Sugar Baby. Karen Young
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Sugarland. Just as Wayne ordered, one of his men was waiting at Melrose Crossing with Claire’s luggage. Not much to it, he thought as he stored a suitcase and an overnight case in the back of the Jeep. If the visit lasted more than a week, she’d probably need to get a few more things.
He tried to convince himself he didn’t care whether she was there a week or a day.
As he turned in the curved driveway, the Jeep’s headlights swept over the house. Except for the garage area, which was separate from the main house, the whole place was dark. He stopped the car and got out, heading around to the tailgate. As he pulled it open, he glanced up at the second-story bedroom where Claire and the boy were staying. That, too, was dark. Apparently she wasn’t losing any sleep worrying about her situation. He slammed the tailgate and started up the steps.
“Is that my luggage?”
Startled at the sound of her voice, he almost dropped the bags.
“Sorry, I guess you didn’t see me.”
“What are you doing out here?” he said. “This is a hell of an electrical storm. You could be struck by lightning.”
“I couldn’t sleep. And storms have never made me nervous.” She took the overnight case, leaving the larger piece for him to carry. “Thanks for picking this up.”
He didn’t waste any time getting the door open and urging her inside. There was just enough light to reveal what she was wearing. And how she looked. A big T-shirt and shorts. In the denim dress today, he’d guessed that her legs were fantastic. He’d been right. The only wrong note was her hair. He wondered what it would be like not tied back. Earlier her hair had been pulled back and pinned in some severe-looking twist. Now it was braided, starting at the crown of her head. He imagined her red hair all loose and flowing. He could almost feel his fingers sift through it. He could almost see it spread out and—
He caught himself up abruptly. What the hell was he doing fantasizing about this woman? He cleared his throat. “I see that you found something to wear.”
“Michelle generously offered this workout set.” She pulled at the T-shirt, trying to stretch the garment to midthigh. “One size fits all. I was glad for the clothes, but I’ll feel more comfortable in my own things.”
“They couldn’t look any better on you.”
She was instantly on guard. Like a doe caught in headlights.
“I’ll just take this on up to my room,” she said, slipping past him to hurry up the stairs.
Watching her escape—there was no other word for it—he wished he could take back the remark, but the words had been out before he could stop them. Why was she so skittish?
Frowning, he climbed the stairs himself, but at a pace that gave him time to contemplate the contrasts and complexities of Claire Woodson. There was a remoteness about her that didn’t fit the way he’d thought of her for years. He recalled that night in Houston when she’d been with Carter. Mack remembered her smiling, almost sparkling with emotion as she clung to Carter on the dance floor. And then Carter had spotted him, had made the introductions reluctantly.
The picture of Claire Woodson as she’d been that night had stayed with Mack. As for this woman with the severe hairdo, the disconcertingly direct gaze, the calm grace and quiet manner, she did not fit that other picture. Just who was the real Claire Woodson?
THE CONTINUING DRONE of a small plane pulled Claire out of a deep sleep. Her subconscious had been aware of the sound for some time, long enough to pierce her defenses and trigger a dream. She was in a small plane with Carter at the controls. He was talking to her, smiling, gesturing with eager, almost manic, enthusiasm. He didn’t seem worried that he was flying the plane recklessly, zipping up and down, buzzing landmarks, going into a tailspin that brought her heart into her mouth. The controls on the instrument panel were going haywire. Trapped and terrified, Claire cried out at him to be careful, but he laughed at her. When she couldn’t reason with him, she opened the door to get out of the plane. She looked down in panic on an ocean of green sugarcane undulating in a summer breeze as the plane spiraled to the ground.
She awoke with a start.
To escape the nightmare, she wanted to spring out of bed, but her body felt heavy, weighted down by fear coursing through paralyzed limbs. Even her mind functioned sluggishly. She studied her surroundings in growing confusion. Where was she? The bedroom in her Houston condo had no floral wallpaper, no slowly revolving ceiling fan. Her bed had no tall cherry-wood foot posts.
And then she remembered. She was at Sugarland. Of course. With the McMolleres.
She rose on one elbow and rubbed a hand over her face. It had been such a long night. For hours her mind had been in turmoil. No relaxation techniques had worked. The last time she’d looked at the clock, it had been after four. It was now only a few minutes before six.
Slipping out of bed, she pulled on a robe and headed for the bathroom, which lay between the large guest suite Wyona had placed her in and a smaller bedroom the right size for a child. Unsurprisingly, considering the bizarre day he’d had, Danny had not been eager to stay in his room alone. It had been Michelle who’d persuaded him. Angry, hurting, rebellious Michelle. Claire wasn’t sure what the girl had promised him, but whatever it was, Danny had finally settled down. Claire had been grateful. Once again, she’d found herself wondering what was wrong between Michelle and Mack. Almost instinctively she wanted to reach out to the teenager, but she reminded herself that Michelle’s problems weren’t her concern. She couldn’t afford to get embroiled in this family’s affairs. Claire was here only because of the threat to Danny. Her son—not Mack’s troubled daughter—was the one who mattered right now.
In the bathroom, she realized that the sound of the small plane had not let up. Through the window, she watched the craft swoop low, spewing out a cloud of pesticide, the fuselage almost brushing the tops of the waving sugarcane. Barely dawn and a pilot was already crop-dusting. She rubbed her forehead, groaning at the early hours that farmers kept. Still, Danny would be interested, she thought, making a mental note to ask Mack to tell him about growing and processing sugar before it appeared on the table in tiny white granules to sweeten his cereal.
She went to check on him and found his bed empty. For a second, she stared around blankly. His pajamas were discarded beside a chair and his sneakers were gone. How could he have left without her hearing a sound? Her heart stumbled, but she told herself not to panic. Drawing the belt tight on her robe, she hurried into the hall. The house was eerily silent in the way houses are before their occupants rise. There was no sign of Danny or anybody else.
Fighting panic, she went to the banister of the winding staircase and leaned over it. “Danny,” she called, trying to keep her voice under control. “Danny, where are you?”
No answer. She whirled, about to go back to her room and get dressed. She could hardly search the place in her nightgown and robe. Behind her a door opened.
“What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” Wyona McMollere came out of a bedroom, her fair hair frizzed around her head and her eyeglasses cocked as though she’d donned them in a hurry.
“I’m looking for my son, Mrs. McMollere,” Claire said. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”
“At this hour?” the woman asked, glancing around as though expecting Danny to materialize out of nowhere. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.” In a nervous gesture, Claire caught up her long hair as she tried to think. “He’s not in his room and his sneakers are gone.”
Angus McMollere shuffled up behind Wyona, leaning on his cane. “What’s all the ruckus?” he demanded, his scowl directed at Claire.
“My son isn’t in his room,” Claire said. “I need to