The Wrong Man. Laura Abbot
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non sequitur made him laugh. “Scoops and scoops of it!”
She looked directly into his eyes. “Daddy, I like it when you laugh. Do you think you can laugh again when we go to that fish place?”
Laugh again? Dear God, had he been that out of touch? He reached for her and enfolded her in a huge bear hug. “Yes, sweetie, I’ll laugh again—lots more. And so will you.”
“Okay, then.”
He kissed the top of her head. “I’m glad you’re coming with me.”
“But there’s one thing.”
At this point he would gladly have presented her with the entire state of Montana had it been within his power. “What’s that?”
“I know Mommy’s with us in spirit, like you said, but what about that cementery? Could we go say goodbye before we move?”
Trent’s heart shattered. “Tomorrow, honey.”
With the wisdom given only to children, she had hit upon the one act he now realized he, too, needed to perform.
LIBBY DUCKED her head as she and Doug climbed the steps of the bed-and-breakfast following the symphony. Brahms and Mozart had done little to soothe her nerves. Instead, she’d spent most of the concert thinking about whether her insistence on two rooms had jeopardized her best chance for love and family.
“Feel like a nightcap?” Doug asked in the lobby as he removed her coat. “There’s a wonderful gas fireplace in my room—and a bottle of Amaretto.”
Doug, always considerate, deserved her enthusiasm. “It’s hard to turn down a cozy fire and an after-dinner drink.” She smiled. “Not to mention one very nice man.”
“Good,” he said, his eyes warm with affection.
The fireplace cast light and shadow over Doug’s room, which was decorated in deep burgundy and green tones. Settling her on the love seat, he filled two goblets, then sat beside her, raising her glass in a toast before handing it to her. “Here’s to you, Libby.”
The toast was definitely more than a casual “Here’s to ya.” Libby watched him sip from his glass, then sit back in satisfaction, before she took a swallow, letting the almond sweetness linger on her tongue.
To fill the silence, she started a discussion of the concert. She’d always loved music, even as a tiny child. A dim memory returned, a long-lost vignette. Her mother sitting in the corner of the high-ceilinged living room, the sun falling on her dark curly hair as she bent to the harp, the melody of the plucked strings sending a thrill through Libby’s small body. How old had she been? Four? Five? Gazing now into the dancing flames, she treasured the immediacy of the image before recalling the dark days that followed. When she was six, her mother died, and the silenced harp gathered dust in the corner until her stepfather had finally sold it.
“You’re awfully quiet all of a sudden,” Doug said, taking her half-empty glass and setting it on the coffee table beside his.
“Just remembering.” His arm settled around her shoulder. “Music does that for me.”
“Evocative,” he said quietly.
“Very.”
“Feel like telling me about it?”
She shrugged.
“You don’t talk much about the past.”
What was the point? Talking didn’t change anything. “No.” She tried a cheery smile. “The present and future are so much more compelling.”
She observed a question in his eyes, but he didn’t press her, for which she was grateful. “I could get interested in discussing the present and the future,” he whispered, drawing her into his arms. “Starting with tonight.” He lowered his head and began kissing her.
Libby’s awareness hovered somewhere above and beyond the pressure of his mouth, the tingle of his fingers running through her hair. He’d kissed her before, of course, but this was different. Not unpleasant, but no longer merely platonic.
She tried to relax, to give in to the sensation of being held, of arousing a man again. He cupped the back of her head, deepening the kiss, his tongue seeking hers. Involuntarily, an erotic response flared within her, irritating her. She didn’t want this, yet at the same time, she did. It was the best thing that could happen. Doug made her feel desirable. Safe.
When he withdrew, he framed her face with his hands, and his eyes were glazed with desire. “You’re sure about the two rooms?”
She bit her lip. Was she? Sooner or later… Suddenly it all seemed too pat, too contrived—a seduction scene. Then, out of the blue, another memory hit her—this one about spontaneity, blood-pounding need and the frantic urge to bare her body in a mindless frenzy. She froze.
“Libby?”
“Not tonight.” The words sounded like a parody of every bored, headachy housewife.
“Soon?” he asked hopefully.
She ducked her head. She wanted a husband. A home. Tears darted to her eyes. Children. Especially children. “We’ll see.”
Doug would make a wonderful father. Sadly, she knew from bitter experience that the same could not be said about some men.
One in particular.
Almost unconsciously, she pressed her hands over the flat of her womb, sensing the emptiness within.
From somewhere outside her, she heard Doug’s voice. “I care about you, Libby. I can be patient.”
She dissolved against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart, his body radiating a heat that slowly thawed the chill in hers.
It was well after midnight when she finally roused from his embrace and went to her room.
Alone.
GEORGIA CHILSOLM PAUSED in the doorway of her immaculate living room. A single dust mote fluttered and settled on the polished surface of the sofa table. She moved forward, wiping the cherry wood with the tissue she held in her hand. Then, walking briskly across the room, she aligned the pillows on the damask sofa, which were off by a fraction of an inch. The latest issues of Architectural Digest and House and Garden lay fanned on the coffee table. She checked to see that the large crystal vase of carefully arranged gladioli held sufficient water. Satisfied that all was in order, she permitted herself to stand before the fireplace, studying the pastel portrait hanging above the mantel. Ashley.
Every afternoon she spent time with her daughter, studying the serene blue gaze that followed her wherever she sat in the room. Remembering the silky feel of those white-blond tresses. Hearing in her mind Ashley’s laughter, bright and sparkling. She longed to trace once more the smooth, pale pink skin of her daughter’s cheek, to watch her lips form a small O of surprise and delight.
It was cruel, too cruel.
Georgia stepped backward, then eased into an armchair, her eyes never leaving the portrait of her daughter, frozen in time at twenty-three. Just before she met Trent Baker.
It was too late for if-onlys. Georgia had entertained such grand plans for her daughter. She closed her eyes now and pictured the shabby shotgun house in the company mining town in which she’d grown up. She could still remember how her mother hoarded the few dollars she could cajole from Georgia’s miner father before he headed for the tavern. Georgia steeled herself against the memories of nights she went to bed cold and hungry. When she’d married Gus, his thriving construction company promised a better life and a respectable standing in the community. Because of that, Ashley could have married any number of young, attractive, professional men.
Georgia worried the arm covers of the chair with her restless fingers. So why Trent? It had made no sense. A rough-and-tumble young man, no more at home in a museum or theater than a lumberjack would be. He was handsome, she’d give