Annie thinks, he wasn't, and isn't, a hoodlum. What he is, is basic."
"And do we want our daughter involved with a basic man who ran off to sea at eighteen and has done any number of things not discussed in polite company?''
She winced. The same thought had passed through her head. "That sounds so snobbish."
"It sounds like parental concern to me. It doesn't matter if she's three or thirty, it's still our job to worry about her."
"And men like Michael come and go on their own whim," she murmured. "They aren't looking for roots. Laura would wither without them. And from what she said, the girls are attached to him. How will it affect them to have another man walk out of their lives?" She burrowed against him. "There's nothing we can do but be there for them."
"Then that's what we'll do. We watched Margo and Kate find the way through their problems. Laura will get through."
"And they have each other." She shifted so that they could look out toward the cliffs together. "The three of them are always there for each other. That shop of theirs has worked magic for them. Whatever happens, Laura has them, and the pride in what they've built together. But I'm greedy, Tommy."
She took his hand, laid it on her heart. "I want her to have her dream. I want her to have what we have. I want to believe that she'll stand at the window, look toward the sea, with a man's arms around her. A man who loves her and will stand by her. A man who can make her feel the way you make me feel."
She cupped his face in her hands. "So I'm going to believe it. And if she's got any of me inside her, she'll fight for what she wants. The way I fought for you."
"You ignored me," he reminded her. "Wouldn't give me the time of day."
Her smile bloomed slowly. "And it worked, didn't it? Perfectly. Then one day I let you find me, by calculated accident, alone in the rose garden at the club. And I let you kiss me, like this." She lifted her mouth, drew the kiss out, warm and slow. "And Tommy Templeton, never seeing the punch, went down for the count."
"You always were sneaky, Susie." He swung her up into his arms and made her laugh.
"And I got exactly what I wanted. Just," she murmured as he lowered her to the rug, "the way I'm going to get exactly what I want right now."
Laura saw the lights in the tower room as she walked toward the cliffs. And for a moment she stood watching the silhouette of her parents embracing. It was a lovely sight, stirred her heart. And her envy.
They fit so perfectly together, she thought, turning back toward the song of the sea. Their rhythms, their styles, their goals, their needs.
She'd learned, the hard way, that what her parents had, what they worked for and preserved, wasn't a given but a rarity to be celebrated.
Her new perspective only brought her more admiration for them.
She walked the cliffs alone, something she hadn't done for weeks. She wanted Michael. The low hum of desire was constant and thrilling, but she wouldn't go to him tonight. Nor, she believed, did he expect her.
They had parted awkwardly. She, undeniably embarrassed at having been caught frolicking in the pool by her own mother. He, obviously uncomfortable. She thought they both would need time to adjust.
The light was strong, glowing, with the clouds chased away to clear skies by a stiff westerly wind. As familiar with the cliffs as with her own parlor, Laura picked her way down, easily negotiating rocks and a path slippery with pebbles until she came to a favored ledge.
There she sat, letting the wind whip at her face and the sea thunder in her ears. And there, listening for the whisper of ghosts, thinking of lost love, she was content.
From his window, Michael watched her go down the slope, the long, loose jacket she wore streaming out behind her like a cloak. Romantic, mysterious. He pressed his hand to the glass as if he could touch her. Then drew it back, irritated with himself.
She wasn't coming to him. Small wonder, he thought, hooking his thumbs in his pockets as he watched her climb down rocks as gracefully as a fawn. Her parents were back, and with them, he expected, came a reminder of the difference in their positions.
Laura Templeton may have been working for a living, she may have scrubbed a few bathtubs, but she was still Laura Templeton. And he was still Michael Fury, from the wrong side of the hill.
She'd be busy now, he supposed. Entertaining, scheduling dinner parties during her parents' stay. Those fancy, flower-bedecked, exclusive affairs that Templeton House was renowned for.
There would be lunch at the club, quick rounds of tennis, erudite conversations over coffee and brandy.
The ritual was more foreign to him than Greek.
And he had no desire to learn either.
So, if she was going to brush him off, what was the difference? With a shrug, he turned away from the window and stripped off his shirt. He could lure her back into the sack another time or two if he wanted. Sex was nothing more than a weakness. He could exploit hers to satisfy his own.
He heaved the shirt aside, frustrated that it wasn't something hard and breakable. Goddamn it, he wanted her. Now. Here. With him.
Who the hell did she think she was?
Who the hell did he think he was?
Eyes grim, he pulled off his boots and threw them both against the wall, where they at least made a satisfying thud.
He knew exactly who he was, and so, he thought, did she. Laura Templeton was going to find herself hard-pressed to shake him loose until he was damn good and ready. He wasn't finished with her yet, not by a long shot.
She could have tonight, he thought, stripping off his jeans. He'd let her have tonight all quiet and safe. Because her nights weren't going to stay quiet, and they weren't going to stay safe.
He dropped naked to the bed and glared at the ceiling. And he would have her right back where he wanted her. The hell with her parents, her fancy friends, and her perfect pedigree.
She'd taken on a mongrel. Now she'd have to deal with him.
From her perch on the ledge, Laura stretched her arms up. Cool, damp air caressed her skin where the sleeves of her jacket fell down to her elbows. She thought of how Michael caressed that skin. Rough and demanding one moment, then the next with surprising and devastating tenderness.
He had so many moods, she thought, so many needs. He had in such a short time awakened so many moods, so many needs in her. No, she was no Sleeping Beauty, she reflected, but she felt as though she'd been sleeping for decades. Waiting for him to find her.
And he had, she realized. They'd found each other. So why was she sitting here alone, trying to reorganize her schedule for the next day, and the day after that? Tomorrow would come anyway. She could be with him right now. She'd go to him. Laura closed her eyes tight, wished. If his lights were still on when she stood and looked back, she would go to him. And he would be there waiting, wanting.
She stood, holding her breath, and turned. And let it out again as she saw nothing but night and the deeper silhouettes of darkened buildings.
He hadn't waited.
She brushed the chill from her arms, calling it foolish. It wasn't rejection, it only meant he was tired and had gone to bed. And she should do that herself. There were dozens of things that needed to be done the next day that would be done better after a good night's sleep.
And they weren't bound to spend every night together. There'd been no promises between them. None at all, she thought, furious that her eyes stung as she turned back to the sea. No promises, no plans, no soft words.
Was that what she wanted, still? After she should have known better? What weakness was this in her that craved those words, those promises, those plans? Couldn't she be content with what was and not always dream about what could be?
It didn't matter what she'd told herself, she realized, as she sat down again. It didn't matter what she'd told her mother, or Margo or Kate. Or what she'd told Michael. It had all been lies. She, who was famous for being a pathetically poor liar, had pulled this one off beautifully.
She was in
love with him. She was so stupidly in love with him, and no one had a clue. Part of her had already seen them together, tomorrow, a year from tomorrow, ten years. Lovers, partners, family. More children, a home, a life.
She'd lied to him, to everyone, including herself. And now, as it was with lies, she would have to continue to spin them, and live them, to make the first of them hold.
It wouldn't be fair to him otherwise. For he hadn't lied.
He had wanted her, and she had no doubt that he cared for her. He cared for her children, was willing to offer a hand to help. He gave her his body, had awakened hers, and had offered her a friendship that she valued.
And still she wasn't satisfied.
Selfish, she wondered, or just foolish? It hardly mattered. She had created the illusion and would continue it. Or lose him.
When it was over, whenever it ended, she wouldn't regret it or curse God. She'd go on, because life was long and precious and deserved the best she could give it. When the time came and she had no choice but to live without him, she'd remember what it had been like to feel again, and to love. And she'd be grateful.
Steadier now, she braced a hand on the ground to push herself up. Her fingers closed over the disk as if they'd known it was there, waiting for her. With her heart drumming, loud as the waves below, she lifted it up, turned it under the stream of the moonlight.
It glinted dully, the single gold coin. Untouched, she thought with a shiver, unseen, for a hundred and fifty years. Since a young girl, desperate, had hidden it away to save for her lover. This, the symbol of the dream, the promise and the loss, lay cool in the center of her palm.
"Seraphina," she murmured. And her breath caught as she closed her fingers over the coin, as she felt the wild need of a reckless young girl.
Laura curled into a ball on the ledge, high over the violent waves. And wept.
Chapter Sixteen
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The sorrel colt was bright, pretty, and stubborn as a flea-bitten mule. Michael was working hard to prove that he was even more stubborn.
"By God, you'll do it, you little bastard. You know how."
As if to say that was hardly the point, the colt tossed his head, rolled his eyes in Michael's direction, and stood firm. They'd been dealing with each other for just over six months, and both of them wanted to be in charge.
"You think you've got these fancy digs and three squares to stand around posing?" Michael slapped the bat in his hand, and the colt's ears flickered. "You even think about kicking me again and you'll be eating dirt."
He stepped forward, the colt danced back. Michael's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Hold!"
Vibrating, the colt did so, pawing the ground in challenge as Michael approached.
"You and me," Michael said, gripping the bridle as the colt began to swing around to get a good shot with his back leg, "we're going to go a round."
"Don't you dare strike that animal."
Both Michael and the colt looked up in annoyance at the sharp order and saw the trim form swinging through the paddock gate.
"You should be ashamed of yourself." Fired up, Susan grabbed the colt's bridle and stepped between the horse and the bat. "I don't care if he belongs to you or not. I won't have an animal mistreated on my property."
As if realizing that sympathy was on his side, the colt lowered his head and nuzzled Susan's shoulder.
"Suck up," Michael muttered. "Look, Mrs. Templeton, I—"
"Is this the way you treat your horses? Clubbing them when they don't behave as you'd like? You brute." Color flashed into her cheeks, reminding Michael of Laura. "If you dare to raise a hand to one of these animals while I'm around, I'll personally kick your butt off Templeton property and halfway to hell."
Yes, he could see now where Laura got those licks of temper he'd caught a few glimpses of. And he could have sworn the colt was smirking at him. "Mrs. Templeton—"
"Then I'll have you arrested," she barreled on. "There are laws against cruelty to animals. Laws created to deal with insensitive brutes like you. And if you ever dare to mistreat this sweet horse—"
"There's not a sweet bone in his body," Michael interrupted, resisting the urge to rub the thigh that still sang from its rude encounter with a hoof. "And I wasn't going to use this to beat sense into his hard head, though it's tempting."
She'd seen the look in his eye, and the bat in his hand. Threw up her chin. "I suppose you were going to play baseball with him."
"No, ma'am." It might be funny, years later, when he didn't ache everywhere. "We're not playing at anything here. And if you want to take a good look, you'll see the only one with bruises on him in this paddock is me."
She did look, noted that although the coat was gleaming with a healthy layer of sweat, the horse was unharmed. In fact, he was magnificent. And the look in his eye wasn't fear, she realized. It was, if such a thing were possible, humor.
Michael, on the other hand, was filthy, and there was the telltale outline of a hoofprint on the leg of his jeans.
"If you threaten him with a bat, his only recourse is to strike out. I would think you'd—"
"Mrs. Templeton." Patience was wearing thin and going ragged around the edges. "Does this little bastard look threatened to you? Right now all he's doing is gloating."
It appeared that he was, Susan admitted, making another close study of the colt's eyes.
"Then explain why—"
"If you'd just let loose of him before he sees I can be slapped around by a woman half my weight and I completely lose the upper hand here, along with six months' work, I'd appreciate it."
She did loosen her grip on the bridle, but warily. "I'm warning you, Michael. If you dare to hurt him, I'll do more than slap you around."
"I believe it," Michael muttered as she took a single step back. "Would you move back to the fence, please? Bastard still has a problem with control."
"Charming name." With her arms folded, Susan took a few more steps in retreat. And stayed poised, ready to leap.
"You've got me in it now, haven't you?" With a firm hand, Michael took the bridle, pulled the colt's head down until their eyes were level. "Make me look like an idiot, pal, and I might just mistake your face for a Spalding. Got that?"
The colt snorted, then jerked his head clear when Michael released it. Michael shifted his grip on the bat, curling fingers around tip and base, then lifted it. After a humming war of wills, the colt reared up, pawed the air.
"Up." Heedless of striking hooves, Michael stepped under them. "Stay up there, Bastard. Nobody'll feed you if you kill me." Shifting the bat again, he grabbed a handful of mane and swung up onto the nearly vertical back.
At the quick and easy grace of the move, the fluidity with which man and horse merged, Susan sighed in admiration. And again when Michael turned the mount in a half circle.
The pressure of Michael's knees brought the horse down. "Stay back," Michael ordered Susan, without looking at her. "This is the part we're having trouble with."
He brought Bastard into a rear again, rolled off and under the dancing hooves. "Don't you step on me," Michael muttered, as he felt the ground shake. "Don't you step on me, you son of a—shit!"
A hoof caught him in the hip. Just a graze, but it was the principle of the thing. He was on his feet again, staring the horse down. "You did that on purpose. You're going to do it again till you get it right."
Limping only a little, Michael picked up the discarded bat and went through the entire routine again. And again.
When they were both winded and he'd managed to complete the drill without breaking anything, Michael, limping a bit more, went over to the bag he'd slung over the fence and took out an apple.
The colt followed him, pushed his head against Michael's back. "Don't try to make up. I'm only giving you this because I'm not on my way to the hospital."
The colt nudged him again, then tried to eat Michael's hair.
"Cut it out. You are such an ass kisser. Here." Th
e apple he offered was taken eagerly. "And you have revolting manners," he added when bits of apple flew.
"I owe you an apology."
Michael stopped rubbing his bruised butt and looked at Susan. In his concentration, he'd forgotten she was still there. "No problem. Maybe I was thinking about bashing him one."
"No, you weren't." She stepped over, ran a hand over the colt's smooth neck. "You're in love with him."
"I hate the bastard. Don't know why I ever took him on."
"Um-hmm." She smiled, absently brushed some of the paddock dirt off the sleeve of Michael's shirt. "He certainly looks ill-kept, ill-used. Ill-fed too."
Embarrassed now, Michael shrugged. "He's an investment. A good stunt horse earns good money."
"I'm sure." She simply couldn't stand it—now she broke into excited questions. "How in the world did you teach him to do that? How do you keep him from trampling you? Aren't you worried? How long have you been working with him?"
Rolling his aching shoulders, Michael settled on the last question. "Not long enough. He's smart, but he's got some rough edges." Then he grinned. "You had me quaking, Mrs. Templeton. I figured you were going to grab the bat out of my hands and go to work on me with it."
"I might have." She caressed the colt. "I can't stand to see something abused."
"Can't say I care for it myself. There was this wrangler on a set a while back. He had this terrific horse, sweet-natured, generous. But the wrangler was never satisfied, always pushing for more, working that horse to exhaustion and never giving anything back. It was bad enough to see him breaking that horse's heart, and his spirit, but then he started using a whip, and his fists, and whatever else came in handy."
Michael paused to shovel the hair out of his eyes, squint at the sun. "He got himself a bad rep. Nobody wanted to hire him or work with him anymore. They all said it was too damn bad, 'cause that horse was a rare one."
"Why wasn't something done?"
"There's politics, the network—the wrangler'd been in the game a long time. I was pretty new at it then, and I never did care much for politics. I talked him into selling me that horse. Made a pretty decent stake working with him."
"You talked the wrangler into selling?"
Michael looked back at her. "More or less."
"Did you use the whip, or just your fists?''
"I don't care for whips. And Max, the walker I bought, he can't stand the sight of them." He nipped the bag away before the colt could investigate the contents. "You out for a walk this morning, Mrs. Templeton?''
"I could use that for an excuse. But I imagine we both know I wanted to speak with you."
"Yeah, I figured you or your husband would come down." And he'd prepped himself for it. "You're going to have to talk while I work. My stock need some exercise."
"All right." She went with him as he walked out of the paddock and into the stables. "Laura tells me you're giving the girls riding lessons."
"Just a few basics. I've got some quiet saddle ponies."
"I was treated to a dissertation on Mr. Fury and his horses over breakfast this morning. You've made quite an impression on my granddaughters. Let me help you," she said, taking the bridle of one of the horses he'd begun to lead out. "And you've made an impression on my daughter as well."
"She's a beautiful woman."
"Yes, she is. And she's been through hell. In many ways it's made her stronger. But she's vulnerable, Michael, and more easily bruised than either you or she might realize."
"You want me to promise not to hurt her." He stepped back as the horses trotted into the paddock. "I can't do that."
"No, you wouldn't do that. As I recall, even as a boy you were careful not to make promises."
"You don't make, you don't break," he said simply and went back to the stables.
"You had a difficult childhood," she began, then broke off, raising her eyebrows, when his head whipped around.
"I don't believe in blaming what is on what was. I-imagine you had a dandy childhood. Is that responsible for everything you are?"
She nodded slowly as he led out the next horses. "Well put," she murmured. "No, I wouldn't like to think so, but it did give me a solid foundation to build on."
"And mine's shaky." Though he'd told himself he wouldn't allow it, the bitterness came through. "You don't have to tell me where I come from, Mrs. Templeton. I know."