Destiny Bay Boxed Set Vol. 1 (Books 1 - 3)

by Helen Conrad

  CHAPTER ONE:

  The Maxwell Party

  “Pork bellies!”

  Carrie Harlow winced and blinked rapidly, desperate to look interested, wobbling a bit on the four-inch heels Jerry Maxwell had insisted she wear to his mother’s garden party.

  “Corn futures. Mutual funds.”

  Bob Bisby, the short, plump man who’d collared her, was excitedly explaining investments, but he might as well have been speaking Etruscan.

  “Hedge against inflation ... Standard and Poor’s ...”

  The last thing she’d expected at a Maxwell party was boredom. The Maxwells were at the pinnacle of Destiny Bay society, such as it was. Carrie had grown up thinking of them as small-town royalty—sublime people far above her reach.

  But that was before she started dating Jerry Maxwell.

  “Open trading ... Interest rates . . .”

  Shifting her weight and renewing her smile, she pushed her golden hair back behind her ear and quickly glanced around the lovely gardens, wondering where Jerry was. She needed rescuing badly. The trouble was, she didn’t know many of the people at this party. There was no one to throw her a lifeline.

  Suddenly her dark gaze connected with a pair of cynical blue eyes from across the lawn, and she forgot all about the Stock Exchange. In that moment she felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her. The voices around her faded. Even the air went still.

  The man wasn’t traditionally handsome, but there was a strength about him that set him apart. The corners of his wide mouth were turned up, but he wasn’t smiling at her. She had the impression that he was totally bored and was watching her for entertainment value.

  Did she know him? She wasn’t sure. There was something about him that looked familiar, but she couldn’t dredge up a name to match his face. She only knew that he was silently laughing at her.

  She flushed, resenting him already. It was hard enough negotiating this yard in four-inch heels. She didn’t need someone mocking her.

  Tall and broad-shouldered, he stood out, and not only because of his hard, striking face. As he moved, Carrie noticed that he had a pronounced and painful limp. She winced. Even if she hated him, he didn’t deserve that. It looked like it hurt—a lot.

  “A forty-percent return on your money in just two years,” Bob Bisby was assuring her.

  “What?” she asked blankly, watching from under lowered lashes as the dark haired, blue-eyed man began to make his way through the chattering guests. Then she realized he was coming their way. Her heart began to beat harder. He came past the fountain, under the rose arbor, and then straight toward the punch bowl she and the financial adviser guy were standing in front of.

  She looked around quickly for a way to get out of his path, but every direction was blocked except the one he was coming from.

  “This amazing emerging growth series reaps long-term capital appreciation. ...”

  “How exciting,” she murmured, but her attention was on the man brushing by her, reaching for the ladle in the punch bowl, filling a crystal cup. The June day was warm, but suddenly she found herself holding her arms in tightly, as though there was a chill in the air. She didn’t look around, but she could feel the man behind her. He was only inches away, and she had a sense that he was making a study of her neck.

  Preparing to take a bite?

  She shivered. And then she knew what was making her feel so strange. Every nerve ending in her body was tingling with a primitive warning of danger.

  Her eyes widened, and she stared hard at Bob, willing herself not to look behind her. She’d been longing for a rescuer, but something told her that this stranger wasn’t it.

  Go away, she begged silently. Stay away from me.

  But he didn’t go away. He lingered, standing so close she thought she could hear him breathe. And when he spoke, they both swung around to stare up into his penetrating gaze.

  “Buy low and sell high,” he said softly, looking at her with a familiarity that was almost offensive. “And never take advice from a man in a seersucker suit.”

  Bob laughed uproariously, as though he’d made the joke of the season, pulling at the seersucker fabric of his own jacket all the while, as though pointing out just how adroit he’d been.

  But the man was still looking at her, the hint of a smile in his eyes. Reaching out lazily, he pretended to brush a curl from her cheek and tuck it behind her ear. He gave her a wink and turned to go, making his way back across the lawn.

  Carrie watched him go, breathing hard in a way that was pure embarrassment and shooting daggers at his back. Still, something told her he was someone she didn’t want to mess with.

  “Do you know him?” Bob asked eagerly, not at all offended.

  Carrie shook her head. “I’m not sure. Who is he?”

  “Grant Carrington. The race-car driver.”

  “Oh.”

  No wonder she’d thought she might have known him in earlier years. The Carrington family were local hot shots too, only in a different way from the Maxwells. When she’d been an adolescent, the three Carrington brothers were considered demigods among the teenaged set. But she’d never really known them. They were older than she was, and anyway, they went to prep school and spent summers on the country club tennis courts and in the swimming pool. Not exactly her scene.

  After six years of living in Chicago, first studying, then practicing as a physical therapist, Carrie had returned to Destiny Bay, her childhood home on the Central California Coast, and there had been a lot of changes while she’d been gone. New people, new buildings, even new roads.

  And now Grant Carrington, a real celebrity, had come home and bought a summer house right in their midst.

  That was unusual. Celebrities were stacked like cordwood in Laguna and Balboa and Malibu, all seaside towns to the south. But Destiny Bay, with its odd, Victorian houses and its comatose social scene, had never attracted any of the paparazzi bait glitterati. Until now.

  “He’s wonderful, just wonderful,” Bob said, gushing.

  “Is he?”

  So much for the man’s stock tips if he was that big a pushover for the macho star image. But no matter. She’d seen Jerry emerging from the rose garden, and she suddenly felt the need to bask in his “protection.”

  “There’s Jerry,” she said in relief. “I know he’s looking for me. You’ll excuse me?”

  “Oh, but I haven’t told you about our liquidity ratios—“

  Smiling feigned regret, she made her escape and found her way to Jerry’s side.

  “Hello, darling.” Jerry favored her with a quick grin, but his attention hardly settled. He was gazing around, his dark eyes taking in everything, aware of every name and every face. Jerry was running the Maxwells’ retail empire now, and to him a party was not so much a social event as a business opportunity. He’d invited several important people up from Los Angeles, and he was making sure that they were suitably impressed.

  “Have you eaten?” she asked, hopeful that they might grab a couple of plates, pile them high with the delicious food spread out on the banquet tables under the trees, and find a quiet place to sit down.

  “Are you kidding?” he said scornfully. “Who has time to eat? There’s Morty Wills from the planning board. I want to soften him up for that new shopping center. We’re going to have to get them to bend some rules if we want to get all those stores under one roof.” He squeezed her shoulder and began to turn away.

  “Gotta run, honey. Have fun.” He caught himself back and nodded toward a slim lady in purple silk. “Abby Plum,” he noted significantly in Carrie’s ear. “The mayor’s new wife. See if you can cozy up to her. Might come in handy later this summer.”

  Carrie watched him hurry away and frowned, starting off in the opposite direction from the way he’d directed her. She wasn’t about to “cozy up” to anyone, least of all Abby Plum. The woman had the brain of a hedgehog in the first place. In the second . . .

  But before she could think of the sec
ond, she felt her feet, in their stilt-like shoes, slipping out from under her, and all thoughts of Abby Plum fled.

  She was falling!

  And all because of those stupid shoes any sane physical therapist never would have worn in the first place. She hit the ground with a thump, slid a few feet on her rear, gritting her teeth, and wishing she could go ahead and slide right into the earth.

  Luckily she was wearing a silky jumpsuit instead of a dress, but it was still embarrassing. She pulled herself up, dusted off her bottom, and looked around quickly, digging the spikes of her heels into the turf for balance.

  Groups of people milled nearby, but luckily no one was paying attention to her. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned to leave the area, and at that very moment her eyes met that blue gaze again, coming at her from across the hedge.

  Grant Carrington. He was standing with a group of people, nodding as someone spoke right into his ear, but his gaze was definitely on Carrie. He’d seen her fall. She could see that from the twinkle in his cool glance and the amused curl of his lip. He thought she was just hilarious.

  What a jerk!

  She made a face at him, wrinkling her turned-up nose with mock defiance and tossing her rebellious golden curls, then turned on her heel and continued her stroll across the lawn, being more careful how she placed each step.

  A well-done exit, but perversely she ruined it. Some little devil urged her to look back, and she did. Grant Carrington was still watching her with an amused smile on his face. She flushed, wishing that she’d resisted the urge to look at him. Resolutely she turned away from the hedge and plunged into the heart of the party, vowing not to let her gaze stray his way again.

  But he stuck in her mind. She strolled around the grounds, carefully avoiding Bob Bisby but finding no one else she knew to chat with. Some inner radar kept telling her right where Grant Carrington was, no matter how she tried to block him out. And at the same time the party seemed to be dragging on interminably.

  It’s your own fault if you’re bored, she thought, chastising herself silently. What right did she have to feel so all alone?

  But she did. She’d come back from Chicago with a patina of sophistication and experience, but when she was confronted with Jerry’s family, she felt like little Carrie Harlow again, oldest daughter of the man who ran the little grocery near the pier. She didn’t fit in yet. Sometimes she wondered if she ever would.

  Sighing, she looked around the grounds, trying to decide where to head for next. There was a pond at the far end of the lot. It looked inviting. She started toward it, but a hand on her arm stopped her.

  “Listen, honey,” a stunning redhead whispered helpfully, “did you know you’ve got mud all over your bottom?”

  Carrie looked, and sure enough—disaster. No wonder Grant Carrington had been laughing at her! Jerry wouldn’t laugh if he noticed this. Jerry would be apoplectic.

  “Thanks,” she told the redhead ruefully, and hurried for the house.

  She found a washroom and did what she could for the stain, rubbing it with a damp cloth. Then she wandered to the door and looked out at the party.

  It was all too dreary. She just didn’t have the energy to mingle. The house seemed cool and comforting, while the outside seemed suddenly blazingly hot. She decided to stay inside and explore.

  She took off her shoes so she could enjoy the sumptuous carpet. Barefoot, she went through the high-ceilinged living room and library, admiring the original art on the walls, the luxurious furnishings. So this was how the other half lived.

  She had a pang of envy, but it wasn’t all that strong. She was pretty happy with her plans for her own future. Being a rich girl didn’t really interest her. She had career goals.

  She peeked into the kitchen but didn’t go inside. It was bustling with the caterer’s people.

  Wandering back along the Spanish-style corridor, she came upon an out-of-the-way stairway that led downstairs. Intrigued, she followed it, moving soundlessly on stockinged feet.

  The murmur of voices floated up before she reached the bottom.

  A woman’s soft laugh. “Oh, darling . . .” More laughter.

  And then Carrie was at the bottom of the stairs. She turned just in time to see someone she recognized disappearing into a side room.

  Eleanor Ashland had been the town’s major scandal for as long as Carrie could remember. She’d had the reputation of luring many of the town’s most upstanding men into her bed at one time or another. Her violet-eyed, rose-petal beauty was feared and admired and had been for twenty years, at least. And here she was, having a secret tryst, just like old times.

  Carrie couldn’t stop herself from staring as the woman raised her lovely arms and slipped them around a man’s neck. She turned up her face for his kiss, sliding her fingers into his hair when he bent over her.

  And then Carrie saw the man who curled the lovely woman into his protective arm and reached around her to close the door. The same blue eyes that had seen her fall outside now met hers above Eleanor Ashland’s dark head.

  This time there was no humor in them at all, but there was something— a warning? And then the door closed.

  Carrie shivered. That kiss had looked enchantingly seductive. It caught at her, creating a tiny, melancholy ache, as though she’d seen something she wanted for herself but might never have. But then she brushed the feeling away, and a small, catlike smile turned up the corners of her mouth.

  “Okay, Mr. Grant Carrington,” she murmured. “You caught me out, and now we’re even.”

  Shaking her head, she turned to see what else the stairway led to. A heavy oak door, slightly ajar, caught her eye and she pushed it open and looked inside.

  It looked like a wine cellar. She’d always wanted to explore a wine cellar.

  She stepped into the gloom, and though she hadn’t really meant to close the door behind her, she pushed it out of the way and then, with a sinking feeling, heard it click. Whirling, she stared at the ominously sealed exit.

  “It won’t be locked,” she reassured herself in a loud whisper. “That only happens in horror movies.”

  But her hand on the knob told a different tale. Frantically she searched for a bolt that could be turned, a hidden key, anything. But it was no use. She was locked in.

  “Oh, no,” she cried, slumping against the wall. “Now what?”

  She could bang on the door, but the only people who might hear her were the twosome next door, and she didn’t want to disturb whatever they were up to. She glanced up through the dusky atmosphere to the two small, rectangular windows that were high on the walls of the cavelike room but probably just skimmed the ground from the outside. They were closed. She was stuck here.

  But there was a party going on, after all. Someone would come down to restock the wine supplies, wouldn’t they? Sure they would. But when?

  Feeling frustrated, she turned to look at the cellar—row upon row of dusty wine bottles tilted at the appropriate angle. She went up and down the rows, softly reading the labels aloud, enjoying the French words even though they meant little to her.

  Suddenly there was the sound of a scrape, then a clang. The door was opening! Her heart leapt with relief, and she turned to come around the last row of bottles, almost laughing at her luck.

  “I’m so glad someone came—“ she began, but the words caught in her throat as she saw who it was.

  Grant Carrington stood in the doorway. Panic flashed through her again, stopping her in her tracks. She didn’t want to be alone with this man—not anywhere, but especially not here. And behind him she was dimly aware of the door beginning to close.

  Her heart fell with a swooping dive.

  “No! Don’t let it—“

  She reached out as though she could stop the inevitable with her hand, but it was too late. She heard the now familiar click and she crumpled.

  “We’re locked in!” she cried. “Why did you let it close?”

  He turned and tried the handle, just
as she’d done a few minutes earlier.

  “You’re right,” he said calmly. “We’re locked in.”

  She stared at him, exasperation overcoming even her discomfort at being alone with him. For the moment, it seemed awfully careless of him to have made exactly the same mistake she’d made.

  “Do you always let doors close behind you that way?” she asked, dark eyes flashing.

  His crystal-blue gaze swung back and surveyed her cryptically. “Do you?” he countered coolly.

  She frowned at him for a moment, and then her face relaxed in a smile. Something inside was tugging at her, trying to remind her that he wasn’t any more careless than she’d been.

  “Touche,” she said ruefully. “But that still leaves us with the problem of how we’re going to get out of here.”

  “Problem?” He turned slowly, looking over the room and shrugging with lazy amusement. “I don’t see a problem. We’re free to spend an idle hour in one of the nicest rooms in the house.” His penetrating gaze lingered on her assessingly. “Unless you were expecting someone else?” he asked.

  “Someone else?” she echoed.

  His wide mouth twisted cynically. “A secret admirer, perhaps?” he suggested softly.

  Finally the light dawned on her. He thought she might be involved in exactly the sort of assignation he’d just shared with Eleanor Ashland. She almost laughed aloud. Couldn’t he tell by looking at her that she wasn’t that kind of girl?

  Hmmm. Maybe not.

  “Someone like you?” she said without thinking. Coloring quickly, she tried to take it back. “No, I mean . . .” There was no graceful way to get out of this one.

  “No,” she said, finishing lamely, “there’s no one.”

  She looked at him, going beyond the sensuous and startling blue of his eyes. Dressed in a polo shirt that clung to his lovely bulges and jeans that gave the appearance of being lovingly shrink-wrapped, he looked like an athlete—a swimmer with broad shoulders and tight, narrow hips.

  She could imagine him surfing or standing at the side of a pool, cool, silver rivulets of water running across golden muscles that were finely honed. There was something very California about him. Something very attractive—but with that lingering air of danger that had so disturbed her outside.