In Hot Water
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Once he was off the phone, Holt walked to the window in his old bedroom and stared into inky blackness. He didn’t need daylight to visualize what was out there. As always, the grounds, covered with flowers, would be impeccably groomed. There wouldn’t be a stray leaf in sight no matter how hard the wind blew.
He thought about stepping onto his balcony, but it was still hotter than hell due to the humidity. He supposed he wasn’t used to this climate anymore; that was why he always felt so sticky, like he needed a shower.
Actually what he needed was several cups of chicory coffee, stout enough to make the hairs stand up on his chest. That might get him motivated.
He had no intention of going to bed since he knew already that sleep wouldn’t come easily. So much was going on inside his head that even if he tried to drown his woes in a bottle of expensive bourbon, he’d be wasting his time.
He rubbed the back of his neck trying to uncoil muscles that had tensed into one big jumble of nerves.
He had Maci to thank for that.
Admitting that did little to relieve his anxiety. He still could not reconcile the shock of walking into that room and stepping on a loaded stick of dynamite. It had taken every ounce of willpower he possessed to maintain his composure.
Yet seeing was believing. There she’d sat in the flesh looking as appetizing as she had the first time he saw her. All her best features were as he remembered: a gorgeous body with shapely legs and a tight ass, skin like white velvet, deep-set black eyes, apple-red lips and short black hair that would complement any man’s pillow. She was actually more appealing than he recalled.
Having a baby had ripened her body.
Blood surged into his groin and he grimaced. He’d had no intention of ever coming back to this house or seeing his father again, much less help him beat a murder rap. Now, after learning who “Mildred” was, he sure as hell didn’t want to be there. Remaining was actually an insane proposition.
Yet here he was. Committed.
He wished he hadn’t left his sailboat in Florida and flown here. Now he was expected to stay in the mansion, in his old room, too near to her.
He had never forgotten that night in Jamaica and had thought seriously of trying to find her numerous times, only to convince himself she was happily married with no possibility of a repeat performance of their time together.
Well, she was married all right. And she was his stepmother.
Holt muttered a double expletive. The little hottie from the night was now his stepmother. Go figure. He laughed a harsh laugh. Stranger things have happened, he guessed. Just not to him.
Once their eyes locked in that room for even a brief second, it was all he could do not to cross the room, jerk her into his arms and kiss her until the breath left her.
If he’d read her right, she had wanted the same thing.
So much for wedded bliss, he told himself, almost choking on another bitter chuckle. It wasn’t too late to tell his father to go to hell, he reminded himself, then walk out the same door he’d come in.
He even took that first necessary step when he again heard that sweet, soft voice pleading with him to stay. He balled his fists and stood his ground.
Now all he had to do was convince himself his weakness had all to do with his mother and nothing to do with Maci. He knew better. His staying had everything to do with her.
Admit it, Ramsey, he told himself. You’re fucked.
Six
“Liz, if he isn’t better in a little while, I’ll call the doctor.”
“I don’t think that will be necessary, Mrs. Ramsey. The little fellow’s just teething.”
Maci rubbed her son’s back as his head lay cuddled against her neck. It was all she could do not to squeeze the life out of him. He smelled so good, felt so good, she never wanted to let him go. He was her sanity now that the rest of her life was in utter chaos.
Liz had sent word down that Jonah wouldn’t stop crying. Maci had immediately excused herself and gone to be with her son. While she wasn’t glad her baby was upset, she had been glad of an excuse to escape. She didn’t think she could have borne the explosive atmosphere in the study much longer.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” Liz asked.
“I just hate to see Jonah so fussy,” she said, ignoring Liz’s concern.
“Jonah will be fine,” Liz said with confidence. “The last time he was teething the doctor said to give him some baby Tylenol. I’ll get it and give it to him if he needs it later.”
Maci nodded, then realizing that her son was fast asleep, she laid him in his bed, then kissed him gently. “Sleep tight, my precious,” she whispered, feeling unbidden tears sting her eyelids.
Moments later, safe in her room, Maci sagged against the door. She had made it to her suite in record time for fear she would accidentally bump into Holt.
Nervous and upset, Maci placed her hand over her mouth. She was going to be sick.
Scurrying to the bathroom, she emptied the contents of her stomach. She patted her face with cold water, brushed her teeth, then peered into the beveled glass mirror. Her reflection told her she looked awful. No color bled through her cheeks. She doused her face with more cold water. The queasiness, however, remained even after she eased onto the chaise longue and closed her eyes.
Holt’s face seemed plastered on the back of her eyelids. She sat upright, her heart continuing to pound at a rapid clip. Two long deep breaths in succession calmed her.
This madness couldn’t go on. She had to find a way to get control of her splintered emotions. She hadn’t planned on ever seeing “Stan” again. The thought of crossing his path on a daily basis was unthinkable.
Making her way to the cabinet that hid a juice bar, Maci made a cup of peppermint tea and then rested once again on the chaise.
After several sips, her stomach, along with her nerves, settled. Maybe now she could figure out how best to handle this latest debacle.
There was no best way.
Until now she had managed to banish the memory of that night in Jamaica. She sometimes even believed that the hot night of passion in a stranger’s arms had merely been an indulgent dream.
Once she and her friends had arrived back home, the pace of her life had increased to a frantic pitch. Seymour had insisted they marry at the mansion and forgo plans to leave town. He didn’t want to wait.
After the stunt she’d pulled in Jamaica, Maci hadn’t wanted to return there, so she agreed, realizing that settling down without further incident was the best thing for her. Two weeks later she and Seymour had repeated their vows, surrounded by close friends.
She’d only been married six weeks before she began to suspect she was pregnant. She had told Seymour right away; to her surprise he’d been overjoyed.
What she hadn’t told him was that the baby might not be his. The idea that she could be having a stranger’s baby had devastated her. After days of agonizing over that real possibility, she decided she had no recourse but to tell Seymour the truth, though she knew that deed could bring her brief marriage to an abrupt end.
“We need to talk, Seymour,” she had told him one evening in the study.
He had peered at her over the rim of his drink and smiled. “My, my but you look so serious.”
“I am serious.”
“You’re okay, right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, unable to look him in the eye.
“Maci, what’s wrong?”
She released a sigh. “It’s something that happened—”
He held up his hand, his features hardening slightly. “I’m not interested in hearing confessions.”
She was taken aback. “But—”
Seymour interrupted again. “What happened before we got married is your business not mine. I’m not comfortable discussing my past. Therefore, I don’t want to hear about yours. End of conversation.”
Taking the coward’s way out, she had been relieved. By law, Seymour was her baby’s father, she had told herself, further justifying her actions. Proving otherwise would serve no purpose. It would only do irreparable harm to everyone involved. Besides, she’d been convinced she would never see her lover again.
Nonetheless, guilt from withholding her confession gnawed at her until Jonah was born. Once she held that miracle in her arms, however, she stored that reckless incident in the most private part of her heart and went on with her life, more convinced than ever that her digression would never be revealed.
The possibility that it might be now was most frightening.
Maci’s stomach lurched again. What if Holt suspected Jonah could be his? That thought numbed her with such terror that she feared she’d lose her mind.
Maybe he wouldn’t stay. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to remain in such close proximity to his father. Or maybe she would be the force that drove him away.
Her conscience suddenly pricked her and she felt selfish. She should be thinking of her husband’s welfare and what was best for him. If Holt was the answer to Seymour’s needs, then she should welcome him with open arms. Under different circumstances, she would have, having often wondered how she could broach the subject of his estranged son.
That was before she knew who he was.
But whether Holt stayed or not was his call. Right now, she sensed he would bolt. The sight of her couldn’t have made his day. To say he’d been stunned was too understated. She had seen a glimpse of the same raw shock she felt mirrored in his eyes. He’d seemed to recover more quickly, replacing that rawness with a cynical contempt aimed at his father.
But she knew she had read him right when he refrained from looking at her after that one time their eyes had locked. Her instinct had told her that had been intentional.
As she finished her tea, Maci heard a tap on her door. For a moment, she froze, fearing who was on the other side. Then feeling foolish for such an irrational thought, she said, “Come in.”
“How’s Jonah?” Seymour asked, making his way into the room, stopping only when he reached the midway point.
At the mention of the baby’s name, she smiled. “Just fussy because he’s teething.”
“Hopefully by now he’s settled.”
A short, but heavy silence followed his words. Maci wanted to fill it, only she didn’t know quite how. She hated this awkwardness that existed between her and Seymour. The wedge between them seemed to grow wider each day.
“Did you and Holt resolve your differences?” she asked, bridging the gap of silence before it lengthened.
“For now,” he said in a harsh tone, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you were counting on more.”
Seymour shrugged. “I still haven’t played all my cards.”
Maci thought that was an odd thing to say, but she didn’t pursue it. She hadn’t been privy to what had taken place between father and son early on and she didn’t suspect her asking questions now would change that.
“I hope you don’t mind having a guest for a while.”
“Would it matter if I did?”
He gave her a strange look. “No, not in this case.”
Feeling that awkwardness deepen, she forced a calm to her tone. “But of course I don’t mind. If he can help you, I want him here.” She turned away so that he wouldn’t notice that her eyes failed to back up her words.
“For sure he can help me. Holt and I might disagree on everything else, but I’ll have to hand him his just deserts—he’s a crackerjack attorney.”
She forced a smile. “Maybe this tragedy will allow you two to patch up your differences.”
“I doubt that.” Bitterness lowered Seymour’s voice. “His mother stands between us and always will.”
“That’s too bad.”
“That’s the way it is, and I’ve accepted it.” Seymour paused and walked toward her. “It’s certainly nothing for you to worry about. As I’ve already told you, the past is the past and not to be reopened. Besides, I have another son, thanks to you, who’s not going to disappoint me.”
“Let us pray,” Maci said lightly.
He smiled. “Prayer has nothing to do with it. I’m going to see that he follows in his old man’s footsteps.”
Jonah might have something to say about that, she almost blurted out. But since that decision was a long way off, she didn’t see any reason to start an argument by disagreeing.
“I know this mess has been hard on you,” Seymour said, “but rest assured our lives will be back to normal soon.”
For some reason that statement, reeking of smugness, irritated her. “I know you say Dodson’s death was an accident—”
“It was,” Seymour cut in sharply.
“Still, I don’t understand how you can take no responsibility or feel no remorse.”
“How do you know I don’t?”
“Well, do you?”
“No. The death was accidental.”
“Still, a man’s dead.”
“He isn’t the first patient I’ve lost nor will he be the last.”
Maci massaged her temple. “That sounds so—”
“Callous,” he said, finishing the sentence for her.
“Yes, that’s a good word.”
“That may be. But like I’ve maintained all along, I was in complete control of my faculties, which absolves me.”
Was there no end to his arrogance?
Suddenly, Maci stared wide-eyed at the man who was her husband and saw him with clear objectivity. She didn’t like what she saw. The man with new creases around his eyes and less hair on his head, the man she’d pledged to love and honor until death parted them, no longer measured up.
In fact, she felt like she no longer knew him.
Perhaps she never had. Perhaps the magic of who he was and what he could offer her had been so dazzling, she’d been blinded to the truth.
“What’s wrong, darling?” Seymour sounded contrite. “You look like you just saw a ghost.”
He was within touching distance of her now, watching her with a glint of desire in his eyes.
Every nerve in her body rebelled as he reached out and touched her face with the back of his hand. It was all she could do not to flinch.
“It’s been too long since we made love,” he said, his tone having dropped to a husky pitch.
“Seymour—”
He smiled, only that smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Don’t tell me you have a headache.”
His intention was to tease, she knew, to lighten the tension circling them. It didn’t work. She couldn’t bear for him to touch her. Hiding her feelings was her only option.
“I really do have a headache,” she murmured.
His look was one of disbelief; then his hand fell to his side. “You’re serious.” He made a flat statement.
“Yes,” she whispered, moving out of his reach.
His features blanched and his mouth tightened. “Another time, then.”
With that he turned and walked out the door.
Maci’s fingernails dug into her palms while tears dampened her eyes, but she refused to give in to any further weakness. She would deal with her disintegrating life with her head up and a smile on her face.
Even if it killed her.
Seven
Despite the cloying early-morning heat, the garden was lovely. Maci could always count on the flowers to boost her sagging spirits. Today was no exception.
After inhaling the sweetly scented air deep into her lungs, she sat down on a wrought-iron cushioned chair. She took two sips of her cup of hazelnut flavored coffee while her gaze tracked a butterfly whose wings were lavender and black. It amazed her that such a delicate creature could spread its wings and mindlessly fly, fly, fly. Only after it flew away did Maci take a breath, realizing she’d been mesmerized by the butterfly’s actions.
She hadn’t slept much last night, and she felt listless and tired, not at all like herself. Before Seymour’s arrest, her energy level had been unending. Now the drastic changes in her well-ordered life had robbed her of any spare stamina.
Jonah’s fussiness had continued into the night, and he’d wanted her, not Liz, to rock him. That was exactly what she’d done, and didn’t regret one minute of it. Still, she had a lot on her plate today, and if she didn’t snap out of her doldrums, she wouldn’t get anything done. She was due to spend the day with her friend Bobbi, working on her house.
Maci sipped her coffee. In the past the thought of plunging into her work would have sent a rush of excitement through her. In fact, she would have been hustling to grab a bite to eat before meeting a client. That sense of excitement had diminished along with her energy.
Damn Seymour.
Guilt descended over Maci. She should be backing her husband, not condemning him. But after their conversation last evening, Maci’s feelings were more confused than ever. She wanted to believe Seymour, that what had happened on the operating table had truly been an unavoidable accident, that he had gone exactly by the medical book, and that despite all his efforts the patient still hadn’t lived.
But she couldn’t ignore that he’d been under the influence. Letting Seymour touch her in an intimate way after she glimpsed his arrogant denial was repugnant to her. Her rejection had angered and hurt him, she knew, but she couldn’t help it. If she had it to do all over again, she would do the same thing.
A shudder went through her as she pictured Holt’s face. She trembled at the thought that his presence in the house could have had anything to do with her reaction to Seymoure.
No, of course, it hadn’t, Maci reassured herself, swallowing the knot of panic in her throat. Holt Ramsey’s appearance was simply a bad nightmare that had raised its head to haunt her again.
Yet she hadn’t been able to get him out of her mind. She’d gone upstairs with his features etched in her mind, and there they had remained all night.
Shock.
That was what it must be. The shock of seeing him again and under such bizarre circumstances was rattling her clear-sightedness. Anyone would react the same way. Still, Maci knew that as long as Holt was in the picture, nothing would be the same.
“Mind if I join you?”
Maci nearly jumped as she swung around and saw Holt sauntering toward her. Of course, I mind, she screamed silently. If she had wanted to utter those words, she couldn’t have. His unexpected appearance this morning was almost as big a shock as seeing him last night.
He paused, a hand resting on the chair across from her. For a second, her gaze fell then lingered on the slender, tanned fingers, fingers that had touched her so intimately. A tiny earthquake struck the center of Maci’s being. “Would it make a difference if I said no?”
A brown eyebrow quirked as his hand seemed to tighten around the iron. “Are you saying that?”
“No, I mean—” Maci’s voice played out when she realized she sounded like an idiot or worse. Her stomach did a somersault. She wanted to react to that, but the urge not to let Holt know he unnerved her was stronger so she sat in stoic silence and stared at him as he yanked out a chair.
The scraping sound invaded the quiet. At least the noise would drown out the heart she could almost hear thumping in her chest.
Holt was dressed in much the same attire as last evening, with the exception of his choice of pants. Khaki Docker slacks had replaced the causal shorts that had displayed his tanned thighs and legs to perfection. The T-shirt was the same, only yellow instead of beige. Made of a clingy knit fabric, it wrapped around his broad shoulders, raised biceps and six-pack abs as if it had been glued on.
“Mmm, coffee smells good,” he said in his low, raspy voice, his gaze turning to an extra cup on the tray. Too bad Annie had added an extra cup.
No doubt, he was hinting for an invitation to join her and would probably help himself.
“What if I don’t want company?” Maci forced the words through her cotton-dry lips.
“You should’ve spoken sooner,” he said, the hard glint in his eyes pinned on her. She fought the urge to squirm like a bug under a microscope. But she didn’t. Again, she refused to let him know that he unnerved her.
“Fancy us meeting like this,” he said, his tone sarcastic. “I see it as one of those meant-to-be things.”
Before she could find a suitable comeback, he latched on to the empty cup and filled it with coffee.
Maci glared at him. For a second she felt like slapping his hand like an errant child. She’d be damned if she was going to let him stroll down memory lane. Their past was off-limits.
“Yes, fancy that.” She heard the defiant note in her tone as their eyes met.
The effect was galvanizing.
Maci sucked in her breath, and he cursed. Later, she didn’t know who turned away first. At the time she didn’t care. For her own self-preservation, she couldn’t have looked at him another second.
“So how did you and dear old dad hook up?”
His tone now tainted his smile.
She swung her head back around but refrained from looking directly at him. “That’s none of your business.”
His smile burgeoned into a grin. “You’re right, it isn’t.”
“Look, I know this…us is awkward, but—”
“I thought about trying to find you.”
Her heart skipped several beats and she tried to avert her gaze but found she couldn’t. “Holt—”
“Holt, what?” His tone thickened. “Don’t say what’s been on my mind for two years.”
“Stop it,” she muttered tersely, leaning closer as though fearing someone would hear their conversation. “I told myself I wouldn’t let you dredge up the past.”
“Too late, honey. The past has slam-dunked us both.”
“We can pretend it never happened.”
“Sure we can.”
She flushed and looked away.
Seconds passed.
“You’re right, this isn’t about us.”
She swung back to face him. “You’re right, it isn’t. It’s about your father.”
His features darkened.
“You despise him, don’t you?”
He snorted.
“I know you blame him for your mother’s death, but—”
“I don’t want to discuss my mother with anyone,” he interrupted harshly. “Least of all you.”
Her flush deepened, partly from anger and partly from embarrassment.
“This isn’t going to work, is it?” he asked, his voice weary.
“No, it isn’t,” Maci responded. “All the more reason for you to leave by the same door you came in.”
“And miss out on all the fun of watching you play out your role as the money-grubbing little bitch—”
Maci launched to her feet, her eyes firing. “How dare you say that to me?”
“I dare say anything I want.”
She ignored his rebuttal. “You don’t know anything about my and Seymour’s relationship.”
He shrugged. “You’re right, I don’t. But I know what I see.”
“And just what is that?” she lashed back, then regretted the question. But it was too late to take it back. How had this happened? She’d had no intention of entering into a verbal slinging match with him. Yet that was exactly what she was doing.
“A younger woman who married an older man for his money.”
“That’s not true!”
“Oh, really. Why else would you marry a man so much older than you—a good-looking woman like you? You could have any man you wanted.” Holt paused as if to let his words penetrate. “We both know you’re not frigid.”
“Enough!”
He merely shrugged.
“This isn’t going to work,” Maci said more to herself than to him.
“Are you telling me to leave?”
“What if I am?”
He rose. “Suits me. I’d much rather be on a boat sailing into the wild blue yonder, than defending my father.”
“Then tell Seymour you’re out of here.”
Holt laughed without humor. “Not on your life, sweetheart. If you want me gone, then you tell him.”
“You bastard. You know I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can,” Holt drawled, then paused as if to make a point. “If you’re prepared to answer questions as to why you want me to pack.”