The Reluctant Lark (9 page)

Laura Bradford glanced up, a grim smile on her face. “The boy’s been rushing you, hasn’t he?” she asked. “He never could wait when he wanted something.”

“That ‘boy’ has committed a very serious crime,” Sheena bit out, her dark eyes flaring. “You’re obviously a woman of high ethical standards. You can’t possibly approve of his actions, much less actually act as his accomplice.”

The older woman gazed at Sheena’s distraught face for a long moment before she picked up another potato and began peeling it carefully. “You’re wrong,” she said quietly. “I’d probably help him even if he asked me to commit murder.” She looked up swiftly at Sheena’s disbelieving gasp. “I’d do it in a minute,” she said gruffly. “Because I’d know that Rand had a damn good reason for asking me to do it. I’ve known that boy almost all his life. If he took you against your will, he must have good cause. You’ll get no help from me.”

“Good cause!” Sheena cried, running her hand distractedly through her wild tangle of curls. “He sees me perform at a concert and decides it would be amusing
to disrupt my entire life. I’d hardly call a spoiled playboy’s whim good cause!”

“Now you just settle down,” Laura said tersely. “Rand doesn’t operate that way. He’s never had a so-called ‘whim’ in his life. Even as a child he knew exactly what he wanted, and when he got it, he wasn’t like other children, who grew bored and careless of their possessions. No matter how long Rand had something, it never lost its value for him.”

Sheena shook her head dazedly. “You’re as daft as he is,” she said faintly. “You act as if I should be honored that he chose me to abduct.”

Laura wiped her hands on a towel on the drainboard and turned to face Sheena. “I’m not saying that I approve of his methods, but you’re right in thinking that I believe you don’t realize your luck. Rand is very cautious about getting too close to anyone.” Her lips curved bitterly. “He learned early that caring for anyone can hurt damnably. His father never cared for anyone or anything but that precious business empire of his.” Her brandy-colored eyes flickered with a glint of the same toughness that Sheena had glimpsed in Challon’s. “Well, for some crazy reason he cares about you. I’ve never seen him feel that same way about another woman. So if he wants you, I’m going to try my damndest to see that he gets you!”

“Just like that?” Sheena asked faintly, her eyes wide with shock. “You don’t care what I feel, just so the great Rand Challon gets what he wants.”

“That pretty well covers it,” the former governess said. Then a glint of sympathy appeared in her eyes. “Why don’t you just relax and let yourself flow with the tide?” she asked gently. “Rand is a fine man, and he really cares about you. Believe me, this isn’t a flash in the pan for him.”

“How can you know that?” Sheena asked bitterly. “You can’t describe this as exactly normal behavior even for your fair-haired boy.”

Laura Bradford bit her lower lip undecidedly and
then abruptly made up her mind. She moved forward swiftly and grasped Sheena firmly by the arm. “Come with me. I think it’s time you saw something.”

Laura ushered the younger woman out of the kitchen and down the hall. She threw open a door and stood aside to let Sheena precede her. “This is Rand’s study,” she announced. “I think it may hold a few surprises for you.”

Sheena cast her a confused glance as she slowly entered the room. Rand’s study was a small room carpeted in variegated rust shades. It contained a minimum of furniture: there was a small portable bar in one corner, a brown leather, tufted visitor’s chair, and against the far wall a pine rolltop desk with papers stuffed in every pigeonhole.

But it wasn’t the decor that caused Sheena to freeze in the center of the room and her mouth to drop open in shock. It was the pictures. There were pictures everywhere. Framed pictures on the walls and on the desk. Snapshots stuck in odd corners of the desk and one large colored photograph that had a place of honor on the wall above the desk.

“They’re all of me,” Sheena whispered dazedly, as she moved forward to stand before the desk. “But why?”

“Why do you think?” Laura Bradford asked tartly. “I should think it’s fairly obvious that the man is obsessed by you.”

Obsessed. Challon had used that word, too, Sheena thought, as her gaze remained glued to the wall above the desk. “The large color photograph is the one that appeared on the cover of the Paris
Match
,” she said bewilderedly. “That was over two years ago.” She shivered suddenly as she recognized her own strained and tragic face portrayed in black and white in a newspaper photo. “That was taken outside the hospital in Ballycraigh five years ago,” she murmured huskily. She rubbed her head absently with one hand as if she could banish the clouds of bewilderment that were perplexing her. She touched another snapshot that
was stuck in the corner of one of the framed photographs on the desk. “This one was taken before my parents died. I was only eight years old. I can understand how he could get hold of the other photos, but how on earth could he possibly have obtained this one?”

“I imagine his methods wouldn’t bear looking into closely,” Laura said dryly. “I do know that he’s received a detailed report on you from a private detective agency every week for the past five years.”

“Five years?” Sheena repeated stupidly. She couldn’t comprehend the evidence of her own eyes much less the rest of what Laura Bradford had revealed. “That’s completely incredible.”

The older woman shrugged. “Perhaps. But it isn’t really unusual when you know Rand Challon, As I told you, he always knows what he wants, and he never changes his mind. You’d be wise to accept that premise, first, if you ever expect to understand him.”

“I’ve got to think,” Sheena said, as she moved slowly toward the door. “None of this makes sense.” As if she were sleepwalking, she passed Laura Bradford and headed for the stairs. “I’ve got to think,” she repeated distractedly.

Laura Bradford followed her to the staircase and watched with narrowed eyes as she climbed the steps. “You do that,” she said gruffly. “And while you’re at it, you just might consider how rare it is to find a man who will cherish
anything
for that long in this day and age.”

To her surprise Sheena was left alone for the rest of the day, due much to the influence of Laura Bradford, she suspected. Challon was not a man to rest on his laurels, and after that hour in the woods, she had expected him to approach her immediately to further consolidate the gains he had made. She was only grateful that he had been persuaded to give her the time
she so desperately needed to retrieve a little of the equilibrium, which Laura Bradford’s revelations had toppled.

She spent most of that afternoon sitting on the red tartan, cushioned window seat staring blindly out at the snowcapped mountains in the distance. Her mental processes were in such a state of upheaval that at first it was as if she were stunned. She evidently had completely misread the situation when she had believed that Challon’s obsession for her was temporary and would vanish when he became bored with his game.

If Challon had not grown bored in five years of in-depth investigation, it was unlikely that she would be able to persuade him to release her in the few weeks that she had allotted herself for her holiday. She couldn’t even begin to fathom the reasons behind those years of close surveillance, and toward evening she gave up even trying.

She stood up from the window seat and stretched wearily. She would shower and change, then go down to face Challon with her questions. She was certainly not getting anywhere with her own surmises.

She had just slipped a crimson velvet robe from a hanger in the closet and was on her way to the bathroom when there was a knock on the door.

Sheena bit her lip in vexation. She wasn’t ready to face either Challon or Laura Bradford at the moment. She needed more time to erect her defenses and prepare the queries that must be asked. She sighed in resignation as she realized that neither Challon nor Laura Bradford would be put off by any protests or evasions on her part. She crossed the room swiftly and opened the door.

Rand Challon stood in the doorway with a covered tray in his hands and a hint of annoyance in his lion eyes. “It’s about time,” he said impatiently, as he pushed past her into the room. “I’ve brought your supper. You’ve had enough time to settle the question of world
disarmament this afternoon. I told Laura that I wasn’t about to give you any more time to brood, despite her tender concern for your feelings.”

Sheena avoided his eyes, suddenly shy under the golden aggressiveness in his. “You needn’t have gone to the trouble,” she said quietly. “I was just going to shower and come downstairs.”

“Well, now you won’t have to bother,” Challon said flatly. “Run along and take your shower. Your meal will still be warm when you’re finished.” He put the tray on the window seat and dropped down beside it.

He had changed from the jeans and wool sweater he had worn earlier, she noticed. He was now wearing suede rust pants that revealed the muscular strength of his thighs. The sleeves of his cream chambray shirt were rolled up to the elbow, and he had carelessly left a few buttons open, exposing his bronze muscular chest and a thatch of tawny hair.

He frowned impatiently as she stood gazing at him hesitantly. “You needn’t look at me as if I’m some sort of Bluebeard,” he said tersely. “Laura meant well, but I could have told her you weren’t ready to hear it yet.” He leaned back against the alcove wall and propped one foot on the window seat. “Well, it’s done now. We’ll talk after you’ve eaten.”

So much for her plans of facing Challon in the more impersonal surroundings of the living room, Sheena thought. With his usual decisiveness, he was again molding the situation to suit himself.

“I’ll only be a few moments,” she said quietly, turning and walking once more toward the bathroom.

It was only slightly longer than that when she returned, but he’d had time enough to draw the drapes at the window and to build a fire in the fireplace. The tray was now on the hearth, and Challon was sprawled lazily on the chaise longue, looking ridiculously out of place on the distinctly feminine couch.

Challon looked up as she came through the door, and a smile lit his face as his gaze ran over her
lingeringly. “I like you in that,” he said softly. “I knew when I chose it that you’d look like a wild gypsy lass when you wore it.”

“You chose it yourself?” she asked, looking down at the crimson velvet robe. It was a lushly extravagant garment with its low, square neckline and full, loose sleeves. The bodice was fitted, pointing up the slimness of her waist, and the skirt flared to lavish fullness. It was buttoned down the front, and there must have been a hundred tiny velvet-covered buttons from neckline to hem. It had taken her forever to fasten it.

Challon nodded. “I chose all of the clothes here,” he said, rising to his feet. “You’ll also find a complete wardrobe in my apartment in Houston and still another at Crescent Creek.”

“How very extravagant of you,” Sheena said lightly, as she came toward him. “I hope you made sure they were all returnable.”

“Nope. They’re all here to stay.” He bent down and retrieved the tray from the hearth. “Just as you are, little dove.” He gestured toward the chaise longue. “I think that you’d better sit there. It makes me feel like a female impersonator doing a Camille skit.”

Sheena chuckled as she sat down. “You did look a bit uncomfortable,” she told him. Her dark eyes were twinkling as he placed the tray on her lap and lifted off its cover.

“While you look just right,” he said contentedly, as he sat down on the carpet at her feet. He pulled up his knees and rested his chin upon them, his golden eyes watching her gravely as she picked up her fork and started on the vegetable casserole. “It just goes to prove what a perceptive man I am.”

She sighed resignedly. “Don’t tell me you chose all the furnishings in this room, too.”

“I’m afraid so,” he admitted. “It got to be a kind of game. Buying things that I thought you’d enjoy and then imagining you using them. When I took a break last year and came up here, I even slept in your bed. I
used to lie there with only the fire to illuminate the darkness and look at the portrait of Keane’s dark-eyed waif above the mantel and think about my own waif.”

Sheena’s eyes flew to the portrait on the wall. The picture Challon painted was touchingly evocative, and she could feel her throat tighten helplessly. “But I’m not a waif,” she protested huskily. “I have Uncle Donal.”

Challon’s lips tightened. “Yes, you have your uncle,” he said curtly. “Which makes the description even more valid.”

It was clear that no amount of reasoning was going to alter Challon’s opinion of Donal O’Shea. “You were something of a waif yourself according to Miss Bradford,” Sheena pointed out quietly.

He shrugged, “Laura has a very sentimental heart under that tough exterior. I was too wild to really miss the influence of a doting father. We never understood each other. He couldn’t comprehend why I didn’t want to follow in his footsteps. Challon Oil was the end-all of everything to my father.”

He shrugged, his lips curving in a cynical smile. “After college, I batted around the world for awhile. I was a ski instructor one season at Saint Moritz. I joined a marine exploratory ship in the Caribbean for six months.” His eyes were reminiscent. “I had a dozen jobs in those two years, but nothing my father would term gainful employment. Then I enlisted in the army and was sent to Vietnam.” He got up abruptly and knelt before the fire with his back to her. Taking a poker from the andirons set, he stirred the fire briskly. “The army decided they had at last found my true vocation,” he said bitterly. “They decided that I had the true killer instinct, and I was assigned to a special guerrilla corps. They were right. I was very good at it.” He put the poker back on the stand and turned back to face her.

Sheena drew in her breath sharply as she saw his face. There was a stony ruthlessness that was almost primitive in the graven lines of his face, and the golden
eyes were narrowed to the deadly gleam of a stalking puma.

He shook his head as if to clear it. As he met her wide, frightened eyes, the savagery gradually faded from his expression, and his lips twisted. “I came back from Nam with a truckload of medals, and everyone said that I was a changed man. They were right. I was changed, but not the way they thought.”