“After you.” He motioned for her to walk ahead of him.
“I wouldn’t mind taking the Walk of Shame if we’d actually done something to make it worthwhile.”
“That could be arranged,” he said, spots of gold flaring in his dark eyes like two struck matches, tilting his chin, as if to kiss her.
Her stomach dropped. Desire tightened some muscles, softened others. She was usually the one who threw out the dare. But here was Dylan waiting for her to take him up on it.
For a few seconds, she considered kissing him, sliding into that rush of pleasure and seeing where it would take them.
Then she thought of the gawking crowd—Wharton at its worst—and the urge evaporated like steam.
Tara walked in front of him, head high, wondering if he’d been serious. Did he really want the entire town to think they were together? Did he want to be together? Or had he known she would turn him down?
Later, after the caramel glory of Ruthie’s flan had melted in their mouths, when they told each other good-night, she felt like she’d ducked trouble and missed out on a dream at the same time.
* * *
TARA ROSE EARLY Thursday morning, braced for trouble, she wasn’t sure what kind. Dylan? No. She’d walked away from him. Faye? No change there. Then she remembered. The will. Today they went to Tucson to see Norton Marshall, their estate attorney, to go over her father’s will.
She set off for her run, welcoming the chill in the air because it cleared her head. She thought about Dylan. He’d come after her, ignored the onlookers and promised to help her despite her bristles and accusations. He was a strong person, solid in his beliefs. He had what it took to survive in Wharton—to thrive really. She admired him for that, respected him.
And she wanted him. Oh, how she wanted him.
Tara pushed the thoughts away—again—as she headed up the hill to the house, breathing hard, energized by the exercise. She showered and made a few client contacts, then Judith met her in the hallway with a tray of breakfast. “Your mother’s in the sunroom working on that charity event. Now’s your chance to help her. Make her eat while you’re at it.”
Tara took the tray and found her mother at the antique desk, talking on the phone, her back toward Tara. On a card table beside her mother were neatly placed file folders, stapled pages and a table layout with names sketched in.
“That would be lovely, Margaret,” her mother said. “I’ll put you down for a table then?” She listened. “Oh, well, that’s kind of you. We’re doing very well, thank you.” Hanging up, her mother pressed the phone to her chest, her shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. After a few seconds, she took a shuddering breath, consulted her paper, cleared her throat and made another call. Tara stood there, stunned by her mother’s struggle and her determination.
“Yes. Natalie? It’s Rachel Wharton calling,” she said, her voice cool and smooth. “It’s regarding the Harvest Dinner Dance to raise money for the food kitchen?” Tara could see over her mother’s shoulder that the call list was long, with few names checked off.
When her mother hung up, Tara said, “Mom?”
Her mother’s head whipped around. Her nose was red, her eyes puffy. “Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Her eyes danced, frantic and miserable.
“Here’s breakfast.” Tara made room for the tray on the table. “Take a break.”
“I’m nearly two weeks behind on the dinner,” she said, turning back to her list.
“How about if I make those calls? I’ve got time.”
“You couldn’t possibly.” She sniffed. “You don’t know these people or their families or the donations they’ve made in the past.”
“So write me notes.” Tara pulled the list closer.
“No.” Her mother took it back. “These are my friends. They can’t turn me down. You’re a virtual stranger.” She glanced at the list. “Beverly Crowley’s the next call. She’d likely hang up on you.”
“Because of the protest? Really?”
“She’d like to hang up on me, but she doesn’t dare. I’m too well-connected. So instead she refuses to look me in the eye.”
“That was twelve years ago, Mom.”
“You threatened the Crowleys’ livelihood. People don’t forget that.”
“Their livelihood? The whole town shops at their store. They were rolling in it. All we did was get him to treat his employees fairly—”
“Enough.” Her mother raised her hands. “You can’t even admit you were wrong now, after ten years. You haven’t changed a bit.”