A Winter's Rose (4 page)

“Thanks.” He poured himself a cup of coffee and held the pot out to her. She shook her head, and he set the coffee on the warming plate just as smoke began to billow from the toaster. Jackson swore again, popping up the now-blackened bread. He looked at it for a moment, as if deciding whether to eat it anyway, then tossed it into the trash.

Bentley clasped her hands in front of her and told herself she was not charmed by his domestic ineptitude. “Did you do the restoration yourself?” she asked.

“Mmm.” He dropped another slice of bread into the toaster. “Bit by bit. I bought it before the area was considered anything more than an eyesore. Now, it's—”

“Mother hated it,” Chloe interrupted. “She said it was old and ugly and should have been demolished.”

“Chloe…” Jackson said, a warning in his tone.

The girl's chin inched up. “She says Daddy could have been somebody, but that he preferred to throw his life away on lost causes. She says—”

Jackson wheeled around to face his daughter. “That's enough, young lady! Up to your room. Now!”

Chloe jumped to her feet, her eyes filling with angry tears. “Fine, I won't talk. I'll be a good little girl and keep my mouth shut, just like you want me to.” Turning, Chloe fled the kitchen.

For long moments, Jackson stood and stared after his daughter, a vein throbbing in his neck. Bentley checked the ridiculous urge to put a hand on his arm; instead she clasped both of them in front of her. Jackson Reese, she suspected, would not appreciate the show of sympathy.

Silence stretched between them until, finally, he turned to her. The expression in his eyes—made up of frustration, anger and despair—tore at her and she tightened her fingers. It would not be smart to soften toward this man; he would use it against her. But still, seeing this big, strong man made weak from fear and love for his child made her soften. She couldn't help herself.

“Chloe wasn't always this way,” he murmured, a catch in his voice. “She used to be so bright, so eager to please, so happy. There was always something…hopeful about her.” He shook his head and met Bentley's eyes. “Or maybe it was that looking at her made me feel hopeful.”

Jackson popped his toast up. “It's only been in the last year and a half that she's changed. She was living with her mother. It wasn't working. They fought. Her grades slipped until she was flunking out of school.” Jackson rubbed his eyes wearily. “Then, eight months ago, Victoria just up and sent her here. No warning for either of us.”

“I'm…” Bentley let the words trail off. After all, what could she say? She was sorry? That she understood? Those platitudes would mean nothing to him. She said instead, “That would be hard to adjust to.”

“We haven't, yet.” He laughed, the sound raw and without humor. “Maybe we never will. I don't know.”

Bentley bit her lip. The situation with her own parents couldn't be more different, and yet something plucked at her, something begging to be noticed and commented on. But whatever it was, it remained just beyond her reach.

“After Christmas she goes back to boarding school,” he continued. “They're giving her one more chance.” Jackson checked his watch and made a sound of frustration. “I've got to go. I'm already late.”

Bentley's stomach sank at the thought of being left alone with Chloe. She worked to keep her distress from showing. “Wait…” She sucked in a quick breath. “What do you want me to do with her today? What do you expect?”

Jackson met her eyes. “Just keep an eye on her. Keep her out of trouble. Keep her…safe. Last week she ditched one of her sitters by climbing out her bedroom window. Scared me to death. She was gone all day.”

“Oh.” Bentley's stomach plunged a bit more. “Is the mall okay? Or a movie?”

“Sure, whatever.” He breathed a sigh of frustration. “If this doesn't work, I don't know what I'll do. I have a trip to Washington scheduled…never mind.” Jackson pulled out his wallet and dropped a couple of twenties on the counter. “See that she gets what she wants.”

Jackson looked at his watch again and started for the front door. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and looked up, his expression hesitant. Bentley found herself hoping he would take a moment and go up to talk with his daughter. He didn't.

“I'm late,” he said. “I've got to go.”

And then he left. Without talking to Chloe, without even calling out a goodbye. Bentley didn't know why that made her so sad, but it did. Jackson wanted it to be right with his daughter; she felt his frustration, his pain. Bentley shook her head. It made her—

“I bet you want to get into my dad's pants.”

Shocked, Bentley swung around to face Chloe. The girl stood at the top of the stairs, chin tight, eyes narrowed in challenge.

And now, Bentley thought, the fun began.

Bentley narrowed her own eyes. “I don't believe I'm going to dignify that with an answer.”

“That means you do.” Chloe laughed. “Mama says women always fall for his big, macho type. And then they want to get into his pants.”

“Well,” Bentley said breezily, not wanting the child to know just how disconcerted she was, “your mama's wrong. Because I have no desire to, as you so delicately put it, get into your father's pants.”

Chloe sniffed and sauntered down the stairs. “Mama says women lie.”

Bentley drew in a deep breath. She didn't know Victoria Reese, but she knew she didn't like her. “Then perhaps she's the one who's lying here.”

Color flooded Chloe's cheeks. “Don't call my mother a liar!”

“Then don't call me one.”

Without waiting for a reply, Bentley turned and stalked to the kitchen. There, needing something to occupy her hands, she poured herself a cup of coffee although she detested the stuff. She counted to ten. Then twenty. Finally, when she heard Chloe crossing the parlor, she pretended great interest in the coffee and the scene from the kitchen window.

A moment later, Chloe stomped into the kitchen. When Bentley didn't look at her, the child huffed and sighed and muttered to herself. Finally, she plopped noisily onto one of the kitchen chairs. “What are we going to do today?”

Bentley took a sip of the coffee and angled the girl a glance. “I'm open to ideas.”

“There's an R-rated flick playing over at the mall. Take me.”

“Sure.”

Chloe's eyes widened. “Really?”

“Certainly. We'll just call your dad to make sure it's okay with him.”

“You're old enough to get me in.”

“True.” Bentley took another sip of the bitter-tasting brew. “But an R rating calls for parental guidance. I'm not your parent.”

Chloe scowled, obviously annoyed that Bentley wasn't responding as she wanted—or expected—her to. “Do you smoke grass?”

Bentley's heart stopped, and she counted to ten again. Chloe was trying to shock her, and doing a good job of it. But she wasn't about to let the youngster know she had the upper hand. She leveled the child with a cool stare. “No. Do you?”

“No.” Chloe inched her chin up. “But I know some kids who have.”

“Well, I suppose that makes you, and them, all grown up.”

“You're a drag, just like the others.”

Bentley dumped her coffee. “And I happen to think that people who take drugs are ignorant.”

Chloe stomped her foot. “Do you know who my mother is?”

A few choice guesses, ones like Wicked Witch of the West, jumped to her tongue, but Bentley swallowed them all and turned regally toward the child. She arched an eyebrow. “I'm quite sure I don't.”

“Victoria Ellerbee, that's who. My granddaddy founded Ellerbee Oil.” The girl fixed Bentley with a triumphant stare. “We all but own Dallas.”

“All but own Dallas? Is that so?” Bentley narrowed her eyes and faced the child, her fists on her hips. “Well, do you know who
I
am? Bentley Barton Cunningham. Cunningham as in oil, Barton as in one of the first families of Texas, as in the Daughters of the Texas Revolution Bartons, as in governors and Senator Barton. My mama took tea with Rosalind Carter, and my grandmama took tea with Mamie Eisenhower. So don't you try to pull family connections with me, young lady, because family connections are something I have plenty of. Do you understand me?”

Chloe nodded, her eyes wide with surprise. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Now then, let's get something straight, shall we? You treat me with respect, and I'll treat you the same way. If you act like a spoiled brat, I'll treat you like one.” Bentley folded her arms across her chest. “Do we have a deal?”

Chloe pouted and stubbed her toe against one of the chair legs. “I guess so.”

“Good.” Bentley smiled. “Then, how about some shopping? I'm in the mood.”

“In this hick town? Give me a break.”

“Houston's only an hour away. We could go to the Galleria. And out to lunch.”

Chloe's head snapped up. Excitement, pure little-girl delight, lit Chloe's eyes. A second later it was gone, replaced once again by bored cynicism, but in that moment, when she caught sight of the child beneath the veneer, Bentley could understand some of what Jackson was going through.

“So, what do you think?” Bentley asked. “Houston, shopping and lunch? Or TV game shows here?”

“Shopping.” The girl shrugged. “If you want.”

Bentley could see Chloe struggle for indifference, and she fought back a grin. She'd won the first battle, no doubt about it. And if she had any say in it, she would win the war, as well.

Smiling, she picked up her handbag and slipped it over her shoulder. “Let's go.”

Chapter Three

B
entley and Chloe spent the next several days as they spent the first, at the Houston Galleria, going from one shop to another, with Chloe trying on and buying outfit after outfit. As each day passed Chloe's bored facade slipped a little more, giving Bentley glimpses of a thirteen-year-old who was vulnerable, eager to please and in great need of attention. That child reminded Bentley of herself at the same age.
And tugged at her heartstrings.

Bentley shook her head at the thought, watching as Chloe, juggling their soft drinks, made her way across the busy food court. Outwardly she and Chloe were nothing alike. Chloe was fair, she was dark.
Chloe's behavior was…well, less than ideal. Growing up, Bentley had been the model of southern grace and manners; she'd striven to be the perfect daughter, had gone on to be the perfect debutante and sorority sister and, later, the perfect wife with the ideal marriage.

Perfect wife, perfect life.
How often had David said those words to her? How many times had they replayed obscenely in her head while he belittled and ridiculed her? Bentley shuddered and dragged her thoughts away from herself and her nightmare of a marriage and turned them back to Chloe.

She and Chloe were nothing alike, and yet they were. In the past three days Chloe had charged a small fortune without thinking about it once. With each purchase she had brightened, as if buying things made her feel more whole. And as if looking good somehow validated her existence.

Suddenly melancholy, Bentley trailed her fingers over the scarred edge of the tabletop. She could be reading herself in Chloe without justification. She could be simply transferring her own faults onto
Chloe because they had been so much on her mind of late. But she didn't think so.

She let out her breath in an exasperated huff. All this brooding was nonsense. She should be happy that her time baby-sitting Chloe was passing without incident, and that Jackson seemed pleased. She should be elated. She was proving herself and earning the position at Baysafe that Jackson had promised her.

Bentley frowned. But she didn't feel like she'd earned anything. In her heart of hearts, she didn't feel like she'd done Chloe—or Jackson—any favors.

Bentley shook her head again and focused on Chloe. She'd stopped to talk to a boy she seemed to know. Bentley drew her eyebrows together, watching as Chloe blushed and giggled, as the boy leaned close and whispered something in her ear.

The boy looked too old for Chloe and too…experienced. A ripple of apprehension moved over Bentley, and just as she wondered if she should intervene, Chloe motioned at her, said goodbye to her friend and started to the table.

A moment later Chloe set the drinks in front of Bentley. “Sorry,” she said a bit breathlessly, sliding into a chair. “He's an old friend.”

Old
being the key word, Bentley thought, studying the youngster's flushed features. She felt it her duty to question Chloe about the boy, but she didn't want to raise the young girl's ire. If Chloe became angry and defensive, she wouldn't get a thing out of her.

“He's cute,” Bentley murmured, taking a sip of her soda. “Do you know him from school?”

Chloe looked at her, then away. “I go to an all-girls school. Rick's an old family friend.” She fidgeted with her straw. “Daddy knows him.”

“You mean, his parents are family friends?”

“Yeah, that's what I mean. The Ables and the Ellerbees have been friends forever.”

Able. The name belonged to one of Texas's most prominent families, a family the Ellerbees would socialize with. Reassured, Bentley smiled. “He certainly is a looker.”

Chloe blushed and lowered her eyes. “He'd never be interested in me.”

“Are you kidding?” Bentley leaned toward her. “Not only are you gorgeous, but you're rich, too. In Texas, that means you can write your own…” Bentley let the thought trail off as she realized she was reassuring Chloe with the same words her mother had said to her at the same age. The realization left her feeling discomfited.

“Write my own what?” Chloe asked.

Bentley looked at the girl and forced a smile. “What I'm trying to say is, you're a really great girl, Chloe. You're smart, you're beautiful, you can be whatever you want to be. Never sell yourself short.” Bentley laughed. “In other words, you're going to have more boyfriends than you'll know what to do with.”

Chloe colored with pleasure. “You really think so?”

“I do. Trust me on this.” Bentley patted her hand. “I had a good time today. How about you?”

“Yeah. I had a lot of fun.” Chloe traced her finger through the beads of moisture on the side of her glass, her smile fading. “The last couple of days reminded me of—” She bit back the words and shook her head. “Never mind.”

“What?” Bentley prodded. “You can tell me.”

Chloe was quiet for a moment, then she shrugged. “Mom and I used to do this all the time. Before—” Chloe shrugged again, this time with such adult nonchalance that Bentley ached “—before she met
Jacques.
Then she didn't have time for me any more.”

“Oh, Chloe…” Bentley let her words trail off, unsure what to say and wishing she had something better, something more profound, to give Chloe than “I'm sorry.”

“He's a real slimeball, too. But it didn't matter what
I
thought, she married him anyway.” Chloe met Bentley's gaze, hers filled with defiance. “That's why I'm here, you know. I got in the way. That's why she shipped me off to that…prison.” She jutted her chin out. “Now I'm in Daddy's way.”

“That's not true!” Bentley said quickly, hurting for the child and wanting to reassure her. “I can't speak for your mother, but your father—”

“What?” she interrupted sarcastically. “My father
loves me very much?
Get a life.” Chloe jumped to her feet and began to gather up her purchases. “You know, I thought you were different, I thought you were pretty cool. But you're just like the rest. Grown-ups always stick together.”

“Chloe, wait.” Bentley grabbed her hand. “I didn't mean to upset you, or to imply that your feelings weren't valid. It's just that, yes, I can tell your father loves you…very much. Maybe he just doesn't know how to show it. Maybe he—”

“Save it.” Chloe snatched her hand away, her eyes filling with tears. “You don't know anything about me. Neither of them wanted me. They still don't.”

Bentley swore silently and stood. “You're right, I don't know much about you. But I know what I see. I know what I feel.” When Chloe wouldn't look at her, Bentley touched her arm. “I am trying to be honest with you.”

Fighting tears, Chloe shrugged. “This whole thing is totally lame. I'm ready to go.”

“Fine,” Bentley said, wishing she could solve Chloe's problems, ease her pain, with just a smile or a word. But she couldn't, she didn't have that kind of magic. So instead, she linked her arm with
Chloe's and said, “Let's go home.”

Several hours later Bentley waited for Jackson. Upon returning, Chloe had retreated to her room, giving Bentley a lot of time to think about what the child had told her. And the more she thought, the more concerned she became. She needed to talk to Jackson about his daughter, to bring up some of the things that were bothering her.

And talking to Jackson, she suspected, would not be easy to do.

Tossing aside the fashion magazine she'd hardly glanced at, Bentley jumped to her feet and crossed to one of the windows that faced the road. She wasn't a teacher, she reminded herself. She wasn't
Chloe's parent or guardian. She was a sitter, a paid playmate. Just as Jackson had asked, she had kept Chloe safe and happy. She had done her job.

So what if Chloe had her own American Express gold card? So what if Bentley had seen a crumpled pack of cigarettes in Chloe's purse? So what if Chloe thought her father considered her nothing more than an annoyance? Bentley's heart wrenched even as she sternly told herself that it was none of her business.

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth and pushed aside one the lace sheers. Moments later Jackson pulled into the drive, and as she watched he climbed out of the car and started toward the house.
He looked tense, tired and irritable. This was probably not a good time to broach the subject of Chloe with him, Bentley realized.

She would anyway.

The light that spilled from the windows into the darkness bathed him in half shadows; the backdrop of light and dark transformed Jackson's silhouette from that of civilized man to warrior. He looked up and met her gaze, his expression fierce. Bentley shuddered and told herself to either move away from the window or acknowledge his glance, but instead she stood still, immobilized and light-headed, her eyes locked with his.

Something hot and heavy moved over her, something sweetly pungent, like a profusion of blossoms in a still, dark room, like forbidden desire. Shaken, breathless, Bentley dropped the lace curtain and stepped away from the window, her heart a freight train in her chest.

She sucked in a deep, steadying breath and pressed a trembling hand to her mouth. Dear Lord, what had happened to her? For a moment, she had felt…everything a woman could feel when she looked at a man—desire and regret, power and powerlessness. The need for connection, the fear of it.

She didn't turn as Jackson opened the door and stepped inside. He shut it behind him with a soft click. The sound seemed to resound in the quiet room, and Bentley pulled in another calming breath. Nothing had happened, she told herself. Nothing.

She faced him then, and called herself a liar.

“Bentley?”

She heard the concern in his voice and realized that he would be worried about Chloe. She attempted to smile and found she could not.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Everything's fine.” She cursed the tremor in her voice and clasped her hands together. “Chloe's upstairs. I think she's trying on some of her new things.”

He drew his eyebrows together and lifted his gaze to the stairway. For long moments he stood that way, then he turned to her. “Great. Thanks, Bentley. You can go now.”

She told herself to do just that. She reminded herself that Chloe and Jackson's problems were none of her concern. She forced a smile. “Good. I'll see you tomorrow.”

After collecting her purse and coat, she started for the door. There, she stopped and looked at Jackson, her heart lurching as she saw that he once again gazed toward the stairs and Chloe's closed bedroom door. In his expression she saw frustration and fear, she saw a father who yearned for his daughter. And one who had no idea how to reach that daughter.

Calling herself a dozen kinds of fool, Bentley swung toward him. “Jackson?”

He dragged his attention from the stairs. “Yes?”

“I…wanted to talk to you about Chloe. Something's bothering me, and—” She paused, searching for the right words. When they wouldn't come she settled for the ones that jumped to her tongue. “Don't you think it's a little permissive to allow Chloe her own gold card?”

“What?” he asked, narrowing his eyes almost imperceptibly.

“A gold card. It just seems—”

“Permissive by whose standards?” he interrupted tightly. “Yours? That's rich.”

Bentley stiffened at the sarcasm in his tone. “It just seems to me that by allowing her to shop like that, you're only reinforcing—”

“I find this odd criticism coming from the queen of the shop-till-you-drop set.” He leveled her a deadly cold stare. “Good night, Bentley.”

Angry heat flooded her cheeks, and she tipped her chin up. “It wasn't criticism, it was concern.”

“I see. Well, thank you for your
concern.
I'll take it under advisement.” Without another word, he turned and crossed to where the day's mail had been stacked and began thumbing through it.

The heat in her cheeks became fire. He was dismissing her! As if she were no more than an annoying fly buzzing around his head. Bentley narrowed her eyes. The arrogant, self-important Neanderthal! She would make him listen whether he wanted to or not.

Stalking across the entryway, she grabbed his arm, forcing him to face her. “What is Chloe's punishment for getting kicked out of school?”

He lowered his eyes to her hand, then lifted them to hers. “Excuse me?”

“Her punishment,” Bentley repeated. “What is it? Being allowed to shop every day, spending however much she wants? Being allowed to go to movies and out to lunch?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Amazing. A couple of shopping trips with my daughter and you're an expert on parenting. My, my…you must be some sort of prodigy.”

She flung her head back, so angry she shook with it. “You know what I think? That you're punishing yourself.”

Jackson leaned toward her, the expression in his eyes dangerous. “What exactly were you the queen of? All belles worth their salt reign as some sort of royalty, and you're just reeking of it. What was it, Princess? The Azalea Ball? Cotton Carnival? Or maybe even the Rose Festival?”

Bentley sucked in a sharp breath. “You are a complete bastard.”

“Really,” he murmured, arching his eyebrows, mocking her. “I thought I was a pig.”

She wanted to shout, she wanted to slug him. She lifted her chin regally instead. “There aren't enough expletives to describe you, Mr. Reese. Good night.”

Turning, she crossed to the door. Again, she stopped and looked at him. “You've given up on your daughter, haven't you? Why, Jackson? Your own guilt? Exactly what sin are you paying for?”

Without waiting for an answer, she let herself out. Struggling for control, she forced herself not to slam the door behind her, not to hurry. Even as she prayed he wouldn't follow her, she knew he would.

And he did. Showing none of her control, he slammed out of the house seconds behind her, his fury almost palpable in the darkness. Shivering, she stopped and turned slowly to face him.