by Diana Palmer
“Your office is this way,” he reflected. “I’m not going away until you finish that accusation.”
She turned to him, pulling her jacket closer against the chill in the air. “You went back to her.”
“I did not.”
“I called you. She was there, in your apartment…!”
“She got the apartment manager to open the door for her. She was waiting for me when I got home. I threw her out.” He looked completely inflexible. “I’ve only lied to you about one thing—who was paying your bills. Other than that, I’ve always been truthful to you. But if you don’t believe me, you don’t.”
It reminded her that she’d lied to him, by omission, about the threat to him and his real father.
“Audrey is beautiful,” she said.
“So is a rattlesnake, in the right light.”
She smiled in spite of herself.
He sighed. “We’ve still got a long way to go. Are you sure you won’t move in with me?”
She shook her head.
His eyes narrowed. “How about dinner tonight. Maybe a play.”
She stared at his chest. “It isn’t a good idea.”
“I want you!”
“I want you, too, desperately.” She looked up at him hungrily, but with eyes that held sadness. “But you don’t want me permanently, Tate. Sooner or later, you’d tire of me and find someone else. Isn’t that how it’s done? You live with someone until they bore you and then you just find another lover.”
His face tautened. She made him sound like a rounder, which he never had been. “What are you going to do, Cecily, walk away from me and pretend that nothing happened in my mother’s guest room?”
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” she replied quietly. “Because I can’t bear the thought of living day by day with a man who doesn’t share my dream for the future.”
He dug his hands into his pockets. “You could give it a chance.”
“I’ll live with a man when I get married,” she said abruptly. “That’s the only way I ever will.”
And he never would. “It’s the twentieth century,” he said coldly. “Marriage is no longer a necessity for people to be together. I’ve told you that I have no plans whatsoever to marry, now or ever. And what the hell is the difference when you’ve already slept with me?”
“If you can’t see the difference, I could never explain it to you.” She turned away.
“Cecily.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder.
“Did you go to the clinic?” he asked.
He wanted to know if there was any risk of her getting pregnant. Actually there was a terrific chance, and she hadn’t gone to any clinic. But if there was a baby, she was going to have it and love it. She wasn’t going to present him with a child who wasn’t Lakota. Presumably that was what frightened him most.
“You have absolutely nothing to worry about,” she lied. “See you around, Tate.”
She walked away. He stood and watched her with his hands still in his pockets. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d ever felt so alone. He didn’t want her out of his life, but she was making demands he couldn’t meet. Marriage was simply out of the question; so were children. She knew that already. So what was wrong with two consenting adults living together? Especially two adults who could share such a passion, such a feast of the senses. Why was she being so stubborn?
He wondered exactly what she and Colby had found in South Dakota. He wanted to phone his mother and try to dig it out of her, but if Colby hadn’t told Cecily, he wasn’t likely to tell Leta.
Tate was frustrated. But he was feeling something else as well: curiosity. Cecily knew something more about Holden’s past that she wasn’t telling him, something that would apparently make him angry with her. He wondered what it was. He was going to do some digging of his own. As for his future with Cecily, that would have to wait. She was as stubborn as he was, but perhaps she’d come around yet when she became lonely enough. His job, his heritage, his love of freedom combined to make marriage a distasteful prospect, but he loved the feel of Cecily in his arms. Even if his conscience was killing him by degrees for seducing her, he couldn’t stop wanting her. And he wasn’t giving up until she came to her senses.
Chapter Nine
Two weeks later, Matt Holden came to see Cecily at her apartment.
“Sorry about this,” he said as she led him into the small living room and offered him her easy chair. “I think my office is bugged. I had to get a stranger to upgrade my security and now I think it may be worse than it was before. At least Tate would know if there were bugs here in your apartment.”
“Only if he’s psychic,” she said darkly. “He doesn’t come here anymore,” she added in a subdued tone.
He sighed. “I gather you’ve seen the ring Audrey’s flashing around.”
She swallowed hard. “Ring?”
“A copy of the turquoise one that he wears.” He leaned back in the chair and crossed his long legs, looking unspeakably irritated. “Everyone in town knows that she’s a man-eater. As soon as she’s sure of Tate, she’ll be off looking for new men to conquer. She won’t really marry him.” He leaned forward. “He’s Native American!”
She grimaced and curled up on the sofa. “He told me flatly that they were no longer involved and that her being in his apartment the last time I called was innocent. But there was a photo in the tabloid yesterday of them together at some gala benefit.”
“I know. I saw it.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but why are you here?” she asked.
“I’ve got names and dates and ledger sheets and places,” he said. “I handed them over to a member of my staff that I trust with my life. He has a brother with a detective agency. It’s taken a little more investigation, but I have everything I need. The fire is about to hit the fan. There’s a risk that the media may get hold of it in spite of everything I do. When I expose these rats, they’re bound to retaliate. I can’t stand between them and every reporter in the country.”
“You’re worried about how it will affect Tate and Leta.”
He nodded. “Leta will manage. She’s tough. But Tate is going to learn some things that will hurt him badly. I think he should hear it from his mother.” He sighed angrily. “So I called her up on a pay phone and told her I knew everything, and that she should tell Tate the truth before he hears it on the evening news. After thirty-six years of silence, she suddenly became very vocal. She called me a name I won’t repeat, told me what she thought of me and my career and hung up. When I rang back, she wouldn’t pick up the phone.” He ran his hands through his hair. “What do I do?”
“Suppose I invite her here to stay with me, for a visit,” she suggested. “Then you can talk to her again…”
“There’s no time, Cecily.” He spread his hands on his thighs and a look of torment lined his broad, strong face. “I’m going to have to tell him myself.”
She winced. “I’m sorry.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry, too. He’s going to hate all of us for a little while, even Leta. I told her that. It made her furious, but it’s the truth. We’re going to have a bad thunderstorm that will last for a few weeks, and then there will be a ray of sunshine.”
She smiled. “We may have a tornado instead.”
He got up. “I just wanted to keep you updated. I thought for a while that I might be able to stick my head in the sand. I thought I could take the heat off Tom Black Knife, get the gambling syndicate off the reservation, and Tate would never have to know the truth. I was daydreaming. You can’t keep a lie forever.”
“It’s going to hurt him.”
“It’s going to hurt you, too, you know that, don’t you?” he said gently. “You knew the truth and you didn’t tell him. He holds grudges. He isn’t particularly forgiving, either. Like his mother,” he added darkly.
“Leta isn’t like that.”
“Not to you, of course. She hates my guts,” he said,
and looked as if it had wounded him deeply to know it. “I don’t blame her. I hate myself. Tate will really have something in common with her when he knows the whole story. I hope I can find the right words to minimize the damage. It will hurt her terribly to have Tate turn his back on her.”
“You’ll do the right thing. What about Tom?” Matt Holden had filled Cecily in on Tom’s story.
“I’ve got the best investigators I can find looking for a loophole for him. There are still two witnesses living who saw what happened back in the seventies. One of them is in prison, and we may be able to cook a deal to get him to tell what he knows. It’s the best I can do. I spoke to Tom. He understands. A brave man.”
“Yes. And a sad story.”
“Well, here goes nothing.” He moved to the door. “Since nobody else has the guts to do the dirty work, I’m going to see Tate tomorrow and tell him who his father is.”
“Good luck.”
He shrugged. His glance at her was wry and full of self-contempt. “It will take more than luck, I’m afraid.”
Tate was having a beer. He didn’t drink as a rule, but lately he was morose and broody. He couldn’t go to a party without finding Audrey nearby, ready to launch herself at him every time a camera flashed. She denied even talking to Cecily, but he knew better. Cecily didn’t lie. He wished he could bring himself to go and see Cecily, but she was adamant. She wanted nothing to do with him since he’d put marriage out of reach. It made him mad that she was willing to deny them both fulfillment of a perfectly normal desire because he wasn’t willing to stand in front of a minister with her. She might come around eventually, but meanwhile his enforced abstinence was making him hostile to everyone around him.
The sharp ring of the doorbell diverted him from his thoughts. He put down the beer and padded across the carpeted floor in his socks. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, hardly the garb for visitors. If it was Audrey, he wasn’t even going to open the damned door. He’d had the lock changed and threatened the apartment manager with homicide if he ever let her in the apartment again.
But the sight that met his eyes was a surprise. It was Senator Matt Holden, who was also wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Well, it was Sunday afternoon. Maybe the man didn’t live in suits on the weekend.
He opened the door with obvious reluctance and more than a little hostility.
“Lost your way?” he asked Holden. “The Senate Office Building is a few blocks east.”
Holden studied the taller man quietly. “I need to talk to you. My office has bugs. The security guy I hired added a few more to the one that was already there.”
“Not my fault,” Tate told him. “I would have found them all.”
“I know that.” He averted his eyes to the wall. Mandelas and dream catchers, a parfleche bag and a medicine shield adorned one dark-paneled wall. “Nice decor,” he added.
“The medicine shield is supposed to ward off evil,” Tate said, standing aside to let Holden in. “Doesn’t work, does it?” he added with a speaking glance at the man.
“I’m not evil. I’m caught up in something that I can’t avoid. I want to tell you about it before you see it on CNN.”
“What business is it of mine?” Tate wanted to know. “And I seem to remember that you thrive on publicity. You got plenty out of Brauer’s capture, not to mention Cecily’s sleight of hand with the crab bisque at your fund-raiser.”
Holden went to the window instead of taking the chair he was offered. He stuck his thumbs in the back pockets of his jeans and stared at the city skyline. The capitol building was visible in the distance.
“This won’t be beneficial publicity.”
“Cecily said she and Colby found something at Wapiti Ridge.”
He nodded. “They found hard evidence of embezzled funds and mob-related gambling ties to plans for a casino.” He turned. “I’ve contacted the state attorney general back home and given her the details. I’ve also spoken to Tom Black Knife and the tribal council. They all know the story and I have evidence that can put the perpetrators away. But they’re going to retaliate. Tom Black Knife may go to prison despite my best efforts to save him, not because he did anything willingly, but because of something he did during the uprisings of the seventies that got covered up.”
Tate perched himself on the edge of the desk he used at home and frowned. “So that’s how they got him to cooperate.”
Holden nodded. “They blackmailed him. Just as they threatened to blackmail me.” He turned toward his son. “I tried to get your mother to tell you, but she hung up and refused to even discuss coming here. She won’t talk to you about it. Cecily won’t, either. Since I’m the only member of the family with the balls to do it, I’m going to tell you what you should have been told years ago.”
“That the woman you had the affair with was my mother,” Tate said, having worked that out for himself.
Holden blinked. “Well, yes. How did you know?”
“It was the only reason you could have wanted me out of it, to protect my mother. Not that I think much of you for the way you treated her,” he added coldly. “Even you couldn’t have been a worse husband than my father was. Of course, you wouldn’t have wanted to marry beneath you, would you? A Lakota Indian in your bloodlines would have—”
“You’re making this harder!” Holden interrupted. He ran a hand through his hair, disarranging it.
“You can tell my mother not to worry,” Tate said shortly. “Anyone can make a mistake. I won’t blame her. And I’ll do what I can to protect her from the media.”
“You’re the one who’s going to need protecting, damn it!” Holden snapped. His eyes were blazing, as fierce as Tate’s had ever been. “There’s more to this than a thirty-six-year-old affair! There was a child! Leta was pregnant when she married Jack Winthrop!”
Tate didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. All the flyaway pieces of the puzzle of his life suddenly converged. Why Jack Winthrop had put away so much whiskey. Why he beat Leta. Why he hated Tate.
“Jack Winthrop wasn’t my father.” Tate said it in an unnaturally matter-of-fact, calm voice.
“No. The son of a bitch wasn’t your father.” He clenched his jaw. It was harder than he’d ever dreamed it would be. “I went my whole life thinking that Leta married the man because she really loved him. When she had a child a little later, it seemed that she’d found a good life for herself. She never blamed me for marrying money, for putting my career above her own happiness. She let me go and never told me, never, that she was…pregnant!”
His voice broke. He turned away from his son, unable to look at the man, even to speak until he got control of himself. Which was just as well, because Tate’s face had gone white under its tan.
“What a hell of a way to learn that I had a child,” Holden said finally. “What a hell of a way! A member of the gambling syndicate came and sat down in my office and told me that he was going to make me a political scandal poster-boy with my Lakota mistress and my bastard son.”
Tate still hadn’t said a word. He was trying to cope with what the older man was saying, and not managing very well at all. He noted idly the stance of the man, the way his hair grew, the nose that was his nose, the black eyes that were his eyes. The resemblance had always been there, and at some level, he’d known that. But not consciously. Not until now…
“You aren’t Lakota,” Tate said after a tense silence.
“My mother was French,” Holden said heavily. “My father was Moroccan. They came to this country when I was three years old and became naturalized citizens.”
“Which makes me a half-breed,” Tate said, his voice choked with anger.
Holden turned. “Oh, it’s a little worse than that,” he said, nettled. “It makes you the illegitimate son of the senior Republican senator from South Dakota. And the press will eat you alive when it comes out. You, Leta, me, everyone our lives touch. Including Cecily. She’ll make a damned great sidebar, with her anthropology d
egree!”
“You’ll lose face with your constituents,” Tate said coldly.
“Oh, to hell with that! Maybe I’ll lose my job, so what?” Holden said, glaring at him. “It wouldn’t matter if your mother would speak to me! She cut me off before I got two complete sentences out. She wouldn’t come out here and help me tell you the truth. She hung up on me!”
“Good for her! What a pity she didn’t try that thirty-six years ago.”
The older man’s eyes darkened. “I loved her,” he said very quietly. “I still love her. I made the mistake of my life when I thought money and power would be worth marrying a vicious damned socialite who could help me politically. Your mother was worth ten of my late wife. I never knew what hell was until I tried to live with the devil’s deal I made to get my office.” He turned away again and sat down on the sofa wearily, glancing at the beer. “You shouldn’t drink,” he said absently.
Tate ignored him. He picked up the beer, finished it with pure spite and crushed the empty can.
“Aren’t you leaving now?” he asked the other man with biting contempt.
Holden let out a long breath. “Where would I go? I live in a big empty house with a Jacuzzi and two Siamese cats. Until a few weeks ago, I thought I had no family left alive.”
Tate wouldn’t have mentioned to save himself that he wanted to know more about his real background, his grandparents. He stood scowling at the man who’d just destroyed his life.
Holden stared at him with helpless pride. “One of your great-grandfathers was a Berber,” he recalled. “He rode with the Rizouli, who was a revolutionary in Morocco about the turn of the century. There’s a painting of him over the mantel in my study. I’ve actually been to see the Rizouli’s palace, in Asilah, down the coast from Tangier. It’s a beautiful little town.”
Tate was quiet. He stuck his hands in his pockets. His mind was working again. “This is why you went back on the security contract,” he said. “It would have been nepotism.”
