised. Didn’t hug, didn’t hit. Instead, she stood her ground and continued working.
“Then I’m afraid it’s going to have to wait,” she answered, pouring powdered sugar, all but lighter than air, into a glass measuring cup. She made a judgment call and used a little more than three quarters of a cup. “The lunch crowd is going to be coming soon and I’m still not sure what I’m putting on the dessert menu.”
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