It wasn't the best lead-in, but Cleo grabbed it, anyway. While Marc gently swirled the contents of a sleek Baccarat martini pitcher, she dropped her bombshell.
"Speaking of relationships, I found out this afternoon Trish might be pregnant."
The pitcher stilled in mid-swirl. Slate-gray eyes locked on her face. "And you're wondering if the baby is mine?"
"The possibility occurred to me."
"Yes, I can see how it might."
The pitcher made another slow swirl. Filling two long-stemmed glasses, Sloan skewered an olive for one, swiped a lemon twist around the rim of the other, and carried both to where Cleo stood beside the harp.
"If Trish is pregnant, I'm not the father of her child." Tipping his head in a brief, mocking salute, | he hoisted his glass. "Cheers."
Cleo did the same.
As the Tanqueray went down, though, Sloan's mockery disappeared. His brow creasing, he gave the toothpick spearing his olive a little flick. "Maybe when you find the father, you'll find] Trish."
"Maybe."
"Where do you plan to look next?"
"I'm still working the basics. Phone bills. Gro- j eery receipts. Doctor and pharmacy records."
"I thought medical records were confidential."
"They are, except in certain instances. The! Health Privacy Act passed after 9/11 included] provisions for obtaining information regarding possible crime victims."
Actually, the main provisions of the act had been aimed at gathering information on suspected terrorists, but terrorism wasn't Cleo's concern at j the moment.
"The missing-persons report Trish's parents filed should give me access to her health records. I'm going to pick up a copy tomorrow morning, when I meet with the detective working the case."
"What time's your meeting?"
"Nine."
"I'll give Chief Benton another call later and make sure his detective affords you full cooperation."
"He sounded cooperative enough when I spoke to him this afternoon. I'll let you know if I need help."
He got the message. Mr. Take-Charge Executive backed off, yielding his place to Smooth, Handsome Rich Guy.
"Point taken," he said with a smile every bit as potent as the gin.
The martini put Cleo in a mellow mood, but the sugarcane shrimp melted her into a puddle of mindless ecstasy.
Threaded on cane skewers and char-grilled with a tequila, honey and lime juice glaze, the succulent morsels melted in her mouth. They were served with jasmine rice and a long, stemmy vegetable that looked like a cross between asparagus and broccoli. Cleo wasn't into veggies as a rule, but these weren't bad. Not bad at all.
After dinner there was coffee and a wicked creme brulee served on the screened-in piazza with a spectacular view of the harbor and a floodlit Fort Sumter. Sloan took the conversation from his brother's slow recovery from the bullet in his skull and the deal his assailant had cut with the feds, to some of his firm's latest projects.
"We just won a contract to convert Atlantic-class container vessels to SL-31-class ships. We're going to modify the hull and add additional power from a diesel-generated electric motor. It'll reduce the container capacity from four thousand TEU to just a little more than three."
"And that's good?"
"It is when the reduction is accompanied by a corresponding increase in speed from eighteen to twenty-one knots. Getting cargo where it's needed faster is the name of the game these days, particularly with our military forces engaged in hot spots around the globe."
That Cleo could understand. Her years in the air force had taken her to several of those hot spots.
"How much of your business is defense-related?"
"Almost eighty percent at present. Afghanistan and Iraq dramatically upped the demand for cargo vessels to augment the military's preposi-tioned fleet."
No surprise there. They talked about the war for a while, drawing on their separate military perspectives, before Cleo set aside her coffee cup.
"It's getting late. We both have busy days tomorrow. I'd better make it a night."
Sloan walked her through the gardens and across the alley to the carriage house. Cleo was all too aware of the warmth of his hand on her elbow-and the brush of his mouth over hers when they reached the door.
She was tempted to take him up on the unspoken offer that came with the kiss. Lord, she was tempted! He tasted of caramel creme brulee, dark coffee and very hot, very interested male. She was already mentally kicking herself in the butt when she eased away.
"Thanks for dinner, Marc."
"You're welcome." Amusement added another layer to his rich baritone. "You do realize we're going take this to the next stage one of these days?" "I realize the possibility exists. I'll see you tomorrow."
Marc parted with her at the door. Reluctantly.
The contrast between Cleo North's enticing exterior and clever mind had intrigued him from the first moment they'd met. The subsequent discovery that she'd suspected his twin of murder had taken some of the edge from that fascination. But then she'd turned around and helped prove Alex's innocence. A woman of many facets, Ms. Cleopatra North.
He'd only needed a few moments with her this afternoon to feel the spark again. He still wanted her, and he was a man who got what he wanted. One way or another.
Shoving his hands in his slacks pockets, he whistled a few bars from Aida and retraced his steps.
5
An annoying little ping dragged Cleo from sleep. She poked her head out from under silky cotton sheets and fumbled for the phone on the bedside stand. Since the stand was antique and almost as wide across as her kitchen table at home, it took her a couple of attempts to find the source of the irritating chirp.
Scowling at the light bars slanting through the plantation shutters, she stabbed the Talk button and jammed the instrument against her ear. She didn't do mornings well. Given the choice, she didn't do them at all. Not until she'd downed her third or fourth cup of coffee, anyway.
"What?"
The snarl produced a stark silence on the other end of the line. She gave it a couple of seconds. This happened a lot.
"Ms. North?"
She didn't recognize the voice. Propping herself up on one elbow, she tempered her tone to a semi-growl.
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Thomas Gerard, Mr. Sloan's chef. He advised me you have a nine o'clock appointment this morning and suggested I call to ascertain your wishes regarding breakfast."
She was ready to tell him she didn't do breakfast when he said the magic words.
"I've prepared my special blend of cinnamon mocha cafe au lait."
That was close enough to real coffee to get her attention. What followed made her feel almo
st cheerful.
"I've also baked a fresh batch of croissants to accompany the eggs Florentine. Or, of course, you may order any other dish you prefer."
If this guy's eggs came anywhere close to his shrimp, Cleo wanted in. "Croissants and eggs Florentine sound good."
"Shall I have a table set on the piazza? The view is quite lovely in the mornings."
"Whatever Mr. Sloan wants."
"Mr. Sloan is out for his morning run. He'll join you when he returns."
"Then the piazza it is. Put the coffeepot on the table, please. I'll be there in ten minutes."
Driven by the beast inside that craved caffeine, she reduced her already minimal morning routine to the absolute essentials. Her shower took all of six minutes. Pulling on jeans and a red tank top, she wrapped her hair in a mango-colored towel and thrust her feet into flip-flops. A few quick swipes with a toothbrush banished the overnight fuzz, but flossing would have to wait until she fed the monster.
Although it was barely seven-thirty, the warm April sun had already coaxed a heady perfume from the gardenias lining the brick walk. The star-shaped white blossoms had massed so thick they almost obscured the dark, glossy foliage. Cleo sniffed appreciatively, but it wasn't until she dropped into one of the wrought-iron chairs on the piazza and gulped down her first cup that all systems became fully functional.
One of Mr. Gerard's minions materialized with a basket of croissants that still had steam rising from it. Cleo devoured two before the eggs Florentine appeared. Ordinarily, she wasn't into spinach for breakfast-or any other meal, for that matter. Last night's adventure with the broccoli-asparagus had her reconsidering her general philosophy regarding green stuff.
This particular green stuff went down like ambrosia of the gods. The grated Gruyere cheese and white sauce topping the spinach helped. So did the thick slab of sugar-cured ham and sweet green grapes that accompanied the dish. She had just popped another grape into her mouth when Marc strolled onto the piazza.
Cleo almost choked. Smooth, Handsome Rich Guy was gone. So was Mr. Take-Charge Executive. In their place was Sweaty Hunk. He wore an old gray sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped out and running shorts that showed long stretches of hairy thigh. Cleo couldn't remember the last time she'd seen so much glistening male muscle.
Wait. Yes, she could. Four months ago in Santa Fe, to be exact. And the slimeball had zinged off only a couple of e-mails since.
Pasting on a smile, she tipped Sweaty Hunk a greeting. "Morning. How was your run?"
"Too short, but I've got a meeting with some Japanese investors to get to. How was your breakfast?"
"There aren't enough superlatives in the English language to describe Mr. Gerard. Whatever you pay him, you should double it."
"I have. Twice."
Dragging up a corner of the towel draped around his neck, Sloan swiped his forehead. "Mind if I join you? I'll sit downwind."
She waved an airy hand. "It's your piazza."
His buns hadn't even touched wrought iron before the same efficient minion who'd served Cleo appeared with his breakfast and a fresh pot of coffee. High test this time, thank God. This au-lait business was okay but didn't produce quite the same kick as the real stuff. She helped herself to another cup while Sloan poured skim milk into his cereal and sprinkled Sweet 'n Low on the flakes.
"What's this? Croissants and poached eggs for me, Special K for you?"
"Fine wine and gourmet meals are all part of the plan. It won't work if I put on a paunch in the process, though."
She figured she knew the answer, but asked the question, anyway. "Okay, I'll bite. What plan?"
"To finesse you into bed," he confirmed between crunchy spoonfuls.
Cleo tapped a fingernail against her cup. "Interesting that you waited until one of your employees went missing to implement this plan."
"Alex needed me," he said, making no excuses.
She knew his twin's recovery and rehab had consumed Sloan for a good chunk of the past few months, just as debriefing the traitor who'd shot Alex had consumed a certain air force special agent. But it was comforting to know at least one of them had moved getting Cleo into the sack up a notch on their agendas.
She clicked her nail against the cup again, wondering why she balked at letting Sloan press ahead with his scheme to seduce her. Maybe after she'd answered the questions swirling around in her mind about his relationship to Trish Jackson, she'd rethink this business about not getting involved with clients. A girl could only go so long before her batteries lost their juice.
"Hello, Marc."
The greeting floated from inside the house. Diane Walker floated out a few seconds later.
"I brought the contract by for you-"
Ms. Super Efficiency stopped abruptly just inside the tall double doors opening onto the piazza. Her glance cut from her employer, sprawled at his ease in shorts and sweatshirt, to Cleo, all cuddly in mango towel turban and flip-flops.
"Excuse me." A touch of frost coated the words. "Is this an inconvenient time to go over the Mitsubishi contract before your meeting with the Japanese investors?"
"Not at all. Cleo and I are just finishing breakfast. Come join us."
"Thank you, but I've already eaten." She unbent enough to produce a cool smile. "I'll have some coffee, though."
While Sloan signaled for another cup, Cleo pushed back her chair. "I'll leave you two to Mitsubishi. I have to hustle to make my appointment with Detective Devereaux."
Her shower shoes slapping on the tiles, she made her way toward the door at the end of the piazza.
Diane fought for control as she followed the woman's progress. Acid rolled around her stomach, every bit as corrosive as the compounds Sloan Engineering's dry-dock workers used to clean the hulls of ocean-going cargo vessels. Somehow, she managed to keep it out of her voice as she swung her gaze to the man opposite her.
"Another conquest, Marc?"
"Not yet.
He flicked a glance at the retreating figure. A smile played at the corners of his lips.
"Soon, though."
She might as well be invisible, Diane thought on a wave of resentment so bitter it closed her throat. She'd worked with the man for fifteen years, had loved him desperately for almost as long, and he still didn't see her.
She'd chucked a fat pension at Northrop to help him start Sloan Engineering. They'd built the company together, from the ground up. Along the way, she'd tamed her frizzy curls into a sleek bob, had gone for LASIK surgery to get rid of the glasses that used to perch at the end of her nose, and learned to dress like a model. An older, more mature model, maybe, but one who still turned heads when she walked into a room.
Every head but
Marc's. If the fool would look at her, just look at her, he might see the living, breathing woman behind the machine that ran his office.
But, no! His tastes ran to younger, brighter, bolder women.
Like this Cleo North.
The acid took another roll and rose in Diane's throat. She fought it down. All these years she'd watched Marc move from one quarry to the next, almost without taking a breath in between. She'd learned to mask her feelings, was so good at it he never suspected her frustration and pain each time he moved in on new prey.
But she was getting tired of standing in the shadows, watching him bag trophy after trophy. And God knew she wasn't getting any younger.
Maybe it was time she updated her resume, she thought with a pain that was like a knife blade through her heart. She'd put everything she had into Sloan Engineering. Mentally. Physically. Financially. But she'd be damned if she'd stand by, twiddling her thumbs, while Marc went after yet another prize. Pulling the thick contract from her briefcase, she slapped it on the table.
"Page twelve-clause 16C needs to be revised to include the latest welding estimates."
Five minutes after meeting Detective Sergeant Lafayette Devereaux, Cleo had discovered he was directly descended from South Carolina's most notorious black pirate and had once served in the same Special Ops unit as her personal trainer.
"Yeah, I talked to Goose last night, after I made the connection between you two."
The drawl was down-home southern. The smile came with a display of blindingly white teeth.
THE MIDDLE SIN Page 5
