Kate refused to pity her mother or think of her as tortured. Nor did she accept Uncle Cliff’s strict, archaic rules about dating, makeup, and school dances. She rebelled as wildly as she could, and on her eighteenth birthday she moved out of the house and married the boy she’d been sneaking around with for two years, Jim Summers, fresh out of college and ready to take on the world. They moved to Boston and a year later Laura joined them.
Cursed as sinners, Kate and Laura never heard from their uncle or aunt again.
Kate tried to build a new life for herself, her husband, her sister, and eventually her little girl. She hadn’t been so happy since those early years on the farm, and even Tyrell’s unwanted advances were something she could handle.
Then tragedy had struck, her daughter and husband cut down unthinkably by a hit-and-run driver. She remembered that her last words spoken to her husband were in anger over who would pick up Erin from the babysitter. Darling, precious Erin.
Even now, years later, she felt a deep mind-numbing pain when she thought of her baby. The day of the funeral it had rained, and as she stood over the coffins of those she loved most, she’d sworn that she’d never again let herself get close to anyone, because everyone she’d ever loved, except for her sister, had died.
Then Tyrell Clark had offered her a second chance, another baby. Kate had opened her heart to the tiny, unwanted infant and never regretted it for an instant.
But this—this relationship with Daegan—was different. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the window. For the first time in over fifteen years, Kate Summers knew she was about to break the promise she’d made on her husband’s grave. “Lord help me,” she whispered, but knew it was already too late.
She’d already begun to fall in love.
Chapter 18
“Aren’t you worried?” Frank demanded, his stomach grinding. He reached for a bottle of antacids he kept in his desk and washed four pills down with a splash of Kentucky whiskey.
“There’s nothing I can do if Uncle Robert wants to locate Bibi’s kid.” Collin didn’t seem the least concerned, just stood at the window squinting past the snow-dusted high-rises of the city to the bay beyond, where white caps played. Leaning against the glass, his hands in the pockets of his suit pants, his jacket pushed back to show off the flat stomach beneath his oxford cloth shirt, he could have passed for one of those damned models in any of the upscale catalogs that Bonnie kept all over the house.
Sometimes he wondered if this fair-haired boy was his. Collin didn’t seem to have an ounce of Sullivan gumption—that same fighting spirit that had forced the family to flee from oppression and starvation in Ireland centuries ago, the fire in the belly that had pushed his ancestors to work harder and climb ever upward, stepping on whatever pathetic souls got in their way until late in the nineteenth century when, after decades of hard work, some wise savings, and a few lucky gambles, they’d made enough money to buy a slot in Boston society—a slot that each succeeding generation had made more prestigious until now.
None of that Sullivan drive, that fire, appeared in his washed-out son. Too much of Maureen in the boy.
“I didn’t know Bibi had a baby.”
“That’s just the point. None of us did. Back then Robert had some sense and he found a way to ensure that the kid never showed his face here again, never darkened our doorsteps, never expected to collect a penny of any of what he might consider his inheritance, but all that’s changed. Robert seems to think his power will live on if he can find an heir, replace Stuart.”
Collin winced a little, but tried to hide it, and Frank experienced that same burning doubt he underwent years ago when Stuart had been alive, when the boys had been close and shared secrets. “If you ask me, Robert’s blown a gasket and probably needs to see his shrink again.”
Collin rubbed his upper lip, as if some beads of nervous perspiration had collected there. “How old is the boy?”
“Somewhere around fifteen, I think. It happened within the year after Stuart’s death—nearly killed Adele, I guess. First she lost her boy and then her daughter turned up unmarried and in a family way.”
Collin closed his eyes for a second, as if trying to pull himself together.
“What about the father?”
“Long gone. Someone in the military who never knew he’d sired a bastard.”
“Does the man have a name?” Finally, Collin seemed interested.
“If he does, Robert’s not saying, doesn’t want the guy to come sniffing around.” Another spasm of pain curled a bony fist around his stomach.
“Christ!” Collin whispered. “A kid. Who would’ve thought?”
“No one. Until now. And that’s the way it should stay.” As was always the case, Frank had to steer his son into the right way of thinking. “Listen, Collin,” he said with all the patience he could scrape together, “if Robert finds his grandson, we may as well kiss the family fortune good-bye.”
“You mean kiss off his part; we still have control of the mills and factories.”
“But they’re not as valuable as they once were. Overseas labor and the unions are working to kill us. We’ve got mortgages and bills. Robert holds the real wealth.”
Collin’s lips curved into some grim resemblance of a smile. “I imagine we’ll get by.”
“For Christ’s sake, get some spunk, will you!” Frank’s temper reared its ugly head and took control of his tongue. The pain in his belly gripped harder. “You’re the poorest excuse for a son I’ve ever seen.”
“So you’ve said,” Collin responded wryly, as if he didn’t give a good goddamn. A look passed between them, a dark, secretive look that Frank had come to understand, but he ignored Collin’s attempt to derail the conversation.
Frank didn’t know how to get through to his firstborn, to batter down his wall of indifference, to make the kid see red.
“Maybe you shouldn’t have been so hasty with Daegan; maybe deep down he was the kind of son you really wanted,” Collin taunted.
“Oh, shut up. He was nothing, nothing but a mistake.”
“A mistake? Maybe so but he’s got spunk. Shit, he’s on spunk overload, if you ask me.” Collin’s eyes were positively frosty. “Anyone who tries to shoot the balls off Frank Sullivan’s got a helluva lot of spunk.”
“He could be dead by now.”
“You don’t even know? God, Dad, that’s weak.”
“He’s out of my life, but now, if Robert has his way, that bastard of Bibi’s will be back in the family by Christmas.”
“So what do you want me to do? Worry?”
“For starters, yes. Then you might think about having a boy of your own.”
“It hasn’t worked out.”
“Well, it can’t, not when you’re always out of town, sailing and yachting and—”
“Doing business,” Collin said, and Frank was reminded that Collin had boosted sales for the company. Ready-wear was the one area that wasn’t slipping into the red.
“You should still have time to make a baby. I thought you married Carrie because you were attracted to her. I expected a grandson the next year.”
Collin crossed from the window to the desk. “I married Carrie because you thought she would be the perfect mate for me. It was past time, you said, and I stupidly agreed. If you want to know the truth, Dad, Carrie and I are separated, have been for six months, and we’re talking about divorce.”
Frank felt as if he’d been hit in the gut. “There is no divorce in our family.”
“Bull. Bibi’s divorced.”
“Bibi’s not my daughter, thank God. She’s always been a wild card.”
“Just don’t have any illusions, Dad. You won’t get any grandkids from me. Besides, you’ve got Wade, Alicia’s little prince. He should be enough of a grandson for you. The way she goes on, that kid is the smartest, brightest, most athletic kid on earth. Any son I had wouldn’t be half as good. Just be thankful you’ve got another generation in Wade.”
Frank felt cold as death. Who was this man he’d raised from a boy?
“Now, if there’s nothing else…” Collin slipped his arms through a wool coat that probably cost a thousand dollars.
“There will be no divorce,” Frank said but the door was already slamming shut behind his son, the boy upon whom he’d pinned all his hopes. He dropped his head into his hands and waited for his heart to stop slamming against his ribs, for his blood pressure to slow, for the fire in his gut to subside.
As he calmed, he reached for his whiskey glass and took a long sip that burned a warm and friendly path down his throat. Frank was sick of apathy. Everywhere he looked, his family didn’t seem to give two lousy cents. Maureen, hell, she was frigid from the first time he’d touched her years ago in the backseat of his father’s Lincoln. They’d both been in college at the time. She’d kissed him and lain down willingly, giving up her virginity without so much as a struggle. When he’d reached under her sweater to touch her tits, she hadn’t stopped him, even when he discovered she was wearing a padded bra and that her breasts were a pathetic size, the nipples small and pale, she’d let him stroke her.
He’d figured the size of her boobs didn’t matter; she was the right girl. Rich and sophisticated, she rounded out his rough edges, the same edges he’d honed while rebelling against his father for favoring his brothers over him.
Besides, Maureen had been a challenge. None of the other boys had made it to first base with her and here she was practically begging for it.
So he’d kissed her, fondled her, and pushed her skirt up past her waist. She’d been wearing tights and he’d ripped them as he’d pulled them to her knees, then tore off her panties. Her mound wasn’t moist, and inside she was tight and dry. She cried out when he tried to touch her with his finger, and nearly screamed when he leaned down to kiss her between her legs.
“What—what—oh, my God, Frank! No, don’t!” she’d whispered, horror written all over her face.
Afraid she’d stop putting out all together and knowing that there was a hundred bucks riding on whether he’d score or not, he decided to go for broke. Unzipping his fly quickly, he didn’t bother kicking off his pants but shoved himself deep into the driest piece of pussy he’d ever felt. She screamed as he pressed inward, struggling, but he was too far gone. His weight pinned her and he moved faster and faster, kissing her, nipping at her tiny breasts, rutting in her and never once feeling her juices flow. Damned virgin.
Finally she quit struggling and lay there, wide-eyed, as if it were her duty to accept him. He’d come with a great, triumphant roar, the bull elk mating with the most sought-after cow in the herd.
Afterward, he reached for a cigarette and stuffed her ripped panties into his pocket. His trophy. But as he’d inhaled that first puff, Maureen had come to life again. Expertly, she cleaned her blood from the leather seat and plucked the panties from his pocket. Clucking her tongue, she put the evidence deep into a side pocket of her purse. “You should have bet more, Frank,” she said, tilting her head in a way he’d found years later to be annoying. “A hundred dollars. Such a pittance. I was worth a thousand, or maybe five thousand.” She picked his cigarette from his fingers and took a long, slow drag.
A tic developed under his eye. “How’d you find out?”
“Doesn’t matter. What does is that you’re going to marry me.” She made the statement in a cloud of smoke.
“What?” He couldn’t believe his ears. They’d hardly dated and he wasn’t about to be tied down to a woman as cold as a frozen fish fillet. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I don’t think so.” She went on to tell him that if he didn’t comply, she’d tell her parents that he’d raped her—she had the ripped panties and bloody hankie to prove it. Her uncle was a judge, she reminded him, one who was once considered for the Supreme Court. Then there was that little matter of the bet—how ugly. A bet was reserved for common sluts and girls without any breeding or brains. He couldn’t believe it and wondered aloud why she wanted to tie the knot.
Because it was time.
Because it was expected.
Because he was a Sullivan.
Had he ever considered that she might have had her own little bet—one with her girlfriends—about whether or not she could wangle a marriage proposal out of the most confirmed of all the bachelors on fraternity row?
Case closed.
He hadn’t had much choice but to marry her. What he hadn’t known at the time, what she’d kept from him for nearly five years, was that her family money had been squandered by her parents and that to keep her healthy and cultured way of life intact, she’d been forced to marry. She’d picked Frank as the primary target, probably because Robert had already given up bachelorhood.
All in all, the marriage had worked, he supposed, except that his son had this soft, apathetic side he didn’t understand. Alicia was stronger, manipulative like her mother, but with the Sullivan bearing added in. Bonnie—well, Bonnie just didn’t seem to care about anything. She was always losing herself in a book, a movie, some cause célèbre. If it wasn’t saving the whales or the rain forest, it was freeing some loser on death row. She sure didn’t give a damn where the money came from that kept her from bouncing checks to whichever liberal issue was her current favorite. Another spineless Sullivan. How could he have spawned two?
Bonnie still lived at home and had no current boyfriend, no impetus to move.
Frank supposed Collin was right, he was lucky that Alicia had Wade, a kid who was a little disturbing because he reminded Frank of Stuart. God, how he’d hated that smart-aleck brat.
Now, once again, it was up to him. While Robert was determined to undermine his side of the family, Frank was determined to save both his fortune and his reputation. He put one foot on his credenza and reached for his drink. No little bastard of Bibi’s was going to mess things up.
“So how’s your love life?” Laura teased when Kate answered the phone.
“As if it’s any of your business.” Kate sank into a chair. Tension that had been with her for days drained out of her muscles at the sound of her sister’s voice.
“Come on, tell me,” Laura coaxed. “It’s that cowboy next door, isn’t it? The one you were so worried about.”
Kate laughed, blushed a little, and wished to high heaven that Laura lived closer, that they could share a cup of coffee together, the local gossip, swap tales about children—well, if Laura ever got around to having any. “Why don’t you fly out here for Thanksgiving?” she asked, suddenly needing to see her sister so much it hurt. Aside from Jon, Laura was the only family she still claimed.
“Oh sure! With Jeremy’s work schedule? Why don’t you just ask me to fly to the moon and back.”
“I’m serious. You could come.”
Laura laughed. “Sure I could, and then who would do your snooping for you?”
“Is that why you called?” Kate said, her throat instantly tight. Maybe Laura had found something out about Daegan or about Jon’s real father or if…but that was too far-fetched, wasn’t it? Daegan and Jon—related? The thought had raced through her head before, but she’d dismissed it. They didn’t look alike and the bond they’d recently formed had nothing to do with genetics. Besides, all Jon’s talk about his father had evaporated over the weeks.
“Yep. One down, one to go. One of the Daegan O’Rourkes lives in Carmel, California, with his wife and three kids.”
“And the other?” Kate hardly dared breathe.
“Still checking, but so far no prison record.”
“And Jon’s parents?”
“My friend’s still looking into it, but so far nothing. Whoever gave birth to him didn’t want him to ever find her. You know it’s too bad you can’t call Tyrell Clark,” Laura mused aloud. “I wish I could too,” said Kate, “but he’s dead.”
“Yes, it’s too bad,” said Laura. For whatever reason, Tyrell had linked Kate with Jon, and for that she would always be grateful. The n
ew baby had given her a reason to live again, to smile, to think about the future.
She heard the back door open and the thunder of his size tens thudding against the floor as he clattered through the back hall. “What’s for dinner?” he asked, rounding the corner with Houndog, fur finally beginning to grow back, on his heels.
“Got to run,” Kate told her sister. “The bottomless pit is on the rampage and hungry yet again.”
“Very funny,” Jon said as he rummaged in the refrigerator.
“I thought so.”
Laura laughed. “Give him my love, will you, and for God’s sake, Kate, lighten up.”
“Think about Thanksgiving.”
“No way, but I’ll try for Christmas.”
“And I’ll hold you to it.”
She hung up just as Jon found a burrito and heated it in the microwave. “You were talking about Thanksgiving.”
“Yeah,” she said, snagging a soda from the refrigerator. “I twisted Aunt Laura’s arm, but she can’t come. She sends you her love.”
He rolled his eyes as the microwave dinged. Refusing to use an oven mitt, he juggled the burrito that was beginning to ooze hot cheese onto his fingers. “Ouch.” He flopped the burrito onto a plate.
“I guess it’s just you and me and the turkey this year,” she said.
“How about Daegan?” he asked as if he didn’t care one way or the other. He found a fork in the drawer and settled into a chair at the kitchen table.
“You mean how about inviting him here for Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Yeah.” He lifted a shoulder. “Why not?”
She shouldn’t have been surprised. It seemed Jon, after his initial distrust of the man, was completely won over. She only hoped he wasn’t setting himself up for a fall. What about you? Aren’t you playing the same dangerous game with your emotions? She had only to think of the last times she’d been alone with him, how he’d kissed her, how she’d put up no resistance, how she’d wanted to make love to him. Blushing, she felt the tops of her ears burn. “He might have plans.”