Page 12 of Conail (Members From Money Season 2, #150)

"You bastard." Her eyes were heated, her chest heaving with a surprising hurt.

She really liked him—more than liked him—and had thought their relationship was evolving.

Conail McLaughin had a way about him that made women like her want to press his head to her breasts and offer comfort.

And if she was being honest, she wanted to be the one to help him to get over the horror of his past with that bitch.

But he never gives an inch. How the hell was she supposed to handle him?

She had tried staying away, but that had not worked.

After a few weeks of trying to make him come to heel, she had been the one to call and ask to see him.

She stared at the lean attractive face with the stubborn chin and yearned to have his arms around her.

Even now, knowing that he meant to dump her at her apartment, she could still want him.

"What is it going to take to get through to you?" she asked quietly, her anger diffusing. What's the use anyway? she thought wearily.

He looked at her in genuine surprise. "I have no idea what you mean."

"You're allowing them to win. I'm here willing to offer you myself and you're so steeped in the past, you cannot see it."

"Don't," he warned, voice no longer mild, but icy with disapproval.

She told herself to stop. She knew what an argument with him would result in. Another cold shoulder and refusal to take her phone calls, but she figured she had nothing left to lose.

"You're stuck in the past." She lifted her chin and stared at him bravely.

"They're living their lives and you're barely existing.

So, your trust was betrayed. Get over it already and start living.

" She turned around to face him, flinching at the cold mask covering his face.

Touching his hand lightly, she continued.

"I'm here darling. All I need is a chance. "

His eyes flickered over the exquisitely made-up face briefly and realized that he felt nothing.

"We've arrived." Putting away the glass, he leaned forward and pressed an impersonal kiss on her forehead. "Congratulations again." Pushing the button, he wound the glass down and indicated for the driver to step out.

Picking up her wrap, Margo Sullivan who had just won an Emmy award for the best female character in a long running soap, gathered her dignity around her like the wrap she draped over her shoulders and exited the vehicle, her pride in tatters.

*****

If he had thought that spending the weekend at his club would bring him some sort of peace, he was dead wrong.

He felt guilty at treating Margo the way he had.

It was not her fault that he had started off the evening on a bad vibe.

The news of the surrogate's pregnancy had brought back the troubling memories of his past.

He had managed to push them aside for the premiere and even on the ride to the club.

But now alone in his room, they came back with a vengeance.

Even at the hour of midnight when he arrived, the club was in full swing.

It was the beginning of the fall weather, and the activities were many and varied.

Several card games were being played—he had refused the invitation to join in of course, pleading exhaustion.

And there was a party in full swing in one of the massive ballrooms. He had slipped quietly to his reserved suite and was now wondering if that had been a mistake.

His head was throbbing from the liquor he had imbibed on the plane.

And he was not sleepy. Exhausted but not enough to close his eyes and go to sleep.

Another pregnancy, he thought bitterly. But at least with this one, he could guarantee that the baby would be his.

There would be no more excited anticipation, no more running to doctor's appointments, planning for the nursery and waiting eagerly to hear the sex of the baby or planning a wedding.

No more of that nonsense. This was strictly business, just the way he preferred it.

Clean and clinical without the emotions attached.

Rising, he walked towards the glass doors that separated his room from the balcony and stepped out.

He did not mind the bite of the wind whipping at his clothing.

His room faced the east and the various tennis courts and two swimming pools.

And even at this hour, people were out playing.

He could easily make out two acquaintances from out of town, swinging their nets with enthusiasm.

He supposed he was going to have to make up for his grouchy mood by having breakfast with them in the morning.

Something he was not looking forward to.

He leaned against the railing, lost in a sea of troubled thoughts. The moonlight danced on the surface of the pool, casting shadows that seemed to mimic the turmoil within him. The memories he had tried so hard to bury were surfacing with an intensity that left him breathless.

The surrogate's pregnancy was supposed to be a new beginning, a chance to move forward without the weight of the past. But instead, it had reopened old wounds, reminding him of the promises broken and the dreams that had slipped through his fingers.

He clenched his fists, feeling the chill of the night seep into his bones, as if the cold could somehow numb the pain.

His mind drifted back to Margo, her brave face and the hope she had offered him.

He had pushed her away, unable to accept the love and support she freely gave.

It was easier to remain detached, to avoid the risk of further heartbreak.

Yet, he couldn't shake the guilt that gnawed at him for treating her so callously.

As he stood there, staring into the night, he wondered if he would ever find the peace he so desperately sought.

The club, once a sanctuary, now felt like a prison, trapping him in a cycle of regret and sorrow.

He had to find a way out, to break free from the chains of his past and embrace the possibility of a future.

The sound of laughter and music from the ballroom floated on the breeze, a stark contrast to the silence that enveloped him.

He knew he couldn't hide forever, that he had to face the world and the decisions he had made.

Taking a deep breath, he resolved to make amends, to start by reaching out to Margo and apologizing for his behavior.

*****

"Madeline." His voice was remote and distant, something that had her heart turning over inside her chest. She had just come from visiting with his mother and sister, sharing the good news. None of them mentioned the fact that the baby would never be Yasmine's.

"Hi." Rubbing her moist palms over the thighs of her faded denims, she faced him resolutely. She had to act fast, because time was running out. He was seeing Bella, the sharp looking doctor that just breezed into town a few weeks ago. "Anything I can do to help?"

He was milking Betsy, the pail brimming over with fresh milk. Even though milk straight from the cow was not popular, a few people still appreciated it, and she knew his mother also used it in her baking.

He looked over at her with a skeptical look on his handsome face.

"Like what?" He watched in amusement as her chin lifted, and eyes sparkled. She looked so neat and tidy in her jeans and snug sweater. Her hair was scraped back into a tidy bun at the nape of her neck, and she wasn't wearing makeup. His blood stirred.

"I live on a farm," she said loftily as if that explained everything.

"Doesn't mean squat." He snorted when she pulled up a stool and grabbed a pail.

"You're going to get dirty."

"Water's not scarce." Her hands, delicate ones that he remembered clearly, running up and down his back, stroked Betsy's flank.

"How's business?"

She spared him a glance as she worked her way to Betsy's swollen teat and started to pull gently but firmly.

"Good. It's picking up."

"Heard Bill is suing Alfred over a patch of land."

"Small town." She shook her head. Her lip was tucked between her teeth as she concentrated on the task. "Makes me worry about Yasmine's condition coming out." She glanced at him. "It will eventually, and people are going to start to speculate. She signed an NDA."

"That she did." He shrugged, not sure how he felt about his sister being remotely knocked up as he liked to think of it. The child would be his blood, but they wouldn't have access to him or her. It struck him as weird and not quite right.

"They'll probably figure some fancy dude knocked her up in the city and that he's married. The reason for her running back home."

"It's not right."

"We know why she's doing it and that's all that matters."

She glanced over at him and felt the ache starting. His plaid shirt was plastered to his broad shoulders. He had rolled up the sleeves and his muscles bunched and quivered as he worked. She felt the saliva pooling.

"How do you feel about the entire thing?"

He shrugged again. "I try not to think about it."

"But you do," she deduced. "The child is going to be your niece or nephew because she contributed to half of the conception and at the end of it, it will be as if her discomfort and months of stress will be for nothing."

He felt a quick jolt at her summation because it was exactly what he was thinking.

"She's doing it for a good reason."

"Which is very admirable." She pulled down on the teat and grunted. "It doesn't take away from the fact that she's not going to walk away from it whole."

He finished the milking and put away the pail, his anger surfacing. "Why the hell are you telling me this?"

Tamping down her irritation at his unreasonable attack on her, she finished the milking and took away the pail. "Just saying."

"Well, you need to keep your opinions to yourself."

She rose and faced him, eyes flashing. "It's a free country."

"Just get the hell away from me and let me finish my work."

She planted her feet and shoved at him, hands slapping against his chest. His eyes flared.

"You want to be careful."

"Or what?" She shoved harder this time. "You're going to push back?"

His control snapped, and his hands snaked up to clamp around her slender wrists.

He yanked her forward, fingers biting into her skin.

At first it was anger propelling him and then the scent of her elusive perfume assailed his nostrils.

With a feral growl, he hauled her up to her toes and crushed his mouth to hers.

After the first stunned second of shock and surprise, she grabbed hold of his shirt and poured everything into the kiss.