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“This isn’t any more difficult for you than it is for me,” Mara reminded him. “Less than twenty-four hours ago, I still thought that you were dead, and now I find out that for four years you deliberately hid away from me. Four years!”

“Not intentionally,” he clarified, again taking solace in the view of the mountains from the back porch. “Remember, I thought that you had betrayed me.”

“There’s just so much that we have to work out, don’t you see?” Mara asked, reaching out and touching his cheek.

“I don’t know if I can wait,” he admitted moodily, and rubbed his forearms in frustration. “I want to see Angie now, this very minute, and I want to change her name to Kennedy. If I have a child, I want that child to bear my name and live with me. Enough of this pretense about her being Wilcox’s child!”

Mara let her hand slide from his cheek to his shoulder, but if he noticed her gesture of consolation, he didn’t respond. “I’m not asking for you to give up anything that is rightfully yours. I wouldn’t. I’m only asking for a little bit of patience. Maybe after you meet with Angie, actually see her, touch her, talk to her, you’ll understand. She’s a little precocious—perhaps spoiled, and she’s only three. She needs to get to know you before we try and explain that you’re her ‘real’ father.”

Shane’s face was captured in a storm of emotions. He wanted desperately to believe and trust Mara, and he couldn’t fault her reasoning. But there was a deep, primeval urge that controlled him and argued that he should immediately claim what was rightfully his.

“There are other people to consider, too,” Mara suggested.

“Who?” Anger and frustration were boiling just beneath the surface of his visibly calm exterior.

“June, for one, and—”

Shane interrupted viciously. “June?” he sneered in contempt. “Peter’s mother? You’re concerned about her welfare?”

“Of course I am. She’s not particularly well, and the shock of finding out that Angie isn’t her grandchild . . . well, I don’t think that it would be particularly good for her health. I don’t want to do anything that might worsen her condition.”

“Condition? Are we talking about the same woman who wouldn’t let me in to see you on the day of the funeral?” he demanded in disgust. “You’re concerned about her welfare, when she has had every opportunity to know and love my daughter as her own grandchild? Stop the theatrics, Mara—June Wilcox has already gotten more than she deserves!”

“She’s not well,” Mara attempted to explain, but Shane silenced her with a rueful stare.

“Neither is my father,” he said through clenched teeth. “As a matter of fact, he’s in a nursing home, and he hasn’t even suspected that he has a granddaughter, much less one that is going on four years old. Would you deny him the joy of knowing Angie in order to promote the charade of your life as the faithful wife of Peter Wilcox?”

“No . . . but . . .” Shane was seething. He dusted off his hands and leaned against one of the heavy white posts that supported the porch roof. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched Mara, mutely inviting her to continue her denial and explanation. She could tell that he was tired of the conversation, and that his anger was simmering just under the surface of his self-control. Barely concealed rage fired his ebony eyes, and Mara found herself desperately attempting to control the conversation that was rapidly deteriorating into another battle.

“But what?” Shane prodded as her voice trailed off. He came up with his own assumptions. “But Peter’s mother’s state of mind is more important than Angie’s real grandfather? The man that’s lying in an Atlanta nursing home, barely able to feed himself. The man that doesn’t evenknowabout his grandchild. Is that what you were beginning to say?”

Mara shook her head violently, and the golden curls of her hair moved in soft waves against the light peach color of her robe. “Of course your father has to know,” she said quietly.

“When, Mara? Today? Next week? Six months from now? Ever? When will you think the time is right?” Shane asked, his fists clenching and relaxing against his body.

“Just how long would you be willing to wait, gambling on my father’s health?”

Suddenly Shane looked old. His hastily donned clothing was wrinkled, and the shadow of a beard that darkened the lower half of his face seemed to age him. The barely controlled fury that had taken hold of him when he understood Mara’s position emphasized the deep lines that etched his arrogant forehead. His eyes, dark and distrustful, never left Mara’s face. They silently challenged her, dared her to deny him.

Mara couldn’t answer. Her emotions had tangled up within her to the point that she couldn’t speak. How could she expect him to understand? How could she ask him to wait? And yet, what else could she do? It had taken four years to get where they were today; could it all be undone in just a few minutes?

Shane’s voice challenged her pensive thoughts. “Are you sure that your only concern is for Angie, and for Peter’s mother?”

“You have to understand that—”

“What, Mara?” he demanded. “That you’re afraid to give up what little hold and control you have on the Wilcox estate? The role of Peter’s widow gives you control of the corporation, doesn’t it?”

“Peter’s will has nothing to do with us!”

“Doesn’t it?”

“Of course not! If I were concerned about my ownership of the stock, I wouldn’t be foolish enough to tell you about Angie, would I?” she tossed angrily to him. “Honestly, Shane, I don’t think I know you anymore. How could you think so little of me—after all we shared together?”

“Then why the wait?” he demanded. “I’ve met June Wilcox, and I doubt that she really is sick. And as for Angie, I think she probably will adjust to me without too much trouble. This entire argument is about the Wilcox fortune, unless I miss my guess. Aren’t you afraid that when Angie’s true identity is announced, the rest of Peter’s family will contest his will and try and take back whatever inheritance Peter left you and Angie? After all, how does anyone know that Peter knew the secret of Angie’s paternity—they have only your word, don’t they? And that won’t count for much, believe me. As far as the Wilcox family is concerned, June included, you’re a traitor, Mara, and I doubt that they would tolerate you running Imagination Toys . . . or—” his gaze swept the vast estate, bathed in early morning sunlight “—allow you to be mistress of this house . . .”

“No!” Mara cried, leaning against the polished white railing for support. “It wouldn’t be like that!”

“Prove it!”