Love Songs (33 page)

Tom rounded the counter. “Monica, would you take care of things out here for a few minutes? I’m taking Serena out back. She’s not feeling well.” At Monica’s look of alarm he reassured her quickly. “It’s just a headache. But she could use a breather. Can you handle this?” His hand had already closed on Serena’s arm; she felt too threatened to fight him.

“Sure. I’ll take care of everything. Serena, are you sure you’re all right? Can I call someone?”

“She’ll be fine,” Tom answered before Serena could answer for herself. “She’s got me.”

Feeling suddenly sick to her stomach, Serena yanked her arm from his grasp and fled to the back room, where she rested against a tall carton, propping up her elbows and cradling her face on her fingertips. In her bid to escape she had missed the smile and accompanying wink Tom had sent toward Monica by way of mollification before he stepped confidently past her and followed Serena.

Assuming that she was witness to a lovers’ spat, Monica was only too happy to respect their need to be alone. It was what she had sensed earlier, when she had diplomatically excused herself. Now they wanted more privacy. She could understand that. Cheeks flushed, she grew more starry-eyed. Mr. whoever-he-was was very, very sexy!

Serena, however, was at the moment oblivious of any such charm. Head bowed, she struggled to regain control of the weakness in her stomach and the ache in her head. Breathing deeply, she feared she might even cry.

“Are you all right?” Tom’s voice came more gently as his long fingers drew her hair back from her face.

She flinched and jerked away, unwittingly backing herself into a corner. The only positive aspect of the situation was the waist-high stepladder against which she was able to lean. Given the jelly-weakness of her knees, it was a minor blessing.

Tom stood over her, close enough for intimidation even as he spoke softly. His hands were thrust in the pockets of his slacks, his stance casual. Only the intensity in his eyes and the stubbornness underlying his quiet tone betrayed his tension.

“Now,” he began, “you can start by reminding me of the first time we met.” Serena wrapped both arms around her middle, looked down and said nothing. “Serena,” he warned her.

“I’m not playing your games, Reynolds!” she whispered at last, not trusting her voice to remain steady if she spoke any louder. “You seem to know everything, despite that look of innocence you put on from time to time.”

At the edge of her downcast field of vision his legs shifted. “Since you know so much about me, you also know that I’ll carry out my threat. Would you like me to start searching through your past?”

She looked up slowly. “That’s blackmail.”

“You’re
that
frightened of what you have to hide?”

“I have
nothing
to hide. You’ve got nothing on
me.
But I won’t have you destroying my life now for something my father did years ago. He paid—we all paid!” Once more she dropped her eyes, closing them, lifting a hand to shade them from Tom’s keen scrutiny.

His voice was lower, his words carefully chosen. “Tell me, in your own words, what your father did, Serena.”

“You know. Why should I humiliate myself further?”

“Because”—his fingers took her chin and firmly raised it—“I want to hear you say it.”

Serena tried to twist her head away, but the pounding got worse with the movement. “You must be sick!” she seethed.

“Say it.…” he warned again.

“What kind of pleasure can you get from this?”

“Serena, tell me about your father!”

She gritted her teeth. “I’ll tell you as soon as you take your hand off me.” For several moments they stared at one another. Then for the first time Tom yielded, dropping his hand, freeing her chin. It was an empty victory for Serena, for he took no more than a half step back, crossed his arms over his chest, and waited.

“Go on.”

She took a shaky breath, propped herself once more against the ladder, and looked up defiantly. “My father was a good man. He loved his family and worked hard as an accountant. But he looked around and saw wealth on every side. And he was human. He made a mistake. You seized on that mistake as your stepping stone to success, capitalized on it, and made a public spectacle of my father.” Her entire body trembled.

“What is your last name?” he asked softly.

“What?”

“Your last name—what is it?”

“My God!” she cried. “You don’t even remember the name! Just how heartless are you, anyway?”

“The name, Serena. Tell me.”

“Strickland! Strickland! My father was John Strickland.
Was.
He had a stroke several months after the conviction, while his lawyer was in the midst of the appeal process. It never went on. My father was paralyzed, spent weeks in the hospital, then three years in a nursing home before he died. Needless to say, life was just lovely for all of us during that period.” Her note of sarcasm at the end did nothing to blunt the pure venom of her attack. But it left
her
writhing, rather than Tom.

To her dismay he stared at her as though she had risen from the dead. He seemed stunned. “Strickland,” he said in an amazed whisper as his eyes covered every inch of her face. “Serena Strickland.” Still he stared. “I remember your father so clearly, and your mother. There were two children, a boy and a girl. The boy was very young—”

“He was eight.”

“And the girl wasn’t much more than—”

“I was thirteen.”

Tom continued as though in a daze, his brows drawn together with his frown. “She was kind of awkward, a little pudgy and very … very…”

“Vulnerable.” Serena’s breathing was uneven as she clung to her remaining self-control.

Astonished, he shook his dark head. “I can’t believe you’re the same girl!”

“I’m not,” she snapped, shaking again. “And the hell I went through during those years had nothing to do with adolescence. Do you know what it’s like to have friends whispering behind your back or suddenly avoiding you? It was as if I had the plague. I was ‘daughter-of-the-thief’! Do you have
any idea
what that was like?” She paused for a breath, oblivious of the pained look spreading slowly across Tom’s face. “No. Of course you don’t.
You
never lived through anything like that.
You
are Thomas Harrison Reynolds of the illustrious Harrison publishing family. You never had to face the kind of disgrace you caused my father—”

“Serena,” he cut in on a very quiet note, “I didn’t tell him to steal.”

“But you told everyone else
about it!
”

“I was a journalist. It was my job.”

She tipped her head up in anger. “Now tell me you were only acting on orders.”

“You know who I am.” He threw her argument back in her face. “I don’t follow orders.”

“You were a young reporter then. It was your chance to hit it big on your own, is that it?”

“No.”

“Then … what?” she cried more softly, feeling drained, tired, dizzy. Her headache had reached migraine proportions. “Why did you go after my father like that? Why … like that?”

Her voice died on a tremor that matched the shimmer of tears in her eyes. Tom’s face blurred before her, his features blending in a dark cloud. Closing her eyes against further humiliation, she dropped her chin to her chest. Her shoulders rose and fell in her agitated attempt to stop short of an outright crying jag. Everything hurt so very badly.

“Let me get you something for that headache.” Tom’s voice was close above her and very gentle.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, knowing it wasn’t.

“Have you got any aspirin?” She merely rocked back and forth, trying to comfort herself. “Serena, don’t you have a bottle of aspirin around?”

“Marshmallow,” she croaked feebly, clamping her eyes more firmly shut against the nearness of this man who, by rights, was her enemy. Strangely, though, she couldn’t fight any longer. Her fiery reaction to Tom had been out of character and she was too miserable now to persist.

Though he couldn’t see her defeat, he sensed it clearly. Quite spontaneously he reached out, put his hands on her shoulders, then slid them around her back as he drew her to him. Serena went without a fight, too weary to reject his gesture of comfort. His identity was as unimportant as the fact that it was his presence that had caused her to get upset. The only reality was the pair of arms that steadied her and the warm body that absorbed her trembling.

Breathing deeply, Serena felt the slow return of strength to her limbs, but, reluctant to launch herself back into the fray, she made no attempt to move. Her cheek lay against his chest, her hands splayed on either side. Beneath her right hand his heart beat strongly, making him seem infinitely more human than he had in the heat of the fight.

Then, strangely, he was all too human. Suddenly she grew sharply aware of the strong length of his body, its strength barely concealed by the trappings of civilization. His clean, manly scent teased her with each breath she took. His chin rested on the crown of her head, threatening to hold her forever in this deceptively tranquil pose. He was a man to rest against … a man to lie against.…

With a gasp she pushed herself away, finding her legs as she fought the flush that threatened to betray her thoughts. “I–I think you should leave now,” she whispered, pressing two fingers against the hammer behind her eyes.

“
I
think you should take something for that headache.”

“It’s a migraine. I used to get them all the time. It’s been years since I’ve had one, though.” She looked up at him. “You brought it on; perhaps if you leave it will go right along with you.” The chances of that were slim, as past experience reminded her. It would, undoubtedly, be a bad night.

“Let me see you home.”

“Is that the offer of a guilty conscience?”

“Not guilty. Perhaps pricked, but mostly sympathetic. You look as though you’re in pain.”

“An apt analysis,” she muttered beneath her breath. “Perceptive.”

“Come on.” He ignored her sarcasm. “Get your things. I’ll take you home.”

“No, thank you. I can’t leave until the shop closes. And that isn’t for a while yet.” As she recalled
Sweet Serenity
and what she’d made of it pride bolstered her. “I’ll do just fine.”

Tom stared at her a moment longer, his gaze expressing his obvious skepticism. Finally he turned and left without a further word, at which point Serena became the skeptic. The next ninety minutes were excruciating. As she tried to function she pushed all thoughts of Tom Reynolds to a far corner of her mind. But from that corner he pounded at her head, growing more and more impatient, if the strength of her migraine was any indication.

Monica earned her pay three times over during that short space of time. She asked no questions, simply took over the handling of customers with the tact and self-assurance of a pro. And her boss was eternally grateful.

“Thanks, Monica.” Serena forced a smile through her discomfort as they were closing up. “You’ve been terrific this afternoon. I’m not quite sure what I’d have done without you.”

“I’ll be back tomorrow.” The teenager smiled. “If you feel like, you know, taking off for a while I’d be glad to cover.”

“You’re a dream”—Serena gave a genuine smile—“but I’ll be here. This is my baby. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

The declaration referred to tomorrow. Right now, the only place she wanted to be was in bed under the weight of two quilts with the night cushioning her from the world. Senses dulled beneath the force of her headache, she stumbled through the last of the chores necessary after closing each day, threw her smart wool jacket on over her shoulders, grabbed her purse, knit hat and mittens, and made for the door. Blind to just about everything but her determination to get home in one piece, she turned her back on the plaza to lock and double-lock the door of
Sweet Serenity.
It was only when she turned back that, through the pain centered just above her eyes, she saw Tom.

3

He pushed off from his casual stance against the balustrade opposite her shop and stood no more than an arm’s length away; she couldn’t miss him.

“Oh, no,” she murmured softly, taking a quick look at his face before averting her own.

“All ready to go?” he asked nonchalantly.

Bent on willing him out of existence, Serena stepped forward without a word, mechanically following the path she’d taken to and from work for the past five years. Beyond the blinders of her headache she was marginally aware of Tom keeping pace with her, but she was too miserable to argue. She paused only once, when she left the enclosure of the plaza and stepped into the cold night air, to button her coat to the throat, pull the thick wool hat over her ears and bury her shaking hands in the depths of her mittens.

“Cold night, isn’t it?” Tom said with annoying light-heartedness, having stopped beside her to don and button the thigh-length, sheepskin-lined jacket that had been thrown over his arm.