Sky climbed out of the pool, toweled himself dry, and began pulling on his clothes. It had been tough, rejecting Lauren like that. As she stood naked in the moonlight, her beauty had left him breathless. And then in the water she’d been so eager, so vulnerable—and his body had been more than ready for her. Taking her and doing what they’d both wanted would’ve been the most natural thing in the world.
But he’d forced himself to be noble—and he’d seen the glimmer of her tears. Hurting her had been like slapping a puppy.
It had to be done. Until Lauren figured out who she was, what she wanted, and how to deal with her father, she wouldn’t be ready for any kind of stable relationship.
Not that he’d ever been ready himself. When it came to getting a commitment from him, most of the women in his past had thrown up their hands and walked away. But Lauren wasn’t like most women. She was stunningly beautiful, scathingly honest, and smart enough to challenge him at every turn. He wanted to get to know her better—both in and out of bed.
But before that could happen, she had some serious growing up to do.
Cursing under his breath, he buckled his belt and yanked on his boots. She’d thank him later on. But right now Lauren probably hated him. For all he knew she was going to spit on that chocolate cake she’d promised him. But he’d just have to take his chances.
The kitchen light was on. Lauren was standing at the cluttered counter cutting generous wedges of chocolate layer cake. She was fully dressed, her damp hair twisted up and fastened with a silver clip.
“Sorry about the mess,” she said, as if nothing had happened between them. “Miguel’s a terrific cook, but he’s not the tidiest. Go on into the dining room and have a seat at the table. That’s where we serve our guests.”
Sky passed through the swinging door into the dining room, where a chandelier fashioned from deer antlers dangled above the long table—probably Ferg Prescott’s idea of good old Texas decor. The brown walls were hung with family photographs. Sky gave them a passing glance before he sat down at the head of the table, where Lauren had set two places. Sky was filling the glasses from a carton of milk when she came in with two saucers of cake. As she sat down and passed him his slice, she gave him a smile. Her eyes looked watery, as if she might have been crying. Sky felt like a jerk, but he couldn’t cave in now. His decision had been made with the best intentions. He had to believe he’d done the right thing.
“Good cake.” He washed down a bite with a swallow of milk.
“Thanks. I made it myself. From scratch.” Her expression was bland, totally believable.
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
“You’d be surprised. I’m a regular little domestic goddess. I even sewed the curtains for my bedroom. And I’m knitting Daddy a sweater for his birthday. I have lots of hidden talents.”
The deepening of a dimple gave her away. “Lauren—”
She dissolved into giggles. “Admit it! I had you going, didn’t I?”
“Only for the first few seconds.” Damn her, the woman was an adorable rascal. He had to restrain himself from grabbing her and kissing her silly. “Something tells me the most domestic thing you do is order takeout.”
Lauren took a dainty forkful of cake. “I’m a good decorator, given enough money. Take this ghastly dining room. I’ve sat here imagining what I’d do with it. That god-awful chandelier would go first. I’d keep the photos, because they’re family history, but I’d put them in matching black frames
, with pearl gray linen mats—” She broke off. “What is it, Sky? Is something the matter?”
Sky had barely heard what she was saying. He was staring at the large black-and-white group photo above the far end of the table. His throat had gone dry as ash.
“That woman in the Reagan picture.” He forced himself to speak in a conversational tone. “The tall, dark one on the far side, with the tray. She looks familiar. Do you know anything about her?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. I noticed her earlier and asked my father. He couldn’t even remember her name. He said she was the maid and that she’d left while he was away at school. That was all he could tell me. But isn’t she beautiful? A woman like that could be a supermodel or even a movie star.” Lauren glanced at Sky. “You say she looks familiar. Do you know her?”
“No. She looks Comanche. Maybe she’s some distant relative.” He had to lie. How could he tell Lauren the truth when he could barely process it himself?
His mother, Marie Joslyn Fletcher, had worked as a maid for Ferg Prescott’s family.
Sky had done his best to listen to Lauren’s small talk as she drove him home. Lauren was a classy lady. She was trying to put a good face on things, and he respected her for that. But it was hard to focus on what she was saying when his thoughts were milling like cattle on the verge of a stampede.
What had happened between Bull and his mother? Had Bull met her on a visit to the Prescott ranch? Had she come to him willingly or, heaven forbid, had he forced himself on her? Had they cared for each other at all?
Bull must have found out she was pregnant. How else would Jasper have known? And how else, when Sky had shown up sixteen years later, could Bull have been so sure that the boy was his son?
Jasper had offered to tell him everything. But did he really want to hear it? He hated the way his gut clenched when he thought about the things he’d already learned. What good would it do to know more?
Maybe someday he’d be ready to hear the whole story. But would Jasper be there to tell him, or would the old cowboy, Bull’s one steadfast friend, take the secrets to his grave?
Lauren had turned the car off the paved road, onto the long gravel drive that led up to the house. She’d put the top down on the Corvette and unpinned her long, coppery hair to let it blow in the moonlight. She was putting up a good front, but Sky knew the hurt was there.
“Where’d you get this car, anyway?” he asked, filling the silence. “I can’t imagine you bought it around here, and I know you didn’t drive it all the way from Maryland.”