Calder Storm (Calder Saga 10)

Nerves raw, Sloan raked her fingers through her hair and sat back down on the bed as an overwhelming weariness swept through her. It only seemed to increase the helpless, lonely feeling that tied her up in knots. She never he

ard the rattle of the receiver settling back on its cradle.

Then Trey stood in front of her, tight-lipped and hard-eyed. “What the hell was that all about?”

“I’ve been getting calls lately,” Sloan answered stiffly. “Nobody answers when I pick up.”

“Good God, Sloan,” he said in disgust. “It’s probably some telemarketer.”

“With laughter and music in the background? I doubt it.” Her voice was thick with scorn.

“Then I don’t know who the calls are from,” Trey declared, “But they aren’t from some woman, redhead or otherwise, wanting to talk to me. So get that idea out of your head.”

Sloan was unmoved by his denial. Men lied all the time about their extramarital affairs. But she didn’t have the energy to throw that reminder in his face, so she didn’t offer any response.

“Look.” Trey crouched in front of her, balancing himself on the balls of his feet. “You’re used to being more active. Lately you’ve had too much time on your hands, and it’s never good to sit and brood.” He attempted to sound reasonable, but his voice still had a hard edge to it. “I know the weather hasn’t cooperated, but it’s supposed to warm up for a few days. You need to get out, walk, get some exercise. It’ll be good for you and the baby.”

“Yes, it would,” Sloan agreed and edged farther onto the bed. “I think I’ll lie down and rest for a while. Will you turn out the light?”

“Sure.” He straightened when she stretched out flat on the bed and rested one arm across her forehead. “I’ll be in the other room, watching some television, if you need me.”

Sloan nodded in acknowledgement. Trey flipped off the light on his way out of bedroom and pulled the door partially closed behind him. For a long time Sloan stared at the darkened ceiling. Everything boiled down to his word and her suspicions.

One of them was right. But which one? That was the question that kept drumming through her mind. That one and one another—did she really want to know the answer?

To love, she had to trust. Without trust, how long could any love last? That was a question Sloan had never asked herself. But it was at the bottom of all the others.

Chapter Nineteen

Stars glittered in the Texas sky, but their brilliance was dimmed by the city lights of Fort Worth. In the exclusive River Crest district, strategically placed lights marked a sweeping driveway that led to one of the area’s many mansions.

There was just enough chill in the January air to provide the perfect excuse for the female occupants of the arriving limos to don their favorite furs. Fully aware of how dramatic she looked in ermine, Tara had chosen an ermine jacket.

One side slipped, baring a white shoulder when she moved to exit the limo’s rear door, then paused to address the chauffeur. “Remember—you are to be back here promptly in one hour. I won’t need to stay longer than that.”

Privately she thought an hour was too long, but to leave sooner would be an insult to the Holcombes, her misguided but well-intentioned and well-heeled hosts.

Accepting the assistance of the liveried attendant, Tara stepped from the limousine and continued straight to the front door. The murmur of many voices, intermixed with the tinkle of crystal, greeted her when she walked into its spacious foyer. But an underlying boredom was what Tara’s experienced ears heard instead of the electric buzz that a successful party generated.

Aware that her arrival might be observed, Tara surrendered her wrap to the waiting maid with an unhurried grace, then made her way to the richly appointed living room where the bulk of the guests were gathered. Good manners dictated that she seek out her host and hostess first, but she used the winding journey to discreetly survey the other guests. As she expected, most were from the B list. In all honesty, Tara knew she wouldn’t have attended the party herself if the charity it was to benefit hadn’t been one of her pet projects. At such times sacrifices had to be made.

After chatting up her host and hostess, Tara collected a glass of champagne and went about the task of mixing and mingling. Turning from the first group, she caught a movement in her side vision and turned that way. For a split second, she went still at the sight of the wheelchair-bound Max Rutledge. He almost managed to look distinguished, with his grizzled hair and full black-tie regalia.

Hesitating only briefly, Tara approached him. “Max Rutledge, you old rogue.” She bent and kissed the air near his cheek. “I don’t know why I’m surprised to see you here. Lately you’ve been keeping a very high profile—and an open wallet. It’s amazing what a little spreading of the green will do to improve one’s image, isn’t it?” she cooed in a voice that was all Texas honey.

But Max only smiled with a hearty broadness. “Ah, Tara, still the stunning Texas vixen. How good to see you. The Holcombes said that you planned to come, but I had my doubts.” He cast a jaundiced glance at the gathering, and murmured, “I think it’s been a night of disappointments for them.”

Tara couldn’t disagree. “Poor Margaret. I did try to warn her that at this time of year all the right people were either yachting in the Mediterranean or skiing in Switzerland. Next time she’ll listen.”

“I’m surprised you’re in town,” he remarked.

“Actually, I leave tomorrow for St. Moritz, before going on to Monte Carlo.”

“Good. That means you’ll be back in time for the blessed event.”

Tara released a short, amused breath. “What on earth are you talking about, Max?”

“Sloan’s baby is due somewhere around the end of February. Had you forgotten?” He tipped his head back, studying her with mild interest.