She thought of Alec’s concern for her, and the appreciation she had seen in his eyes. Fake. Why should he feel such things for someone her age? No reason unless it was because he wanted something from her.
Laurel crossed her arms over her chest as she paced. She had almost believed him, almost let him get to her. She felt like such a stupid, sentimental fool.
He was gone, then. History. She would pay him for what he had done so far and send him on his way.
Yet that didn’t seem enough somehow. She wanted to pay him back for the ache of betrayal inside her, for making her feel things she didn’t want to feel, had never wanted to feel again.
Not that she was in love with him, or anything like that. How could she be? She hardly knew him.
But he had gotten to her. For him, she had taken a small step out of her protective isolation. She had almost been willing to risk a bigger one.
She was so angry. She could feel the rage simmering, circulating through her like a poison in her blood. How long had it been since she had felt that strongly about anything? She had almost forgotten what it was like. In a strange way, it felt good, as if she were really alive.
So much life inside her. Alec had said that. But he had been an old woman’s darling, a gigolo.
A gigolo. Was it really possible?
It must be, had to be. There was no other explanation.
She reached up to remove the elasticized cloth band that held her hair, dragging it free of the length and stuffing the band into her jeans pockets. She ran her fingers through the heavy strands as if that would help cool her temper. No, she wasn’t going to fire Alec Stanton. That wasn’t good enough. It wouldn’t help her feelings one iota.
It would be much better if she let him work like a dog, doing all the things Ivywild required, then gave him nothing in return except his hard-earned wages. Let him charm and cajole; it would get him nowhere. Let him waste his time, thinking he had another gasping, panting older woman ready to fall into his arms. Then, when he was done, she would smile politely and send him on his way.
Fall into his arms. God, but what a thought. Was that really what he wanted of her? Maybe she could lead him on, just a little, just enough to…
No. How stupid could she get?
Still, it would make him think he had won, wouldn’t it? When she got rid of him later, he might feel as used and as enraged as she felt now.
Could she do it? Did she dare?
Probably not, but it was a fascinating thought. Entirely too fascinating. That should tell her something, but she wasn’t sure just what.
As she passed through the dining room, she caught sight of her reflection in the tall windows beyond the heavy mahogany table and chairs. It had grown dark outside without her noticing, turning the window into a mirror. In it, she looked pale and wild with her hair flying around her. Maybe it was a good thing her mother-in-law had come while Alec was not there, after all. If he saw her like this, he would think she was crazy.
Yes, and maybe he would be right. Moving to the window, she put her hand on her reflection, staring into her own glittering eyes. Then she lowered her lashes and bent her neck to let her forehead rest against the cool glass.
She didn’t want to feel like this, caught once more in pain and guilt and, yes, despair. She had gotten over all that, had been comfortable, almost, in her numbness.
Of course, she had not felt a great deal before Howard died, either. Hers had been a jailbreak marriage right out of high school; she had needed to get away from home, where her mother drank and screamed at her and her father. The irony was that her parents had died in a car wreck just seven weeks after the wedding.
Howard. Her heart felt heavy as she thought of him. He had loved her with silent, dogged devotion, and she had been grateful. Affection and compassion had kept her with him. Sometimes she had wondered about the grand, death-defying passion she read about in books but didn’t think she was capable of feeling.
If she closed her eyes, she could remember the last quarrel with her husband. It had been no great thing, though it had seemed important at the time. Howard had wanted to buy his son a pickup truck, since his own father had bought him one when he was fifteen. He didn’t see anything wrong with letting Evan drive up and down the back roads before he had his license. But Laurel had known Evan wouldn’t be satisfied with that. He was immature, spoiled by his grandmother who always gave him anything he wanted. Evan would be speeding up and down the main highway before the truck was a week old. He would kill himself, or maybe someone else.
Instead it was Howard who had died. Laurel had killed him, then withdrawn into guilty solitude. The reason, she knew, was not because she had cared so much, but because she hadn’t cared enough.
She was so tired. Tears rose, burning like acid as they squeezed from her eyes. She didn’t try to stop them.
What the hell was going on?
Alec slammed the lid on a paint can and hammered it down as he asked himself that question for at least the thousandth time.
He had expected to start over with Laurel, using all sorts of strategies to get her back out of the house. It hadn’t been necessary. She had greeted him with a bright smile when he showed up again, given him a list of about a million things to do, and disappeared into a shed at the back of the house. Emerging now and then, she pointed out any errors he had made or problems he needed to solve, then went away again.
She didn’t eat her lunch with him on the veranda, but showed up there to check on his progress as if he might not get anything done if she didn’t keep after him. She was polite but firm—the lady of the house—but any special courtesy or consideration was gone. She gave orders and expected him to obey. She didn’t look at him at all.
Alec had never worked so hard in his life, but he couldn’t seem to please her, no matter how he tried. He was tired of it, so tired.
At least the house was nearly painted. He had one more wall to do, then he could clean the sprayer and take down the paper covering the windows. After that, he was going to have a talk with Mrs. Bancroft.
He found her in the shed. The building, standing back behind the garage, dated from the same time period, as it was built from identical lumber. Construction was probably in the late twenties or early thirties, when whichever set of Bancrofts that owned Ivywild at the time had bought their first Model T. Lined with small-paned windows on three sides, floored with unpainted pine boards, it was fairly large.
The front wall supported a woodworking bench that was cluttered with carpenter’s tools, which must have belonged to her husband. The back wall was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves crowded with bags and boxes of supplies. A big black ovenlike kiln occupied one corner. In the center was a potter’s wheel, over which Laurel was hovering with her hands deep in swirling clay.
As he appeared in the doorway, Sticks, lying beside her, lifted his massive head from his front legs and began to growl low in his throat. Alec stopped. It was the first time he had seen the dog in several days. Laurel must have been keeping him close again.
She looked up, staring at him as he lounged in the open doorway. Ordinarily, she called the dog off when he arrived. Sticks had learned to tolerate him as long as he was given an early-morning assurance that Alec was acceptable. This time Laurel didn’t open her mouth.
Sticks rose to his feet. With his ruff raised, he looked twice his normal size. He padded forward with his neck outstretched, snarling like a crosscut saw.
Alec held his ground. He had no particular fear of the dog, though he didn’t want to hurt him again while Laurel watched. Neither