Patricia Potter

by Rainbow

  She could only stare at him, mesmerized. She had been able to withstand his mocking smile, his empty grin, but this was something else again. She felt as if she were a snake being hypnotized by an Indian charmer, able only to sway back and forth to the music he was playing…to the deep powerful richness of his voice and the spell of his magnetic eyes.

  But neither was he immune to the currents in the room, she knew. Even as his smile invited a reply, a muscle jerked in his cheek and, if he were experiencing anything near the rush of emotions she was, Meredith knew he was exercising enormous control. His eyes were still wary, though. She wondered briefly whether they ever joined in his smile. And if not, why?

  “I am sorry,” she finally repeated defensively, unable to withstand the tension humming between them. “I’ve never hit anyone before, but you—” She stopped suddenly, afraid of saying too much.

  But he wasn’t going to let it go. “I what, Meredith? Was in the wrong place at the wrong time?” he probed. “As you were at the warehouse?”

  She ignored the question. “You were holding me prisoner!” she accused. “I had a right to try to escape.”

  He leaned against a wall, looking deceptively relaxed. As relaxed as the panther he so reminded her of, Meredith thought.

  “I’ll give you that, Meredith,” he said slowly, his voice even but his eyes were still very cold, so cold she wanted to shiver. She suspected he meant them to be intimidating, that he knew very well their impact, and she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. “We’ll call it even,” he continued easily. “I hit you, although I didn’t know then who you were. You returned the…what should we term it…nefarious act. In rather good measure, I would say,” he added ironically as his hand once more went to the cut. He winced as he touched the purpling area around it.

  Meredith started to rise, ready to take immediate advantage of his forgiving words but stopped as he shook his head slowly, deliberately.

  “We’ll put that piece of business behind us, but we have more. Much more,” he said softly, his voice loaded with menace. “Now sit down.” The words were like a pistol shot, sharp and deadly.

  Meredith sank back into the chair.

  “No more games, Meredith. My patience has come to an end.” He padded toward her, all lean strength and power and barely leashed violence. “What were you doing at that warehouse?”

  Meredith was still puzzling over the clues and had not stopped adding bits and pieces, not the least of which was his obvious concern about the warehouse. Part of her now admitted that he could be a member of the Underground Railroad. But she wasn’t sure, and secrecy and caution had been deeply ingrained in her. She decided to tell part of the truth.

  “My sister…I’m trying to find my sister. Someone told me Elias Sprague might be able to help me,” she said suddenly, watching his eyes narrow.

  “You don’t have a sister,” he retorted with disgust. More games, more lies.

  Meredith hesitated at the glowering look on his face. All traces of that devastating smile were gone; there was only cold, curious hostility. But she had to try. “Think back,” she said. “Remember when you visited Briarwood so many years ago?”

  He had remembered, but she’d claimed to have forgotten. Still another lie. He was making a list, and it was getting very long. “Yes,” he replied cautiously.

  “There was a girl named Lissa, Alma’s daughter. She was two years younger than I. You built that swing for us.”

  His brow furrowed as he searched his memory. “Alma’s daughter?” He had scavenged in the kitchen several times and had charmed Alma into saving food for him during that four-day visit. He had not liked Robert Seaton and had avoided formal meals when he could. He remembered Alma, and now he remembered the child. She had been younger than Meredith and very shy. Perhaps that was why he hadn’t immediately recalled her. He had seen little of her except when he had built the swing, and given her some pushes. “Alma’s daughter?” he said again.

  Meredith nodded. “And my father’s.”

  Quinn was silent, watching every expression move across her face. The vapid look was gone from the eyes, and there was real torment there. She was a good actress, but he didn’t think she was that good. Something in him started to believe. He reached for an armless chair and pulled it up, straddling it comfortably, his arms resting on its back. But his eyes never left her.

  “And?” Despite a growing sympathy, there was still skepticism in his voice.

  “I took care of her,” Meredith said slowly, painfully. “I loved her. I taught her to read.” She looked up at Quinn. “You met my father then. He…he…was not very…easy. I don’t think he knew what love was. He was a cold, even cruel man. I was lonely, and Lissa…well, I could love Lissa, and she loved me back.” Her voice faltered, and she lowered her head.

  Meredith didn’t know why she was telling him so much. She had never told anyone the whole story before. Not anyone. The hurt had been too strong, the rejection too absolute. It had really never gone away, although she had learned, achingly, to live with it.

  Drat him. She had needed to explain, but she was giving more than she intended. She was afraid to look at him, to gauge his reaction. She felt the tears gather in the back of her eyes, but she had learned long ago how to hold them at bay. She concentrated on doing that now. She could show no weakness to him. She didn’t know why, but it was terribly important.

  Quinn felt as if he had been kicked in the gut. And he had a feeling there was another blow coming. He believed her. No one, not even she, could pretend the depth of emotion he heard in her words. Almost involuntarily, he reached out a hand to her shoulder, unspoken comfort evident in the gesture.

  “What happened?”

  “Not long after you left, Father thought I was too close to Lissa. He sold her. She was six years old.” The bitterness came pouring out. “She was six years old, and they put a chain on her ankle and took her away from her mother, and her home…and me. All because I loved her.” The agony in her voice was sharp and vivid and real. “Because I loved her,” she whispered again, and this time a rare tear escaped and wandered forlornly down a cheek now white with intense feeling. “It was my fault. It was all my fault.” In all her life, she had never admitted that guilt before, although she had bottled it tightly in her heart. But now the contents came spilling out.

  Quinn felt his heart crack at her pain, at the guilt she had been obviously carrying for so many years. He knew the burden of guilt. Christ, how he knew the burden of guilt! Terrence O’Connell would be alive today were it not for him. He closed his eyes against the memory, then opened them slowly.

  The tears were gone from her eyes, those very few tears, and the very scarcity of them hinted at feelings too deep to release in such a way. But the pain was there. Stark and desperate. He wanted to touch her. Good God, how he wanted to touch her.

  “Why did you think Mr. Sprague could help you?” he asked, not wanting to question but to comfort. Yet there were things he must know. And she was still hiding something. He could see it in her eyes, in the way they wouldn’t meet his fully.

  “I hired a detective,” she said, again telling only part of the truth. “He seemed to think Mr. Sprague might know something. He did not say why.”

  “Why not go in the daytime?”

  “My family is very opposed to my search for Lissa. They think I’ve forgotten about it.”

  “Why is it so important that your brother doesn’t know? You have money of your own. I assume you can spend it as you like.”

  “My brother would do anything to keep me away from her. You see, Lissa and I resemble each other. He’s terribly afraid if she’s found, everyone will know she’s father’s…bastard.”

  Quinn shrugged. “It’s not uncommon. I’d say a good number of planters in Mississippi have slave offspring.” He knew his tone sounded casual, even callous, but he felt he would discover more that way. And he wasn’t ready to reveal his own secrets.

  “Not…basta
rds that look so much like the daughter. I’m afraid that if Robert finds out, he will somehow make sure I never find her.”

  Her face had regained its normal color, but her body was taut as a bowstring.

  Quinn heard the whistle of the boat, and the gay music of the band. The Lucky Lady would be leaving any moment. He had to make a decision about her. Now.

  But he couldn’t. For a man used to making decisions, he was frustratingly unable to do so now. He believed her. As far as her story went. But there was much, much more to Meredith Seaton, and she intrigued him as no problem he had ever encountered. She was a puzzle he had to unravel.

  Quinn looked at her and saw the question in her eyes. She also knew the boat was ready to leave.

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so, Meredith.”

  At least they were back to her given name, Meredith thought. So why wouldn’t he allow her to go? What was he afraid of? “I’ve told you everything.”

  “Tell me more about Lissa…and the detective you’ve hired.”

  “But the boat…my aunt…”

  “You’ve already been gone the entire night and morning. I doubt if a few more hours can do much more…damage to your reputation.” It was a deliberately baiting statement.

  She nibbled on her lips, a gesture surprisingly endearing to Quinn. There was still the shadow of pain in her eyes, a curious vulnerability, and he ached to take her in his arms. It scared him how much. Remember, he told himself, what happened the last time you made that mistake. His head, for God’s sake, still ached like hell.

  Meredith felt his eyes bore into her. She wished she could read his expression, but it was much as it had been the first time they met on the Lucky Lady: closed tightly against any invasion. It was unforgiving, unapproachable, unsympathetic. It was…totally empty of any emotion.

  “May I have some water?” she asked.

  His smile was that of a cat who had trapped a mouse. “You’ve used it all on my head, Meredith. And I’m not going to leave you alone, not unless you want to be gagged and tied again.”

  She looked at him hopelessly. “Please. Please let me go.”

  He shook his head slowly. “You’ve changed in the past few hours, Meredith. More, may I say, than a little. I want to know how and why and for what reasons. Lissa is a good story, but not the whole one, I don’t think.”

  “What about you?” she suddenly attacked. “What were you doing at the warehouse in the middle of the night?”

  “I do business with Mr. Sprague. Legitimate business, Meredith.”

  “After midnight?”

  He shrugged. “Whenever I have a mind to. But we are not discussing me. We are discussing the simple Miss Seaton who turns out not to be so simple after all.” His hand reached out and touched a curl that had fallen over her shoulder. “You do a terrible injustice to yourself, Meredith. You are really quite beautiful, you know, with your hair down and that fire in your eyes.”

  Her stomach lurched at his tone. The compliment, if it could be called such, considering the implacable inquisition of his eyes, had been coldly, analytically, said. And every time he said her name, he made it a mockery. As if he were playing with her, and nastily enjoying every second of it.

  She was tired of it. Her jaw set. “I’ll have you arrested for kidnapping but if you—”

  “If I what, Miss Meredith?” His voice was silky.

  “Just let me go. I’ll forget all about it.”

  “But I won’t, Meredith. Not the way you look right now, nor the way you looked, and felt, just before you decided to crack my head. You could have just said no.”

  “Would it have done any good?” she asked bitterly.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “You didn’t try. I seem to remember you being most cooperative, even perhaps eager.”

  “Damn you,” she spat out, her eyes flashing fire, her chin high. Until she realized she had been baited, that she had so completely stepped out of the vapid Miss Seaton role that she could never return. She saw him grin as he realized she understood what had happened.

  “Why the masquerade?” he said. This time his voice was gentle, inviting confidences, and seductively intimate.

  “I told you,” she said desperately.

  “It won’t work, darlin’,” he said. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. There is a Lissa. But that’s not sufficient reason for all this…playactin’.” The soft drawl was exaggerated but deadly serious. “No beautiful woman purposely makes herself unattractive…not unless there are damned good reasons.”

  “I’m not beautiful,” she protested, truly believing it. No one had ever called her beautiful.

  Quinn heard the conviction in her words and he felt what was becoming annoyingly familiar sympathy. He didn’t want to like her. He didn’t want to be touched by her. Yet something in him ached for her. She truly didn’t know how lovely she was. Because she had hidden that strong quiet beauty for so long, because she had allowed no one to get close enough to see it. He had thought he was alone, but how much more alone she must be if everything she said was true, if the things she’d left unsaid were distinct possibilities. At least he had had his father and brothers for many years. He had had Terrence. He had Cam. He was beginning to doubt that Miss Meredith Seaton had ever had anyone. Except perhaps the missing Lissa.

  He couldn’t help himself this time. His hand went up to her cheek, softly touching it with infinite tenderness. His fingers explored her face, seeking to know her thoughts, her very soul. He brushed away a curl that had fallen over her left eye, his hand capturing the silky strands and holding them like newly found treasure.

  Her eyes widened at the unexpected touch, at the gentleness of his fingers, at the immediate reaction they caused in the core of her body. The remoteness was still there in his face, but his eyes…

  Dear Lord, his eyes were like the foaming ocean, deep and mysterious. They invited her to come to him, to surrender to him, to give herself to him.

  To betray herself.

  And she was helpless against them. Her fingers went up to that devilishly handsome face that made her forget everything she should remember. She touched the cleft in his chin, as she had wanted to since they met, and she watched with fascination as his mouth widened, the ends turning upward in the most charming smile she had ever seen.

  The most charming, and challenging. For the challenge was most definitely there. Direct. Sensuous. Compelling.

  And then she had no more time to think because his mouth was moving toward her, his lips reaching down for hers.

  They touched, gently at first, then fiercely. The alarm inside her clanged, but she was no longer listening. She could only hear her heart, and it was greedy for what he was offering: a warmth so long denied her, a sweetness that turned her blood to honey, a need that made her body hum and tingle and come alive in the most wondrous ways.

  His tongue moved inside her mouth, caressing and loving, awakening each sensitive nerve, igniting a chain reaction of exquisite sensations.

  Quinn tried to move closer but it was impossible the way they were sitting. Not wanting to break the tenuous bond with words, he took her hand and gently but insistently urged her over to the bed.

  She resisted for a fleeting moment of time, but surrender came quickly. She could no more fight him now than she could stop breathing. Closing her eyes, wondering if she was walking into disaster, but no longer caring, no longer able to think straight, Meredith Seaton gave herself into his hands.

  Chapter 15

  QUINN KNEW he was being a damned fool. His mind kept telling him that, but his heart didn’t listen.

  He wanted her. He needed her. Christ, how he needed her.

  Perhaps because she needed him, too, he thought. It had been obvious in her kiss, in her touch, in the wonder in her eyes. But he didn’t, couldn’t, go beyond that thought. He only knew that this moment was right. For whatever reasons, it was right.

  She interested and attracted him as no other woman e
ver had. There was an explosive quality between them, that had always been between them even when he’d thought she was everything he disliked, even when she’d looked like a dressmaker’s worst nightmare. He had never known anything like this excitement before, this current that flowed between them with the unpredictability of a thunderstorm.

  As they sat together on the bed, she looked up at him, and he wondered how he’d ever thought her unattractive. Her dark brown eyes were alive with emotion, with a wistfulness that reached into him and stole a piece of his soul.

  Her light brown hair, so like wisps of gold in the sun, was silk to his touch. Her face was striking, full of character. The lips were full, the chin determined, the eyes wide and deep, the cheekbones high and exquisitely sculptured. His hard callused hand traced every feature. He expected questions, but none came. Instead she leaned into his touch, seeking the rough strength.

  Quinn’s hand hesitated at the discolored bruise he had put there. He touched it lightly, wishing he could make it disappear.

  As if forgiving him, she slid into his arms as if she belonged there, as if God had made them to hold her. He ran his hands up and down her arms, enjoying the feel of her skin against his fingers, relishing the way she snuggled deeper into his embrace.

  He felt the boat move and knew they were leaving New Orleans. She stiffened for a moment, and he knew she, too, was reacting to the movement. Any decision had been taken away from them: his to let her go, hers to stay without any additional protestations. He felt her body relax and saw her head turn upward to look at him with lovely searching eyes, and his arms tightened compulsively around her.

  There was no fear in her face, no hesitancy. It was as if she had made a silent decision and was at peace with it. Her hand reached out and took his right one, turning it palm-up, studying it. He allowed her to trace a line across his palm, although he didn’t like how much it could tell about him. Without his gloves he felt vulnerable, naked. Despite his best attempts, the leatherlike calluses remained from years of hard physical labor on road gangs, in quarries, and, toward the last, the coal mines. They were not the hands of a gambler—or of a gentleman. He saw the puzzlement in her face, but she kept the questions unasked. Perhaps because she had so many secrets of her own. This regard for privacy was, he thought with only a trace of cynicism, a quality unique in a woman, at least those he had known. It served to fuel his rapidly growing respect and fascination.