Taming the Lone Wolff (19 page)

He seemed to have a desire to carry her, so for once, she let herself be weak. When he tucked her into bed, she put her hand on his arm, feeling the warmth of him. “I need you,” she said.

He hesitated. In his eyes, for a split second, she saw the truth. He was trying, but it was too much. This was exactly what Larkin
didn’t
want. A clingy woman. A relationship that demanded he play the protector.
Oh, God.
“Never mind,” she said hurriedly. “I’m fine.” Somewhere she found the courage to smile. “Really I am. Please turn off the light as you go out.”

* * *

Larkin’s misery and distress and wretched guilt coalesced into a sharp, thrusting pain that stole his breath. “You should rest, Winnie.”

The look on her face hurt him more than anything he had ever faced. Every hint of color remaining in her pale cheeks faded away, leaving her gaze dull with acceptance. “I understand. You can go home. I’ll handle this. I don’t need you. It’s okay.”

Dear God. She was trying to let him off the hook. Acknowledging his total inability to support her emotionally. Words failed him. Everything he had ever believed about himself splintered in a silent roar of agony. All he had to do was climb into that bed and hold her, but if he did, his heart would break. Nothing he could say or do would fix the situation with Esteban. Nothing he had to offer would take away Winnie’s pain. “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.” He turned blindly toward the door and walked out.

* * *

Winnie awoke alone and disoriented. She was actually hungry, and no wonder. She had slept for three hours. Afternoon sun lit the hardwood floor, catching dust motes in the slanted beams.

Reality washed over her. Brutal. Inescapable. It was hard to breathe. Esteban. Larkin. The pain was vast. Endless. Swinging her feet over the side of the bed, she stood up and put a hand on the wall when the room spun. How could she live? How could she move? The future gaped before her. Hollow. Terrifyingly empty.

Forcing herself to go through the motions, she freshened up and dressed. Her life was in ruins, but she wasn’t the only one. Her responsibilities had not disappeared. Esteban needed her. Life had to go on. But first, something called out to her. The one place where she could funnel her heartbreak and perhaps find a measure of peace.

* * *

Larkin found her in the salon where they’d first met. Sitting at the beautiful piano. Her head was bent, her hands never slowing down. From what he remembered of his music-appreciation class, she was playing an incredibly difficult Chopin étude.

Her fingers flew over the keys. The notes rose and fell, filling the room, rich with beauty and sorrow and hope. He closed his eyes and let the music roll over him. How could a woman who had known so much tragedy in her life play with such joyous abandon?

He leaned against the wall, out of sight, eyes damp as he listened to what she couldn’t or wouldn’t say to him. When it was over, she closed the folio of sheet music and began to sob.

He couldn’t bear it. “Don’t, my love,” he said. “Don’t cry.”

Her head snapped up, shock in every muscle as she wiped her face and composed herself. “You left.”

“No,” he said simply. “I didn’t. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I’ve been walking the perimeter of the property, waiting for you to wake up.”

Quietly, he sat down on the bench, facing the opposite direction. Not touching her.

She lifted her shoulders, her lips trembling, her spine straight. Wariness and disbelief filled her gaze. “Now I’ve played for you.” She was wearing faded jeans and a gold Vanderbilt T-shirt that matched the amber in her eyes. On Wolff Mountain she had dressed the part of wealthy heiress. Today she was simply…Winnie. He liked both personas. But this was the woman who’d first caught his eye.

He put his arms around her, groaning when hers came around his waist and she rested her head on his shoulder. Sighing, he felt his world click into place. “How come you never told me you were a concert pianist?”

“Thirteen years of private lessons and a music minor in college. I hated every minute of it. Then when my parents died, I played out of guilt for months. One day I suddenly realized I loved the music. I had to get past all my childish rebellion to see what they had given me. A legacy of all the magnificent composers in the world. I’m a very lucky woman.”

He nibbled her neck. “You’re a very amazing woman. And I’m in love with you. Marry me, Winnie.”

She jerked backward so fast they both nearly toppled off the bench. Hands clenched on his shoulders, she stared at him, eyes raw with grief. “That’s not funny.”

He kissed her nose. “No. It’s damned serious. And while I’m at it, if Esteban has no other family members who can take him in, you and I might think about adopting him.”

Tears leaked from her beautiful eyes, each one scoring him with regret for what he had done to her. His sins astounded him, but no more than his arrogance and insistence that he needed no one.

She put a hand on his forehead. “You didn’t get any sleep last night. You’re delirious.”

“Never been saner.”

“You loathe responsibility. You like a life that’s footloose and fancy-free. You deserve that, Larkin. Really you do.”

“I can’t believe you ever slept with me. I was such an as—”

The hand moved from his forehead to cover his mouth. “You don’t have to feel sorry for me. That’s not why I told you my story on the plane.”

“Do you feel sorry for
me?
”

“Well, I…” Her mouth opened and closed. “No,” she said. “I don’t.”

“We’ve both lived through some horrific stuff. But I think we turned out pretty damned well.”

She kept studying his eyes, as if expecting to read the truth there. He cupped her face in his hands. “I love you, Winifred Bellamy. I love your passion for life and your unflinching courage. I love the way your body welcomes mine. I love how you met my family and fit right in and saw past the craziness to the bond we all share. You’re part of that now. Wolff Mountain claimed you. I’m claiming you. Say you’ll marry me. We can wait six months or a year. If it will make you feel better about things. But I won’t change my mind.”

“What if I just say yes because I want to be part of your big, wonderful wolf pack?”

“Are you saying yes?” A grin spilled over his face.

“Perhaps.”

“Then I think I could live with it. But I’d like to know, Winnie. For the record. Do you love me?”

Their gazes locked. Her pause bothered him more than it should.

Finally, she smiled through her tears. “You know I do, you wretch. Why else would I agree to have tree-house sex with you?”

“Is that anything like wild monkey sex?”

She laughed, her eyes wet and her cheeks flushed. “You tell me.”

He kissed her long and slow, showing her what he was too clumsy to express with words. Winnie was soft and warm, and when her breasts nestled up against his chest, he felt his control slipping. “It’s dinnertime. We can’t do this.”

She laughed, a wicked, knowing sound that made his breath catch. “Since when are you so worried about propriety?”

He gave in without much of a fight, following Winnie up the stairs to her unmade bed. “My family is never going to let me live this down.”

She locked the door, stripped her shirt over her head and shoved him backward onto the bed. “I’ll make it up to you, my love. I swear.”

They wrestled like children, laughing and panting, ripping at buttons and zippers until they were both naked. He paused, his forehead pressed to hers. “Do you forgive me?” he asked, his throat tight. Surely she knew what he meant. Every stupid word he had ever uttered.

“Yes. Yes, I do. It’s okay, Larkin. We’re okay.”

Relief was as sweet as spring rain. Settling his hips between her legs, he braced himself on his hands and looked down at her. “I didn’t know,” he said, shivering inwardly at how close he came to missing out.

“Didn’t know what?” Her slow, quiet smile bathed him in peace, despite the fact that his body was taut with longing.

“I didn’t know what it was that Devlyn and Annalise and my cousins had found. I thought I was different. More broken. That I couldn’t have what they have.”

She guided him into her center. The feel of her fingers on his rock-hard sex was heaven and hell. When he was all the way in, with their bodies locked breath to breath, he sighed.

Winnie’s eyes were closed, a small smile curving her lips. “And what do they have, my wonderful Wolff?”

He flexed his hips, drawing a groan from her, a hiss of amazement from his own throat. “Love, Winnie. The Wolffs have love….”

Epilogue

V
incent Wolff lingered in the shadows, half-hidden behind a marble column as he surveyed the large room filled with people. Colors swirled in the form of handsome men and beautiful women dancing past his hiding place. The crowd included a few outsiders, close friends, but mostly family. Always family.

In the preceding eighteen months, he and his brother, Victor, had completed a massive addition to Wolff Castle, a wing off the back of the house that would help accommodate their burgeoning family. The new square footage included a small chapel, among other things.

Tonight, this magnificent ballroom in which he stood was being christened, filled and blessed with candlelight, laughter, music and dozens of white roses and calla lilies. Today was his son’s wedding day. Larkin. And his bride, Winnie. Because their courtship and romance had happened so quickly, they had opted to postpone a formal wedding and in the meantime had enjoyed an extended engagement.

Though Victor had sensed from the beginning that Winnie could be a perfect match for his quiet, intense son, he had wondered sometimes if this day would ever come. Seeing the unguarded emotion on Larkin’s face as his bride-to-be walked down the aisle soothed Vincent’s fears. His boy had found love.

Devlyn had served as his brother’s best man. Vincent had not been included in the wedding party. He had failed his children years ago, and the pain they had suffered left permanent scars.

After Devlyn’s birth, Vincent’s beloved wife had morphed into someone he barely recognized. Vincent had an idea why, but he had never spoken of it to anyone. And with God as his witness, he had never known the extent of her terrible, unspeakable break with reality until it was too late.

As it was now, the truth that caused her breakdown would never come to light. There was no reason. Life moved on. He was still paying for his mistakes. Telling what he knew would not exonerate him.

Some secrets were better off buried with the dead….

* * * * *

The saga of the
MEN OF WOLFF MOUNTAIN
continues! Don’t miss the finale that reveals all of the Wolff clan’s secrets…. Available October 2013. Only from Janice Maynard and Harlequin Desire!
Keep reading for an excerpt from
A Conflict of Interest
by Barbara Dunlop

We hope you enjoyed this Harlequin Desire story.

You want to leave behind the everyday!
Harlequin Desire
stories feature sexy, romantic heroes who have it all: wealth, status, incredible good looks…everything but the right woman. Add some secrets, maybe a scandal, and start turning pages!

Enjoy six new stories from Harlequin Desire every month!

Visit
Harlequin.com
to find your next great read.

We like you—why not like us on Facebook:
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks

Follow us on Twitter:
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks

Read our blog for all the latest news on our authors and books:
HarlequinBlog.com

Subscribe to our newsletter for special offers, new releases, and more!

Harlequin.com/newsletters

One

I
t was inauguration night in Washington, D.C., and Cara Cranshaw had to choose between her president and her lover. One strode triumphantly though the arches of the Worthington Hotel ballroom to the uplifting strains of “Hail to the Chief” and the cheers of eight hundred well-wishers. The other stared boldly at her from across the ballroom, a shock of unruly, dark hair curling across his forehead, his bow tie slightly askew and his eyes telegraphing the message that he wanted her naked.

For the moment, it was investigative reporter Max Gray who held her attention. Despite her resolve to turn the page on their relationship, she couldn't tear her gaze from his, nor could she stop her hand from reflexively moving to her abdomen. But Max was off-limits now that Ted Morrow had been sworn in as president.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” cried the master of ceremonies above the music and enthusiastic clapping that was spreading like a wave across the hall. “The President of the United States.” His voice rang out from the microphone onstage at the opposite end of the massive, high-ceilinged room.

The cheers grew to a roar. The band's volume increased. And the crowd shifted, separating to form a pathway in front of President Morrow. Cara automatically moved with them, but she still couldn't tear her gaze from Max as he took a few steps backward on the other side of the divide.

She schooled her features, struggling to transmit her resolve. She couldn't let him see the confusion and alarm she'd been feeling since her doctor's visit that afternoon.
Resolve,
she ruthlessly reminded herself,
not hesitation and definitely not fear.

“He's running late.” Sandy Haniford's shout sounded shrill in Cara's ear.

Sandy was a junior staffer in the White House press office, where Cara worked as a public relations specialist. While Cara was moving from ball to ball tonight with the president's entourage, Sandy was stationed here as liaison to the American News Service event.

“Only by a few minutes,” Cara shouted back, her eyes still on Max.

Resolve,
she repeated to herself. The unexpected pregnancy might have tipped her world on its axis, but it didn't change her job tonight. And it didn't alter her responsibility to the president.

“I was hoping the president would get here a little early,” Sandy continued, her voice still raised. “We have a last-minute addition to the speaker lineup.”

Cara twisted her head; Sandy's words had instantly broken Max's psychological hold on her. “Come again?”

“Another speaker.”

“You can't do that.”

“It's done,” said Sandy.

“Well,
un
do it.”

The speakers, especially those at the events hosted by organizations less than friendly to the president, had been vetted weeks in advance. American News Service was no friend of President Morrow, but the cable network's ball was a tradition, so he'd had no choice but to show up.

It was a tightly scripted appearance, with only thirty minutes in the Worthington ballroom. He would arrive at ten forty-five—well, ten fifty-two as it turned out—then he was to leave at eleven-fifteen. The Military Inaugural Ball was next on the schedule, and the president had made it clear he wanted to be on time to greet the troops.

“What do you want me to do?” asked Sandy. “Should I tackle the guy when he steps up to the microphone?” Sarcasm came through her raised voice.

“You should have solved the problem before it came to that.” Cara lifted her phone to contact her boss, White House Press Secretary Lynn Larson.

“Don't you think I tried?”

“Obviously not hard enough. How could you give them permission to add a new speaker?”

“They didn't
ask,
” Sandy pointed out with a frown. “Graham Boyle himself put Mitch Davis on the agenda for a toast. Two minutes, they say, tops.”

Mitch Davis was a star reporter for ANS. Graham Boyle might be the billionaire owner of the network, and the sponsor of this ball, but even he didn't get to dictate to the president.

Cara couldn't help an errant glance at Max. As the most popular investigative reporter at ANS's rival, National Cable News, he was a mover and shaker himself. He might have some insight into what was up. But Cara couldn't ask him about this or anything else to do with her job, not now and not ever again.

Cara pressed a speed-dial button for her boss.

It rang but then went to voice mail.

She hung up and tried again.

She could see that the president had arrived at the head table, in front of and below the stage. He was accepting the congratulations of the smartly dressed guests. The men wore Savile Row tuxedos, while the woman were draped in designer fabrics that shimmered under the refracted light of several dozen crystal chandeliers.

The MC, popular ANS talk show host David Batten, returned to the microphone. He offered a brief but hearty welcome and congratulations to the president before handing the microphone over to Graham Boyle. According to the schedule, Graham had three minutes to speak. Then the president would have one dance with the female chair of a local hospital charity and a second with Shelley Michaels, another popular ANS celebrity. That was to be followed by seven minutes at his table with ANS board members before taking his leave.

Cara gave up on her cell phone and started making her way toward the stage. There was a staircase at either end, nothing up the middle. So she knew she had a fifty-fifty chance of stopping Mitch Davis before he made it to the microphone. Too bad she wasn't a little larger, a little brawnier, maybe a little more male.

Once again, her thoughts turned to Max. The man dodged bullets in war-torn cities, scaled mountains to reach rebel camps and fought his way through crocodiles and hippos for stories on the struggles of indigenous people. If Max Gray didn't want a person up onstage, that person was not getting up onstage. Too bad she couldn't enlist his help and would have to rely on her own wits.

She chose the stairs at stage right, wending her way through the packed crowd.

Graham Boyle was waxing poetic about ANS's role in the presidential election. He'd taken a couple of jabs at President Morrow's alma mater and its unfortunate choice of mascot given current relations with Brazil. But that was all fair game.

Cara wished she was taller. At five foot five, she couldn't see the stairs to know if Mitch was waiting to go up on the right-hand side. She regretted having gone for the comfortable two-inch heels instead of the flashy four-inch spikes that her sister, Gillian, had given her for Christmas. She could have used the height.

“Where are you going?” It was Max's voice in her ear.

“None of your business,” she retorted, attempting to speed up and put some distance between them.

“You have that determined look in your eyes.”

“Go away.”

He tucked in close beside her. “Maybe I can help.”

“Not
now,
Max.” She was working. Why did he have to do this to her?

“Your destination can't possibly be a state secret.”

She relented. “I'm trying to get to the stage. Okay? Are you happy?”

“Follow me.” He stepped in front of her.

His six-foot-two-inch height and broad shoulders made him an imposing figure. She supposed it didn't hurt any that he was famous, either. Last month, he'd been voted one of the ten hottest men in D.C. The upshot was he could move through a crowd far faster than she could. Resigned, she stuck to his coattails.

Even with Max clearing the way, they eventually got stuck behind a crowd of people.

“Why do you want to get to the stage?” He turned to ask her.

“For the record,” she responded, “I don't know any state secrets. I don't have that kind of job.”

“And since I'm not a foreign spy, we should be able to carry on a conversation without compromising national security.”

An unmistakable voice came over the sound system. “Good evening, Mr. President,” drawled Mitch Davis.

A murmur of surprise moved across the room, since Mitch was a known detractor of President Morrow. Cara rocked back on her heels. She'd failed to stop him.

“First, let me say, on behalf of American News Service, congratulations, sir, on your election as President of the United States.”

The applause came up on cue, though perhaps not as strong as usual.

“Your friends,” Mitch continued with a hearty game-show-host smile, “your supporters and your mother and father must all be very proud.”

Cara strained to catch the president's expression, wondering if he would be angry or merely annoyed by the deviation from the program. But there was no way to see through the dense crowd.

“The president is smiling,” Max offered, obviously guessing her concern. “It looks a little strained though.”

“Davis is not on the program,” Cara ground out.

“No kidding,” Max returned, as if only an idiot would think otherwise.

She glared at him, then elbowed her way past, maneuvering through the crowd toward the president's table below the stage. Lynn Larson was going to be furious. It wasn't exactly Cara's responsibility to ensure that this specific ball went smoothly, but she had been working closely with the staffers coordinating each one. She was partly to blame for this.

Thankfully, Max didn't follow her.

“I expect nobody is prouder than your daughter,” said Mitch, just as Cara reached a place where she could see Mitch on stage.

There was a confused silence in the room, because the president was single and didn't have any children. Confused herself, Cara rocked to a halt a few feet from Lynn at the president's table. Lynn glanced toward the stairs at the end of the stage, as if she was gauging how long it would take her to get there.

Mitch waited a beat, microphone in one hand, glass of champagne in the other. “Your long-lost daughter, Ariella Winthrop, who is with us here tonight to celebrate.”

It took half a second for the crowd to react. Maybe they were trying to figure out if it was a sick joke. Cara certainly was.

But she quickly realized it was something far more sinister than a joke, and her gaze flew to the corner of the stage, where she'd glimpsed her friend Ariella, whose event-planning company had been hired to throw the ANS ball. When Cara focused on Ariella, her stomach sank like a stone. As soon as it was pointed out, the resemblance between Ariella and the president was quite striking. And Cara had known for years that Ariella was adopted. Ariella didn't know her birth parents.

The crowd's murmurs rose in volume, everyone asking each other what they knew, had heard, had thought or had speculated. Cara could only imagine at least a thousand text messages had gone out already.

She took a half step toward Ariella, but the woman turned on her heel, disappearing behind the stage. There were at least a dozen doorways back there, most cordoned off from the guests by security. Hopefully, Ariella would make a quick getaway.

Mitch raised his glass. “To the president.”

Everyone ignored him.

Cara moved toward Lynn as the crowd's questions turned to shouts and the press descended on the table.

“If you would direct your questions to me,” Lynn called, standing up from her chair and drawing, at least for a moment, the attention of the reporters away from President Morrow.

The man looked shell-shocked.

“We obviously take any accusation of this nature very seriously,” Lynn began. She looked to Cara, subtly jerking her head toward the stage.

Cara reacted immediately, skirting around the impromptu press conference to get to the microphone onstage. Damage Control 101—get ahead of the story.

She quickly noted that the security detail had surrounded the president, moving him toward the nearest exit. She knew the drill. The limos would be waiting at the curb before the president even got out the door.

She had no idea if the accusation was true or if Mitch Davis had simply exploited the resemblance between Ariella and the president. But it didn't matter. The texts, tweets and blogs had likely made it to California and Seattle, probably all the way across the Atlantic by now.

Cara scooted up the stairs and crossed the stage, staring Mitch Davis down as she went for the microphone.

He relinquished it. His work was obviously completed.

Mitch's gaze darted to the crowd. His confident expression faltered, and she saw Max, his eyes thunderous as he moved along below the stage, keeping pace with Mitch as the man made his way to the stairs.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Cara began, composing a speech inside her head on the fly. “The White House would like to thank you all for joining the president tonight to celebrate. The president appreciates your support and invites you all to enjoy yourselves for the rest of the party. For members of the press, we'll provide a statement and follow-up on your questions at tomorrow's regular briefing.”

Cara turned to applaud the band. “For now, the Sea Shoals have a lot of great songs left to play tonight.” She gave a signal to the bandleader, which he thankfully picked up on, and the energetic strains of a jazz tune filled the room.

Covered by the music, Cara quickly slipped from the stage.

Max was standing at the bottom of the stairs to meet her, but her warning glare kept him back—which was probably the first time that had ever happened. But then he mouthed the word “later,” and she knew they weren't done.

* * *

There were times when being a recognizable television personality was frustrating and inconvenient. But for Max Gray, tonight wasn't one of them. He'd only been to Cara's Logan Circle apartment a handful of times, but the doorman remembered him from his national news show,
After Dark,
and let him straight into the elevator without calling upstairs for Cara's permission.