ALMOST EVERYTHING

by Williams, Mary J.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Morgan grabbed his shirt and took his keys from his pocket. Just when he thought they’d made progress, India threw him for a loop with her cryptic comment. So much for putting the past behind him.

  Right then and there, Morgan made a vow. India could run, she could hide, she could drive from here to freaking Timbuktu. Didn’t matter. He had questions. More now than ever. But times had changed. Unlike five years ago, he would not leave Lake Darwell until he had all the answers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ♫~♫~♫

  INDIA NEVER CRIED. She used to be proud of the achievement. In the time leading up to her wedding and every day after, she refused to let emotion get the better of her. After she became Mrs. Allard Hallstrom—a title he insisted she used because, basically, she was no longer an individual but an extension of him—her not-so-adoring husband made a game out of trying to make her tears flow.

  A less-cruel version of pulling wings off an insect, Allard taunted, teased, and prodded. She had few weaknesses he could exploit. However, he knew about Morgan and never hesitated to remind her that the love of her life wasn’t coming back.

  Allard especially enjoyed rubbing salt in India’s wounds. Yet, try as he might, his tactics didn’t work because she knew if she showed the slightest weakness, the sick, twisted game would never end.

  Cry once and she would cry every day for the rest of her married days. India refused to give Allard the satisfaction. When she refused to react, he soon lost interest.

  A victory of sorts, though she paid a price. In five years of marriage, she hadn’t shed a single tear, not even in private.

  India knew in the battle of wills against a petty foe, she was better off not giving into her emotions. But she missed a good cry. Sitting in front of the television, watching an old movie, sobbing with abandon. Or, the simple need to expel excess emotion. In moderation, nothing matched the cathartic power of a good old-fashioned bawl.

  Unfortunately, India spent so much time striving for absolute control, she feared her tear ducts had dried up. She needed something, a way to let off steam. Her salvation came at the Reinhold pond.

  Bless Marcy for letting India use the secluded spot as a retreat, far away from prying eyes. She avoided the cabin—too many memories. However, outside, whatever the weather, she reveled in her one afternoon a week of freedom.

  Some days, India would simply walk and think of nothing. Other times, she brought a book, a blanket, and immersed herself in another world far from her own. Now and then, she would doze off, lulled by the scent of wild roses.

  However, one thing she always included in her routine. Knowing she was miles from anyone who would care or judge, she allowed herself the luxury of one massive, soul-restoring, at the top of her lungs scream.

  No one heard—until today.

  Morgan.

  India hadn’t considered the possibility she might run into him. Why would she? For over a year, every Thursday without fail, the pond belonged to her. Borrowed, yes, but she had permission to be there. He was the interloper, not her.

  Rolling her head from side to side, India stepped into the shower. As she raised her face to the spray, she replayed each moment in her mind.

  Morgan could have let her drown. Didn’t matter that she wasn’t in trouble for even a second. When he jumped in to save her, he didn’t know the truth. He hated her, with good reason, yet his hero instincts kicked in. And her self-defense training did the same.

  Without realizing, India smiled as she thought of her reaction. She was stronger than she looked, and she knew how to take down a man three times her size. To be fair, she’d only used her training during class, and never underwater. Still, her foot almost delivered a direct hit. A few inches to the left and Morgan would have been the one who needed rescuing.

  India couldn’t remember the last time she felt so angry—the last time anything heated her blood and melted the ice in her veins. Yet, Morgan managed the impossible in sixty seconds flat.

  The feeling didn’t last long. Old habits, India supposed. She was accustomed to shutting down her emotions before they gained traction. This afternoon was no exception.

  Then, Morgan touched her. Grabbed her, was a more accurate description. He made his intentions clear as glass; he planned to kiss her and though she hid the truth under her best Ice Queen impression, she’d been tempted to let him.

  The reason India didn’t give into the impulse to feel Morgan’s lips against hers had little to do with her marital status. With Allard, fidelity was a one-way street. He didn’t deserve what he refused to give.

  No, the vows she made weren’t why she stopped Morgan. Her motivation was fear.

  Nothing had changed in five years, yet, she realized today that one thing was the same. India loved Morgan. Always had, always would. However, her sex drive, a thing of the past. She learned to shut down whenever Allard touched her. She didn’t think she could jumpstart her libido if she wanted to.

  Wrapping her hair in a towel, India slipped into a robe. Sitting in front of the mirror, she let out a hefty sigh. She shouldn’t care. Morgan was out of her reach. Yet, for the first time in what seemed like forever, she let herself think about the possibilities. The what ifs.

  If Morgan knew the truth, would he forgive her choice to sacrifice him—their future—for the good of someone else? If by some miracle, he still wanted her, what then? He had always been a sexual creature who desired her and reveled in his ability to make her feel the same intensity for him.

  India would never ask the man she loved to suffer through a sexless relationship.

  “You’re crazy,” she told her reflection. “Morgan might, in some alternate universe, still desire your body. Anything else? Never.”

  “Talking to yourself, India? Not a good sign.”

  Watching as Allard crossed the room until his face appeared in the mirror next to hers, India closed her eyes and counted to ten. When she raised her lids, she met his gaze with a cool, collected stare.

  “Was there something you needed?”

  “Besides your company?” He snorted, pleased with his own joke.

  “Should I laugh?” India asked with a straight face. “Sometimes I forget what my wifely duties require.”

  Allard ignored her sarcasm.

  “Rumors are swirling all over town. Are they true?”

  Another of his favorite games was the cryptic lead-in. Allard asked a question she couldn’t possibly answer without more information. Normally, India played along. Today, she was tired and didn’t feel like feeding his psychosis; one of many.

  “Sure. Why not,” India shrugged. “From now on, consider every rumor circulating in and around Lake Darwell to be the God’s honest truth.”

  “I don’t care for your attitude.”

  Well, I don’t care for your face. India raised an eyebrow but kept her thoughts to herself.

  “Then be specific.”

  “Morgan McCloud. You failed to mention his visit to your father’s office. Almost a week ago.”

  “Didn’t I?” India shrugged. “How remiss of me.”

  “What did he want?” Allard gripped the back of her chair, his knuckles turning white. “What did your boyfriend want?”

  The same thing your boyfriends, and girlfriends want, India wanted to respond. To fuck with the boss. Figuratively, in Morgan’s case.

  “Your spies aren’t as on the ball as they should be. Six days before you found out Morgan was back. Plus, you don’t know why. What’s the world of sneakiness coming to?”

  Allard didn’t bother to deny he had informants planted at her father’s office. His methods of staying one step ahead weren’t a secret. India didn’t care which heads rolled. Whichever rats failed in their mission deserved their punishment.

  “What happened in your office?”

  Naturally, he had all the details

  “Morgan and I were alone for less t
han five minutes. Hardly enough time for anything lascivious.”

  “I wouldn’t expect a cold fish like you to understand the pleasures of a hard, quick fuck,” Allard said, adding his nastiest snicker. “Just tell me what McCloud wanted.”

  I hate your guts, you slimy, backstabbing, soul-sucking son of a bitch.

  “Well,” he demanded when she remained silent. “Answer me.”

  “The only thing Morgan asked was to get in to see my father.”

  “What was his response when you told him a meeting wasn’t possible?”

  Taking a tube of concealer from the table, India dabbed a bit under her eyes. Not bad, she thought, applying less than usual. The dark circles weren’t as noticeable. She looked closer, surprised to see a hint of natural color in her cheeks.

  “India!”

  “Yes?” she asked as she contemplated a choice of lipstick.

  “McCloud. Was he angry?”

  India could tell Allard’s patience was close to the breaking point. She hid a smile.

  “Annoyed would be a better word. I instructed him to make an appointment.”

  “Did he?”

  “No secret my father rarely sees anyone these days.”

  Perhaps the FBI. However, the men—and women—in black didn’t care about such mundane things as appointments. When the feds came knocking—sooner than later if India had her way—Rance Curtis wouldn’t have the option of hiding in his office.

  “Morgan McCloud could be trouble.”

  Scintillating Sunrise, India decided. A gift from Jinx Brill and much brighter than her normal shade of pale peach, the pop of color suited the sudden turn in her mood. The longer Allard pushed and prodded, and prattled on, the more upbeat she became. A few more minutes and she might feel—dare she hope—positively peppy.

  “I need to meet with him.”

  India barely contained her snort of laughter. A meeting? Morgan would wipe the floor with Allard. The idea held a great deal of appeal. In fact, she’d pay a pretty penny to be a fly on the wall.

  “Something informal.” Allard’s eyes narrowed. “Something’s going on in town tonight.”

  “The monthly town hall meeting and potluck.”

  “What the hell is a potluck?” Waving his hand, Allard walked toward the door. “Doesn’t matter. What time did you plan to leave?”

  “Six thirty. You’re coming with me?” India asked, feeling some of her natural high fade.

  “The car will be out front at a quarter after. Don’t make me wait.”

  “Buzzkill,” India muttered as the bedroom door clicked shut.

  Since Marcy and Sven never missed a meeting, India calculated the odds that Morgan would be there as higher than average. Should make for an interesting evening.

  Tugging the towel from her head, India ran her hand through her damp hair. Since a trip to the salon wasn’t an option, her choices were limited. A French twist was doable. Or a single long braid. Both would hide the wild side of her natural curls.

  Or, she could say screw what Allard wanted and wear her hair the way she preferred. Worried about public perception, he would never make a scene. In private? For the first time in five years, she didn’t care.

  India’s term of servitude was nearing an end. One mini-rebellion prior to the revolution wouldn’t make a bit of difference. Not to her and not to the person she’d sold her soul to protect.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  ♫~♫~♫

  MORGAN COULDN’T SPEAK for town hall meetings in other towns. However, concerning the comings, goings, and every matter in between of their community, the people of Lake Darwell liked to stay informed.

  Once a month, they gathered. The town council at a table in the front. The citizens there to complain or protest, filled the first few rows. Everyone else, hoping for fireworks, came next. The seats, first come, first serve, weren’t empty long. The longtime locals knew to come early. Anyone new to the area learned their lesson and stood at the back with the rest of the stragglers.

  “Our town knows the meaning of taking care of business,” Sven said with a proud smile as he took his seat between Marcy and Morgan. “We elect the mayor and city council members then show up to make certain they do their jobs.”

  Morgan, attending his first-ever meeting, felt the energy in the room ramp up with each passing minute. The conversations were filled with laughter and a few arguments. The Sergeant at Arms kept an eye peeled in case punches flew—as happened on more than one occasion.

  “More of a party than politics,” Morgan observed. “I don’t imagine many other town hall meetings are followed by flower displays and food.”

  “Don’t forget the entertainment,” Marcy said. “Tonight, Mrs. Fields has agreed to play the piano.”

  “The same Mrs. Fields who taught music in high school?” Morgan asked.

  “Still teaches. Plans to retire next year.” Marcy shook her head. “Don’t know what the school will do without her. She made a difference in so many lives—yours included.”

  Morgan was born with music running through his head. Mrs. Fields showed him how to channel the notes and turn them into a song. He owed her so much and was grateful he’d finally have a chance to say thank you properly.

  “Word is the school board won’t replace her.” Sven shrugged. “Claim they need the money for more important things.”

  “What’s more important than music?” Morgan demanded.

  “According to you, everything.” Marcy ticked off a few from the list. “Money, power, revenge. Music took a backseat.”

  “Backseat?” Sven shook his head. “Hell, Morgan threw music out of the car and couldn’t see the songs for the dust.”

  “I get your point,” Morgan grumbled.

  “Hope so,” Marcy said. Her face lit up as she waved her arms like a banshee. “India! Over here!”

  Across a crowded room—damn good song and appropriate for the moment—Morgan’s gaze took in every detail of India’s appearance. Something was different. Her hair, he noticed, and his heart melted a little more. Wild curls, dark, silky, the color of red-streaked ink, laid across her shoulders before flowing down her back.

  Morgan’s eyes narrowed. Something else had changed, less obvious than letting her hair behave as nature intended. A glow—subtle and faint—tinted her cheeks and even from a distance, he could almost detect an old, familiar glint in her amber-colored eyes.

  Life flowed through her, Morgan realized. Like the first burst of spring after a long, cold winter, India seemed poised to burst from her self-imposed cocoon and reach for the sun.

  “Sit with us.” Marcy nodded toward the chair next to Morgan as India approached.

  “I’d love to.” India looked directly at him. “Really, I would. Unfortunately, I’m not alone.”

  “Who—?” Sven’s lip curled upward as if he’d caught a whiff of something foul. “Well, crap.”

  Allard Hallstrom stood at the front of the room with an air of entitlement so thick, Morgan could almost taste the bastard’s arrogance and wanted to gag. The warmth and goodwill he felt toward India faded until she looked at him again—a silent plea in her eyes.

  Barely, almost imperceptibly, her lips moved. Morgan read the words—I’m sorry. Somehow, in his heart, he knew India didn’t just mean tonight. His protective instincts on high alert, he wanted to spirit her away—far from her husband, her father, and anyone else who got in their way. One word and they’d be gone.

  Maybe he was as much a fool now as ever. Five years ago, Morgan tried to save India and look at what that impulse got him. Burning rage and a broken heart.

  As before, the words didn’t come, but this time, India didn’t mock, she held his gaze. Yes, something had changed. If only they weren’t in a room filled with witnesses, he’d ask her to explain, then and there, the hell with the consequences, and the hell with Allard Hallstrom.

  “You can still sit with us,” Marcy said.


  “Better if I don’t.” India took a deep breath. Her fingers twitched and for a second, Morgan thought she might reach out for him. “I’d like to… Can we—”

  “India. Here you are.”

  Allard Hallstrom placed an arm around India’s waist. Mine, his gesture said. She didn’t shrink from his touch, but Morgan had no doubt she wanted to. His hands balled into fists. One punch was all he needed. For good measure, he’d add a few dozen more and knock the smug off Hallstrom’s face for good.

  “Easy,” Sven whispered. “Now’s not the time.”

  Seemed perfect to Morgan. However, for India’s sake, he heeded the warning.

  “Morgan McCloud.” Hallstrom’s gaze narrowed. “Head of Cumulous, Inc.”

  “True,” Morgan said.

  “McCloud. Cumulous. A clever play on words.”

  So, they would avoid the elephant in the room and play nice. Fine, Morgan thought. For now, he could be as false as Allard Hallstrom. He could even avoid commenting about the weirdly bright artificial gleam on the man’s veneered front teeth.

  “Rather obvious, I thought.” Morgan shrugged. “A friend talked me into using the name. Her instincts on such matters are rarely wrong.”

  “Been buying up real estate all over the area.” Hallstrom’s cool slipped a bit. “Highballing the price.”

  Morgan was nothing but cool, his gaze pointed and sharp.

  “Unlike some companies who wait until the seller is desperate then gouges the price for a huge profit, I pay fair market value.”

  Hallstrom’s lips thinned to a small, pinched line. He wasn’t happy, but he knew a chance when he saw one.

  “We should meet soon. I’m always open to taking on a new business associate. How about tomorrow afternoon. My house.”

  “Guarantee Rance Curtis will join us, and I’ll be there.”

  “My father is hard to pin down these days,” India said, earning a harsh look from her husband who rushed to assure Morgan.