The Ashtons: Walker, Ford & Mercedes

“What’s not to understand? It’ll be a joint account. I’ll make a deposit every month, and you and Mary can use it for whatever you need.”

“You’re volunteering to support us?”

“Not completely, not unless you want to quit your jobs. But I don’t see that happening. You’re both so dedicated to what you do.”

“Then why are you doing this?” She sucked in a much-needed breath, wondering how he could sit there—so damn casually—and offer her money. “Is it because you slept with me?”

A sudden flare of anger burst into his eyes, like fire. Like brimstone. Like a man who was used to controlling other people’s lives. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? That I’m trying to turn you into my mistress?”

“That’s how it seems,” she said, refusing to be intimidated by his temper, the all-consuming power that could drain a woman dry. The muscle ticking in his jaw. The hard, ready-to-explode, king-of-the-universe breathing.

He stood and pushed away his chair, nearly shoving it against the file cabinet. “I was just trying to help. To make life easier for my mom.” He paused, drilled his gaze into hers. “And for you, too. But I don’t keep mistresses. I don’t reward my lovers for sleeping with me.”

She didn’t say anything, so he leaned forward, bracing his hands on her desk. “I can’t believe you think so little of me. Don’t you get it, Tamra? Don’t you see why this matters to me?”

“No, I don’t. Mary and I can take care of ourselves.”

“I know. But my mom’s car looks like it’s on its last leg and you’re lending money to friends, cash you can barely spare. I don’t want to go home and worry about you.”

She sighed, wishing she hadn’t provoked an argument. Walker was confused, she thought. And he was comparing his life to hers. “You don’t have to feel guilty for being rich.”

“Easy for you to say, Miss Do-Gooder.”

She rolled her eyes, trying to ease the tension, to make him stop scowling. It was the best she could do. Other than fall prey to his machismo and touch him. Kiss him. Tug his stubborn mouth to hers. “Listen to you, Mr. Write-a-Check.”

He smiled in spite of himself. Grateful, she flicked a paper clip at him. He grabbed the worse-for-wear chair and parked his butt down again.

“You should see my office at Ashton-Lattimer,” he said. “And my condo. Not to mention the apartment I have on my family’s estate in Napa Valley. It’s inside the mansion, on the second floor with a spectacular view.”

She couldn’t even fathom his lifestyle. Edward had been wealthy, but not compared to the Ashtons. “Those are the kinds of things Mary wanted you to have.”

“Will you talk to her about the account?” he pressed.

“No, but you can. If you want to help your mom and she’s willing to accept your offer, then it’s okay with me. But I don’t want to be part of it.”

“Because you’re not comfortable taking money from me?”

“Edward used to give me gifts. He used to buy me trinkets.”

“That jerk who hurt you? It’s not the same thing.”

“When it ended, when he broke up with me, I felt cheap.” And for her, it had been the worst feeling in the world. “I don’t want to go through that again. Not ever.”

“Don’t compare me to him. We’re nothing alike.”

She almost reached across the desk to hold his hand, but she curled her fingers, keeping her distance, recalling the ache that came with being in love. She couldn’t bear to fall for Walker, not like that.

“Will you at least accept a check for your charity?” he asked.

She looked into his eyes and saw the sincerity in them. And then she realized how foolish she was, refusing to hold his hand, to touch him. She knew they were going to sleep together again. Sex was inevitable. “You already wrote one, didn’t you?”

“Yep.” He removed it from his pocket and handed it to her.

She glanced at the denomination. “That’s a generous donation.” And sex wasn’t love, she told herself. There was nothing wrong with continuing their affair.

“It’s tax deductible.” He picked up the paper clip she’d tossed at him. Toying with the metal, he altered the shape, bending it back and forth. “Besides, it’s for a worthy cause. I know the Oyate Project will put it to good use.”

“Thank you.” She wrote him a receipt, and when she gave it to him, their eyes met and held.

An intimate look. A deep, heart-thundering stare.

“Will you come home with me, Tamra?”

“Home?”

“To Napa Valley. To the estate.”

Panic, instant anxiety, leaped to her throat. His family’s mansion? The winery? The place where he grew up? She shifted her gaze, breaking eye contact, dragging air into her lungs. “What for?”

“Because I want to take you and Mary there. It would be the perfect place for my mom to meet Charlotte. And you and I could spend some time together.”

“What about the rest of your family? Spencer’s wife? Your cousins?” When she and Mary lived in Northern California, they used to scan the society pages for tidbits about the Ashtons, and they’d come across their names quite a few times. “They might not like us staying there.”

“Spencer is dead, and he’s the only one who would have forbidden it. The others won’t interfere.”

“That’s not the same as welcoming us.”

“Fine. Whatever. If I tell them to welcome you, then they will.”

His bulldozing did little to ease her mind. “I’m not sure if I can get the time off.”

“I’m only asking for a week. Seven measly days. You don’t take vacations?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

Tamra fidgeted with the paper clip he’d bent. What could she say? That she was nervous about being thrust into his world? That she didn’t belong there?

“I’m sure Mary would be more comfortable if you came with us,” he said. “And so would I.”

“Would this include a trip to San Francisco?” she asked.

“Definitely. It’s only fifty miles from the estate. And it’s where I live most of the time, where I work.”

“How often do you commute to Napa Valley?”

“On the weekends mostly. But I’ve been spending more time at the estate since Spencer was killed. I can’t help but miss him.”

She glanced out the window, felt the cloud of death that floated between them. “I’d like to visit Jade.” To kneel at her baby’s grave site, to whisper to her little girl.

“We can visit her together. We can take her the flowers I promised.” He released a rough breath. “We can do other things, too. Just the two of us. But we’ll have to tell my mom what’s going on. We can’t keep sneaking around.”

“I already told her.”

“That we’re lovers?” He sat back in his chair, frowned a little, pulled his hand through his hair. “How’d she take it?”

“She said we needed to be careful. That this is all so new.”

“But it won’t be.” His gaze sought hers, holding her captive. “Not after we get to know each other better.”

“Then I’ll go with you. I’ll arrange to take some time off.” To be with him, to meet his high-society family, to discover who Walker Ashton really was.

Walker sat on the steps of his mother’s porch. Tamra was still at work, and Mary was inside, puttering around the kitchen, doing whatever domestic things women did. She’d returned from her job about an hour ago, giving him the opportunity to talk to her, much in the way he’d spoken with Tamra earlier. And just like her non-Hunka daughter, she’d left him with mixed emotions.

Good and bad, he supposed.

“You’re not brooding, are you?”

“What? No.” He turned to look at Mary, who’d come outside with a glass of lemonade in her hand.

She handed him the drink. “Then you must be deep in thought.”

“Maybe. I don’t know.” He took a sip and noticed that she’d added just the right amount of sugar.

“Are you upset about the checking account?”

“That both you and Tamra turned me down? Yeah, it bugs me. I’m trying to do the right thing, and no one will let me.”

She sat beside him. “The thirty thousand Spencer gave me was enough. I don’t want to take money from my own son, too.”

He squinted at her, trying to shield his eyes from the late-day sun. “I thought Indian families were supposed to help each other. I thought that was the message around here.”

“It is. But I’m not poor anymore. I’m not struggling to pay my bills.” She smoothed her blouse, a polyester top she’d probably bought at a discount store. “I was ashamed of my house when you first got here, but it was wrong for me to feel that way. It’s nicer than what most people have around here.”

In Walker’s eyes she was still poor. Not destitute, like the out-of-work population on the rez, but a two-bedroom mobile home and a tired old Buick certainly didn’t make her rich. “At least you and Tamra agreed to go to California with me. I’m glad about that.”

“So am I. I can’t wait to see Charlotte.”

“She’s anxious to see you, too.” A rabbit darted by, scurrying into the brush. He watched it disappear, feeling like a kid who’d missed out on his childhood, a boy who’d grown up too fast. “I wish you’d reconsider about the money.”

“Goodness gracious. You’re just like your father.”

“Stubborn?” he asked.

“Pigheaded,” she replied.

He snorted like a swine and made her laugh. He knew they were still trying to get used to each other, to have stress-free conversations. “Did my dad have a temper, too?”

“Not as bad as yours.”

“Gee, thanks.” He bumped her shoulder, and she smiled. He wondered if his father was watching them, if angels existed. Walker couldn’t remember his dad, at least not to any degree. But he couldn’t remember his mom, either, and she was sitting right next to him.

She sighed, her voice turning soft. “I loved David so much.”

Suddenly he didn’t know what to say. He’d never been in love. He’d never given his heart to anyone. A bit lost, he stared at the grass, at the coarse, wild groundcover.

“Do you know how I met him?” she asked.

“No. How?”

“I was hitchhiking, and he picked me up. It was my second day on the road, and I wasn’t getting very many rides.”

“Is that the first time you left the rez?”

She nodded. “I was twenty-three years old, determined to get away from this place and never come back.”

“Where were you headed?”

“Omaha. I figured it was big enough to find a job and start my life over.”

“Did my dad offer to drive you there?”

“No. He offered to take me as far as Kendall, the town where he lived.” Her tone turned wistful. “You should have seen me when I climbed into his truck. Talk about nervous. He was so handsome, so tall and strong, with the greenest eyes imaginable.”

Curious, Walker studied her, noticed how girlish she seemed—a woman reminiscing about the man she loved. “I guess you never made it to Omaha, considering Charlotte and I were born in Kendall.”

“David offered me a job. He said he was looking for a housekeeper, someone to cook and clean for him and his farmhands. But later I discovered that he just wanted to keep me around.”

Walker couldn’t help but smile. His old man must have been quite the charmer. “Crafty guy.”

“And proud and kind. Everything I could have hoped for. I don’t think I’ll ever stop missing him.”

He glanced away, then frowned, his memories as tangled as the weeds spreading across the plains. “What happened on the day he died?”

“Your father had a heart attack behind the wheel. I was with him, riding in the passenger seat. We were on our way home from the mortgage company, trying to get them to discount the loan, but it was too late. They refused to work with us, to help us save the farm.”

“Did you try to take the wheel?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t. Everything happened so fast. We hit a tree. Between the heart attack and the accident, David didn’t stand a chance.”

“Charlotte and I were at a neighbor’s house. An elderly woman.” He remembered a gray-haired lady, but he couldn’t recall his own parents.

Mary blinked back tears. “She was a widow who used to baby-sit now and then. That’s where you stayed until Spencer came and got you.”

“What did my uncle tell her?”

“That he was going to care for my children until I was well enough to take you to the reservation. She had no reason to question his motives.”

As silence stretched between them, he placed his lemonade on the step. The glass had been sweating in his hand, making his palms damp. He wanted to comfort Mary, to abolish her pain, as well as his own. But he didn’t know how. He was still struggling to bond with her, to behave like her long-lost son.

“I should get started on dinner.” She stood and dusted off of her pants, looking old and tired.

He got to his feet, envisioning her when she was young, like the pictures he’d seen in her photo albums. “How do you say mother in Lakota?”

“Iná,” she told him.

“Iná,” he repeated.

Her breath hitched, causing a lump to form in his throat. “I’ll help you with dinner,” he said, even though he was a lousy cook.

She touched his cheek, her hand warm against his skin. They gazed at each other, but they didn’t embrace. Before things got too awkward, she led him into the kitchen, where she taught him how to make Indian tacos.

Walker was out of his element, but he did the best he could, trying to please his mother. By the time Tamra arrived on the scene, he was knee-deep in fried dough, lettuce, tomatoes and a pan of ground beef.

Tamra pitched in, and the three of them prepared the evening meal. But soon, he thought, they would be in Napa Valley. On the estate. The mansion where he was raised.

The place Walker called home.

Seven

The weather in Northern California was perfect, a warm summer day bursting with color. The wine country, with its fertile land and prospering grapes, was surrounded by mountain ranges that rose to the sky.

Tamra sat next to Walker in his car, a silver Jaguar he’d retrieved from a long-term parking lot at the airport. Mary settled in the backseat, but she’d been relatively quiet since they’d arrived in Napa Valley.

Walker stopped at a gate at the entrance of the estate, pressing a keypad with a security code. As they continued, moving closer to their final destination, Tamra drew a shaky breath.

The mansion itself, an enormous cream-colored structure accented with marble, presided from a hill overlooking the vineyards below. A large circular drive boasted an elegant reflecting pool. The water shimmered in the sun, catching the light like magic.

“Oh, my,” Mary said, a statement that seemed to convey exactly what Tamra was thinking.

Oh, my.

“The humble abode,” Walker joked, pulling into the driveway with ease.

He was glad to be home, Tamra thought. To the familiarity of his youth. But his comfort zone only made her more nervous.

To her, the estate seemed like a rich-and-powerful fortress. It had Spencer Ashton written all over it. The dead man still reigned.

“Long live the king,” she mumbled.

Walker shot her a quick glance. “What?”

“It looks like a castle,” she amended.

He shrugged and killed the engine of his sixty-thousand-dollar car. They climbed out of the Jag, and he gestured to the trunk, where he’d already popped open the lid. “Don’t worry about our luggage. Someone will take care of it soon enough.”

Someone? The hired help? “You’re spoiled,” Tamra said.

He frowned at her. “I don’t have servants in San Francisco. I prefer my privacy. But things are different here.”

She held her tongue, and he opened the door to an expansive foyer. A magnificent library was on the left and a lavish dining room on the right. A double staircase, leading to each wing of the house, made a sweeping impression. Walker escorted her and Mary into a majestic room he called the grand parlor.

Grand indeed: creamy fabrics and ornate antiques, a terrace that presented a breathtaking view of a flourishing garden and the vineyards below.

Tamra didn’t want to sit, although Walker offered her and his mother a seat. The furniture, she noticed, was polished to perfection. Tables gleamed and mirrors reflected every carefully decorated angle. There wasn’t a thread out of place. Even the tassels on pillows displayed themselves in a don’t-touch-us manner.

A woman wearing a black uniform draped with a white apron entered the parlor. She looked about Mary’s age, her long dark-brown hair pinned up.

“Mr. Walker,” she said, her tone soft and respectful. “It’s good to have you home. And with your new family.”

“Irena.” He greeted her in a detached voice. But even so, he introduced her to Tamra and Mary, letting them know she was the head housekeeper.

If his attitude hurt Irena’s feelings, she didn’t let it show. Her blue eyes sparkled, especially when she spoke to Mary. Tamra liked her immediately, which made Walker’s disposition even more baffling.

Had the housekeeper done something to displease him? Or did he treat all of the employees with mild disdain?

Tamra shifted in her seat. Was it a learned response he’d picked up from Spencer?

“Miss Charlotte and Mr. Alexandre left a message for you,” Irena informed him. “Their flight was delayed. They won’t be arriving until tomorrow morning.”

He frowned. “That’s fine. Is Lilah here?”

“Yes, Mr. Walker. She’ll be with you shortly.”

“Thank you. Will you send in some refreshments?”

“Yes, of course. I’d be glad to.” She excused herself and gave Walker’s mother a gentle smile on her way out the door.

Mary seemed disappointed about Charlotte’s delay, but Irena’s kindness had prompted her to relax, helping Tamra relax, too.

Five minutes later, when Lilah Spencer breezed into the parlor, their discomfort returned.

The lady of the manor, a reed-thin redhead, approached Walker with a Hollywood-style kiss, brushing her lips past his cheek. Impeccably dressed, she donned a cream-colored suit that matched the decor. Her makeup was flawless, her skin unnaturally taut.

Botox injections? Tamra wondered.

“I see the Indian people are here,” Lilah said.

“Mind your manners,” Walker told her, scolding his forty-nine-year-old aunt as if she was a child.

“Was that politically incorrect?” She divided her gaze between Tamra and Mary. “Would you prefer Native American?”

So much for the welcome Walker had promised, Tamra thought. “Indian is fine.”

“Well, then. See?” Lilah smoothed her lapel, where a simple gold broach had the audacity to shine, to look as chic as the woman wearing it. “No harm done.”

Walker introduced his mother first, and Mary was gracious enough to extend her hand. Lilah extended hers, too, and Tamra wondered if Spencer’s widow was mimicking what she saw, like a Stepford wife who kept switching gears, not quite sure how to treat Mary—the Indian her dead husband had wronged.

Irena arrived with a silver tray bearing iced tea, fresh mint, lemon wedges and sugar. Another maid carried a platter of finger sandwiches and a delicate assortment of fine china.

Lilah made a face at the tea, as though she craved something stronger. The head housekeeper offered the first glass to Mary, who accepted it gratefully. After the drinks were distributed and the sandwiches left in a buffet-style setting, the hired help disappeared.

“Now, then.” Lilah sat in a Victorian settee and crossed her legs, her posture as graceful as an aging fashion model. “We need to decide what rooms Mary and Tamra should occupy.”

Walker made the decision in two seconds flat. “My mother can take Charlotte’s old room, and Tamra can stay in my apartment.”

“Your apartment?” Lilah arched her lightly penciled bows.

“That’s right,” he countered, daring her to challenge him.

She didn’t. She backed down easily, but not without a socially acceptable response. “His apartment is in the west wing,” she announced to no one in particular. “And it has two bedrooms.”

Walker gazed at Tamra from the across the room, and her heart bumped her chest. Fat chance that she would be sleeping in the second bedroom. She and Walker hadn’t made love since that night on the plains. They’d decided to wait rather than take liberties at Mary’s house. Of course, Walker was going full throttle now, demanding Tamra’s attention.

“Will you and your guests be joining us for dinner?” Lilah asked her nephew.

“Yes, we will.”

“Then I’ll see to the menu.” She stood, tall and slim and regal. “If you’re weary from your flight, don’t hesitate to retire to your room,” she said to Mary. “I understand how taxing jet lag can be.” She turned to Tamra. “You, too.” Then to Walker, “I trust you’ll show them to their quarters.”

“Absolutely.”

“I’ll make sure the luggage is taken right up,” Lilah concluded. She bade everyone a courtly farewell and left the parlor to tend to her duties.

A queen who was lost without her king.

Walker’s apartment was as exceptional as the rest of the mansion, although the decor was quite a bit bolder, with more use of color. It contained a stylish living room, two bedrooms, two bathrooms and a comfortably equipped kitchen. The paintings on the walls exhibited desire, rage, even sadness. They were, Tamra thought, a reflection of Walker’s personality.

Their luggage had arrived in no time, and she decided to unpack while Walker sat on the edge of his bed and watched her.

“Is there an another apartment on the other side of us?” she asked.

He nodded. “It belongs to my cousin Trace. He got the balcony.”

She looked up, shook her head. “God forbid he should get something you don’t have.”

Walker rolled his eyes. “Trace irks me.”

She reached for a hanger. “Really? How so?”

“He just does. We’ve always been at odds with each other.”

Masculine rivalry? she wondered. Or did it go deeper than that? “Have you ever tried to work things out with him? Talk about your differences?”

He barked out a cynical laugh. “Yeah, right. He’s impossible to communicate with.”

“What does he do?”

“He manages the Ashton Estate Winery.”

“How come you didn’t get into that business?”

“Because Spencer wanted me to work with him at Ashton-Lattimer Corporation. The investment banking firm.” He removed his shoes and socks and tossed them on the floor. Today he wore a charcoal suit that darkened the color of his eyes.

“Trace is Spencer’s son, right?”

“Yep. His only son with Lilah.”

“How many daughters do they have?”

“Two. Paige and Megan. Paige still lives here, and Meagan is married now.” He took off his jacket. “Can we quit yapping about my family and get cozy?” He roamed his gaze over her, lowered his voice. “I’ve missed you.”

Tamra’s skin turned warm, but she refused to give in so easily. “You’ve missed touching me. That’s not the same as missing someone. And I’m not through asking questions.”

He made a goofy expression, then pretended to hang himself with his tie. She bit her lip to keep from laughing. “That’s not going to charm me into bed,” she told him, even though she wanted to tackle him, to kiss him, to let his sexual frustration consume her.

“Then hurry up and finish this interview. I’ve got a woman to seduce.”

“Fair enough.” She hung her best dress, black cotton with satin trim, in his closet. “What’s the deal with Irena?”

“She’s the head housekeeper. I already told you that.”

“Why were you so rude to her?”

“I wasn’t rude.”

“The hell you weren’t.”

“Okay. Fine. Irena is a traitor. She’s been with us since I was a kid and she let her daughter—who also used to work here, I might add—get engaged to the enemy.”

“The enemy?” The Ashton Estate was beginning to sound like the setting for a soap opera. Days of Our Disgruntled Lives. “Who on earth are you talking about?”