Page 21 of You'll Find Out
Mara dusted a spot on the steps and sat next to him. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have told you,” she whispered, half to herself as she smoothed the apricot robe over her legs.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I wanted to know,” he muttered in a voice devoid of emotion. “Besides which, you can’t run from the truth, Mara, as you did when you married Wilcox.”
Mara sighed heavily. “I told you that I married Peter for Angie’s sake.”
“Is that right?” he shot back vehemently. “And what about you? Didn’t you do it for yourself?” His dark eyes swept over the large colonial house, the expansive back porch, the elegant gardens, and the rest of the well-tended grounds. “This isn’t such a bad way to live, is it? Lots easier than raising a child on your own. I don’t suppose that it took you very long to get accustomed to this kind of lifestyle, now, did it?”
“You don’t understand . . .”
“You bet I don’t! How could you marry another man, Mara, knowing that you were carrying my child? And what about all the nights after you were married? Do you expect me to believe that you and Wilcox never made love? You can’t possibly take me for such a fool!”
The tears that she had pressed back began to tumble unwanted down her cheeks, but she managed to level her gaze at Shane. “No, Shane, I don’t expect for you to believe anything of the kind. If I did, it would be a lie. I did make love to Peter, over and over again in the three years that we were married.” Shane winced at the words, his dark eyes glowering in bitterness. “But you have to remember,” she cautioned, noting the twisted look of rage on his face, “that I believed you were dead. Otherwise, I swear that I would never have let Peter, or for that matter any other man, lay a finger on me! You have to believe that!”
Shane’s face was rigid, his severe jawline clenched as he watched her. The clear honesty in her eyes, the regal tilt of her defiant chin, the stain of tears that ran down her cheeks, everything about her posture convinced him that she was baring her soul to him.
He groaned to himself and then reached for her hand, which he pressed to his lips. “Oh, baby,” he sighed, letting his broad shoulders droop. “What’s happened to us? Why can’t we trust each other?” He pulled her gently onto his lap and buried his face against her breasts. “I believe you, Mara—I believe you.”
Mara shuddered in relief and clutched him as if she thought he might disappear. Her choked words came out between breathless sobs. “I can’t pretend that Peter and I didn’t sleep together . . . nor do I expect that you have remained faithful to me . . .” He began to interrupt but she quieted him with a finger to his lips. “Let’s just not talk about it . . . or think about it. I don’t want to hear about any of the women in your life, and Peter is dead. It’s just us now—the past doesn’t matter.”
“And Angie,” he reminded her as he crushed her to his body. She could hear the pounding of his heart echoing deep within the cavern of his chest. Tears slid silently down her cheeks in long-denied happiness.
“Come on, Mara . . . let’s go upstairs and get dressed. There’s a young lady I can’t wait to meet, and you and I have a lot to do.”
“Such as?” she asked quietly.
He regarded her silently for a moment, and then a sad smile crept over his face. “Such as pick up our daughter and get married as quickly as possible.”
Against all of the urges of her body, she slowly extracted herself from his embrace. “It’s just not that easy, Shane,” she whispered. “We can’t get married.”
His hand, which still caught hers, tightened around her fingers and the muscles in his face hardened. “Of course it’s that easy, Mara. We can get married immediately. What’s to stop us?”
“There are things . . .”
“What things?” he demanded, deep furrows edging over his brow.
Her voice was soft and low, but decisive. “It’s not just us, you know. We have other people and their feelings to consider.”
“What kind of a game are you playing, Mara? I don’t give a damn about other people!” He stood up, and pulled her up beside him—forcing her to gaze into his eyes. His hands clutched the terry robe at her shoulders, and his strong arms held her away from him. His fingers, once gentle, held her tightly, roughly pinching her arms, and his face was twisted in suspicion. “For God’s sake, Mara,” he implored. “What do we care about other people. We have a daughter to think of—don’t we?” Doubt was beginning to creep into his eyes.
“Of course we do, Shane, but you can’t expect a three-year-old child to just accept you as the natural father that she didn’t know existed. She thought that Peter was her dad—and he was! Angie needs time to adjust—and . . . and so do I!” Her admission was torn from her, and the words surprised even herself, but the firm resolve in her cold, blue eyes never slackened for a moment.
“What are you suggesting?”
“Give it time, Shane . . .”
“You’ve had time.”
“Angie hasn’t! Think of her!”
“I am thinking of her, damn it, but I don’t know if, after all of these years, I can wait any longer . . . knowing that she’s mine.”
“You have to! We all need a little breathing room—we’ve all had some rather extensive shocks, wouldn’t you say? You and I . . . we have both come over some incredible, almost insurmountable hurdles in finding each other again. And time has a way of sorting out all of the unnecessary things in life and healing old wounds. We need time, and we need it now.”
“You’re stalling!”
“I’m not! Just think about it, Shane.”
Shane reluctantly released Mara, and she stepped backward. His eyes, two black diamonds, glittered with mistrust and confusion. “All of this is hard for me to accept,” he admitted. “First you tell me that I have a three-year-old daughter that I’ve never met, and then you tell me that I can’t have her with me.”
