Page 57 of You'll Find Out
“I don’t think so,” he accused. “And what’s more, I think that now you’re a desperate woman caught in her own web of lies!”
“At least I would never stoop so low as to kidnap a baby!”
“My baby, Mara. . . Mine!”he bit out as he spun on his heel and walked back to the interior of the house, swinging the suitcase as if it weighed nothing.
Angie’s voice broke into the heated discussion and halted the sarcastic retort that was forming on Mara’s lips. “Come on, Mommy . . . look what we got!”
Mara walked stoically behind Shane, and tried to ignore the way that his jeans pulled against the back of his thighs and buttocks while he walked. She tried not to watch the move of his forearms and shoulders as he carried the suitcase and set it down near the base of the stairs. Why, she wondered to herself, when she was so incensed with him, when her wrath was at its highest fury, did he still assail all of her senses?
Mara passed from the immense entry hall to a large room near the back of the manor. It seemed to be both a family room and a study. The room was decorated in masculine accents of rust and brown, and the furniture, unlike the entry hall and the other rooms that Mara had glimpsed, was contemporary. Shane’s desk of polished walnut stood in the recessed alcove of a bay window, and a modern, cherry-wood filing cabinet served as a small room divider, giving the desk a small bit of privacy. Despite the warmth of the surrounding temperature, there was an intimate fire glowing in the marble fireplace, and a worn, oxblood leather couch with an afghan, hand-knit in hues of gold and brown, tossed carelessly over the back. In the midst of the furniture, right before the fireplace, was an incredible pile of toys scattered all over the braided rug.
“What’s this?” Mara asked, her hot temper fading to incredulity at the sight of her daughter entranced by the sight of the colorful toys.
“Look, Mommy, here’s a new Lolly,” Angie pointed out by holding up the latest version of the popular doll. “And here’s an ’lectric train, and . . . and some talking horsies . . .” Angie began rummaging through the pile of toys, holding up those of particular interest to her. All of the toys were brand-new, and the one imposing factor that Mara noticed was that none, not one, held the trademark of Imagination.
“Did Christmas come early this year?” she asked as she turned to find Shane leaning against the doorway, surveying both her and child, and obviously enjoying the look of frustration in her eyes. “And if Santa did come, why didn’t be bring home anything from the assembly lines of Imagination?”
“It’s an experiment,” Shane shrugged, seemingly amused at her confusion.
“In frustration?” she guessed. “You find a way to get me down here to show off your collection of toys from the competition?”
Shane’s deep, rumbling laughter broke down the wall of misunderstanding that had grown between them. “Of course not,” he said as he walked into the room and settled himself down in the midst of the mess. He tossed a foam rubber soccer ball into the air and watched distractedly as it bounced off the ceiling. “I bought all of these toys while I was down here last weekend. According to the figures I’ve run up in my computer, these things are the thirty most popular toys sold in America today . . . not one of them is from Imagination.”
“I could have told you that much.” Mara sighed, dropping down onto the couch and fingering a toy dump truck.
“But,” he contended, his eyes locking with hers, “you couldn’t have told me whythesetoys are popular.” He pointed to the pile of toys.
“Heaven only knows,” Mara murmured, looking wistfully at Angie, who was beside herself with the toys. The new Lolly was being dragged upside down as she examined each of the other toys.
“Well, I thought that if I brought some of the toys home and studied them, perhaps I could find out what makes them the leaders in sales.”
“While lining the pockets of the competition,” Mara whispered.
“Sour grapes, darling,” he retorted with the hint of a smile. “Besides, you can see for yourself, Angie’s fascinated with them.”
“Oh, she likes just about any new toy,” Mara countered, cynically, “as long as it isn’t made by Imagination.”
“Exactly my point,” Shane agreed, raising himself from the rug and pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The motion tightened the muscles of his forearms, and his eyes darkened. Mara felt the change in mood, and all at once the room began to close in on her. She felt his presence, his intensity, his physical magnetism drawing her toward him.
For a moment, as their gazes locked and the questions and doubts that separated them loomed between them again, Mara felt suspended in motion, breathless. The furrow between his brows deepened and the line of his jaw seemed to protrude. “Are you hungry?” he asked, breaking the uncomfortable, shifting silence. He, too, was aware of the subtle change in atmosphere. “Angie and I were just about to sit down. Come on, Angie, let’s fix Mommy some dinner.” Angie’s blond head bobbed expectantly.
The dinner only took a few moments to prepare. Shane’s kitchen, with its airy country charm, tiled floor, hanging brass pots, and indoor barbecue, was easy to work in, and within minutes, the steaks were broiled, the salad was tossed, and the potatoes came steaming from the microwave. They sat in a formal dining room, and while Shane poured from a vintage bottle of Cabernet Savignon, Mara lit the five, white tallow candles in the candelabrum. Angie’s dark eyes danced with the festivities, and Mara realized, as she watched her child over the rim of her wine glass, just how much the little girl adored Shane. It was so apparent that he reciprocated that adoration, and that he would do nothing but the best for her. The intimate surroundings, the love of father and daughter, the warm, stately old house—it all seemed so right to Mara. And the laughter. God, how long had it been since she had heard the sweet sounds of Angie’s laughter, so free and uninhibited? Mara felt as if, at long last, she had come home.
After a dinner that her daughter seemed to dominate, Mara caught Angie yawning. “Come on, pumpkin,” she said, picking up her child, “let’s get you up to bed.”
Above Angie’s predictable but insincere protests, Mara picked up her daughter and headed up the stairs. Shane followed her and carried the suitcase up to a room at the head of the stairs.
The room was twice the size of Angie’s room in Asheville, and Mara eyed Shane suspiciously as she entered it. The walls were newly papered in a delicate yellow rosebud print, and the matching canopy bed and dresser looked as if they had been delivered very recently. The room was complete, down to a writing desk in the same dark pine as the posters of the bed and a full length, free-standing mirror.
“It looks as if you were expecting her,” Mara whispered.
“I was,” he agreed, and pulled pensively on his lower lip.
Angie snuggled deep into the folds of the down comforter and closed her eyes against the soft, clean new sheets. Shane left the room after a few moments, but Mara stayed, waiting until she was assured by Angie’s deep, rhythmic breathing that the child was soundly asleep. “Oh, Angie,” she murmured to herself as she brushed an errant blond curl from her daughter’s face. “What are we going to do?”
As Mara descended the polished oak staircase she noticed that most of the lights in the house had been extinguished. Only the glow from the fire in the den illuminated her way back to Shane. Now that Angie was peacefully asleep, it was time to iron out all of the problems that they faced and hope that some of the damage of the last lonely years could be bridged.
Shane was sitting on the couch, staring into the fire, holding a half-empty glass of Scotch in his hand. At Mara’s entrance, he barely looked up but contented himself with reading the blood-red coals of the smoldering embers. He raised his glass in a gesture of invitation for her to join him. She declined by shaking her head and stood uncomfortably in the doorway.
