Christine Rimmer - A Hero for Sophie Jones Page 12

  Sophie could easily have wrung his wrinkled neck.

  Finally, when everyone else was gone, she turned on him. "What do you think you're doing?"

  He grinned. "Waitin' for my chance to find out what the hell's gone wrong with you."

  She glared at him, longing to confront him with his cruel behavior, especially those petty impersonations of Sin. But if she did that, she'd only be introducing the subject she refused to discuss. Finally she settled for insisting, "There is nothing wrong with me."

  He snorted. "Liar."

  She felt as if he'd slapped her. And she longed to slap right back.

  In an effort to get control of herself, she turned and scooped up an armful of empty popcorn bowls. When she faced him again, she managed to mutter tightly, "All right. I want you to know I'm sorry for the way I snapped at you when you bought your ticket."

  "Eh? Sorry, are you?"

  "Yes. And now I really must ask you to leave. I have work to do."

  "I'm goin' nowhere."

  "Excuse me?"

  "I said, I'm goin' nowhere. You and me are gonna have a little talk."

  "No, we're not. You're leaving and I'm going to—"

  "Put those bowls down."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "You heard me. Put 'em down."

  "You have no right to tell me what to do."

  "Someone's gotta." He hit his cane on the floor. Hard. "Put 'em down."

  They scowled at each other. Sophie wanted to scream. And say terrible things. And throw the damn bowls in his mean, wrinkled face.

  And then, out of nowhere, her eyes filled up. Her throat burned. She realized she was starting to cry.

  Oggie spoke more gently. "That's right. It's okay. Set the bowls down now. And you and me will talk this out."

  The tears were flowing down her cheeks by then. With a ragged sigh, she turned and set the bowls back on the table.

  "Good." He stumped over to her. "Come on." His voice was so soothing, so gentle and kind. He put an arm around her. "It's okay, gal. We'll go outside. We'll talk this out."

  Sophie surrendered, burying her head against his bony shoulder and sobbing out her loss into his frayed white shirt.

  They sat out in the middle of the lawn, in the cool darkness, on the edge of the fountain with the laughing little girl.

  Oggie produced a handkerchief and Sophie blew her nose and blotted the tears. "You tell your Uncle Oggie now, gal. I've solved worse problems than you could ever dream of, believe you me."

  And so, between occasional persistent sobs, blotting her eyes when she had to, Sophie told the old man everything. How she had loved Sinclair and given herself completely to him. And the awful, cruel way that he had betrayed her.

  When she was done, they sat there in the darkness for a moment, Sophie and the kind old man, with the fountain gurgling behind them and the crickets singing in the grass.

  At last, Oggie shook his head. "So then, I guess you don't really love him after all."

  Sophie sniffed. Surely she hadn't heard him correctly. "Wh—what did you say?"

  "I said, I guess you don't really love him, after all—right?"

  She backed away from him an inch or two and spoke with thoroughly justified indignation. "What are you talking about? Of course I love him."

  "Then why did you let him go?"

  Sophie gaped. How could he even ask such a thing? "He had a detective follow me. He lied to me. He pretended to be what he wasn't. He planned to run me out of here if I didn't sell out to him."

  Oggie coughed into his hand. "Right. I get it, now. You love him. But you don't love him enough."

  Sophie hiccupped a final sob away. She could not believe the gall of this old man. Here she'd poured out her heart to him and he had the nerve to accuse her of not loving enough. "How can you say that?"

  "Well, because it's the plain truth. Because if you loved him enough, you'd be thinking about what he actually did, which was to go away and let you have this place, after all."

  "But…" She said the one word, and then couldn't think of what to say next. Pure outrage had rendered her speechless.

  Oggie, however, had plenty to say. "And while we're on the subject, it's quite a damn deal you got here, gal, I gotta tell you. You lease a few buildings and five acres pretty damn cheap and you—"

  That got her mouth working. She demanded, "How do you know what I pay for my lease?"

  He waved a hand. "I'm Oggie Jones. I got my sources."

  "But I … you…"

  "Stop your sputterin'. I'm still talkin'. Where was I? Right. You lease five acres for a nice low price—and you get to use the rest of the place like it was your own."

  He had it all wrong. She hastened to set him right. "The teachers' association that owned it before—"

  "Gal. This ain't before. This is now. And now, Sinclair Riker owns this ranch. And except for that five acres you won't let go of, he's got the right to do whatever he damn pleases with it—within the boundaries of the law, of course. And what does he do? He leaves the whole shebang to you."

  "He didn't leave it to me. He only said—"

  "You told me what he said. And it amounts to letting you have this place, to run it the way you want to for as long as you want to. Hell, this Sinclair Riker's a damn hero, if you ask me. And any female worthy of the name Jones would chase him down and tell him so." He put up both hands, then. "I know, I know. You're a generous woman. You help out those in need. Everyone for miles around talks about you. They'll be callin' you Saint Sophie B. before too many more years. But it seems to me that you're not so generous when it comes to the man you love." He shook his head. "I am sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, gal. But someone has to. And bein' as how we're family—by name and feelin', if not by blood—it falls to me to give it to you straight. And the straight story is, you're mopin' around now, because deep in your heart, you know you have let your man down."

  She gasped. "Let him down? No. That's not true. You didn't listen to what I told you. He let me down. He—"

  "Save your excuses for someone who'll buy them. You let that man leave when you should have held on until you could figure a way to work things out. And now you know you gotta go after him. But you're scared to go after him—scared he might turn his back on you now."

  "Oh, that is wrong. That is so wrong—"

  But Oggie was already grabbing his cane, levering himself to his feet with a grunt.

  "Wh-where are you going?"

  "Home."

  "But…"

  "But what, gal?"

  "You can't just say all these cruel things and then leave."

  He chortled quite merrily. "Watch me."

  Stunned, furious—and just a little bit afraid that he might be right, Sophie stared after him as he hobbled away.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  « ^ »

  The next morning, Sophie called L.A. information. She requested the phone number for a company called Inkerris, Incorporated. A recorded voice came on and gave her the number.

  She wrote the number down on a Rolodex card. She didn't plan to use it, she really didn't. Last night, instead of sleeping, she'd thought a lot about what Oggie had said. Maybe the old man had a point in one sense. Sin had ended up letting her have the Mountain Star, after all. And she would always be grateful to him for that.

  Their relationship—or whatever it had been—was over, though. They were from two different worlds. And now they'd both returned to their real lives.

  However, it felt good to know for certain that she could reach Sin if she had to—just in case something important came up concerning the ranch.

  Having the number did create a little problem, though. She found that as she went through the day, she just couldn't stop thinking about it. Thinking that she had it. And if she wanted to, she could just pick up the phone and—

  On Sunday, she gave in. She called the number. A recorded voice informed her that business hours were Monday
through Friday, from nine to five. She hung up, her heart beating too fast and her face burning hot.

  Monday morning, she got up early and went out for a long ride. She ended up on that ridge where she'd taken Sin the first day they rode together. She looked out over the sparse pastures and thick pine forests below and thought of what he'd said: the trees needed thinning. They would choke out every meadow if left unchecked. And they created a virtual invitation to a forest fire—especially this time of year, when the weather stayed hot and the grasses were dry and brittle as old paper.

  Anger rolled through her, low and insistent, like faraway thunder. She'd always found such pleasure in the sight of those trees. And now, because of him, she'd started to see them as a potential problem.

  The mare she'd chosen tossed her red mane, eager to be moving again. Sophie kept her in check down the hillside and then let her have her head when they found a clear spot—in the meadow of the wild roses, which also reminded her of Sin.

  Everything. Everything reminded her of Sin.

  Once she'd returned the mare to the stable, unsaddled her and brushed her down, Sophie went back to the guest house to wash up before breakfast.

  In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face and reached for a towel. She scrubbed away the water and then looked up, catching her own eyes in the mirror. She frowned at herself.

  And then, in the back of her mind, she heard Oggie's voice, from the other night.

  "Now you know you gotta go after him. But you're scared to go after him—scared he might turn his back on you now…"

  Sophie let out a small cry and threw down the towel.

  "Oh, all right," she said to the mirror, as if the old man's face looked out at her instead of her own. "I am. I'm just terrified he won't want me anymore."

  She knew what Oggie would say then, "Terrified or not, gal. You still gotta go."

  She headed straight for the cottage. She needed breakfast—and to find out if Myra and Caleb could handle things by themselves for a couple of days.

  Myra said cautiously, "I believe we could manage. It's after Labor Day. We've even been running with a room or two empty during the week. If Bethy will just hold up her end, I'm sure everything will be fine." Bethy wasn't there that morning; she had Monday and Tuesday off.

  Caleb swallowed a bite of sausage and demanded, "What's up?"

  Sophie answered patiently, "I just told you. I want to visit Los Angeles for a couple of days."

  "What for?"

  "It's … personal."

  Caleb scowled. "So, that's where he lives."

  Myra pretended to clear her throat as she slid a warning glance at Caleb. "Now, don't you worry about things here, Sophie B. We can get by. I'm sure that we can."

  Caleb wouldn't be deterred. "Why the hell do you want to see him?"

  "Because…" I love him, Sophie thought. And I can't spend the rest of my life wondering if he might have loved me, too.

  "Because what?" Caleb challenged.

  "Because…" she said again, then found herself finishing, "…he owns this ranch now."

  Caleb's fork clattered against his plate. Myra gasped.

  And Sophie felt even worse. "I know, I should have told you before. I meant to tell you before. But lately I've been so…"

  "Confused and upset." Myra reached across and patted Sophie's hand. "We do understand."

  Caleb wasn't so easily put off. "Wait a minute. You're saying that corporation that bought the ranch is owned by Mr. Sinclair Riker, is that it?"

  Sophie nodded. "I'm afraid so."

  "You make your lease payments to him."

  "In effect, yes."

  "He owned this place in August, when he was here, with you."

  "Yes. That's right."

  "But he sat at this table and said he was here to look for property deals. He never said—"

  "Caleb. Please. Let me work this out my own way."

  "That man is trouble. He's no one for you to be runnin' off to see."

  "Please, listen. I appreciate your concern. But this is my problem and I will handle it my own way."

  "Has he got plans to try to kick us out?"

  "No," she answered quickly, silently adding, Or at least, I don't think he does, not anymore…

  Caleb made a low, disgusted noise, then stabbed another sausage. "I don't like this, Sophie B."

  "But can you—will you—take care of things here if I leave for a day or two?"

  "Of course we will," said Myra.

  Caleb forked up another sausage and sawed it in half before he grudgingly answered, "All right. We'll take care of things."

  Back in the guest house, Sophie tried information again, hoping she might discover Sin's home phone number. But there was no listing for a man named Sinclair Riker. So at nine on the nose, she dialed Inkerris, Incorporated. Her hand shook as she punched up the numbers and her voice sounded thin and squeaky when she asked for the address there. The woman on the other end rattled it right off. Sophie had already hung up before it occurred to her that she might simply have asked to speak to Sin.

  She punched Redial—and then hung up before it rang.

  She was already a nervous wreck about this. She just couldn't afford to be put off by some receptionist. No, she would go down there. All the way to L.A. And she wouldn't come back until she'd spoken with Sin face-to-face.

  What exactly she would say to him, she hadn't a clue. But she would see him. She would talk with him. And by the time she came home, she'd have some kind of idea if what they'd shared had been anything more than a beautiful—and ultimately heartbreaking—summer fling.

  The next morning, Sophie flew into LAX from Sacramento. She bought a map at the airport and rented a car. Then she fought her way through the awful traffic to the Century City offices of Inkerris, Incorporated.

  The sight of the building completely intimidated her. It was a tall, imposing, very modern structure of black marble and glass. She drove by in her small rented car and wondered how she'd ever get up the nerve to go inside, walk up to some security guard and ask to speak to Sinclair Riker.

  Oh, Uncle Oggie had been so right. She never should have let Sin leave her side until she was sure he didn't want to try again. Her original cowardice had only made things all the more difficult in the end.

  A hotel, she decided. She'd find one first. And then come back and walk through those tall, gleaming glass doors. It was putting off the inevitable, she knew it; more evidence of her own cowardice. But she did it anyway.

  She found a room in a small hotel about a mile away from Inkerris, Incorporated. Then she sat on the end of the bed for a while, staring at her own reflection in the mirror over the low chest of drawers and telling herself she had no more excuses now.

  It was after three when she finally slipped through the doors of Sin's building. She found herself facing acres of marble floor and two banks of elevators. Over near the far wall was an information desk, with a directory on the wall behind it. She drew her shoulders back and marched over there. The man behind the desk watched her as she approached.

  She tried to simply scan the directory over his head, but then he asked, "May I help you?"

  She cleared her throat. "I'd like to speak to Sinclair Riker, please."

  The man gave her an indifferent smile. "Your name?"

  She had to cough again, in a rather futile effort to make her throat relax. "Sophie. Sophie B. Jones."

  "Do you have an appointment?"

  "Uh … no. No, I don't."

  Right then, a phone near his elbow buzzed. He put up an index finger. "Just a minute." Then he picked up the phone. "Lobby. Yes. No. All right." He hung up and looked at Sophie again. "What is your visit concerning?"

  Now how could she answer that? She stammered, "I-it's a personal matter."

  He looked at her sideways, a look that she read as disapproving—or disbelieving. But then he did pick up the phone and punched a button. "This is Jerry in the lobby. I have a Ms. Jones down he
re. To see Mr. Riker. She says it's a personal matter." He paused, listened. "Yes. Good enough." He hung up, smiling for the second time, as indifferently as before. "Mr. Riker isn't in. Would you like to leave a number?"

  Sophie's heart sank. That was it. She'd been turned away. By Sin himself, possibly. Or maybe not. How could she know? And what in the world was she going to do now? "I…"

  Now the man looked impatient. "Just give me a number. I'm sure he'll get back to you."

  She drew herself up. "No. Really. I'd like to speak with his … secretary, please."

  "Ms. Jones…"

  She tried to stand even taller. "Please."

  With a shrug, the man picked up the phone again. "This is Jerry downstairs again. Ms. Sophie B. Jones would like to speak with Mr. Riker's secretary, rather than leaving a number here." Jerry listened, looking Sophie over while whoever was on the other end of the line spoke. Though the air conditioning in the building seemed to be set on high, Sophie felt the sweat break out under her arms. At last, he said into the phone, "No, I don't think so." and then, "All right." He hung up, looked at Sophie. "Take the far bank of elevators. Top floor. Penthouse."

  She stared, hardly daring to believe she'd actually made progress, no matter how minimal.

  "The far bank of elevators," Jerry said again, clearly uncertain whether she'd heard him or not.

  She gave him a grateful smile. "Yes. All right. And thank you."

  He smiled back, more warmly than before. "You're welcome." She turned and hurried toward the elevators.

  On the top floor, the elevator doors slid open onto a wide reception area. The marble floors were inlaid with diamond patterns. Fabulous Egyptian-design rugs covered parts of that floor, with leather chairs grouped around them. A long desk ran along one wall. Behind that desk sat a gorgeous brunette.

  "Ms. Jones?"

  "Yes."

  "Have a seat. Mr. Taylor will be with you shortly."

  Sophie sank into one of the leather chairs to wait. The brunette started typing on her word processor. Sophie's nerves hummed in anticipation and dread. The big room seemed so quiet, except for the brunette, punching the keys: click-click-click-click. Sophie hoped it wouldn't be long.