Forgotten Father (11 page)

“Dinner was lovely,” she said, striving to anchor
the moment to the mundane.

“Yes,” he said, glancing at her briefly. “They do a
good meal there.”

“Yes.” Delanie stared ahead, the sensation of his
gaze on her leaving a scorching heat in her lungs. She was adult
enough to understand the existence of chemical attraction. How many
women had cast aside their principles for a man who drew them
simply on an elemental level?

Scores.

But she wasn’t one of them. Wasn’t planning on
waking up naked tomorrow with Mitchell and having trite
conversation before they slipped back into their ordinary roles, as
if nothing had happened and the battle between them waged on. She
couldn’t trivialize herself and her body that way. The possible
consequences were too huge. No matter how hot the night, she
couldn’t do it.

Not without love.

Within a few minutes, he’d pulled to a stop in front
of her small rented cottage.

“Nice place,” he said, putting the car into park and
turning off the engine.

“I like it,” she responded, searching for her small
bag and scooping it up.

He got out of the car and walked around as if to
open her door, but she’d already lifted the handle. Still, when she
stepped out of the vehicle, he cupped her elbow like a prom date
from the fifties and walked her to the door.

Her senses quivering, her mind in gear enough to
still wonder at the supposed turnaround in his attitude, she let
him escort her to the door.

“Thank you for the lovely evening,” she said,
turning to face him in the yellow light cast by the porch
fixture.

“My pleasure,” he said.

“We don’t have to battle over The Cedars, you now.
We can settle this peaceably. I’m glad you called,” she said,
impulsively placing her hand on his arm.

“Are you?” The light overhead cast harsh shadows
across his features.

“Yes,” she affirmed, conscious of the latent
strength in the arm beneath her fingers. “We’re both sensible
people. We don’t need to have a war over this inheritance.”

“Sensible people,” he echoed, his face hard to
read.

“Yes.” She looked up at him as they stood on the
island of her tiny wooden porch, the sounds of the night swelling
around them.

“So we’re putting the past behind us?” he asked, his
voice odd.

“Of course,” Delanie confirmed brightly, still
trying to decipher the shadows in his eyes.

“But not the good part,” he said. “We’re not putting
that behind us?”

Did he mean tonight’s dinner? “I…suppose not.”

“Good,” he said, reaching out to draw her
closer.

Despite the fact that as an attractive single woman,
she’d been kissed a few times before, she never saw it coming.

In the whisper of a second, he brought her up
against his body and lowered his mouth to hers. His lips parted
over hers, his arms banded around her. Hot and wet, he kissed her,
like a man who’d been at sea for a year, like a starved creature
demanding sustenance.

No tentative salute this, but a warrior-like taking
of her mouth.

Stepping forward so that her back pressed against
the house, Mitchell kissed her with a sliding of lips, a tangling
of tongues. Kissed her like he knew no halfway, nothing but lust
and passion. Kissed her as if he had a right. Leap-frogging over
dating etiquette--he claimed her.

Delanie registered a surge of disorientation, as if
the world turned upside down. His hands were broad against her back
as he held her pinned between the wall of his chest and the
house.

She felt lightheaded, dizzy for a flash of a second,
his nibbling, wooing, demanding mouth blotting out all thought, all
reason.

The low burn in her body leaped into forest fire
strength and she clung to him with the joining of their mouths, the
tangle of breath and hunger vibrating inside her.

He tore his lips from hers, pressing a trail of damp
kisses along her chin, to the curve of her neck.

“Let’s go in,” he muttered, his body taut and hard
against hers.

Leaning against the wall, her senses disordered by
his seductive assault, she barely registered his words.

“What?” she murmured, passion-dazed.

“Inside,” he muttered, a hand cupping and kneading
her breast.

“Oh, God!” Returning to herself with a sudden rush
of icy reality, she pushed at him, wedging her arms between their
bodies. “No, I can’t Mitchell. I’m sorry. No.”

He straightened, disbelief and passion making his
features harsh. “No?”

“Please, no. No.” She drew a shaken breath.
“No.”

******

Two weeks later, Mitchell walked through the door
leading into the resort offices.

“Good morning, Mr. Riese,” the secretary offered
brightly. “Did you have a good trip from New York?”

“Yes, thank you.” He frowned down at the contracts
in his hands. “Where’s your fax machine?”

“Oh, let me do that—“ she started, breaking off when
the phone on her desk rang. “Hello? Yes, I have that information.
Can you hold?”

Mitchell scanned the document in his hands, mentally
rephrasing the clause in the middle of the page.

“I can fax that for you now,” the woman behind the
desk offered as she replaced the telephone receiver in its
cradle.

He glanced at the phone, noting the blinking light.
“You’ve got someone waiting. If you’ll point me in the direction of
the machine, I can handle it myself.”

A hesitant smile hovered on her face. “Of course,…if
you’re sure.”

“I’m sure,” he said, his tone dry. How long would it
take these people to accept a business-like relationship rather
than the overly-chummy management style Delanie Carlyle
preferred?

And why the hell did he care? He ran a dozen
companies and had never before even thought about his popularity
with his staff. There was nothing wrong in striving for perfection.
It wasn’t often achieved, but the striving built character.

“Okay, if you don’t mind doing it yourself,” the
woman chirped nervously. “The fax is right here on the counter. You
just put the page in, punch in the fax number and push the start
button.”

“Thank you.”

The secretary’s smile grew brighter. “You’re
welcome.”

Mitchell slipped the clip off the contract and fed
the first sheet into the machine. Behind him, the secretary—he
didn’t know her name—answered her caller’s question, her voice
cheerful.

“Yes, that was the thirteenth…”

The woman’s voice drifted into the background as he
fed page after page into the fax machine.

In the past four weeks, he hadn’t made much obvious
headway in unseating Delanie Carlyle from her ownership position,
but he was a patient man. He’d find a way to get The Cedars back
without paying her a cent. Some endeavors took time to come to
fruition.

After that first staff meeting, he’d realized he
needed a plan of action. With this in mind, he’d asked her to
dinner alone. She played her manipulations and deceit with a warm
smile. It wasn’t his style, but he’d smoothed down his anger,
determined to best her at her own game.

Still, Delanie’s rebuff after their kiss on her
porch rankled. Why the hell the woman persisted in acting as if
they’d never been lovers before, he couldn’t imagine. He knew he
hadn’t slipped and revealed his hand. She had no reason to suspect
he was still bent on wresting The Cedars away from her. So why had
she pulled back?

Why had she caught fire in his arms that night only
to deny him—and herself—some much needed release? It didn’t make
any sense. It wasn’t like the woman didn’t like sex.

Her virginal attack of modesty after their scorching
kiss had left him both furious and frustrated. It wasn’t bad enough
that she was trying to steal half of The Cedars, she apparently
also wanted to steal his sanity as well.

Mitchell fed in another page of the contract and
punched the start button on the fax.

To hell with her.

He could manage his lust better than the average man
and it didn’t hurt that he knew she wanted him as badly as he did
her. Just the thought of her breathless moans when he’d traced his
mouth along the column of her neck made him hard.

Yet, she’d never mentioned their night together,
never referred to the steamy sexual satisfaction that he still had
dreams about a year and a half later.

At the thought, Mitchell thumped the start button on
the fax again.

Enough was enough. Somehow, he’d make her
acknowledge their very personal confrontation, either before or
after they’d repeated the pleasurable experience.

Then he’d get rid of her, somehow shake her loose
from The Cedars for good. Sex was one thing, business another. The
two didn’t have to interfere.

Behind him, the office door opened. Mitchell turned
to see the newcomer, recognizing Connie, Delanie’s assistant.

The quiet, dark-haired woman shut the door behind
her and, sending him a brief, polite smile, spoke to the secretary
behind the desk.

“Good morning, Pat. How are you today?”

“Fine,” chirped the secretary.

Pat,
Mitchell thought, committing the name to
memory, as he turned back to his faxing.

“Delanie wanted to know if you’d found that invoice
she mentioned to you?”

“Oh, yes,” Pat said, sifting through the piles on
her desk and pulling free a piece of paper she then handed to the
other woman.

“Thanks.” Connie tucked the paper inside a folder
she carried.

“While you’re here,” Pat said. “Celia in
Housekeeping wanted me to find out if Delanie ordered those
bedspreads that needed replacing.”

“Those spreads shouldn’t have worn out so quickly,”
Connie said, her voice severe. “Del wants to go back to the
manufacturer and have them replaced at no cost.”

“So we’re waiting to see if they’ll do that?”

Mitchell turned away from the fax machine to see
Connie frown, shaking her head.

“No, not exactly. They weren’t made by the
manufacturer Delanie thought supplied them and she can’t remember
exactly where she got them.”

“Oh?” Pat said sympathetically, “I’d forget where I
left my children, if they’d let me.”

“Those bedspreads were a last minute purchase that
Delanie handled herself,” Connie said, still frowning. “It was
during the time just before her accident.”

Accident?
Mitchell shifted away from the
noise of the fax machine to hear what Delanie’s assistant was
saying.

Delanie had been in an accident?

“…
her memory around that time is
bad,” Connie continued, “but she’s having our office in Boston go
through the invoices for the job.”

“Good.” Pat nodded.

“Of course, we wouldn’t have to go to all that
trouble,” Connie declared in disgust, “if the laundry hadn’t
removed all the tags from the spreads.”

“Excuse me,” Mitchell interrupted unceremoniously.
“Your Delanie’s assistant, right?”

“Yes, sir. Connie Taylor. We met a few weeks
ago.”

“I remember,” he said.

“Delanie had some personal stuff to attend to this
morning,” her assistant said with a guarded expression. “She asked
me to come in and take care of a few things.”

Mitchell looked at the woman, only vaguely aware of
the secretary, Pat, leaving the office.

“Good, I’m sure you’re very capable,” he said
absently. “Did you say something just now about Ms. Carlyle having
had an accident?”

“No,” Connie said quickly, “not today. The accident
happened over a year ago.”

“Oh,” Mitchell said slowly. “A year ago?”

“A year and a half.” The dark-haired woman looked at
him gravely.

“That would have been around the time my grandfather
was re-opening The Cedars?” Mitchell prompted. Any information
might help him in getting rid of Delanie.

“Yes,” Connie said, her eyes still wary, “it
actually happened the weekend The Cedars reopened. That Sunday
morning.”

The morning he’d thrown her off the property,
he realized. She’d acted upset as she ran from the lake. Had she
left him and gotten into her car?

The office door opened and Pat returned to sit down
at her desk, a cup of coffee in her hands.

“Was she badly hurt?” Mitchell asked, ignoring the
secretary’s entrance.

God, Delanie had been injured all the time he’d been
dismissing her from his mind?

“No. Her car went off the road. She might have
bumped her head. We don’t know exactly what happened. She doesn’t
remember much.”

“She actually has amnesia,” Pat interrupted, her
voice rising with excitement. “Just like on the soaps.”

“Not exactly,” Connie demurred, casting a repressive
glance at the secretary.

“Amnesia?” Mitchell echoed, disbelieving. “You’ve
got to be kidding.”

“No,” Connie said, her arms wrapped around the files
she held close to her chest. “But it’s not really like the soaps.
She didn’t ever lose her identity. She just went blank on a few
weeks. The doctors said it could have been the shock from the
impact of the car. Or it could have been something else. Whatever
caused it, she’s perfectly fine now.”

“But those weeks are completely blank,” Pat
reiterated, her face avid. “Can you imagine? Losing entire weeks of
your life?”

“Listen,” Connie said, sidling toward the door.
“We’ll take care of those bedspreads.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Mitchell said, stopping
her before she could leave the room. “Are you saying that Delanie
can’t remember
weeks
before she had the accident?”

“Yes.” Connie paused beside the door, clearly ready
to end the conversation.

“Can you imagine?” Pat exclaimed, her interest
obviously lurid. “Why, she could have robbed a bank or committed a
murder during that time and she wouldn’t remember a thing about
it.”