ALMOST EVERYTHING

by Williams, Mary J.

  “I’d be happy if we were trapped here until spring,” India said as though reading his mind.

  “They’d find us.”

  “But think of the fun we’d have until they did.”

  India cuddled close, her head tucked under his chin.

  “I’m selfish. Thoughtless. Careless.”

  “Says who?” Morgan asked as he rubbed her back.

  “Everyone, if they knew about us.” She sighed. “Nothing would happen to me—other than immediate enrollment in an all-girls boarding school. Switzerland. My father has a particularly pious one on speed dial.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He waved the information under my nose a few years ago. A warning about what happens if I waver from his idea of proper behavior.”

  “Boarding school?” Morgan shook his head. “Nope. No way. Not going to happen.”

  “Still, as punishments go, a pretty cushy landing.” India propped herself up on her elbow. She touched his cheek. “You wouldn’t be as lucky.”

  “What could Rance Curtis do to me?” Morgan asked with a bravado he almost felt.

  “Any illusions I had about my father disappeared on my thirteenth birthday. Most girls receive a dress or a piece of jewelry. Maybe a new phone or an iPad. Me?” India scoffed. “I received a marriage contract. If he can sell his daughter to the highest bidder, he wouldn’t think twice about hurting the young man who stood in the way of his grand plan.”

  “Wait. Back up.” Morgan gripped her hand and frowned. “What the hell, India? Did you say a marriage contract?”

  “I didn’t mean to tell you. Not today when we have so little time. And not in such an abrupt manner.” She gave him a hopeful smile. “Any chance you can forget what I said?”

  “What do you think?” Morgan adopted his best no chance in hell expression.

  “Was worth a try.” India rolled her eyes and flopped onto her back.

  Not long ago, Morgan would have let the subject drop. Things had changed. They were beyond tiptoeing around each other for the sake of hurt feelings. Hell, he’d tasted her, touched her, held as she cried out his name and shook with pleasure.

  Morgan knew her body. Now, he wanted more than physical intimacy. He wanted to understand everything about her. The why, the how, the who. He wanted to know her soul.

  “I thought marriage contracts went out with the black plague and chastity belts.”

  “The operative word is contract. My father doesn’t give a flying leap about the sanctity of marriage. In his eyes, I’m property. An asset to be passed from one owner to the other.”

  Morgan’s mind was about to explode. His temper was close behind. Neither would be helpful. India tried to act casual, as though the idea a father would sell his daughter was nothing unusual.

  Yet, try as she might, she couldn’t hide her true feelings. India was upset, as she should be. Her blood raced. Her pulse pounded. Tension radiating from every inch of her body. To help, he needed to keep his shit together. Falling apart was not an option.

  What happened to India affected him but ultimately, she had to live the nightmare, not him.

  “Who?” Morgan asked in a soothing voice. He rubbed her arm. “The man in the contract. What’s his name?”

  “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Seems like a pretty important detail.”

  “No.” India shook her head.

  “At best, the bastard deserves an ass-kicking.” Morgan warmed to the idea. “At worst—”

  “Castration?” India said, breaking his flow. “Tar and feathers? Life trapped in a dark, slimy hole with just enough food and water for survival because death is too good for him?”

  “I was going to say jail.” Morgan shrugged. “I like your suggestions better.”

  “When you’ve had five years to contemplate a fitting punishment, you get creative. The ones I mentioned are a small sample of a very long list.”

  “Tell me his name, India.” Morgan squeezed her hand. “Please?”

  “You can’t touch him.” India rushed to explain. Ice dripped from every heated word. “Not because I wouldn’t enjoy the sight of his blood on your hands. You could break the bastard in two. But he’s almost as powerful as my father. Whatever satisfaction you found would be temporary.”

  Morgan remembered Barry’s description of India. Ice queen. Partly true, she could be cool when necessary, but he saw the trait as admirable, a sign of courage. She wouldn’t let anyone dictate her journey through life and fuck the bastard who tried.

  Though he understood, Morgan wasn’t about to budge.

  “Still need a name.”

  “Okay,” India said. “One thing first. You don’t make a promise lightly. Not unless you can keep your word.”

  “True,” Morgan said.

  “I’ll give you his name if you promise not to confront him in any way.” When Morgan hesitated, India scrambled to her knees. She took his face in her hands, her amber gaze intense. “Power and money. He has both.”

  “And I have neither.”

  For the first time, Morgan felt the weight of his place in life. Maybe someday, the scales would tip in his favor. Right now, the only thing he could do for India would be to listen and ease her mind.

  He took a deep breath and said the words he rarely spoke.

  “I promise.”

  “Allard Hallstrom.”

  “The real estate guy?”

  “Mm,” India said.

  “Fucking hell.” Morgan’s mouth fell open, certain he heard wrong. “He’s an old man.”

  “Forty.”

  Morgan frowned. He knew age wasn’t the point. However, he was surprised to learn Allard Hallstrom wasn’t as ancient as he thought. The man reminded him of a character in a book. Hard. Humorless. Tightfisted. Cruel, if the rumor was correct.

  Hallstrom was Ebenezer Scrooge before the series of ghostly visits transformed him.

  “Twenty years difference.” Morgan’s hand bunched into a fist. “What sick motherfucker in his thirties sees a thirteen-year-old girl and thinks of marriage?”

  “We’ve been in the same room a total of six times. Exchanged maybe twice as many words. He looks through me, never at me. I doubt he could pick me out of a lineup.”

  “Which makes him a pedophile and an idiot.”

  “I’m not the object of his desire but a means to an end. Allard Hallstrom doesn’t want me. He wants my father’s contacts. Access to movers and shakers.”

  “Jesus.” Morgan ran a hand over his face. “What does your father want?”

  “Money.”

  “More than he already has?” The idea was mindboggling. “How rich does a rich man need to be?”

  “Rance Curtis possesses a boatload of dirty little secrets. I don’t know them all. But one I can swear to? He’s a terrible businessman.”

  “He’s broke?”

  “Not yet. But his so-called success is nothing but smoke and mirrors. One day, The Curtis Financial Fund will topple. Allard Hallstrom’s money would be a stopgap.”

  “And you pay the price with your body.”

  India’s lips quirked into a bitter smile.

  “Dad lives like a king. Unfortunately for him and my mother, his coffers are filled with holes made by his bad investments. The money is literally leaking out as we speak.”

  “And your job is to what?” Morgan demanded. “Plug the holes?”

  “To quote my father, what else is a daughter good for?”

  “He’s wrong,” Morgan said, just in case India had any doubts.

  “I know. Now.” She sighed. “At thirteen, I wasn’t as sure.”

  Gathering her close, Morgan kissed the top of India’s head. She was the strongest person he knew.

  “What about your mother?”

  India rested her head against his shoulder. Her arms slid around his waist.

  “Aurora Wingate Curtis looks the other way, a skill
she’s turned into an art form. My father cheats his investors, and he cheats on his wife. Maybe she cared, once upon a time. I can’t say. Self-medication helps. Between the daily fifth of vodka and an endless bottle of happy pills, Mom lives in a haze.”

  And Morgan thought he had the worst parent in the world. With Rance and Aurora Wingate as his competition, Laird McCloud might win father of the year after all.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “My parents are who they are. I shouldn’t complain,” India said. “Do you know how many people would trade places with me in a heartbeat?”

  “Not me,” Morgan assured her. “Of course, as a boy, I’d be off the hook where Allard Hallstrom’s machinations are concerned.”

  Running her fingers through his hair, India laughed.

  “Don’t be so sure. You’re awfully pretty.”

  “Come on,” Morgan scoffed. He would have pushed her hand away, but damn, the way she massaged his scalp made him want to purr.

  “Seriously. I don’t think your gender would stop Hallstrom. He craves power. And sexually, rumors say he’s fluid.”

  “Fine. Great. Too bad he’s scum in every other way.”

  “I agree. He can have consensual sex with anyone he wants. But not me.”

  Morgan relaxed. Rance Curtis couldn’t force India to marry. Then, he remembered something she told him the first time they visited the cabin.

  “The deal you made with your father. He pays your way through the university of your choice.”

  “Four years. All mine.” India didn’t blink. “If I agree to marry Allard Hallstrom the summer after I graduate.”

  Something else Morgan remembered. India knew how to lie. Of course, she would agree to whatever he asked. Then, when she had what she wanted—what she’d earned after putting up with Rance Curtis’ shit—she would walk away; degree in hand, but no ring on her finger.

  “Brilliant. What gave you the idea?”

  “Not what, who. My aunt, Lucrecia Curtis.” A familiar twinkle entered her eyes and India grinned. “I call her Lu. My friend, my mentor, my salvation. Hard to believe the two are full-blooded brother and sister.”

  Morgan tried to picture the woman India described. For the life of him, he couldn’t. All his life, there were Rance, Aurora, and India. He didn’t remember another Curtis.

  “She doesn’t live in Lake Darwell?”

  “Lu left when she was eighteen. Shot out of town the second she could. Since then, her life has been one big adventure.”

  “You envy her?”

  “Sure,” India said. “But more, I admire everything she’s accomplished.”

  “Tell me,” Morgan urged.

  India settled into his arms as she described her beloved aunt.

  Small of stature but the biggest heart, Lucrecia Curtis never stayed in one place for long. Determined to use the money she inherited from her maternal grandmother for good, she established charitable organizations all over the world. Women and children were her focus.

  “Don’t get me wrong. Lu isn’t a saint.” India chuckled. “She’s an exciting ball of unflagging energy who knows how to have a good time. Lovers on every continent.”

  “Including Antarctica?” Morgan teased.

  “Of course,” India said. “As Lu says, nights aren’t as cold when you have a big, hairy man to keep you warm.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “We keep in touch. Facetime. Skype.” India made a happy humming sound. “Lu was here, in Lake Darwell, a few summers ago. She only stayed for a few days. She and my father do not get along.”

  Morgan was certain he would like Lucrecia Curtis.

  “Lu is always in love with some new man, but she never married.” A line formed between India’s brows. “I thought she would go ballistic when she heard about the deal Dad made with Allard Hallstrom. Just the opposite. She was eerily calm.”

  India’s description of her aunt meant Morgan felt he knew Lu Curtis.

  “No way she approved.”

  “No. She had a plan.”

  Lu advised India to keep peace with her father. Agree to the marriage—with conditions.

  “A college degree.” Smiling, Morgan nodded.

  “Exactly,” India said, tapping the side of her head. “Smart.”

  “Brilliant.”

  “My father believes I’ll keep my end of the bargain. I won’t.” Her gaze grew sharp and cool. “Without an ounce of regret, I’ll take his money and get the best education possible. Then, I’ll tell him where to shove his marriage contract.”

  “Good.”

  “You approve?” India asked.

  “Damn straight.”

  “I thought you would,” she said with a chuckle. “I’ve been so careful. Five years I played the game. Good daughter, good girl. I didn’t put a foot wrong. Until you.”

  Morgan hated to be the reason India lost her dream. And yet…

  “Are you sorry?”

  She shook her head.

  “No one knows. If we stopped now—”

  “I’d go crazy.” She sighed. “I was close to the edge. With one kiss, you pulled me back.”

  “I’m glad.” Morgan brought her hand to his lips. “Some rules need breaking.”

  “The contract stipulates I go to my marriage bed untouched. Guess Hallstrom harbors some perverse virgin fantasy.”

  Morgan didn’t know who shuddered harder, him or India.”

  “He’ll never touch you.”

  “But you will. You have.” India squeezed his thigh, her fingers creeping higher. “My goal wasn’t permanent virginity. Once I was in college, I planned to find a nice guy and do the deed.” India kissed his neck. “Who knew he was right under my nose all the time.”

  “I’m not nice.”

  “You are,” she said. “You’re also kind and thoughtful.”

  “Boring?” Morgan asked.

  “Irresistibly sexy.”

  “Oh.” Flipping India onto her back, Morgan grinned. “Okay.”

  India’s sigh turned into a moan as his hand cupped her breast.

  “We don’t have much time left.”

  Morgan’s leg rode high between her thighs, her heat seeping into his skin.

  “No regrets?” he asked.

  “Never.”

  India smiled, and Morgan’s heart skipped a beat.

  He couldn’t worry about what might happen if they were found out. Forever wasn’t an option. Here, now, they had each other and for a little while, the rest of the world ceased to exist.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ♫~♫~♫

  THE HOUSE WAS empty. Morgan paused by the mudroom door and listened, just in case. Marcy and Sven were in town picking up supplies. If they followed their usual pattern, she would talk her reluctant husband into lunch at the Le Tableau, the French bistro she loved, and he considered pretentious.

  Marcy almost always got her way. A fact Morgan used to his advantage.

  Close to mid-day, the clock read a quarter to eleven. Yet the overcast sky, heavy with soon to be falling snow, gave the impression of late afternoon—closer to dusk than dawn. Morgan didn’t bother to turn on a light. After all the time he’d spent within the walls, he knew the farmhouse like the back of his hand.

  As Morgan passed the dining room, he didn’t pause to think of all the meals he’d shared with the Reinholds on the mahogany table rescued from the junk heap by Marcy and restored with loving care to its former gleaming glory—a project the couple did together to pass the hours one particularly frigid winter.

  Warmth and laughter practically sang from every inch of the house his surrogate parents had turned into a home. With open arms and open hearts, they welcomed in a skinny kid who possessed more enthusiasm than skill or brawn. Marcy and Sven gave him a place to belong. Safe, secure, loved.

  Morgan didn’t think twice when he slipped into Marcy’s arts and crafts room. Nor
did he feel a twinge of guilt as he removed a roll of wrapping paper from the cedar storage bin he built—under Sven’s watchful tutelage—three summers ago.

  Normally, he would have asked permission before he used Marcy’s scissors to cut a piece of bright blue paper and a matching length of ribbon. She taught him to respect what belonged to others. He planned to confess—in a day or two—and was confident she would forgive his transgression.

  Flipping the switch on the desk lamp, Morgan took a small, rectangular box from the pocket of his coat. In his eighteen years, he could count on one hand the number of gifts he’d purchased. His father didn’t celebrate anything. And he sure as hell wouldn’t waste his hard-earned money on something as stupid as a present.

  Marcy and Sven believed in making the gifts they exchanged. Something fashioned by the hands of someone you loved was so much better than anything churned out in a soulless factory.

  Morgan broke their, no store-bought presents, rule one time. Four years ago, on the twelfth of May, Marcy and Sven’s fifteenth wedding anniversary.

  Every time Marcy passed by the store window in town that displayed local artists’ work, she admired a small, hand-blown glass vase sprinkled liberally with the colors of a Northern Michigan sunset. Though she insisted there was no point in wasting money on something she had little use for, Morgan could see the longing in her eyes.

  The gift made a dent in his savings but to see the joy on Marcy’s face was worth every penny. The pride in Sven’s eyes? Priceless.

  The anniversary present represented the love and respect he felt for the two most important people in his life. Today, the gift he wrapped with awkward care was a different kind of special.

  Love. Morgan hadn’t realized how many different forms the emotion could take. Marcy and Sven, their down-to-earth outlook on life, kept him grounded. India, her smile a taste of heaven, gave him wings. When he thought of her, his heart soared to dizzying heights.

  The object inside the box wasn’t expensive. Morgan hesitated before he made his final choice. Nothing he could buy for India’s birthday would equal in monetary value the things she would receive from her parents and friends.

  Morgan couldn’t compete. What would be the point? He crossed his fingers she would overlook the price tag and see the true meaning of his humble gift.