Christine Rimmer - A Hero for Sophie Jones Page 9

  That night, Regina and Patrick and their daughters joined them for steaks at Jared and Eden's house. The story of Anthea's rescue was recounted more than once—by Marnie first, and then by Regina when old Oggie Jones arrived and demanded to hear it, too.

  Later, after dinner, feeling a little uncomfortable with all the praise and gratitude the Joneses kept showering on him, Sin wandered outside alone. He found a place at the railing of Jared's deck and stood staring out at the pines, thinking that soon he'd go in and find Sophie so they could be on their way.

  "I guess you showed up in town just when we needed you." The rough voice of Oggie Jones came from beside him. Odd. The old man walked with a cane that announced his appearance wherever he went—yet Sin hadn't heard him approach.

  Sin turned his head and met the old man's strange small eyes. "It was mostly luck."

  "Luck don't mean squat if a man doesn't act fast." Those too-wise eyes seemed to bore right down into him. "You acted fast. And this family thanks you for it."

  "Anyone else would have done the same thing."

  "But could anyone else have done the same thing?"

  What was that supposed to mean? Sin didn't think he needed to know. "It worked out all right." He felt ready and willing to drop the subject for good. "That's what matters."

  The old man let out a low, amused cackle of a laugh. "Good point. And how about for you?"

  "What?"

  "How's it working out for you?"

  Sin faced him squarely. "Are you getting at something here?"

  "What do you think, Mr. Sinclair Riker?"

  Sin noted the emphasis on the first half of his name and felt the skin along his shoulder blades tighten. No one here knew him as Sin.

  He recalled that gray sedan. Someone had decided to have him followed. Could this strange character who thought of himself as Sophie's uncle be that someone? Coldly he suggested, "I think if there's something you want to say to me, you had better say it outright."

  The old man pondered that suggestion, then grunted. "Son, you don't know me at all." He pulled a cigar from his shirt pocket and began peeling the cellophane wrapper off. Sin watched those gnarled hands rumple the wrapper and tuck it away in another pocket. "Sophie B. tells me that you are the Sinclair Riker whose family once owned the ranch where she lives now."

  "That's right."

  Oggie bit the end off the cigar and spat it over his shoulder, beyond the deck. "And how long you stayin' in our beautiful county?"

  "I'm not sure."

  "Where you livin' now, anyway?"

  "Los Angeles."

  "And you're here to buy property, Sophie B. says. Is that so?"

  "Possibly."

  The old man cackled some more. Out in the trees, an owl hooted. Sin looked toward the sound—and away from whatever those wise eyes thought they knew. He heard the hiss of a match striking, saw the quick flare of light in his side vision. And then the smell of smoke wafted his way.

  The rough voice spoke again. "When a man falls in love, it changes everything. Changes him. You know what I mean?"

  Sin faced Sophie's "uncle" once more, but said nothing. Wherever the old man was headed with this gambit, Sin felt certain he could get there all on his own.

  Oggie studied the burning end of his cigar. "Let me tell you a little story."

  "If I said no, would it matter?"

  "Hell, no." He flicked his ash. "You listenin'?"

  Sin shrugged.

  "I'll take that as a yes." Oggie leaned against the railing, sucked in smoke and blew it out. "I come here, to North Magdalene, when I was thirty-five, a footloose gamblin' man. I saw my wife-to-be the first day I walked into town. I knew she would be mine the minute I laid eyes on her. What I didn't realize until later was that I would be hers as well.

  "Beautiful Bathsheba…" Oggie gestured grandly. The red end of the cigar made bright trails through the darkness. "…the empress of my heart." He shook his head. "She's been gone for nigh on thirty years now. But in here—" he tapped his chest with the heel of his hand "—in here, she lives on. Because of her, I am the man you see before you now. Because of her, I put down roots. And those roots go deep, deep as if I had been born in these parts. Because of her, I got … commitments." He said the word with reverence. Then he turned from the night to look at Sin again. "And because of her, I just might go on forever—meddlin' where people wish to hell I'd get lost." He let out another of those low cackles, and leaned in closer to Sin. "That is what you're thinkin', ain't it? That you wish to hell I'd mind my own business."

  Sin couldn't help smiling. "You don't strike me as a man likely to be affected by what other people think."

  The old man thought that was funny. He cackled again, louder this time.

  Sin added, "And love may have changed you. But I am not you."

  The old man thought that was really funny. He threw back his head and brayed at the moon.

  Watching him, Sin felt the tension that had coiled inside him fade away to nothing at all. Oggie Jones was just a sentimental old character who liked to hear himself talk. He knew no more about Sin than anyone else did. And the odds were very small that he'd hired some P.I. to follow Sin around.

  And even if he had, what could he have found out? The name of Sin's hotel, the health club he visited—and that he'd been spending his nights in the slim, soft arms of Sophie B. Jones.

  The hotel and the health club meant nothing. And anyone who saw him with Sophie could have figured out the rest.

  The old man puffed on his cigar a while longer. The smoke trailed toward the moon. At last, he said, "It's after ten. I'll bet you want to get goin'."

  "Yes. We should probably be on our way."

  "Well, come on, then. Let's go inside and find that woman of yours."

  "Did you like my adopted family?" Sophie asked as they drove the twisting road back to the Mountain Star.

  "Yes," he said honestly. "I liked them."

  "I'm glad." She leaned across the console and rested her head on his shoulder. "What did you think of Oggie?"

  He recalled those wise eyes, that cackling laugh. "He's one of a kind."

  She lifted her head, brushed a hand against his shoulder. "I just love him."

  "I gathered."

  She sighed. "I know he rubs some people the wrong way. But I think he really cares. I think he would do anything for the people he loves."

  Sin felt for her hand, brought it to his lips, then had to let go to negotiate the next sharp turn. "I think you're right."

  "You do?"

  He nodded, keeping his eyes front to watch the road. She settled her head on his shoulder again.

  They drove the rest of the way in silence.

  By the time he pulled into the drive that led up to the Mountain Star, she had dropped off to sleep. She didn't stir as he parked the car, or when he turned the key and the engine went quiet.

  "Sophie…" he whispered.

  She moved a little, made a small, sleepy sound of protest, then snuggled against his shoulder as if it were her pillow for the night.

  "Sophie, we're here."

  She said something unintelligible, and finally lifted her head. "I went to sleep."

  "No kidding." She yawned and stretched. He said, "You're still half-asleep."

  She gave him a look that had nothing to do with sleeping. "Let's go to bed."

  Once they got inside, she wanted a shower. They took one together. He lathered her hair twice for her, the sweet-smelling bubbles running down his arms. Then, when they stepped out onto the bathroom tiles, they dried each other.

  Soon enough they were kissing, and laughing, the towels dropping at their feet.

  He carried her to the bedroom and laid her on the bed. She looked up at him, lifting her arms, her still-wet hair snaking on the pillow, reminding him…

  Of the two of them, wrestling underwater, the bubbles rising all around them, her hair floating against his chest.

  Happy.

  He was
happy.

  Living a lie with Sophie B. Jones.

  "Sinclair…" she beckoned him.

  He sank down upon her, burying his face in the wet, coiling strands of her hair. She pulled him close, sighing.

  And when her fulfillment shuddered through her, she said it again.

  "I love you, love you, love you, I do…"

  In the morning, they went riding. And he stayed for breakfast after.

  She kissed him goodbye before he left, in the grove of pines near his car, her sweet body pressing close, her hair smelling of sunshine and last night's shampoo.

  "It's a new movie tonight," she told him, pulling back just enough that she could look up at him.

  "I know, I saw the ad in the Union. The next installment in—"

  "Our Randi Wilding Film Retrospective." She looked exceedingly pleased with herself. "Tonight, it's Kerrigan's Honor. Randi plays an FBI agent whose mother and sister are raped and murdered by a gang of thugs. Naturally, she has to kill them all … in very imaginative ways."

  "Naturally."

  "You're going to love this one, I just know it. And next week, we'll have—"

  "Stop. Let's take it one week at a time."

  Something happened in her eyes then. Their brightness dimmed a little. She looked down at where her hands rested against his chest, and then back up at him. "Sinclair?"

  "What?"

  And she dared to ask, "Is there going to be a next week for us?"

  What could he say to that? How the hell did he know?

  She fiddled with a button on his shirt. "I don't want to push you. I honestly don't, but…" And it all came pouring out. "Oh, Sinclair, I have to tell you, sometimes, when you leave, all I can think is how much I don't know about you. I don't even know where you live—well, L.A., I know that. But L.A. is so big. What part of L.A.? And what is your house like? Do you know your neighbors? Are they nice? And where do you work? What do you really do there? And your friends. What are your friends like? Will I ever meet them? Will they hate me or like me?"

  "Sophie. No one could hate you."

  "Sinclair, do you understand what I'm asking you?"

  He knew then that he could put off telling her no longer.

  But where to begin?

  "Sinclair, can you understand?"

  "Yes. Of course, I can."

  "Could we talk? Really talk? About the two of us. About … what will happen next? Could we talk … tonight?"

  "Sophie…"

  She put up a hand between them, for silence. "Tonight. All right?"

  He thought of the long day of work she had ahead of her. At least, if he waited till tonight, she'd have a few hours to herself after everything had been said. Maybe that was the best way. If there was such a thing in this situation.

  Or maybe he was just putting off the inevitable again…

  "Please, Sinclair."

  "All right, Sophie. Tonight."

  "Thank you." She moved close again to brush a kiss against his lips. It wasn't enough for him—when it came to her, nothing was ever enough. He grabbed her close and kissed her hard.

  Then, as she had other mornings, she stood beneath the pines to watch him go.

  Sin drove back to his hotel by rote, hardly seeing where he was going, thinking of the obsession that had got hold of him the day he'd learned his family's ranch could be his again. The timing had seemed perfect. He had the money and the time to build himself a big new house, fill the stables with thoroughbred horses and live the life of the gentleman rancher. His second in command at Inkerris, Incorporated, would be taking over from him. Within a year he'd hardly have to travel to L.A. at all. Within a year, no matter what kind of fight she had tried to put up, he would have been able to remove the one obstacle to his plans: Ms. Sophie B. Jones and her five-acre lease.

  He'd intended only to get rid of her.

  But now he couldn't bear to lose her.

  Love changes a man, old Oggie Jones had said.

  But Sin was a realist. No one changed that much in five days. He still wanted his land back, wanted his heritage back.

  And love? It was a word people batted around a lot. His father had talked about love all the time—the love of family, the love of the land. And then he'd lost the land and opted out by hanging himself. And his mother had loved; she'd loved him and his father—and she'd claimed to love the first ten or so of the string of men who'd put food on her table.

  By the time he was nine years old, Sin had learned that love was something it didn't pay to believe in, something he simply did not have time for if he planned to crawl out of the hole his father and mother had put him in. He got his first paper route when he was ten, and he was working as a busboy by the time he was sixteen.

  He'd been careful to stay on the right side of the law. He'd given a wide berth to the drug dealers in his neighborhood—and not out of any nobility of spirit. There was fast money in drugs, and money of any kind interested him. But unfortunately drug money was fast money he could lose if he got caught. And he couldn't afford a prison record following him around. After all, he wanted to rebuild for himself the fortune his father had lost. So he kept his nose clean.

  He bought his first house, a run-down rental duplex in San Pedro when he was twenty-one. He forced the tenants out over their constant—and sincere—protests that they had nowhere to go. Then he fixed the place up himself, reselling it a year after he bought it for three times what he'd paid for it.

  By eight years ago, when he was thirty, Inkerris, Incorporated, was going strong. He'd come a long way. In the next eight years, he went even farther. And love had played no part at all in his success.

  No, Sin Riker didn't believe in love and he didn't have time for it. And he certainly didn't deserve it—a fact that Sophie was going to have to face tonight when he told her the truth.

  Three times, she had told him she loved him. After tonight, he doubted she'd be telling him again.

  Sin parked his car in the hotel's lot and went in the main entrance, where he stopped at the front desk.

  "Sinclair Riker, room 103," he told the clerk. "Any messages?"

  The clerk pointed toward the small sitting area opposite the desk. "Someone to see you."

  Sin turned just as his former fiancée stood from a damask-covered wing chair. "Sin, darling. Where have you been? I've been waiting for over an hour."

  * * *

  Chapter 9

  « ^ »

  "Willa. I had no idea you were coming."

  "Oh, I'm sure you didn't." After pausing to brush lightly at the few wrinkles that had dared to crease the front of her pencil-thin silk skirt, Willa strolled up to him and slid a proprietary arm through his. "We have to talk." She scrunched up her perfect nose. "What's that I smell? Horse, I do believe."

  He looked down into her exotically slanted blue eyes. "I've been riding."

  "Riding?" She squeezed his arm, raised a black eyebrow. "Oh, I have no doubt at all about that."

  The light dawned. "You hired a detective service to have me followed."

  "I certainly did." She made a tsking sound with her tongue. "And it cost me a serious chunk of change, too. I was assured you'd never know. But then you spotted him anyway—on Monday, wasn't it?"

  "Sunday, actually. Monday was the day I let him know that I knew."

  She ran a long, red, beautifully manicured fingernail down his arm. "I should probably demand at least half of my money back."

  "What do you want, Willa?"

  She lifted a shoulder in a delicate shrug. "I told you. We have to talk."

  "All right." He started to move toward the sitting area just a few feet away.

  She hung back, casting a glance at the desk clerk. "Privately, please—how about your room?"

  He dragged in a long breath and let it out slowly. "Fine. Let's go."

  In his suite, Willa tossed her envelope bag on an end table, kicked off her Italian pumps and dropped to the sofa, stretching her long, silk-clad legs out al
ong its length. Once she'd made herself comfortable, she got right to the point. "You've been having an affair, Sin. With that sweet little nobody who's living at that ranch of yours."

  Sin leaned against the closed door and folded his arms over his chest. "Sweet, Willa? Was that how your detective described her?"

  "I have pictures."

  He shook his head in disgust. "God, Willa."

  Willa recrossed her legs, ran a smoothing hand up her already smooth stockings, then looked up to make sure he saw the provocative gesture. "She's not your type at all. So nice. Big innocent eyes. Acres of long badly cut hair. And those outré calf-length dresses that look as if they were made from Laura Ashley window treatments. Honestly, Sin. I'm disappointed in you."

  Sin straightened from the door. "Is that all you got me up here to tell me?"

  Willa sighed and cast a glance heavenward. "Isn't it enough?"

  "You're completely off base here, and you know it. How I spend my time—and who I spend it with—are no longer any of your concern."

  She swung her legs to the floor and rose, catlike, to her feet. "Of course what you do is my concern. I'm your fiancée."

  "What the hell are you talking about?"

  "Sin, please. Let's not play games. You know I'm going to marry you."

  "I am not the one who's playing games."

  "Oh, Sin." She dipped her chin and looked up at him archly from under her lashes. "You know I only play the games you like." She sauntered toward him.

  "Stop."

  She paused, put a hand on her hip and pretended to look confused. "What, darling?"

  "Let me refresh your memory."

  "My memory is fresh enough."

  "You called it off, Willa. You said, and I quote, 'I have no intention of moving to the middle of nowhere to raise horses in the pine trees. If that's what you think you want, then you and I are through.'"

  Willa sighed. "I was just trying to get you to come to your senses."

  "You failed."

  "I can see that. And I'm willing to … reevaluate my position on this issue."

  "It's too late."

  She shook her smooth cap of black hair. "No, it's not." And then, in a stunningly swift move, she reached behind her. He heard the zipper of that clinging silk dress as it started to slide.