Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [126]
Thane’s gut clenched, and if Mary Theresa had been anywhere near him, he would have grabbed her and throttled her for her deception. “Hell,” he ground out.
“I guess congratulations are in order,” Roy said laughing without much mirth. “It’s not every day a man discovers he’s got a seventeen-year-old son.”
Betrayal burned through Thane’s soul, and he remembered the way Mary Theresa had thrown it in his face just last week. She’d called him in Cheyenne and she’d been sobbing, swearing she was going to kill herself, out of her mind with her latest emotional trauma. She’d begged him to come to Denver. He’d pushed the speed limit and straightened corners the entire distance.
When he’d arrived at her house, he’d found her in the kitchen, dressed in a black silky bathrobe and offering him a drink as she led him to the kitchen. He should never have followed. She’d been three sheets to the wind, and when he’d refused the bourbon, she’d gotten right to the point and asked to borrow money from him. He’d refused, and she’d fallen into a million pieces, first trying to seduce him and then crying.
She’d tried all her tricks on him. First she’d kissed him, opening her mouth and licking his ear, telling him he was the only man who had ever satisfied her.
“Give it up,” he’d told her, pushing her away. She’d stumbled, falling against the kitchen counters. Tears had sprung to her eyes, and she’d started sobbing again, as if she were brokenhearted.
Of course it had been an act. Just one of the many masks of Marquise that she donned with such agility.
“Don’t even think about it, Mary,” he’d told her when she’d wound her fingers in the lapels of his jacket and turned her face up to him. Her eyes had shone with tears. Her cheeks and nose had turned red from booze, tears, and effort. He hadn’t budged. “I’m not buyin’ it, lady.” Slowly, he’d pried her fingers from his coat.
She’d flown into a rage. Her beautiful eyes had flared with green fire. “You have to help me.”
“No, Mary Theresa, I don’t have to do anything.”
“But you…we…”
“We’re nothing. Ex-spouses who never loved each other.”
“Bastard!”
“Absolutely.”
“God, you’re cold.”
“Learned from the master.”
“How can you be so heartless, so cruel?” she’d asked, pouring herself another screwdriver and swirling the vodka and orange juice in a tall glass. Her eyes glistened with tears, mascara ran down her cheeks, and she looked like hell. “You know, Thane, I gave you everything. I was only seventeen when you seduced me—”
“This won’t work either,” he’d said. “I don’t feel guilty.”
“But—”
“And for the record, you seduced me. Pretended to be Maggie.”
Her lips had curled into a sneer. She set her drink on the counter. “It was always Maggie with you. Even when I was pregnant with your child, you pretended I was her. You’re sick, Walker.”
“Probably.”
Sniffing loudly, she’d hung her head and taken on the pose of the wounded. Another mask. Staring at the floor, she’d whispered, “I need your help, Thane. You’re the only one I can count on, the only one who—” She caught herself, bit her lip, and a tear fell to the floor.
He nearly buckled but held firm. “Forget it, Mary. I’m through with this—with you. It’s gone on long enough. No more.”
“You can’t do this to me.” Her voice was but a whisper, and she ran a finger over the tile of the counter.
“You’ve done it to yourself.”
“So now you’re preachy.”
“I’m outta here.”
“Just listen, Thane. I’ll pay you back. Please. I owe back taxes, and God, the credit cards are immense, and there’s talk of canceling the show and…oh, shit, what am I gonna do? Thane—”