An Irresistible Bachelor (30 page)

God, how well she'd been trained. And how early.

She could remember being eleven years old and standing in Grand Central Station with her mother. As they'd waited for their train, Callie had looked over at a businessman who was getting his shoes shined. The man had had a paper up in front of his face, but she could tell he was someone like her father because he dressed in the same kind of clothes.

She'd been watching him, wondering what it felt like to have shoes cleaned while they were on your feet, when he'd flipped the paper around and she'd seen a picture of her father. Excited by the image, she'd hurried over and proudly started to explain to the man just whose daughter she was.

Her mother had pulled her back sharply, making excuses and smiling. “She thinks everyone in a tie is her father.”

“No, I don't.”

“Excuse us.”

The man had nodded and gone back to reading but, as Callie was dragged off, he'd dropped the corner of his paper and had given them a measured stare. Her mother had caught the look and done her best to block his view, drawing Callie into a corner.

Her mother was obviously shaken. “You shouldn't do things like that. Remember how I told you that your father is a secret? A secret between the three of us?”

Of course Callie had remembered, but she was getting tired of keeping her mouth shut. No one else's father had to be kept hidden.

“I was just telling some stranger.”

“But if you tell a secret, what happens?” her mother had prompted.

“You don't have to keep it anymore,” she'd retorted, putting her fists on her hips.

“No. No—Callie, look at me. If you share a secret, what happens? You lose something special.”

Callie had started shaking her head. She was tired of the lecture, tired of keeping the stupid secret. Besides, it wasn't like she was gaining much by being a good girl. Whether she followed her mother's rules or not, her father still didn't look her in the eye when he came to visit.

“Callie, I'm serious.”

At that moment, she hadn't cared how stern her mother was getting. “So what! If I tell people about Daddy, I'm going to lose him? Who cares!”

Her mother had gripped her shoulders and put her face down so close that their noses had almost touched. “If you tell, we're both going to lose him.”

Looking into her mother's pale face, Callie had felt the fight drain right out of her.

As she came back to the present, she heard the sound of Artie chasing groundhogs in his sleep. She glanced over the side of the bed, watching his paws twitch and hearing him yodel deep in his throat.

God, she wished she had a different story to tell. But she didn't.

And breaking through years of careful schooling was not something she could do easily. After a lifetime of guarding the secret, letting it out felt all wrong even though she reminded herself that it was Jack who wanted to know.

If she could tell anyone, surely it would be him.

And what about the election? The press? It wasn't a fait accompli that a reporter would find out what she was hiding. But considering what there was to lose, namely Grace's peace of mind and security, was she really willing to chance exposure?

Artie jerked and let out something that was close to a bark.

“Wake up,” she murmured, reaching down and patting the dog. “Come on, now.”

His eyes opened halfway and he seemed grateful as he looked up at her. Maybe the groundhogs had been coming after him this time.

Abruptly, she felt like she knew what being chased was like. She'd been trying to outrun her father's dubious legacy for some time now, but damn it, history was proving fast and tireless.

She stroked Artie's head until he fell asleep, and then she put a pillow against the headboard and leaned back. As she stared at the Caravaggio over the fireplace, she let the debate between her past and her present fill the dark, quiet hours.

THE NEXT morning, Callie put Artie on a leash and headed off at the crack of dawn for a walk. By the time they came back down Buona Fortuna's driveway, the dog was exhausted. Unlike her, he didn't have to work off anxiety and dismay, two great energizers along the lines of caffeine and rocket fuel.

They'd walked along the side of the road for miles, all the way into Weston, the next town over. She'd finally forced herself to turn back, because however keyed up she was, walking to the New Hampshire border wouldn't accomplish anything other than wearing out her running shoes. Besides, Artie was starting to droop.

When she approached the house, the garage doors were open and Mrs. Walker's Jaguar was gone, which meant Jack had left for the day. He'd taken to driving his mother's car because it was an automatic and he couldn't shift with his arm in a cast. Looking at the empty bay, she was disappointed that she'd missed an opportunity to try to apologize to him again.

After she let the dog into the kitchen, she said good morning to Thomas and went up to the garage. She'd just turned on the big light and settled in when she heard footsteps come up the stairs. She turned and was surprised to see Jack.

His eyes met hers, but he didn't smile.

“I'd thought you'd gone,” she said, putting down the wooden stick she was about to wind with cotton.

“I'm working from home today.” He walked across the room to a window, hands in the pockets of his jeans, a thick Irish sweater bringing out the darkness of his hair. Weak sunlight fell across his face as he scanned the sky.

“About last night,” she began. “I really want to apologize. I was frustrated and angry—”

“And honest, maybe?” He looked at her over his shoulder.

“Jack—”

“I need to make something clear.”

“Okay,” she said, putting her hands on her knees and leaning forward to ease the tension in her shoulders.

“I told you I wanted more out of this relationship than sex and a little affection. I'm greedy by nature, so I won't settle for second best. I never do. I want all of you, Callie. Not just the pretty bits and pieces.” He faced her. “I want to know about your past because it's part of you. Not because I'm worried about how it will affect me.”

“I believe you.”

“So talk to me.”

She started to shake her head. “It's not that simple.”

“You say you love me, but how can you if you don't trust me enough to share all the parts of your life with me? Are you worried something will change my opinion of you? Because nothing will. There isn't anything you could tell me that would make me pull back.”

She glanced down at her hands and wondered whether she was really worried about that. Did she honestly think he would bolt just because she was a bastard? Of course not.

Jack's voice darkened. “I'll tell you what, though. This silence could drive me away.”

Callie looked up, searching his face for the courage she knew she needed to find in herself. She took a deep breath.

This was Jack, she told herself. This was Jack. This was Jack. This was—

Feeling like she was leaping into a black hole, she blurted out, “My father and mother were never married.”

His face changed instantly. It was as if he'd relaxed and become saddened for her at the same time.

“My father was married to another woman. He had a family, a whole life, outside of my mother and me, and we were the lesser of the two. He never acknowledged me in any formal way; his name's not even on my birth certificate.”

Jack came over and she felt his strong hand on her shoulder. “I'm so sorry.”

“I—I grew up knowing that we were always second best. That he loved my mother just enough to never let her go free.” She leaned into him, resting her head on his hip. As she did, he made some sort of quiet noise, an encouragement to keep talking mixed with the regret he was obviously feeling. “I watched his burial from a stand of birches, fifty yards away from the gravesite. I only knew about the ceremony at all because I followed my half sister without her knowing it.”

He brushed her hair back.

“I . . . This is hard to talk about for me because I've never told anyone before. I was taught to keep quiet. It was the only way he would stay in our lives.” She tried to smile but couldn't pull it off. “Old habits and all that.”

“I'm glad you told me.”

Wrapping her arms around his waist, she murmured, “So am I.”

Jack's hand rubbed her back in circles.

She tilted her head so she could look up into his eyes. “I don't know what I thought would happen if I actually told someone. If I told you. It's not like my head exploded or anything. I suppose I thought it might.” She tried to laugh a little, but the sadness she felt came out raggedly instead. “It was hard growing up. Other girls talked about their fathers with such . . . ownership.
My
father did this.
My
father did that. I had
a
father. After a long time of hoping he'd come around and be who I wanted him to be, I realized I was never going to make the possessive pronoun fit. Talking about him as
my
father was like claiming something that wasn't there.”

Jack took her hand and urged her out of the chair. “Come over here. I want to hold you for a while.”

Which was what she wanted, too.

They settled on the couch, and he pulled her onto his lap. “You know your father's bad judgment was not your fault, right?”

“I know.”

“You deserved a hell of a lot better.”

She hadn't really thought about that much. Growing up, she'd been too busy trying to please. As an adult, she'd been preoccupied with trying to forget.

“So am I forgiven?” she said against his shoulder.

“Absolutely.”

“Because I don't want to lose you.”

“I'm not going anywhere.” His hand stroked the back of her neck.

“I really wanted to tell you, but—”

He silenced her with a soft kiss. “Don't worry. I understand completely. And when it comes to the election, I don't want you to be concerned. This is not going to be a problem.”

She pulled away. “Excuse me?”

“The press would only care if your father was someone already in the public eye. We can easily protect you and argue there's nothing newsworthy in your past.”

“I can't possibly be hearing you right,” she muttered in disbelief.

“Callie, I'm not downplaying the effect this had on you,” he said. “Not at all.”

She started shaking her head. They were back to square one. “You don't get it. I still don't want to answer anyone's questions, especially not a journalist's.”

“But you don't have to worry. It's going to be okay. Nothing is going to get out in the media.”

Callie gripped his shoulders. “Yes, it will.”

Jack's eyes narrowed. “Who exactly was your father?”

She dropped her hands. She couldn't go that far. Even with Jack. “Isn't it enough to know what happened?”

“Clearly not. Who was he, Callie?”

She broke free and walked across the room.

“You're shutting me out again,” he said darkly.

“Stop pushing me, okay?”

“Callie,” his voice was sharp, “if I'm pressuring you, it's because I only have half the story. You're leaving out the most important part.”

She wheeled around. “I would have hoped the most important part was me.”

“I didn't mean it like that.”

“But you do, Jack. You truly do. You're trying to force me to fit into your plans.”

“Because I want you in my life,” he said, throwing up his hands.

“On your terms.”

“Don't hit me with that, Callie. I'm trying to make this work and you're putting up an obstacle. Something that seems fairly arbitrary to me, I might add, unless you're willing to tell me the whole story.”

“Can't you just trust me?” she whispered.

He put his hand on his chest. “How about you trusting me?”

She looked away.

He let out a curse. “So what are you telling me? If I run for governor, you're out of here?”

She closed her eyes, thinking, Oh, God, was that where they were headed?

“I don't know, Jack. I just don't know.”

 

When she didn't see him for the rest of the day, and he didn't come by her room that night, she figured he was cooling off and giving her an opportunity to do the same. But after a couple of days passed with no more than cursory meetings in the kitchen, or hallway, she knew Jack was avoiding her.

She put down the wooden stick and cotton bud she was working with and checked her watch again. It was late, very late, and Jack still wasn't back from the office. He'd taken to coming home well into the night and he disappeared into his study as soon as he walked in the back door, even if it was nine or ten o'clock. She kept hoping he'd come to her room, but every morning she woke up having spent the night alone.

The night before, she'd cracked. She'd sat in the kitchen, halfheartedly doing a crossword puzzle and prepared to wait until dawn. When he'd finally come through the door, she'd followed him down the hall, trying to get him to talk about something, anything. He'd been silent, but at least he'd made eye contact with her as he'd poured himself a bourbon.

She'd been on the verge of steering the subject to them when he'd sat down and started flipping through the piles of documents that had sprung up all over his desk. When she'd asked what he was doing, he'd given her a curt answer, something about that blood company deal he'd been working on.