Amery-DDesireDoris's DesireElle AmeryRavenous RomanceCopyright © 2009 by Elle AmeryErotica. 54604 words long. enNoveltext/xmlErotica

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Doris's Desire
by Elle Amery
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Erotica

Ravenous Romance
www.ravenousromance.com

Copyright ©2009 by Elle Amery

NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

CONTENTS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Epilogue

Author's note

* * * *

Doris's Desire

A Ravenous Romance™ Modern Love™ Original Publication

Elle Amery

A Ravenous Romance™ Original Publication

www.ravenousromance.com

Copyright © 2009 by Elle Amery

Ravenous Romance™

100 Cummings Center

Suite 123A

Beverly, MA 01915

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission from the publisher, except by reviewers who may quote brief excerpts in connection with a review.

ISBN-13: 978-1-60777-305-8

This book is a work of fiction, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

Fourteen and a half years earlier...

"Don't go. Please, don't leave me yet."

Doris Macon grasped at Leo Savage's bare arm as he slid out of bed. Despite her seeking hands, Leo stepped away, only to let out a muffled “ow.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, holding back a giggle. She knew her mom, Karen, was sleeping off a drinking binge, but with Karen's bedroom on the same floor, she and Leo needed to be quiet.

"What are you doing?” she whispered.

"Trying to find my clothes, but I tripped over the stuffed dog I won for you at the County Fair last summer."

This time she did giggle, but knowing that Leo was getting dressed tainted the humor and her smile quickly faded. She curled into a fetal position, burying herself deeper under the pink and white quilt. “Come back to bed, Leo. It's not even light yet."

"Dee, I can't. There's a glow on the horizon."

She knew by the rustling in the dark what Leo was doing—putting on his worn jeans, deck shoes, a long-sleeved henley, and his Quartzton High letter jacket. Getting dressed and leaving her.

"It's the moon,” she whispered. An exasperated sigh followed her statement.

"I heard the robins. Morning's coming and I gotta get out of here."

"No...” She groaned, burying her head in her pillow. “You must have heard an owl or something. It can't be morning.” He couldn't be leaving her already. Sure, in a few hours she'd see him at school, but after that? She let out an exasperated sigh. “I hate them. I hate them all."

She felt Leo sit on the bed next to her but she didn't roll over to face him. Leo ran a hand over her head. “Our parents, or the robins?” he asked. “Because if you hate the birds, I could go get my BB gun."

She wanted to laugh but felt too miserable. “Both. But mostly our parents. I mean, I get that your folks hate my mom, but we didn't have any part of their fight. Why should they keep us apart? We didn't do anything wrong.” She swallowed hard against the tears forming. She didn't want Leo to think she was a baby.

Warm lips pressed against the side of her neck. She pulled her head out from under the pillow and saw Leo's silhouette. He'd been right—the day was dawning. Her heart emptied. He had to leave. He had to sneak back into his own house before his parents discovered he'd stolen away in the dead of the night.

"They can order us to stay away from each other, but they can't ever keep us apart,” he said. “I'm here, aren't I? Sneaking into your house, spending every night with you."

Doris curled her body around Leo's seated frame, resting her head in his lap. “But for how long, Leo? How long can we stay together?"

"Forever,” he answered, tracing line of her jaw. “We love each other. Nothing will ever come between us, not even our parents. You're my Juliet, remember?"

She used his shirt hem to wipe away tears. “And you're my Romeo."

"That's right. Our love is as deep as theirs. Eternal love."

Doris wrapped her arms tight around Leo's middle, unwilling to let him go. “Yeah, but things kinda sucked in the end for Romeo and Juliet.” She bit her lip, then said, “I mean, they died in the end."

Leo's low chuckle pooled warmth in her tummy. “We're not going to die, Dee, or anything else. Nothing bad will ever happen to us. We love each other too much. We're going to rewrite Shakespeare and make our story a romance, not a tragedy."

"Promise?” she asked, her voice quavering.

Leo kissed her on the lips, his mouth warm and soft and strong. “Yes,” he whispered. “I promise. We'll be together forever and into eternity. Always. I love you, my Juliet—my Dee."

Chapter One

“Darling, do let us see your ring again.” A tall, thin woman in her late fifties with ash-blond hair sidled up to Doris, one of the many socialites at the party celebrating the engagement of Fergus McMannus and Dorienne Maçon. Afternoon sunlight streamed over the California coastal range, illuminating the cultivated beauty of Fergus's hundred-acre estate in the heart of Marin County.

Doris—Dorienne—scanned the five hundred-plus crowd scattered about the limestone terrace and the bowling green and smiled. These people would soon be her new best friends, and this manicured property and the thirty-thousand-foot opulent mansion standing behind her would be her new home.

“The ring, dear?”

Doris brought her attention back to the woman at her side and obliged, lifting her hand upward, smiling when the sunlight caught the ten-carat diamond and sent flashing sparks in an arc. Dots of light shimmered and danced.

“Oh, my,” the woman purred, examining the ring. “Your Fergus is quite the generous man, is he not?” Doris struggled to recall her name. Fergus would be pissed at her if she couldn't remember her guests’ names.

Annoyed. He'd be annoyed, she reminded herself, correcting her inner voice. She was to be Dorienne Maçon now, not Doris Macon. Dorienne would never say the word “pissed.” Or “shit,” or “crap,” or “holy fuck.” Those were Doris's words. And soon, Doris would be long gone.

For a moment her mind went blank and she entered into nothingness, as if she'd stepped into a cloud: big and puffy, all fluffy and white on the outside, but hiding the chaos of thunder and lightning within.

The woman's light touch on her arm brought her back to reality. Alice. That was her name. Alice Lancaster, of the New York Lancasters. Doris pulled in a breath through flared nostrils. She needed to get back into the role she was to play. Back to being someone she wasn't, but someone she desperately wanted to be.

Dorienne Maçon of the Normandy Maçons, formerly Doris Macon of the Quartzville Nobodies, smoothed her long, flame-red hair over a bone-thin shoulder, arched her neck forward to enhance her silicone double-Ds, and plastered on a brilliant smile.

“He is indeed generous,” she said, attempting to add a purr to her throat. She coughed. Christ. That hurt. How did these women do that purring thing?

“We are all so pleased with how happy you've made our Fergus. We've been hoping to see him settle down for years. You two seem to be such an elegant match.” The woman leaned, whispering conspiratorially, “He's had a few gold diggers after him, you know.”

Her stomach clenched. If Alice Lancaster knew who she really was, the socialite would spurn and reject her, calling her a gold digger and assuming the marriage to be one of convenience.

And Alice would be right. At least, Doris thought, she'd be partially correct.

Doris wasn't only one who found the marriage convenient: billionaire Fergus McMannus got something out of the arrangement, too. Marrying a well-educated, financially stable, and beautiful woman from an impeccable background would cut short the rumors of his sexual proclivities. Rumors that weren't completely unfounded, but ones Fergus wanted quelled.

But none of the high society bunch before her would see it that way. If they knew her true past rather than the one she and Fergus had created for Dorienne Maçon, they'd see Doris Macon, small-town gold-digging slut, selling herself to the highest bidder. She had her work cut out for her.

Across the verdant bowling green, engaged in a conversation, Fergus looked up and caught her eye. He raised an eyebrow and sketched a wave. She added emphasis to her plastered-on smile and waved back, looking at the man she'd agreed to marry. At forty-five, fifteen years her senior, Fergus had gone prematurely grey years before; he wore his silver hair as a symbol of status, commanding and demanding attention. When she was in heels, he stood a few inches shorter than her. Although he played tennis and golfed nearly every day, time had caught up with him and his stomach sagged a bit under his silk shirt. His dull grey eyes shifted away from her and his focus returned to the conversation. Her shoulders released the tension that had been building.

He hadn't smiled at her, or shown any appreciation when she'd caught his eye, but she didn't care. She'd always claimed she'd marry for prestige, not love. She'd been clear with Fergus when he first began pursuing her: she'd loved once, and would never open her heart again. Which was fine by him.

When he'd proposed, she'd been shocked. She hardly came from the same background as Fergus, who'd been born with a platinum spoon in his mouth. Besides, they'd had an easy relationship for almost two years, one unencumbered by emotional attachment. Why Fergus wanted a wife, and especially her for a wife, confounded her—until he explained his rationale.

Fergus wanted a wife not for love, but out of necessity. He'd pitched the idea of marriage as a solution to both of their problems. He wanted an ultimate society hostess and someone to serve as a foil to the rumors of his sexual indiscretions. Doris wanted to be part of the “in” crowd. Neither had room in their life for love or affection, which made the marriage of convenience practical. He'd offered a unique option: he'd use his money and power to create an alternate persona for her, as long as she didn't have any nasty skeletons in her closet. She assured him she didn't.

As long as love never entered into the equation, they'd use each other for position, prestige, and sex. Which was fine by her. The last time she'd allowed herself to love she'd ended up with a ruined life. And it wasn't as if sex with Fergus was crappy or even kinky, just different. Unique. The type of coupling that didn't require love or emotion, just ... sex. No staring deeply into one another's eyes, proclaiming their love. No après sex cuddling. No moonlit walks hand in hand. Just sex. And the best part was that because of Fergus's unique approach to sex, she never had to be herself. Never had to be Doris Macon.

Alice interrupted her thoughts. “Dorienne, a few of us have been chatting, and we're wondering if you'd be interested in stepping into the newly vacated position on the Board of Directors for the Elysian Fields Charities?”

Excitement charged up her spine. The cloud moved out of her head until only wisps showed, then they too were gone. She suppressed a laugh. It was happening. It was really happening. She, who once had been snubbed by her entire town, was about to be accepted into the inner circle of high society.

One task remained before she could complete the transformation and rid the world of Doris Macon: sell the house in dingy old Quartzton she'd inherited when her mother died a few months ago. Then, Doris could disappear forever.

To be replaced by Dorienne Maçon, darling of the socialites. The newest member of the popular clique.

Her chest suddenly squeezed the air out of her lungs and a hollow, sinking sensation hit her chest. She felt the way she had when she was a kid, getting into trouble with her mother. But why? She hadn't done anything wrong in accepting Fergus's proposal. With marrying Fergus came the prestige, the honor, the respect for which she'd hungered. What had once been stolen. She'd been paving the path to this destination for years, earning a college education, undergoing plastic surgery to repair what nature had given her, studying the way society women spoke, dressed, moved their hands and bodies. She'd practiced and honed her part until she played it perfectly.

And she'd made it—she'd entered into the popular clique again. With Fergus, she had everything she'd dreamed of and wished for over the last fourteen years. No one could ever give her back what she'd lost, but regaining her social standing had at least been an achievable goal. One she'd earned.

So why did she suddenly feel so vastly empty?

* * * *

On a tree-lined mountain highway, headed toward the town of Quartzton, California, six hundred pounds of hot steel revved between Leo Savage's thighs as he cranked up the throttle on his BMW K 1300 GT, powering out of a curve.

Late afternoon sun cast oblique shadows over the winding asphalt. In front of him, the two-lane road stretched long and clear, surrounded by majestic pines, stalwart oaks, and the occasional manzanita brush tucked along the roadside like unwanted broccoli on a kid's plate. The wind picked up, tossing dried oak leaves in his path.

A deer bounded across the road ahead and he eased back on the power. He'd lived in these parts enough during his youth to know where there was one deer, another would surely follow. He swept his gaze to the side of the road, pinpointing where the doe had bounded out. Sure enough, a dotted fawn burst out of the underbrush to dash on gangly legs after its mother.

A faint grin crossed his face. He slowed to a crawl until he passed the deer crossing, making sure Bambi's double didn't have a twin, then powered up again. A green and white road sign caught his eye as he raced past. Three miles to Quartzton.

The road dipped suddenly and his stomach fell out from under him. The elevation dropped as the foothills leveled out to a valley floor. The air took on a scent he remembered, the warm smell of late summer, brought about by the creek that flowed through town.

The white church spire from St. Dominican's came into view and Lee shifted down a gear. His hometown and his past lay directly ahead. Instead of continuing on the road, he pulled over at the vista point, slowed to a stop, and balanced the bike between his thighs.

Letting the engine chug, he reached into his back pocket and tugged out the well-worn and folded piece of paper. With awkward fingers, he pulled the folds apart and smoothed the note out on his thigh. He didn't need to read the words that stared back at him in black and white—they'd been burned onto his brain three days ago when he'd first opened up the e-mail.

Dear Mr. Savage,

You probably weren't expecting to hear from me for four more years, but I hacked into the adoption agency's database and got the letter you wrote me a long time ago. I really, really want to meet you. I want to meet my mother, too. I think it would be best if I met you both at the same time. Just tell me where and when. I'm super, super excited.

Yours truly,

Veronica Coombs, your daughter

His heart jumped, then curled in on itself. He folded the paper along its original creases and worked it down deep in the back pocket of his faded jeans. He revved the engine and took off in a squeal of burning rubber, leaning into the curves, heading toward 35 Nightingale Lane in Quartzton, California. To Doris Macon's house.

Fourteen years ago, Doris—Dee to him back then—had made a decision on her own, one that had ended up costing him the chance to know his daughter. At the time, he'd been blindsided by Dee's decision and hadn't had the balls to fight for his rights. Now that his daughter had found him, he wouldn't let Doris fuck that chance up again. He'd find her and make her acknowledge what they'd once made together. What she'd once so callously sold to the highest bidder.

He'd make her meet their daughter.

* * * *

In Denver, Colorado, curled up on a twin-sized rumpled bed, in a room plastered with posters of rock bands and actors, fourteen-year-old Veronica Coombs flicked her fingers across her iPhone. With a quick tap, a scanned image appeared.

The sight sent a shiver into her stomach, as it did each time she pulled up the file. A file she had no right to see.

Curled around her, her best friend, Jennifer Slight, squealed, and said, “Show me again.”

A week ago, after Veronica had pleaded and cajoled, Internet-savvy Jennifer had hacked into the adoption agency's files with the ease of a pro. After a few quick keystrokes, Jennifer found the answer Veronica would have had to wait another four years to see.

There, encapsulated on the rectangular screen in black and white, were the names of her birth parents.

And a scanned note from her birth father, written over fourteen years ago. Since that moment, Veronica had been reading the letter and the file over and over again.

“That's so cool he wrote to you before you were born,” Jennifer said.

Veronica nodded. Her throat had clenched up so tight she couldn't speak. She angled the phone so Jennifer could read the letter.

Dear Daughter,

When I signed the adoption papers, the agency told me that you would be able to read this letter when you're eighteen, if you want to. I can't put how I feel in words, but know in your heart that I have always loved you and always will. I hope I can see you some day. Please call or write. I will never stop thinking about you. I promise.

All my love,

Your birth father,

Leo Savage

Apparently her birth father had made good on his promise to never stop thinking about her. Several updated addresses and phone numbers appeared in the file, along with an e-mail address: quartztondad@quartztonmail.com.

A few days ago, she'd taken the plunge and e-mailed her birth father. Within a few hours, a reply had popped into her Inbox from her father—Leo Savage.

Her real father. Not some wannabe fake like Justin Coombs. Not some jerk who would marry the stepmother from hell, knock the lady up, then make his daughter live by her rules.

“His name sounds so cool—Leo Savage. Like some lion out on the hunt. Is he hot?”

Veronica squeaked. “Gross! He's my father. Besides, I don't know what he looks like.”

“What do you know about him? Or about your birth mother?”

“I know he's some hotshot firefighter who jumps out of planes into burning forests and stuff. In his e-mails he said I must look like my mom because she has red hair and freckles, just like me.” She indicated her long, straight red hair, twisted in two messy braids.

“That's awesome that he wants to meet you. What about your birth mother—have you heard from her yet? Is she excited to meet you, too?” Jennifer asked.

Veronica flipped over onto her back and held the cell phone above her, rereading the letter. “He hasn't found my mom yet. There wasn't any contact information in the adoption agency's files, and I guess they lost touch in high school after she had me. He's gonna drive to their hometown, some little dot on the map in California called Quartzton. It's where they grew up. He's going there to see if he can find her.”

“Oh God, that's so exciting!” Jennifer said, twirling around in the office chair.

Veronica smiled. Her fragile world was no longer falling apart. She had a dad who wanted her. And a mom who was out there somewhere who would want her just as much. She had a family. A real family.

All she had to do was escape from her adoptive father and her new stepmother, Anna, and go find her real parents. She rolled her eyes. It wasn't as if getting away would be difficult—they never even noticed her. With Anna's pregnancy, Veronica had become invisible.

Until she'd found her father. Leo Savage. Leo had noticed her. And so would her birth mother, Doris Macon.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Two

Chilled by the damp, early evening air rolling off the Pacific into Marin, Doris hugged her arms close to her chest. Exhausted from the engagement party that had seemed to go on all day, she trudged up the marble staircase, heading to her opulent bedroom. She stifled a yawn. Sometimes being a society snob sucked. Especially when she wanted to ditch the high heels, put on a pair of flannel PJ bottoms and a wife-beater, and drink a long-necked beer in front of the television.

She gave a rueful laugh. Fergus would freak if he saw her in flannel pajamas, and she doubted they even had beer in the mansion. At least she could take a bubble bath and crash early. She was due in Quartzton tomorrow afternoon to arrange the sale of Karen's house—her meager inheritance—and had a long day ahead of her. She could use the sleep.

She pulled herself up the remaining steps and stepped into her bedroom where light flickered, cast about by artfully placed beeswax candles. Charming, but the candles made the room dim. She reached out and flicked the light switch. No light came on. She pushed the switch off and on again but found the same result. No electricity.

Crap. She pressed her eyelids closed. Shit. Not tonight. Fergus couldn't expect her to perform tonight, not after she'd performed all day.

But the candles, the lack of electricity—the stage had been set. She drew in a breath and squared her shoulders, forcing herself not to say aloud the word “shit” that kept bouncing about in her brain. Forget a bubble bath and early bedtime. Despite her thoughts that today would have exhausted them both, Fergus apparently had other plans. And excess energy. She rolled her eyes. Time to play the role.

She wandered about the room, searching for clues. A thin pink silk sheath lay on her bed, along with suede slippers. She rifled through the clothes. A petticoat, bloomers, and silk stockings lay neatly next to a garter belt. And a note. She frowned. The words gave her little to go on besides a simple direction written with a quill and ink: Your Ladyship, clothes tha mun wear.

A knock sounded at the door and Tracy, the upstairs maid, opened the door. Doris swept her gaze over the girl.

“Evenin', Your Ladyship.” Dressed in a black poplin high-necked dress with a hem just below her knees, long sleeves, button boots, and a white muslin pinafore, Tracy bobbed in a quick curtsey, playing her part with aplomb.

Doris bit her lip. Crap. If she came to Fergus without first figuring out her part, the evening would be ruined. At least, Fergus's evening would be ruined. The man was unable to maintain an erection without playing a character. She sighed. A man who required no emotional connection was what she'd wanted, but sometimes she became annoyed with the inconvenience of adhering to the historic authenticity of a role. She also had grown frustrated at having to figure out who she was supposed to play by the meager clues Fergus left.

She scanned Tracy's costume, which fit the part of a maid in many different times, save for the skirt length. Not enough information for her to determine a role. She let out a slow sigh and turned back to the neatly piled clothing on the bed. “Help me dress, Tracy?” she asked.

“It's Mrs. Betts, if you please. Your housekeeper,” Tracy replied.

Mrs. Betts, the housekeeper. Another clue. To what, though? Tracy's speech betrayed no accent. The words she used could have been either American or British.

Doris stripped out of her emerald green wrap dress and bent over, pulling off her four-inch spike-heeled Manolos. She took a moment to massage her feet, groaning at the pain.

Fergus expected her to dress well. When he'd first brought models to the estate to choose her wardrobe based on what the designers had sent, Doris had thought she'd died and gone to heaven, surrounded by all that luxury.

Sometimes, though, a plain old pair of Keds and her well-worn jeans called to her. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“He's waiting, mum, so p'rhaps we'd best hurry.”

Doris cocked her head to the side. British. Tracy had assumed a British accent. “Thank you, Mrs. Betts, for the reminder. Perhaps you could let me know where I am to go?”

Tracy—Mrs. Betts—shook her head. “I'm only to tell you to go outside, ‘round back, mum. Yer t’ figure it out after that.”

Fine. She'd do just that. She raised her arms and the maid slid the dress over her torso, tugging the fabric straight. Doris peered down and noticed her hem hit the same length as Tracy's, just below the knee. Silk stockings and suede slippers followed.

Within moments, she stood ready. She left the maid to blow out the candles and padded down the curved marble staircase, then made her way to the back of the house, running over the few clues she'd been given by Fergus. She replayed what she knew in her mind: she was a lady, part of the aristocracy, that part had been clear.

“Fuck,” she whispered, frustrated at her inability to put the clues together. The dress she wore and the maid's outfit came from an era prior to zippers and brassieres, so pre-1930. Skirt hems had slowly risen after the end of the Edwardian era, reaching their peak of height in the time of the flapper, lowering during the conservative era of the 1930s. So, judging by the type of clothing and hemlines, she could safely assume the time period to be in the late 1920s.

But which set of literary lovers existed in 1920s England?

She stepped outside and gasped in shock as water sluiced over her. “Fuck!” she shouted, then clapped a hand over her mouth. Ladies did not shout the word “fuck” in public. Dorienne Maçon would never shout “fuck,” no matter how wet she got.

She shivered and wrapped her arms around her chest. Had the gardeners had forgotten to turn off the sprinkler system? She looked upward and realized the spray had been designed to seem like rain. Fergus would forget no detail in his re-enactments, as he called their charades. He'd set up the scene so she'd be caught in the rain. He'd given her a clue.

If she were an aristocratic lady during the late 1920s in England, caught in the rain and in desperate need of a good fucking, where would she go? To whom would she turn? She rolled her eyes, exasperated, then chided herself. She'd made the decision to accept Fergus's proposal, to forever play a role. She'd better damn well accept that being anyone but Doris Macon was her life from now on.

* * * *

On Quartzton's Main Street, in the waning light, Leo eased the BMW between a parked newer-model SUV with two slick Cannondale mountain bikes latched to the top and a mud encrusted decades-old Ford F-150 pickup. He switched off his bike and, with a flick of his steel-toed boot, dropped the kickstand down.

When he'd swung by Doris's mother's place a few minutes earlier, it had appeared deserted, which puzzled him. Doris, he knew, gallivanted all about the world, chasing men with hefty bank accounts. He hadn't expected to find her at her former home. But her mom, Karen, would never leave Quartzton.

He needed to find Karen if he were to find Doris. He'd spent a full day Googling Doris's whereabouts but had located no current contact information. It seemed as if she'd dropped off the face of the earth a couple of years ago. Karen's address had remained the same—35 Nightingale Lane—but her phone had been disconnected.

Someone in the grocery store or the post office would surely know where Karen was. Or even where Doris had gone off to. He looked up at the sky, noticing the sun had already dipped below the horizon. Okay, then, he couldn't go to the post office for gossip. Maybe La Reynard, the local bar, was still open. He'd try there.

He swung stiffly off the bike, stretched, then stepped up onto the raised wooden sidewalk. His black steel-toed Doc Marten boots echoed heavily with each step. Built in the mid-1840s during the height of the gold rush, Quartzton had managed to retain its elegance and small-town charm, hustling in tourists like crazy. When he was a kid he used to insult the out-of-towners, finding them irritating. Now, he supposed he should be grateful for all the yuppies and Gen Xers who poured their trust fund dollars into the local economy. He'd be sad if the town ever folded. No matter how long he'd stayed away, Quartzton still felt like home.

He stretched again. When he got Veronica's e-mail he'd taken off from where he'd been stationed on a fifteen-thousand acre fire in Washington, ditching work for the first time in years, putting his career at risk by doing so. He'd taken two days to drive the distance and his body was letting him know that ten years of living off the back of a motorcycle sucked.

Although evening had set in, the air hadn't yet cooled off. Heat still shimmered off the windows of Quartzton's downtown businesses and sweat trickled down his neck. He undid the throat latch of his helmet, then whipped the black cap off and tugged free the red bandanna he'd tied around his head to keep the sweat out of his eyes. He shook his head, sending a spray of sweat flying.

“Well, crap on a cracker, if it isn't Leo Savage.”

Momentarily blinded, he swept the handkerchief over his face, then turned to see who'd recognized him the minute he stepped into town.

“Trish Hazleton.” A slow grin tweaked the corners of his mouth upward. “Wow, it's great to see you. I think the last time was at our graduation.”

The bright-eyed, dark-haired woman before him grinned. “Actually, the last time you saw me was down at the quarry before the sherriff's department broke up the graduation party. You and the rest of the football team took off like bandits, leaving us girls holding the booze.”

He tipped his head back and laughed. They'd run with different crowds then—he with the jocks, Trish with the Goths—but in a community as small as Quartzton, even the socially divided groups had a tendency to mingle when it came to free booze and parties.

“And it's Trish Jacobs now. I married George Jacobs years ago.”

Leo's brows shot up. “Seriously?” George had been a lineman on the varsity team. From what he could recall, George couldn't stand Trish, often casting insults behind her back. And to her face a couple of times, if Leo remembered right. Insults she'd hurled right back at him. “Can't say I ever saw the two of you as a couple.”

Trish laughed. “We ended up at Stanford together. I about peed my pants when he asked me out. Guess it was the whole opposites attract thing.”

Leo smiled, glad to see a familiar face.

“What brings you back to Quartzton? Are you moving back or visiting?” Trish asked.

He shook his head. “This is just a social visit—thought I'd stop by and look up an old friend. I'll be headed out of town soon.”

Trish smiled up at him with an impish grin. “Can I tempt you to stick around for a while? I'm a Realtor now, and I have the perfect place for you. Adorable little house, going on the market as a rental soon.”

“Is that so?” he asked, making conversation. His stomach growled, an audible reminder that breakfast had come and gone hours ago. He wondered if La Reynard still served ribs. Maybe he could invite Trish and George out to dinner.

He turned to suggest the idea to Trish, only to realize she'd stopped walking. He saw a blush form across her cheeks.

“Oh crap, I'd forgotten,” she said, her forehead drawn up tight.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Forgotten what?”

She looked away, staring through the window of Tully's Bakery, appearing intent on the display of cupcakes decorating the front window. “Let's just never mind about the house.”

Frustration edged its way into him. “The house you wanted to rent to me?” He looked at her closely, noticing the nearly imperceptible nod. “Trish, what is it?”

She raised her shoulders up, then dropped them back down. “It's Doris Macon's house. She's getting married. Again.” Trish rolled her eyes.

At the mention of Doris, ice chilled his veins, followed by a rush of heat. He stopped walking.

Trish continuing down the wooden sidewalk ahead of him. “She says she won't ever return to this godforsaken town. Her words,” she added quickly. “Anyway, I'm handling the rental.” She turned around and noticed he was no longer at her side. “Shit. I screwed up. I shouldn't have brought up Doris. I mean, I know you two used to be best friends and all, but then ... I mean, it was like you guys hated each other during the rest of high school, after ... you know...” Trish flushed again.

Leo felt the familiar gates of iron close over his chest. He and Doris had been best friends once, back when they were kids, growing up a street away from each other. And until Doris's mom Karen had gotten hooked on alcohol, she and his mother had been best of friends, just like him and Doris.

But all that had changed the year they'd fallen in love. After Karen crashed his mother's car while driving drunk with him in the car, his parents forbade him to hang out with Doris anymore. Karen screamed about betrayal and wouldn't let Doris anywhere near him. Their families had taken on the role of Capulets and Montagues and they'd been destined to play their parts, desperately in love but forced to stay apart.

Tragic love, Shakespeare style.

But being high school kids, they'd found plenty of ways around that edict. A drunken Karen had been clueless that her daughter was having sex every night for months on end in the bedroom across the hall from hers. One afternoon of unprotected sex out at Suicide Rock on the Maidu River led to Dee getting pregnant. They'd made all sorts of plans then, about getting married, raising their baby together. Best friends forever.

Until Doris had lied to him and made the decision to dump their baby on someone else, he'd thought they'd be best friends and lovers forever.

“Uh, Leo? Should I not have brought up Doris?”

Vaguely, he shook his head. “No. No, it's fine. Actually, she's the reason I'm here.” If Trish was dealing with Doris over the rental, she'd have her contact information. He turned his attention to her. “You wouldn't happen to know where she is, would you?”

“Sure. She's living at her fiance's place in Marin somewhere, over on the coast. About three hours away. Why?”

“There's something I need to talk to her about. Something—” He cut himself off. “Anyway, if you have any way to contact her, I'd be grateful. Address, phone number, e-mail?” He looked at her expectantly.

Trish's brows shot up. “I have one better. I'm meeting her tomorrow afternoon at 35 Nightingale Lane. You should stop by, say hello. That is, if you two are talking again.”

Leo shoved his hands deep in his front pockets. “What happened was a long time ago, Trish. Years. I think it's high time Dee and I talked again. Especially now—” Again, he cut his words off without finishing his thought.

Especially now that their daughter wanted to meet them. And had specifically asked him to find her mother.

* * * *

The solid oak barn door it its heavy iron hinges squawked in rusty protest as Doris pressed it open. The scent of hay and horses wafted over her. She stepped inside the warm, dimly lit building and peered into the darkness. She felt a surge of pride that she'd figured out her role from so few clues. Pride, however, was quickly washed away by a wave of chagrin. She hadn't exactly paid a small fortune for her education so she could figure out sex games.

“Hello?” she called softly into the night air. “Is anyone here?” She paused, standing on tiptoe and holding her breath, listening for a sound. Silence met her.

She felt her brow furrowing. Had she been wrong? Had she assumed incorrectly? Crap. She made a face. But it all seemed to fit—the clothing, the maid named Mrs. Betts, the rain. And the barn seemed the closest to a gamekeeper's house than any of the other outbuildings on the property.

A sound caught her attention. There, a crack of light spilled from under a closed door.

The estate foreman's office. Of course. She stepped across the barn floor carefully, lifting the hem of her dress. At the door she made a fist and knocked.

The door opened slowly to reveal a man standing before her, in baggy cord breeches, a flannel buttonless shirt and a black oilskin jacket. Fergus.

No, she reminded herself quickly. Tonight her fiance would be Oliver Mellors, and she'd play the role of—

“Lady Chatterley. Ah wor abaht ter t'ink thee'd niver show.”

She'd guessed right.

Doris had learned early on that Fergus's desire to play the role of famous lovers from literature didn't mean they followed the script, but rather created one of their own, interspersing lines from the literary works, or imitating the language. She scrambled in her mind, recalling the scenes in Lady Chatterley's Lover. “I stopped to see the baby chicks, all soft and fluffy and filled with wonder.” Hadn't there been baby pheasants that Constance Chatterley used to watch? Her line sounded plausible to her.

Apparently Fergus found her line believable, too, and tugged at her bloomers until they dropped to her feet, then pulled his cock out of his pants. Foreplay, D.H. Lawrence style.

“See, my John Thomas aches for his Lady Jane. Ah'm aching for that cunt, canna tha see? Hungry for it, in't he? Here"—he grabbed her hand—"tha mun touch it. Touch my staff. Lick it. Tha's right, lick an’ suck an’ stuff my cock in thy fancy mouth.”

She bent to her knees, pleased that a rag rug covered the cement flooring, and clasped his ruddy erection between her hands. Fergus was an enthusiastic and giving lover, but required a little help to get started. “I've waited so long to touch, to feel, to savor the very essence of you,” she said affecting an upper-crust British accent.

Above her, Fergus let out a strangled gasp. “Tha mun taste it now.” He tangled his hands in her hair and pressed her head toward his crotch. She opened her mouth, sucking his semi-hard cock inside. Blow jobs were low on her list of favorite sexual exploits. But there was no doubt in her mind that men loved getting blown, and she'd learned to suck a man until he cried.

And she'd learned that she loved the control she had over a man when his dick was down her throat.

Fergus wrapped both hands around the back of her head and plunged his cock in deep, then pulled out, only to repeat the action again. Doris grabbed his hips, steadying herself against the onslaught. She let one hand drift down to his testicles, but he cried out.

“Dunna touch the balls, love, dunna touch the balls. Ah'm t’ surely spurt if tha so much as touches.” He pulled away from her, holding her hair in his hands. “Step up, now, m'lady. Tha mun bend over th’ table. Spread your legs nice n’ wide, now. Ah'm about t’ ram tha, gi'e tha a crisis. My John Thomas is so very eager for ye, Lady Jane. Wor throbbin’ in me hand, wantin’ to spurt its juice in tha.”

She stifled the urge to laugh. Fergus could get so worked up in his role. She crossed the floor to the table. She bent over at the waist, angling her hips up and back. “Please, take me before I come quite undone.” She stifled a yawn. Sex with Fergus could be fun, but not when all she wanted to do was crawl into bed and fall asleep.

A hand cupped her buttocks, then slid along the valley, touching her, caressing her, playing in her lubrication, triggering arousal through her tired body. A finger slid neatly inside her pussy and she clenched tight, trapping his hand.

Fergus pulled his hand away and slapped her on the ass. She gasped at the sting. “Tha is such a beauty, but a greedy beauty, tha is. But a lady allus gets what she wants, right? Dunna happen a gamekeeper. A gamekeeper only gets what he's given.”

She let out a shuddering groan. Enough already. Playing Lady Chatterley was great and all, but she wanted to go to bed. “I give you me,” she said. “Please, I beg of you to take me.”

A warm, hard object pressed against her vagina. She arched her back, rocking her hips from side to side, attempting to make Fergus penetrate her, and he slipped inside. Finally.

She threw her hips backward in a fast pattern, which he met with intensity. Fergus pummeled her from behind, thrusting his cock into her. She floated above herself, as if watching from a distance, as the two of them humped. A flash of memory came over her, a mental picture of her sobbing words of love into the neck of a boy who once loved her.

Play the role, damn you, she snapped inwardly. Play the role.

The slapping sound of Fergus's thighs colliding with hers mixed with his short, panting grunts, loud in the silent night. The mental picture faded.

“Tell me you love me, woman. Say it, say it now. M'lady, say you love me.”

Doris's body tightened. She hadn't been able to say the words to anyone for years. Tears came to her eyes. Dammit. It's been fourteen friggin’ years. Surely she didn't have to cry every time her memory brought up Leo. Christ.

Focus on Fergus, she reminded herself. Fergus and the role she was playing. Fergus, like her, wanted to live without love. Like her, he wanted to protect himself from the inevitable pain of getting hurt. But Fergus had no problem hearing words of love when he was playing a role, and lately had been finding ways of making her say the words. She, however....

She squeezed her eyes shut. Those words caught in her throat and made her choke. But Fergus demanded to hear what could never exist in her heart, and there was only one way out: play the role. She took a deep breath and said, “I, Lady Chatterley, desperately and completely love you, Oliver Mellors.”

Fergus drove into her, using the table to brace his weight, and came with a guttural groan. As usual, she didn't come. She had no “crisis,” as Constance Chatterley would have said. She couldn't during sex. Hadn't since ... well, since before. Fergus had been disappointed at first, but she'd assured him her lack of orgasm had nothing to do with him, but rather with her past. The past from which she was trying to escape.

She dressed silently, aware that Fergus watched her every movement. She caught him looking at her, his pupils a small pinprick of black against a sea of grey. Empty. She swallowed hard and turned her gaze away.

“You're putting your house up for sale tomorrow?” Fergus asked, hiking his pants over his hips.

Doris breathed a sigh of relief. He'd come out of his role as Oliver Mellors. She could answer as herself, and not tumble around in her head for Constance Chatterley's voice. “Yes. I'm meeting with the Realtor in the afternoon.”

“Good. Once the sale goes through, that will be the last of Doris Macon.” Fergus turned on his heel and strode to the door. Opening it, he paused. Turning back to her he said, “And good riddance, too.” He slammed the door behind him, making Doris jump.

She couldn't help it, his words stung a little. The last of Doris Macon. Fergus was right—the deed to 35 Nightingale Lane was the last legal document with her former name. Once the sale went through, she'd be completely free of her past. Just the way she'd wanted, the way she'd planned. So why the hell were there hot and angry tears in her eyes?

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Three

The whir and hum of the sprinklers in the morning air mingled with chimes from St. Dominican's church bell. The familiar summer sounds of Quartzton added a sonorous rhythm to Trish Jacob's patter. A month ago when Doris first made the arrangements to meet a Realtor, she hadn't been prepared to be speaking to one of her former high school classmates on the phone.

Trish had been a year ahead of Doris in school—in Leo's graduating class, Doris realized with a start. Once, a long time ago, Trish had been Doris's compatriot in detention. A faint smile crossed Doris's lips as she compared the Trish she once knew to the woman standing before her. Trish's interest in cheap beer and body piercing in high school had been transposed into a passion for rental statistics, tax rates, and zoning codes.

Apparently, somewhere along the way, Trish had also developed a passion for George Jacobs, one of the school football stars from their high school. A nice guy, Doris recalled. He hadn't been one of the jerks who claimed he'd slept with her. Kudos to Trish for scoring one of the good guys.

“I had the sprinkler system repaired already,” Trish said, drawing her attention back to the yard in front of her. The faded white picket fence leaned inward. Trish struggled with the latch on the gate, then waved to Doris to follow her.

Hesitantly, she stepped through the gateway and into the yard where she'd once slid down a slip-'n-slide, performed cartwheels and somersaults for her mother ... and sneaked her first kiss with Leo.

Even with the warm morning sun, her hands went clammy. She wiped her palms against the patterned cotton dress, thankful for the woven silk cardigan covering her shoulders. She let her gaze travel the length of the yard, noticing the weeds and dead daisies, and frowned. Shit. So much needed to be done. She'd told Fergus that making the arrangements to sell the place would only take a couple of hours. He expected her home later that evening. Staring at the mess of a yard before her, she was grateful she'd arrived several hours earlier than scheduled.

She cringed inwardly at the unkempt scene before her, then kicked an empty beer can. A cigarette butt tumbled out. It was a painful reminder of the last time she saw Karen, beer can in one hand, cigarette in the other, standing at the faded white picket fence as Doris packed her things to move in to Fergus's mansion in Marin. Damn her mother for making her life miserable. If Karen hadn't started drinking—

Doris cut off the thought. No sense in playing a game of “what ifs.” The past was the past, and she'd come here to bury hers.

“You have good bones, Doris.”

Startled, Doris turned quickly to Trish. Too quickly, as the world went dark for a moment. At five foot ten, attempting to live on a thousand calories a day did her in at times. But high-class men wanted expensive-looking women—skinny with big boobs—so sacrifices had to be made, and food was one of them. “Excuse me?” she asked.

Trish pointed a finger to the house, once white but long gone a faint pinkish grey, tinged by the iron embedded in the local dust. “Good bones. The place needs some cosmetic work, but nothing that a dash of paint can't fix.”

“Crap,” she muttered under her breath. She could only hope the interior of the house was in better shape than what she could see of the exterior. With tired legs, she stepped up the wooden steps and onto the porch and gave what had formerly been a hanging potted fern a nudge. Poor thing had probably died shortly after Karen had, she realized.

Doris had been on a trip deep in the Amazon rain forest with Fergus when Karen had passed on. Her mother had been cremated a week before Doris even knew she was dead. She'd never known whether there had been a funeral for her mother. Not that anyone in Quartzton would have come, she thought.

Overhead a low-flying airplane moved heavily through the air, rattling the single-pane windows, drawing her attention away from her morbid thoughts. She cocked an eye at Trish. “Forest fire?”

Trish nodded. “There's a five-thousand-acre fire burning in the El Dorado Forest, about thirty miles north of here. The fire retardant bombers have been using the Quartzton airport, so you may get buzzed. But don't worry,” she added hastily, “the fire's too far away to do any damage. If the winds shift, though, you might see and smell smoke while you're here.”

Great, she thought. Just what she needed—another reminder of Leo. As if being in the house didn't trigger enough memories. She let out a breath, slow and steady, willing the thoughts of her past to escape her body and her mind. She cranked the key in the lock and swung the door open. The stale scent of dust and mildew hit her, along with the sultry remnants of her mother's perfume. She forced the wave of emotion that threatened to well up back down in her chest. Trish stayed behind, allowing Doris to enter her childhood home alone.

She wandered through the ground floor, taking mental notes on all that should be done before the house went on the market: windows power washed, the living room repainted, cabinets and hardwood floors polished.

Little furniture or decor remained; she recalled her mother's infamous yard sales, where Karen would put all but the kitchen sink out on the front lawn to sell. Money for malt liquor, and later, cheap vodka or gin.

She let out a sigh.

Trish, apparently tired of waiting while Doris toured her past, stepped up next to her. “How long will you be staying, Doris?”

Not long, she hoped, but more than the couple of hours she'd promised Fergus. “I don't know. There's more work to be done than I'd thought. You know,” she murmured, gliding a finger through dust an eighth of an inch thick, “it's Dorienne, actually. Dorienne Maçon. I legally changed my name last year.” She stared at the tip of her finger, now thickly coated in grey. Good God, had Karen never bothered to dust?

“I doubt you'll get any of the locals to call you different,” Trish answered. “You're our Doris, and nothing else.”

She frowned. “I don't think folks around here want to claim me as their anything.”

Audibly, Trish sucked in a breath.

Bingo. Doris had hit the nail on the head. In Quartzton, even after all these years, she still was persona non grata.

“Doris, that all was such a long time ago. Most everyone's forgotten about what happened.”

She let out a bark of a laugh. Right. No way had people forgotten her sin. In a town as small as Quartzton, everyone saw everyone else's shadows. And no one ever forgot the past.

“No sense in trying to mollify me. I know I'm still the town's slutty redhead. The pregnant teen.”

Trish placed a hand on her forearm. The touch startled her. She looked down at the Realtor's hand, then up to her face. Forgiving eyes met her gaze. Her throat squeezed tight.

“Doris,” Trish said, “why do you insist on bearing the burden of what happened? Have you ever stopped to think that Leo had as much responsibility as you?”

Her stomach churned. All she'd wanted to do was to return to the house, pick through Karen's things and make a list with Trish of what needed to be done before putting the house up for sale. Then Trish could list the house and she could disappear, forever.

Goodbye to Doris Macon.

Why was it that everyone in this damned town had to shove her face in her past?

“How soon do you think this place will sell?” she asked, purposefully avoiding Trish's question.

“Sell?” Trish's voice rose. “I must have misunderstood. I thought you wanted to rent the place.”

Three months ago, when Doris first contacted the real estate office after learning she'd inherited 35 Nightingale Lane, renting her former home had seemed a wise idea. Shabby and downtrodden as it was, the house was hers—the only item she owned that she hadn't received from a man. She'd inherited the place fair and square and planned to keep her one piece of property.

Then Fergus proposed his unique idea of marriage, and she'd accepted. But with the ring came the role of Dorienne Maçon, and also the order to destroy all remnants of Doris Macon. And that meant she had to sell her home.

“My plans changed,” she said, briskly. “I'm not renting this place. I'm selling. Then I'm gone for good. Dusting this two-bit town off my hands. Doris Macon will disappear forever.”

Quiet air met her blunt statement. Then Trish spoke. “You know, Doris, I have to wonder: are you moving forward, or running away?”

The question caught her by surprise. She shot a quick look at Trish who stood, hands on hips, with an expression of compassion blended with a hint of a challenge.

A smile tugged briefly at the corner of Doris's lips. They both knew Trish had hit the nail on the head. Of course she was running away. But at least she had something to run toward.

The life of Dorienne Maçon. False as it may be.

“Does it matter?” she asked, peering into a kitchen cupboard crammed with months-old cereal, cans of ground coffee, and almost a dozen containers of powdered creamer: Christmas Cookie. Knowing her mother's habits, there'd been a big sale at the local discount supermarket.

“Some of us might actually miss you. We like having you around. I like having you around,” Trish said. “And I'm not the only one—there's someone here in Quartzton right now who wants to see you.”

She started emptying the contents of the cupboard out onto the stained Formica countertop. “Right,” she drawled. “Besides you, who in this blip on the map would want to see me?”

She did have a few former friends here, but by now they were either married or engaged and she doubted their fiancees and wives really wanted her around. Especially since one of the guys she'd slept with off and on over the years and the other she'd tried to get into bed during high school. After her pregnancy and quick descent down the social ladder.

Town slut. The name fit.

“Leo Savage.” Trish spoke the name quietly.

Doris's heart thudded in her chest. She dropped the tin of coffee, the weight slamming onto her sandal-clad foot. She bit back a cry. She bent low, taking her time picking up the tin, willing her breath to return to her lungs.

“He's back. For a day or two, at any rate. Arrived in Quartzton yesterday. George and I had dinner with him last night at La Reynard.” Trish rummaged under the sink and came up with a carton of black vinyl bags. “Here, use these for the garbage,” she said, handing one to Doris.

Doris grabbed the bag, dully aware of her movements.

Trish added, “He's looking for you. Leo, that is. Wants to see you. I told him you'd be here today. He said he'd stop by this afternoon and pay you a visit.”

Her heart increased its tempo, beating in an unsteady rhythm. “No...” Doris said, the word cracking as it came out her tightened throat.

Trish leaned against the kitchen counter, her eyes boring holes into Doris. “It's time you stopped running, Doris. If Leo Savage has something to say to you, you should listen.”

“But—”

“But what? Yes, he was an irresponsible jerk, and cruel. I remember. I was there in the classroom that day. But he's willing to talk now, and my sense is that he wants to apologize for what he did. For what he said. I think you should listen. It's been, what, fourteen years? Time to settle the past.” Trish opened a heavyweight trash bag with a loud snap and placed it on the counter.

“You know what? Leo Savage can kiss my surgically-enhanced ass before I'll let him talk to me,” Doris bit out.

“Oh, Christ, Doris,” Trish snapped. “Don't you ever get tired of playing the martyr?” She shot Doris a hard look, then turned and stormed out of the kitchen, down the hall, and out of the house. The screen door squeaked then slammed shut. Doris stood alone.

She hadn't been playing the martyr, had she? She had every right to avoid Leo. After what he'd done to her, she had every right to hate his guts. She ground her jaw tight. Why the hell did Trish tell Leo how to find her? He was the last person she wanted to see. She cast a quick glance at her wrist, reading the time on her Cartier watch. Almost noon. According to Trish, Leo would arrive this afternoon. Christ.

Several long and breathless seconds passed before Doris realized she had to get the hell out of Dodge. And fast.

She had to leave before her past could catch up to her and ruin her future.

* * * *

Doris stood at the top of the staircase, surrounded by dust motes floating lazily in the hot attic air. Her chest ached; the intensity of the adrenaline rush after hearing Leo wanted to talk to her had made her heart slam hard in her ribcage. She'd head back to Marin, come back another day to go through Karen's house. But before she raced out of Quartzton, she had to see if her inner sanctum remained. The tiny closet tucked away under the eaves held all that was precious to her.

Or had Karen destroyed even that?

As soon as she ascertained if the contents of the attic closet hadn't been dumped by Karen, she'd collect what she could and leave. She could come back in a few days to finish readying the house for sale, once she knew Leo Savage had taken off again for parts unknown. She sure as hell wasn't about to be here when he showed up. But for now, she had time.

She pushed the attic door open and her vision blurred, then adjusted to the filtered light. It had been a couple of years since she'd entered the attic, but not much had changed. She squinted, but was too far away to see if her mother had removed the padlock from the closet door.

Possibly Karen had never even known about the closet. She'd hated the attic, saying the cobwebs freaked her out and that the floorboards might give way and send her crashing into the bedrooms below.

Because Karen hated the attic was the precise reason why Doris had loved the space, spending hours curled up on an old horse blanket by the window, reading Nancy Drew mysteries, and later, sexy romance novels stolen from the grocery store.

Once, the local storeowner, Mr. Agrue, had caught her with a paperback and an apple stuffed down her cowboy boots. Instead of calling the cops or reading her the riot act, he'd pulled her into his office and told her she could borrow the books, but she had to return them in mint condition so he could sell them to paying customers.

He'd also pointed out that boxes of leftover produce were placed out around back on alternate days. She'd spent the summer poring over trashy romance novels and eating rejected fruit.

She stepped forward and the attic floor creaked. Karen's fears about the floorboards had most likely been an excuse, but Doris didn't want to prove her mother's prediction correct by falling through to the space below. A breeze outside sent the oak next to the house nodding, the soft scrape of a branch against the glass pane a familiar sound. A gentle light suffused the room as she stepped under the slanted beams of the roof.

There—a bright gleam of light refracted off the heavy steel padlock, still firmly locked in place. No one had entered her secret spot. She let out the breath she'd unknowingly held deep in her lungs.

A low rumbling growl coming from outside caught her attention. She held motionless, listening. The growl grew louder—a vehicle of some kind, motorcycle maybe. The chug-chug of the engine slowed, then came to a stop in front of her house.

A jolt of fresh adrenaline shocked her system. Leo? She shook her head. Shouldn't be Leo—he wasn't expecting her in town for a few more hours. He'd have no reason to come to 35 Nightingale Lane at this hour. She edged her way over to the grimy window. At the front gate, a man in a skullcap helmet, white T-shirt, and faded jeans with his back to her swung off a motorcycle.

She blew out a breath of relief. The man below had to be one of her mother's biker friends, unaware her mother had passed on.

Damn. She hated breaking the news about her mother's death to anyone, even strangers. She stared down at the man, wondering if she would remember him from the past. From this position she couldn't see his face, but she raised her eyebrows at the expansive display of male shoulders and the high, hard ass accentuated by the well-worn jeans.

Her mom usually hung out with other drunks and stoners, not hunks. Maybe the man was on Nightingale Lane to visit one of the neighbors.

She dragged a finger through the long-accumulated grime on the window pane and watched as the biker unlatched his black skull helmet and pulled off the red handkerchief tied around his head. He dropped the helmet down on the bike, tucked the handkerchief in his back pocket, then walked with a powerful stride up the battered pathway to her porch, his head dipped too low for her to catch a glimpse of his features.

A long sigh escaped. No chance now that the biker was in the neighborhood to visit someone else. She'd have to trudge back down the cramped staircase and face the uncomfortable moment when she told a complete stranger his friend had died. The grating ring of the hand-cranked doorbell sounded. “Be right there,” she called out, trudging down the stairwell. The sound repeated, twice.

She winced. As a child, she'd loved the bits and pieces of history that made up the Victorian home. Today, the antique doorbell made her back teeth ache.

“I said I'd be right there,” she called out sharply. “So shut the fuck up,” she muttered under her breath. Under her high heels, one of the steps wobbled, and she found herself tumbling forward to land at the bottom of the stairwell on her hands and knees.

“Jesus,” she swore. A sharp pain stabbed her lip and her knees ached. She nudged the tip of her tongue against the side of her mouth and tasted copper—blood. She cast a glance down her legs; she'd skinned her knee. Christ. So much for wearing tennis skirts and skimpy cocktail dresses for the next week or so.

The bathroom, she assumed, probably held the requisite Band-Aids and antiseptic spray, but before she could attend to the wound, she needed to get rid of the idiot biker still pounding on the door.

She tugged her Jimmy Choo pumps off and tossed them to land in a pile at the bottom of the stairs, then stood. With a slight limp, she made her way barefoot to the front door and threw it open. She faced a man's broad back, mounded muscles apparent even under the thin white cotton of his T-shirt. Apparently the man had given up on anyone answering his knock and was in the process of leaving.

“Listen,” she called out, scowling, “If you're here to see Karen, I'm really sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but—”

Partway down the pathway, the man stopped, then turned to face her.

Her throat closed tight and her breathing went shallow.

Leo.

Older, and well filled out, but completely him. And here hours earlier than she'd expected.

“Damn,” she ground out. “It's you.”

“Not the friendliest greeting I've ever received,” Leo said, reversing his direction and coming to stand in front of her, hip thrust to the side, one thumb hooked insolently in a belt loop, a lopsided grin on his face.

“You're no biker,” she said inanely. From the grimy attic window, she'd seen what she had expected: one of her mother's scruffy friends, the kind of asshole who used to come around with joints, six-packs of beer, or worse, a bottle of Jack Daniels.

“Never claimed to be.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the living room. “Planning on inviting me in?”

She worked to bring her focus back. “No. I thought you were one of my mother's druggie friends, or I never would have opened the door.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Great. You'll let a meth addict inside, but not me?”

“I refuse to open the door to my past, and that means you,” she snapped. “Take a hike.” She stepped backward, dragging the heavy oak door with her.

But not before Leo slammed his hand against the door and shoved it wide open again.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Four

Doris's eyes widened. What the fuck? How dare Leo Savage barge into her life? She resisted the urge to kick him in the nuts, or scream curse words at the top of her lungs. “I told you to leave, so leave already.” She tugged at the door, but Leo wouldn't release his grip.

She saw a muscle in Leo's jaw jump before he spoke. “Knock this crap off, Doris. I have to tell you something, and I'm not leaving until you hear what I have to say.”

Fury stormed through her. They hadn't spoken more than a few words since that horrible day all those years ago. What could he possibly have to say that she'd want to hear?

Nothing. Even if he got down on his knees before her and begged for forgiveness, she wouldn't want to hear it.

Right. As if Leo would ever beg for anything. Or believe himself guilty for what had happened. For the pregnancy, or for what he'd done to her afterward. She wasn't about to hear whatever it was that was on his mind. Not today—not ever.

Firmly, she placed one foot out onto the porch, almost between his legs. With one arm braced against the doorjamb, she reached beyond him and grabbed the door handle, bringing her to within a hair's breadth of Leo himself. Close enough to catch a whiff of his scent.

It took a second for her brain to register that he smelled the same as he had when they'd been teenagers: a touch of sweat, limes, and bay rum.

Her stomach clenched and her hands started shaking. Damn her for going all wimpy, she thought. She needed to show him she was in control, not flutter about like a pansy-assed pussy. Fuck Leo. This was her house. She pulled the door toward her, slowly and deliberately, and said in as low and sultry a tone as she could muster, “Bite me.”

The door eased shut with a quiet click. She cranked the deadlock, then melted against the wooden frame.

She knew she should step away. Leo would realize she still stood there if he didn't hear her footsteps. But her body went suddenly cold. Weak knees and numb feet held her rooted to the spot.

Allowing her eyes to droop shut, she leaned her forehead against the painted wooden door, grateful for the warmth generated by the full morning sun.

Warmth that spread like glowing embers through her limbs, melting her frozen core. Giving her back her strength.

With measured breath and controlled limbs, she pressed herself away from the door and edged backward, padding barefoot down the hall, allowing herself to breathe only when she came to the stairwell. She grabbed the handrail and galloped up the stairwell, confident the 1970s green shag carpet linking the stairs would cover the sound of her clambering footsteps. With shaking hands, she opened the door to what had once been her room, not sure of what she'd see.

She swung her gaze around, blowing out a sigh of relief. Karen hadn't destroyed her room, thank God. Everything looked exactly as the day she'd left two years earlier; her jewelry box at a precise right angle on her dresser, her bed neatly made with the pink and white quilt, her collection of classics ordered first by genre, then by author, on the press-board bookshelf.

The heavy beating of her heartbeat sounded loudly in her ears. It was amazing how much adrenaline could pour into her system at Leo Savage's mere presence, she thought.

It took a good two minutes of lying curled in a fetal position on the queen-sized bed for the beat to slow until she no longer heard the roar and rush of her long-ago broken heart pounding in her head.

Leo was back. And with him, all the memories she'd worked so hard to shut out for the last fifteen years. Hell. She buried her head in the pillow, denying the tears that wanted to burst forth like a broken dam.

Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairwell.

She sat up, clutching her pillow to her chest. What? She'd locked the damned door, of that she was certain. But someone, and she'd give her last dollar that someone was Leo, had snuck into the house.

“Christ, can't a girl have a little peace around here?” she muttered to herself. She flung herself back down on the bed and waited for the inevitable: for Leo to find her. It wouldn't take long; after all the nights he'd spent sneaking into her room when they were young, Leo would know exactly where she was.

Leo's frame filled the doorway.

“I don't get it,” she said, her voice tight in the back of her throat, not bothering to look at him. “You don't want to talk for me for fourteen years, and now here you are, breaking into my house and stalking me.”

He stepped closer and sat down on the bed beside her. “I didn't break in. Your back door was wide open. And I don't like having doors slammed in my face.”

She cast a glance over him. He'd grown into quite the man, she realized. Wide shoulders, light brown hair still a little long and messy. His eyes, green like hers, bore into her. He gave her a smile, his teeth strong and white against the red backdrop of his full lips and she slammed her eyes shut at the sight. Christ, why couldn't he have grown up all fat and ugly?

He edged closer to her on the bed. Obviously the man wasn't planning on leaving, but she wasn't about to hear him out. She tossed the pillow to the side and stood, staring down at him, giving him her best glare. “I didn't slam the door.”

He reached up and grabbed her arm. “You know what I mean.” His voice sounded strong and his eyes radiated determination.

Her nostrils flared. The sensation of his wide hand covering her thin forearm stirred long dormant memories—unwanted reminders of a lifetime ago. “Let go of me,” she said in a tight voice. She tugged at her arm, but Leo refused to release his grip.

“Or what?”

She leaned forward and nudged her knee between his legs. “Or you may regret it.”

He caught her other arm in his hand. “What, planning on kneeing me in the balls?”

“If that's what it takes to get your hands off me, then yes,” she snapped, bringing her knee closer to his crotch. And her body closer to his. Too close, she realized as his scent permeated her nostrils.

Jittery sensations shot through her—anger mixed with arousal. The anger didn't surprise her, but the arousal did. Remnants of puppy love, she told herself. That's all.

With a sudden movement, Leo leaned back, tugging her down on top of him. He wrapped a muscled leg around the back of her thighs, pinning her to him. The maneuver took her by surprise.

And sent the jittery sensations on an all-time high.

Blood rushed through her veins, fueled by a rage and lust. “What the hell are you doing?” she breathed, struggling against him.

“Don't ever threaten my family jewels.”

“Or what?”

“Or—” Leo hesitated. He stopped talking and ran his eyes all over her face. “You know, Dee, you're still amazingly beautiful.”

His incongruent words came as a shock. She shook her head, feeling a furrow form on her brow. “You drive over here, break into my house and jump me in order to tell me I'm still beautiful?”

He pulled her hands above her head until her body lay fully against his, gripping both wrists tight in one hand. He snaked his other hand up beside her neck and held the back of her head. “No, I came here to talk. To tell you something important. But I can't seem to get you to listen.”

She struggled against him. “You're right, I won't listen. Now let go of me and get the hell out of my house.”

With a movement as quick as a striking snake, Leo captured her lips in a bruising and harsh kiss. She struggled, but his tight grip on her wrists held her hands above her head. He pressed down hard on the back of her head, trapping her lips against his.

Sensation flooded her. She should fight, should push him off, but her limbs had gone to jelly, all quivery and without strength. And her mind ... she struggled to maintain conscious thought, battling the heady flash of memory pulled out of her subconscious by Leo's scent, his taste, his lips on hers. Her body fought her mind, submitting to the kiss. Betraying her.

He released her head and dragged his mouth from hers. “Looks like I've got your attention. Maybe now you'll listen,” he said.

“Fuck you,” she spat out, her voice shaking.

“I'd rather not.” He released her wrists and crossed his arms under his head, not bothering to kick her body off his. He stared at her with a deadpan expression.

Fury rose within her. With the memory of Leo's touch had also come the memory of Leo's betrayal, of what he'd said. Of the person his careless words had made her into. “Oh, yeah, I forgot. You won't touch a slut, right?”

He didn't respond, but as she shifted to crawl off him, she recognized the thick and hard length of his erect cock against her belly. So he'd been turned on. Her eyes narrowed. She could use his arousal to her advantage.

She braced her hands on either side of his shoulders and ground her pelvic bone to his, hitching her hips upward until his erection lay cradled between her thighs.

A smile flicked across her lips when she saw his chest rise. So he wasn't as inured to her as he'd like her to think.

She spread her legs wide, rubbing her silk- and lace-covered vulva against his cock. A pulse beat fast along the length of his neck. “You won't ever fuck me again, remember? I'm used goods. The town slut.” She rocked back and forth, her gaze trained on Leo, tracking his sexual arousal. “You don't want to fuck me, do you?”

A muscle in Leo's jaw jumped and power surged through her, like the pounding waters of a flash flood. Whether he wanted her or not, she was turning him on.

Years ago she'd been the one who'd succumbed to Leo's charm, willingly spreading her legs for his cock, believing his whispered words of love.

She couldn't get enough of him that year. She'd immersed herself in his scent, his taste. Had writhed naked underneath him, every inch of her skin sliding against every inch of his body. She'd been so completely, so profoundly in love that when she so much as thought of him her heart felt like it would shatter into a million iridescent pieces.

But then he'd dumped her, and hadn't even bothered to tell her to her face, instead letting her friends and mother carry the news to her. And then he'd said those words of hate that had shut off her heart forever. He'd held all the power back then. But now—

She leaned backward and grabbed the button fly on Leo's 501 Levis. With a quick flick of her wrist she spread the fly wide, releasing his thick cock, which bobbed free. His hands snaked out then to grab her wrists, but he'd acted too late.

She was in control now. An exultant sensation swept over her: power. Finally, she had power over Leo. She'd taunt him, tease him, then leave him starving for more, just like he'd left her starving for his love all those years before.

* * * *

Leo held Doris's wrists in his hands, wondering what the hell she was up to by exposing his raging hard-on. And wondering what he was going to do about the fact that he now wanted to fuck Doris's brains out.

He couldn't figure out why the hell he'd kissed her to begin with. She'd irked him by not being willing to listen and threatening to knee him in the balls. But then she'd moved close and he could smell her, could feel her long red hair drift against his cheek.

Surrounded by all the memories—her former bedroom where they once had spent hours in each other's arms, her scent filling his nostrils, the same mix of freesias and lilies she'd worn all those years ago, everything livened by her bright eyes and her passionate reactions—in a split second he'd forgotten his anger and his shame.

Suddenly he'd been back in time, in the same room and on the same bed, staring at the girl he loved.

Loved—as in past tense, he reminded himself.

Doris sent him a slow and seductive smile. His pulse raced and his gaze focused in on her face. She'd created some plan, knowing Doris. And he did know her—at least, he'd known her as well as anyone could after sharing the first fourteen years of their lives together.

“Dee, what are you doing?” he asked, pacing the words out slowly.

Instead of answering, she licked her lips. Still holding his gaze with hers, she lowered her torso, dipped her head, and flicked out her tongue. When the wet heat of her mouth met his cock, he jolted.

“Like it?” she breathed.

His blood boiled. He sucked in a breath, attentive to the increased beat of his pulse. What man didn't like his cock licked? But he hadn't come here to get laid, no matter how high Doris's mouth made his dick jump.

“Tell you what. You can suck my cock all you want after we talk,” he said. He sat up, pushing her off him and onto the floor, but instead of standing as he'd expected she would, Doris knelt before him, her head in his lap.

Damn. The conversation he needed to have was not one that should occur with Doris's mouth so close to his—

“Holy fuck,” he groaned. Doris had taken his cock in her mouth and was sucking. Before he could get a hold of himself, she'd worked his jeans down and sneaked her thin hand inside the soft cotton of his Levis. She cupped his balls and squeezed.

His head lolled back on his shoulders. No way could he concentrate with Doris's mouth wrapped around his dick. Reality began to fade as his primal instincts took over.

Yet fleeting questions dodged through his mind. Why the hell was she giving him a blow job? Was she trying to reconnect with the past? Had she forgiven him for all he'd done? Was this her way of asking him back into her life? She sucked and the questions faded away like a night fog exposed to sunlight.

“Oh God, that feels good.” It took a moment before he realized he'd said the words aloud.

Doris reacted by wrapping her free hand around his dick and jacked him off as she sucked and licked the tip. Toyed with his balls. Fuck. He was in absolute heaven. The woman had one hell of a mouth on her, he realized. Doris had learned a thing or two in the intervening years since she'd last performed this particular act on him. The girl he once knew had grown into a vital, luscious woman.

Jealousy twisted in his chest when he realized that although he'd been her first, by no means had he been her last. Doris ran the tip of her tongue over the slit on his head and the pounding in his brain shoved the thought away.

He hunched forward, inhaling her scent, then braced himself with one hand behind him on the bed and cupped her head with the other, letting his fingers slide through the silky lengths of her coppery hair. The hell with detaching her mouth from his cock and discussing why he'd shown up after all these years—he'd enjoy this ride and worry about the aftermath later.

Leo's eyes squeezed shut as he thrust his hips upward, meeting Doris's mouth with his erection, holding her head to his crotch. He groaned. Small tremors started to build, intensifying until his climax seemed imminent.

“Yes,” he moaned, “that's it. Suck me, baby. Suck me off.” Another second of Doris's sweet sucking and he'd hit nirvana.

Without warning, Doris released her grip on his cock and pulled her head away just as he felt the tightening in his balls that indicated imminent orgasm. The sudden removal of her hot and wet mouth from his throbbing penis shocked him.

But what shocked him more was the expression on her face when she stood up. A glare of derision marred her perfect features.

“So tell me, Leo,” she drawled, “how does it feel to have someone walk out on you right when you need her? Sucks, doesn't it?”

“What the hell are you talking about?” He wiped a hand over his face.

“You had all the power years ago. You swept me off my feet, knocked me up, then dumped me and—” Her lips thinned to a tight line. “This moment here"—Doris waved a hand—"may be minor compared to what you did to me, but as far as payback goes, at least I'm getting a little satisfaction.”

Realization dawned. Doris's seduction had nothing to do with forgiveness. Or even a friendly bang for old times’ sake. No, this had been about Doris asserting control over him.

Christ Almighty. Doris had sucked his dick to prove she had power. The power he'd stolen from her years ago with his callous remark. He bit off a curse.

He could understand what she'd just done—but he certainly wasn't going to stand for it.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Five

Doris fought the tears that threatened as she looked down at Leo's stunned and angry expression. She had to get the hell out of her old bedroom. Get the hell away from Leo. Her goal had been to leave Leo wanting as he'd left her wanting all those years before. But the tears welling heavily in her eyes told her that her encounter with Leo threatened to break down the many layers of defenses she'd built to protect her heart.

She tipped her chin upward, turned, and strode toward the closed door. “I'm off to run a few errands. Be a good boy and let yourself out. And don't bother coming back. Ever.”

Less than a second later she found herself slammed against the door, Leo's body covering hers.

“Let me go,” she snarled, bucking desperately. His scent filled her nostrils and her heart surged with longing, the hot tears in her eyes threatening to spill.

Leo didn't reply. Instead, he grabbed her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.

“I told you to let me go.” Her voice rose, edged with hysteria. This had been a mistake—everything had been a mistake. She placed her hands on his chest, intending to shove him back, faintly aware of how the heat from his body radiated through her palms, sending unwanted sensations up into her arms and to her core.

Leo took advantage of her hesitation—with rough hands he grabbed her wrists, pinning them to the door. He shoved his pelvis against hers, trapping her. His jeans hung loose about his hips, his erection still free and now pressing into her belly.

Arousal fought with anger, sending her pulse racing and making her pant. She raised her gaze to find Leo staring directly into her eyes. His eyes flashed dark green, two vertical lines forming between his brow. He opened his mouth as if to speak but she shoved against him, unwilling to hear whatever nasty comment he'd surely toss out.

But then he kissed her.

Hot, hard, and open-mouthed, Leo plundered her mouth with his. She struggled under the onslaught of the kiss, tried pulling her wrists out of his clenched hands, twisted her torso to escape the pressure of his hips. Despite her writhing, Leo fused his lips to hers, refusing to relinquish his claim.

Then his lips released for a fraction of a second, and he whispered one word, his lips still touching hers, in a voice barely audible: “Dee...”

With that one word, the pent-up anger and rage that had lived within her flew out of her body, as if a thousand souls were escaping the caverns of hell. Her torso shook and her heart seemed to grow bigger than her ribcage. With a shuddering cry, she opened her mouth.

Her tongue sought his. She dredged herself in the heady and familiar taste that was Leo. Liquid fire poured through her, melting her limbs, making her shake as she struggled to remain standing.

“God, Dee—”

She cut off Leo's words with her mouth, flicking her tongue between his lips. He let go of her wrists and ran his hands down the undersides of her arms, her sides. He cupped her buttocks in his palms and lifted her upward, her back pressed to the door.

Gasping for breath, Doris let Leo lift her and wrapped her legs around his waist. He raised her higher, nudging his erection against her panty-covered and dripping wet pussy.

She let out a strangled groan at the sensation of the thick head of his cock pressing up into her, held at bay only by her panties.

So close. They were so close to making love. Having sex. Fucking. All that stood in their way was a thin layer of French silk lace. But that strip of pink lace stood in the way of more than just sex. A road had been laid before her and she wasn't strong enough to walk down that path again.

“I can't. I ... I need to stop. It's not right. I'm—”

“Engaged. I know.” He grazed his mouth down her neck. “But being engaged is a hell of a lot different than being married. So you'd better come up with a different reason if you really want us to get off this train.”

Doris struggled to respond. Leo had misunderstood the reason for her hesitation. Her engagement wasn't what had stopped her.

Fergus had insisted on an open relationship. He had varied tastes, he'd explained when he proposed, and some roles she wouldn't be able to fill. As long as there was extreme discretion and a liberal use of condoms, either would be allowed to take on any lover they chose. With the additional caveat that emotions were to stay out of any extramarital encounter, he'd added. Emotional connections made affairs messy, complicated. Doris had readily agreed to this stipulation. The thought of being emotionally connected to anyone made her skin crawl. Been there, done that.

She could sleep with Leo with impunity—worry about fidelity hadn't been her hesitation.

“Tell me you don't want this, Dee,” Leo said. He slipped a finger inside her wet and waiting pussy. “Tell me you don't want to fuck me.”

She cried out and clung to him, her arms wrapped around his shoulders and neck. Her body pulsed—once, twice.

Leo groaned and slipped his hand out of her. She mewled, but he dipped his arm low to cup her ass, bearing her weight on his forearm. With his other arm wrapped around her back, clutching her to his chest, he pulled them away from the door. A few steps brought them to her bed where they tumbled together, a mass of writhing limbs and open mouths.

“Tell me, Doris.” Leo's voice sounded harsh and guttural, thick with emotion and lust. “Tell me you don't want me, before it's too late.”

A sob caught in her throat. She should say something, should tell Leo to stop, should beg him to leave her alone, but no words formed.

How could she tell him she didn't want him when she'd spent the last fourteen years fighting that very desire?

* * * *

Leo's heart pounded and his cock jumped, blood flowing hard and hot through his veins. If he didn't get inside Doris soon he'd crawl right out of his skin. How he'd gone from trying to tell Doris about their daughter to being driven beyond reason with lust remained a mystery.

All he knew was that from the moment he kissed her and she opened her mouth to him, he'd entered a different dimension. A dimension where he'd once existed as a teenager, passionately and desperately in love. A dimension so full and rich he wasn't willing to leave. Not yet.

Underneath him Doris moaned. She clutched at his back with shaking hands and he responded, mouthing her breast through the fabric of her dress and flicking her hard nipple with his tongue. In the back of his mind he could hear his conscience arguing: he should stop—should pull away and calm things down, tell Doris about Veronica and then see if she still wanted to make love.

“Leo.” Her voice trembled and he edged further into that surreal place where logic meant nothing and the past lived on.

Doris spread her legs wide, hitching her hips so his cock nudged her opening. She was wet, hot, and ready. He reached down and bunched her dress in his hand, then roughly shoved the hem up to her belly. The hell with what he should do—telling Doris about Veronica could wait. His need for Doris couldn't.

And neither could Doris. Her too-thin body writhed beneath him, seeking contact. She'd wrapped her legs around his hips and was driving his pelvis to hers.

“Birth control?” he said, surprised to hear his voice shake.

“I'm on the pill. And I've been tested.” Her breath caressed his skin as she spoke.

Flames of desire raced through him. Good. No need to take the time unwrapping and putting on a condom. He could slide right in. “I'm clean too. There's nothing you need to worry about.” He tore away her panties, pleased with the sharp gasp his rough action elicited from Doris.

Her eyes flickered, her gaze sliding off to the side. Doris was worried about something, but obviously wasn't sharing. Her fiance? Their past? He lowered himself between her thighs, nipping at her waist as he crawled down her body. Doris could tally up her regrets later. After he'd drunk his fill.

He mouthed her vulva as if he were French kissing her mouth. Usually he employed finesse when eating a woman's pussy, needling her with flicks and licks and hints of what would come, building the sexual tension, proving his skill as a lover, but today was different—today he needed to immerse himself in Doris. In her scent, her liquid, her inner core.

She bucked under him, tunneling her hands through his hair and holding his head to the apex of her thighs. He tongued her again, then swept the flat of his tongue upward to lick her clit, probing and encouraging the nub.

“Oh, God, yes,” she cried.

Inwardly he smiled, and resumed biting, sucking, and flicking. He pulled back and inserted two fingers inside her dripping wet cunt, probing for her G-spot. She moaned and whipped her head from side to side, tremors shooting down her thighs. She was close, he knew, but he wanted her to shatter around him.

He tore his mouth away from her heated core. With fumbling hands, he shoved his jeans down past his knees. The hell with getting undressed. His damned jeans could stay wrapped around his ankles, held in place by his boots.

He positioned himself between her thighs, proudly satisfied with his prowess when he noticed her thighs still trembled. So he could still make Dee shake. Supporting his weight on his elbows on either side of her narrow shoulders, he slid his cock deep into her pussy.

Doris took him in fully, shuddered, and then became a wild thing, frenzied, mindless. She clawed and bit at him, sobbing and panting at the same time. He stroked her from the inside, repeatedly pulling out, then slamming back into her hard, pummeling her with his cock. Amazingly, she accepted all he gave and begged for more.

And he obliged.

He fucked her hard, rode her rough, matching her beat for beat, gritting his teeth against his imminent climax. This was not the sweet, innocent girl with the long silky red hair he'd once made sweet love to. The woman below him was wanton, hungry, desperate—

Desperate? He slowed his movements. There did seem to exist a certain desperation to Doris's lovemaking. But not the typical desire for an orgasm, like most women he slept with. This desperation seemed to hold in it a layer of emotional agony. A certain vulnerability he hadn't seen in Doris since...

“I ... I ... oh, Leo,” Doris cried, then shuddered. He focused his gaze on her face, enthralled with the way her eyes rolled upward as her climax caught her and took her higher and higher still, until her body jolted and jerked underneath him.

Watching Doris come set him off. His balls tightened and a familiar pulsation beat through his cock. He rooted deep and came hard, pumping his semen inside her, filling Dee with his hot come.

With a groan, he collapsed on top of her, his head facing hers. She closed her eyes and rolled her head to the opposite side, avoiding his gaze.

But not before he saw the hooded expression she'd tried to hide. That desperation she'd exhibited had been there for a reason, and he had a feeling he knew what the reason had been.

Him.

After all these years, could Doris still have feelings for him?

More to the point—if she did, how would that make him feel?

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Six

Leo stroked Doris's hair from the side of her face, staring her as she gazed vacantly at the wall. They needed to discuss what had happened, discuss the spark that still existed between them. And decide what they'd do about that spark. After that, they'd discuss their daughter, and together would figure out what to do about Veronica.

Fourteen years ago he'd lost both his best friend and his child. Had fucked up Dee's life and his. Even ended up hating Dee. But now a chance existed to put everything right again—to be together again, to welcome Veronica into their lives.

“Dee, we need to talk.” He cupped her hand in his and pressed a kiss to her palm.

“About what?” she asked, her gaze still averted from his.

“About what happened here between us. About why I'm here.”

Doris pressed her lips together, tight, and squeezed her eyes shut. “I need to use the bathroom,” she said. She stood and tugged her dress down.

Leo blinked, and when he opened his eyes, she was gone. He stood, then ambled toward the staircase, sticking his head around the doorjamb and looking down the hall, assuming she'd headed toward the bathroom. When he noticed the room was empty, he peered down the staircase.

Doris stood with her back to him at the bottom of the stairs, a pair of pumps dangling from one hand and her purse in the other.

What the hell? Doris hadn't left the bed to use the bathroom, as she'd said. She looked like she was taking off. Ditching him. “What are you doing, sneaking out of here?”

Doris's chest rose and she flicked her eyes to the door. “Look. Sex was great, but I'm going back to Marin.”

“To your fiance,” he said, flatly.

“Yes, back to my fiance.”

“The same fiance you cheated on with me not five minutes ago.”

Doris shook her head, her sex-mussed hair waving about. “I didn't cheat.”

He took another step down on the stairs. “So what do you call what we did up in your bedroom? When I had your pussy in my face and my cock up your cunt? You honestly consider that not cheating?”

Doris's grip tightened on her purse strap, her knuckles going white. “Fergus and I have an open relationship. Fergus likes ... well, he likes activity for which I lack the appropriate plumbing. So he has his fun, I have mine, and then we have fun together. Works out well that way.”

“Sounds like a shitty way to have a relationship, if you ask me.”

“I didn't ask for your opinion.” Doris's lips thinned and her shoulders went straight.

He could almost smile if he weren't so pissed. Doris, defending her fiance's sexual proclivities, had gone all prim and proper. He reached the bottom step and asked, “Do you love him?” Funny how he felt like a ten-ton iron gate just slammed shut over his heart.

Her eyelids fluttered shut. A muscle in her jaw jumped. “I don't have room in my life for love.”

“That's bullshit. Everyone has room in their life for love.” He slid forward, moving quietly on bare feet. Another step or two and he'd be close enough to touch her.

She opened her eyes and gave her head a quick shake. “Not me. Love's messy and painful. I've arranged my life so I don't ever have to experience it again. Love isn't worth it.”

“Love isn't worth what?”

Doris turned her head to stare at him with dead eyes—eyes devoid of the passion he'd seen earlier. Empty of the excitement for life he'd once seen in her, but which had been absent for so long.

“Love isn't worth the pain.” She turned then, and strode to the door. Pulling it open, she said over her shoulder, “Thanks for the sex. I had a great orgasm. Make sure you lock up when you leave.”

Frustration pitched over him. His hands curled into fists and he felt as if his skin had grown a size too small. At the very least, he wouldn't let her leave without saying why he'd come in the first place.

“She found us. That's why I'm here.” His voice grated into the room.

Doris froze mid-step. With achingly slow movements, she bent at the waist and leaned her forehead against the open door. “Who? Who found us?”

She knew. He could hear it in her voice—the low, vibrating quiver that existed only when she was deeply upset. That much hadn't changed, at least.

“Our daughter.”

He saw her wince, tremble. Her body sagged, as if unable to hold her weight. He pushed on. “She wants to meet us. She'll come here, to Quartzton. All we have to do is say when.”

Doris worked a few breaths, her thin shoulders hunching upward with each breath. She banged her head against the door. “But I don't want to meet her. I don't want anything to do with her.” Her voice sounded hollow and he could see the back of her knees trembling

He knew hearing their daughter had sought them out had to be as big a surprise for her as it had been for him. But her resistance puzzled him. Hadn't she held out hope of meeting their daughter? How could a mother not want to meet her own child?

“I don't get it,” he said, shoving his hands through his hair. “Why wouldn't you want to meet her?”

Her shoulders dropped, as if something had sucked all her power away. He stepped slowly down the remaining stairs, afraid of causing her to bolt like a frightened deer.

“I don't know how you found her, or even why you looked,” she said, her voice edged with tension, “but this is your issue, not mine.”

“You don't understand, Dee. I need you.”

Doris's chest heaved. She shoved her hand over her mouth. “And I needed you,” she said, her voice muffled. Tears filled her eyes but venom laced her words. “Where were you when I needed you? Where were you? I had her alone, Leo. She and I were all alone.”

“What are you talking about? You're the one who—”

“You can't just waltz back into people's lives and expect everything to be fine. You don't need me for this. Meet her on your own time, and keep me the hell out of it.”

He couldn't let Doris leave the house and head back to from wherever it was she'd come. Veronica had made her one stipulation clear: she wanted to meet her mother, too. Without Doris, he wouldn't be able to meet his daughter.

And ask for her forgiveness and put an end to the guilt that had eaten away at him for years.

He took a deep breath. Doris had to listen. She had to understand how much meeting Veronica meant to him. How much he needed her. “She won't see me without you. That's why I need you. She wants to meet her mother.”

She raised her chin to look him full on. Her eyes snapped, shooting daggers at him. Whatever he'd said had driven her from pain to anger.

“Then I guess you're fucked, Leo,” Doris said. “Because there's no way in hell I ever want to see our child again.” She strode out the door and slammed it behind her.

Shock hit him in the chest like a two-by-four. Doris had refused. He punched the door with the butt of his fist. Once again, Dee—Doris—Macon was getting between him and his child. As he watched her burn rubber down Nightingale Lane, he realized she was getting away with it.

* * * *

Ten miles out of Quartzton, taking the curves on the highway much too fast in Fergus's Mercedes SL, Doris still shook from her encounter with Leo. Damn Leo Savage. Damn all the destruction he'd brought to her life.

And especially damn him for making Hope a reality.

Hope. She'd named their precious little redheaded baby Hope. For nine months she'd hoped the baby would make everything right again. That her mother would stop drinking. That she and Leo would marry and raise their baby together.

So what if they were only in high school? They'd both been hard workers, smart, and motivated. The high school had offered a program for students with babies. They would have been together no matter how much their parents had disapproved.

Then, right after summer vacation started, six months into her pregnancy, her mother had sent her to live with her aunt and cousin in Sacramento. She'd called and written Leo, but he'd never returned her phone calls or letters. He'd been too busy dating the new head cheerleader, she recalled, a bitter taste filling her mouth. Becky Slattery had taken over Doris's role as head cheerleader, and apparently had taken over Leo, too.

The day Hope arrived in the world, Doris's mother had shown up at the hospital with adoption papers. A loving family wanted the baby, her mother had said. Doris needed to do what was best for the baby. There had been no sign of Leo.

Doris had refused to believe Leo had abandoned their baby. She'd clung to Hope, spilling tears over the infant's swaddling blanket, until her mother shoved the adoption contract in front of her face.

Leo's signature had been clear and bold on the bottom of the paper. He'd given their baby away without even meeting her.

Shaking, Doris pulled the car off the highway and slammed on the brakes, a cloud of red dust billowing around the car. Tears spilled from her eyes, and she fought the sobs welling up from deep within her. Years had passed since she'd cried over the mistake she'd made. The biggest mistake of her life. She wiped her face, noticing the faint musky scent that still clung to her. A reminder of the fact that she'd had her face in Leo Savage's naked lap.

She smacked a hand on the steering wheel. Why the hell had she gone down on Leo? The sensation of having such power over him had hit her and she'd clung tight, unwilling to relinquish control. And because she wanted the power so much, she'd ended up sucking his dick.

When she had stalked out of the room, she'd been in power—after all those years, she had finally regained the upper hand. This time Leo hadn't left her wanting and waiting. She'd done it to him.

Yet with that one powerful statement, that their daughter was looking for them, Leo had made a mockery of her efforts to gain the upper hand. Her poorly thought-out plan had backfired. Fuck.

She slammed her forehead against the steering wheel. How had her life gone from tolerable to totally fucked up in less than thirty minutes? She'd worked for years to achieve the goal of marrying a man like Fergus. Someone with power, money, and prestige. When she became Mrs. Fergus McMannus, no one would ever call her a redheaded slut again. The small-minded biddies of Quartzton and all like them could kiss her ass.

She leaned back against the buttery leather seat, fighting the tears. Her first husband, Robert, she'd once thought would be her ticket to the respectable life. But he'd plowed through his extensive trust fund, then left Doris for a rich society girl with a trust fund of her own. Doris found herself divorced and back in Quartzton, living with her mother and desperate to find a way back to the high life.

Or at least find her way back to being treated with respect.

Fergus hadn't minded that she'd come to him with a less than stellar past. That her education had come by way of UC Berkeley, not an Ivy League school. That her mother was a drunk and her father non-existent.

She'd held only one tidbit of information back from Fergus when he asked her to share her past: that she'd once had a child she'd given up for adoption. Fergus would put up with a variety of baggage from her, but not that. Not the news of a child out there somewhere in the world. Children meant emotional entanglements. And there'd be no emotional entanglements in Fergus McMannus's life. Which had been fine by Doris. Over the years, piece by piece, she'd eradicated any emotional involvements in her life.

She struggled with her purse, searching for her cell phone. After fumbling with numb fingers, she managed to press the right buttons. Once connected to Trish, she set about ordering the removal of all the contents of the house.

“Are you sure you don't want any of your stuff?” Trish asked, her voice pulling Doris back to the present.

Unbidden tears threatened to overflow. “Everything. Have your crew take everything to the dump. There's...” A sob choked her. She cleared her throat and continued hoarsely. “There's a padlocked closet in the attic. Please make certain the contents are completely destroyed. Burned, sent to the dump, I don't care. Just ... just get everything out.”

“It may take me a while to get a crew together. A week or two,” Trish said. “Doris, are you sure you want everything taken to the dump? You don't want to save anything?”

Her grip on the steering wheel tightened until a muscle twitched in her hand. “Some memories are meant to be destroyed. Get rid of it all.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Seven

Leo strode along the grassy path in the dying light of the day, following Trout Creek as it meandered through Quartzton. Hunger and the need for a beer had driven him out of the room he'd rented at the local B&B and into town.

His stomach growled. He'd been too angry with Doris and skipped lunch, stopping off at his former fire station, talking with Chief Robertson, whom he remembered from his high school years as a volunteer firefighter. One of the firefighters would be going on maternity leave in a couple of weeks and was taking a full two years off to raise her baby. The chief was eager for Leo to apply for the position. The thought of returning to Quartzton permanently held a certain appeal and he'd promised to give the chief's request some thought.

Once he met Veronica, she might like spending some time in the place where her birth parents had grown up. Maybe he could have Trish find him a rental and settle down for a couple of years.

A splash in the creek caught his attention. In the deepening gloom of evening, it took a moment before he saw what had caused the noise. A pair of river otters gamboled about in the water. He stopped, bent low, and caught a handful of granite pebbles, worn smooth by the creek, surreptitiously keeping an eye on the pair as the otters slid from rock to rock, tussling with each other every few feet.

River otters were a rare sight in Quartzton, and a mated pair at that. A memory, long buried, tugged at him. He and Doris had once said they'd be like the eagles, or swans—mated for life.

A swell of emotion hit his chest, catching him off guard. Anger? Frustration? The sexual encounter with Doris had done a number on him—had left him reeling and confused.

The otters moved on, disappearing into the dark depths of the creek. He tossed a rock into the water, watching ripples form and spread out on the glassy surface. While he understood Doris's rationale for blowing him and attempting to leave him wanting, their frenzied and passionate lovemaking after the aborted blow job was what had thrown him a curve ball.

What had Doris done with her life to make her so angry? Why would she marry a man who didn't care if she fucked some other guy? Why would she go down on him in a power play and then make sweet love with him? He knew from her desperation and absolute loss of conscious thought during sex that Doris had succumbed to passion, had experienced deep emotion.

As had he.

He and Doris hadn't just fucked earlier. They'd—he struggled to find the correct definition for what they'd experienced. Made love? Maybe.

Yet she'd left to go back to her fiance as if Leo had been just a quick lay, easily forgotten. Then she'd gouged him even deeper when she'd refused to meet their daughter. He'd made it clear he needed her, yet Doris had still hung him out to dry.

The path veered to the left and he followed the path, heading into downtown Quartzton. Old-fashioned gas lamps lit a tree-lined main street. Tourists and locals alike strolled along the wooden sidewalk. Low-pitched conversations filled the humid night air, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter.

The door to La Reynard stood open, a welcoming sight. He stepped inside, and his eyes took a moment to adjust to the light. The place was crowded, but there was room at the bar. He could order a plate of ribs and a couple of beers and sit alone, drowning all the irritating thoughts of Doris.

“Leo!”

Across the crowded and boisterous room, seated in a booth, was Trish Jacobs. George sat next to her, his arm wrapped protectively around his wife. Both waved wildly, beckoning him over. A half-formed grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. George seemed as hulking as he had in high school, and judging from the wide smile on his face, just as jovial.

And insistent. Leo's eyes narrowed. So much for drinking alone.

Leo wound his way between filled tables and hurried wait staff and sank down in the plush leather seat across from the Jacobs.

“Hey man, it's great to see you.” George, his former defensive lineman, beamed at him. “Trish told me you were back in town. She said you were looking up Doris Macon. You find her yet?”

Leo nodded. A waitress walked up to the table, tossed down a cocktail napkin and took his order. He thumbed the napkin, staring at the red fox imprinted on the front. “Yeah, I found her.”

“At Karen's place, right?” Trish added, pushing a bowl of peanuts in his direction.

He cracked a peanut and threw the shell on the already littered floor. “What happened to the place?” he asked. “And what happened to Karen? Thirty-five Nightingale Lane seemed deserted.”

Trish said, “You haven't heard, then.”

He looked up. “Heard what?”

“Karen died. About three months ago.”

Leo's chest squeezed tight. Doris hadn't mentioned her mother's passing. Of course, he and Doris hadn't quite had the opportunity for conversation. “Karen wouldn't have been that old. What happened, car accident? Cancer?”

Trish and George exchanged glances. “Alcohol,” George said. “Karen tried, but she never could quit the bottle. Doris did all she could to keep her mother away from the stuff, but in the end, there wasn't much anyone could do. Her liver was shot.”

An ache formed in his chest. He and Karen hadn't always seen eye to eye, but she hadn't deserved such a crappy death. Leo propped his elbows on the table and leaned his chin on an upturned palm. “Dee's not hooked, is she? She seems so ... thin. Frail, almost. You see that in longtime alcoholics.”

“That's because she doesn't eat. She's not hooked on alcohol,” Trish stated baldly. “She's hooked on being the perfect woman. Mrs. Larner, the checker at Dillard's Grocery, said Doris had a number of surgeries in order to make herself beautiful so she could hook a rich man. She's also changed her name to Dorienne Maçon.”

He felt a stirring inside his belly. Some emotion was making him feel uncomfortable. But for the life of him, he couldn't determine whether the emotion was disgust or compassion. “But why would she do that? Change herself so drastically? Go under the knife? Become someone else?”

Trish raised an eyebrow. “If you grew up in a small town with her reputation, wouldn't you do all you could to be somebody else?”

Her words hit him in the gut.

“Beer's here,” George said, interrupting his thoughts.

Leo chugged his draft down within minutes. He spent the rest of the evening talking to Trish and George, catching up on all the Quartzton news and eating his fill of ribs and garlic fries, but as he walked back to the B&B, Trish's words still rang loud in his ears.

Doris's reputation in Quartzton had indeed defined her: the redheaded slut. She'd been vilified, teased, and tormented by her peers in high school. And it had been all his fault.

For years he had yearned to find his daughter and beg her forgiveness in giving her up for adoption, to alleviate the guilt he had over failing to be there for her. But his role in what had happened to Doris in this town weighed on him just as heavily. He'd never apologized to Doris for what he'd said that day. He'd never accepted responsibility for Doris's downfall.

In the dark, he tripped over a rock in the path, wincing when pain shot up his leg. Karma, maybe. Maybe now would be a good time to own up to his gigantic mistake. His major fuck-up.

If only he hadn't chased Doris out of town.

* * * *

In Colorado, Veronica hung up the phone, threw it onto the bed next to her, and clutched a pillow to her chest, heaving wet and gulping sobs.

“It's not as though he doesn't love you,” her friend Jennifer said, crawling over the pages of homework littering the bed.

“Of c-c-course he doesn't love me!” Veronica shouted out between hitches of breath. “He wouldn't leave me here all alone for weeks and weeks if he loved me. He'd come back.”

“But ... it's only two weeks, right? They're staying an extra week, right? And you aren't totally alone. You're staying with your aunt and she's massively cool. Besides, you have me—”

“You don't get it! You just don't get it. He chose her. My stepmom. He always does what she wants. He never listens to me. He said they'd be home by this weekend so he wouldn't miss my first soccer game, but he's not. He's going to be in T-T-T-Tallahassee.” Veronica's voice pitched upward and a wave of sobs hit her. She rode them out, sniffled, then raised her head from the pillow, casting her gaze about the room searching the room for a box of tissues.

Great. Her aunt hadn't even bothered to put tissues in the guest room. If she were at home, she'd have stashes and stashes of tissue boxes all over the place. Here, she'd probably have to use toilet paper. Didn't her aunt ever cry? Or even sneeze?

“Veronica, I think maybe you're taking this a little too personally.” Jennifer bit her lip and looked away when Veronica scowled at her. “I mean, your dad and stepmom aren't ditching you forever or anything. Anna wants to see her family before the baby comes. Seems understandable.”

Veronica wiped her wet face on the pillowcase. “It's not. It's not understandable. It's always been me and my dad and then she had to come along and ruin everything.” She leaned back on the bedstead and curled into a tight ball. Jennifer patted her leg, her brow wrinkled in worry.

“You know, if Dad doesn't want me anymore, I know someone who does. Some people who do.”

“Veronica...” Jennifer said her name slowly, the wrinkle in her brow going from worried to warning. “You don't even know those people. All they did was make you, give birth to you. They aren't your parents. Your dad's your parent.”

Veronica huffed. Jennifer could be so stupidly irritating, what with her fake maturity act and all. “My dad apparently doesn't want to be my parent anymore. If he did, he'd be here. He's got a real daughter coming now. But Leo Savage wants to meet me. He's even gone to where I was born to find my birth mother. Look,” she said, sitting upright and scrambling around the bed for her phone.

“See?” she pointed to an e-mail. “He's gone to Quartzton to meet my mother. He's gonna tell her about me, about how I found them on the Internet.” She tapped the phone with a finger, staring off absently to the corner of the room. A smile played about her lips. “And you know what? I'm going, too. I'm going to surprise them and show up at Quartzton. Just think...” she gazed up dreamily at the stucco ceiling, “at how happy my mom will be to see her long-lost daughter right at her door.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eight

Dee fought off a yawn, focusing her attention on the woman at her side, who was clutching her arm with what felt like a claw as they wandered through Fergus's rose garden. Dee had arrived back at Fergus's estate late yesterday afternoon, drained of all energy from her trip to Quartzton. A six-hour round-trip drive, combined with the intense emotional response she'd had at seeing Leo again and learning her daughter was looking for her, had sucked the life from her.

Not to mention the explosive sexual experience she'd shared with Leo, she thought ruefully.

When she'd arrived, Fergus hadn't questioned her about the trip to Quartzton, but had reminded her that she'd previously arranged for a breakfast meeting with Alice Lancaster to discuss an upcoming charity event. Doris would rather have slept the entire day away, but instead had been up bright and early to greet both the dawn and a very early-rising Alice Lancaster.

Alice stopped and bent her head to breathe in the scent of a bright pink rose, heavy with early morning dew. “Darling, your idea for the fundraising event, having couples dress up as literary lovers, is an exquisite thought,” she said. “I'll have to see if my husband would enjoy being Mr. Darcy, paired with me as Elizabeth Bennett. Or maybe Emma and Mr. Knightly. I do love my Austen heroines, don't you?”

Doris's jaw tightened as she recalled when she'd played the role of Elizabeth Bennett to Fergus's Fitzwilliam Darcy only last week. If only sedate Alice knew the idea had come from Fergus's inability to fuck unless he pretended to be someone else. She fought the urge to laugh.

“I'm sure you and your husband will be a lovely Austen couple,” she said. “And I wish I could take credit, but I'm afraid Fergus was the one who put the idea in my head. He was thinking of having a costume party here sometime after our wedding and came up with the suggestion.”

“He didn't mind you usurping his idea for our charity, did he?” Alice said. Doris thought perhaps the woman had attempted to arch an eyebrow at her, but her forehead remained perfectly smooth. Botox.

With a sudden realization, it dawned on her that this would be her in a few years—a woman whose face wouldn't move. Surgically enhanced, biochemically modified. Like a Stepford wife. She grimaced. She was on her way. A far cry from who she'd once dreamed of being.

A shudder passed over her. Apparently she'd brought more back from Quartzton than gas receipts. Memories of her youthful hopes and dreams had managed to somehow attach themselves to her psyche and she couldn't seem to shake them free.

Once she'd dreamed of her and Leo getting married and living in Quartzton. She thought she'd take care of her mother, get her off the booze. They'd have another child after both of them finished college, and get and a big fluffy dog and a couple of guinea pigs. Life would be good. Simple, Quartzton style.

Then she'd lost Leo, her daughter, and her reputation all in one summer. And her friends at Quartzton High had turned on her. Everyone had. The town had shown her its pasty underbelly, and she'd fought to leave.

She brought her attention back to the woman at her side, who was staring at her expectantly. At least, Doris assumed the expression was that of expectation. It was a little difficult to assess, what with the immovable brow and cheeks. She hadn't realized until today how uneasy the expressionless faces of the women she'd been surrounding herself with her made her feel.

“No,” Doris answered. “No, Fergus didn't mind in the least. He even suggested we go as Antony and Cleopatra. I'd mentioned Buttercup and Westley from The Princess Bride, but Fergus said—”

“Oh no, far too common, my dear. Too beneath you.” Alice tossed a hand in the air, as if waving away a foul stench. “Fergus is right. Stick with the classics.”

Doris felt her face turn red and fought to refrain from snapping at the woman. She drew a breath and counted her heartbeats until the flush of anger and desire to call Alice a snobby bitch passed. This was her life now—pandering to old rich biddies who thought they could pull off playing Elizabeth Bennett. Snobs who stuck their noses up in the air at anything they deemed beneath them.

Snobs like her. She'd willingly joined their inner circle. Accepted the role of subtle snark. If she were to truly be Dorienne Maçon, she'd better damn well play the part.

“Come,” she murmured, tucking Alice's hand in the crook of her arm, “I'll take you to the library and show you Fergus's collection of first editions. I'm sure you'll be delighted in his many classics,” she said, emphasizing the word with an edge of sarcasm. Alice remained oblivious.

* * * *

Veronica backed the red Ford Taurus out of her father's garage and squinted into the early morning sun. Once in the street, she glanced both ways—not looking for oncoming traffic, but for her aunt's car. With her father and stepmother Anna visiting Anna's folks in Tallahassee, Veronica had been staying with her aunt Linda. With luck, her school hadn't yet contacted Linda to let her know Veronica had skipped out after first period.

It hadn't taken her long to ride her bike from school to her father's house, punch in the security code in the garage door, and find the spare set of keys. Nerves had shot through her when the car sputtered, but she calmed when the engine finally cranked over and purred to life.

There was no sign of Linda's yellow Prius on the street. The coast was clear. With trepidation, she gave the car a little gas. The vehicle revved, but went nowhere. Oh, yeah, the parking brake, she remembered. She pressed the thumb latch down and released the brake, startled when the car leaped forward down the road.

Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. She knew she could get in a boatload of trouble if she were caught. But her father, her real father, Leo Savage, wanted to meet her. And his last e-mail said he was going to Quartzton to find her mother, Doris Macon. He'd even given her the address: 35 Nightingale Lane, Quartzton, California. Population: 3,010.

Podunk, U.S.A., basically. A nothing town in the middle of nowhere. But a town where her parents were waiting for her, whether they knew it or not.

The onramp to the freeway lay directly ahead. Veronica revved the engine, letting the Taurus leap forward. She hit the freeway doing seventy-five, power and excitement surging through her as the car burned a line of rubber down the road.

* * * *

Later that evening, Doris stepped into her dressing room and sucked in a deep breath at the sight of the rich, ruby red velvet gown. Crap. Fergus expected her to role-play tonight. She rubbed a hand across her forehead. After yesterday with Leo, she didn't know if she could play a character. She felt raw. As if every one of her emotions had been torn out of her and exposed.

She fought against the pain edging into her chest. She had no room in her life for sentimentality, for emotions. She squared her jaw. Playing a role with Fergus would take her mind off yesterday's emotional fiasco. Tonight she'd be whatever character Fergus asked of her, and would bury Doris Macon underneath the persona of a literary lover.

She slid a hand against the velvet, fingering the soft fabric, admiring the dress Fergus had chosen. The gown laced up the bodice, which was embroidered in gold and silver thread. White handcrafted lace layers edged a crisp white chemise. A farthingale sat to the side, along with a red cap and lengths of red ribbons. Silk woven stockings and calfskin laced shoes had been placed on a cushioned stepstool.

The maid entered, looking extraordinarily different in a white shift, dusty blue petticoat, and grey corset from when Doris had seen her earlier in the day in her uniform.

“Time to dress, madam,” Tracy said, curtseying.

She knew Fergus. The costume pointed to Shakespeare, but which play? Or could they be acting out a sonnet tonight?

Tracy helped her dress, remaining silent except for the occasional direction in how to place her arms in all the bits and pieces of the costume. She spent time pulling Doris's hair back and winding ribbons in the length, then pinning up the mass. By the time Doris was fully dressed, she still hadn't picked up on any clues. Was she to guess by the dress alone?

Tracy finished dressing her and pointed downstairs, saying, “Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.”

A line from a play, not a sonnet—she recognized that, at least. Doris mentally sifted through lines she'd memorized from Shakespeare's plays. The line sounded familiar, but out of context, she was hopelessly lost. She padded quietly down the marble staircase in her calfskin slippers, uncertain of where she was to go. Fergus hadn't given her much to go on this time. At the cavernous foyer with its black and white checked marble floor, she paused, listening. The sound of classical music—Stravinsky? Prokofiev?—came drifting to her from the right: the grand hall.

She walked toward the hall, slowly becoming aware that each step brought a sense of unease. The sensation puzzled her. She'd participated in Fergus's dramatic events before, so why would she feel this way now? Fergus's playacting sex games were harmless. Odd, certainly, but harmless. He never pretended to be the Marquis de Sade, or expected her to enact The Story of O. So why the nervous tension? Why the disquietude?

Fergus stood waiting at the end of the hall when she entered. “Thy nurse dressed thee well,” he said as she walked slowly toward him.

Nurse? She'd thought Tracy had been playing the part of a servant. But if Tracy were playing the part of a nurse, then that meant—

Her stomach churned. The music swelled. She recognized the heavy violins—Prokofiev. Her mouth went dry.

Fergus stepped toward her, holding his hand out, palm up.

A shudder ran through her. No. Not this play. Not tonight. Not after...

“If I profane with my unworthiest hand,” Fergus intoned, “this holy shrine, the gentle sin is this, my lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

Her heart seemed to pull in on itself. The Comedy of Errors, The Taming of the Shrew, why couldn't Fergus have picked one of those plays? Any play but this one.

Any play but the one she'd lived.

She ground down deep in herself. To play the part of Dorienne Maçon, she first needed to play the part she'd been handed tonight. She gulped air, then spoke, reciting, “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much, which mannerly devotion shows in this: for saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, and palm to palm is holy palmer's kiss.”

Fergus placed his palm to hers and smiled at her. For the first time, Doris realized his smile never quite reached his eyes. When Leo smiled, his eyes danced. Fergus's eyes seemed dull, lifeless. Soulless.

“Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?”

“Ay, pilgrim—”

Doris shocked herself and Fergus by pulling her palm away from his and backing up a step. He arched a brow at her, questioning her move. She should have recited the rest of Juliet's line, but her knees were shaking. Fergus wasn't her Romeo.

She'd had a Romeo—Leo. And once upon a time she'd been his Juliet.

“I ... I'm sorry, Fergus. I can't,” she stuttered, dropping her hand by her side.

Fergus's jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed. “Are you not feeling well?” He seemed to struggle to stay in character.

Not feeling well? She almost laughed, hysteria building. Her legs wouldn't stop shaking and she felt like she was about to puke. “No, no I'm not.”

He gave a curt nod. “Then go back upstairs. See if Tracy wants to play the part. I'm not all that interested in performing alone.” He turned his back to her, Doris's cue to leave.

Relief flooded over her and she raced upstairs. She burst through the door to her bedroom, a cold sweat breaking out all over her body. Tracy looked up with an expression of surprise. She'd been curled up on the divan, waiting for Doris's return to help her undress. She'd likely been prepared for a long wait as a murder mystery dropped off her lap when she stood at attention.

“You okay?” Tracy asked.

Doris leaned against the door and shook her head. “I can't do it tonight. I'm ... oh, shit. I just can't. He offered the part to you if you want it.” Tracy sometimes played out roles when Doris was sick or unavailable.

Tracy yawned and stretched, like a cat waking up from a nap. “You don't mind?”

Doris snapped her head back and forth. “Get me out of these clothes and they're all yours. So is Fergus.”

Tracy tossed her book to the side and hopped up, working the laces to undo Doris's outfit. “What's the role?” she asked.

“Juliet. You're acting out Romeo and Juliet.”

“Drat,” Tracy said, shimmying Doris out of the dress. “I hate Shakespeare. I can't remember a damned thing about that play. Except that Romeo and Juliet's families hate each other. Oh,” she added, “and they die in the end. What should I say? What do I do to Fergus?”

Doris fumbled about with the tightly laced corset. “When you come in the room, hold up your hand, palm facing him, and say, ‘And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.’ That should start him off.” She could hear Tracy mumbled the line with her head underneath Doris's petticoats.

“Oh,” she added, “and after he's done fucking you, if you want him to go for round two, say something about the nightingale calling, not the lark. That's what Juliet says when morning's dawning and she doesn't want Romeo to leave.”

“How do you remember all these lines?” Tracy asked, shrugging into the chemise. They reversed roles, with Doris lacing and tying and primping the maid.

Doris didn't answer. She couldn't. Not with her throat so choked with emotion. Instead, she tugged and pulled and adjusted until Tracy was dressed in the costume, then gave the girl a quick hug.

At the door, Tracy turned back, her face soft, a question in her eyes. “Dorienne?” she asked, “don't you ever get tired of pretending?”

When she left, Doris collapsed on her bed. Good question. She could only hope she'd find the answer before it was too late.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Nine

Veronica squealed and threw herself on the king-sized bed in the luxury hotel room. Ripping off her stepmother Anna's little used AmEx card had its perks. Her quest to find her birth parents so far was smooth sailing.

Just outside of Salt Lake City, she'd pulled over at a convenience stop and changed out of her yoga sweats and hoodie into one of Anna's business suits and a pair of horribly mundane high heels. She'd twisted her hair into a boring bun at the back of her head and applied the right level of makeup to make her look sophisticated, but not slutty. The skinny hotel clerk hadn't questioned her age or anything when she handed over Anna's AmEx card and outdated driver's license. Thank God Anna's hair was a little red.

She rolled onto her back and flung her arms out wide, grinning. Tomorrow she'd finish the second leg of her journey—follow I-80 through Nevada and into California, then down some windy road. A nine-hour drive, then she'd see her parents. Her birth dad, at least. She still hadn't heard anything about her birth mother, although Leo had said he was tracking her down. His last e-mail a couple of days ago said he was in Quartzton and had heard Doris was at her old address there.

Nerves shot through her. She rolled onto her side and curled up, fetal position, arms crossed tight over her chest. Would they like her? Would they approve? She'd brought along all her old report cards showing the straight A's, even in her Advanced Placement classes, and a few of her soccer and swim team trophies. The scrapbook she'd made of the newspaper articles featuring her charity work. The list of colleges she wanted to attend.

A knock sounded at the door. Her heart leaped into her throat. She froze, holding her breath, until realization dawned. She laughed. Here she'd been panicking that her dad had somehow found her or had sent the cops out after her, but the knock had to be from room service. She'd been starving when she checked in and had placed an order for the dinner special.

She peeked through the spy hole, then opened the door to the young maid pushing a dinner cart. “On the table, please,” she said, motioning with her hand. She ran her hands down the wool skirt, smoothing out the wrinkles that had formed. Professional businesswomen probably didn't bounce around on beds in their suites.

“You hear for the convention?” the maid asked, busily setting the table with Veronica's meal. “We usually get tourists here, but I've seen a lot of you businesspeople down in the lobby checking in today. Some big convention, I guess.”

“Uh ... yes.” Veronica's voice came out high and squeaky. Not the mark of a professional, mature business woman. She cleared her throat. “Big meeting with the founders of my company tomorrow,” she lied. Well, she supposed that wasn't exactly a lie: her birth parents could be considered the founders of her life. Substitute “company” for “life” and no one could say she'd lied. Just stretched the truth a little.

And stole a car and a credit card and ran away to meet two complete strangers.

Of course, if one were to get all technical, she hadn't exactly “stolen” anything, just borrowed the car. And since Anna never examined her credit card statements, Veronica planned to find the credit card statement in the mail before Anna had a chance to see the charges. She'd send in a cashier's check from her college savings.

And since she'd be back from her trip before her dad and Anna returned from Tallahassee, no one would know she was gone. Besides, wasn't running away something you did when you left home and planned to stay away? She planned on returning home.

Hope surged through her. Unless, of course, her birth parents wanted her to stay with them in Quartzton. Then she could leave her dad and stepmom alone with their about-to-be-born baby—the one thing that consumed them more than life itself. Certainly more than her.

She pasted a bright and what she hoped was a professional smile on her face when the maid turned her way. “All set,” the maid said, gesturing toward the table. In the doorway, she turned and said, “You have a good meeting tomorrow, ma'am.”

Veronica tipped her head the way she'd seen sophisticated women on TV excuse servants. When the maid pulled the door shut behind her, Veronica collapsed back onto the bed in a fit of giggles. She'd been called “ma'am.” She'd fooled the maid into thinking she was a mature, professional woman.

How would her parents see her? she wondered. Would they think of her as sophisticated? Intelligent? Beautiful?

Or would they see the same person her dad and Anna saw: the redheaded reject?

She hugged her tummy again, suddenly wishing she wasn't alone.

* * * *

“Where the hell is my daughter, you jackass?”

Leo gripped the phone tight, listening to Veronica Coombs's father rail at him for all he was worth. It had taken Leo a few minutes to calm Justin Coombs down enough to find out what had happened. On an extended trip to visit his in-laws with Veronica's pregnant stepmother, Justin had invaded his daughter's privacy by checking her social networking page.

Rightly so, apparently.

From what Leo could untangle out of the man's furious and passionate diatribe, Veronica had stolen her father's car and her stepmother's credit card while they were in Tallahassee. She'd headed off to California and, according to the credit card company, was spending the night in Salt Lake City at an upscale hotel. On her way to Quartzton to meet her birth parents.

Him and Dee.

Leo groaned as Justin let loose with another strong of invectives. “Listen, Justin,” he interrupted, “I promise you I had nothing to do with Veronica taking off. I didn't invite her to come and meet me.”

“So why is my kid ditching school, her soccer tournament, and all her friends to meet you? What did you promise her—that you'd all be one happy family? That fourteen years after dumping her, you suddenly wanted to steal her from the one person who raised her? Who changed her diapers? Who wiped away her tears when she broke her ankle kicking the winning goal?”

Leo pinched the bridge of his nose. “No, of course not. I sent her an e-mail telling her I planned to meet with her birth mother, that's all. I made a mistake communicating with her without you involved, I'll admit.” He swiped a hand across his forehead.

He was sweating. The quaint and comfortable Victorian B&B lacked air conditioning. Or maybe the phone call from a furious Justin Coombs was generating the rolling trails of sweat that now dripped off his brow. He'd fucked up, not contacting the girl's parents when she first e-mailed him. He'd let his excitement over meeting his biological daughter override any logical considerations. Idiot. Sure, he hadn't anticipated Veronica to steal a car and run away to find him, but he still should have made it a point to speak with her parents.

“You made a mistake even contacting her at all,” Jason snapped. “She shouldn't have had any contact with her birth parents until she's more mature. Don't you know she's only fourteen?”

Leo ground his jaw shut, cutting off a cursed response. How the hell could he not know exactly how old his daughter was? He'd thought about her every day since the moment she'd been born.

Yet Justin Coombs was right. Leo hadn't been the one to cradle her when she cried, to teach her how to ride a bike. The one to teach her how to kick a soccer ball or ward off any interested boys. For all intents and purposes, Veronica was Justin Coombs's daughter, not his. Hell, until a few days ago, he hadn't even known her name.

A few deep breaths and the urge to slam the phone passed. “Mr. Coombs, all I can say is how sorry I am. I'll call her birth mother and arrange for one of us to be at the Quartzton address I gave Veronica. Unless she e-mails or calls, I don't know what else to do here. Have you called the police?”

“Of course. I called the minute I figured out her idiotic plan.”

“Can they issue an Amber Alert or something? Put out an APB on your car?”

“No.” Justin's voice was curt. “She hasn't been kidnapped. She's just run away. No Amber Alerts on runaways. And since I know where she's going, she's not exactly high priority.” Anger laced the man's voice, but it was clear to Leo that the anger covered up a parent's panic.

Leo crouched forward in his chair, shoving a hand through his hair. “If she shows up, I'll call. Then I'll wait with her here until you show up, or escort her back home myself—whatever you want me to do.”

“What I want is for you to stay the hell away from my kid. Forever.”

The phone went dead in his hand.

* * * *

“You have to come back, Dee. She needs us. Needs you. Your daughter needs you.”

Leo's harsh voice on the other end of the line slammed into Doris. She hadn't recognized the caller's number when her cell phone rang, but without thought, had answered the telephone anyway. Only to hear Leo's voice, thick with emotion, on the other end of the line.

“Dee, come back to Quartzton. She'll be here tomorrow. You need to be here when she shows up.”

Her insides quivered. The nausea that had started the second she'd heard Leo's voice increased. Five minutes ago all had been well—she'd crawled into bed early and was curled up in a tight ball, hoping for sleep.

Then her cell phone rang and the quietude of both her bedroom and her mind were shattered with Leo's simple statement: their daughter had run away from her family and was on her way to Quartzton. On her way to find them.

“I ... I can't, Leo. This isn't my issue. She has adoptive parents, a mother, a father. Let them handle this.”

A heavy sigh on the other end of the line met her statement. “She doesn't have a mother, Dee. Only a dad who remarried recently. Her dad and his new wife are expecting a baby and left her behind while they went on some extended trip.”

Doris's head went light. “What do you mean, she doesn't have a mother?” How could her daughter not have a mother? She'd been told a loving family had adopted Hope.

“According to Veronica—”

“Who?”

She could hear Leo blow out a breath, like he used to when he was frustrated. “That's our daughter's name. Veronica. Anyway, Veronica says her mother left when she was young. Her dad raised her.”

Her heart shoved its way up into her throat. Hope had no mother? “He raised her alone?”

“Yeah, from what I could gather. He was a single dad until about a year ago. He met his current wife, married her, and got her pregnant. Veronica says he forgot about her along the way. She feels alone and unloved, which is why she's running to us.”

Thought swam about in her head, churned into chaos by the incoming information. “How does she know where to go? How does she know who we are?”

“She hacked into the agency's database and found her birth certificate. I guess the agency had my current contact information and the letter I'd written her scanned into the system. She e-mailed me and ... well, I emailed back. We've been communicating for a little while.”

Doris grew more puzzled. Why would the adoption agency have Leo's contact information?

“Dee, you have to come back to Quartzton.”

Claws scratched at her belly from the inside. Return to Quartzton? Meet her daughter? Face what might have been? She couldn't. Couldn't open herself up to that pain again.

Damn Leo, for stirring up the past. Damn him for risking her future by bringing out her past for all to see. Keeping the truth from Fergus—that she'd once had a daughter—shouldn't have become so convoluted. Protecting her future shouldn't have to be so painful.

Leo interrupted her thoughts, saying, “All I'm asking is for you to be here when she shows up. Help me calm the kid until her dad gets here and can usher her back home.”

Until her father could take her back? “No...” Doris moaned. A memory of a squalling bundle of energy with carrot-colored hair wrapped tight in her arms charged through her mind. Followed by the memory of sobbing uncontrollably as she handed the baby to a waiting nurse and the clanging gates of steel that had slammed shut over her heart.

Leo expected her to meet their daughter, then turn around and hand her over again? The warm flush of emotional tension gave way as dread clutched at her, hard and tight and cold.

“I have a symphony to attend. And a charity event to host.” She worked hard to control her voice, to keep the quivers jolting her body from coming out in her voice. “I'm not coming to Quartzton to help you out of a mess you got yourself into. You shouldn't have communicated with her. You should have kept everything the way it was.”

“Goddamn you, Doris.” Leo's voice rose, growing harsher with each word. “You're just the same, aren't you? Always thinking about yourself. This kid needs us. She's reaching out to us.”

“To you,” she snapped. “She's reaching out to you.”

Leo's silence spoke louder than any words he could utter. Waves of dizziness swamped Doris and she sagged back into her pillows, the phone still held tight to her ear.

When he spoke, his voice seemed to carry the weight of the world. “Dee,” he said, “she's only fourteen. She stole her dad's car, her stepmom's credit card, and she's driving halfway across the country to find us. God knows what could happen to her on the road. The least we could do is be there when she arrives. Make sure she gets back to her family safely. You may not care, but I can't stand the thought of our baby in danger.”

The call ended, leaving Doris staring blankly at the frescoed ceiling, her gut churning with distress and indecision. What the hell was she supposed to do now?

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Ten

Doris dumped a large spoonful of Christmas Cookie nondairy creamer in a mug of steaming coffee. She rummaged around in the silverware drawer, located a plastic spoon, and stirred the coffee until the last of the powdered creamer disappeared. The scent of gingerbread wafted over her. She set the too-hot mug down on the countertop and looked around Karen's kitchen. She should have been back ages ago to clear out Karen's stuff from the house. She'd used Fergus as an excuse, she knew. But coming back home held few fond memories.

She rolled up the sleeves of her white cotton blouse and placed her elbows on the cracked Formica counter. She leaned forward, staring out the kitchen window into the back yard, and took a sip of coffee. A smile stole over her face. No wonder Karen had stocked up on the stuff. It probably was filled with all sorts of preservatives and laden with fat, but the scent and taste were ... well, like a Christmas cookie all wrapped up in coffee.

The hell with counting calories. She needed comfort food.

Or, comfort coffee, as it were. There was little food in the house. Doris had rummaged about, but all she'd found were a few granola bars on the far side of their expiration date that she'd tossed in the garbage. So much for breakfast.

She stretched, then tucked the blouse back neatly under the waistband of her floral-patterned cotton skirt. A yawn drew her attention to her sleepless night. After Leo's call yesterday evening, she'd surprised herself by getting out of bed, dressing, and packing a few items. After scribbling Fergus a note, she'd driven the three hours to Quartzton.

Arriving a little after midnight and with adrenaline still pumping in her veins, she'd set about cleaning the place, finally calling it quits around three in the morning. She'd slept on her bed, under the same quilt on which she and Leo her had made love less than seventy-two hours earlier. The same quilt they'd made love on and under all those years ago, too.

The memories of their lovemaking continued to haunt her. The way she'd released herself with Leo was astounding. Sex with Leo when she'd been a teenager had been exquisite, but nowhere near profound as what she'd experienced with him the day before. The orgasm he'd given her had sent her flying into space. Not even battery-operated toys could bring her to that level of heaven.

She supposed she could attribute some of the intensity of their recent sexual encounter to the fact that they were now both grown adults instead of clumsy, fumbling adolescents. Experience could count for some of the intensity of the experience, but she wasn't foolish enough to attribute experience to the entirety of the encounter.

No, there had been something more. Something she'd never experienced in her other sexual adventures.

Funny, but as much as Quartzton thought of her as a slut, she'd had sex with only a handful of men. Mentally, she ticked them off, tapping the counter with a fingertip. Leo; a couple of college boyfriends; her first husband; her friend Wyatt, who—at least until he went and got himself engaged—could always be counted on for a good roll in the hay. And Fergus.

In high school, when the rumors had first started flying, she'd tried to stick up for herself, tried to tell people she had only slept with Leo. No one had believed her. Especially when half the football team claimed to have “bagged” her. That bunch of ego-laden boys hadn't had the balls enough to admit they were still virgins and instead, each claimed they'd banged Doris Macon. That Doris Macon would pull her panties down at the drop of a hat. That she'd go down on her knees for drugs or alcohol, or just because.

Once labeled, breaking free had been impossible. She'd been placed in the slut box. It didn't matter that she'd gotten straight A's, hadn't drunk alcohol, had never done drugs, and had worked at the library on the weekends all through high school. People saw what they'd been told to see.

And they'd been told that Doris Macon was a no-good whore. A slut.

Outside, a doe stepped out of the brush that lined the back of the yard, drawing Doris's attention away from her past shame. The doe held still, casting her gaze from side to side. Satisfied with the lack of danger, she flicked her tail and wandered further into the yard, dropping her head to graze at the few tufts of green grass that remained from the dry summer. Behind her, with over-large ears swiveling on its head, keenly aware of its surroundings, stepped a speckled fawn.

Doris smiled, her heart warmed by the sight. Deer rarely showed up in town. But 35 Nightingale Lane backed up to the creek bed, so sometimes she and Karen had been able to see wildlife in the back yard. The deer typically kept to the wilderness outside of town. This year, however, was the fourth year of a drought. Doris had noticed how dry the forest appeared both times she'd come into town.

The fawn jumped, most likely frightened by a noise. His mother raised her head, ears swiveling to the right and left. As one, both deer turned and bounded out of the yard and back into the woods.

Doris was engulfed by a wave of emotion. For the life of her, she couldn't figure out the emotion behind the hollow sensation in her chest. Pain of some sort. An uncomfortable, disconcerting feeling. She wished she had someone she could really talk to. Even Karen had been there for a while, before the bottle had become everything to her mother. Tears threatened behind her eyes. God, she was so damned alone now. So friggin’ lonely.

Realization dawned. Loneliness—that was it. Tough, strong, independent Doris Macon was lonely.

She gave a sharp, brittle laugh. No wonder she hadn't recognized the feeling—she'd always been alone. Even with Fergus she remained alone. She needed him not for emotional, sentimental reasons, but because he could give her what she lacked and needed the most: a good reputation.

Doris sifted through her memories. The last time she could remember feeling this sharp stab of loneliness was the day her daughter was born. Learning that Leo wouldn't come, then realizing she had to let her daughter go, had ripped her open, left her raw. With Leo, she'd felt loved, wanted, needed. Part of something.

Her parents certainly hadn't given her any reason to feel part of anything, much less a family. The summer when she was seven, her father hooked up with a carnival worker at the summer fair and left to be a carnie, grabbing tickets from kids and shoving them onto rides that made them puke. Doris never heard from him after that.

She grimaced. She hated her dad for that, for making her life a damned cliche. She never talked about it, because it sounded so ludicrous. She'd never ridden on another carnival ride again.

And Karen—Doris swiped her brow. Karen was another story altogether. She never got over Doris's father leaving them. She had turned to alcohol as a means of escape. But in running away from the pain, she'd also run away from her daughter. Doris had a roof over her head, yes, and food on the table, but had ended up raising herself.

Making mistake after mistake along the way. Like getting knocked up in high school.

The sensation swept through over her again, like wisps of cold vapor. Loneliness. She pursed her lips, wondering what could have triggered the reaction. Then she knew. Hope. No, Veronica. Her daughter had been renamed Veronica.

Fear gripped her in its icy claws. She gagged, then set the coffee mug down on the counter. She would see her daughter today. If Veronica did what her father and Leo thought she'd do—drive to Quartzton from Salt Lake City—she'd be here this afternoon. And Doris would have to face her past.

She dumped the rest of the now too-sweet coffee down the drain and rinsed the mug, setting it on the rubber-coated dish drainer. She picked up her keychain off the kitchen table, and with heavy limbs and a heavier heart, stumbled out of the kitchen.

She wanted to leave. Wanted to walk out the door, get in her car and drive away. But instead, she headed up the stairs to the attic, one step at a time, the key to a deadbolt in her hand. Time to face her past, whether she wanted to or not.

* * * *

Leo strode quickly from the B&B to 35 Nightingale Lane, following the pathway along the creek. Robins chattered overhead, out to find their breakfast. Veronica's father had called earlier to let Leo know his wife's credit card had been used at a few gas stations on I-80 in Colorado, Utah, and Nevada, and at a hotel in Salt Lake City last night. Veronica was on her way to Quartzton—to 35 Nightingale Lane, to be precise—and Leo intended to be there when she arrived. She'd probably show up much later in the afternoon, but he wanted to make Doris's old home as welcoming for the teenager as he could. Since Doris refused to come, he supposed it wouldn't matter if he broke in to wait for the girl.

It still got to him that Doris wouldn't have anything to do with their daughter, the child they'd once conceived out of love. Doris had made the choice to get rid of the baby, but that had been years ago. Surely now that they were grown adults, no longer teenagers scared out of their wits, things could change.

He jumped over the creek, griping when the heel of his boot dipped in the water. The mud sucked at it, then released. The way he wished his mind would release the ghosts of the past.

He swung low to avoid a branch, then tore off a leaf, crunching the brown vegetation in the palm of his hand. He recognized signs of a pervasive drought: dead pine needle bunches on the trees, brown instead of green leaves on the underbrush, green grass only along the edges of the wide but slow-moving creek. Tinder for forest fires.

Fires in these parts could be intense and often deadly, Leo knew from experience. Forest fires around Quartzton had given him an early training, one he'd fallen back on after college. He'd volunteered during high school as part of a Teen Fire Corps, assisting the wildland firefighters with their efforts during firestorms that clawed their way through massive amounts of vegetation, charring trees, destroying homes. Costing lives.

But working with the men and women who risked their lives on a daily basis to combat the flames had engendered in him a drive to fight fires. It was a drive that had consumed the last ten years of his life. He'd hopped from wildfire to wildfire, never turning down an opportunity to fight the flames.

Until now. Until Veronica's e-mail. Three wildland fires burned along the western U.S., one at the Okanogan National Forest in Washington, another in the foothills outside Sacramento, and a smaller fire in the El Dorado National Forest, about thirty miles from Quartzton. He'd been stationed at the larger blaze in Washington, but he'd left the job anyway. His fire crew would have to do without him. He had a daughter to find.

The trail ended a block from Doris's house; the town pathway gave way to dense underbrush and blackberry bushes. He left the path and made his way to the sidewalk. Turning the corner, he was surprised to see Doris's big Mercedes parked in front of the house.

She'd come.

His heart did a funny lurching thing, revving up his pulse. Doris had washed her hands clean of Veronica. So why'd she come back? Why had she decided to meet their child?

More importantly, why did he care? Why did he feel like he used to in high school when he would sneak over to Doris's house at night, climb up the oak tree, and crawl through the window? He shook his head, as if trying to shake the memories out. Sex with Doris the other day had apparently stirred up thoughts that should have stayed below the surface.

As he neared Doris's house, his stride increased in length and speed and he had to resist the urge to bound up the front porch stairs. He wiped his sweaty palms against his jeans, then knocked.

The door swung open with an eerie creak. He stood there for a moment, fist raised in the air, cocked to knock again. “Dee?” he called out.

Silence.

He pushed the door open further and took a step inside. “Dee? You in here? It's Leo.”

He cocked his head, listening to signs of life. The house stood silent but he caught the faint scent of freshly brewed coffee. He strode in to find an empty downstairs. Upstairs, both Doris's and Karen's rooms showed no signs of life, although a wet toothbrush sat on the chipped enamel sink in the bathroom, along with a damp towel. She'd arrived the night before, then. His brow softened. She had most likely taken off for Quartzton right after he'd called her. Perhaps Doris cared more than she let on.

Leo cranked open the bathroom window and stuck his head out, looking in the back yard, but still saw no sign of Doris. Where the hell was she? With him hollering her name and clomping about her house, she surely would have answered by now, even if it was to tell him to shut up and get the hell out.

Unless she'd conked her head on something and was lying somewhere unconscious.

Fear edged its way into his consciousness, which pissed him off. He didn't want to be worried for Doris. He didn't want to be excited to see her, didn't want to get turned on at the memory of her, didn't want to care. She'd caused enough pain in his life. She didn't deserve his concern.

He swore, jogged up the cramped stairwell to the attic, and pushed open the door. A quick scan told him Doris wasn't in the empty space. Footprints in the dust showed that she'd been in the attic, though, and recently. The door to a closet in the corner hung partially open. Leo stepped with care on the creaking floorboards and tugged the door open. He found a grungy string and tugged, turning on a bare light bulb overhead.

At first he didn't understand what he was looking at. An antique cradle with a baby blanket and one of those pink caps newborns wear sat in the middle of the closet. A tiny hospital bracelet lay on top. Pictures torn out of magazines of different girls, ranging in age from infants to toddlers, pre-teens to teens, were plastered all over the walls. The word “HOPE” was stenciled, painted, and drawn on the walls between the pictures.

And pictures of him. Photos of Doris and him as babies. Photos of Doris and him on the swings, the teeter totter, in the sandbox. A photo of them as adolescents, holding hands and grinning. “Your Mom and Dad” were penciled in above each photo.

There were more: photos of him in high school with his jock buddies. Newspaper clippings of his high school and college football games. And a clipping of an article on wildland firefighters by a Montana newspaper in which he'd been extensively quoted. That article had been written a little over two years ago. The word “Daddy” had been traced over each photo and clipping.

His heart pounded in like a pneumatic drill in his chest and his mind went numb. For a while he simply stood there, absorbing what he was seeing.

Doris was far from the uncaring, cold bitch she had made herself out to be. She'd had him and the rest of the town fooled with the careless attitude she'd adopted after they'd broken up. The same attitude she'd shoved in his face when he asked her for help with Veronica.

She cared. She'd always cared. This collection proved it.

Realization slapped him hard: Doris had more than cared—she'd been living with a broken heart over the loss of her child for the last fourteen years.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eleven

Doris lay on her back, the meadow grass soft underneath her head, and watched the beautiful billows of white puffy clouds ease their way across the sky. If only she could climb a magical staircase and jump aboard, sail away to a place where her past didn't exist. If only magic really did exist and wishes could come true.

If only she had the strength to make it through the day.

A shuddering, hiccupy sigh charged into her chest. Tears formed and her nose threatened to run. Enough. She'd had enough crying in her lifetime, and especially over the last hour. She had no clue what she was thinking when she'd gone up into the attic and unlocked that padlock.

She let out a sharp laugh. That's the point: she wasn't thinking.

Bad enough that she would be facing her baby—the girl, she mentally corrected myself—later on today, but did she have to rub her own face in all the old pain? Feel all over again the fear and misery and defeat of losing Leo and her baby?

A crackling sound in the woods brought her upright. The mother deer and her fawn? Certainly no human knew their way to her secret hidey-hole. As the creek made a sudden turn in its path, a small inlet had formed with a little pond and an adjacent meadow, all hidden and blocked by berry bushes on almost all sides.

While out hunting for frogs one summer evening when she and Leo were kids, they'd found a narrow pathway, probably made by deer, to the hidden meadow. They'd named it The Magic Meadow and would play for hours, chasing frogs, catching minnows, and making wishes. One summer, they'd even built a fort out of surplus lumber from a nearby abandoned construction site. The fort, nothing more than a lean-to, had collapsed under a three-foot load of snow several winters later. They'd mourned its loss, vowing to repair the fort the following summer.

But when summer came again, they rarely came out to the meadow. They had other things besides meadows to explore: namely, each other's bodies.

A large “crack” sounded, then another. Followed by a loudly uttered, “Shit.”

Leo.

Doris covered her face with her hands. So much for having a good crying jag alone in a peaceful meadow. No sense in trying to run or hide. Leo was bulldozing his way along the only exit route. “Damn, Leo, make a little more racket, why don't you? They can't hear you over in the next county,” Doris called out. Her voice sounded hoarse and choked with emotion.

“You have such a wonderful way of greeting me. So warm and sunny.” Leo stumbled through the overgrown woods and into the sunlit meadow. She wanted to laugh when he tripped on a rock, but found her breath had been taken away by the sight of him.

In a royal blue button-down Oxford shirt, faded 501 Levis, and with his tousled dark brown hair, no matter how the man had treated her, he still turned her on. And made her heart ache.

“We need to talk.” Leo bent to dust leaves off his jeans. His hair, thick and full, fell in a curled wave over his forehead when he stood up, making him look like a comic book Superman. With his bulging biceps, narrow hips, and muscled thighs, he could easily have played the role. She couldn't help it—she giggled.

Leo lifted his head up at the sound and grinned at her. At the sight of his green eyes and broad grin, Doris's mind snapped back to attention. He wasn't wanted. Not by her, not here, not now. “What is this, role reversal?” she said, snorting. “Isn't the woman the one who begs the guy to talk, not the other way around?”

He shot her a look. “Stop avoiding the subject. We need to talk and you're deliberately twisting the conversation.”

“Bite me.” She laid back down on the meadow, clenching the soft grass between tight fingers.

Leo crossed the meadow to sit by her, his hip nudging her own.

“Time to listen, then,” he said.

Doris rolled over onto her stomach, cradling her head in her arms folded under her. Hiding her tears. Damned things kept dripping. “Seriously, go away, Leo.” He sat silent and she watched an ant carry a stick three times its length over a blade of grass. Still he waited.

Curiosity got the best of her. “How did you know I was here?”

“I went by the house,” he said. “I was worried when the door swung open, so I went on a hunt. Your car was in the driveway and the house wasn't locked. When it was clear you weren't in the house, I figured you'd either walked to the grocery store, or had ended up here. I gambled on you running to our Magic Meadow.”

“Why'd you bother to come out here? Oh yeah, that's right—to get me to talk.” She tried scoffing but the words came out shaky.

“No. I was worried about you.”

Her throat clogged. “Right. Like I believe that. The last time you worried about me was when we were teenagers, humping in my bedroom, and you didn't want my mom to catch us.”

Leo didn't respond. Her throat felt too tight, like she couldn't get enough air. She coughed, then spoke again, saying, “But given what you later revealed about how you thought of me, it's highly unlikely you were worried about me then, either. You just didn't want to get caught because you'd get grounded and lose your place on the football team.”

She could feel Leo roll to his side to face her. She ignored him.

“The last time I worried about you,” he said with a voice low and paced, “was a few minutes ago when I thought you might have injured yourself. I hauled ass turning your house upside down looking for you.”

Doris couldn't help it—she peeked at him. He'd worried about her?

A crooked smile formed on his face. He stroked a strand of hair behind her ear and blew out a long breath before speaking again. “Before that, the last time I worried about you was when you took off that summer you were pregnant. I spent an entire week being eaten up inside, not knowing where you'd gone, or even why. I was worried beyond sick.”

Doris raised her head off her arms and gave it a little shake. “What do you mean, when I took off? You knew I was spending the rest of my pregnancy at my aunt's in Sacramento.”

His lips pulled together, pursed. He seemed intent on her ear, stroking the hair behind it, tracing the folds with a finger. He said, quietly, “I think something happened years ago. Something neither of us knew about.”

“What do you mean?” she said. She edged up onto her elbows.

Leo looked her in the eyes then. “Dee, I never knew where you went. The last time I saw you was the day before summer vacation, at school. Then you were gone and I had no clue where.”

She straightened up, her spine going rigid. “But I told you. I wrote a note I left with my mom to give to you, explaining everything. Besides, my mom said you'd left for that stupid job with your uncle, anyway.”

Leo swore, twisting away. Her gut twisted. Something wasn't right.

“Why did you decide to stay in Sacramento that summer?” Leo's jaw clenched tight enough to break rocks between his teeth. His gaze wouldn't connect with hers.

“I went to Sacramento to spend the week with my cousin. I was pouting, because you'd ditched me to go earn money. But then after everything changed between us and I was alone, Karen thought it would be best if I kept hiding the pregnancy from everyone in Quartzton. She said it would be easier for me to return with the baby instead of living through having everyone laugh at me while I was pregnant.”

“That doesn't make sense,” he said. “We'd agreed on facing anyone who said anything bad about us together. But you left anyway.”

“Wait a minute,” she huffed. “Don't go blaming this on me. You were the one who took off for that weeklong job at your uncle's farm without even telling me. You're the one who dumped me to go out with Becky Slattery. So don't be pissed at me.”

Leo plucked a grass stem from the earth and twirled it in his fingers, then stuck it in his mouth. Like he used to when he was a kid. Her heart made a fluttering motion underneath her ribs.

He sucked in a deep breath, then said, “I'm not pissed at you, Dee. I'm pissed at your mom.” Leo looked at her then, his eyes a hazy blue, shadowed by something indefinable.

“Why? I mean, I have loads of reasons to be pissed at Karen—deadbeat boyfriends, smoldering cigarette butts all over the house, dumping me with relatives every time she went on a bender—but what's your beef with her?”

“She lied. She lied to you and she lied to me.”

No. Doris reeled back. Karen could be a lot of things—a bad mother and poor role model figured in the forefront—but she didn't lie. She couldn't have. Not about Leo and the baby.

“She lied?” Doris asked, her voice small.

Leo's face tightened, a pulse throbbed along the vein in his neck. “There was no job at my uncle's. I didn't blow you off to go earn money. I never went out with Becky Slattery. And I certainly wasn't the one who ended our relationship.”

Doris clapped her hands over her ears. She didn't want to hear what Leo was saying. Didn't want to know what her mother had done. To her. To Leo.

To their baby.

“But when I called my friends,” she said, her voice shaky, “they all said you were going out with Becky. That you'd hooked up with her at some party. I didn't believe them, but when I asked Karen, she said she hadn't wanted to tell me but the rumor was true. You took up with Becky and never even gave me the decency of dumping me in person.” She felt a sob begin to build. Not now. She could not lose control now.

“I know there were rumors out there about me and Becky, but I loved you. None of the rumors were true. I wanted to be with you. But Karen said—” He stopped speaking and blew out a breath.

“Said what?” Doris asked, dully, the familiar hollow ache forming in her chest. She'd lived with that ache since the day her mom confirmed her boyfriend had moved on. That he no longer wanted her. That he'd snagged the head cheerleader—the banker's daughter—the town princess.

Leo cupped her chin in the palm of his hand and lifted her face upward until she looked him in the eye. “Karen lied to us. She set all this up. She told you I'd blown you off, let you think I was dating Becky. And she told me you'd gone to Sacramento because you wanted to break up but couldn't face me.”

She couldn't stop the tears. They came pouring out of her eyes, making cold tracks down her cheeks. Karen had lied. Her own mother had lied to her. And not some small, insignificant lie, but one as big as the universe. “But ... when did she tell you this? Why did she tell you?”

Leo slid his fingers into her hair and ran his thumb along her jaw line. A shiver crawled up her spine. Her body shifted, angling toward him, like a sunflower tracking the path of the sun.

“I went to your house at night the way I always did. It was empty. Karen's car was gone, the lights were out. I left a note on the door, then came back the next morning. Still no Karen, and no you. For a week your house was empty and I was going ballistic. Then Karen showed up, drunk. She'd probably been on a binge. She told me that lie about you wanting to break up with me.”

“You believed her. After all we'd been through, you chose to believe Karen.” She looked away, then back at Leo. “Of course you did. I believed her too.”

Leo nodded, his gaze flicking over her face, as if he were memorizing her features. “Yes, and I'll never forgive myself. I didn't want us broken up—I loved you. You were my best friend and my soul mate. And I listened to your mom and lost everything.”

He'd loved her. He hadn't wanted to let her go. A wave of emotion slammed into her. She couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.

“Oh—” A soft sob escaped her mouth, then another and another, until she found herself with her head buried in Leo's warm chest, sobbing like there was no tomorrow. “Y-y-y-you loved me.” She bawled into his shirt.

His arms wrapped around her shoulders, pulling her tight. “Yeah, I loved you.”

“I loved you too.”

He chuckled, the sound warm and welcoming. The sound washed over her like a gentle, lapping wave, then she felt his lips caressing her forehead, warm and soft. He trailed kisses down her cheek. When his mouth reached hers, he hesitated, as if allowing her to take the next step forward.

Her body trembled, her bones turning to liquid. She yearned to melt her mouth to his. But if she did, if she so much as brushed her lips against Leo's, everything would change.

The sex they'd had the other day had been triggered by her need for power and revenge and fueled by the sexual attraction of two people starving for one another's bodies. Hot, heavy, hard. Sex they could both walk away from. But if they came together now, would they be able to walk away? Would she be able to say goodbye to the only man she'd ever loved?

* * * *

Leo forced himself to keep from kissing Doris, although the need and desire to capture her lips with his and entwine his tongue with hers nearly overwhelmed him. He needed Doris to come to him. She had to make the decision to step forward or pull back.

His pulse raced, triggered in part by his body's sexual attraction to Doris and in part by the adrenaline that shot through his veins when he'd realized what Karen had done.

She'd broken them up. Made him lose his best friend and the mother of his child.

Made him hate Dee.

At least until Doris had gone down on him a couple of days ago. Somehow that attempt to gain power over him, both pitiful and courageous at the same time, had touched him, made him melt a little. The hatred he'd had for Doris after she'd given up their child, that resentment and anger that he'd held onto so tightly for so many years had begun to slowly seep away.

Doris turned her head slightly, merging her exhales with his. He counted breaths in an attempt to slow his body's accelerating heartbeat. “You're so beautiful,” he whispered, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. She remained still, much to his disappointment. He'd give her another few seconds to kiss him and then he would concede defeat. He'd pull away, stand up, and head back to the house to wait the few hours until Veronica showed up. Doris could follow him or stay out in their hidden meadow. He wouldn't push her.

Doris shifted, bringing her mouth closer to his. His cock responded, pressing against the buttons of his fly, making its presence known. To him, at any rate. Seated cross-legged and facing him, Doris probably couldn't see the bulge she'd caused in his pants. But she had to know he was turned on. Wanting her. Waiting for her.

Doris inhaled and held her breath for what seemed to be an eternity, then placed her lips on his.

Need punched him in the stomach. He wanted to rip her blouse off, hike her skirt up, tear off her panties and plow into her. Squeeze her ass cheeks with his hands. Suck her breasts until she came. Hold her to him and never let her go.

Instead, he followed her lead, gently kissing her, lightly skimming his hands over her arms, his thumbs only barely touching the sides of her breasts.

He slanted his head slightly and flicked the tip of his tongue against hers. Asking, questioning, but not pushing. Doris moaned and opened her mouth to his. He fought the urge to take her mouth hard, to plunge his tongue into her mouth. Instead, he explored and tasted, slowly and gently. He slid one hand around her back, then up underneath her blouse, enthralled with the silky sensation of her skin under his fingertips. He spread his hands wide, letting his thumbs sneak forward to brush the undersides of her breasts. Doris moaned.

He opened his eyes at the sound, taking in the sight of them, limbs entwined, panting, rolling around in a meadow. He pulled his mouth from hers, a chuckle breaking loose.

“What's so funny?” she asked, burying her mouth against his neck.

“We're making out.”

“Isn't this called foreplay?” Doris kissed his neck, tonguing the hollow of his throat.

“Um...” He fought to concentrate. God, but did her tongue ever feel good. “Foreplay is when you know you're about to have sex. Making out is when you hope to have sex.”

She licked him again, her tongue hot on his skin. He shuddered. “And you're hoping we'll have sex?” she asked.

“Oh yeah. Hoping big time.” He nuzzled her neck, breathing in the familiar scent of freesias and lilies. Doris laughed, a rush of breath against his chest.

“We are in the Magical Meadow, you know. Where hopes and dreams can come true. If you wish hard enough,” she said.

Still in make-out mode, he palmed her breasts under her shirt, then fiddled with the front fastener. “I seem to recall both of us wishing we'd get mountain bikes from Santa one year.” The catch to her bra released and the warm globes fell into his hands.

Doris let out a sharp gasp. Her hands roved, coming to a stop at his chest. “I remember you were the one who got a mountain bike with a big red bow under your Christmas tree. I didn't.” Her fingers plucked at the buttons of his shirt. His pectorals flexed.

He squeezed her breasts, rasping the pads of his thumbs over her hard nipples. Except when she'd been pregnant, he could remember Doris's chest staying flat as a pancake all throughout high school, so her breasts had to have been enhanced by silicone and surgery. He didn't mind. Doris was Doris, augmented or not.

“And I rubbed that fact in your face, claiming I'd wished harder than you.” He pulled his hands away from her breasts to unbutton her shirt, then bent his head to taste her nipple, pleased with Doris's moan of pleasure. “I'm sorry your wish didn't come true,” he murmured, switching his mouth to her other breast. He licked and sucked, but held back from tasting his fill.

“None of them came true.”

He raised his head to look at her. “None?” he teased. “Not one?”

Doris looked off into the distance. “I kept track. Not one of my wishes came true. Well,” she hastily amended, “sometimes they'd come true, but they wouldn't last. Like I'd wish my mom would stop drinking. She would, at least for while, then the binges would start again.”

He let his hands fall to his lap. “And me. You'd wished for me to fall in love with you and I did, but then...” He couldn't finish his sentence. Anger shot through him, anger triggered by the memory of Karen, drunk and smoking a cigarette, lying her face off, telling him Doris didn't want him anymore. Anger at his own actions: the coward he'd been after he thought Doris didn't want him anymore. What'd he'd done to her.

“Hell, Dee,” he said, his voice harsh, “you didn't deserve what happened. You didn't deserve Karen lying to you, or me not fighting for you. Or what I said in class on the first day of school, after you'd had the baby. What I called you. What I did to you.”

Her eyes went dark. “Don't—don't say it. Don't remind me of what you said. Of what happened after. I don't want to remember. Oh God, I don't want to remember. I just want to forget.” Doris grasped his wrists and pressed his palms to her breasts. She kissed him, plunging her tongue deep into his mouth, then sent her hands southward to palm his crotch.

Reality faded, headed toward nothingness, as the taste, scent, and feel of her overwhelmed his consciousness. He could take her, now. Wanted to take her. To fit their bodies together. Mate.

But the memory of his actions flashed back in his mind. “Dee,” he ground out, pulling his hands off her breasts. He tried to still hers, but she pushed them away and reached for the button fly of his jeans. “I was young and so very stupid, and so very hurt. I ached when I saw you there in class, having given birth to our daughter not even a week before. You were laughing and having fun, like you didn't even care, so I lashed out, and in the worst way possible. You have to know how deeply—”

“Leo, stop.” Doris seemed to choke on the words. Her eyes squeezed shut. He watched as she struggled to regain composure. Her eyes popped open and she flashed him a bright but trembling grin. “Just ... just don't say the words. Forget what happened. It's all in the past, anyway.” Her voice lightened. She'd forced an air of joviality into her tone. “Besides, I think we've moved on from the make-out session and are now in full foreplay,” she added breezily.

Her light tone didn't fool him, however. He knew what pain he'd caused her, knew how his one callous statement made in anger had significantly altered her life in Quartzton. After that summer Doris went to live in Sacramento, she'd returned to Quartzton without the baby. No one besides him, his parents, and Karen had ever known she was pregnant. But on the first day of school, he'd walked into his Advanced Algebra class to see Doris sitting at her desk, surrounded by friends, chatting and giggling. As if she hadn't a care in the world. As if she hadn't broken his heart and given away his baby. And he'd snapped.

In front of the entire class, bragging, he announced Doris had been pregnant and he'd been the one who knocked her up. When she looked at him with that horrible, horrified expression on her face, he made things even worse. He'd sneered and said loudly, intending for all to hear his proclamation, “Doris Macon's the town slut.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twelve

Dry leaves rustled overhead, the sound pulling Doris's mind back from the edge of a dark abyss. She couldn't go there—to that day when her life ended. The day when Leo had broken her heart again by rejecting her with such finality. He'd created a reputation for her she hadn't deserved.

She'd died a little that moment, and had been reborn in the image Leo created for her: town slut. At Leo's words, all thirty kids in her algebra class had turned to stare at her, judging her. Rejecting her. Her friends eased themselves off her desk and found their own seats, turning their backs on her after class. When the school bell rang at the end of the day, the word “Whore” had been written in Magic Marker across her locker.

Everything changed after that day. She'd been shunned from her popular social clique, ignored by her tennis and swim teammates. She'd dropped out of all extracurricular activities and had taken to ditching school. Her friends became the other students who inevitably ended up with her in detention—an eclectic mix of rebel Goths, stoners, and juvenile delinquents, joined together by the common denominator of having been rejected by their peers.

“Dee—”

She covered Leo's mouth with her own, kissing away the words he'd been about to utter. She didn't want to hear an apology she couldn't accept. He'd loved her once, and that was all that mattered.

She broke the kiss, brushing his unbuttoned shirt open with her hands, exposing his muscled chest. His body had changed significantly since she'd last touched him. Grown. Matured. A smile wove its way across her face. Her youthful Leo had grown into quite the man. And she craved him.

She traced the lines of his pectorals, then his abs and obliques. Forget about six-pack: this man was ripped. She let her fingers trail lower to spread Leo's fly wide open. When her fingers grazed the side of his erect penis, he sucked in a breath. Her grin grew broader.

“We passed first base a long time ago,” she said, stroking his length again. At the silky sensation, her vagina clenched, pulsed. She stroked again, this time with the flat of her fingers along the full length, her heart thudding heavily in her chest. It had been a long time since she'd made out with a man. Or even had foreplay. Unless foreplay fit into Fergus's fantasies, he usually wanted to get right down to fucking. Holding her desires under a tight rein felt fantastically good.

“And rounded second base when I touched your boobs,” Leo said and chuckled. He brushed her blouse off her shoulders, down her arms, along with the bra straps, until her breasts were bared to the morning sun. He leaned forward and licked a nipple.

“I think we're officially at third base now,” she said, moaning softly when he flattened his tongue over the light brown bud.

He raised his head up and caught her eye. “But we're not naked yet.”

Her body wouldn't hold her up any longer. She drooped, limp like a wilted tulip, in his arms. “I...” Thinking was becoming more difficult the longer Leo licked her breasts. “I thought being naked was fourth base.”

Leo laid her down on the grass, following her body with his. The sensation of his skin on hers flooded her body with sharp tingles. His warm chuckle spread through her like honey. “Technically,” he said, working his hands between their bodies to unzip her pants, “getting a girl naked is third base. Being naked is—”

“Oh, God, stop talking baseball and undress me.” She laughed huskily.

Leo obliged.

She hiked up her hips, allowing him to strip her of her jeans and pink lace panties, then watched in wonder as he kicked off his shoes and shucked his own jeans. Tension tightened in her. Anticipation and need built. Naked, he hovered over her until she wound an arm around his neck and pulled his body to hers.

His touch, when it came, wasn't the same frenzied, lust-filled scramble of a few days ago. Instead, Leo stroked, probed, licked, and explored with gentle fingers and a sense of reverence. As if he were honoring her body, basking in her presence.

The soft, sweeping brush of his hair on her belly when he lowered his head made her shudder. The press of his palms against her inner thighs, encouraging her to spread herself wide for him, made her quake. When he spread the lips surrounding her clitoris wide with his fingers and simply stared, she nearly came undone.

“You're beautiful, Dee. All of your body is beautiful. I love looking at you, even here. Always have.” He ran a light finger over her clitoris, then lower, dipping his finger into her wet and waiting chasm. Every nerve ending in her body fired in rapid release. Her hips rocked upward, seeking more. Her hands, trembling, sought out Leo on their own accord.

A rustling in the underbrush told her they were not alone. But the forest animals wouldn't be bothered by two humans mating in the meadow, one of whom had her legs spread wide and her vagina fully exposed for her lover to see.

“You feel beautiful, too. Soft and silky, like running my finger through butter.” He pressed two fingers inside, then pulled them out, repeating the process with a slow, undulating rhythm. She closed her eyes and tossed her head from side to side. The ache building inside had reached its zenith.

“Do you know what I'm talking about? Do you know how you feel inside, all wet and slippery and warm and inviting? Do you touch yourself, Dee?”

“No,” she moaned, scrabbling at his shoulders.

He pinched her clitoris, lightly, tantalizingly lightly. She bucked. “How do you get yourself off then? Vibrator?”

She moaned, and bit her lip. Leo couldn't possibly be thinking about having a conversation over battery-operated self-pleasure right now. Not when she ached for his touch, craved his mouth on her body. On her clit.

“Or do you use a dildo?”

“Vibrator,” she choked out.

He worked a third finger into her hole, stretching her wide, pressing deep, shifting her body upward with each thrust. “You're missing something by using a device. You should feel your body. Get your fingers as dripping wet as mine are right now. Finger-fuck yourself.” He thumbed her clit. “You have no idea how good this feels, Dee.”

“God, yes, yes, I do know how good it feels.” She reached down and clasped his wrist in her hands, pressing his fingers deeper into her.

He chuckled. “From the inside. I'm talking about from the outside.”

Enough. She'd had enough. Too much talking. Not enough lovemaking. “Please, Leo,” she managed to say, “please make love to me.” He gave a chuckle low in his throat. He dipped his head to lick her folds and tongue her clit, sending her nerves into overdrive.

“I remember this taste.” Leo lapped at her like a lion at a savannah oasis. He drew in a deep breath through his nostrils. “You even smell the same. Musky, earthy, a little sweet. Holy crap—”

He interrupted himself to drag his hand out of her vagina and clenched a tight fist around his cock. “I could come just by looking at you. Smelling you. Tasting you.”

Warmth surged through her veins. Arousal, combined with a sense of power. Not power over Leo, like the kind she'd sought a few days ago, but the simple power of being a woman. The power of being able to elicit such a primal response from a man.

Leo adjusted his weight and moved over her, propped up by his forearms on either side of her shoulders. His cock nudged her pussy. She wanted to mate with him, yearned to feel the steady push/pull of his erection inside her, but she wanted also to revel in his body the way he'd reveled in hers.

“I want to taste you, too,” she said, cupping a hand over his that still gripped his erection to keep him from exploding.

“I'm not done either,” he said, his voice a growl. “I want to make you come with my mouth. Eat you up, lick you like a popsicle. Make you melt under my tongue.”

The visual image of Leo lapping and sucking at her made her breasts ache and her pussy even wetter. But the greed to receive was overcome by the need to give. Shaking, she sat up and hunched over his lap, nudging his hands aside to wrap her own around his thick and ruddy shaft. He relinquished, lying down on his side, curling around her.

She licked her lips, eager to taste him again. The other day had been frenetic and only about power. She hadn't taken the time or allowed herself the emotional vulnerability to admire and caress his cock and balls.

But now ... She purred inside. Now she indulged, cupping the weight of his ball sack in her hands, tracing with her tongue the heavily ridged vein running along the underside of his dick, licking the slit at the top of his bulbous head, lapping at the bead of come already forming.

Leo shifted, aligning his body with hers, and pushed her onto her back. He spread her legs wide and placed his mouth over her pussy, maneuvering his legs so he positioned his crotch over her head. His dick hung above her face, a welcome invitation for her to suck and lick and mouth.

She moaned, fully engrossed in the erotic sensations flooding her, crashing over her like a thousand waves. She wrapped her hand around his cock and brought the tip to her mouth, then took his length down to the back of her throat.

Her desire fed his, and Leo responded by sucking her clit. She worked his shaft with one hand, squeezing and rolling his balls with the other, sucking the very tip of him as he pulled upward, then opening her mouth and letting him sink his cock deep into the back of her throat. Leo shuddered, his body tensing, and he pulled away.

“I want to come in you,” he said, puffs of air from his breath blowing across her quivering, wet clit. “I want us to come together.”

A rush of need overwhelmed her. She could wait no more—they could wait no more. She scrabbled about until she lay directly underneath Leo. He nudged her pussy with the head of his cock and slid in, a fraction of an inch. She cried out and grabbed his shoulders, digging her nails into his flesh, attempting to pull him into her.

“Look at me,” he said. “Look me in the eyes, Dee.”

Her eyelids were heavy, laden with intense arousal. She forced her eyes open, concentrated on bringing Leo's face into focus. His lips were tight against his teeth, his eyes dark and stormy. A frisson of fear ran through her—not fear of Leo, but of the intensity of his gaze. Something smoldered there—something too powerful for her to explore.

He braced his upper body with a forearm on the grass and slid a hand under her ass, digging his fingers into her butt cheek. As he pushed into her, he raised her ass off the ground and hunched his back, rooting his cock deep inside. She cried out but didn't falter from holding his gaze.

He was still for a moment, then powered into her, each stroke more forceful than the one before. He kept his gaze glued to hers, even as his muscles bunched under her hands, even as she knew his power was threatening to release. He was waiting for her.

Her own desire climbed higher with each heady thrust, every penetrating stroke. Her mind swirled, going wonderfully blank of everything except Leo. Then she was shuddering around him and he was slamming into her with a guttural cry.

His face before her became a blur against a backdrop of green, but she kept her eyes open, vaguely aware of Leo's expression. An expression that had gone quickly from heated arousal and shadowed depths to a warm ... glow.

He collapsed on top of her then, gathering her in his arms stroking her back with feathery touches. She rocked against him and burrowed her way deeper into his grasp. Aftershocks rocked her, brought about by his cock still rooted in her body.

“Dee.”

She quivered. Somehow Leo's quiet voicing of her name did her in each time. He stroked the side of her face and she turned to the touch, laying her cheek in the palm of his hand, pressing a kiss on his thumb pad as he brushed her lips. Above them a bird sang, a throaty warble, and her heart warmed.

With a groan, Leo rolled off her and she switched her gaze to the white puffy clouds in the distance. Thunderheads. Beautiful in their voluptuous puffiness and seemingly serene, the clouds carried a turmoil of energy inside them—ready to send lightning bolts crackling to the ground and thunder shattering the tranquil calm of a summer's day.

Nervous tension sneaked its way into her chest, like a cat stalking its prey. Making love to Leo had been the culmination of years of waiting and wanting, hoping and wishing. The tender and erotic act had satisfied every waking dream, even surpassing what she'd thought possible if she and Leo were ever to come together again.

Yet her life with Fergus awaited her. Her gut twisted. How could she walk away from Leo now?

* * * *

Leo entwined his hand in Doris's, lifting their hands skyward to point out a billowy cloud that he said reminded him of his great-grandmother's hair after she'd made the mistake of getting a perm. Contented warmth stole over him and he found himself relaxing into the cool earth beneath his back.

With Doris at his side, counting thunderheads, all seemed well. He could almost forget about what had brought the two of them together: their daughter, Veronica. Who would be arriving in a few hours to meet the parents who'd long ago walked away from her.

“Look,” Doris said, pointing to a cloud on the periphery of the horizon, “that one looks like a double-scoop vanilla cone.” She snuggled closer to him, still as naked as a jaybird, her breast brushing against his side.

His heart flip-flopped. Doris had loved him. For years he'd believed Karen, thinking that Doris had wanted to break up with him but had been too afraid to face the conflict. He'd hated her for breaking his heart in such a chicken-shit fashion.

But Karen had lied, and Doris had loved him. Really loved him. She hadn't let him go—hadn't dumped him like the dregs in a coffee cup. She'd missed him that summer as much as he'd missed her. But unlike the way he'd turned his pain into hate, Doris never had. She'd turned her pain to emptiness.

He'd come to Quartzton with anger still in his heart. But his anger had only masked the pain. Seeing Doris's vulnerability when she'd tried to come out on top by arousing him and leaving him with a blazingly stiff erection had placated his former hate and derision for the woman. He'd seen a spark of that old Doris, the exposed and innocent Doris of their childhood. The Doris he'd known before he'd knocked her up and called her a slut.

“That one looks like Einstein's hair,” he said, moving their joined hands to point to another puffy white and grey cloud edging its way into the skyline. Doris giggled and he melted again. He hadn't heard her laugh since ... he bit his lip, trying to recall the last time he'd heard Doris laugh.

He winced. After he'd fucked up her reputation at school, Doris never laughed. Never smiled.

“At least the wind's blowing northeast, otherwise the smoke from that fire would have made grimy clouds and a grey sky instead of this gorgeous scene,” Doris said.

He kissed her again. Doris was the gorgeous one. He couldn't care less about clouds in the sky with Doris in his arms. She sighed and snuggled closer and his cock responded, prodding him to consider Round Two.

He caught sight of the time on his watch. Ten o'clock. With a nine-hour drive from Salt Lake City, Veronica would most likely arrive around mid-afternoon. “We'd better get dressed and head back to the house. I have a few errands to run before Veronica's due to arrive.” He pressed a kiss to Doris's temple.

She dipped her head toward him and held his gaze with glittering eyes, the deep emerald refracting light from tears that had built up. “Will she hate us?” she asked.

He flinched. The thought hadn't crossed his mind. “Her e-mails all indicate she's excited to see us. I don't think she'd drive halfway across the country to chew us out.”

“But we let her go. I let her go.” Doris sat up and reached for her clothes. “She has to hate me. You hated me.”

He watched as she began dressing, disappointed when she slid her jeans over her hips. “I did,” he admitted. “But I was hurt, you know? Hurt that you'd dumped me, and really hurt that you wanted to give the baby up for adoption.”

Doris's hands stilled over her buttons. He placed a hand on her arm and she flinched.

“I held out hope, though,” he added, “that maybe when you had the baby you'd change your mind about the adoption, at least. But Karen said you wanted the baby to have a better life than it would have with the two of us as parents, and that you needed all the money you'd get from the parents—”

Doris pulled back, her arm sliding out from under his hand. “Wait a minute. What are you talking about? What money?”

Leo felt like he'd been sucker-punched in the gut. How could Doris have forgotten the money? He looked down on her, surprised to see her eyes wide, their pupils dilated. What the hell? Could the money have been something else Karen had lied about? Had Doris never known her daughter had been traded for a chunk of cash?

“What money, Leo?” Doris's voice sounded deep and dark and hollow, like it was coming from a cavern deep underground. “Tell me about the money.”

His heart beat hard in his chest. He sucked in a breath, suddenly depleted of oxygen. Doris's grim expression spoke louder than words: she hadn't known. All these years he'd hated her for selling their baby, but she'd never known.

He cleared his throat, then spoke. “The thirty thousand dollars Karen said the adoptive couple gave you in exchange for our daughter.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Thirteen

Doris felt like she was on the verge of either throwing up or passing out. Leo thought she'd sold their daughter. For thirty thousand dollars. Had her mother taken money for the adoption without her even knowing? Karen had done some fairly rotten things as a mother, but what Leo implied was too much for Doris to swallow.

“There has to be a mistake. I didn't take a dime from anyone for the baby.” She held Leo's gaze, praying he wouldn't look away. “You need to believe me. I swear, I didn't take any money from those people. I wouldn't have. I hated giving her up.”

Leo leaned forward and tunneled a hand through her hair. “I believe you. I saw the closet in the attic. I know how much it hurt you to let her go.”

“But...” Doris sagged against Leo. “The money...” She shook her head, dazed by the news that money had been exchanged over her baby. “Could my mother have been that callous? That conniving and money-hungry?”

Leo kissed the top of her head. “Often adoptive couples will pay for a woman's pregnancy and hospital bills. Maybe that's what your mom did with the money the Coombses gave her. Paid the hospital bills.”

“No.” Doris shook her head. “There were no bills. At least, nothing that major. Karen said insurance covered everything: the sonograms, the birthing room...” And she would have noticed if her mother had started waving money around. In their home, thirty thousand dollars would have been noticed.

Where could that money have gone? Hell, there never had been enough money in the house to buy groceries, much less any extra floating around. And Karen certainly hadn't spent the money on her own daughter. The only time Karen had given her any cash was during college.

While Doris was in college, for the first time in her life, Karen had been a stellar mother, at least financially. She'd taken on a second job and would send Doris a thousand dollars each month. That amount, in addition to the scholarships Doris had won, was the only thing that got her through four years at Berkeley.

Numbers jumbled in her brain, tumbling about until they formed a specific amount. Doris sucked in a breath and pressed a hand to her belly. Over the course of her college education, Karen had doled out well over thirty thousand dollars.

“Oh, God...” she whispered. “She paid for my college education with the money she took for the baby.” She let out a near hysterical laugh. “I got a college education for the price of a child.”

“Dee.” Leo said her name. He reached out a hand, which she slapped away. She didn't want to be touched. She wasn't worthy of being touched.

A sob formed in the back of her throat. She'd been a sucker. She'd believed her mother when Karen told her the love of her life didn't want her anymore. She'd believed Karen when she told her the father of her child wanted to give it up for adoption. Believed her when she said a nice family would give her baby a good home.

Believed that she could come back home to Quartzton and put the past behind her.

She'd lied. Karen had lied.

“She came to me. After I heard about you and Becky.” Waves of dizziness hit her as her mind wheeled, trying to capture and make sense of all the information. “Karen had an adoption form filled out with your signature. I saw in black and white that you didn't want our daughter. You'd signed away your rights to our baby.”

“No.” He shook his head. “No, I did sign the adoption papers, but only after you had already done so. I didn't sign them first. Karen lied about that, too. Faked my signature, I guess.”

Doris dropped her head into her hands. “I don't understand why she'd do what she did. Why she'd break us up. Make us get rid of our baby.”

Leo rubbed her back, moving his thumb in concentric circles. “I think, Dee, that in her own dysfunctional way, Karen was trying to be a good mom. She had such high hopes for you. The two of you were alike in so many ways but different, too. Karen wasn't beautiful like you, she didn't have your charm, and she certainly wasn't the brightest bulb in the bunch—”

Doris laughed, shakily. “Karen balancing her checkbook was like a newborn foal attempting to walk.” She'd thought the humor might lift some of the pressure off her chest but she still felt as if a thousand sandbags held her to the ground.

“Karen saw so much potential in your intelligence,” Leo said. “Before she fought with my mom, they used to talk all the time about what colleges she wanted you to apply to, how she hoped you'd become a lawyer or a doctor. Something better than what she'd become.”

“The town drunk,” Doris scoffed.

“Yeah,” Leo said. “She'd fallen flat on her face. But she thought the world of you, and dreamed big for you. When you got pregnant, my guess is that she couldn't let go of that dream. I think she did her dysfunctional best to make your life what it should have been.”

Dysfunctional was putting it lightly, Doris thought. Karen had fucked up to a level beyond what a merely dysfunctional mother could even dream of attaining. But Karen had been her mother. And Doris had been her daughter. A fuck-up, following in her mother's footsteps. Save for the decision to attend college, every major decision Doris had made in her life had resulted in disaster.

She was Karen, next generation.

“So I got a college education but...” she couldn't finish her sentence.

“But you got screwed. By Karen, and by me most of all.” Leo nuzzled her head. “I'm sorry. I'm more sorry than I can ever tell you. But I want to make it up to you. And to Veronica. And it seems to me,” he said, his tone lightening, a trace of excitement running through his words, “that Veronica wants to have a relationship with us, with her birth parents. That's something we could explore.”

A cold ache settled in Doris's gut at Leo's light and cheerful tone—at his hope of having a relationship with their baby. She stood and dusted the bottom of her jeans, then shoved her hands deep in her back pockets. She didn't want Leo to see her shaking hands.

She couldn't have a relationship with her daughter. She didn't deserve to have any kind of relationship with the girl. She was Doris Macon, after all. Town slut, daughter of Karen Macon, town drunk. No way would she pass on that legacy to the girl. She wanted her daughter far, far away from her and from Quartzton. And as soon as possible.

“You go right ahead and have a relationship with Veronica if it matters that much to you, but keep me out of it. I'll be here today to meet her, help her get back safely to her parents, but then that's it. I go back to my regular life afterward.” She turned her back, unable to bear seeing Leo's shocked expression.

“I can't do what you're asking. Just—just keep me out of everything, Leo,” she said, and walked away, leaving him alone and naked in the meadow.

* * * *

Leo cradled the cup of coffee in his hands. Given the events of his morning, a bottle of booze would have been his preference. But when he'd run into George outside Cuppa Joe, the man had wheedled him into a cup of coffee. He'd agreed, thinking that with Veronica still a couple of hours from arriving, he could spend some time and catch up on news with George.

Who was he fooling? He wanted to stay the hell away from Doris. Wanted to get the taste of her out of his mouth, the scent of her out of his nostrils. Doris walking away like that had rubbed him raw. He'd only asked her to think about a relationship with their child, and she'd stuck her nose in the air and left him behind in the dust.

“Heard Doris Macon was back in Quartzton again. Twice in one week. Beth Tully over at the bakery saw her drive up Main Street around midnight last night. Then Mrs. Hertz, who lives across the street from Doris's, was woken up by noises and lights over at her place around two in the morning. She was all set on calling the sheriff to report a burglary when she realized Doris had come home and was cleaning the house. You see her yet?” George asked.

Leo nodded, staring into the depths of his coffee as if it held the key to his future. “Yep. That I did.”

“And?”

Leo looked up. George stared back at him expectantly. “And what?”

“And tell me more. What's going on with you two? You haven't come back to Quartzton since the day you graduated high school and suddenly Doris is showing up at all hours after ditching the town a couple of years ago. The town's buzzing with rumors.”

Leo rolled his eyes. “Any good ones?”

George rubbed his forehead. “Let's see ... Mrs. Beedle at the Qwik-Mart thinks you two robbed a bank and buried the money in 35 Nightingale Lane's back yard. Mark, the guy bagging groceries at Dillard's Grocery, told people he saw a car filled with men pull into Nightingale Lane early this morning. He suspects a sex orgy took place.”

Leo grinned. There'd been plenty of sex, just not an orgy.

“But Trish and I think you two are dealing with something from your past. From when ... you know. Am I right?”

Leo leaned back in his seat and ran his palms over his thighs. He blew out a long, slow breath. “Bingo. The girl we gave up for adoption is looking for us. She stole her dad's car and is driving in from Colorado. I want to meet her. Doris doesn't.”

George let out a low whistle. “I almost don't know what to say. That's intense. Seeing the kid you gave up for adoption and all, having her run away to find you.”

Leo nodded, staring at the coffee cup wrapped in his hands.

“I don't get it, though. Why doesn't Doris want to meet the kid?”

A muscle spasm thrust a jolt of pain through his jaw. “Dunno. I keep getting mixed signals from Dee over that one. I'm the one who left all my contact information with the adoption agency, so when Veronica"—he looked up at George—"that's our daughter, Veronica, hacked into the adoption agency's Web site, she e-mailed me. I've been waiting since the day she was born for her to turn eighteen and come find me. But apparently Dee wanted to shut the door to that part of her life. Too painful, maybe. Or maybe having a child interferes with her new life too much.”

The rumble of a low-flying airplane's heavy engine overhead interrupted their conversation. Most likely an airtanker, Leo figured. The planes would fill with the fire retardant and leave from Quartzton's miniscule airport to fly for miles to a fire. He'd smelled the faint, acrid scent of smoke earlier that morning after leaving the meadow. A fire in the foothills. He felt a surge of energy, the adrenaline rush he always got before heading out to fight a fire.

The pink-skirted waitress who'd been hovering refilled their coffee, then dropped a bill on their table. George waved Leo's hand away when he reached out to grab the bill. “This one's on me. Move back home to Quartzton and you can buy me a coffee sometime.”

“Chief Brentwood's pushing me to take on the open position coming up. I'd have to apply, but it seems like the pool of applicants would be thin, to say the least. Not too many people choosing to move to Quartzton these days.”

George nodded. “We're out in the boonies, but it's a great place to raise a family, I gotta say. Trish and I and the kids do just fine. Not much negative influence coming in from the big cities, either. Kids around here get in trouble for smoking pot, or tipping cows, or getting preg—” He slammed his mouth shut and shot a guilty look at Leo.

Leo gave a rueful smile. “Yep, that was me, back in the day.”

“When's your girl—Veronica—due in town?” George asked.

“This afternoon, I figure. We know she spent the night in Salt Lake City. She probably left around seven or eight in the morning. I tracked her course online at the B&B this morning,” he said. “According to the computer program, the trip takes about eight, nine hours. She'll be here later this afternoon. Dee and I will meet her at Doris's place.”

George stood, Leo following his lead. “Then what?” George asked, tossing a few bills on the counter.

“Then I get Veronica back to her real father and Dee takes off and heads back to the high life and marries her rich fiance.”

“And you?” George asked, shooting him a look from under a heavy brow. “What are your plans?”

Good question. What about him? He'd been drifting for so long, like floating ash on the wind. Was it time to settle down and get a real life? A picture of Doris's face, tearstained and beautiful, came to him. He frowned. One thing at a time. First get Veronica home safely to her folks, then address the intense and hot desire for Doris that had flashed over him the minute she opened the door to 35 Nightingale Lane and told him to get lost.

He rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn't made a gigantic success out of his life, the way he and the rest of Quartzton had thought he would. Hadn't made it to the Super Bowl. But he had plenty of savings and a newfound desire to settle down. Maybe it was time for him to do some growing up. Chief Robertson's suggestion to apply for the vacant firefighting position dangled like a baited hook in front of him.

He looked up at George, feeling a half-formed smile tugging its way to full blown on his lips. “Think Trish can hook me up with a rental in town?”

George flashed him a smile and clapped him on the back. “Welcome back to Quartzton, Leo. Welcome home.”

* * * *

Doris swiped at the mantel with the dust cloth for what had to be the fifth time that morning. She'd already dusted, vacuumed and tidied every inch of the Victorian house upon arriving at midnight. Any cleaning now would be superfluous. She twisted the cloth in her hands and gazed about the room.

Not bad, she thought. In fact, her former home seemed cozy and inviting. Amazing how a little spit and shine could put a place to rights. The lace curtains covering the bay window had been washed and rehung, neat and tidy. The wainscoting and chair rail had undergone a quick wash, perking up the white enamel paint. On her way back from the meadow, she'd found some reeds and late-blooming summer flowers. Now they decorated the living room, kitchen, and her bedroom, too.

At least Karen hadn't sold off all the furniture. What remained were a few good pieces: antique side tables and bookcases, and a leather couch and matching chair and ottoman. Doris couldn't do more to the front yard besides hosing off the porch and walkway and propping the leaning picket fence up so it stood straight, but at least the interior of the house appeared warm and welcoming.

And smelled good, too. Inspired by the decadent scent of her coffee earlier that morning, she'd taken an entire canister of Christmas Cookie creamer and dumped it in a pot of boiling water. The scent of freshly baked cookies now permeated the air. She walked back into the kitchen and turned off the heat to the stove, then dumped the now gelatinous mass down the garbage disposal. Waves of Christmas Cookie scent washed over her.

Her stomach growled. Karen had left little to eat in the home, but at least Leo was going to stop by the store and pick up food. They'd be able to feed Veronica when she arrived. Maybe she could make little tea sandwiches, Doris thought.

The cranking buzz of the doorbell interrupted her plans for lunch.

Leo with the groceries.

After she'd left him at the meadow, Leo had followed her back to the house. He hadn't said much, simply indicating he'd run a few errands and would be back later to meet Veronica and make sure she got back to the girl's adoptive father. Without looking at him, she'd handed him her car keys and asked him to pick up some food. Teenagers liked to eat, she recalled.

“It's open,” she said, looking about the kitchen for a dishtowel on which to wipe her hands.

“Hello?” a soft, female voice called out.

Her heart gave a little jump until she realized the hour was far too early for her visitor to be Veronica. She gave up on finding a dishtowel. Wiping her hands on her pants, she walked out of the kitchen and into the living room.

And straight back to her past.

Her heart jumped into her throat. Standing in front of her stood the exact image of herself, fourteen years ago.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Fourteen

Veronica knew she looked like a total idiot, gaping at the woman standing in front of her, but she couldn't take her eyes off the image of herself. Only the woman in the white top and summery skirt was way older.

But she the same bright green eyes, the same deep red hair, the same freckles. The same nose, too. But she also had really, really big boobs. Veronica resisted the urge to look at her own flat chest and gave herself a mental shake. She was here to meet her parents, not wonder about whether she'd get boobs that big when she grew up.

“I guess I found the right house, then. You have to be Doris, since you look just like me,” she said, trying to make her voice sound sophisticated and mature. Not the voice of the shaking little girl she suddenly felt like. She wiped her sweaty palms down the front of her jeans, wishing suddenly she'd worn something more professional. Somehow jeans and a T-shirt with the Rolling Stones lips-and-tongue design now seemed so juvenile.

The woman pressed her lips together tight and a vein popped out on her forehead. Way too skinny, Veronica thought. But beautiful. Doris Macon was beautiful.

“Will I look like you when I grow up?” Veronica blurted, then felt herself blushing. Idiot. What happened to the whole speech she'd planned to give? The one where she'd walk gracefully across the room and extend her hand out, like one of the ladies on those soap operas her dad wouldn't let her watch, and introduce herself with panache. That was one of her vocabulary words last week: “panache.” She'd wanted to have panache when she met her parents, and instead she sounded like a three-year-old.

“We ... we do look alike, don't we?” the lady said, staring at Veronica like her eyeballs had been glued in that position.

Veronica blew out a breath. So she hadn't completely embarrassed herself. She stepped forward, extending her arm as far as it could go, and said, “I'm Veronica Coombs. I believe I'm your daughter.”

The lady grabbed the side of a leather couch, like she'd been caught off balance, but she held out her other hand and shook Veronica's.

“I'm Doris—Dorienne—Maçon. And yes, I do believe you're ... we're...” She seemed to struggle for the right words. “I believe we are related,” she said, much to Veronica's disappointment. Wouldn't a mother want to hug her daughter? Say something like, “Yes, I'm your long-lost mother?” Jump up and down and cry with joy?

“Your father told us you'd be coming,” she added.

A flurry of activity stuttered about in Veronica's stomach. Us? Did Doris mean her and Leo? If she did, then was she talking about her real dad? “My father?” she asked in a small voice.

Doris tilted her head to the right. “He found out about your plan and called Leo, who called me. Leo, by the way, should be here soon. You know,” she added, dropping her gaze to the floor, “you shouldn't have come. You shouldn't have run away like that.”

Instead of being angry, Veronica felt a wave of happiness at the lecture. Her mother had worried about her. Like a real parent.

“Won't you sit down?” Doris asked, waving a hand toward the leather couch. Just like the ladies on the soap operas. Veronica's heart jumped, like how it did when Jax Moran had kissed her a couple of weeks ago.

“Thank you,” Veronica said, carefully placing her knees together and seating herself on the edge of the couch. Doris took the chair across the room from her, which disappointed Veronica. Didn't her mom want to sit next to her? God, her emotions were yo-yoing all over the place.

“I thought Leo said your name was Doris, not Dorienne,” she said.

“I go by Dorienne now.”

“I see.” What? I see? Was she living in some stupid Jane Austen novel? How uncomfortable could this situation get? And where was her father? Leo Savage had seemed so kind in his e-mails. Her mother—Dee—seemed like she'd fall over if someone blew on her.

“Leo should be back soon. He's running a few errands, stopping off at the grocery store in case you were hungry. Would you like something to drink in the meantime?” Doris asked.

She shook her head, wishing Leo were there already. She looked around the room. “You have a really nice house. I love old houses. They're so warm and comfy.”

“Really?” Doris's voice seemed to grow a little less fragile. “I'm so glad. Would you like a tour?”

Veronica jumped up, then grew confused when Doris remained seated, staring at her. Was she supposed to wait until her hostess stood up first?

“I'm sorry,” Doris said, standing, “I was surprised there for a moment. Even your movements are identical to mine. It's like watching myself in a mirror. One that takes off fourteen years, of course.” She smiled at Veronica, a brittle, tight little smile. Veronica couldn't figure out what it meant. Or how Doris felt.

She followed Doris through the dining room and into the kitchen. The smell of cookies wafted through the house, making her stomach growl. Hopefully when Leo showed up he'd bring along a bag of some potato chips or something. She'd gulped down two Red Bulls earlier, but a caffeine jolt didn't last long.

The stairway up to the second story looked a little seedy. Unlike the wood floors on the first story, the icky shag carpeting seemed dingy and old.

“This was my bedroom when I was young,” Doris said, opening the door to a plainly decorated room. A bed in the middle was covered by a patchwork quilt. A lace doily covered the length of a bureau, and hundreds of books lined the cheap bookshelves on the wall. She perused the titles, pleased with the selection of classics. So she'd gotten her love of reading fiction from her birth mother.

“Is this where you and my dad made me? Here in this room?”

Doris whirled around, the look on her face flattening Veronica. God, her mom blushed redder than she did. Embarrassment washed over Veronica. Just barely, she kept herself from clapping a hand to her forehead. Jeez, she could be such an idiot. People didn't go around asking other people where they had sex. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“No,” Doris said, surprising Veronica by replying. “There's a creek out back.” She indicated a window. Doris crouched down to stare out the dormer. “You can hike down that creek about three miles to where it meets the Maidu River. Takes about an hour, hour and a half. There's a huge granite outcropping, at the confluence of the creek and river, about four stories high, I guess, called Suicide Rock. That's...” Veronica caught sight of a slight smile on Doris's face. Her eyes had that faraway glazed-over thing grown-ups did when they remembered their childhoods. “That's where you were conceived.”

Veronica wrinkled her nose. “On a place called Suicide Rock? Yick. Did people die there?”

Doris laughed then, and Veronica thought her heart would fall right out of her body. Her mother had her laugh—the same light, tinkling noise.

“Only according to rumor. Supposedly some boy got mad at his girlfriend and told her to take a flying leap of a really high rock, and she did, off that hunk of granite.”

Doris turned to Veronica and smiled. “But it's just a rumor. Mostly kids would hike out there to get stoned. Or have sex.” Her eyes became hooded again and she swept her gaze away. Probably thinking about when she made Veronica. Was she ashamed? Sad?

Doris wheeled about and strode out of the room, Veronica at her heels. At the landing, Veronica stopped and pointed to the stairwell that continued upward. “Can we go up there? Is it an attic? I love attics.”

Doris's face took on a pinched look and her shoulders pulled in on themselves. “No,” she snapped. “You can't see the attic.”

Veronica recoiled. She blinked, swallowed. What had she said? It was just an old attic she wanted to see. Doris didn't have to go all ballistic on her. “I'm sorry,” she finally managed to get out.

Doris apologized for her reaction and smiled, but the smile didn't reach her eyes. Veronica felt hot tears fill in her eyes and her nose started to run. This was so not the greeting she'd dreamed about. Her birth mother was acting like Veronica was one big pain in the butt. Which she probably was, at least to Doris Macon.

She felt a pounding in her chest. At least Leo wanted to meet her. He'd be happy to see her. He'd probably even want her to stay. She sniffed loudly, not caring if Doris Macon saw the tears of hurt in her eyes. Even if her birth mother had a stick up her butt, Leo would like her. Right?

* * * *

Where the hell was Leo? He should be here, Doris thought, smoothing things over, making everything all right. He'd been the one to get her into this mess in the first place. Damn that man. Why had she agreed to his plan in the first place? Why had she come back to Quartzton to meet her daughter? Doris cast a glance at Veronica, glowering in the kitchen.

Who was she kidding? She hadn't been able to say no because Leo had said the girl needed them. He'd implied she could be in danger, and the part of Doris that had once been a mother—if only for a few precious hours—had roared to the surface. Last night, after Leo's call, Doris had hung up and immediately turned to pack her suitcase. She'd told Leo she wouldn't come, that he'd have to handle the situation on his own, but she couldn't stop the mother still living inside.

But with the lousy way she was handling meeting her daughter for the first time, she sure as hell wasn't making any points as Mother of the Year. Snapping at the girl for wanting to explore the attic hadn't set things right. From there she'd only made the air between them even more thick and uncomfortable, holding the girl at a distance, unwilling to even meet her eyes.

She couldn't seem to stop pushing the girl away, even as part of her desperately yearned to pull her into her arms, soak up her scent, and bawl her eyes out. Instead, she crossed her arms and legs and leaned against the kitchen counter, watching Veronica watch the clock. Both of them were waiting for Leo.

“Do I have grandparents?”

The girl's question surprised Doris. “Um ... not that I know of.”

Veronica tore her gaze away from the clock then to look at Doris. “What do you mean, not that you know of? What, did they like walk off the edge of the Earth or something?”

Doris closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Something like that. Look, Leo's folks died in a car wreck when he was in college. My mom died last year—”

“How?”

Doris raised her head. “What?”

“How'd my grandmother die? I mean, aren't adopted kids supposed to know medical history and stuff?” Veronica kicked lightly at the metal garbage can, the toe of her running shoe causing a light “ting” every time it hit the metal canister.

“Um ... I guess so,” Doris answered. “Although I don't know what kind of medical information you can get from someone dying of alcoholism. Don't become an alcoholic, I guess.”

Veronica stopped kicking the garbage can. “Your mom was an alcoholic?”

Doris nodded. “She was known as the town drunk,” she said, looking out the window, ignoring the girl. She noticed that the puffy white clouds drifting about in the distance earlier that morning had moved closer to town. The light that had suffused the house dimmed. A summer storm was brewing.

“What about your dad?”

The question triggered a primal response in Doris, a bolt of fear wrapped in anger shot through her. “That's where the not knowing part comes in. My dad took off when I was a kid. I have no clue where he is. And I really, really don't want to know.”

“So I don't have any grandparents.”

Doris shook her head.

“Or aunts or uncles.” Another shake. “Or cousins, or second cousins, or anyone. Just dead grandparents, a deadbeat grandpa, and a dead town drunk for a grandmother.”

Doris sighed. She couldn't seem to say anything right with this girl. “You have your father. Your real father, Justin. When Leo gets here he'll make arrangements with your dad to get you back to Colorado, safe and sound.”

“No!” Veronica's voice, sharp and tense, had Doris flicking her gaze back to the girl. “I won't go. He doesn't want me, anyway. I want to stay here, with you and Leo.”

Doris let out a sharp, biting laugh. “Here? Sweetheart, I don't live here. I live in Marin. It's three hours away.”

Veronica wrapped her arms around her chest, squeezing tight. Her eyes went dark with emotion, almost terror, Doris thought. “I'll come to Marin. That's on the coast, right? I can find a high school and get my transcripts transferred.”

Doris gaped. Even if Fergus found out she had a daughter and still wanted to keep Doris in his life, he wouldn't allow the child to live with them. He hated kids. Well, hated the inevitable and undeniable bond between parents and children. Emotional neediness had no place in his life, he always claimed. A claim that had appealed to Doris, who'd been drawn to the notion of a marriage free from emotional entanglements. “That's impossible,” she said now. “I'm getting married. There's no way you could come live with me. My fiance isn't a kid person.”

Veronica shook her head, like a horse tossing off a bridle. “Leo, then. I can stay with Leo.”

“Veronica, Leo lives on the road. He's a wildland firefighter, traveling everywhere from Montana to California. He hasn't stayed in the same place for the last eight years. You can't live with him.”

“You don't want me,” Veronica said, clenching her hands into fists, liquid pooling in her eyes. “No one wants me.” The tears spilled then, flooding all over her face. She choked out a sob, then another.

Horrified, Doris stood transfixed as the girl collapsed in front of her, crying, hitting her thighs with her fists, tears coursing down her face. Oh, God, she needed Leo.

“No one loves me. I'm totally alone,” Veronica sobbed. “I might as well be dead. Better yet, I never should have been born. You stupid idiot"—she raised her head to throw Doris a look of sheer hatred—"why couldn't you have used a stupid condom? Why didn't you get an abortion? Why'd I ever have to be born?”

Something inside Doris snapped. She'd loved her baby, had loved the life growing inside her. She and Leo had planned to have their baby, their family. They'd made a mistake—stupid adolescents playing with fire, thinking they couldn't get pregnant. They'd made a mistake not using birth control, but it had been their mistake to fix.

And they'd tried, except Karen wedged her way in the middle and fucked it all up. Doris felt her heart hammering in her chest. Veronica needed to know why she'd been born, how she had been like a little miracle of life, of love, of hope.

“It was a mistake,” Doris said, intent on starting at the beginning. She'd tell Veronica how she and Leo had both believed that if Leo pulled out, she couldn't get pregnant. But that was as far as she got.

“I knew it.” Veronica's sobs interrupted her. “I was a mistake. A stupid, horrid mistake.”

“No!” Doris started toward Veronica, but the girl backed away, her gaze shooting desperately around the room, landing on the door to the back yard.

Veronica took a heaving breath and said, “I won't be anyone's mistake again. I'm leaving.” She looked at Doris, her eyes inscrutable. “I'm leaving you. Leo, my dad, all of you. Since nobody wants me, I'll do everybody a favor and go. No one will ever have to deal with their mistake again.”

Veronica pushed past her, tore open the back door, and ran into the back yard. Within seconds, the girl disappeared into the underbrush surrounding the creek. Doris's heart filled with aching at the girl's statement, then emptied, like the life had been vacuumed out of her.

Once again, Veronica had run away. Only this time, Doris realized as her throat constricted, she'd been the one to chase the girl off.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Fifteen

A red Ford Taurus sat parked in front of Doris's house. Leo steered Doris's Mercedes into the driveway and took the stairs up the front porch two at a time, his heart hammering away in his chest. She was early. Veronica had arrived hours before he'd expected. His hands shook as the realization that he was about to see his daughter for the first time sunk in.

Finally, he'd be able to hold his daughter in his arms and ask for her forgiveness. Finally he'd be able to ease the weight of guilt off his chest.

“Hello?” he called out when he stepped through the front door. “Dee? Veronica?” Nothing. No motion, no noise. He walked through the empty house, noticing the cup of coffee with congealed creamer on the surface in the kitchen. A soft sound caught his attention. Muffled hiccups. Or sobs, he couldn't tell. Stepping lightly up the stairs, as if he were afraid of what he'd see, he followed the sound to the attic.

There, sitting on the floor of the closet, all curled up in a tight ball with her arms wrapped around her legs and looking like a pillbug, sat Doris. But no Veronica.

“Where's Veronica?” he asked.

“Gone.”

He pulled his head back a bit, straightened his spine. “Gone as in taking a walk, or gone as in ... gone?”

Doris shrugged. “Gone as in she ran out the back door into the woods, claiming she was a mistake, saying she was leaving us all.”

Leo stepped into the cramped closet. “Why'd she think she was a mistake?” he asked.

Again, Doris shrugged. “I guess because I called her one.”

“What?” Leo stood there, shocked. “Why would you do something like that? You loved that little girl—you always have. You put up a great front all these years, even tried pushing me away. But you came when I told you she needed us. And all this"—he broke off his words and jabbed a finger at the cradle, the magazine pictures lining the walls—"doesn't say ‘mistake.’ Why would you let her think that?”

Doris raised her head. He noticed then the trail of tears streaming down her face. Her eyes looked hollow, empty. A muscle in her cheek kept spasming, sending her cheek twitching.

Leo drew in a breath. “What happened?” he asked, gentling his voice.

Doris leaned her head back on the closet wall and rocked it from side to side. “I don't know,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “I handled everything wrong. I said all the wrong things, made her think she wasn't loved, or hadn't been wanted. I tried to stop her, to tell her that the mistake had been us not using a condom, that she never was the mistake, but she misunderstood and then she got all worked up in an instant and th-th-th-then she ran out the door and into the woods.” Her body shivered once, then again, until shivers consumed her.

He bent at the knees, briskly rubbed his hands up and down her arms. Even with the heat of the attic, she was losing body heat. Her body was thin, too thin, he thought. What had Trish said? Doris didn't eat because she was hooked on becoming the perfect woman, what she thought a man would want. He gave an inward curse. Doris had been literally starving for attention. For a chance to belong.

“She'll be back, Dee, I promise. I talked to her dad again on the way back over here. He said she's a bit of an emotional hothead, flying off the handle at any old thing, then calming down later. She'll be back.”

Doris rocked her head to the side and gave him a dull stare. “But she was so angry, so hurt.”

Leo tugged at her arms, pulling her up to standing. She swayed, her body rocked by the shaking coming from the inside. He caught her to him, wrapping his arms around her body, supporting her weight.

“She's a teenager, remember? They're all angry and hurt and full of angst and drama. Besides,” he said, tucking her head under his chin, swaying with her back and forth to a beat in his head, “her father told me Veronica's been resistant to him remarrying, but only because she resents Anna, her stepmother, for taking over the role of her mother. Apparently they'd been quite close before her mom died. Anna adores the girl, but so far Veronica hasn't given her much of a chance.”

Doris went stiff under his arms. “I thought her mother ditched her. Like my dad did me.”

“No,” Leo said. “Veronica seems to have a flair for the dramatic. In one of her e-mails, she'd said something about her mom leaving her when she was young, but in reality her mom died from a complication during a routine surgery when Veronica was about four. So in Veronica's reality, I guess she had been abandoned by her mom, just not in the way she led me to think. Plus,” he added as an afterthought, “her mom dying happened right after she found out she'd been adopted.”

“She still must have been processing that news when her mom died. What a nightmare.” Doris jolted, another shiver rocketing through her body. “She probably came here looking to belong, and I told her she'd been a mistake. No wonder she ran off.”

“She'll be back,” Leo murmured in her hair, breathing in freesias and lilies. “She left her car here, right?”

Doris nodded. Another shiver ran through her.

He shifted, turning Doris by the shoulders and aiming her toward the stairwell. A warm shower might stop the shivers racking Doris's body. “So she'll be back. She probably needs to go cool off for a few hours. Did you see which way she went?”

“Downstream. Toward the river. I told her about Suicide Rock, so maybe she'll go there,” Doris said, stepping carefully on the stairs in front of him.

“You're probably right. Let's give her a couple of hours to get her head together. In the meantime, I want to get you in the shower and warm you up, then I want to feed you something. You're skin and bones.”

“I thought men liked skinny women.”

He snorted. “Not when you have to starve yourself to get that way. Healthy is healthy, no matter what size. But you? You look as healthy as a scarecrow.”

In front of him, he could see Doris's shoulders shake. With her back to him he couldn't tell if she was crying or laughing. Overhead an airtanker droned over the house, its heavy engines drowning out the sound of Doris's words.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“I said, in that case,” she replied with a lightness in her tone that made him breathe a sigh of relief, “I'd like a cheese quesadilla and some ice cream. Never saw anything sexy about a scarecrow.”

He forced a chuckle and steered her toward the bathroom. He'd get Doris warmed up and fed, then wait an hour until Veronica decided she'd had enough of a pout and returned. If Veronica wasn't back then, he'd hike out to Suicide Rock and corral the girl, then figure out how he was going to get the girl back to her father. And figure out what he was going to do about Doris.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Sixteen

Leo had been right: the shower warmed Doris to the bones. Wrapped in a towel, she rummaged through her closet. Earlier, when the thunderheads moved directly overhead, the temperature had suddenly dropped. A harsh wind accompanied the clouds, cooling the air about Quartzton. Veronica was wearing only a thin T-shirt, she worried. At least her jeans would keep her warm. Most likely if the weather turned too bad, the girl would do an about face and come back home.

Well, to Quartzton, she amended. Home for Veronica was in Colorado with her father and stepmother, and soon-to-be stepsibling, too. When the girl got back, she and Leo would make sure Veronica knew how much she was loved and adored—by everyone.

“Hey,” Leo's voice startled her. She turned suddenly, knocking her head against the doorjamb.

“Ow.” She rubbed her head.

“Want me to kiss it and make it better?”

Doris grinned at Leo's furious eyebrow waggling. His expression reminded her of when they were kids, without a care in the world. He leaned against the wall of her bedroom, thumbs hooked in his belt loops, one foot carelessly draped over the other. Relaxed. Nonchalant. She hadn't seen that side of Leo since ... well, years, really.

The last few days had been so filled with emotion and strife, distrust and unease, that each had worn a layer of armor. But now, perhaps because Leo knew he'd see their daughter soon, Doris mused, or maybe because he'd learned how much Doris had cared for and wanted the baby and was now willing to have a relationship with their grown daughter, Leo had lightened up.

The light that had turned on in him awoke a light in her.

She stepped forward until she came to standing, directly in front of him. “I have plenty other owies you could kiss when you're done with this one,” she drawled, still rubbing her head.

Leo's eyes widened then narrowed in a flash. His grin grew broader, but thinner and curved upward at the edges. Predatory. In a second he'd gone from a flirtatious goof to a sensual, primal male. He took her breath away.

He reached a hand out and slowly traced a line with his finger over her earlobe, down the fluttering pulse in her neck, then over the rounded outlines of her breasts. With a flick of his finger he undid the tucked edge of the towel and it dropped to pool at her feet, leaving her standing naked in front of him.

She trembled under his gaze. He rasped his finger against each nipple, first one, then the other, leaving tightening buds in its wake. He traced a trail down to her belly, drawing a circle around her belly button, then dipped lower to her trimmed bush. Flick. Flick.

Doris's eyes rolled upward as Leo tormented her clitoris with a single finger. She swayed, drifting away to another time, another place. Another dimension.

“Want more?” he asked.

She forced her concentration back to the room. “What about...?” She didn't want to be rolling around naked if Veronica decided to return sooner than they'd expected.

He gave a short laugh and said, “I can be quick.” Not waiting for an answer, he backed her up until her calves touched the bed. She lowered herself down and spread herself wide. Not only her legs, but her arms as well, welcoming him to her body.

Quickly, he ripped the button fly open, then clawed at his shirt, pulling it up and over his head rather than dealing with the buttons. A heavy, aching need settled in her belly when she took in Leo as he stood before her, his blue shirt bunched in one hand and his pants splayed wide open, cock jutting out.

She smiled, her mouth trembling, and placed a hand on her beating heart.

Leo's expression darkened and his mouth went slack. “You,” he said. “It was always you.”

She shook her head, puzzled. What had always had been her? “What?” she asked.

“Why are there pictures of me in that closet in the attic?” he asked. His mouth was set in a grim line. Had she done something to make him angry? She thought he wanted sex. But now—she couldn't read him.

“The closet, Dee. Why are there pictures of me, and newspaper articles? That one article is only two years old. Why did you keep pictures of us as kids, teenagers?” His voice grew thick. “What am I doing in that room?”

What did he want from her? She pulled her legs together, suddenly vulnerable. Did he want her to tell him how much she'd loved him once? That she'd never stopped?

“I...” The words strangled themselves in her throat.

Where would she start? At the beginning, at age fourteen, when she realized she'd fallen in love with the boy who'd been her best friend since they both were in diapers? Or at the pivotal point, when she lost him forever?

“You were the baby's father, the one who made her. I...” She struggled for air, for the right words to say. “I can't...” Couldn't what? Tell Leo she loved him? Bare her soul? Risk rejection?

“Never mind,” Leo said, shaking his head, a sad half-smile on his lips. “It doesn't matter. Not now.”

He came down on top of her then, kicking off his boots and pants until he lay naked over her, rubbing his body against hers, his face between her breasts, his hands going wild—touching, caressing, penetrating.

A storm built within her, matching the storm that built outside. Flashes of lightning, roars of thunder—she didn't know if they were real or in her head.

Leo nudged her legs wide and she arched her back to meet him, her core wet and needy, aching for his cock, yearning to be filled with his seed as if it had a mind of its own.

Instead of entering her, he clasped her hand in his and slid it to the apex of her thighs. “Touch yourself,” he murmured.

She moaned, shaking her head.

“Yes,” he insisted. “Slide your finger inside. Feel how silky you are. How perfect. How beautiful.”

“No...”

“I remember when you loved finger-fucking yourself. When you'd do it in front of me and get me so worked up I'd almost come just from watching.” He laved her ear with the flat of his tongue. Shivers chased up her spine. “What changed, Dee? Why won't you touch your body anymore? When did you stop?”

She thrashed under him, trying to pull her hand away from his, resisting. She'd stopped touching herself when Leo stopped touching her. When she thought he'd wanted to touch big-breasted Becky Slattery with the perfect ass and the skinny stomach in high school. Doris had hated her body then, all chubby from pregnancy, fat and hanging loose with stretch marks. Leo had stopped loving her, so she'd stopped loving herself. That included her body.

“I love touching you,” he whispered, his voice low in her ear, the heat of his breath causing hot, pulsating waves to flow up and down her spine. “Follow my lead,” he said, and she relaxed a fraction, releasing her tension to his circling hand still cupping hers.

Underneath her fingertips she could feel the silken sensation of her skin as Leo led her fingers in an intricate dance down her belly, to the crease where her thigh met her pelvis, then to the soft petals of her nether lips.

“Soft, right?” he asked.

Her mouth opened to release a shuddering sigh.

“And wet. Soft and wet. Slide inside with me,” he said.

She did. With his middle finger guiding hers, she eased a finger inside her wet depths, indulging in the silken sensation under her fingertip. The width of their two fingers spread her and she hitched her hips, wanting more.

“You're beautiful all over. Here—” Leo pressed his finger against hers. “And here.” He kissed her lips. She melted just a little bit more.

“I want you, Dee,” Leo whispered. “I've always wanted you.”

A flurry of passion hammered in her chest, waves of desire washed over her. He wanted her. Leo wanted her.

“Now, Leo. Now,” she gasped, sucking in air, craving the heady oxygen rush. Craving his body, his penis inside her. Together they pulled their fingers out, her vaginal walls pulsing and clinging. Leo positioned himself over her, bracing himself on his forearms. She reached between them and held the weight of his cock in her hand, marveling at the silken smoothness covering the veined strength that was the core of Leo.

He entered her smoothly and they fit seamlessly, so close, as if they shared the same body. Then Leo began to move. Slowly, one deep and penetrating beat at a time, until his hips moved in time to their heartbeats, hard and fast and pounding.

He slid a palm beneath her ass and held her to him as he rutted, his movements varying between tender and loving and harsh and punishing, as if Leo himself couldn't figure out how he felt.

He groaned in her ear and she lost herself then, crying out with each powerful thrust, unaware of the words coming out of her mouth, only aware of Leo and his body carrying her upward, of Leo joining with her on the journey to release, Leo joined to her more than with his body alone.

She climaxed with a strangled cry, her hands enmeshed in the thick fullness of his hair. Leo thrust against her, his head buried in her neck, his breath harsh, crying out her name with force of his own orgasm. Outside the window, a faint glow of lightning warmed the darkening sky; a low rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. The puffy clouds they'd seen in the distance earlier that morning had moved a little closer, bringing with them the hint of a coming storm.

Nature: profound, powerful, and real.

Like their lovemaking, she thought as she slowly spiraled back to earth. There'd been no artifice in what she and Leo had experienced. She hadn't pretended to be someone she wasn't. He'd been Leo and she'd—she'd been his Dee. The way they once were.

Before today, the last time she'd felt real was before she'd lost Leo and the baby. After that—well, after that she hadn't wanted to be Doris Macon anymore.

But Leo had brought who she'd been back to life. Knowing he'd once loved her, had once wanted their baby, had awakened her long dormant self. Making love to him had rekindled her fire to live. She loved him. Plain and simple, she loved him.

She'd tell him, she decided. She'd tell him tonight, after Veronica returned and they got the girl situated. She'd tell Leo how she'd given up on life until he walked back in to hers.

* * * *

Leo draped an arm over Doris's slender hip, caressing her silken skin. He brushed a faint eyelash off her cheek and let his fingers drift across her lips. Her eyes still shut, she kissed his fingertips with red and swollen lips. He felt a surge of regret. Had he kissed her that hard? A roll of thunder distracted him. The storm that threatened would break soon.

“We should get dressed,” he said.

Her eyelids fluttered open. Her lips parted as if to speak, but instead she only nodded in agreement. He couldn't yet bear to move, and lay there a few minutes more, intoxicated in her scent and closeness and brush of skin on skin. Making love with Doris had been heady stuff. But with a wayward daughter he'd never met running around in the woods, lying around naked with Doris all day didn't seem such a bright idea. He dropped a kiss on Doris's smooth shoulder and grinned. The risk had been well worth it.

He stood, stretched, then gathered their clothes up off the floor, handing Doris hers. She headed to the bathroom while he finished dressing in her room. He tugged the quilt in place on the bed and went downstairs to wait for Doris. Once Veronica came back, he'd contact the girl's father and get her situated. But before then, he and Doris needed to talk.

Doris hadn't answered him fully when he'd asked her about the photographs and mementos of him in the attic room. She'd mumbled something about him being the baby's father, but he didn't buy that as an excuse. Those clippings and photos of him told a different story.

Doris had loved him once, and he aimed to find out if she still did.

He heard a commotion on the stairs behind him and turned in time to see Doris stumble down the remaining steps.

“Ow,” she said, swiping a hand at her knee. She'd dressed in jeans, faded and threadbare from being worn for years, and an emerald green henley T-shirt that hugged her curvaceous breasts. Her shoulder blades poked at the soft fabric. The fabric over her knee had spilt and was now tinged in red.

“Damn. I skinned the other knee on the same loose step.”

“At least you match now,” he said, chuckling. She eased out a smile.

He motioned for her to sit on the couch, then hunted up a Band-Aid and spray antiseptic. He knelt before her, bandaging her up, then motioned for her to make room for him on the couch.

“Should we be worried about Veronica wandering alone out there?” she asked. Her fingers slid between his as she took his hand in hers. The simple act of holding her hand sent a thrill down his spine. Her cheek pressed against his bicep and brought warmth to his heart.

“Yeah, probably,” he said, turning to pull her into his arms. He looked at her and smiled. Her eyes glittered, lit by an emerald fire that tore straight through his chest and into his heart.

A flash of brilliant light shot through the room and their connected gaze broke. Both Leo and Doris held their breath, mentally counting, the way they used to as kids, trying to judge how far off the storm was. Five seconds later a booming clap of thunder sounded, rattling the house.

“Only five seconds. And loud.” Doris's eyes held worry.

He smoothed Doris's silken hair, steadying her. “Counting seconds isn't exactly scientifically correct, but that storm is definitely moving in.”

Their conversation would have to wait. The white, puffy clouds that had billowed so sweetly in the horizon earlier that morning had swung over Quartzton. Lightning sliced through the sky again, and the searing sound of thunder had Doris close to jumping in his arms. She looked at him, wide-eyed and pupils dilated. He knew her thought: Veronica needed to get inside, out of the building storm. “I know” he said, squeezing her forearms in reassurance. “No more waiting for her to get back. I'll go out and look for her.”

“Thank you,” she whispered and kissed him, soft and sweet, her lips trembling under his.

He'd slanted his mouth and deepened the kiss when the doorbell sounded.

Doris tore her lips from his, exclaiming, “Veronica,” then ran to the door. He took a moment to tuck his shirt into his jeans. No sense in having his first meeting with the girl be with him looking like he'd just crawled out of a bedroom. He heard Doris pull open the creaking front door as thunder crashed again.

“Oh,” he heard her say in a voice that sounded dead and empty. “You're the last person I thought I'd see at my door.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Seventeen

Veronica cowered, covering her ears with her hands as a blast of thunder shook the earth around her. Once again, she'd made a mistake. A gigantic, colossal mistake. She hadn't thought when she ran out of Doris Macon's house. Just got all wrapped up in one of her hissy fits, like her dad accused her of always doing, and ran. Right down some stupid rocky creek, straight toward the lightning storm of the century.

The idea of going to Suicide Rock and throwing herself off the granite face had seemed so perfectly tragic. Everyone at school would cry at her funeral and would talk about how—out of despair when her birth parents had rejected her—she'd thrown herself off the very cliff where she'd been conceived.

What had been such a beautifully tragic story an hour ago now seemed incredibly stupid. Especially since there was lightning coming down all around her and she was standing in the middle of a creek. She'd paid attention enough in freshman science to know that water plus electricity equaled something very, very bad.

Lightning flashed before her, snaking its way down to the earth like a malevolent silver sword. The pattern, so bright, burned into her eyes. She saw an offshoot arc away from the bolt and spear a large, dead tree on the hill beside her. The lightning bolt disappeared as fast as it had arrived, but then the tree seemed to shift in her line of sight. She blinked, not sure if her eyes had been injured by the blast of white, but the tree kept shifting and shifting until she realized her eyes weren't playing a game on her but that the tree was falling.

Straight toward her.

She screamed and stumbled backward, sloshing through the calf-high creek, not sure in which direction to run. The earth-shaking “whumph” the tree made as it hit the earth sent another scream through her throat, then a sob of relief. The tree had landed nowhere hear her—she was safe.

At least for now. Panic bubbled up inside, triggering tears and sobs. “Daddy,” she cried out, not knowing she'd said the word until she heard the sound of her own voice screaming over the whipping of the dry and cracking wind.

She wanted her father—needed him. But he was all the way in Tallahassee. Too far to save her. If she died out here today it would kill him, she thought. She couldn't do that to him—couldn't die. She loved him too much. And he loved her.

“Dream Child,” he'd called her. After her mother died, he'd rock her to sleep in his arms every night, telling her the same story, the one about how he and her mom had woken up one morning, each having had the same dream: a dream about a little redheaded girl becoming their daughter. And as if like magic, they'd found her.

She wanted her dad. She wanted to go home.

She pulled the phone out of her back pocket. No service. Duh. What had she expected out in the boonies? Hiccupy sobs started but she swallowed hard. With the world collapsing around her, she needed to focus if she was going to get back to her dad. At least she knew the way back to Doris Macon's house—all she had to do was follow the creek upstream. She took a few deep breaths to calm her racing pulse, and sloshed her way to the creek bank. She crawled out and headed upstream.

Three strikes of lightning hit all around her, one after another, cracking and hissing and sending her hair snapping in the air as it filled with static electricity. She screamed, stumbling, then screamed again when she felt a mind-numbing, intense pain explode in her leg.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Eighteen

Leo narrowed his eyes at the impeccably dressed man, with hair long gone to pewter and matching grey eyes, who stood in the doorway. His stance, arms crossed over his chest, legs planted wide, sent a charge of anger through Leo. Arrogant bastard. Leo crossed his arms in response.

“What are you doing here, Fergus?” Doris's voice had lost its strength.

“I couldn't get you on your cell,” the man answered, not moving toward Doris. “I was worried, so I flew out to get you. But I see you have company.” The man nodded to Leo, who resisted the urge to grab him by his thousand-dollar shirt and toss him off the porch. He knew who this man was. What he couldn't figure out was why the hell Doris would want to marry a man who didn't even attempt a kiss, much less a hug, when he saw her.

“I'm Fergus McMannus, Doris's fiance. And you are?” The man—Doris's fiance, Leo reminded himself—stepped forward into the house, hand extended far before him, and walked straight toward Leo, not waiting to be invited inside.

What a jackass, Leo thought. The man had been inside the house for a fraction of a second and was already attempting to position himself as top dog. Leo snapped his gaze to Doris, who stood motionless, her mouth slightly agape and her eyes trained on Fergus.

With Doris standing there looking thunderstruck, he had little choice but to shake the man's hand and introduce himself. “I'm Leo Savage. I'm Doris's—”

He struggled to come up with a definition. Doris's old boyfriend? The father of her child? Her current lover? He looked to Doris. What did she expect him to say?

“Leo's an old friend of mine from way, way back,” Doris said smoothly as she crossed the room.

“You've skinned your knee,” the man said, staring at Doris's legs, a frown etched across his forehead. Doris's eyelids fluttered, then she held her eyes closed. Her nostrils flared. When had Doris become so complacent?

Fergus wrapped an arm around Doris's waist and pulled her close. Leo's stomach curled, then tightened even more when the man spread his hand wide and thumbed the bottom of Doris's breast. And she let him.

What the hell? Pinpricks of red flashed before Leo's eyes. Two minutes ago Doris had been all over him. Had most likely been ready to admit she was in love with him. Now she was letting some pansy-assed rich guy who got mad at her when she cut her knee fondle her boobs in front of him?

“He heard I was in town and stopped by to say hello,” Doris added nervously.

Fine. He ground his jaw shut. If that's the way she wanted to play the game, fine by him. “Yeah,” he said, tamping down the anger raging inside. “That's right. Plus, I heard Doris was selling the old place so I thought I'd come by and check it out.”

Fergus's eyes narrowed. “You're thinking of buying this place?”

“Yeah,” Leo said.

“You are?” Doris asked quickly, her voice rising.

Leo flicked a look at her. Her eyes, dulled by Fergus's arrival, were now glittering and wide. She looked hopeful. Did she want him to buy her house? He tried to read her expression but couldn't see past the shadows. He stuck his thumbs in his belt loops and leaned back against the wall, forcing himself to show a nonchalance he didn't feel. “Yep,” he answered. “I am.”

“Why? This place is a dump,” Fergus said, his words harsh with condescension.

Leo could see the light fade from Doris's eyes. His anger waned, tempered by a twist of compassion. “This was Dee's childhood home,” he said, a low warning in his tone. He kept his eyes trained on Doris. “Holds a lot of memories for her, both good and bad. I doubt she'd like to hear the place referred to as a ‘dump.'”

Doris's expression lightened. He flashed her a smile, one she didn't return. Her body stood rigid and curved in, as if Fergus's arm wrapped around her waist was a chain.

Lightning flashed again. Leo watched as Doris snapped her eyes shut and mouthed the words, “one, two,” before the roll of thunder hit with a sonorous boom. Her eyelids flew open. She stared at Leo with an expression of fear.

Veronica. She was worried about their daughter out there, facing an impending lightning storm. As was he. “I'll go—”

“Run that errand you were talking about?” Doris interrupted him, rolling her eyes toward Fergus.

So the topic of Veronica was off limits around Doris's fiance. Had she not told the man she had a long-lost daughter come to find her? Was she ashamed of her past?

He narrowed his eyes, a thought nudging at the corners of his mind. Was this fiance of hers the reason Doris hadn't wanted anything to do with their daughter?

Apparently finished with him, Fergus turned his back and slid his hands over Doris's arms, saying, “We should go, darling. Lars has the plane waiting at your quaint little airport, ready for me to take you home.”

Behind the man's back, Leo tilted his head to the side, a non-verbal question for Doris. Could she be planning on returning with Fergus? Or would she stay in Quartzton with him? Would she wait for him to return with their daughter, making sure the girl came back safe and sound?

Doris dropped her gaze to the floor, avoiding his eyes.

He kicked off the wall and pushed past the couple, heading toward the kitchen where his wallet and keys sat on the countertop. He controlled the urge to slam his fist into the wall. Doris had made her choice, and she hadn't chosen him. Or their kid.

Though, as angry as he was, he could hardly blame her. On one hand she had a rich, highly respected man offering her a lifetime of rubbing elbows with the social elite, and on the other hand, a man whose only claim to fame was a fifteen-thousand-dollar motorcycle and a few commendations for heroic action.

Behind him, he could hear Doris and that guy murmuring, words like “two-engine” and “pilot” scattered throughout their conversation.

He couldn't give Doris what a life with Fergus offered. Hell, he didn't even have a home. He lived off the back of a BMW motorcycle, for chrissake, chasing forest fires, not in some fancy mansion on the California coast, rolling in dough.

His gut twisted. He'd been serious, though, about applying for the firefighter position opening up in Quartzton. Serious about buying 35 Nightingale Lane. Serious about Doris and the life they could have. Serious about loving her. But he wouldn't tell her now. She'd made her choice and he'd let her go.

At least this time Doris had been allowed to choose her own path, he thought, unlike before when Karen had made all the choices for her. And for him.

He swiped his keys off the counter, shoved his wallet in his back pocket, and walked back to the living room. Sometimes love just wasn't enough.

“Will you be back? After you...” Doris nibbled her lower lip. “After you find who you're looking for?”

Tight-lipped, he shook his head in the negative, striding to the door without casting a single glance back at Doris, not bothering to answer her question. He'd head down Trout Creek, find Veronica, and take her back to the B&B and call Justin Coombs from there. And he'd leave Doris the hell alone.

* * * *

The front door, left open when Leo had stormed off, slammed against the wall, pushed in by the growing wind. With it, the wind brought the scent of smoke. A forest fire, Doris realized. The smoke most likely came from the fire in the El Dorado National Forest, the one Trish had told her about. With winds this heavy, smoke could travel for miles. She hoped Veronica didn't have asthma.

With a start, she realized she didn't know anything about the girl to whom she'd given birth. The baby girl she'd carried for nine months and known for a day, that girl she knew. But this teenaged mirror image of herself was a stranger. She blew out a long breath and sank into the easy chair, thankful for the leather arms surrounding her. She knew Fergus was staring at her, but she couldn't bring herself to look him in the eye.

She was pissed, but she couldn't blame him for showing up this way, out of the blue and unannounced. After all, the note she'd left behind had been curt, simply stating that there'd been a problem with readying the house for sale that she needed to deal with in person. Her note said she hadn't wanted to disturb him during his “encounter” with Tracy, and for him not to worry, that she'd return soon.

“You know, I was worried about you. I tried your cell, but it went straight to voice mail.”

She nodded. “Because of the rugged terrain, cell service in Quartzton can be splotchy. I never could get good reception here.”

“I'd like us to get out of here, and soon. That smoke is wreaking havoc on my lungs.” Fergus sniffed the air.

“There's a forest fire about thirty miles from here.”

Fergus stopped pacing to stare at her. “Is it dangerous?”

“If you're in the path of the fire, sure. Deadly.” Adrenaline surged, sending a frisson of fear up her spine. Leo went out in those fire storms all the time. She'd kept track of him over the years, watching as he made his way from working as a summer hire to managing several hotshot crews. She'd tracked him from address to address, too, chiding herself each time she plugged his name into the search engine.

She knew Leo had been angry with her earlier, when she hadn't told Fergus about Veronica. When she hadn't taken a stand and told Fergus she couldn't marry him.

When she hadn't chosen Leo.

She was angry with herself, too. When she had opened the door earlier, thinking she'd be opening the door to Veronica, relief had flooded her. But upon seeing Fergus instead of Veronica, her inner core froze, then panic set in.

Fergus deserved an explanation—deserved to know the truth about Veronica, and about Leo—but he didn't deserve to have the truth thrown at him in front of Leo. Surely Leo understood that, right? She couldn't simply announce to the man she'd planned to marry that she had a daughter she'd given up for adoption fourteen years earlier, who'd tracked her down to the address in Quartzton, had run away to find her, only to run away again when Doris had blown their introduction. And that in learning about her daughter, she'd learned something new about the one man she'd always loved. That he'd loved her back.

And she'd realized she couldn't live a life without love.

For all his faults, Fergus wasn't a bad man. He deserved a hell of a lot more respect than to have her dump all that on his lap in front of the man for whom she'd planned to toss him over.

But Leo had left angry, and hadn't seemed to understand the furtive gesturing she'd attempted. She sighed. She'd have to wait for Leo to return and explain everything. In the meantime, she needed to tell Fergus the truth.

She held her hands in her lap. Now, she mentally whispered. Tell him now. But the thoughts in her mind seemed to drift about, flitting from one corner to the other. She couldn't focus and the room went a little blurry. When had she last eaten?

“Dorienne,” Fergus said, coming to stand before her, his arm outstretched, waiting for her to take his hand in hers. “With the way this wind's picking up, we won't be able to get the plane off the runway soon. We need to hurry.” She struggled to get up off the couch.

“No one's flying anywhere,” a soft voice called from the front porch.

Trish? Doris swung her head around, then grew dizzy at the motion.

Fergus looked from Trish to Doris, channels cutting horizontally across his furrowed brow. “Yet another friend from way, way back?” he asked, his tone sharp.

“Realtor. She's my...” The room swirled, going grey before her eyes.

“I'm her friend,” Trish said, stepping into the room, carrying a worried expression on her face. A hulk of a man walked in behind her.

George? Trish's husband? What was he doing here? Why had Trish introduced herself as her friend, not as her Realtor? Doris grew more dizzy, the edges of the room blurring around her.

“Doris, what's wrong?” Trish asked.

“I'm—” Doris struggled to speak. There were snowflakes on Trish's clothes, and on George's clothes too. Tiny little grey-white snowflakes that weren't melting. How odd. It was the middle of summer. There shouldn't be snow.

“What do you mean, no one's flying anywhere?” Fergus interrupted.

“I'm just—” Doris said, the world growing darker.

Fergus placed his hands on his hips and widened his stance, standing in front of Doris. “You need to explain yourself. Is there a problem with the airport?”

“Oh, zip it,” Trish snapped, pushing an astonished Fergus aside. “Doris, when's the last time you ate?” She bent to kneel at Doris's feet.

“Um...” Doris worked to get her brain from feeling like mush. “I had coffee this morning. With loads of Christmas Cookie creamer.”

“You had creamer?” Fergus asked.

Doris didn't miss Trish shooting Fergus a tight-lipped glance before turning her attention back to Doris. “Before then?”

“Yesterday. Lunch, I think. I had a salad, no dressing. No croutons. Water with a lemon wedge.”

Trish squeezed Doris's knees and stood up. “I have a protein bar out in the car. I'll get that for you.”

“How many grams of fat are in that bar?” Fergus asked.

Trish whipped around and shot him a glare that would melt paint off walls. She slammed a hand on her hip, then jabbed a finger at Doris. “You have a starving woman here and you're counting fat grams?” She turned to Doris, anger written all over her face. “Who the hell is this jerk anyway?”

“He's my ... my...” My ex-fiance, was what Doris wanted to say, but instead the dizzy feeling in her head became problematic and she couldn't get the words out over the roar in her ears. She saw the floor rush up toward her, and the world went blissfully blank.

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Nineteen

“Shit,” Leo muttered, then let loose with a flurry of additional expletives as he slid down a slick bank of mud on the side of Trout Creek. He'd been hiking for almost an hour now, and still hadn't come across Veronica.

But he'd seen plenty of evidence she'd left behind. Footprints on the sandy banks, broken branches, slide marks like he'd just made on the banks—all told him he was on the right track. And since all the footprints faced downstream, he felt certain she hadn't come back this way as of yet. With the thick underbrush nearly impenetrable on either side of Trout Creek, he doubted Veronica would attempt to leave the creek bed. All he had to do was keep trudging forward and he'd find the girl.

He ran a forearm across his brow, wiping off the sweat. The lightning ceased to crackle around him but the air hung heavy and humid and hot. He bet the girl was regretting her impetuous dash out the door and down the creek now. Would he be relieved to see her? Or angry, like a real parent, for scaring him and Doris by taking off during a thunderstorm?

The air shifted, the breeze cooling the sweat on his skin, but carrying on it the acrid scent of smoke. Probably from the wildfire the next county over, he assumed. He picked up his pace, sloshing though the creek, churning up mud as he went. As he rounded a bend, the smoke thickened, and with the smoke came the soft fall of ash.

Worry twisted in his gut. He'd been in enough burning forests to know the signs. The lightning had sparked a new fire, and judging by the thickness of the smoke and ash, the fire must be close. But how close? He left the creek bed to scrabble up a steep rocky slope, slipping on the sharp slabs of shale until he reached the hill's summit. He scanned the horizon.

What he saw made his heart about jump out of his chest. There, not a half-mile upriver, flames enveloped the entire north face of the canyon. And with the wind blowing due south, flames were licking their way through the underbrush toward the confluence of the river. Toward Suicide Rock ... and Veronica.

* * * *

Doris indulged in the heady scent and taste of chocolate, peanuts and caramel. How many years had it been since she'd eaten a Snickers bar? Chocolate flooded her taste buds and she moaned. Too many.

“Good?” Trish's question came with a cocked eyebrow and a nod toward the candy bar.

“Mmm...” she murmured, popping the remaining bite in her mouth, feeling warmth rush back into her veins as the much-needed sugar rush hit. Who cared about fat grams and calories? She'd counted each and every calorie that had entered her body for far too long. Denied herself the simple pleasures of ice cream, candy bars, even popcorn, always afraid of gaining half, or even quarter, of a pound.

She'd prided herself on maintaining her post-pregnancy weight even into her late twenties. And for what? To gain a perfect husband? To be the envy of rich women who had nothing better to do than throw money around?

She chewed, swallowed, then said to Trish, “I don't get why you're here. And George.”

“If you're here to visit Dorienne,” Fergus interrupted, “I'm afraid you'll have to come back another time. She and I have a plane to catch.”

“Like my wife said,” George interjected, “the airport's closed.”

Fergus frowned. “I don't understand. The damn thing was open an hour ago when my pilot landed the plane.”

“You were here an hour ago?” Doris asked. The carbohydrates from the candy bar had freed her mind from the blur and fog, but Fergus's statement sent her mind back into a confused whirl. If Fergus had arrived in Quartzton an hour ago, why had he not come to 35 Nightingale Lane earlier? “What took you so long to get to my place?” she asked.

Fergus crossed his hands over his chest. “It took forever for my assistant to find a rental car. Seems like your name has a bit of pull here, though,” he said, sending a brittle smile Doris's way. “One mention of your name and a car showed up five minutes later.”

“But...” Doris grew more confused. “There isn't a car rental company in town.”

Fergus shrugged. “Sure there is. I have a Lexus outside.”

“A Lexus?” George interrupted. At Fergus's nod, he asked, “Does the license plate read ‘I Heart Kids?'”

“Why?” Fergus snapped his attention to the man.

Trish and George both chuckled. “That's not a rental,” George said, “that's a loan. Dr. Andrew, the town pediatrician, loaned you his car. The whole town was probably scrabbling around, trying to locate an extra car for Doris Macon's fiance, who inconveniently forgot to bring one of his own.”

Fergus's mouth slacked open, then his jaw slammed shut. He turned back to Doris and cleared his throat. “I'll have to repay him later. But for now, we're leaving.”

“Not unless you want to drive Dr. Andrew's car out of here, you're not,” Trish said. “Like I said, the airport's closed.”

“But why?” Fergus asked, impatient.

“The county always closes the airport when they need the airstrip for the airtankers,” Trish said. “Emergency use only.”

Doris struggled to sit up, concern beginning to build. “Are the tankers being used to fight the fire in the El Dorado National Forest? Did it grow? Is it moving closer?”

“No,” Trish answered, turning to her. “Lightning strikes caused another fire. That's why we're here. I couldn't get you on your cell. The town may be evacuated if the fire continues to spread at its current rate.”

A sudden understanding washed over her. The thick smoke outside her window, the heavy ash fall coating Trish and George. “Where's the fire?” she asked, dully, somehow knowing already.

“At the confluence of Trout Creek and Maidu River. Just above Suicide Rock,” George said.

Doris shot up, a hand clutched to her stomach. “Oh, God, Trish,” she said, clutching the other woman's arm. “They're out there.” She couldn't control her panic. Every instinct inside her screamed loudly. They needed her, the man she loved and the daughter she'd once had.

She drew in a gulp of air. “About two hours ago Veronica showed up. I handled things poorly and she tore out of here. She's headed toward Suicide Rock, and Leo went to go get her. They're in the path of the fire. We have to do something!”

* * * *

The whole bottom half of Veronica's leg felt like it was going to fall off any minute. Every time she hit her foot on some stupid rock or tree root, the mind-numbing pain made her want to puke. The gnarled old tree limb she'd found to use as a crutch hurt her armpit. But still she struggled upstream.

Like some stupid salmon, she thought. Only she wasn't beating herself up to get upstream, lay eggs, and die. No, her battle to get upstream was so she could live.

The smoke made breathing one heck of a chore. She'd dipped her Rolling Stones T-shirt in the creek water and stuck her nose and mouth under the neckband, which helped purify the air a little. Her lungs didn't burn quite as badly with each breath, but everything stank like a wet ashtray.

In front of her a doe and a spotted fawn crashed through the underbrush. They reached the stream and did the same thing she was doing—used the creek as a road to safety. Veronica watched the white deer butts disappear around a bend in the creek and started crying.

She couldn't help it. She wanted her dad. Justin Coombs loved her. He really, really loved her. And her stepmom, Anna, did too, even though Anna could be totally hard-nosed, denying Veronica sleepovers if her homework wasn't finished, or making her clean the bathroom or do the dishes. But Anna had always been there for her even when she hadn't wanted the company. Like a real stepmom.

Veronica sobbed harder, regret squeezing her chest until she thought she would implode from the pressure.

If she got out of this alive she'd be a perfect daughter. She'd never drink alcohol; never let a boy touch her boobs. She'd do the dishes every night without being asked. She'd never run away again.

She stumbled and fell forward, her hair sliding down over her shoulders to dangle on either side of her face, the ends dragging in the water of the creek. She hunched there, frozen with pain, her attention caught by the reflection in the pool of water. She caught her breath, amazed at how she looked exactly like her birth mother—like Doris Macon. A low, keening sound surprised her until she realized the sound came from within her. With the sound came a sense of resolve, of strength. She had to get herself out of this mess. She had a birth father to meet, a birth mother to apologize to. A baby sister to welcome into the world. A family waiting for her.

She'd survive. She had to.

* * * *

Doris heard the hysteria laced through her voice, felt fear bubbling up in her chest—fear laced with guilt. She'd been the one who run Veronica off, the one who'd sat in silence, letting Leo walk off to rescue their daughter.

“Who's Veronica?” Fergus asked.

“Are you sure about when she left?” Trish cut Fergus off.

“Yes...” Doris tapped her forehead. Her mind had gone fuzzy again. Think. Think. “I know Veronica left about two hours ago, because she and I were standing in the kitchen talking and I had glanced at my watch, wondering what was keeping Leo. When he got here, we thought—” She choked, but then forced the words out. “We thought she'd be back after she'd had time to cool herself off.” Tears welled in her eyes but she went on, saying, “When we heard the lightning so close, Leo decided to go look for her. He took off a little before you two arrived.”

George whipped out a cell phone, punched in a few numbers, and backed away into the corner, speaking softly.

“I asked a question,” Fergus stated.

Doris clutched at Trish's outstretched hands. “How...” She paused. “How did you know about Veronica?” she asked in a small voice.

“Leo told George this morning when they were getting coffee at Cuppa Joe. Elaine, the waitress—you remember Elaine Jerlowski? She ended up in detention with us a few times.” At Doris's nod, Trish continued. “Anyway, Elaine called about an hour ago and told me everything.”

Doris sunk back in the leather chair. “The whole town probably knows now.” She curled her arms around her belly. “Doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is that she comes back safe.”

“Who will come back safe?” Fergus asked.

“He'll find her, Doris.” Trish's soft voice soothed Doris. “I promise. She'll come back to you safe and sound.”

Fergus smacked his hand against the brick fireplace, pulling the attention to him. “Will someone please tell me who this Veronica is and why her whereabouts are so important? If there's a fire we need to leave, Dorienne. Not wait for some friend of yours who took off in a snit.”

Doris stood, her legs trembling but her resolve firm. “Veronica's not my friend, Fergus.” She paused and sucked in a huge breath. Enough of the half-truths, enough of hiding from the past, she thought. Enough of the life she'd forged for herself but no longer wanted to live. Enough of being Dorienne Maçon.

Enough of pretending.

She twisted the ten-carat canary yellow diamond ring off her finger and said, “I can't do this anymore, Fergus. I can't be who I thought I wanted to be—who you wanted me to be. My name's not Dorienne Maçon, it's Doris. Doris Macon.” She held the ring out to Fergus. “And Veronica is my daughter.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twenty

Twenty minutes later, Doris stared around her living room in a daze, amazed at all the people thronging her house. One phone call from George had been all it took to organize a search-and-rescue party for Veronica and Leo.

After that phone call, Doris's house had filled with volunteers and her kitchen table groaned under the weight of food and drinks—bagels and cream cheese brought by Beth Tully from Tully's Bakery, a turkey casserole from her next-door neighbor Mrs. Hertz's freezer, and three cases of sodas from Mike Blanchard, the owner of La Reynard, who Doris vaguely remembered as being another compatriot in detention.

Before her house had started to fill with food and people, she'd taken Fergus aside and apologized for publicly breaking up with him.

Fergus had been more than a little peeved that he'd flown all the way to Quartzton only to be jilted and told he'd have to either wait forty-eight hours until his twin-engine plane was released to leave the Quartzton airport, or take a Greyhound bus back to what he called a “real” town where he could rent a “real” car.

“I told you when I proposed that I didn't want any sentimentality in the marriage. Your heart is open, Doris, wide open. The life we were building"—he shook his head—"it won't work for you. You can't pretend a life when you have a real one waiting for you.”

He'd turned away from her then, gluing his cell phone to his ear.

The front door swung open again. Doris flashed her gaze to the door, her heart leaping into her throat the way it had each and every time the door opened over the last half-hour. She blew out a breath, deflated. Not Veronica or Leo, but Mrs. Schuyler, her swim coach from years back, with a lanky teenage girl at her side.

“Dee,” Mrs. Schuyler greeted her with a warm hug. “We came as soon as we heard. Cathy, my granddaughter,” she gestured to the girl, who smiled shyly at Doris, “brought some of her clothes for your daughter to change into in case she needs them. Here,” she said, pressing a bag into Doris's hands.

Doris stared at the brown grocery bag in her hands, unable to form words. Next to her, Trish placed a hand on her shoulder.

“Trish,” Doris whispered, casting a furtive glance around her house, “why are all these people here? Are these Leo's friends?”

“This is Quartzton, Doris. They're here for you. And Leo and Veronica.”

“But ... but nobody liked me. I'm the one who got knocked up in high school. I had a huge chip on my shoulder and I let the world know it. I once even stapled someone's bra to a post.” She'd taken her anger at Leo out on others, lashing out in pain. Friends had been few and far between. “Besides the fact that I have the reputation of being the town slut,” she added.

“Quartzton might not change much, but most people here are willing to forgive mistakes,” Trish said, quietly. “High school was a long time ago. We've all moved on. Maybe it's time you did too.”

She'd already started moving on, Doris realized. Opening her heart to Leo had been her first step. Walking away from her life with Fergus had been the second. Now, if only Leo would return with Veronica, she could take the third step toward moving on: letting Veronica know how she really felt.

* * * *

“God, you're heavy,” Leo grumbled as he fought to gain footing up the slick banks of Trout Creek. After carrying Veronica in his arms for more than a half-mile through the rugged terrain, his arms screamed in their sockets.

Wrapped up tight in his arms, Veronica snorted. “Some hero you are, complaining about my weight. Here I had visions of my birth father, all dressed in his firefighting outfit, dashing through the flames to rescue me, and instead I got you, all cranky and lecturing. You aren't even wearing a firefighter's hat.”

He pretended to drop her and she squealed. “Your dad told me you could be a dramatic pill.”

Her expression sobered. “Is my dad okay? Is he mad at me?”

“Yes to both,” he answered. “You have a lot to answer for. If it were up to me, I'd ground you until you turned forty-five.”

Veronica sniffled. “I'm so sorry. I never meant to hurt anyone. I just thought Doris didn't want me, and that you didn't either. That nobody loved me. So I took off.”

“She loves you,” he said, his voice soft.

“Yeah, right,” Veronica scoffed. “Got proof? ‘Cause I sure didn't feel any love when I met her.”

Leo bent low and broke through some underbrush. Ahead stood 35 Nightingale Lane. “I have proof,” he murmured. “Just wait.”

A few more steps brought him to the front porch, then inside. He stood in the doorway, Veronica in his arms, surprised to see Dee's house crowded with familiar faces. A cheer went around the room when they were spotted. Apparently Quartzton had found out about Veronica and had shown up in full force to help. He recognized the sheriff, a couple of teachers from school, the postmistress ... He glanced around, looking for one face in particular.

He found her standing in the corner of the living room, her hands clutched tightly together. At her side stood Fergus. So the prick hadn't yet left. He dropped his gaze, unwilling to meet Dee's eyes.

“Is she hurt?” Doris asked, her voice sounding high and unnatural.

“I shattered my leg.” Veronica tightened her death grip on Leo's neck.

“I think she may have sprained her ankle,” he said. “Here, kiddo, let's put you down. You can hobble just fine.”

Veronica grumbled, then coughed as Leo eased her to the ground.

Dee drew in an audible breath. “Shouldn't we get her to the hospital?”

Leo flashed her a glance. Her wide eyes were on Veronica; she didn't meet his gaze. Fergus moved closer to Dee and placed a hand on her shoulder, and she let him. He felt an ache in his chest, then a surge of anger.

The hell with her. If Doris wanted to stick with Fergus, wanted live a life of luxury, so be it. He was done. Done with putting his heart out there for a woman who may have once been his best friend, but who had long since grown a wall of ice over her heart. The fire that had lived in her heart had been extinguished years ago. She'd never thaw.

* * * *

Thoughts and emotions tangled with each other in Doris's heart and mind. She yearned to leap forward and throw her arms around Veronica, but the girl wouldn't stop glaring at her. She wanted to feel Leo's arms around her, his mouth on hers, but Leo's eyes seemed so harsh, so cold.

“We'll get her to the hospital, don't worry. And soon. But since she's not in any immediate danger. I think,” Leo said, his eyes warming, making the pressure in Doris's chest released a fraction, “that since she can handle the pain in her leg, there's something in the attic she needs to see.”

“Now?” Doris asked, hope and confusion rising in her chest.

“Now,” he said quietly. “She needs to know what she ran from earlier. She needs to know who she was to you for all those years.”

Veronica grumbled but hopped on one foot to the stairwell. There, Leo swept her up in his arms again and lumbered heavily up the stairs, Doris close on his heels, her heart in her throat.

At the landing, Doris heard a noise, and turned to the dormer window. Raindrops were gently pattering against the windowpane. A second later, the sky opened and a deluge of rain poured down, sending rivulets of water cascading down the window, and sending a faint smile across Doris's face.

“That'll stop the forest fire, won't it?” Veronica asked.

“Yup,” Leo said. “Glad the rain waited until I got you in the house, though. Don't know if my arms could take you sopping wet.” He continued up the stairs, pretending to drop Veronica, who giggled.

When Leo set Veronica down on the attic floor and turned on the light in the closet, the girl gasped. She hopped a few feet into the middle of the tight space and turned around, her eyes wandering all over the walls, falling on the cradle with the baby blanket, pink cap, and identification bracelet.

She looked at Doris, a question in her eyes. “Were these mine?” she asked.

Doris bit her lip and tipped her head in acquiescence.

“Oh...” Veronica whispered. She fingered the baby blanket, held the bracelet up to the light. “You did love me,” the girl said, her eyes welling up with tears. “Leo said you both wanted me, but I didn't believe him.” She turned to Doris, tears now streaming down her face. “He told me how you two were like Romeo and Juliet—your families were fighting and you weren't allowed to see each other. And how you sneaked around behind their backs and ended up making me.”

Doris couldn't trust her voice not to crack, emotion heavy in the back of her throat.

“He said you both wanted to keep me but that fate got in the way. Well, he said ‘crap,’ but I like ‘fate’ better. It sounds so romantic.” Veronica flashed a look at Doris, who gazed helplessly in the emerald-green eyes so like her own, but filled with confusion.

Doris spoke, the words stifled by the tears clogging her throat. “We wanted you. We loved you very much. We always have, both of us, in our own ways.”

They had, she realized. She'd stuffed her love for their baby into a tight little closet, sealing off the rest of her life from the intensity of love and loss.

And Leo—she cast a glance at the man she'd fallen in love with when he'd been a boy. He stood with his back against the wall, one foot cocked over the other, thumbs tucked into his belt loops, smiling at their daughter with a look of love. Leo had opened himself up to their daughter the minute she needed him. He had dumped everything in his life to be there for her.

“You know,” Veronica said softly, tracing a finger over the lettering on the wall, “besides the whole genetics thing, it looks there's always been a piece of you with me.”

“What do you mean?” Doris asked. She gazed at Veronica, a girl so much like her, but so different and unique. A girl who had been loved by so many, all her life, whether she'd known it or not.

Veronica flashed her an open, glittery-eyed smile, full of life and love and promise. She pointed to the word painted on the wall next to her and said, “My middle name is Hope.”

[Back to Table of Contents]

Chapter Twenty-One

The next few days were a flurry of activity. Veronica had spent the night in the hospital, under observation. She'd indeed suffered a bad sprain to her ankle. Because of the smoke inhalation, the doctor had told her to rest her lungs—advice she promptly ignored the minute she was handed a cell phone, calling a “gazillion” friends.

Apparently stealing a car, running halfway across the country, almost getting smashed by a tree felled by lightning, and nearly burning alive in a forest fire on her quest to find her birth parents made for one heck of a teenager's fascinating tale.

Justin Coombs had arranged to meet Veronica, Leo, and Dee back in Denver. Fergus, probably pressured by the group of Quartzton natives in Doris's living room, had offered his private plane and pilot to Doris and Leo. They'd accompanied Veronica home to Colorado the next day, handing her off to a grateful, though furious, Justin and terribly worried and thoroughly pregnant Anna.

They'd stayed overnight at the Coombs's home, testing the waters between all five of them. Justin and Anna impressed Doris with how they handled a willful and dramatic Veronica. Doris had been pleased and relieved to learn how much Justin and his first wife had longed for Veronica, how grateful they'd been to her and Leo for giving them the ultimate gift: a gift of life—Veronica Hope Coombs.

Justin had also unknowingly given Doris an additional gift—the knowledge that at least some of the money Karen had taken had indeed gone to medical bills. That Karen had spent the rest on Doris's college education had pleased Justin, a college professor himself. Doris had been able to forgive her mother somewhat for the decisions she'd made. Leo had been right: Karen, in her inept way, had tried to be a good mother to Doris.

Yet during the visit to the hospital, the trip to and from the Coombs's, the long hours spent together, Leo said barely a word to Doris.

Her heart ached, both with the new sensation of opening herself to the vulnerability of love and loss by allowing Veronica into her life, but also with the pain of losing Leo all over again. What they'd shared together had been profound, but it had also been fleeting, Doris realized.

After saying goodbye to Leo on the tarmac of the Quartzton airport, Doris had gone home to 35 Nightingale Lane and tucked herself into bed, indulging in a long and gut-wrenching cry. She had awoken refreshed and almost hopeful, even as her heart twisted inside.

She shoved the sleeves of her cotton dress up her arms and leaned her elbows against the countertop in a familiar stance, staring out the window to the back yard. The scent of percolating coffee and a toasted bagel triggered her taste buds. Hope winged inside her, a feeling long dormant. But before she could begin her life anew, wandering down whatever path fate chose for her, no longer pretending, she needed to close the chapter of the book that held the first half of her life.

If Leo couldn't love her the way she loved him, she needed to let him go. But she hadn't a clue how.

She poured a steaming mug of coffee, liberally doused with Christmas Cookie creamer. Cupping the warmth in her hands, she stepped into the back yard, letting the screen door slam shut behind her with a long, piercing squeak. She put oiling the screen door hinges on her mental to-do list.

Drawn to the meadow, she followed the secret deer path, ducking under branches still dripping from the rain, sucking in deep breaths of crisp, clean air. At the meadow she placed the cup of coffee on a tree stump, then stood, face tilted up to the sun, arms outstretched.

“Praying to the sun god?”

Leo.

Her heart lurched, fear and longing doing battle within her. She'd come to the meadow to find solace, to dig up enough resolve to let him go. What was Leo doing invading her sanctuary? “Why the hell are you here?” she snapped, refusing to turn around.

He stepped closer and placed his hands on her shoulders. She jumped at the touch. “As I've said before, you do have quite a way of making me feel welcome,” he said. A smile touched the corner of his lips.

She forced the tension out of her body, her shoulders sagging under his touch. Her stomach quivered—fear, she recognized. But fear of what? Of rejection?

“I need to know, Leo,” she said, tucking her chin to her chest and wrapping her arms around her stomach. “Why are you here?”

Behind her he sighed, and let his hands slide down her arms, touching the tips of her fingers with his, curving his chest around her back. “I followed you.”

“But why?” she pressed.

“Because I'm a guy.”

She pulled away, turned, and faced him. He stood with a hip cocked to the side. She pulled a crooked smile. “Um ... I think we've already established that fact. A long time ago, if I recall. You showed me yours and I showed you mine out behind the preschool sandbox.”

He flashed a guarded grin and looked off in the distance over her shoulder. The green of his Oxford shirt matched the penetrating green of his eyes. He shoved one hand deep into the front pocket of his jeans. The other hand he ran lightly up her arm. But he still wouldn't hold her gaze, she noticed.

“I meant, I'm a guy and therefore a little clueless about my ... you know...”

“Your what?”

He cleared his throat. “Uh, my feelings.” He slid his other hand behind her neck, entwining his fingers in the long strands of her hair.

She melted a little, her hips swaying toward his. An unconscious reaction to his hands fiddling about at the back of her neck, maybe. Or to his breath, warm and sweet, filling the space between them. Was he playing a game with her? Tempting her with what she couldn't have?

“Leo—”

“Why'd you dump him?” he interrupted. He dropped his gaze to her throat.

“Fergus?” She blew out a long, slow breath. “Because it wasn't right between us. Because I was only pretending. Because I wasn't me with him.” Leo's hands stilled. She saw him stiffen.

“Because I love you,” she whispered, tears pricking at the back of her eyes. Because she always had, and always would.

But did he? Did Leo love her in return?

His gaze shifted but wouldn't meet hers. Her shoulders sagged as she slowly deflated.

Leo's hands moved then, sliding forward to cradle her face as he slanted his mouth over hers.

Like a lightning bolt left over from the storm days past, the kiss hit her with electric intensity. Her hands fisted against his chest, bunching his shirt. The heat of his mouth, of his tongue, against and in and on hers swept her up as if she were in a heady updraft of sensation.

Leo deepened the kiss and her knees went weak, threatening to buckle under her as she indulged in the taste that was pure Leo. One of his hands left her face to reach behind her. He pulled her hips to him, pressed her body firmly against his and held her there. A low hum sounded in the back of her throat and Leo responded by sweeping his tongue deep into her mouth.

Her knees buckled then and she slid, but Leo caught her and lowered her to the ground, following her descent with his own body.

It didn't matter that the meadow grass lay heavy with morning dew. Or that the ground gave way slightly, soaked by the torrential storm. Leo nudged her knees apart with one of his own, clasping his hand to the apex of her thighs, heedless of the mud and wet.

“We'll get all muddy,” she whispered.

“I don't give a flying fuck,” he answered in a growl. “I swear to God, Dee, if I can't have you right now...” He took her mouth in a bruising kiss.

Desire shot through her, profound and deep. She tore at his clothes, desperate to feel the heat of his body against hers. He sat up and ripped off his shirt, exposing his well-formed chest and abs. She felt herself go wet between her legs. With shaking hands she helped him pop open the fly to his jeans. Greedy, she held and sucked his cock as he struggled to rid himself of his jeans and boots. Once naked, Leo flipped her on top of him and shoved her dress up and over her hips, her belly, her head. With a growl he ripped her panties off, leaving her naked and alive on top of him.

She didn't wait. Couldn't wait. There was no finesse to their lovemaking. Only heat, passion, and the earth around them. She raised her hips and came down hard on his cock, impaling herself on the thick and full length that was Leo. As one they arched and rocked, Leo's hips slamming upward, her meeting his and angling to take him deeper, further inside.

With a growl he rocked them both over until she lay on her back underneath him. “God, I need you, Dee,” he growled in her ear. She spread her legs wide and took him, running her hands through the mud on his back. He pounded into her, delving deeper, sending her higher, until she arched and shuddered, bucking against him as she came.

Leo hunched forward, then exploded with a series of powerful strokes and a long, drawn-out groan. He shuddered, pumped inside her again, then collapsed on top of her.

Moments passed before she could breath normally again. Leo used an elbow to raise himself upward, smiling when he saw her breasts and belly streaked in mud.

“I've heard mud wrestling is sexy, but mud sex—” He let out a low whistle. “Here,” he said, jumping up and holding out a hand to Doris. “Let's wash off in the creek.”

She let him take her hand and followed him to the creek bed. There, in the middle of the graveled pool, they stroked the mud off each other's bodies. Clean, she followed him back up to the grass, where he made a bed out of their clothes. They lay down together, heads touching, staring at the cerulean sky.

Fear nudged into her consciousness. “Is this your way of saying goodbye?” she asked, her voice small. She grew frustrated with herself for even saying the words. She didn't want this to be the end. She wanted to fight.

“I thought it was my way of saying—”

She wouldn't let him finish. She clapped a hand to his mouth, his surprised and amused eyes danced.

“I have something to say to you, Leo, and you need to listen.” She narrowed her eyes at him and he nodded. Her stomach fluttered with fear and cold raced through her veins. Could she do this? Could she open herself up one more time?

Leo blinked, waiting, and Doris knew. Of course she could risk everything. Of course she could. If he walked away, at least she would have spoken her truth, and not hidden behind a wall of artifice and pretence.

“I love you,” she said, fighting against the emotion that threatened to spill. “I've loved you since I was fourteen. And before that, I loved you in the way snot-nosed kids love each other. You're Romeo to my Juliet. But I don't want the ending Shakespeare gave those two. This"—she gestured to the meadow, the creek, them—"this needs to be a romance, not a tragedy. A long, long time ago you promised me that. I can't let you go. I won't let you go. Not again.”

“Can I talk now?” Leo asked, his voice muffled behind her palm. Slowly, she lowered her hand. But not before Leo sneaked a kiss on her fingertips.

“I guess making mad, passionate, muddy love to you wasn't clear enough. What I was trying to say earlier when I told you I was a typical guy, clueless about my feelings, was that I finally figured something out.”

She waited, hoping, but unable to look at him. If he was going to tell her it was over, she could bear the news, but she wasn't a masochist—she couldn't watch him as he voiced his rejection. Overhead one thin cloud, light and airy, drifted across the sky.

He kissed the tip of her nose. She couldn't help it—she looked at his face. His eyes held a warmth and brightness that sparkled like the early morning sun.

“I hated you for so many years, but that hate masked the fact that I still loved you. Always have. And when I needed you to help me with Veronica and you wouldn't, well...”

“You hated me even more,” she guessed.

“No,” he said, his eyebrows shooting upward. “Well, yeah, I was mad that you didn't want to help, but then we had amazing sex and I couldn't stop thinking about you. Then we had amazing sex again and I fell in love with you once more. But you didn't want me.”

She shook her head briskly. “No, I was scared. Too scared to follow my own heart.”

“Yeah.” He grazed her jaw line with the knuckles of his hand. “I got that.”

“But you would hardly talk to me when we brought Veronica back. I thought ... I mean...”

His jaw lifted, a sharp and quick motion. “I thought you were still with Fergus.” He waved a hand, cutting off her words before she could speak. “I know you dumped him when I was out looking for Veronica. Trish and George told me. But until this morning, I wasn't sure how serious you were about ending that part of your life. How serious you were about being yourself again.”

She gave him a questioning look. “I don't understand. What happened this morning?”

He smiled. “Trish called. She told me you took 35 Nightingale Lane off the market. I knew then that you were back. You, as in the person I once knew. My Juliet. The person I hoped to spend the rest of my life with.”

Bubbles of happiness floated through her veins. “You mean...” She couldn't say the words, couldn't articulate her thoughts.

“I mean, welcome back to Quartzton, Doris Macon. My Juliet, my Dee. Welcome home.”

He kissed her, then added, “If you want, together we can rewrite Shakespeare.”

Her heart warmed, bathing her veins with love. She shook her head, a wide smile plastered across her face. “Forget Romeo and Juliet. No more pretending. No more playing roles. We have something far better. We have us.”

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Epilogue

Three years later...

“Hissy! Hissy, wait for me!” At the Denver High football field, surrounded by a throng of cheering teenagers, a ponytailed three-year-old ran on chubby little legs toward a towering teenager dressed in a blue graduation gown and wearing a mortarboard.

“She's trying to say ‘Sissy,’ but the word always seems to come out ‘Hissy.'” Next to Doris, the soft-spoken Hispanic woman with auburn-streaked hair, Anna, spoke warmly with a soft smile on her face. “Given Veronica's reputation for massive hissy fits, the name seems to fit. We're hoping that's one attribute Veronica won't pass on to her little sister.”

Doris smiled in acknowledgment. She'd been the recipient of a few Veronica Coombs hissy fits over the years herself. Her attention was caught by a loud laugh. A few feet away, Leo clapped Justin Coombs on the back. Both men tipped their heads back, shoulders shaking. Justin slapped his thigh. Most likely laughing over a Veronica story, she thought, a flush of warmth expanding her chest.

She turned her attention back to Leah and Veronica. Veronica had picked the little girl up in her arms and was swinging her about, much to Leah's delight.

Doris's smile widened when Leo came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist, palming her belly. She felt a rush of warmth flow through her chest, the way it always did when her husband touched her.

After Veronica had shown up in their lives three years ago, much had changed. It had taken a while, and there'd been plenty of rocky moments, but somehow everyone had grown together. Therapy had helped the Coombs family—especially Veronica—blend the edges of their family together seamlessly. Leo and Doris had been welcomed into Veronica's life, where they perched on the periphery, always in support of Justin and Anna, but forever there for Veronica.

For three summers in a row, Veronica had come to stay with them in Quartzton. She spent her time swimming at the river with newfound friends, unsuccessfully begging Leo to let her ride in the fire truck when he went out on calls, and critiquing with snark Doris's summer school students’ literature essays.

The day Veronica had decided to call both Anna and Mom “Mom” had filled the hearts of the two women who loved her most. She still called Leo by his first name, but Leo had assured her he didn't mind.

“Hey, guys, did you like my speech?” A breathless Veronica dumped a squealing Leah at their feet.

“I can see why you're the valedictorian,” Leo said, ruffling her long red hair. “Brains, beauty, and a great sense of humor.”

Veronica grinned at him and Doris felt her heart melt, touched by the love in the girl's eyes. Another second longer and she'd start bawling her eyes out. “Here,” she said quickly, handing Veronica a card.

“A present?” Veronica said, a cavalier grin on her face. She opened the envelope, pulled the card out, and read the front out loud. “'To a new beginning ... ‘”

Doris held her breath as Veronica opened the card. The girl's face went from carefree joy to shock, then amazement. For a moment it seemed as if time stood still. Then, with trembling fingers, Veronica held up the sonogram.

“I'm going to have a...” Her eyes went wide, dark pupils in a sea of green.

Doris nodded. Her voice trembling, she finished the girl's sentence, saying, “...a brother or a sister. It's too soon to tell, but—”

Veronica's enveloping hug cut off whatever it was Doris had planned to say. All thoughts flew out of her head when Veronica whispered in her ear, “Oh, Mom,” over and over again.

Doris let the floodgates loose then, as she held her daughter tight in her arms, and together they cried for joy.

THE END

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Author's note

Doris's story has been hinted about in previous books. Sometimes the bad girl can grow on you, as Doris Macon grew on me, and I was thrilled to be able to tell her story. If you haven't yet, please read Saving Sophie, Grace on Fire, and Tally's Gift, all of which are set in the small town of Quartzton—who knew small towns could be so steamy? Visit www.ravenousromance.com to read the first three books in this series.

Elle Amery

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