Читать книгу: «Rebel Love»

One

The Plantation was easily the nicest restaurant in the town of Huntington, Montana, and the surrounding area, but as the meeting was set for midafternoon, there were only a few cars in the parking lot.

Cassandra Whitfield drove into a space, turned off the ignition and then sat there. The truth was, she hated walking into that restaurant to meet with Gardiner Sterling, and she wasn’t positive she could bring it off with her dignity intact. What was he thinking right now? Assuming he was inside waiting for her, of course.

Swallowing a sudden spate of nervousness rising in her throat, Cass pulled out her compact for a final check of her makeup and hair. She had dressed carefully and taken great pains with her hair and makeup. Such perfection was not normal routine for her. In her own territory she wore baggy shorts or slacks and long T-shirts, secured her dark blond hair back from her face with a rubber band, and rarely bothered with lipstick, let alone all of those other creams and colors with which she had enhanced the contours of her face today.

But...she wasn’t in her own territory. She was in Montana—where she’d grown up—and attempting to settle a simple contract that her father had made with Gard’s father years ago. Thus far, although her attorney and Gard’s attorney had been communicating on the matter, nothing had been resolved. Impatient with Gard’s procrastination, Cass had finally instigated this meeting, insisting that it be held in a public place. She didn’t want Gard in her father’s home while she was staying there, and she certainly was not going to step foot in the Sterling residence.

Drawing a deep breath, Cass opened the door of her car and got out. Walking to the building, she presented an impressive picture of a confident, well-dressed, attractive woman with something important on her mind.

Cass’s mind was full, all right, and unquestionably her thoughts were indeed important. But the past was a weighty burden, and deep inside of her was a fervent hope, a prayer, that she could handle this meeting with aplomb and even a little loftiness. After all, she was definitely not the smart-mouthed teenager that Gard Sterling had to remember from fourteen years ago, nor was she the easy mark she had become in his arms one long-ago night. Hopefully he had attained enough maturity and discretion not to mention that embarrassing chapter of their lives.

At present, Cass enjoyed a modicum of fame in the art world. Her paintings were not only beginning to sell well, but their prices were rising at a satisfying rate. Her own home was a cliff house on Oregon’s rugged coast, but that could change, depending on certain factors. Her father’s death three months ago had been unexpected and tragic, but making matters worse was discovering that she couldn’t sell the real property she had inherited—the Whitfield Land and Cattle Company—without Gardiner Sterling’s permission.

On closer examination, permission wasn’t the best word for Cassandra’s dilemma. It wasn’t Sterling’s permission she needed, it was his decision on whether he wished to exercise the buy/sell option cited in that old contract.

Though Cass was proud of her hard-earned success, it wasn’t on today’s agenda for discussion. Gard probably knew nothing about her work, and she couldn’t think of any reason why she would fill him in on it. For one thing, he certainly didn’t need to hear that the sale of the ranch was crucial to her career plans, which had greatly expanded only recently. The renowned art shop and gallery in San Francisco through which she sold her paintings was owned by an older woman, Francis Deering, and for reasons of her own, Francis had put out an offer to sell fifty percent of the Deering Gallery. The opportunity had come up quite suddenly, shortly after the death of Cass’s father. Since Cass had no intention of ever living in Montana again, it made perfect sense to her to sell the ranch and buy into the gallery. The problem was that there were other people also interested in that fifty percent, and Francis had said she would like Cass as a partner, but business was business and she preferred completing the transaction as soon as possible.

So did Cass, particularly since she understood that Francis was not going to wait indefinitely. That was why she had given up on the attorneys’ slowpoke methods and arranged this meeting with Gard, even though she would rather walk on hot coals than see him.

She entered the Plantation and spoke to the hostess. “I have a meeting with Gardiner Sterling. Has he arrived?”

The woman smiled pleasantly. “Yes. He’s waiting in the Peachtree Room. Follow me, please.”

Cass’s heart suddenly went wild. No matter how many sensible vows and promises with which she had saturated her system, coming face-to-face with Gard was going to be daunting. He was her most painful memory, the one that would sometimes sneak up on her during a restless night to singe her senses with humiliation and anger.

Her chin lifted defiantly. Today she would not be embarrassed and certainly anger was out of the question. The hostess opened a door. “Here you are, ma’am.”

“Thank you.” Cass stepped into the room to see a tall, lanky man in jeans, boots, a white shirt and a tan vest getting to his feet.

Gard was instantly confused. This exceptionally beautiful woman was Cassandra? The Sterling-Whitfield relationship had always been rather strange. Gard’s father, Loyal, and Cassandra’s father, Ridge, had been the best of friends, but their families had never meshed. Looking back, Gard could easily recall hunting trips, poker games, and numerous other activities with which Loyal and Ridge had occupied themselves. No one had ever thought it odd that their wives and offspring hadn’t become friends, he realized now. They had all recognized each other, of course, and talked on occasion, but there had never been any real closeness between any of them, except for Loyal and Ridge.

But, to be perfectly honest, Gard would not have recognized Cassandra Whitfield if their paths had crossed accidentally. His memories of her were as vague as last night’s dreams, and speaking of dreams, he felt as though one had just walked into his life.

“Hello,” he said with a warm, welcoming smile.

“Hello.” Cass’s voice was as cool as iced lemonade. She glanced around the room. It was obviously one of the Plantation’s banquet rooms, but only one table and two chairs were set up. There was a pot of coffee, containers of cream and sugar, a pitcher of ice water, two cups, two glasses, two spoons and two napkins on the table.

Gard gestured at the arrangement. “Would you like to sit down?”

“Yes, thank you.” Her mind worked behind a smooth, silky expression. He looks the same. How dare he look the same after fourteen years? Still outrageously handsome, with thick, black hair and those piercing blue eyes.

Gard watched her gracefully cross to the table and chairs, and he sat down when she did. He wasn’t sure he liked her hairdo, which was a twisted coil around her head, every strand tightly in place. Her dress, though, was great, a simply styled, off-white garment that looked very expensive to his eyes. So did her matching pumps and purse. She had dressed up for this meeting, and maybe he should have figured on a little more formality than jeans.

But, what the hell? He was a boots-and-jeans man, which Cassandra Whitfield had to know if she remembered him at all.

“How are you?” he asked politely. “It’s been a long time.”

“Yes, a long time,” Cass agreed, also politely.

“I’m sorry about Ridge. Like my own father, Ridge died much too young.”

“Yes, he did.”

Gard frowned. She was so distant, as though they were meeting for the first time ever. A strange, elusive sense of something missing from his memory suddenly struck him. It had to do with her, with Cassandra. But that name. Had she gone by “Cassandra” in the old days? Somehow that name didn’t fit in with any of his memories.

“Coffee?” he asked. “Or water?”

“No, thank you.” Cass placed her purse on a corner of the table. The word rebel had invaded her brain and wouldn’t go away. Rebel Sterling. That was what people used to call him, and with good reason. In her mind’s eye were visions of Gard pushing his huge, black-and-chrome Harley-Davidson motorcycle to its limits, riding that machine as though he were an extension of it, hair flying, engine roaring, darting in and out of traffic on the highway, or cutting through someone’s field at sixty miles an hour. And he drank. Everyone had known he drank. He’d been picked up by the law several times for drinking and driving, and somehow—probably because of his daddy’s money and influence—he’d always gotten out of his scrapes. He’d been spoiled rotten by Loyal and doted on by his mother, until her death when Gard was fifteen. Fourteen years ago, when Cass left the valley, Gard had done whatever he pleased, and Cassandra felt he probably still believed the world had been created solely for his enjoyment.

Uneasy over the intense scrutiny she was receiving from across the table, Cass cleared her throat. “I don’t have a lot of time, so I would appreciate getting right to that contract.”

“That’s why we’re here,” Gard replied, sounding agreeable. “But there’s something about you...” He paused. “I can’t quite put a finger on it. Did people call you Cassandra before you left the valley?”

“It’s my name. Why wouldn’t they?” But her cheeks got warm. People hadn’t called her Cassandra, but no way was she going to remind this man of her old nickname.

But a peculiar thought was taking shape in the back of her mind: Gard didn’t really remember her. Oh, he remembered the name Cassandra Whitfield, all right, and he certainly knew who she was. But he did not remember her! Which meant that he also didn’t remember that night at the sand dunes.

Something deflated within Cassandra, her pride, perhaps. Certainly her femaleness felt the blow. The possibility of him having completely forgotten the most startling event of her own life hadn’t occurred to her.

Her own memory insulted her further, the days and weeks immediately following that night. He hadn’t called or contacted her in any way, and she had wept buckets of guilt and remorse and resentment.

Her face became a little harder. “Let’s get down to business, Gard. You’ve had three months to think about that buy/sell option, and I need an answer. Let me lay my cards on the table. I intend to sell the Whitfield ranch, and it’s immaterial to me who buys it. If you want it, it’s yours. But you have to make up your mind. I can’t put the property on the open market until you sign away your rights to that option.”

With his eyes narrowed on her, Gard leaned back in his chair. “Why are you in such a hurry to sell? Doesn’t your home mean anything to you?”

“My home is in Oregon,” Cass said coolly. “I would like to get back to it, and your vacillation—to put it bluntly—is preventing me from doing so. If you say no to the option, then I can put Dad’s property in the hands of a reliable real estate agent and stop worrying about it. That’s all I want from you, a yes or a no, and I really don’t care which it is.”

“Have you read the contract?” Gard asked.

“Of course I’ve read it. It surprised me, I don’t mind admitting. Did you know about it before Dad died?”

“I’ve known about it since my dad died,” Gard said. “You know, that contract consigns you the same legal rights it does me.”

Cass smirked slightly. “But I can give you an unequivocal no right now. I wouldn’t buy your place under any circumstances.” She leaned forward. “Why can’t you do the same for me? Either you want the Whitfield ranch or you don’t. Where is the problem in that decision?”

He was studying her, thinking hard. Both the Sterlings and the Whitfields had been well-off in his youth, and he would bet anything that Ridge Whitfield’s estate—which Cassandra had inherited—was financially secure. The Sterlings hadn’t fared quite so well. Actually, the Sterlings had done extremely well until Loyal died. That was ten years ago, about four or five years after Cassandra left the valley. Like her, Gard had inherited everything, the ranch, the equipment, the stock and the bank accounts.

But Gard wasn’t a carbon copy of Loyal Sterling, and he’d been right in his prime, twenty-five years old and full of vinegar. He had grieved for his father for a while, but life had been so damned exciting that his period of mourning hadn’t lasted for long. He went a little crazy spending money, chasing women, buying cars and motorcycles, drinking and carousing and having a hell of a good time.

Then, one day after four years of neglecting the ranch, he happened to be walking around outside, just wandering aimlessly and realizing that he didn’t want to go drinking that night. He didn’t want to drop in at any of his old hangouts, nor go after the prettiest gal in town, nor ride his newest Harley-Davidson motorcycle or drive one of his cars hell-bent for leather.

His eyes had narrowed on the weeds that had sprung up around trees and fence posts. The paint was cracked and peeling on every building. His father had never left any chore undone during his lifetime, and that day the place suddenly looked shabby and run-down. Two of Gard’s hired men were leaning against the shady side of the barn, smoking, laughing and doing nothing but killing time.

Gard had stood there for the longest time, thinking of how far down he’d sunk for the sake of a good time. For one thing, he had no idea how much cash remained in his bank accounts, or even if there was any.

He’d broken out in a cold sweat, turned, walked back to the house and went in. It, too, showed the years of neglect. He was paying a woman to come out from town about once a month to clean the place, but Gard couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen her. The kitchen sink, counter and table overflowed with dirty dishes. There were mountains of dirty clothes in the laundry room. The living room was littered with everything from clothing to old newspapers to empty beer bottles to foul-smelling ashtrays.

Some inner fear, brand-new and startling, drove him into the den and to the ranch’s checkbooks. The small balances were staggering: he was damned near broke!

That was the turning point in Gard’s life. From that moment on, he hadn’t touched a drop of liquor, he’d sold every vehicle except one pickup truck he had to have for transportation, and he’d told his two hired men that they would work with him and work hard or they could pick up their checks.

He’d made headway. The Sterling ranch was again successful and earning an annual profit. Regardless, he didn’t have the extra cash—a very large sum—that it would take to exercise the option in that old contract.

But he would bite off his tongue before laying that complex explanation on Cassandra Whitfield. Besides, it was none of her business, even though it was the reason why he hadn’t immediately given her an answer on that option. The thing was, Loyal Sterling and Ridge Whitfield had had a dream of a united valley. To assure that only Sterlings or Whitfields would ever own any portion of it, they had devised that contract, which said, simply, that if either a Sterling or a Whitfield needed to sell out for any reason, the other party had first right of refusal.

That was what he and Cassandra were stuck with today, their fathers’ hopes for the continuity of the valley they had loved so much. Obviously it hadn’t occurred to either man that their children wouldn’t welcome the same arrangement. Gard had every intention of living out his life on the Sterling land, but he had all but destroyed his chances of buying out Cassandra. She, on the other hand, probably had more money than she could spend in three lifetimes but had no interest in either the Whitfield land or Montana.

For some reason, Gard couldn’t tell her that he just didn’t have the financial means to buy her out. Thus, his answer to her question—Where is the problem in that decision?—was an almost belligerent, “The contract recites a ‘reasonable length of time’ for either of us to make that decision, which is the only reference to time in the entire document. As I see it, the only problem we have is with your impatience.”

“You’ve had a reasonable length of time,” Cassandra said sharply. Then, wincing at the tone of her voice, she added in a calmer vein, “Three months seems very reasonable to me.”

“What’s reasonable to you isn’t necessarily reasonable to me,” Gard retorted.

“Just what do you consider reasonable?” Cassandra leaned forward again. “How much more time do you need? I want this thing settled. I want to get on with my life, which doesn’t involve twiddling my thumbs in Montana. I have work to do in Oregon.” And, hopefully, in California.

“Oh? What do you do?” Gard was fascinated by the play of light in her green eyes. Along with that observation, Gard was becoming aware that Cassandra was trying desperately to keep a lid on her emotions. She was being polite when she would probably rather scream at him to get off his duff and do something about that option.

Mentally he snapped his fingers. That was it! She was a different person today than when he’d last seen her. Not that he could pinpoint that exact occasion, but the perfectly groomed woman across the table was not the girl in his memory, fuzzy as it was. That girl had been...

He smiled suddenly. “Now I remember what everyone called you when we were kids. It was Sassy. Sassy Cassie Whitfield.” Cassandra’s face turned three shades of red. “Hey, does that embarrass you? Hell, Sassy, you can’t change who you were as a kid.”

She was close to exploding, despite her determination to remain calm and collected. “I would think you would be the last person to be drumming up old nicknames, Rebel Sterling!”

He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “My God, I’d almost forgotten that, too. Well, you might find this hard to believe, Sassy, but Rebel Sterling is just another member of the establishment today.”

“You don’t look it,” she snapped, and realized that it felt good to finally release her stringent hold on her emotions.

He grinned, lazily. “I’ll take that as a compliment, honey. You know, every once in a while the old juices start flowing and try awfully hard to tempt me into doing something wild and crazy. But I’m a changed man, Cassandra. When that happens, I pour myself a glass of ice tea, sit on the back porch and watch the sunset.”

That was too much for Cass to swallow. “Oh, give me a break,” she drawled scathingly. “The day you drink ice tea instead of hard liquor and watch a sunset instead of the nearest woman in a tight skirt is the day I’ll believe in leprechauns.”

Gard put on a hurt face. “Sassy, Sassy, you must only remember the bad in me, and that kind of pains me. Weren’t you and I friends?”

“No,” she said flatly. “You and I were never friends. Look, Gard, I didn’t come here to discuss your character or mine. I’ll ask again. How much more time do you intend taking to make your decision on that option?”

Gard’s thoughts would have surprised Cassandra. He wanted to honor the contract between his father and hers, if there was any way at all to do it. Strangers moving into the valley and living on the Whitfield place, doing God knew what with it, wasn’t a pleasant prospect. Besides, there was something else going on in the back of his mind. The longer he delayed that decision, the longer Cassandra would be a neighbor. He wanted to see more of her, get to know her. She was the prettiest, most interesting woman he’d met in ages, and it intrigued him that they’d grown up within miles of each other, and here they were, together again after fourteen years. Besides, he wanted to remember that elusive memory that somehow seemed important, and if she scurried back to Oregon, it might forever elude him.

Deliberately portraying a man with a vexing problem, he rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “I really can’t give you a time limit, Cassandra. There are circumstances—a little too personal to explain—and there’s my own place to consider. A merger of that size can’t be decided overnight.”

“Overnight! You’ve had three months!” Cassandra simply couldn’t sit still any longer, and she got up to pace the room. “Give me some idea...anything. How about another week?”

Solemnly Gard shook his head. “Not nearly enough time.”

“Then two weeks...a month. Dammit, you can’t leave me hanging like this!” How would she explain this to Francis? God knew she would have to try.

“Leaving you hanging is not my intention, but I can’t make this decision without further studying the consequences.”

Cassandra turned to face him. “That’s what you’ve been doing for three months, studying the consequences?” She sounded blatantly skeptical. “I honestly thought a face-to-face discussion would resolve the problem. Believe me, I never would have suggested this meeting otherwise.”

Gard got to his feet. “At the risk of upsetting you more than you already are, I’d like to say something. You, Sassy Whitfield, are one very beautiful lady. What I’d really like to know is why I didn’t notice that before you left the valley.”

The strength drained out of Cassandra. The wretch really had no memory of that night. For fourteen years she had lived with periodic bouts of despising him, even while knowing that deep down she had never despised him. That had been the problem. She had suffered such an all-consuming crush on bad-boy Rebel Sterling that a mere glimpse of him had made her weak in the knees. After that night at the sand dunes, she had realized that her mind had been even weaker than her knees.

And he didn’t even remember it.

Maybe she did despise him. Certainly, looking at that cocky grin on his face at this moment, despising him was as natural as breathing.

Walking over to the table, she picked up her purse. “Your opinion of my looks is completely immaterial. All I want from you is a decision on that option.” Despite her determination to remain composed, her voice rose. “I don’t know what game it is you’re playing, but you won’t convince me that you’re not up to something.”

“Tell you what,” Gard said matter-of-factly. “Give me a few days and then let’s get together again. How about on Friday? I could come to your place, or you could come to mine. Meeting here is kind of silly, don’t you think?”

“A few days?” Would he really have an answer in a few days? Cass didn’t want to be gullible about this, but she wanted this ridiculous situation over and done with. At least she wanted the freedom to call Francis and say, “The legal problems are over. I can put the ranch on the market and I’m sure it will sell quickly.”

And now that she’d actually seen Gard, and survived, it really didn’t matter where they met. “All right, fine. You may come to my place on Friday afternoon.” Besides, it probably wouldn’t hurt her case for him to get a good look at the Whitfield property. Lord only knew the last time he’d been there, and it was beautiful, in wonderful condition. Cass had kept the same employees who had worked for her father, and everything was in perfect order.

Gard smiled and nodded. “Fine. I’ll see you on Friday.”

Cass acknowledged the agreement with a slight nod of her own, then turned to walk to the door.

But then she made the mistake of stopping for one last look at Gard Sterling. The light flowing through the large windows behind him shadowed his features, but his height, his build and his long legs were all too visible. A choking sensation rose in her throat. Until this moment she’d been rather proud of her performance during their meeting, but now it was all she could do to restrain fourteen years of anger and resentment from spewing out of her mouth.

“See you on Friday,” she mumbled, and all but ran from the room.

Surprised by her hasty exit, Gard almost laughed. But then the impulse died a sudden death and he frowned instead. There was more behind Cassandra’s frosty attitude than that contract, probably something to do with the past. Gard groaned right out loud. What had he done to Cass Whitfield that he couldn’t remember but she, apparently, had never forgotten? His youthful “good times” had caused him problems several times in the past few years, and he had a hunch the worst was yet to come.

He thought about that for a minute, then started for the door himself. Regardless of the past and its mysteries, he still wanted to know Cass better.

And surely he could make amends. Whatever he’d done couldn’t be that bad.