Megan's Mate Read online

  “A nip or two of rum never rattled my brain.” He glared over Nathaniel's shoulder at Coco. “It's her that's acting snockered. Out of my way, boy, I've got a thing or two left to say.”

  “You've finished,” Nathaniel corrected.

  “Out of his way.” All eyes turned to Coco. She was flushed, bright-eyed, and regal as a duchess. “I pre­fer to handle this matter myself.”

  Megan tugged gently on her arm. “Coco, don't you think you should go inside?”

  “I do not.” She caught herself and added a friendly pat. “Now, dear, you and Nate run along. Mr. Van Horne and I prefer to handle this privately.”

  “But—”

  “Nathaniel,” Coco said, interrupting her, “take Megan inside now.”

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Are you sure we should leave them alone?”

  Nathaniel continued to steer Megan to the terrace . doors. “You want to get in the middle of that?”

  Megan glanced back over her shoulder. “No.” She chuckled, shook her head. “No, I don't think so.”

  “Well, Mr. Van Horne,” Coco began, when she was certain they were alone again. “Do you have some­thing more to say?”

  “I got plenty.” Prepared for battle, he stepped for­ward. “You tell that slick-talking rich boy to keep his hands to himself.”

  She tossed back her head and enjoyed the mad flut­ter of her heart when her eyes met his. “And if I don't?”

  Dutch growled like a wolf—like a wolf, Coco thought, challenging his mate. “I'll break his puny arms like matchsticks.”

  Oh, my, she thought. Oh, my goodness. “Will you, really?”

  “Just you try me.” He gave her a jerk, and she let herself tumble into his arms.

  This time she was ready for the kiss, and met it head-on. By the time they broke apart, they were both breathless and stunned.

  Sometimes, Coco realized, it was up to the woman. She moistened her lips, swallowed hard.

  “My room's on the second floor.”

  “I know where it is.” A ghost of a smile flitted around his mouth. “Mine's closer.” He swept her into his arms—very much, Coco thought dreamily, like a pirate taking his hostage.

  “You're a fine, sturdy woman, Coco.”

  She pressed a hand on her thundering heart. “Oh, Niels.”

  Chapter 7

  It wasn't like Megan to daydream. Years of disci­pline had taught her that dreams were for sleeping, not for rainy mornings when the fog was drifting around the house and the windows ran wet, as if with tears. But her computer hummed, unattended, and her chin was on her fist as her mind wandered back, as it had several times over the past few days, toward moon­light and wildflowers and the distant thunder of surf.

  Now and again she caught herself and fell back on logic. It wouldn't pay to forget that the only romance in her life had been an illusion, a lie that betrayed her innocence, her emotions and her future. She'd thought herself immune, been content to be immune. Until Nathaniel.

  What should she do, now that her life had taken this fast, unexpected swing? After all, she was no longer a child who believed in or needed promises and coaxing words. Now that her needs had been stirred, could she satisfy them without being hurt?

  Oh, how she wished her heart wasn't involved. How she wished she could be smart and savvy and sophis­ticated and indulge in a purely physical affair, with­out emotion weighing in so heavily.

  Why couldn't attraction, leavened with affection and respect, be enough? It should be such a simple equation. Two consenting adults, plus desire, times understanding and passion, equals mutual pleasure.

  She just wished she could be sure there wasn't some hidden fraction that would throw off the simple solu­tion.

  “Megan?”

  “Hmm?” Dreamily she turned toward the sound of the voice. Her imaginings shattered when she saw Suzanna inside the office, smiling at her. “Oh, I didn't hear you come in.”

  “You were miles away.”

  Caught drifting, Megan fought back embarrass­ment and shuffled papers. “I suppose I was. Some­thing about the rain.”

  “It's lovely—always sets my mind wandering.” Suzanna thought she knew just where Megan's mind had wandered. “Though I doubt the tourists or the children think so.”

  “Kevin thought the fog was great—until I told him he couldn't climb on the cliffs in it.”

  “And Alec and Jenny's plans for an assault on Fort O'Riley have been postponed. The kids are in Kevin's room, defending the planet against aliens. It's won­derful watching them together.”

  “I know. They've blended together so well.”

  “Like a mud bait,” Suzanna said with a laugh, and eased a jean-clad hip on the edge of Megan's desk. “How's the work coming?”

  “It's moving along. Amanda kept everything in or­der, so it's just a matter of shifting it into my own sys­tem and computerizing.”

  “It's a tremendous relief for her, having you take it over. Some days she'd be doing the books with a phone at her ear and Delia at her breast.”

  The image made Megan grin. “I can see it. She's amazingly organized.”

  “An expert juggler. Nothing she hates more than to bobble a ball. You'd understand that.”

  “Yeah, I do.” Megan picked up a pencil and ran it between her fingers. “I worried about coming here, Suzanna, bringing Kevin. I was afraid I'd not only bobble a ball, but drop all of them, because I'd be so anxious not to say anything, even think anything, that would make you uncomfortable.”

  “Aren't we past that, Megan?”

  “You were.” Sighing, Megan set the pencil down again. “Maybe it's a little harder, being the other woman.”

  “Were you?” Suzanna said gently. “Or was I?”

  Megan could only shake her head. “I can't say I wish I could go back and change things, because if I did I wouldn't have Kevin.” She took a long breath, met Suzanna's eyes levelly. “I know you consider Kevin a brother to your children, and that you love him.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I want you to know that I think of your children as my family and I love them.”

  Suzanna reached over to lay a hand over Megan's. “I know you do. One of the reasons I dropped in was to ask if you'd mind if Kevin came along with us. I'm going to do some greenhouse work today. Alex and Jenny always enjoy it—especially since it includes pizza for lunch.”

  “I can't think of anything he'd rather do. And it would make up for having to wear a tie the other night.”

  Suzanna's eyes lit with humor. “I nearly had to strangle Alex to get him into his. I hope Aunt Coco doesn't plan any more formal dinner parties for some time to come.” She tilted her head. “Speaking of Aunt Coco, have you seen her today?”

  “Only for a minute, right after breakfast. Why?”

  “Was she singing?”

  “As a matter of fact, she was.” Megan touched her tongue to her top Up. “She's been singing in the morning for several days now.”

  “She was singing just now, too. And wearing her best perfume.” Uneasy, Suzanna nibbled her Up. “I was wondering if Trent's father... Of course, he's gone back to Boston now, so I thought there was nothing to worry about. He's a lovely man, and we're all very fond of him, but, well, he's been married four times, and he doesn't seem able to keep his eye from rov­ing.”

  “I noticed.” After a quick debate on privacy ver­sus disclosure, Megan cleared her throat. “Actually, I don't think Coco's looking in that direction.”

  “No?”

  “Dutch,” Megan said, and watched Suzanna's eyes go blank.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I think she and Dutch are... infatuated.”

  “Dutch? Our Dutch? But she's always complain­ing about him, and he's snarling at her every chance he gets. They're always fighting, and...” She trailed off, pressed her hands to her lips. “Oh...” she said, While her eyes danced over them. “Oh, oh, oh...”

  They stared at each other, struggle
d dutifully for perhaps three seconds before bursting into laughter. Megan fell easily into the sisterly pleasure of discuss­ing a family member. After she told Suzanna about walking in on Coco and Dutch in the kitchen, she fol­lowed it up with the scene on the terrace.

  “There were sparks flying, Suzanna. At first I thought they were going to come to blows, then I re­alized it was more of a—well, a mating ritual.”

  “A mating ritual,” Suzanna repeated in a shaky voice. “Do you really think they—?”

  “Well.” Megan wriggled her eyebrows. “She's been doing a lot of singing lately.”

  “She certainly has.” Suzanna let the idea stew for a moment, found it simmered nicely. “I think I'll drop by the kitchen before I go. Check out the atmo­sphere.”

  “I hope I can count on a full report.”

  “Absolutely.” Still chuckling, Suzanna rose to go to the door. “I guess that was some moon the other night.”

  “It was,” Megan murmured. “Some moon.”

  Suzanna paused with her hand on the knob. “And Nathaniel's some man.”

  “I thought we were talking about Dutch.”

  “We were talking about romance,” Suzanna cor­rected. “I'll see you later.”

  Megan frowned at the closed door. Good Lord, she thought, was she that obvious?

  After spending the rest of the morning and the first part of the afternoon on The Retreat's accounts, Me­gan gave herself the small reward of an hour with Fergus's book. She enjoyed tallying up the costs of stabling horses, maintaining carriages. It was an eye-opener to see how much expense was involved in giv­ing a ball at The Towers in 1913. And, by reading Fergus's margin notes, to come to understand his mo­tives.

  Invitations all accepted. No one dare decline. B. ordered flowers—argued about ostentation. Told her big display equals success and wife must never question husband. She will wear emeralds, not pearl choker as she suggested, show society my taste and means, remind her of her place.

  Her place, Megan thought with pity for Bianca, had been with Christian. How sad that it had taken death to unite them.

  Wanting to dispel the gloom, she flipped to the back pages. The numbers simply didn't make sense. Not expenses, she mused. Not dates. Account numbers, perhaps. Stock-market prices, lot numbers?

  Perhaps it would be worth a trip to the library to see if she could unearth any information from 1913 that correlated. And on the way she could stop by Ship­shape to drop off the completed spreadsheet for April and pick up any more receipts.

  If she happened to run into Nathaniel, it would be purely coincidental.

  It was a pleasure to drive in the rain. The slow, steady stream of drops had most of the summer peo­ple seeking indoor entertainment. A few pedestrians wandered the sidewalks, window-shopping under umbrellas. The water in Frenchman Bay was gray and misted, with the masts and sails of ships spearing through the heavy air.

  She could hear the ring of bell buoys, the drone of foghorns. It was as if the entire island were tucked under a blanket, snug and safe and solitary. She was tempted to keep driving, to take the twisting road to Acadia National Park, or the meandering one along the shore.

  Maybe she would, she thought. After she com­pleted the day's business, she would take that drive, explore her new home. And maybe she would ask Na­thaniel to join her.

  But she didn't see his car outside Shipshape. Ridic­ulous to say it didn't matter whether she saw him or not, she realized. Because it did matter. She wanted to see him, to watch the way his eyes deepened and locked on hers. The way his lips curved.

  Maybe he'd parked around the corner, out of sight. Snagging her briefcase, she dashed from her car into the office. It was empty.

  The first slap of disappointment was stunning. She hadn't realized just how much she'd counted on him being there until he wasn't. Then she heard, faintly, through the rear wall, the throb of bass from a radio. Someone was in the shop attached to the back of the building, she concluded. Probably working on re­pairs as the seas were too rough for tours.

  She wasn't going to check out who was back there, she told herself firmly. She'd come on legitimate business and she took out the latest spreadsheet and set it on the overburdened desk. But on a purely prac­tical level, she would need to go over, with at least one of them, the second quarter and the projections for the rest of the year. But she supposed it could wait.

  A long look around snowed her a disorder she couldn't comprehend. How could anyone work, or hope to concentrate, in such a mess?

  She was tempted to organize, but turned her back on the chaos and walked to the filing cabinets. She'd take what she needed and leave the rest. Then she would, casually, wander around back, to the shop.

  When she heard the door open, she turned, ready with a smile. It faded a tittle when she saw a stranger in the doorway. “May I help you?”

  The man stepped fully inside and shut the door be­hind him. When he smiled, something jittered inside Megan's brain. “Hello, Megan.”

  For an instant, time froze, and then it rewound. Slow motion for five years, six, then back a decade, to a time when she'd been young and careless and ready to believe in love at first sight.

  “Baxter,” she whispered. How odd, she thought dully, that she hadn't recognized him. He'd hardly changed in ten years. He was as handsome, as smooth and polished, as he'd been when she first saw him. A trim, Savile Row-suited Prince Charming with lies on his lips.

  Baxter smiled down at Megan. For days he'd been trying to catch her alone. Frustration had pushed him to approach her here and now. Because he was a man concerned with his image, he'd checked the office thoroughly before he stepped through the door. It was easy to see she was alone in the small space. There were things he intended to settle with her once and for all. Calmly, of course, he thought as she stared at him. Reasonably. Privately.

  “Pretty as ever, aren't you?” It pleased him to see her eyes go blank with shock. The advantage was with him, as he preferred it. After all, he'd been planning this reunion for several weeks now. “The years have improved your looks, Megan. You've lost that charming baby fat, and you've become almost ele­gant. My compliments.”

  When he stepped closer, she didn't move, couldn't make her legs or her brain respond. Not even when he lifted a finger and trailed it down her cheek, under her chin, to tip it up in an old habit she'd made herself forget.

  “You were always a beauty, Megan, with that wide-eyed innocence that makes a man want to corrupt.”

  She shuddered. He smiled.

  “What are you doing here?” Kevin was all she could think. Thank God Kevin wasn't with her.

  “Funny, I was going to ask you the same. Just what are you doing here, Megan?”

  “I live here.” She hated hearing the hesitancy in her voice, like the throb of an old scar. “I work here.”

  “Tired of Oklahoma, were you? Wanted a change of scene?” He leaned closer, until she backed into the filing cabinet. Bribery, he knew, wouldn't work with her. Not with the O'Riley money behind her. Intimi­dation was the next logical choice. “Don't take me for a fool, Megan. It would be a terrible, costly mis­take.”

  When her back hit the filing cabinet, she realized she was cringing, and her shock melted away, her spine stiffening. She wasn't a child now, she reminded her­self, but a woman. Aware, responsible. “It's none of your business why I moved here.”

  “Oh, but it is.” His voice was silky, quiet, reason­able. “I prefer you in Oklahoma, Megan. Working at your nice, steady job, in the midst of your loving family. I really much prefer it.”

  His eyes were so cold, she thought with dull won­der. Odd, she'd never seen that, didn't remember that. “Your preferences mean nothing to me, Baxter.”

  “Did you think I wouldn't find out that you'd thrown your lot in with my ex-wife and her family?” he continued, in that same reasonable tone. “That I haven't kept tabs on you over the years?”

  With an effort, she steadied her breathing, but when
she tried to shift away, he blocked her. She wasn't afraid, yet, but the temper she'd worked so hard to erase from her character was beginning to bubble up toward the surface.

  “I never gave a thought to what you'd find out. And no, I wasn't aware you were keeping tabs. Why should you? Neither Kevin nor I ever meant anything to you.”

  “You've waited a long time to make your move.” Baxter paused, struggling to control the fury that had clawed its way into his throat. He'd worked too hard, done too much, to see some old, forgotten mistake rear up and slap him down. “Clever of you, Megan, more clever than I gave you credit for.”

  “I don't know what you're talking about.”

  “Do you seriously want me to believe you know nothing about my campaign? I'm not going to toler­ate this pathetic stab at revenge.”

  Her voice was cooler now, despite the fact that she could feel her skin start to tremble with an intense mixture of emotions. “At the risk of repeating my­self, I don't know what you're talking about. My life is of no concern to you, Baxter, and yours none of mine. You made that clear a long time ago, when you refused to acknowledge me or Kevin.”

  “Is that the tack you're going to take?” He'd wanted to be calm, but rage was working through him. Intimidation, he realized, simply wouldn't be enough. “The young, innocent girl, seduced, betrayed, aban­doned? Left behind, pregnant and brokenhearted? Please, spare me.”

  “That's not a tack, it's truth.”

  “You were young, Megan, but innocent?” His teeth flashed. “Now, that's a different matter. You were willing enough, even eager.”

  “I believed you!” She shouted it—a mistake, as her own voice tore her composure to pieces. “I believed you loved me, that you wanted to marry me. And you played on that. You never had any intention of mak­ing a future with me. You were already engaged. I was just an easy mark.”

  “You certainly were easy.” He pushed her back against the cabinet, kept his hands hard on her shoul­ders. “And very, very tempting. Sweet, Megan. Very sweet.”

  “Take your hands off me.”

  “Not quite yet. You're going to listen to me, care­fully. I know why you've come here, linked yourself with the Calhouns. First there'll be whispers, rumors, then a sad story to a sympathetic reporter. The old lady put pressure on me about Suzanna.” He thought of Colleen with loathing. “But I've made that work for me. In the interest of the children,” be mur­mured. “Letting Bradford adopt them, selflessly giv­ing up my rights, so the children could be secure in a traditional family.”

  “You never cared about them, either, did you?” Megan said in a husky Voice. “Alex and Jenny never mattered to you, any more than Kevin.”

  “The point is,” he continued, “the old woman has no reason to bother about you. So, Megan, you'd better mind your step and listen to me. Things aren't working out for you here, so you're going to move back to Oklahoma.”

  “I'm not going anywhere,” she began, then gasped when his fingers dug in.

  “You're going back to your quiet life, away from here. There will be no rumors, no tearful interviews with reporters. If you try to undermine me, to impli­cate me in any way, I'll ruin you. When I've fin­ished—and believe me, with the Dumont money I can hire plenty of willing men who'll swear they've en­joyed you—when I've finished,” he repeated, “you'll be nothing more than an opportunistic slut with a bastard son.”

  Her vision hazed. It wasn't the threat that fright­ened her, or even infuriated her so very much. It was the term bastard in connection with her little boy.