by Kay Hooper
On the rare occasions in the past when Ian had seen her—at a distance, naturally, and usually across crowded rooms—he had always been conscious of faint surprise. From tall, robust parents of average looks had come this slight, smoke-eyed, raven-haired woman of unusual and distinctive beauty; she was a throwback to the Celtic ancestors she and Ian could both claim, as physically unlike her present-day family as he was unlike his own.
Ian wondered if the differences were only physical; her brother Jon would have chosen a ride with the devil over one with a Stuart.
Feeling her attention shift back to him, he said, “What are you doing in paradise?”
“Vacationing,” she answered in the same pleasant tone she’d been using, her low voice rather husky. “November in Atlanta was unbearable. All that cold rain. I had vacation time coming to me, and the company wasn’t willing to let me take it next year. So, Martinique.”
She had chosen not to enter the family construction business, he knew. He thought it odd but interesting that she was employed by a large insurance company as an investigator.
“I’d planned to come with a friend,” Michele said, “but she got held up by her job and won’t be arriving for a few more days. How about you?”
“Business,” he answered. “I’m supposed to be meeting a potential client here, but he’s been delayed.”
“You’re an architect, aren’t you?”
He nodded, very conscious that she was looking intently at him. His awareness of her surprised him more than a little. “Like your brother,” he said, and from the corner of his eye saw her grimace slightly.
“I wonder if, pardon the pun, that was by design.”
Smiling faintly, he said, “Jon and I both being architects? I don’t know about your father, but mine wasn’t happy with my career choice. He felt growing up around the construction business provided all the knowledge I’d need to take over the company one day. I was born to follow plans, he said, not draw them.”
She laughed softly, and he was astonished to realize how focused his senses were on her. It was just like the first instant he’d recognized her there by the car, when he had felt the shocked wariness of encountering not an enemy, but something totally unexpected.
“Not by design, then,” she said dryly. “Dad hit the roof when Jon announced his career plans. He complained that all those summers working for the firm had been wasted. He’s come around in the last few years, though, especially after Jon convinced him that an architect would be an asset to the family business.”
“Mine still has reservations,” Ian said. “We argue about once a month, regular as clockwork.”
“Who wins?” she asked, amused.
“Me. Dad says he takes consolation in the knowledge that strong-minded men breed strong-minded sons.”
“And daughters,” Michele commented somewhat dryly.
“Your father didn’t like your being an investigator?”
If she was surprised by his knowledge, it didn’t show on her face. “Are you kidding? Whenever he catches my eye, Dad looks wistfully at some of the old paintings hanging on the walls of our house. All done by our ancestral Southern belles, of course. He didn’t mind my showing horses or running barrels in the rodeo, but he winces whenever he has to face the fact that his gently nurtured daughter is a licensed investigator.”
“Were you never tempted to get into the family business?”
Michele was silent for a moment, her gaze directed at the windshield but unfocused. Then she looked at Ian. “The business end of it interested me, but some of Dad’s goals weren’t mine. I couldn’t see expending so much energy in a rivalry that was so…bitter.”
It was the first time either of them had mentioned the feud. Ian wanted to probe her feelings on the matter, especially since her statements indicated she was far less rabid about it than her father and brother. But they reached the hotel just then, and as he pulled the car into the circular entrance drive, he felt a definite reluctance to part company with Michele Logan.
A parking valet came out to take the car, and they walked into the cool lobby together, both silent. Neither spoke until they were in the elevator. Michele pushed the button for her floor, watched him follow suit, and realized absently that his room was three floors above hers. Then Ian broke the silence in a mild tone.
“We’re both alone here for the time being. Have dinner with me tonight.”
Michele was conscious of shock, but it took her several seconds to realize why.
Because he was a Stuart.
All her life, she had been told repeatedly and with passionate insistence that there was nothing on earth worse than a Stuart—except two of them. Told, moreover, by the father she had always adored. And no matter what logical protests her rational mind could counter with, it was impossible for her to discount what had been drummed into her since childhood.
As the elevator doors opened onto her floor, Ian pressed a button on the control panel to hold them open. He looked at her steadily. “Here at the hotel, of course. The food’s great.”
She drew a short breath, freed at last from a cold place she was horrified to find inside her. A place that had been sown with dark seeds. She felt shaken and was aware of an almost overpowering relief; the seeds might have been sown, but there was nothing dark and twisted growing there. Only an echo of what might have been.
Or what might yet be.
That flashing insight reminded her that she was far more than a mere continuation of a story that had been written in stone five hundred years ago. She was an individual with her own thoughts and beliefs, and it was entirely up to her whether she chose to hate another person—with or without sufficient cause.
And neither this man nor his family had given her any cause to hate.
“Michele?”
Had he ever said her name? She didn’t think so. It felt unfamiliar coming from him, a roughly beautiful sound like nothing she’d ever heard before. She looked up at him, uncertain and more than a little wary, but the cool hint of challenge in his eyes made her decide. “Sure.” Her voice was unsteady, and she concentrated on firming it up. “I’d be glad of the company.”
Ian smiled. “Good. I’ll meet you in the lobby, then. Around seven?”
Michele nodded. “I’ll be there. And thanks for the rescue, Ian.”
“Anytime.”
She got off the elevator, almost immediately turning right to head down the hallway to her room. It wasn’t until she was inside that a shaken laugh escaped her. She felt strange, as if all her emotions had been tumbled about and left in a heap.
She dropped her purse on the big bed and kicked off her sandals, then went to adjust the temperature of the air conditioning. It was unsettling to discover the room was actually cool according to the thermostat; it seemed hot to her. Deciding firmly that the time spent in the sun after her car broke down had given her a very mild case of heat exhaustion, she called room service for a pitcher of iced tea. She spent the next few minutes on the phone with the car rental company, then changed into shorts and went to let the waiter in with her order.
After he’d gone, she banked the pillows on her bed and curled up with a glass of cold tea. She’d turned the television on to a news channel, but didn’t pay much attention even though she stared at the screen.
Ian Stuart. A peripheral part of her life for nearly as long as she could remember, he had suddenly appeared center stage with no warning. And she didn’t know how she felt about that.
A scene from ten years before sprang vividly into her mind, surprising her with its clarity. A show ring during warm-ups for a Grand Prix event. She’d been riding a young horse, expecting nothing from him and intending only to school him over moderate jumps so he could become accustomed to shows. He had balked at the third jump and shied violently, throwing her.
Ian had been there, riding an experienced jumper, and he had been the first to offer her a hand up. Mortified at having been dumped like a Sunday rider practically
at his feet, she had spat a few biting comments on his ancestry and had picked herself up without his help. The sting to her pride had been painful, and it was lucky her young horse wasn’t a timid one who would have been easily ruined by being pushed too hard too soon; when she rode him into the ring later, she was riding fiercely to win.
She had held her mount with iron control, refusing to let him run out at the jumps, driving him over them with sheer determination, riding him harder than ever before. The result had been a spectacular victory, and her horse had become the best jumper she’d ever owned.
All because of embarrassment.
The memory gave her pause. Was it only the ten years between sixteen and twenty-six that made her feel differently about Ian Stuart now? Or did she feel differently? She hadn’t ridden to beat him that day because of family rivalry; the feud between their fathers hadn’t even entered her head. She had done it because the toss had made her feel like a fool, and she’d wanted to show Ian that she was a first-rate rider and could handle any horse.
Childish pride, she decided. That was all. She hadn’t even thought about Ian during the years after that occasion. Oh, she’d seen him from time to time at a distance at social or charity events, and both her father and Jon had offered frequent scathing remarks about the doings of Ian and his father. But she hadn’t thought about him consciously, hadn’t considered his unique and disturbing place in her life. She’d been busy finishing school, going to college, getting a job. She had dated regularly, but hadn’t become deeply involved with any of the men she saw.
The phone on the nightstand rang, and Michele nearly jumped out of her skin. Grimacing, she picked up the receiver. “Hello?”
“They’ve done it to us again,” Jon announced without preamble.
She didn’t have to ask who “they” were, or why her brother had called to tell her about it; Jon tended to keep in touch with her almost daily if she was away from home, and was always quick to report the latest underhanded dealings by the Stuarts.
“What now?” she asked, suppressing the knowledge that her brother would demand her immediate return if she told him that Ian was in Martinique and in the same hotel.
“They’ve bribed half the inspectors, that’s what.” As always, when he spoke of the Stuarts his normally pleasant voice was hard. “Our crews are sitting on their duffs waiting for the final inspections of the electrical and plumbing work, and the inspectors are staring at every piece of wire and pipe in the damned building.”
“Jon, you don’t really believe they’ve bribed city officials?” She made the attempt even though she knew it would be fruitless.
“Payoffs and kickbacks. Hell, you know how it works.”
“I don’t suppose you have any proof?”
“Michele, what’s wrong with you? Since when have the Stuarts been stupid enough to leave fingerprints?” Even that backhanded compliment was grudging.
She leaned back against the headboard of the bed and sighed softly. She loved her brother, but, like their father, he had a wide blind spot when it came to the Stuarts. “Sorry,” she said in a light tone. “I guess it’s just hard to hate in paradise.”
Jon grunted a response that could have meant anything, then asked, “Is Jackie with you?”
“No, she was delayed. She’ll be here in a few days.”
“What’re you going to do?”
Michele could hardly help but laugh. “Brother dear, I believe I can entertain myself for a few days alone. I’ve been pretty good at that since I left the crib.”
“Well, be careful.” He sounded amused by her tart reply, but also a bit restless. “Big girls have more to worry about than little ones, and you’re a long way from home.”
“I’ll be fine, Jon. You just promise me that you and Dad won’t try some harebrained stunt to get even with the Stuarts for what you think they’re doing.”
He laughed. “I’ll probably talk to you tomorrow, Misha.”
His childhood nickname for her reassured her only a little, because he hadn’t promised. “Jon—”
“Don’t fall for some tall, dark stranger. Bye.”
Michele cradled the receiver, troubled. She got up to refill her glass, then settled back on the bed. She didn’t feel guilty at not having told Jon about Ian’s presence. Her brother had always been overly protective of her when it came to men, and he would have reacted violently to the knowledge.
But she was disturbed, both by what could be happening in Atlanta and by her own actions here. Her rational mind told her that having dinner with a man in the hotel was nothing to be worried about, but the fact that the man was Ian Stuart troubled her a great deal.
She glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Five. In two hours, she was supposed to sit down to a civilized meal with the sworn enemy of her father and brother. The very thought seemed melodramatic, but Michele wasn’t tempted to laugh, or even to mock it. She was only too aware that the simple act of having dinner with Ian Stuart was enough to tear violently the fabric of her family.
If they ever found out.
—
He was standing near the desk in the lobby when Michele came out of the elevator, and she walked toward him steadily with the unnerved feeling of having burned her bridges. She had dressed to give herself courage; the midnight-blue linen dress she wore was full-skirted and high-necked, but left her back and arms bare, and she knew the style suited her.
He must have thought so, too, for she could see the appreciation in his striking pale blue eyes as he looked at her. He, too, was dressed informally in a light-brown jacket and dark slacks, with his white shirt open at the throat.
“I thought you might stand me up,” he murmured as she reached him.
“I almost did,” she admitted honestly.
“What made you change your mind?”
Michele drew a short breath. “Sheer cussedness, I guess. I like to make up my own mind about things.”
“And people?”
“And people.” She managed a smile.
Ian smiled slightly as well, but his eyes were very intent. “Of course, the fact that no one’s going to know about this didn’t influence you at all.”
“Of course not. Besides, you could have hired a photographer to take pictures to send to my father.” She blinked, conscious of shock at her own words.
Ian took her arm lightly and began leading her across the lobby toward the dining room. “I didn’t.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”
“Because you’ve been taught to suspect the motives of anyone named Stuart.”
“Do you suspect my motives?”
“No.”
Michele looked up at him as they walked, a little surprised to find that her head barely topped his shoulder even though she was wearing heels. “Why not?” She was honestly curious, wondering if their upbringings had been so different or if Ian had simply risen above his.
Ian didn’t answer until they’d been shown to their table in the quiet restaurant. When they were supplied with menus and left alone again, he looked across the table at her. “Because I think you’re honest, Michele. If you wanted to fight me, you’d do it openly.”
“With all my motives flying like flags?”
“Yes. I wish you could believe the same about me.”
She hesitated, but couldn’t lie. “I want to. The rational part of me does.”
“But,” he murmured.
Michele nodded. “But. I was thinking about it up in my room. Do you suppose that after five hundred years it’s become embedded in the genes?”
“I’d hate to believe that.”
“So would I.” She bent her head and began studying the menu, adding lightly, “I’m starved. I skipped lunch so I could explore the island.”
The soft lighting in the dining room combined with her black hair and gleaming blue dress to lend her a curiously insubstantial air. And her manner toward him intensified the impression, because she was troubled and wary
. Ian couldn’t stop looking at her, even as he told himself this was worse than reckless, it was insane.
He wasn’t worried about sitting across a dinner table from Michele Logan; that was certainly harmless and even his father—after an initial explosion—would be able to make little of it. What bothered him was his reaction to her. Every fleeting expression in her smoke-gray eyes fascinated him, and her delicate face held his gaze as if she were his lodestar.
When he had taken her arm and walked beside her through the lobby, he had been vividly aware of her warmth, of the faintly spicy scent of her perfume. He had wanted to put his hand on her bare back, to touch the pale gold skin that looked so soft and silky. Then she had glanced up at him with those haunting eyes, and he’d felt a jolt to some part of him. He didn’t know what it meant, but he knew instinctively that something had been forever changed by it.
“I think I’ll have the chicken.” She looked at him, faint color rising in her cheeks. “How about you?”
He realized that she had felt him staring at her, that she was disturbed by the steady gaze. “The same,” he said, without the faintest idea of what he was agreeing to.
Michele folded her hands over the menu and fixed her eyes on them. In a conversational tone, she said, “What we were talking about before is something neither of us can forget, you know. Suspicions. Whether they’re embedded in the genes or the mind, they’re still there.”
“I don’t have any reason to hate you, Michele. And you have no reason to hate me.”
She nodded. “I know. But not hating is one thing; becoming friends is something else. Even if we could, I mean. Even if we wanted to. Because it isn’t just us.”
“Why?” He leaned toward her unconsciously, wanting her to look at him so he could see what she was thinking and feeling. He didn’t think about what he was saying, he simply felt compelled to make her understand something that was very clear to him. “It’s just us here, Michele. No fathers or brothers looking over our shoulders. Nobody around who gives a damn if we’re enemies, friends…or lovers.”
