ALMOST EVERYTHING

by Williams, Mary J.

  “Simply tell him my father isn’t in the office and offer to have Ruth schedule him an appointment for later in the week.”

  “He insists Mr. Curtis is here.” Veronica lowered her voice. “Claims as he pulled into the parking lot, he witnessed your father sneak in the back.”

  Silently, India fumed. No wonder Ruth seemed so squirrelly. Not only did the secretary lie when asked if she called Rance Curtis, she knew all along he was holed up in his office.

  India willed herself to relax her balled-up hands before her nails drew blood while she asked herself how a man of sixty could behave like such a child.

  “What should I do, Ms. Hallstrom?”

  Obviously over her head, Veronica needed a lifeline. Taking pity, India took the receptionist’s arm, led her onto the elevator, and hit the button marked L. Only three floors down, normally she took the stairs. Given the circumstances, she decided to expedite matters.

  “What’s the gentleman’s name?” she asked on the short ride to the lobby.

  “Didn’t I say?” Veronica rolled her eyes. “Gosh. He’s awfully good looking. I know, one thing has nothing to do with the other. But his name fits his face. Does that make any sense?”

  “No.”

  The doors opened, and India stepped out. Her bold steps faltered as she met the gaze of a man who she never thought to see again in this lifetime or any other.

  “Morgan McCloud.”

  “India Hallstrom.”

  The emphasis on her last name was subtle, but she heard the inflection, loud and clear.

  “You’ve met?” Veronica seemed delighted by the news. Of the three people in the lobby, she was the only one.

  “We knew each other a long time ago,” Morgan said. “Or, so I thought at the time.”

  The use of India’s last name was a glancing blow. Morgan’s second jab hit dead center—somehow missing the hardened outer shell and finding the only vulnerable spot left in her heart. If he knew how his words hurt, she couldn’t say. If he expected a reaction, he would have a long wait.

  All soft edges and wildly fluctuating emotions, the girl he once knew would have dissolved like tissue paper in the rain the moment he looked at her—she had more than once because she knew he’d be there to catch her.

  The woman she was now didn’t rely on anyone’s strength but her own. She learned to survive by masking her weaknesses with a brittle outer shell.

  These days, nothing snuck by her defenses. Or so she believed. The contempt in Morgan’s oh-so-familiar green eyes came damn close.

  “Better get back to the front desk, Veronica.”

  “Yes, Ms. Hallstrom.” The receptionist hesitated. “Sorry I left you waiting so long, Mr. McCloud. Would you like me to schedule an appointment with Mr. Curtis?”

  Unlike the cool greeting he bestowed on India, Morgan gifted the young woman with a warm smile.

  “Thank you, no, Veronica. I’m sure Ms. Hallstrom will pull a few strings for an old friend and get me in to see her father today.”

  No match for Morgan’s easy charm, Veronica practically melted like butter. India swallowed a curse. She remembered the first time he turned those green eyes her way. So kind, so sweet, so irresistible. She fell in love before she knew what happened.

  India put on the brakes, appalled by her wayward thoughts. She wasn’t a teenage girl with stars in her eyes, certain love could conquer all. Too much time had passed, too many things had happened.

  She learned to survive the only way she knew how. In the process, she burned the bridge that led to the only man she’d ever wanted. He was out of her reach. Had been for a long time.

  Believing anything else would be a fool’s game, she was too smart—too realistic—to play.

  “I’ll take care of Mr. McCloud.”

  “Okay. Nice to meet you.”

  Blissfully unaware of the growing tension between India and Morgan, Veronica returned to her desk.

  “You’ll take care of me?” Morgan asked with a raised brow. “I’m all ears.”

  Exasperated and thrown off balance by his sudden appearance, India’s cool gaze turned frigid. The look of frozen contempt was something she’d perfected since the last time they had met.

  In her experience, most people were cowed, or at least put off by her disdain. Not Morgan. His eyebrows lifted a fraction higher, and his lips twitched as if he found her attempt at intimidation amusing.

  India, master of the stare down, finally found her match. She used ice; Morgan, heat. For now, their confrontation ended in a draw. Next time? Lord, she hoped there wasn’t one.

  Turning on her heel, India started down the hall toward her office.

  “Follow me,” she said.

  “To the ends of the earth,” he sneered sarcastically for her ears only.

  India felt a spark of something she hadn’t experienced in so long, the memory had faded beyond recognition. Anger. Not the simmering kind she dealt with daily. Something stronger, hotter.

  Perhaps he won after all because, for a second, she was tempted to embrace the burn. She spent five years purposely injecting ice into her veins so she couldn’t feel strong emotions and the heat—so long denied—was like a siren’s song to her frozen heart.

  Taking in one long stream of air, she silently counted to ten. Nothing good came from letting emotions rule. Luckily, after dealing with her father, husband, and other men who believed she was there to serve their needs first, she knew how to center herself. Not exactly Zen. More a bastardized version of faux tranquility.

  They entered her office. The south-facing window gave her a view of the lake she found relaxing. India told herself to focus on the water instead of the man who seemed to make the room shrink to an uncomfortable size.

  Had Morgan always been so… big?

  India’s memories, the ones she treasured most, were of a gentle young man with the soul of an artist. The man who stood before her was a blond warrior. Not intimidating—she refused to let anyone cow her. But, damn, he was large.

  Tall at five feet ten, even with an added four inches from her favorite stilettos, she needed to tip her head if she wanted to look him in the eyes. When she did, her stomach clenched. Some things she might not remember, but oh, those green eyes. How could she ever forget?

  “Why are you here, Morgan?” India asked, shutting the door to her office—and her dangerous thoughts. She moved behind her desk and took a seat.

  “You invited me just a few seconds ago,” he answered with a straight face.

  “Don’t be deliberately obtuse.”

  “Obtuse?” Morgan frowned then shrugged. “Forgive me. I struggle to understand such big words. Unlike you with your fancy college degree, I didn’t even graduate from high school.”

  “You were always the smartest person in the room. Any room.”

  “Was I?” Morgan met her gaze, but she couldn’t read his thoughts.

  “Yes.”

  India hadn’t meant to speak, but the sentiment she expressed was sincere. The Morgan she once knew would read anything he could get his hands on. Every book, every magazine, every billboard. He absorbed the written word the way most people took in sunlight.

  She couldn’t say if his habits changed, but Morgan had. At least on the outside. Once unconcerned about status or material things, he seemed comfortable in a suit and tie. India didn’t need to look at the label to know he had the garment made by hand to fit perfectly over the impressive expanse of his chest and shoulders.

  India felt another wave of heat; this one had nothing to do with anger but something more surprising. A niggling curl of desire in the pit of her stomach. The feeling was strange, unsettling. Foreign, yet vaguely familiar.

  Breathing in, she caught the scent of clean, unadorned man—Morgan—and her mouth watered. Saliva pooled under her tongue.

  Well, crap. While her expression remained unchanged, India gripped her hands together under her desk where his
prying eyes couldn’t see. She thought her libido died long ago. Buried, briefly mourned, then forgotten.

  Married to a man whose touch made her skin crawl, the death of her sex drive was a welcome side effect.

  You are dead inside, India reminded herself. Didn’t matter if Morgan was her first love, her first lover. Once, he was the center of her universe, the sun, the moon, and the stars. Only a girl of seventeen could give her heart with such abandon. A woman, pushing thirty, knew better.

  Love was an illusion. Lust, nothing more than a minor inconvenience. Perhaps she should thank Morgan for the reminder.

  Instead, she sat back in her chair and sent him a look dripping with cool indifference.

  “Answer my question, Morgan. Why are you here?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ♫~♫~♫

  MORGAN WALKED TO the window, keeping his back to India. Now wasn’t the time to say something he might regret.

  He had a plan, simple, thorough. Some might say vicious—he wouldn’t disagree. However, for now, telling off the woman whose cold heart set him down the path to revenge didn’t top his to-do list.

  The pent-up anger that sat on his chest like a massive boulder wasn’t forever. Morgan expected the pressure to dissipate, bit by bit, as he took care of business. Once he destroyed India, her bastard father, and the son of a bitch she called a husband, he would be free.

  Now wasn’t the time to tell India how he felt about her. Later, as he drove home the final nail in her coffin, would be soon enough.

  For now, he turned to face her, his expression as cool as hers. Underneath, Morgan’s blood pumped hot and hard. He wondered if, under India’s icy stare, hers did the same.

  “Thought after five years, you might manage a simple, welcome home.”

  “Lake Darwell isn’t your home. Hasn’t been since—”

  “Your father ran me out of town?” Morgan finished for her.

  “Memories are funny things,” India said, her amber-colored eyes meeting his. “The way I remember, you decided to run. All my father did was give you a gentle push toward the city limits.”

  “Gentle?” He snorted. “More like cracked ribs and a concussion.”

  In truth, Morgan didn’t know the exact injuries. The beating he took from Rance Curtis’ goons was thorough. When he woke hours later, dumped on the side of the road a good two hundred miles south of Lake Darwell, every inch of him hurt—even his toenails.

  A Good Samaritan stopped to offer help. Morgan, face bloodied, body bowed accepted a ride but refused a trip to the hospital.

  Grateful for the money he’d tucked into his shoe—earned working summers at a local organic farm—Morgan holed up in a motel room for the night. He nursed his injuries and dreamed of the day he and India would be together again.

  Hell, he even convinced himself the knowledge of her pure and steadfast love helped his wounds heal faster.

  Morgan’s mouth twisted into a bitter smile. Thank the Lord he would never be that young or stupid again.

  “I didn’t know,” India gasped and for a second, he glimpsed the young woman he used to know.

  However, the sliver of a window into the past didn’t stay open for long. Whatever Morgan thought he saw, she blinked, and the moment passed.

  “Obviously,” she said. “You survived.”

  “I thrived.” He took a seat on the visitor’s side of her desk. “Maybe I should thank you.”

  Again, her lashes fluttered, and Morgan felt a moment of satisfaction. She wasn’t immune to him. Not that he cared on a personal level. The gentler feelings he once had for her were long gone. However, if she had a soft spot left for him, he wouldn’t hesitate to exploit her weakness when the moment was right.

  “You should leave,” she told him.

  “I have business with your father.”

  “Not without an appointment.”

  “Jampacked schedule?” Morgan taunted.

  India waited for a beat, then lied through her teeth.

  “Yes.”

  “Less than an hour ago, Rance Curtis, a mover and shaker in Lake Darwell for over a quarter of a century, snuck into his place of work through the back door.” Morgan scoffed as he remembered the pitiful spectacle. “Sweat on his upper lip, eyes darting from side to side. Surprised he didn’t have on dark glasses and a trench coat. Not that a disguise would help against his angry creditors, and angrier clients.”

  India shrugged. She didn’t address the comments about her father’s financial woes. Morgan didn’t expect her to.

  “Nothing wrong with a man entering his place of business as he chooses.”

  “Used to be you couldn’t get a lie past your lips without blushing.” Morgan waited, If anything, her ivory-hued skin paled. “You lost your soul.”

  “I grew up,” she argued without heat. “Pretty pathetic if I were stuck with the sensibilities of an eighteen-year-old girl.”

  “Last time we were in the same room, you were twenty-two. Minutes away from becoming a blushing bride,” Morgan sneered despite himself. “Allard Hallstrom wanted you untouched. We both know that train left the station long before you said I do. What was his reaction when the honeymoon sheets weren’t stained red with your virgin’s blood?”

  As Morgan heard the words come from his mouth, he wanted to pull them back. Too late, they left an acrid taste in his mouth. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—apologize. However, he felt exactly what he wanted to avoid. Regret.

  The sound of India’s hands clapping in a slow, steady rhythm filled the room as she let out a sigh.

  “Crude, but to the point. Feel better?” she asked.

  “A little.” Except he didn’t.

  “Anything else you’d like to get off your chest?” When Morgan didn’t speak, she rose to her feet and walked across the room. “Remember, you had your chance.”

  “A few minutes of your time and you think all debts are canceled?”

  “I don’t owe you anything, Morgan.” India opened the door. Chin high, she stood to the side, a silent request for him to leave.

  “What about your father?” he asked.

  “If you want monetary restitution for past crimes, good luck.” To Morgan’s surprise, India continued in the same vein, a small smile on her lips. “Want to kick his ass? The line runs around the block.”

  “And if I simply want to talk, businessman to businessman?”

  “Then I’ll remind you of an old proverb. A fool and his money are soon parted.”

  Morgan paused in the doorway, closer to India than he’d been in five long years. He could have reached out, discovered if her skin was as soft as he remembered.

  Her lips were right there, ready to answer the question that tortured more of his nights than he cared to admit. Did she taste the way he remembered—sweet as sin? He squashed the temptation like a bug before he could find out, worried one touch wouldn’t be enough,

  “Which of us is the fool?” Morgan raised an eyebrow, a husky rasp coating his question. “Me, or your father?”

  “Me,” she answered, surprising him again.

  “India—”

  Stepping back, out of reach, the flicker of warmth he imagined disappeared. All he saw when she raised her gaze was a cool shade of amber.

  “You won’t get in to see my father, not today. Unless you plan to storm his office.”

  “I’d rather not spend the night in prison,” Morgan said. “Does the sheriff still give his loyalty to the highest bidder?”

  India nodded.

  “Your father?”

  “My husband,” she corrected without changing expression.

  “Same difference.” Morgan almost laughed. “Unless things between Rance and Allard have changed?”

  “Haven’t you heard? Nothing in Lake Darwell ever changes.”

  Never say never, he wanted to tell her. Instead, Morgan headed down the hallway.

  “Stop at the reception des
k and make an appointment. And Morgan?”

  He looked over his shoulder, a question in his eyes.

  “Welcome back.”

  Before he could answer, India closed the door with a firm click. Just as well, Morgan decided. One more enigmatic glance and he would have pushed her into her office, locked the door, and literally fucked away years of hard work and planning.

  Morgan left the building and jogged across the street where he parked the SUV. As he sat behind the wheel, frustrated and angry with himself, he scrubbed a hand over his face then headed north down Main Street.

  So much for thinking he was over India. Morgan shouldn’t have been surprised. Though his heart was safe, he was still a man. Didn’t matter that she was too thin, too composed, too entrenched in a lifestyle she once swore she didn’t want. Some things never changed.

  The first time he felt the stirrings of desire for India Curtis, Morgan was fourteen. Even if she hadn’t been out of his league—the children of Lake Darwell’s haves and have nots did not mix socially—he was an adolescent boy without the knowledge or experience to act on his feelings.

  A few years later, at the start of their senior year, everything changed. Morgan should have walked away when she approached him. He knew better. But when she asked for a favor, what could he do?

  Morgan licked his lips. India’s taste didn’t linger, but the memory did. The kiss they shared was the best, and worst decision he ever made. One that changed his life forever.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ♫~♫~♫

  Nine Years Earlier

  “TUNA FISH. AGAIN.” Barry Holt sniffed the contents of the brown paper bag and wrinkled his nose. “Wanna trade?”

  “Sure.” Morgan shrugged, handing over his American cheese on white bread. “Why not?”

  “Sucker,” Barry crowed. “My mom adds chopped capers. Yuck!”

  Morgan didn’t know how to explain the difference between a sandwich thrown together minutes before he ran out the door and one made with love. Didn’t matter the mother belonged to Barry, not him. The food tasted better. Plain and simple.

  “Man, I hate the first week of school,” Barry groused. “Miss sleeping in. Don’t you?”