To Have And To Hold

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Travis saw through her bravado. He wanted to round the table and sweep her into his arms, hold her until she melted against him, asked for his help, accepted his support. But this was Lindy. Things were never simple with Lindy.

He picked up her discarded pen and turned the tablet around. “I have a couple of conditions of my own.” He wrote a bold number six on the first empty line.

Her eyebrow cocked. “Such as?”

“No extramarital dating.”

Her forehead crinkled, but she shrugged and nodded. “Okay.”

She jumped on that faster than Travis expected. Did she have Farmboy wrapped that tightly around her little finger?

“You’re sure Robertson won’t object?”

“Why would he? Danny knows how important getting this place up and running is to me. He’s willing to help any way he can.”

Travis bit back a snort. If Lindy believed her own explanation, she was delusional. And Robertson was a bigger fool than Travis had originally thought.

Putting Robertson aside, Travis added number seven to the list. He cleared his mind, focused on his objective. Lindy had to agree with his final condition. She’d already paid too great a price for his mistakes.

Nothing would ever make things right between them, but her panic attacks were his fault. He had to find a way to alleviate her anxiety.

“Number seven, you let me help you face your fear of cars.”

Her face paled. “What? Why?”

“I had my own problems getting back behind the wheel. I understand some of what scares you.”

“I don’t know….”

“I wasn’t afraid to accept any of your conditions.”

Lindy’s chin popped up. He knew that would get to her.

“All I have to do is try?”

“Just try.” Travis fought to hide his growing smile. Pride had always been her Achilles’ heel.

“O-okay. I promise to try.”

“Then I guess we have a deal.” Travis held his hand out.

Lindy stood and clasped it. Her grip was steady, but her palm was moist. “Yes, God help me, we have a deal.”

Chapter Four

Travis slowly approached his father’s house, dread filling him at the thought of the conversation awaiting him. Reaching the end of the road, he killed the ignition and stared at the house. Throw in a couple of ramparts topped with family-crested flags and the place would look like a bona fide castle.

His father had purchased this monstrosity the year after Carrie Monroe’s death, and to Travis, it represented the antithesis of the warm home his mother had created. Despite marrying into one of the richest families in Georgia, she never forgot her roots.

His mother had grown up watching her parents work long hours turning an old family recipe into a profitable chain of restaurants. She’d tried her best to instill those values into her children. She’d succeeded with Travis, but Grant was too much their father’s son to understand the appeal of earning your blessings. Like Winston, Grant considered changing the blade in his razor too tactile a chore for a Monroe.

After his mother’s death, living in his father’s new house had made Travis feel like a teenage hypocrite. He hated the way Winston immersed himself back into the world of Atlanta’s spoiled rich, abandoning his late wife’s ideals.

At eighteen, Travis escaped to college, moving to Boston to study mechanical engineering at MIT. After one semester, he returned to this mausoleum and found his father in a near-constant drunken stupor and his fifteen-year-old brother in juvenile lockup. Travis was forced to abandon MIT and transfer to Georgia Tech. He bailed out his brother and dried out his father. Ten years later, very little had changed.

He rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve his building tension. Telling his father about his extended stay in Tennessee promised to be a long conversation. And he still had the six-hour drive back to Land’s Cross.

She’ll have my butt if I miss curfew on my first night.

He slowly climbed from the car and approached his father’s home. The well-worn work boots he’d pulled on this morning echoed like thunder as he crossed the bridge spanning a long, narrow koi pond—Lord Winston’s version of a moat.

A corner of his mouth curved upward at his private joke as he rang the bell and waited. Brighton, his father’s butler, opened the ten-foot-tall front door. The old man’s stoic expression didn’t falter as he eyed Travis across the threshold.

“Afternoon, Brighton. Is my father home?”

The butler nodded wordlessly and stepped back, allowing Travis to enter. His bony fingers pushed the massive door closed, blocking out the only natural light in the darkened foyer. “Wait here,” the brusque voice ordered. “I’ll see if he is available.”

Travis watched the man’s thin back disappear down the darkened hallway. All the curtains were drawn against the bright afternoon sun. The low-wattage bulbs his father favored didn’t stand a chance against the dreary darkness. Directional lighting highlighted several expensive pieces of art throughout the marbled foyer. Despite the rich paintings, the room lacked life.

Unlike Lindy’s home, where bright sunlight flooded the entry hall. The windows across the front of the farmhouse were all curtainless. The outside scenery provided more beauty and decoration than a hundred priceless masterpieces.

Travis traced the outline of a painted magnolia bloom with his fingertip. Where this place smelled of musty age and old money, the natural fragrance of flowers and sunshine filled every corner of Lindy’s home. And Lindy’s kitchen always smelled like cinnamon.

Brighton returned to the foyer, announcing his presence with a chastising clearing of his throat. The man had the eerie ability to show up suddenly in a room; no noise ever preceded him. “Your father will see you now.”

As expected, Brighton led Travis into the study, a room that summed up Winston Monroe perfectly. Stuffy, old-fashioned and ostentatious.

“Dad.” Travis nodded at the man seated behind the wide mahogany desk and crossed the paneled room, heading directly for the leather-wrapped bar in the far corner.

With his dark hair and green eyes, Travis was the only member of the Monroe clan who carried the family’s black Irish coloring into this generation. He bore no resemblance to his father. Their physical differences were almost as startling as their polar opposite lifestyles.

His father had passed a near carbon copy of his genes to Grant—lithe build, light brown hair, hazel eyes, aquiline nose. Country-club handsome, Lindy called them.

“Glad to see you found your way back to town,” Winston snapped. “Unlike you to disappear without a word to anybody.”

“Marge knew where I was.”

Winston snorted. “That damn secretary of yours locks up tighter than Fort Knox.”

The image of Winston trying to wheedle information out of Marge brought a small smile to his lips. “I asked her not to reveal my whereabouts unless there was an emergency.”

His father’s only answer was a “Humph!” Winston Monroe believed everyone had their price. And if his father were this bent out of shape over three days’ absence…

Travis considered tipping the bottle over the glass again, knowing this was going to be a two-finger conversation. But he had a long drive ahead of him, so he recapped the decanter and pushed it aside.

He swallowed a sip of the amber liquid, enjoying the sting as Kentucky’s finest warmed his throat. “I came by to bring you up to speed on some changes I’ve put in place at the company.”

His father’s brows merged into a bushy line of apprehension. “What kind of changes?”

“I’ve promoted George Collins to second vice president and transferred most of my daily responsibilities to him, everything but the final details on the Downtown Renovation Project. Marge will be working with him, so the transition should be smooth.”

“Transition? What in blue blazes are you talking about?”

“I’m taking a leave of absence for the summer.”

“You can’t do that!” Noxious smoke curled from the cigar stub clinging to his father’s lower lip.

“It’s already done.”

Winston squinted. “What are your plans?”

“I’ll be working in Tennessee, helping Lindy get a new project off the ground.”

His father’s fingers shook as he plucked the cigar from his mouth and smashed the butt into an ashtray. “Damn it, boy!” Winston rose from his large, thronelike chair and prowled toward the bar. “Can’t you see that girl’s using you? First she forces you to marry her—”

“Choose your words carefully, Dad.” Travis clenched his fists around his glass, silently reminding himself his mother had once loved this son of a bitch.

His father shot a look across the room, focusing on a painting of Carrie Monroe hanging above the fireplace. He closed his eyes for a long moment, drew in a deep breath. When his lids lifted again, Travis saw icy control in his father’s eyes.

“All I’m saying is think about what you’re doing. If your wife were really interested in you, she’d have stood by you instead of taking off for almost a year. You and I both know what she’s after.”