Terms of Surrender Read online

  A Potent Sensation of DéjàVu

  Washed Through Angie and

  She Swayed Slightly

  Under Its Dizzying Effects ...

  Seeing Deke again, it had never occurred to Angie that the sexual attraction they had once known would still exist. But it did . . .

  The faint lift of a dark eyebrow revealed that Deke noticed it, too. His gaze took on a lazy, sensual quality. Angie was suddenly aware of his forceful virility. ..

  “You’re feeling it, too, aren’t you?” His low voice was husky with disturbed desire.

  “Yes,” Angie admitted.

  But she wasn’t given a chance to discuss it as hard, masculine lips covered hers ...

  Books by Janet Dalley

  The Pride of Hannah Wade

  Silver Wings, Santiago Blue

  Calder Born, Calder Bred

  Stands a Calder Man

  This Calder Range

  This Calder Sky

  Foxfire Light

  The Hostage Bride

  The Lancaster Men

  For the Love of God

  Terms of Surrender

  Night Way

  Ride the Thunder

  The Rogue

  Touch the Wind

  Published by POCKET BOOKS

  Most Pocket Books are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotions, premiums or fund raising. Special books or book excerpts can also be created to fit specific needs.

  For details write the office of the Vice President of Special Markets, Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020.

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  Copyright © 1982 by Janet Dailey

  Cover artwork copyright © 1985 George Jones

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce

  this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  For information address Simon & Schuster, Inc., 1230

  Avenue of the Americas, New York, N.Y. 10020

  Originally published by Silhouette Books.

  ISBN: 978-1-4391-8912-2

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-8912-2

  eISBN-13: 978-1-4516-3985-8

  First Pocket Books printing June, 1985

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  Chapter One

  The state highway started its scenic curve around the Ski Basin, its waters calm and reflecting the blue of a Texas sky. Angie Hall slowed her blue Pinto car, an action not dictated by the approach to the Rockport business district or any speed limits. As she rolled down the window on the driver’s side, she caught the tangy scent of Gulf air. A gull’s cry sounded apart from the noise of the highway traffic.

  Her hands gripped the car’s steering wheel until her knuckles showed white. At the split in the road, Angie took the business route rather than the bypass around the downtown district. She parked her car in the first available space along the main street and remained behind the wheel for a long moment just staring at the sights that had changed so little in seven years.

  Someone strolled along the sidewalk and sent a curious glance inside the car, prodding Angie into an awareness of how long she had sat, unmoving. Extracting the key from the ignition, she glanced out the window for oncoming traffic, then climbed out of her car, not bothering to lock it.

  Nothing was coming so she quickly jaywalked across the street. The click-click of her backless heels on the pavement echoed behind her and made it seem as if someone was following her, but it was only the past and its memories. Angie paused on the other side, then moved slowly toward the small harbor. White designer jeans showed off the length of her legs and the eye-catching curve of her hips. The short-sleeved velour top of garnet red was less revealing of her figure, only hinting at the fullness of her breasts.

  The salty breath of a Gulf breeze moved familiarly over her as if in rediscovery. There was almost a caressing quality to it as it tangled itself in the amber length of her hair and whispered over her face. Inwardly, Angie struggled against the sensation while her smooth features remained unusually expressionless, determined not to reveal the brittle tension within, but there was a troubled darkness in her indigo eyes, an uncertainty and apprehension.

  As she neared the small harbor, the freshness of the salt air became tainted with a pungent fishy smell. Most of it was caused by the short row of bait shops, but some of it drifted from the shrimp boats at the docks. Angie wandered closer to them, drawn by an invisible force. A brown pelican was perched on the bow of one of the shrimp boats, but Angie didn’t notice it or the screeching gulls overhead.

  The long arms that held the shrimp nets at sea, were upraised, a certain starkness to their line. But her mind flashed back to that summer seven years ago when boats such as these were gaily festooned with decorations for the annual Blessing of the Shrimp Fleet. It was part of the “Shrimporee” celebration in the larger community of Aransas Pass, just down the road from Rockport. Those July days had been such fun-filled times that summer, dominated by a reckless, devil-may-care attitude. When a girl is seventeen, it’s so easy to forget there’s a tomorrow.

  Angie turned sharply away from the shrimp boats, wanting to shut out from her mind what had come after the celebrations. She had spent seven years shutting it out—so what was she doing here? But Angie refused to acknowledge the question. Instinct was a primal thing that dictated its own course of action.

  It was a gesture of inner tension that lifted her hand to push the blond hair off her cheek as Angie circled to the front of the bait shops that also booked charter fishing excursions. She absently read their signboards, absorbing none of the words. The late morning sun was warm in the subtropical climate of the Texas Gulf Coast, even though it was November.

  “Could I interest you in a charter, miss?” A man’s voice drawled to her left. “We’ve had some real good luck lately deep-sea fishing.”

  A middle-aged man with a thickening waistline leaned an elbow on the jutting edge of an exterior counter a few paces ahead of Angie. A dingy white captain’s hat was perched atop his silvering dark hair and his navy blue windbreaker was unzipped. His benign features had a weathered look from years of sun and sea. The inquiry was more of a friendly overture to start a conversation than an outright attempt to hawk his ware.

  Angie responded, accepting the distraction conversation offered. “Not this time, I’m afraid.” She half-smiled and idled in front of the bait stand. “It certainly is a beautiful day for it, though,” she said with a glance at the clear sky overhead.

  “Couldn’t be better,” he agreed, then eyed her with a mildly inquisitive look. “Do you live around here or are you on holiday?”

  A wariness claimed her even though Angie knew the man was attempting to pry. “On holiday,” she admitted and quickly added, “just passing through on my way to Corpus Christi and on down to the valley.” She was unnecessarily forceful about the clarification of her plans, stating them firmly to remind herself.

  “You might want to take a look around this area before driving all that way. It has a lot to offer,” he insisted in praise of his own community. “And it’s not so crowded. ’Course, in a couple weeks, the ’snowbirds’ will be flocking in all up and down the coast.” After a slight pause, he explained, “’Snowbirds’ is the name we give to all the folks who come south to spend the winter.”

  Her smile was stiff. “I’ve heard the term before.” She didn’t give him a chance to ask how she knew it and hurried to elaborate on her vacation plans. “Once I reach B
rownsville, I thought I’d cross the border into Mexico and do some shopping. I’ve been told a person can find a lot of bargains there.”

  “And that’s something no woman can resist.” The man smiled broadly.

  “I guess not,” Angie admitted, not caring that she was perpetuating a myth about her sex. She suddenly had no desire to continue the conversation, not even sure why she had begun it in the first place. She took an initial step to move away. “I’d better be on my way.”

  “You have a safe trip.” The friendly fishing boat captain made no attempt to detain her, lifting a hand in a half-salute.

  “Thanks.” Her reply was almost absent as Angie turned away and began retracing her steps to the parked car.

  While she waited at the curb for the oncoming traffic to go by, she caught herself intently studying each vehicle in search of a familiar one. With a self-reproving shake of her head, she quit looking. That was crazy. No one would be driving the same car for seven years and least of all Deke Blackwood. Forget. Forget. Forget. The word drummed in her head, its cadence familiar from long repetition.

  There was a gap in the flow of traffic and Angie darted across the street to her waiting car, sliding into the driver’s seat and slamming the door. She glanced in the rear-view mirror and saw the reflection of an attractive, self-contained woman of twenty-four. Angie knew the secrets hidden behind those dark blue eyes, the events of the past that haunted her. The decision she’d made seven years ago had been the practical one—the logical one—the sensible one; given the same set of circumstances, she would probably make the same decision again—so why couldn’t she accept it?

  Driven by a self-impatience, Angie started the engine and made an abrupt U-turn in the middle of the street, leaving the business district behind and traveling the state highway once more. It was several minutes before she realized where she was going. By then, Angie had already made the turn that would take her out to the Key. She surrendered to the impulse to see the house where she had stayed with her aunt that summer seven years ago. Looking across the inlet, she could see the land had been greatly developed in the interim with townhouses and condominiums as well as private homes. The yacht basin was filled with boats of varying shapes and sizes.

  Before reaching the bridge that would take her across to the Key, Angie passed a grove of live oak trees. The prevailing breeze from the Gulf had picturesquely sculpted the trees, bending them over and raking their limbs over their lowered tops. It was a common sight along the Texas Gulf Coast—more typical than the palm trees that dotted the residential lawns on the Key.

  Even though it had been seven years since she’d been to her aunt’s house and a multitude of new ones had sprung up around it, Angie had no difficulty in locating it. Raised on stilts to protect it from a storm’s waves, the house was painted an egg-shell blue instead of the sea green her aunt had chosen. Tricycles and toys were scattered over its driveway and lawn, revealing the house’s present owners had young children. Angie slowed the car to a stop at the curb to look.

  Within seconds her gaze was drawn to the large Spanish-style dwelling on the corner lot across the street. A canal ran behind it, allowing homeowners to dock their boats virtually in their backyards. There was an empty look to the house, an unlived-in quality. Angie wasn’t surprised since it was only a summer home for the Blackwoods, a place near the Gulf to escape the inland heat. During the rest of the year, it wasn’t used.

  Staring, she sat behind the wheel of the car, the engine idling. One of the neighbors noticed the strange car at the curb and came to investigate its occupant. Angie wasn’t aware of the man’s approach until he bent to peer in the driver’s window.

  “Are you trying to find a certain address, miss?” he inquired, polite yet wary.

  “No. That is—” Realizing that her behavior might seem suspicious, she explained, “My aunt, Lillie Beth Franklin, used to live in this house several years ago. I was in the area so I thought I’d come by to see if the place had changed much.”

  Between her explanation and her respectable, as well as attractive appearance, the aging gentleman was no longer concerned about the reason for her presence. “I imagine you see a lot of change. Houses have sprung up like mushrooms out here.”

  “They certainly have,” Angie agreed, and let her gaze wander back to the red-tiled roof of the house on the opposite corner. “Do the Blackwoods still own the hacienda-style home over there?”

  “They do,” he nodded. “’Course, they only open it in the summer. The rest of the year it’s shut. They own a big ranch outside of town aways.” The man gave her a considering look. “Were you a friend of the Blackwoods?”

  Angie hesitated, a lot of things trembling on the edge of her tongue, but only one escaped. “Marissa Blackwood and I are about the same age. We used to pal around together when I visited my aunt.”

  “A lovely young woman.” His head bobbed in approval. His brown golfer’s cap reminded Angie of a cork. “Warm and friendly. You should stop by the ranch and see her.”

  Angie flexed her fingers and curled them tightly around the steering wheel. “We’ve lost touch over the years,” she said by way of an indirect reply to his suggestion. Overcome with a sudden restlessness, she flashed the man a quick smile. “I guess I’d better be going before I’m accused of loitering. It was nice talking to you.”

  “My pleasure. Strictly my pleasure.”

  The man straightened as Angie shifted the car into gear and pulled away from the curb. After crossing the bridge, she headed back to the highway. This time she passed the intersection to the business district of Rockport. She’d traveled only a few blocks when she noticed an old-time service station that had been converted into a short-order cafe specializing in Texas barbeque. It had been the site of one of her favorite hangouts that summer. There was an “Open” sign in the window.

  With it almost noon time, Angie flipped on the car’s turn signals and crossed the lane to park next to the building. Leaving the car, she entered the little cafe. It had changed so little that it was all poignantly familiar to her, although she didn’t recognize the couple working behind the counter.

  Two customers were ahead of her—workmen by their clothes. While she waited her turn, Angie looked around the small interior. The table and four chairs by the window had been “their” table. She and Deke had sat on the side facing the door, and his sister Marissa and her boyfriend—what was his name? Kyle? Cobb? Angie couldn’t remember. There was only a dim image of a boyish-looking face and dark hair.

  “What can I get for you, ma’m?”

  Half-startled, Angie turned to face the man on the opposite side of the counter. She had to check the impulse to say “the usual.” “Sliced barbeque beef sandwich and a Coke.”

  She watched him slice a portion of meat from the succulent beef brisket. The outside had been seared to hold in the natural juices, then coated with a tangy sauce, and cooked slowly until it was fork-tender. Angie became aware of the appetizing aromas that filled the little cafe. There was nothing like a Texas barbeque. Deke had told her it was because the meat was cooked over mesquite wood, its smoke adding a unique flavor to the meat—so she recalled.

  After paying for her order, Angie carried the tray with her sandwich and drink away from the counter. No one was seated at “their” table, but she walked to a smaller one. The food tasted as good as she remembered it had, yet after a couple of bites, her appetite fled. She didn’t know whether to blame the empty table by the window or the sudden freshness of her memories. She forced down a couple more bites, then gave up, nearly bolting from the café.

  Once in the car, she drove away somewhat blindly. Her palms were sweating and her stomach seemed to churn with tension. She paid little attention to where she was going. All her actions seemed to be automatic, not needing conscious direction.

  It was something of a jolt when Angie discovered the car was motionless, and the motor switched off. She looked around, catching her breath and holdi
ng it when she saw the elementary school across the way. She suddenly realized that all her previous stops had been leading up to this moment. She had been gathering her nerve to come here.

  She left the car and crossed the street to the school’s entrance. It was lunch period and the schoolyard was crowded with young children. Their laughter and shouts tugged at her. She lingered to watch them at play, studying their carefree faces for a long moment before entering the building.

  Her first stop was the principal’s office. Angie was quaking with nervous tremors as the secretary/receptionist rose from her desk. The plump woman’s expression was friendly, but inquisitive.

  “Hello. I’m Angie . . . Smith. I used to live here when I was younger.” Which was a half-truth—just as the name she’d given was. Angie forced a lightness into her voice, attempting to hide the intense strain that threatened to break her. “I’ve been revisiting some of my old haunts and wondered if it would be all right if I wandered around the building.” When the woman hesitated, Angie added, “I won’t be staying long—less than half an hour. And I promise not to disrupt or intrude on any classes.”

  After an inspecting glance, the woman smiled. “I see no harm in it.”

  “Thank you.” Angie began retreating from the office, tension knotting her stomach.

  The hallways seemed to contain a waiting silence. As she walked along the corridor, the noise made by the high heels of her sandal shoes was a definite intrusion. She was gripped by the sensation that she should leave before it was too late, that she should forget everything and walk away while she could. Every logical, practical, sensible bone in her body told her to do just that, but she was driven by an instinct much more elemental and primitive.

  Her steps slowed when she reached the door to the first grade classroom. It stood open. Angle hesitated for several tense seconds before venturing inside. There was no one in the room, although it was evident the abandonment was only temporary. Angie wandered to the rows of desks, her fingers trailing across a smooth top. Preoccupied, she didn’t hear the approach of footsteps outside the door.