by Susan Napier;Kathryn Ross;Kelly Hunter;Sandra Marton;Katherine Garbera;Margaret Mayo
She thought back to what had happened this afternoon. Within seconds after she’d caved in to Slade’s ugly demand, she’d known she couldn’t go through with it. She hated herself for it, but at least she’d gone to him willingly that first time. But selling herself to him—that was different. The price was too high, no matter what the pay-off.
She’d turned to him to tell him that, but Slade had spoken first.
‘You disappoint me, sweetheart,’ he’d said slowly. ‘I expected a lecture on my lack of morality, or an appeal to my better nature. And how about some girlish tears? A desperate plea for compassion?’
And, in that moment, she’d realized that it was all a sham. He would never give her the emerald. It was worth far too much money and he’d risked too much to get it.
Slade was lying, but there was nothing new in that. Lying was what he did best. He’d set up this whole ugly little exercise to make her pay for the night he’d spent in jail in Italpa.
The realization had sent a swift, fierce sense of power sweeping through her. Knowing his game, she could afford to play it—but by her own rules.
She would turn the game back on him. She had already taken the first step, even though it had been by pure good luck.
Accepting his obscene offer—seeming to accept it, anyway—had denied him the pleasure of watching her grovel. Now she’d deny him everything else.
And so she’d squared her shoulders, looked straight into his cold, lying eyes, and told him that people like her never pleaded for anything.
It had been the perfect exit line. She’d stalked out, head high—and between then and now she’d planned her strategy.
She would go out with him this evening. She would be polite and proper—so polite and proper that it would make his head spin. But she would never miss the chance to insult him—as politely as possible, of course. And when the end of the night came, if he was fool enough to try and take her in his arms, she would tell him that he wasn’t the only one who could lie through his teeth and get away with it.
‘You must be crazy,’ she’d say. ‘I wouldn’t sleep with you if you offered me the Hope diamond.’
And then she’d offer him her own proposition. He could hand over the emerald to her and she’d keep his secret. She’d tell no one that Slade McClintoch was a thief.
If not, she’d turn him over to Esterhaus.
How stupid she’d been, thinking Slade could blackmail her! What he held over her head was nothing compared to what she could tell the world about him.
He was the one with everything to lose, not she. It had taken her a while to figure it out, but now that she had—
The doorbell sounded. Brionny’s heart gave a fluttering beat.
Was it really time already?
She took a deep breath and made her way through the living-room.
Be polite, she reminded herself, be chillingly polite, and she flung the door open like a queen greeting her subjects.
‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘You’re right on—’
The words died on her lips. Slade was wearing a black dinner suit that had surely been custom-tailored to make the most of his height, his powerful shoulders, his hard, lean body. The white ruffled shirt beneath the jacket set off his tanned, angular face, the softness of the ruffles somehow enhancing the overall aura of masculinity that surrounded him.
‘Good evening.’ His gaze moved slowly over her before returning to her face. ‘You look beautiful.’
Brionny pulled herself together and managed a brittle smile. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘This old thing? It’s terribly out of date.’
‘These are for you.’ He held out a nosegay of flowers, a magnificent riot of reds, corals and pinks. ‘The color choice was sheer luck, but I’m glad to see it complements your dress.’
It would have complemented anything, she thought, her fingers itching with the desire to touch the lovely blossoms. Instead, she shook her head.
‘How unfortunate. I’m afraid I don’t like flowers, Slade. I’m allergic to them.’
His eyes narrowed, as if he was slowly catching on to what was happening.
‘What a shame,’ he said.
‘Yes, isn’t it?’
‘It must have been hell for you, down there in the Amazon. Traipsing through a jungle filled with all sorts of flowers, I mean.’
‘Oh, it was. Except for the time I spent with Professor Ingram, my entire stay in the Amazon was hell.’
Slade’s lips drew back from his teeth. ‘Nicely done, Stuart.’
Her smile was the equal of his. ‘Thank you,’ she purred.
She took her purse from the table. You don’t know the half of it, McClintoch, she thought, and swept past him.
It was going to be one hell of a night.
Slade’s red sports car wove swiftly in and out of traffic.
Where were they going? Not to the apartment he was staying in; they’d left Manhattan behind half an hour ago. Now they were speeding along a highway that traveled the length of Long Island.
Damn, but the silence in the car was oppressive. She was tempted to ask Slade to put on some music, but—
As if on signal, he reached toward the built-in compact-disk player, hit a button, and the poignant strains of a Rachmaninoff piano concerto filled the car. She almost laughed. A man like him, pretending to like such rich, romantic music? Who was he trying to impress?
‘Is Rachmaninoff OK?’ he said.
Brionny folded her hands in her lap. ‘If you like that sort of thing.’
‘You don’t?’
Of course she did. She always had. But that wasn’t the point, not tonight.
‘His work’s been played to death.’ She gave him a polite little smile. ‘What CD is that? One of those things they sell on TV, “Rachmaninoff’s Ten Greatest Hits”?’
To her surprise, he laughed.
“‘The Best of Bach”, you mean, or “Beethoven’s Hit Parade”?’ He flexed his hands on the steering wheel. ‘Those old boys would spin in their graves if they knew how their stuff’s marketed today—they’d spin at 78 RPM, of course.’
Brionny stared at him. She wanted to laugh—it was a funny line, and it evoked a funny picture. In fact, she almost did laugh. But at the last second, thank goodness, she remembered that she couldn’t.
Slade pulled the disk from the player. ‘Let’s try something brighter. How about Vivaldi?’
Vivaldi. Her favorite composer. Such beautiful, lyrical music…
‘Every film maker for the last ten years seems to have used Vivaldi,’ she said, flashing him another chill smile. ‘Not that I blame them. Vivaldi’s music is so—so accessible.’
The arrow seemed to have missed its target. Slade simply shrugged.
‘Choose something you prefer, then. There are other CDs in the glove compartment.’
Well, she’d walked right into that. Brionny sighed and popped open the compartment door.
‘I’m sure you’ll find something you like. I have fairly eclectic taste.’
‘Eclectic’ wasn’t the word for it. Her eyebrows rose as she shuffled through the disks. The Beatles. Borodin. Eric Clapton. Gershwin. Billie Holliday…
‘Billie Holliday?’ she said aloud, before she could stop herself.
Slade glanced at her. ‘You probably never heard of the lady. She was a blues singer a long time back, maybe the greatest that—’
‘—Ever lived.’ Brionny bit her lip. ‘I—uh—I know.’
Damn. Why was she talking so much? She stabbed the CD into the slot. Billie Holliday’s soft, quavering voice drifted from the speakers.
‘Do you like jazz, Stuart?’
No harm in answering that.
‘Yes.’
‘All kinds?’
Of course, all kinds.
‘I never thought about it,’ she said.
‘Modern?’
Well, maybe not modern. Too much of the music seemed self-indulgent. Unless it was Miles Davis or Chet Baker—
Brionny swung her head toward him. Was it some sort of parlor trick, this seeming ability to read her mind?
No, of course it wasn’t. She turned away, looked out into the night. Lots of people liked jazz. It just seemed surprising that Slade would—
‘I’m surprised you like jazz, Stuart.’
‘Are you?’ she said, as if the question were too dull to consider.
‘Well, it’s so unstructured.’ Slade flashed her a quick smile. ‘I’d have thought you’d prefer—’
‘It isn’t. It only seems that way if you don’t understand it.’
Slade nodded. ‘I agree. I met this guy once—’
What did she care whom he’d met? And how had she let herself get drawn into this foolish conversation?
From now on, she’d be silent.
‘…Club Blue Note. Ever been there?’
Once. The night had been a fiasco. The club had been wonderful, smoky and dark just like the music coming from the tiny bandstand, but her date had despised it. Too crowded, he’d said, and the noise was awful.
‘Once,’ she said. ‘It was crowded, and the noise was awful.’
‘You’re probably right. Anyway, the place to go, if you want to hear the best blues, is the old Chicago Red Slipper.’
‘Oh, have you really been to the Red Slipper? I’ve read about it, but—’
Brionny flushed, clamped her lips together, and turned away.
‘But what?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, very coldly.
‘Come on, Stuart. What were you going to say?’
‘This wasn’t part of the deal,’ she said, even more coldly. ‘All this—this silly chitchat…’
‘I’m writing the rules tonight, Bree.’ His voice was soft, but she could hear the steel in it.
‘You didn’t say you expected conversation, Slade, only that you expected—’
The tires squealed as he turned the wheel sharply and brought the car to a sudden stop on the shoulder of the road.
‘Behave yourself,’ he warned. He reached to her and curled his fingers around the nape of her neck. ‘Otherwise the deal’s off. Understand?’
The deal’s off anyway, Brionny thought, and she smiled.
‘Certainly,’ she said.
Slowly, his hand fell away from her. He took a deep breath and clamped his fingers around the steering wheel.
‘I made reservations at a place on the North Shore of the island. Five stars, elegant décor, boeuf en croute, a pair of violinists playing softly in the background…’
‘Are you waiting for me to tell you it sounds wonderful?’
‘I’ve been there a dozen times. The food’s always excellent, the music’s unobtrusive, and the service is impeccable.’ He reached for her hand. She almost yanked it back, then she decided it would be better to let it lie boneless in his. ‘But I know this little place on the ocean,’ he murmured, his fingers lacing through hers. ‘They serve the best ribs and jazz this side of the Mason-Dixon line. How does that sound?’
Like a place a man would take a woman on a real date, Brionny thought, and a tremor went through her.
Slade brought her hand to his lips. She caught her breath as his mouth grazed her skin.
‘We’ll go there instead,’ he said. ‘You’ll like it.’ He put her hand back into her lap and stepped on the gas.
It was, as he’d said, a little place by the sea.
What he hadn’t said was that he was taking her to an old Victorian house with a widow’s walk and lots of gingerbread outside, and wonderful smells and overflowing baskets of flowers inside.
This was no out-of-the-way café. It was an expensive hideaway its devotees had protected from the food critics, and you probably needed to make reservations weeks in advance—and then hope they might be honored.
The hostess, a small black woman with skin the color of rich coffee and a broad, generous smile, saw Slade as soon as he and Brionny entered. She came sailing through the line of people waiting to be seated and threw her arms around him.
‘Ellen,’ he said, kissing her cheek.
‘Slade.’ Her voice was as Southern, as soft as a ripe Georgia peach. ‘We haven’t seen you in months.’
‘This is Brionny Stuart. I’ve told her you’ve got the best food and the best music in the world.’
Ellen laughed as she shook Brionny’s hand. ‘He exaggerates,’ she said. ‘The best in this hemisphere—I’m not sure about the world.’
She led them to a table beside a window, with a view out over the moonlit ocean.
‘Now,’ Ellen said, plucking the ‘reserved’ sign from the center of the table, ‘let me tell this young lady what to order.’
Slade grinned. ‘Ellen wants to make sure you don’t get the wrong idea and think this place is a democracy.’
Brionny smiled politely. ‘That’s all right,’ she said.
‘I’m really not very—’
‘Nonsense,’ Ellen said briskly. ‘Of course you’re hungry. And you’ll eat. No one comes to Ellen’s Place without eating. The food’s much too good for that.’
‘Well, I—’
‘You can’t be dieting,’ Ellen said, eyeing Brionny critically. ‘You’re too thin as it is. So what’s the problem, child? Are you piqued at something this big man did?’
Brionny’s cheeks colored. ‘No, no, of course not. I just—’
‘The fried chicken is delicious, and so are the barbecued beef and the pork ribs. You’ll have to try all three, and then you’ll have some Creole coffee and a slab of my sweet potato pie.’ Ellen softened her command with a grin. ‘Don’t panic. I’ll tell the kitchen to send out small portions.’ She patted Brionny’s shoulder, waggled her fingers at Slade, and hurried off.
Brionny looked at Slade. ‘Is she always so reserved?’
He grinned. ‘She’s not kidding, you know. She’ll come back and scold you if you don’t clean your plate.’ He leaned forward, his eyes on hers. ‘Well, what do you think?’
She looked around. Their table was very private, set with a blue and white checked cloth, heavy white napkins and handsome silver flatware. It was lit by the soft glow of a candle in a crystal holder. Across the room, on a small bandstand, a handful of men in tuxedos were playing the sweetest, most wonderful blues she’d ever heard.
This was a magical place, a marvelous place…
‘Bree? Do you like it?’
She swallowed. ‘It’s—very nice.’
‘Very nice, huh?’ Slade smiled. ‘See if you can stay with that lukewarm description after we’ve been here a while.’
She tried. She really did. But how could she? The food was ambrosial. The music was superb. And Slade—Slade was—
He was a man she had never met before.
He knew which ale went best with ribs, which wine would complement the chicken. He knew the names of the tongue-twisting spices that had lent depth and smokiness to the dark, rich beef, and the intricacies between one kind of barbecue technique and the next.
Over the chicken, he told her a story about Machu Pichu that made her smile. Over the ribs, he told her how he’d once confused the Japanese words tatami and tisumi with near-disastrous results, and made her laugh. Over the beef, he told her how he’d almost been thrown out of Boston University for a night that started with too much beer and ended with twenty fraternity brothers making a drunken, naked dash into a snow bank.
She didn’t smile or laugh. She just stared at him.
‘You went to Boston University?’
Slade’s smile was stilted. ‘An illusion shot to hell, Stuart? You figured me for a high-school dropout.’
It was the perfect time to say yes, that was precisely what she’d figured—but she couldn’t.
‘Actually—actually, I never thought about it.’
/> ‘It’s OK. My mother had that same look on her face when I told her I’d wangled myself a scholarship. Nobody in our family had ever taken a university degree; I think she’d have accepted it better if I’d told her I was going to be the first McClintoch to go to the moon.’
He was still smiling, but there was a tension between them again. It was just as well, Brionny thought; for a little while, she’d almost forgotten why she was with Slade tonight; she’d almost forgotten what sort of deal they’d made, what she intended to do…
He reached out and touched his forefinger lightly to the corner of her mouth. His touch sizzled against her skin and she jerked back.
‘Just being helpful,’ he said. ‘You had a spot of sauce on your lip.’
She stared at him, her pulse suddenly racing in her throat. He smiled, pushed back his chair, and rose to his feet.
‘Come,’ he said softly.
He was holding out his hand and moving in rhythm with the soft Gershwin tune the band was playing.
‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘I don’t—’
Slade reached for her, and before she could figure out a way to stop it from happening she was in his arms.
She didn’t want him to hold her so close, but the floor was small and crowded. His hand came up and cupped her head, and he tucked her face into the curve of his shoulder.
Brionny’s eyes closed. The feel of him, the smell of him were so painfully familiar. Memories flooded her senses: she knew his hair would be silken under her fingers, knew his skin would taste salty and warm.
God, she thought, oh, God, if only this were real…
What was the matter with her? This could never be real. She hated Slade, hated everything he stood for…
‘Bree.’ His mouth was at her temple; she could feel the soft whisper of his breath against her hair. ‘Bree—I have to tell you something.’
What could he possibly tell her? More lies, she thought, and she began to tremble. Soft, sweet lies this time, judging by the way he was holding her, by the way his hands were moving softly along her spine, lies he hoped would draw her down into a whirlpool of desire and give the evening the perfect finish.
But it wouldn’t happen. And it was time he knew it.
‘Bree,’ he whispered, and she yanked herself out of his arms and looked at him.
