A half hour ago, after he’d managed to catch a couple of hours sleep in a guest room at Betsy’s parents’ house, she had made the call. She’d quickly confirmed that Angela had arrived home unexpectedly just the night before. She hadn’t dared to ask whether the prodigal daughter had arrived home more than eight months pregnant. Still, Clint couldn’t help believing that he had found his “Hattie” at last.
Now he sat outside the gate to the ranch and tried to bring his temper under control. The sight of a decrepit beige sedan half-buried in a snowdrift a half-mile back only raised his hackles more. He’d lay odds that was the car she’d been driving.
He told himself repeatedly that there was no point in charging in and getting the whole family riled up. Betsy, who’d proved time and again to be one of the most sensible women he’d ever met, had convinced him that a man in his position didn’t want the whole lot of Adams men squared off against him, especially on their home turf.
So he was cooling his heels and hopefully his anger. He’d spent the past couple of hours envisioning this confrontation, envisioning the way Hattie’s eyes—no, Angela’s, dammit—would widen with shock when she realized she’d been found out. He could hardly wait.
He put his pickup in gear and drove up the winding lane to the impressive house. It seemed to ramble forever, dwarfing his own ranch. Barns, stables, everything in sight was spit-and-polish perfect.
Hands jammed into his pockets, he forced himself to walk slowly up to the front door, fighting intimidation over his surroundings every step of the way.
His control wasn’t quite strong enough to prevent him from leaning on the doorbell. He could hear the impatient chime echoing through the house.
“I’ll get it, Mom,” an all-too-familiar voice called out.
The sound of that sweet voice sent goose bumps chasing down Clint’s spine. Up until now he supposed a part of him had been holding out hope that Betsy had been wrong, that Hattie was Hattie and that there’d been no monumental lie between them. Now there was no denying the truth. He’d been played for a fool.
After taking a look around at her daddy’s spread, he could imagine just how pitiful his own ranch had seemed to her. No wonder she’d been so eager to put it behind her. What stumped him, though, was why it had taken her so long to hightail it back to her daddy’s place.
When the door swung open, he got exactly the shocked reaction he’d been hoping for, but he doubted it was any greater than his own. Even though he’d known she should be in the final month of her pregnancy—if she hadn’t lied to him about that, too—the reality of it stunned him.
With her formerly svelte body swollen with his baby, she was more beautiful than ever. Curves that had been intriguing enough before were lush and gloriously feminine. He couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from her stomach, where both of her hands had settled protectively. Instinctively he reached out to touch her, to feel this growing child she’d kept from him, but she jerked away and tried to slam the door in his face.
Fortunately she was a little too ungainly to be as quick as she needed to be to prevent him from slipping inside. He caught the toe of his boot in the crack of the door, then wedged it open until the rest of him could follow. He closed it securely, while she eyed him as warily as if he’d been a rattler already coiled for striking.
“Hello, Hattie. Looks like we have some things to talk about.” To his everlasting irritation, his voice shook when he said it. She still had the power to make him weak-kneed and crazy with desire. He had wondered if she would, had prayed that she wouldn’t. At best, he’d wanted to be consumed with hatred, at worst, ambivalent. He hadn’t wanted to be practically struck dumb with longing. Add to that her ability to rile him, and it was a wonder he managed to get a word out at all.
“Not here,” she whispered urgently. Her eyes pleaded with him. “Please, Clint. I’ll meet you in town. Just give me an hour.”
He shook his head. “I’d like to accommodate you, I really would, but you have this nasty habit of taking off on me. I don’t think I’ll chance it this time.”
Just then a woman who looked like an older version of Hattie came down the hall and into the foyer. She was tall and slender and radiant. She had the kind of self-possession and grace that attracted men and made women envious. Her glance shifted from Clint to her daughter, then back again. Apparently even she could sense the crackling tension in the air.
“Angie, is everything OK?”
Clint figured he’d let Hattie field that one. He fixed his gaze on her and watched the color bloom in her cheeks. Her shoulders sagged.
“Mother, this is Clint Brady,” she said eventually. “The man I told you about.”
Mrs. Adams’s friendly expression vanished at that. “I think you should leave,” she said, her voice stiff and formal. “You’ve caused enough pain.”
“I swear to you that I don’t want any trouble, ma’am, but I’m not leaving. Not until Hattie and I settle a few things,” he said politely, but firmly.
His vehemence clearly took her aback. Apparently few people argued with her, confirming Betsy’s description of a family used to being in control not only of its own destiny, but of most of the world around it.
She quickly regained her composure, then glanced at her daughter, her expression vaguely puzzled. “Hattie?”
Clint’s lips curved as he observed Angela’s unmistakable discomfort. “I guess you forgot to tell your mother some of the details.”
“Clint, please,” she begged.
Her mother took pity on her, even if Clint’s patience was too far gone for him to.
“I think it’s best if you go. You don’t want to be here when my husband gets back,” Mrs. Adams insisted. “He has a quick temper and these circumstances call for some preparation.”
Clint shrugged. “I figure your husband and I probably want the same thing about now...” He looked straight at Hattie. “Answers. I’m not leaving here without them.”
Hattie sighed. Resignation spread across her face. “It’s OK, Mother. I’ll deal with this.”
“Are you sure? I can call your father.”
Hattie shook her head. “It’s not necessary.” She stared at him pointedly. “Clint’s no threat to me.”
Her mother backed down with obvious reluctance, leaving Hattie to lead the way into a living room that was almost the size of his whole ranch house. The money spent on the furnishings would have kept his place afloat for a year. The holiday decorations were as spectacular as any he’d ever seen in a department store, all gold and glitter and candlelight even at mid-morning.
Clint and Angela stared at each other uneasily. He was trying to assess exactly where to begin. She looked as if she were girding for battle.
An older Mexican woman appeared almost at once, bearing a silver tray laden with coffee and freshly baked cinnamon rolls. There was also a cup of herbal tea, the wild blackberry kind he knew Hattie favored. Somehow he felt reassured by that small bit of evidence that she was still the same woman he’d fallen for in Montana.
“Thanks, Consuela,” Hattie said distractedly.
“Thank you, ma’am,” Clint said. “That coffee smells mighty good.”
“You need anything else, you call, niña,” she said to Hattie, then gave Clint an assessing once-over. Apparently whatever she saw pleased her, because she left the room with a satisfied smile on her lips. It appeared he had one person in his corner. Judging from Hattie’s lack of welcome, he probably ought to count himself lucky that no one so far had aimed a shotgun his way.
“How do you do that?” Hattie said.
“What?”
“Mutter half a dozen words and charm the socks off a woman? First Mother backs down and Consuela practically swoons.”
“It’s a gift,” he declared. He tried smiling at her. “Used to work on you, too, as I recall.”
She didn’t bat an eye. “That was then. This is now. How’d you find me?”
“Pure grit, Hattie.”
“Drop the Hattie,” she said irritably. “Obviously you’ve figured out by now that it isn’t my real name.”
“OK, Angela.” He regarded her speculatively. “Something tells me, though, that around here they probably call you Angel.”
The flood of color in her cheeks told him he’d hit the mark, but she ignored the observation.
“Maybe the more important question is why did you bother?” she asked.
Her expression was a mix of curiosity and an even deeper resignation. She actually looked vulnerable, more vulnerable than he could ever recall Hattie looking when she’d been dancing up a storm and flirting with half the men in Montana.
“You’re having my baby, unless you lied about that, too, Angela.”
“That didn’t seem to matter to you when I told you,” she reminded him.
“That was then. This is now,” he mimicked. “I’ve been trying to catch up with you since the day you left.”
“I repeat, why?”
“Because no child of mine is going to grow up without a father,” he said simply, his gaze locked with hers. A shudder seemed to wash over her, even as a spark of pure defiance lit her eyes.
“It’s not your decision,” she retorted.
“Yes,” he said softly. “It is. As of this minute, I’m making it mine.”
4
Angela had her hands clenched so tightly in her lap that even her bitten-to-the-quick nails were cutting into her flesh. Clint Brady was the most arrogant, the most infuriating, the most insufferable man she had ever had the misfortune to cross paths with. He was going to make a pest of himself. She could feel it. His words flat-out guaranteed it. She had run out on him, which perversely made him want both her and the baby.
The truth was, though, he hadn’t wanted either one of them when she’d been right under his nose and more than willing to stay. This display was just male pride kicking in, nothing more. She couldn’t allow herself to get caught up in an emotional tug-of-war, not when Clint would eventually tire of it and leave. She couldn’t work herself up over his threats and taunts. If she did, she’d be an emotional wreck.
Reasoning that out made her feel marginally better, despite the grim glint in his eyes and the stubborn jut of his chin.
Unfortunately, she also had the awful, gut-sick feeling that once he got over his desire to throttle the man, her father was going to take to Clint the way bears took to honey. They spoke the same testosterone-laden language. Add to that their dedication to ranching and the two of them were like two peas in a pod.
It was ironic, really. She had run away from Texas to escape all that stubborn, macho nonsense. Until just this instant, with Clint scowling at her and insisting that he had rights here, she hadn’t noticed that he was cut from the same cloth as all the Adams men she’d left behind. Just her luck.
“Go back to Montana,” she pleaded one last time. “I’m home. I’m surrounded by my family. You don’t need to worry about me or the baby.”
“Maybe you should let me decide who needs worrying about,” he said.
He said it in that sexy, laid-back tone she had once found incredibly seductive. Now it was merely patronizing and irritating. She wondered for a minute if his potent effect on her had finally worn off, but one long glance at him told her the emphatic answer to that. Her blood practically sizzled and she seemed to have no ability whatsoever to stop it.
Fixing her gaze on sun-streaked brown hair that needed trimming just to be respectable, blue eyes with a look of pure mischief in them and sensual lips capable of turning kissing into an art form, she knew she was far from over him. Just looking at him sent a jolt of desire slamming through her.
While she caught her breath, she realized that he was studying her just as intently.
“You look a little pale,” he concluded. “Aren’t you getting enough rest?”
“My color has nothing to do with exhaustion. I just keep getting an image of you with a bullet in your heart when my father finds you here,” she said dryly.
“I had no idea you cared.”
“Oh, for pity’s sake, that wasn’t a declaration of undying love. I’d feel the same about some poor, hapless animal walking past a hunter’s shotgun.”
He grinned. “Would you really? I guess that puts me in my place.”
She glared at him. “Don’t you dare mock me.”
His expression sobered at once. “OK, I admit, we are getting a little far afield here. We have plans to make. Exactly when is the baby due?”
She saw little point in not telling him. It didn’t take a genius in math to calculate the date with some degree of accuracy. Clint certainly ought to have the starting point pinned down well enough.
“Two weeks,” she admitted grudgingly. “Though first babies are a little unpredictable, according to the doctor.”
“Good, that gives us enough time, then.”
She regarded him suspiciously. “Enough time for what?”
“To plan a wedding, of course.”
Angie’s mouth dropped open. If he’d suggested brushing up on his medical skills so he could deliver the baby himself, she wouldn’t have been any more stunned. “A wedding? You and me? Have you completely lost your mind?”
He paused, his head tilted thoughtfully, then said, “Nope. I don’t think so. What kind of wedding do you want? Huge, I imagine, though it may be a little late in the day to try to pull that off. How about New Year’s Eve? Something small and intimate. That ought to suit your sense of the romantic. Maybe right here in the living room, if your parents wouldn’t object. The room could be lit with lots of candles.” He glanced around deliberately. “We’re already halfway there on that score.”
Angela stared at him incredulously. He was serious. She recognized that stubborn glint in his eyes all too well. If she didn’t stop him, he’d be ordering the rings and the flowers. Poinsettias in honor of the season, no doubt. The room would be a sea of red. She shuddered at the image.
Maybe if he’d said one single word about love, she would have catapulted herself straight into his arms. Instead, he’d set off warning bells. She saw the scheme for exactly what it was: a way to stake a legal claim on her baby. Well, she wouldn’t be a party to it, and that was that.
If Clint Brady really wanted to be a father to this baby, then he was going to have to prove it, not with an impulsive wedding, but over time. Weeks, at the very least. Maybe months. As furious as she was, maybe even years.
“Forget it,” she said softly. “No wedding. Obviously you’ve been sitting around the past few months with guilt weighing on your mind. That’s OK. I always knew you were an honorable man. Now you’ve tracked me down and done the noble thing. You made me an offer of marriage, and I appreciate the gesture. I truly do. But it’s not necessary. You can go on back to Montana and live your life exactly the way you want to with no commitments holding you back.”
Before she could say another word, he had crossed the room and hauled her up off the sofa—no easy task, in her present condition. “Shut up,” he murmured just before his mouth closed over hers.
His lips tasted like deep-roast coffee and felt like black velvet, sensuous and seductive, as they teased, then plundered. Clint had always known how to make a kiss memorable, and he was at his best this morning. Or maybe it was just that she’d been longing for another of his kisses for far too long. At any rate, this one was a doozy. Her resolve melted, right along with most of the muscles in her body. She felt like a limp noodle by the time he released her. A restless yearning had begun inside her, and she knew exactly where that was likely to lead unless she stopped this craziness. They’d be in front of a preacher by nightfall. Her father would encourage that notion right along.
“Oh, my,” she murmu
red before she could stop herself. So much for a display of resolve, she thought irritably.
“At least that hasn’t changed,” he said with obvious satisfaction.
“No,” she conceded because there seemed to be little point in lying about it. His arms were just about the only thing between her and collapse and they both knew it.
She looked him square in the eye. “But it doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, it matters,” he taunted. “It seems to me it’s the only thing that does.”
“Of course, you would say that. All that ever mattered to you was the sex. OK, I agree. We had spectacular, fireworks-caliber sex. Time stood still. The world rocked on its foundation. Adam and Eve would have envied us our total lack of inhibitions. So what?”
“So what?” he repeated softly. “You think that’s unimportant?”
“In the overall scheme of things, yes,” she said defiantly, even though that kiss had been potent enough to prove otherwise.
“Liar.”
Angela shrugged. “I’ve been called worse, especially by you.”
Clint sighed and for the first time he looked the slightest bit guilty. “Look, I know I didn’t respond exactly the way you wanted me to when you told me about the baby.”
Months of nursing hurt pride kept her temper up. “That’s an understatement, if ever I’ve heard one.”
“You took me by surprise, that’s all. We hadn’t talked about the future. We hadn’t talked about the two of us, much less about a baby. You knew—”
“Did you or did you not say that a baby was the last thing you wanted?”
“I did, but—”
“Did you or did you not say that marriage was out of the question?”
“I did, but—”
The Heart of Hill Country Page 4
