Love Songs (48 page)

“Reluctantly, Serena.” He reached out to take her hand, but she snatched it away quickly. André was undaunted. “You know how I feel about you—”

“It won’t work!” she lashed out. “You can’t hurt me with your stories.”

“They’re not just stories, Serena. You know that. The papers were quite specific about both the charges and the conviction.”

“That’s history. I have my own life now.”

“You’re right.” He smiled smugly. “You’ve got that very sweet little shop of yours. Your customers adore you. They think you’re the very image of innocence. It would be a shame if they discovered that your father was a convicted felon.”

The knot in her stomach had spread, leaving her pale and taut. “You really would try to destroy me, wouldn’t you?”

“Only if you force me to. Actually, there’s no reason why we can’t make an agreement.”

“What kind of agreement?”

“It’s very simple. You bide your time on the second store until I cash in on my profits. I’ll even give you an added bonus. Call it interest.”

“That’s disgusting! I don’t want any of your money, I only want mine.”

He shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

In that instant Serena made a decision. Where she found the strength she would later wonder, but there was no hesitation in her voice when she called André’s bluff. “I’ll expose you, André. This isn’t fair. I trusted you, gave you practically every extra cent I made on the shop. What you’ve done is criminal.”

“You won’t expose me.”

She shook her head. “Don’t threaten me again. It won’t work. You can go ahead and spread any story you want. My family paid years ago for what my father did. I refuse to pay again now. I’ve worked too hard in the past five years. The reputation of
Sweet Serenity
can stand on its own.”

It had been her hope that André would back down under the threat of his own exposure, even offer to retrieve whatever funds he could for her. When he simply reached into his pocket, put before her the same sheet of paper she had signed earlier and leaned complacently back in his chair she froze.

“What’s this?”

“Read it.”

“It’s the paper I just signed. A release for you to withdraw my funds.”

“Read it.”

Trepidation shot through her as she lowered her eyes to the paper. At once she knew it was different. Whereas the piece of paper she had signed had been set in the standard form of a release, this was a letter. The only thing that was the same was her name, signed in her own hand, at the bottom.

She was overwhelmed with confusion, then disbelief, then fear as her eye moved from line to line, slowly down the page. Blood thundered through her veins, reverberating throughout her body, amplified in her head. When at last she put the letter down and looked up she was dazed.

“I don’t believe this,” she whispered. All the color had drained from her face. Her hazel eyes were suddenly hollow.

André could as easily have been telling her about his plans for the weekend for all the nonchalance of his declaration. “You’d better believe it, Serena. What you have before you is a letter that implicates you in everything I’ve done.”

Her voice wavered. “It does more than that and you know it.”

He smiled. “So you did get the gist.”

“It not only proclaims my involvement, but implicates
me
as the mastermind!” Appalled, she looked down again. “But this is false! I never signed anything like this!”

“That’s your signature,” he said, enjoying his feat.

“Yes, I know. But I didn’t put it here … on this piece of … trash.…” Taking the paper, she waved it in the air.

“I’d warn you to be careful, but that’s only a copy. I have another safely tucked away.” He patted his breast pocket.

Serena was still stunned. “How did you … my signature…”

“Very simple.” He grinned, leaning forward with pride. “The
top
paper, which you signed, was the standard release you thought it was.
Underneath
was the letter you’re holding.”

“Then this is a carbon…?”

“Can’t tell the difference, can you?”

Peering closely, she studied her signature. To her chagrin she couldn’t see any difference. It looked exactly like the original. “No one would believe this … this nonsense.”

“Anyone who knows of your past would believe it in a minute.”

“How could you!”

“Now, now.” He squeezed her hand. She was too dismayed to move it “Keep your voice down. We’ve got lots of witnesses. Witnesses to our frequent luncheon dates. Same time. Same place. Witnesses to a hug here, a kiss on the cheek there. For all outward purposes we could be lovers.”

“Heaven forbid!” she spat out with the thrust of the horror she felt. “This won’t work!”

“Are you going to put it to the test?”

He had very deliberately hit on the crux of the matter.
This
was his bluff; did she dare call it? On the one hand, if his threat held up, she would face the loss of her shop, perhaps worse. On the other, she would simply have to postpone plans for expansion. He might even come through with her money eventually. Otherwise she would have to accept its loss.

Either way, her choice was a poor one. And, in the state of emotional upset to which his well-plotted scheme had reduced her, she couldn’t make the decision. Without another word she clutched her bag, rose from her seat, and headed for the door. André, however, caught her hand as she passed and stopped her short. In the same fluid movement he rose to stand beside her. The pressure of his fingers ensnaring hers contrasted sharply with his outward show of control, which in turn masked the venom of his low warning.

“I’d think about it carefully, Serena. You have everything to lose.” He bent toward her ear. The faint tug of his arm held her in place. “And I wouldn’t go to Reynolds with this, if I were you. He’ll blurt your admission all over page one. And, after all”—he straightened—“I have my reputation to consider.”

Serena’s body felt suddenly chilled. “Tom wouldn’t do anything to hurt me.”

“For your sake, I hope not. But his business is newspapers, Serena. He gave you a good example of his power back in Los Angeles. I wouldn’t trust him, but then, I’ve told you that before, haven’t I?”

His taunting leer revived her anger. “You’re a snake, André. A snake. And you
will pay
for this, so help me.”

“Don’t make threats you can’t keep.”

In a burst of fury-driven strength Serena tore her hand from his and made for the exit, refusing to look back, holding her body steady, her head high. She was unaware of the beauty of the fine spring day, oblivious of the gay flowers that had materialized by the trees far below in the plaza. She looked nowhere but forward until she reached
Sweet Serenity
; only then did the enormity of André’s threat hit her. It was nothing short of blackmail, but, for the life of her, she didn’t know how to fight it. She had worked so hard to make a success of her life. Now because of a tragic misplacement of trust, she risked losing it all. She retreated into the back room to consider her alternatives.

“Another headache, Serena?”

“Oh, Monica!” Serena twirled around to face the young girl. “Yes, I do have one. It’s not too bad, though. Perhaps you could cover for me up front?”

“Sure. Is there anything I can do?”

“No.” Serena shook her head sadly. “I think I’ll just take care of some of these things.” Her gaze blindly skimmed the throng of sacks and cartons. “You go on out there. I’ll be fine.”

Monica promptly disappeared, leaving Serena alone with her fears. It seemed an insurmountable problem. Could her past really have come to haunt her this way?

Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. Had Tom been wrong, after all? Was she destined to be forever tormented by what her father had done so long ago? But, no, Tom had
not
been wrong on those other things.
He
had been wary of André all along. He had questioned her putting all of her eggs in one basket.
He
had justified his own actions as a reporter by forcing her to picture the anguish of victimization. Now it was no picture. It was real. Fact. And she finally understood the pain of the true innocent, for it was hers.

“Serena?”

Startled from her fog, she glanced up at Monica. “Yes?”

“There’s a phone call for you—Mr. Reynolds.”

Throat choked with anguish, Serena simply shook her head and waved a hand to indicate that she couldn’t talk. Whatever could she say? One part of her—the part that was filled with fury—wanted Tom to do just what André had suggested he
would
do, to splash headlines over page one of the
Bulletin
, decrying a crime in the process. But such a headline would surely incriminate
her
, rather than André.
He
had covered his steps quite nicely.

Monica reappeared through a mist at the door. “He’d like you to call him back when you’re free.”

Serena nodded, then immediately ruled out that possibility. This was not Tom’s battle; it was hers. She could not face the hypocrisy of running to him for help after she had accused him of using his paper for gain. What was the alternative? Could she go to the police? But what if they believed André? What if the police decided that she
had
been the mastermind of the entire scheme?
What if Tom believed it as well?

It was this last thought that shook her the most. When he called a second, then a third, time she refused to take his calls. Knowing that she’d taken the route of the coward, she also knew that she needed some time to think. She still had the option of going along with André’s directive, of remaining silent and simply waiting for her money. But what about her hopes? Her plans? Her dreams of security and self-sufficiency if the money was lost?

She steadied herself, fighting to control rising panic, struggling to contain the headache that throbbed loudly. Time. She needed time. But when Tom stormed into the shop shortly after five she knew that time had run out.

9

“Where is she?” His voice resounded from the front of
Sweet Serenity
to its back, where Serena stood carefully unwrapping a delivery of delicate crystal decanters. Her hands trembled as she placed the one she held back into its box; then she hung her head in defeat. “Serena?” His voice was closer, louder, filled with an anger that was miraculously mixed with concern. “Serena!”

She didn’t look up to admire the way his manly frame filled the door or how handsome he looked in his customary blazer and slacks. All that was inscribed on her mind’s eye; her own would merely blur the image.

“Serena?”

Had he yelled in anger she might have been able to put him off. But the exquisite tenderness in his tone was her undoing. Covering her face with her hands, she began to cry softly.

“Oh, Serena.” He was beside her in an instant, pulling her toward him, into the sanctuary of his embrace. “What is it, Serena? Please tell me.” But she couldn’t speak, and simply clung to him. And he held her tightly, waiting patiently for her to regain her composure.

“You shouldn’t have come,” she finally gasped against his shirt, fingering the moisture left by her tears.

“Like hell I shouldn’t have! When you refused to take or return my calls I got concerned. And it’s a good thing I did!”

“No, you don’t understand.” Pushing from his grasp, she looked up, unaware that her fingers pressed her eye to still the throbbing just above it.

He took one look at her. “Damn! Come on, we’re leaving.” He looked around for her bag at the same time that he curved his fingers firmly about her arm.

“I can’t leave now, Tom! There’s still another hour before closing time!” Her whisper held the ragged remnants of weeping.

Tom’s voice was softer, more understanding. His eyes held incredible warmth as he brushed at her tears with his free hand. “Monica can take care of things here. She can close up for once. You’ve got a headache, and your medicine is at home. Right?”

Through her misery she nodded. “But Monica’s never closed up before.”

“There’s a first time for everything. She’ll do fine. If there are any problems she can call me and I’ll come back here to help. Now, do you need anything besides this?” He had somehow found her pocketbook in the array of goods surrounding them.

Serena shook her head. “Really, Tom…” But she felt worse than ever and broke off her own protest. It seemed that history repeated itself. Such a short time ago Tom had invaded her world, coming to the shop that afternoon, taking her home that evening, caring for her in a way that had sown the seeds of love. Now she understood the fullness of her love,
and
the awesome mess she was in. Somehow a dose of medicine sounded very much like a makeshift solution. Evidently Tom agreed.

“I’ll take you home; you can take a pill and lie down. After an hour or so, when you’re feeling better, I want you to tell me what’s bothering you.” His order was given only after he’d helped her into the Mercedes. By that time she had acclimated herself to the idea of leaving
Sweet Serenity
for the day. Spilling all her problems to Tom was another matter, but one she couldn’t contemplate through the incapacitating thud in her head.