A Willful Marriage. Peggy Moreland

       Three

      Brett rolled onto his back, stretching his hands to the headboard and his toes to the foot of the bed. With a growl and a shudder, he sank back against the pillow and reached for Gayla. His hands came up with only air. Opening one eye, he lifted his head and cut a glance to the other side of the bed and found it empty. Her absence both angered and saddened him.

      He dropped his head back onto the pillow and covered his face with his hands. You fool, you fool, you fool, he cursed himself inwardly, as he dragged his hands roughly down his face. What were you thinking!

      He tried to convince himself that she was as guilty as he, for he certainly hadn’t forced her—but he knew that was only half the truth. She couldn’t be held responsible for her actions. He’d taken advantage of her grief-stricken state. He’d played on her vulnerability, taken what she’d so innocently offered, and given her—What? he demanded of himself. What had he given her in return?

      Nothing, he told himself, but a momentary escape from her misery. And to add insult to injury, now he was about to strip her of her home.

      But he could give her one thing, he told himself as he levered himself from the bed. He would save her the embarrassment of having to face him in the light of day. He would take a quick shower, pack his bag and slip out before she knew he was gone. He could grab some breakfast at the diner he’d eaten at the day before, put in a call to his grandfather’s attorney, take care of the legalities of settling the estate, and get out of town.

      He strode to the window and pushed back the drapes. Sun glistened off the trees’ ice-covered branches, already melting away winter’s ravages of the night before. But he knew bad weather wouldn’t have stopped him from doing what he had to do. Nothing could.

      Gayla stood in the doorway to the room where Brett had slept, one hand braced against the doorjamb to keep herself from succumbing to the dizzying sensation that dragged at her. The bedcoverings hung crazily from one side of the bed. His duffel bag was gone, as were the clothes and boots she’d stepped over as she’d stolen from his room in the middle of the night. The bathroom door stood ajar, allowing scents of soap and a manly after-shave to mingle with the fragrance of the lavender potpourri she kept in a crystal bowl on the dresser.

      That he was gone was obvious.

      She’d suspected as much when he hadn’t responded to her call for breakfast, had even prayed he had left so that she wouldn’t have to face him after what had happened the night before. But the proof of his hasty departure saddened her in a way she couldn’t explain.

      She entered the room slowly, stooping to pick up a damp towel from the floor. She drew it to her face, inhaling the scent of him as she crossed to the bed. Tears of regret burned her eyes as she accepted the fact that he was gone and she would never see him again. In leaving, he took with him any hope that Gayla might secretly have harbored for a second taste of their passion.

      Her fingertips trailed the high, polished footboard, remembering the comfort, the passion she’d experienced in his arms, knowing that in the lonely nights to come, she would resurrect that memory and draw comfort from it again.

      With a sigh, she scooped up the bedspread and tangle of blankets and tossed them back across the bed. A flutter of paper on the pillow caught her eye and she froze as she stared at the crisp bills that settled in the dent on the pillow left by Brett’s head. Two one-hundred-dollar bills. More than twice the price she’d named for the room. Humiliation seared her cheeks and burned through her chest as she realized he’d left the money for more than the cost of his lodging.

      He was paying for services rendered by the innkeeper of Parker House.

      Brett dropped a quarter in the slot and dialed the number he’d scrawled on the back of a business card. “I need to speak with John Thomas, please,” he told the receptionist who answered the phone.

      “May I ask who’s calling?”

      “Brett Sinclair.”

      “Just a moment, please.”

      He didn’t have to wait long before a man’s voice came across the line.

      “John Thomas. May I help you?”

      “I hope so. My name’s Brett Sinclair. I’m Christine Parker Sinclair’s son.”

      There was a pregnant pause, then the lawyer said dryly, “I had hoped to hear from Christine, herself.”

      Brett could hear the censure in the man’s voice, and fought down the anger it spawned. “I’m calling on her behalf.”

      “She couldn’t trouble herself to make the call personally?”

      “Christine Sinclair died six months ago,” Brett replied impatiently. “As her son and only living heir, I’m the executor of her estate.”

      “I see.” There was another pause. “So that would make you sole heir to your grandfather’s property, as well?”