Twice Kissed - Lisa Jackson [83]
Maggie shivered inwardly. “No one understands why Mary Theresa does anything,” she whispered, ignoring the frigid sense of dread determinedly crawling up her spine. She had an inkling of something dark and sinister, a facet of Mary Theresa that she’d never known and a side that Thane, as M.T.’s husband, had seen more often than not. Wrapping her arms around her, Maggie added, “I hate to say it, but I think Mary Theresa understands her motives less than any of us do.”
The light changed, and Thane stepped on the accelerator. “Anyway,” he continued without much inflection, “she showed up, stripped, got into bed with me, and I made the mistake of thinking she was you. In the morning I figured out that I’d been duped, but by that time it was too late. The damage was done. She called me a few weeks later and told me she was pregnant. She laid the choices out to me. Either I married her or she would get an abortion. I picked the first option. But I did think I owed you an explanation. That’s why I drove to your house that night. Remember?”
Oh, yeah, she remembered all right. In vivid Technicolor. As she gazed through the windshield to the snow-covered streets, Maggie didn’t see the bustle of the city, the pedestrians or traffic or high-rises; instead her sight turned inward and she recalled that night as if it had happened just this past week.
She’d been swimming laps in the backyard pool, cutting through the water, strong and steady. The day had been warm with the heat of late summer. As she reached the edge, she slowed, stood, and, gulping air, had pushed her hair from her face. As she caught her breath, she recognized the distinctive rumble of an ancient engine without much of a muffler attached. Her heart jolted. Thane! His truck was chugging up the drive. Dear God, what is he doing here? Her father would kill him!
She scrambled out of the pool.
The engine died.
Grabbing her towel, she ran past the hot tub and oleander hedge, her bare feet scraping on the gravel path. As she rounded the corner to the front of the house, she realized she was too late. Thane was already inside.
Her stomach clenched.
Cutting through the garage, she rounded the Mercedes and flew through the door to the kitchen.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she heard her father demand. Oh, God. Had Thane bullied his way into the house?
“Where’s Maggie?” Thane’s voice. Hard. Demanding.
Her heart tore into a thousand pieces. She was through the kitchen like a shot. “Thane?”
“Get out, Walker,” her father ordered. They were standing, toe-to-toe, glaring at each other in the wide foyer on the other side of the living room. Shiny-leafed philodendrons and prickly cacti were clustered near the door to soften the austere plaster walls and tile floor, but now the air was charged, the smell of a fight destroying any sense of warmth or ambience.
Beneath his neatly pressed pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt, and spotless tie, Frank’s muscles were coiled, and he was itching to throw a punch.
“I just want to talk to your daughter.” Thane’s gaze traveled past the older man’s shoulder as Maggie entered the living room. He looked like he’d been to hell and back. Three days of growth shadowed his jaw, and his cheeks were hollow. Worse yet his eyes—those gorgeous blue-gray eyes—were haunted, as if by Satan himself.
Her heart squeezed so hard it ached, and she nearly stumbled as she stared at him. Something was wrong. Horribly and undeniably wrong. In a split second she understood that she didn’t want to know what had changed, what demons gnawed at Thane’s soul.
“Are…are you