The ultrarich were a monotonous lot, but they sure knew how to throw a party.
Mitchell Granger reached for another glass of champagne, feeling as if his face was about to crack, reminding himself that he was glad he wasn’t like them. They were pretentious. Predictable. Profoundly shallow. He wasn’t like them. Not at all.
Still, he hated feeling like an outsider. He was amazed that Della Fontaine hadn’t noticed his discomfort, but then she’d been too busy leading him around by the nose, showing him off to her crowd of bejewelled and coiffed cronies. Plus, she assumed he wanted to be there, and people generally saw what they expected to see. Thank God she was thirty years older than he was.
Not that the age difference would bother her, Mitch thought with a shudder.
He glanced around the room. He should be mingling— that’s what he was there for. But he’d never heard such inane conversation, such a waste of breath. If he heard one more exchange of “You look fabulous!” he might rip off his tux and hurl his drink at the oversize canvas wall-hanging people had repeatedly informed him was “an original.”
An original what? It looked like someone threw up against the wall.
“So?” Della asked, jolting him out of his daydream. “You enjoying my little shindig?”
Della was from Detroit, Michigan, but her latest late husband had made his fortune in Texas oil, and she grabbed every opportunity to “sling a little West,” as she called it. Her teeth-jarring and inconsistent accent was at complete odds with the cool, sleek mansion Mitch had built for her, but then, Mitch couldn’t imagine the home that would suit her.
“Great,” Mitch said. “Great shindig.”
Della patted his cheek, her chins jiggling with the movement. “Liar! You hate this sort of thing. Bowing and scraping before people with more money than brains. Right now I imagine you’re trying to come up with an excuse to leave.”
Mitch looked away, willing his face not to react.
“Well, you can’t go just yet,” she said, a mischievous expression on her troll face. “I’ve got a surprise for you later.”
He didn’t think it was possible to get more depressed.
“Oh, don’t worry, handsome. It’s a good surprise. You’ll love it.”
“Really.” Because their tastes were so aligned? He forced himself to smile.
“I’m going to make all your dreams come true.” She waited for his reaction, but he’d gone still, afraid to hope. “Aren’t you going to ask for details? Oh, hell! I’ve got a few more cheeks to not kiss. I don’t even know why I invited half these people, but too late now.”
His heart was beating so hard he could barely swallow.
“Don’t worry, this crowd is used to hearing me say what I think. They can’t afford to risk offending me and I confess, it’s amusing as hell!”
He winced at her cackle, but the guests around her were carefully, deliberately oblivious. He tried to remember a single name, but between personal trainers, tanning beds, cosmetics and surgeons, one artfully beautiful matron was more or less interchangeable with the next. The men were hardly better; every hand he’d shaken tonight had been soft as a baby’s. No calluses here.
That’s what made Della Fontaine so fascinating in a must-stare-at-the-car-wreck sort of way. She didn’t bother competing or pretending. She was an anomaly in this group, the richest of the rich, impervious to public opinion, able to speak and act and look and live exactly as she pleased, appropriate or not. Jabba the Hutt of Mercer Island.
And the thing about it was, if Della Fontaine decided to wear a tutu, tiny frothy skirts would suddenly be all the rage.
But she was canny enough to know that if she weren’t wallowing in wealth, she’d be cut out of their circle so fast it’d send her tacky twenty-four-karat-gold tiara spinning. They didn’t like her, but they couldn’t afford to let it show.
Mitch would do anything for that kind of freedom. Well, he amended, remembering Della’s predatory eye, almost anything.
“Welcome, darling,” Della murmured again, leaning her powdered cheek toward that of yet another sorority sister. “It’s been too long.”
“You must tell me your secret, Della,” said whoever she was. “You look fabulous.”
And that did it. A crazed laugh rose in Mitch’s throat, where it collided with a mouthful of champagne, sending it down the wrong pipe.
“Oh dear, Mitchell,” Della said. She looked alarmed, but that might have just been the way she’d drawn on her eyebrows. She gave him a linen napkin. “Are you all right?”
He waved his hand and nodded, pointing to the vestibule.
“Of course, of course.” She shooed him away. Della wouldn’t want her pet to make a mess on the carpet, after all. Mitch stumbled, coughing, through the vast and vaulted rooms until he came to the veranda overlooking Lake Washington. He leaned against the wide, curved stone wall and, his throat ready to function again, sucked in the sweet night air drifting in off the water.
Gradually, as he watched the stars come out and listened to the susurrations of waves, Mitch felt himself settle. He’d go back to Della’s party, smile until his cheeks hurt, flirt as much as his stomach could handle, and finally, once he’d jumped through all her hoops, Della would reward him with the contract that would make Granger-Ellis the foremost property development company in the Pacific Northwest. His partner, Jon Ellis, was counting on him to land this deal.
Creating Della’s to-be-determined destination resort would make Mitchell Granger—persona non grata in his hometown of Lutherton, Montana—the talk of the industry. They’d write about him in business magazines. Invitations to parties like this would flood in, and he’d be able to ignore them if he wanted. He’d have his pick of clients.
So for all that, he could handle a bit more of Della Fontaine, he assured himself. Reluctantly, he braced himself to reenter the phony cacophony.
“There’s my boy!” Della called. She trundled to his side, reaching one beringed hand out to grasp his sleeve. “Mitchell! Come with me. I have someone I want you to meet!”
Mitch pasted a smile on his face and prepared for another hungry female.
Instead, he found himself looking down at a sweet-faced, golden-haired girl who looked as if she felt as under attack as he did. Her pupils were so wide, her blue eyes looked almost black, and her tremulous smile did not reach them. She looked twenty, maybe twenty-two.
“My stepdaughter, Paris.” Della gave the girl a little shove. Paris stumbled against him as she took his hand.
“I’m so sorry—”
“Nice to meet—”
She blushed as she apologized, then swallowed, a blue vein pulsing visibly in her slender throat. This child was a baby bunny in the nest of a velociraptor.
“Isn’t she lovely?” Della crowed, as if the girl wasn’t there. “I think the two of you will hit it off. And why not? She’s single, you’re single. You’ll thank me for this, Mitchell.”
In the space of a second, three truths snapped into focus for Mitch. First, Della, stepmother and guardian of this shy young woman, intended for him to take Paris off her hands. Second, lovely as she was, Paris held zero appeal for him. None of these society women did and never would. And third, rejecting Della’s stepdaughter would be career suicide.
After that, Mitch’s brain clicked into autopilot, pure survival mode. He had no other explanation for his response. “Paris,” he said, lifting her hand to his lips. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“Me, too.” The girl blushed again and shot an anxious look at Della.
“I’ve no doubt we will be friends,” Mitch continued, then added a wistful smile for effect. “But I’m afraid anything more might be a problem for my fiancée.”
…
The Birth on Earth Maternal Health Care Clinic of Lutherton, Montana, needed thicker walls, Sabrina Becker thought as she listened to the groans of the young woman in front of her. It was one thing to embrace natural childbirth in all its vivid reality; it was another to have the soundtrack playing on full volume for the wide-eyed prospective parents in the next room.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the young father’s eyes roll back in his head.
She leaped to his side just in time to keep him from breaking his skull when he fell. “Oh no, you don’t!” As it was, he’d have a goose egg to commemorate the birth of his first child. Well, she had no time to worry about him.
“Come on, Daddy, buck up. Mama needs you.” Sabrina eased him into a sitting position on the floor, against the wall of the birthing room. “Press your forehead to your knees.”
“I…I’m okay,” he mumbled.
“Of course you are.” Sabrina gripped his chin gently, assessing his pallor and unfocused gaze, then pushed his face down again. “Stay here for a sec, okay? I’m kind of occupied at the moment.”
Another cry from the mat on the floor. “I think my water just broke!”
Sabrina grabbed a towel. “Almost there now. You’re doing fine, Jenny!”
She could remember the mom’s name. But the dad’s? Gone like self-control at an ice-cream bar.
Focus, Sabrina! You can sleep later!
Her assistant, Daphne, was wrapping up the prenatal class and then she could look after Dad. Until the next call, at least. Sabrina was thrilled that word of mouth was making her center the place to go for uncomplicated natural childbirth care. But she’d been up for two nights running now. She needed a nap. She needed more staff. And she needed more space.
She needed a fairy godmother.
The about-to-be-new-dad groaned from the floor. “Did I…pass out?”
“Swooned like a medieval maid,” Sabrina said. Surely he could manage to sit upright while his wife pushed out their child. “Come on, Daddy, coffee break’s over. Hold her hand. Talk to her. Hey! Look at me! Can you handle it?”
He nodded, and then rolled onto his knees next to his wife.
“Oh God, I can’t do this!” the mother-to-be cried. “Make it stop, Sabrina, make it stop!”
Transition, she thought. “Almost there now, honey. Breathe!”
The baby’s presentation was putting pressure on the mother’s sciatic nerve, and the only way she could get relief was to labor on all fours, on a yoga mat. Fortunately, Sabrina was set up for every possibility. If women wanted a water birth, she had a tub. If they wanted to labor in a Jacuzzi, they could. She had a birthing ball, an open-seated chair, a pole. She had music, candles, and massage oil. She had sterile instruments, monitoring equipment, and adjustable beds.
But only two birthing rooms.
What she needed was more…of everything.
The man’s eyes started spiraling again.
“Daphne!” Sabrina yelled. “Dad’s losing it here.”
Brad! That was his name.
“Jenny wants Brad to cut the cord,” she said as Daphne jogged into the room. “If he passed out at this, he ain’t gonna like what’s coming.”
Every midwife in the history of the universe knew that in the ultimate deciding match in the battle of the sexes, the hands that rocked the cradle really did rule the world.
Jenny moaned, moving back and forth slightly on her knees. Sabrina checked her again—almost time now. The woman had been laboring since the previous evening and they were all exhausted.
“You’re fully dilated, honey. You’ll feel the urge to push any time.”
With that came the next contraction and a roaring grunt from the floor.
“What are you doing to her?” Brad stood up, then wavered, all the color leaching from his face as he watched his wife bearing down.
“Down, boy,” Daphne said, pushing him back onto his knees. “Stay.”
No matter how many classes they went through on labor and birth, Sabrina thought as she slipped her gloved hands between the woman’s thighs, they were still shocked by the reality.
The baby’s head emerged, a thatch of black hair, followed by a tiny, scrunched-up face.
The sight, as always, gave Sabrina a jolt of joy so pure and crisp that she felt her throat catch. Birth was primitive, earthy—but it remained the single most awe-inspiring experience of her life, no matter how many she attended. It also remained the greatest desire of her heart.
And her greatest fear.
Her one short-lived pregnancy had ended in sorrow she’d had to bear completely alone, thanks to the jerk who’d abandoned her. Didn’t matter what extenuating circumstances he might claim: Mitchell Granger had left her when she’d needed him most. And if she ever got the chance—
“Aaah…,” Jenny moaned. “It’s coming! It’s coming!”
“Dad! Hey!” Sabrina barked, gesturing with her chin. “Look alive! You’re going to be the first face your child sees.”
“I…am?” he said, looking at her in alarm.
“You are,” she confirmed. “But not if you’re out cold.”
“Is…everything…okay?” the woman gasped.
The next wave hit and she bore down again with a great cry. “Everything is just fine.”
Sabrina slipped her finger into the infant’s mouth, sweeping it free of mucus. She cradled the slippery head with a sterile huck towel, easing out one shoulder, then the other.
“Say hello to Daddy, little one!”
“Oh…my God…,” the father murmured.
But to Sabrina’s relief, he’d finally snapped to attention.
“Here we come, baby love,” she crooned as the mother gave one last great push. The rest of the child slid out into the warm towel, still attached with the purple twisted cord. “Welcome to the world, sweetheart!”
Jenny, shaking with fatigue, collapsed onto the mat. “Is everything okay?”
“Baby is just great, Mom.” Sabrina quickly checked the infant, swaddled him in another dry towel, and handed him to his father. Then she turned to the new mother, wrapping her with warm blankets, plumping up cushions and bedding to bring the most comfort.
“Lie back, okay? I’m going to put your son on your chest.”
Brad still looked shell-shocked, but his color was fine, and he held the baby with firm arms. Sabrina directed the young man to lay his newborn son on his wife’s naked body, and together, they watched the infant crawl and creep and nuzzle his way to his mother’s breast.
“It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Jenny said, laughing and crying at the same time. “I mean, you showed us videos, but—”
“I know.” Sabrina swallowed.
“I love you so much, Jenny,” Brad said in a choked voice.
“I love you, too.” Tears ran freely down Jenny’s face. “We’re a family now!”
Sabrina’s throat clenched. Usually she celebrated with her clients. But today, maybe because she’d been thinking about Mitch, she couldn’t watch.
“I’ll, uh, give you three some privacy.” And she dashed to the washroom to pull herself together.
The only thing Sabrina Becker wanted as much as a baby was to find Mitchell Granger and hurt him, the way he’d hurt her.
Maybe then that Mitch-shaped scar on her heart would finally heal.
…
“Engaged!”
Conversation in the room ebbed, as it always seemed to do at the absolute worst moments. All heads turned to Della, who stood blinking in confusion.
Paris looked as if she wanted to disappear.
Finally Della clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re a dark horse, aren’t you, Mitchell Granger? Keeping this under wraps? And here I’ve been thinking of what lovely babies you and Paris would make. Where’ve you been hiding this girl? You should have brought her tonight!”
“She’s…” His relief vanished. He had to make this convincing. “She’s in Montana.”
Really, Mitch? Way to limit your pool of possibilities. A fiancée in Fiji. Now that would have been convenient. And difficult to disprove.
Where, he wondered, would one go about finding a mail-order bride? Was there even still such a thing?
“Ah, yes, your hometown. Lutherton, is it?”
He should have expected Della to look him up. He hadn’t offered many details about his past, but that wouldn’t stop a woman like her. Memories flooded in, wounds he’d long ago vanquished—or thought he had.
You see, Mitch? You did it again. Another stupid, impulsive idea. He hadn’t heard that voice for years. Perspiration broke out on his back. You don’t stop to think and this is what you get. Stupid, stupid boy.
“We’re, uh.” Mitch swallowed, wiping the back of his neck. He wasn’t that boy anymore. He was a success. Supported by his non-Fijian fiancée. Who had no name. “We’re taking it slow.”
Instantly the years fell away and Sabrina’s face popped into his head.
No way, Mitch. You are not going there.
Poof! His sultry Fijian fantasy lover vanished in a swirl of thick, honey-colored hair. Sabrina’s hair, which always fell straight and heavy, halfway down her back. Her clear blue- gray eyes that had seen beyond the dyslexic, angry boy, failed by the school system. She was one of the smart kids, and her tutoring had gotten him through final exams. He wouldn’t have graduated without her.
He wasn’t pretending to be engaged to Sabrina, no way, no how. He didn’t even know her anymore. Well, he knew she’d returned to Lutherton. He knew home and family were important to her.Which just showed how completely unsuited they were for each other. Despite what they’d once thought.
Taking it slow? They hadn’t taken anything slow back then.
For almost two years, they’d been in love. Secretly at first. Her family would have never accepted the rebellious loser he’d been then. They’d have happily embraced his younger brother, Carson, though—the smart son. The good one. Even now, Mitch tasted the sourness at the back of his throat.
Carson had always had it so easy and now, he even had Three River Ranch, the family home. Plus a wife and a kid.
Della nudged him with her elbow. “Everyone loves a love story, dear. You should have told me!”
A crowd was gathering. Mitch felt heat rise along his neck.
“It just never occurred to me. I didn’t think it was pertinent to our professional relationship.” He heard the stiffness in his words. Damn. He was screwing this up.
“I don’t give a hoot for ‘professional’ and you know it. My late husband ran things that way, everything at arm’s length, lawyered up the wazoo, all crossed and dotted and signed in triplicate. Nothing wrong with that, but I think you ought to know someone before getting into bed with him, so to speak.”
She took Mitch by the arm and led him to the bar. “Get this man a couple of fingers of single malt, will you? What the heck, get me one too, while you’re at it.”
Mitch lifted his glass in a toast, wondering how he could get Della back onto the subject of her prospective business plans.
And away from his “fiancée.” The scotch seared his throat but did nothing to ease his growing panic. He could have just taken Paris out a few times, been the sophisticated date she needed to polish up her social persona.
But no, sneered the voice. You had to come up with this awesome lie instead.
“I apologize, Della,” he said, striving for the right tone. “It never occurred to me that you’d be interested. My situation with…my fiancée… We have a complicated relationship.”
That was putting it mildly. Since she didn’t exist.
“I’ve been married four times, you dolt. Of course I’m interested.” But her light tone belied the sharpness in her eyes. “Mitchell, sweetheart, pull that big old stick of firewood out into the sunshine, will you? Relax. That thirty-year-old glass of peat isn’t going to drink itself, now is it? I didn’t mean to insult you or impugn your integrity.” She winked at him. “Isn’t that a great word? Impugn? My second husband was a medieval scholar. Oh, the things that man taught me.”
The prawn canapés squirmed in his stomach. “No offense taken.”
“So gallant! And such a liar!” She laughed gaily. He could see the gold fillings in her back molars. “But you’re determined to put on a good show and I respect that. You’re ambitious, driven. Good boy.”
He clenched the glass until his knuckles whitened. “What do you want, Della?”
“Ah, the bear awakens!” The smile fell off her face like the curtain at the end of a show. “I’m bored, honey-pie. I’m richer than everyone else I know, which means my friendships are all suspect. I don’t have the energy for another husband, not to mention sex.”
Mitch squeezed his eyes against the image. “Thank you for that.”
“So I’ve turned my considerable resources to doing whatever interests me at the moment. Right now, you interest me. Your background as a cowboy interests me. Your hometown interests me.”
But it wasn’t his home anymore and he hadn’t been a cowboy in a long time. A knife twisted in his chest. He’d cut it all off, the good along with the bad. That was the sacrifice he’d been forced to make. And it had all been worth it. He was a new man.
“That was a long time ago, Della.”
But sometimes, when business stresses kept him awake at night, he imagined riding, alone, the feel of warm leather against his legs, the smell of grass and earth and horse. Every now and then, he dropped by a local riding stable. It wasn’t the same, following a set trail on a bored, anonymous horse, but it was the best he could get.
Did remnants of an honest-to-God cowboy still lie dormant within him, deep down and buried? No matter how he tried, he’d never stopped craving the open range, the rugged mountains, the smell of horses and sagebrush. He could never get the land entirely out of his system. He could never let go of his home.
Only it wasn’t his anymore. It belonged to Carson, who’d earned it fair and square. Who’d met the terms of his father’s will and gained the title and everything that went with it.
Land, success, community acceptance, space to pursue his dreams…
And love.
Carson had been in the right place at the right time. Mitch’s luck never went that way.
“You’re a cowboy, all right.” Della put her hands on her hips. “You’re not spit-shined and hair product-ed to death, like this crowd. A little shaggy, a little of the bad boy about you. But whatever you say.”
He bristled, then forced himself to smile. “I missed a haircut.That hardly makes me Butch Cassidy.”Not to mention he’d paid an image consultant good money, way back when, to create exactly the right look.
“Here’s the deal.” She pursed her lips, as if reading his mind.“I’ve got a few properties I want to look at. Foreclosures, rundown places I could get for a song. I’m thinking of a high- end mountain resort. Horseback riding, hiking, maybe golf, plus every spa treatment under the sun and top-notch chefs. What do you think?”
“I’ll need to see the spec sheets.” His interest was piqued, but there was something about Della’s behavior that set off warning bells in his head.
“Paris’s father fancied himself a cowboy,” Della mused, ignoring him. “But he made his money in oil. He built himself a little spread. A few thousand acres. Of course, he was tired of it by the time I came on the scene, so we didn’t spend much time there. But Paris did and she misses it. Maybe I should have held on to the place, for her.”
“Is there a thread I should be following here, Della?”
“Before I make any decision,” she continued, “I need to do a little market research. That’s where you come in.”
“The US of A’s a big place. You wanna give me a clue?” he asked.
You could just walk away, Mitch reminded himself. Stop this crazy race to the top. Tell Ellis this one didn’t pan out. Go back to your luxury condo, focus on your existing clients, be satisfied.
Be happy.
Ah, but that was the problem. He’d tried that. No matter how many deals he landed, no matter how high he’d climbed from construction joe to contractor to investor to bigger investor to the next big thing, it was never enough.
Underneath, he was still the loser from Lutherton.
She narrowed her eyes at his tone. “You can’t guess where we’re going?”
Suddenly he understood. He met her eyes and saw her smile triumphantly.
“Surprise! We’re going to Montana! Your old stomping grounds, to be precise!”
“You can’t be serious.” Mitch laughed. “You want to build a resort out there? Why? No one goes there. Not voluntarily, at least.”
“Just ’cause it wasn’t your cup of tea don’t mean there’s not busloads of software execs wondering what life would be like if they chucked it all to live off the land. Horses, hard work, sunshine. Never underestimate the power of money, delusion, and regret, Mitch, my boy.”
Oh, yeah. He knew.
“Besides, land is cheap right now and I’ve got myself a brilliant land baron who knows the area inside and out.” She reached over and patted his hand.
Mitch thought fast. He’d stayed away for a long time, when he first left. But now, he’d be there on business. Carson would see the influence that Granger-Ellis had, and if they found a spot and went ahead with the project, the whole town would bear witness to his success.
“It’ll be the biggest job of your career, Mitchy-boy,” Della said. “You know you want it.”
Sabrina would see his success.
“We’ll stay at your old place,” Della said. “You can tell your brother I want to learn about his mustang sanctuary.”
She really had done her homework.
Della at Three River Ranch. Carson would shit fence posts.
But then Della would write Carson a check with a lot of zeroes and he would smile and take it.
Mitch could see it all. He would arrive in town, the successful businessman, bringing with him a patron. And not just any patron, but one who could make an enormous difference in Carson’s life. Carson would owe him.
And Carson would hate that. But he’d be able to say nothing.
And if Della decided to purchase property in the area, she’d boost the local economy immeasurably. Mitch would be the hero.
Ten years ago, Mitch had broken free of the place, which was what he’d always wanted. He’d left Lutherton in shame, brokenhearted, alone, penniless. He’d made a brief appearance last winter, after Carson’s wife, Rory, begged him, long enough to know that nothing had changed, that Sabrina was still there, that he hadn’t ruined her life. And that she still had some kind of irrational power over him.
Every second had been torture.
But to return home victorious, like this? Maybe that’s what he needed to finally be free of the demons that plagued him.
Della pulled out her cell phone and punched a few buttons. “There. I’ve texted my assistant to charter a flight, book a limo, and reschedule my calendar. I’m thinking a month, maybe two. Maybe you and Paris— Wait. I forgot. You’re already taken.” She grinned at him. “You can introduce me to your lovely fiancée, too, while we’re at it.” She reached a claw out and grasped his arm.“It’ll be so exciting. What’s her name, anyway? This secret love of your life?”
Maybe it was the crashed mental systems, but he simply couldn’t come up with anything better than the woman who truly had been the love of his life. A lifetime ago.
“Sabrina.” Her name jump-started his brain and suddenly memories of her, of them, flooded over him.
Sabrina.
Love Notes from the Lake
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