by Nora Roberts
She wore a hammered-gold collar and triangular earrings that danced below her lobes. Her complaints that she looked like a slave girl captured by the Klingons fell on deaf ears. Even the shoes had been forced on her. Red satin skyscrapers that had her teetering at three and a half inches over her normal five seven.
She sipped champagne and felt like a fool.
It didn’t help matters that some of her clients were there. Margo and Josh’s acquaintances ran toward the rich, the famous, and the privileged. And she wondered how she was going to maintain her image as a clearheaded, precise, and dedicated accountant when she was dressed like a bimbo.
But a bet was a bet.
“Stop fidgeting,” Laura ordered when she joined Kate on the terrace. “You look stunning.”
“This from a woman tastefully garbed in an elegant suit that covers her extremities. What I look,” she said after another gulp of champagne, “is desperate. I might as well be wearing a sign. ‘Single Woman, HIV negative, apply in person.’”
Laura laughed. “As long as you’re hiding out here, I don’t think you have to worry about it.” With a sigh, she leaned back on the decorative banister. “God, it’s a beautiful night. Half-moon, starlight, the sound of the sea. A sky like that, it doesn’t seem like anything bad could ever happen under it. This is a good house. Can you feel that, Kate? Margo and Josh’s house. It’s good.”
“Excellent investment, prime location, excellent view.” She smiled at Laura’s bland stare. “Okay, yeah, I can feel it. It’s a good house. It has heart and character. I like thinking of them here, together. Of them raising a family here.”
Relaxed now, she leaned back with Laura. There was music drifting through the open doors and windows, the friendly sound of conversation, the tinkle of laughter. She could smell flowers, the sea, a mix of feminine perfumes, exotic tidbits being passed around on silver trays. And she could, simply by standing there, feel the permanence and the promise.
Like Templeton House, she mused, where she had spent so much of her life. Maybe that was why she had never been driven to make a home of her own, why an apartment convenient to work was all she’d wanted. Because, she thought with a faint smile, she could always go home to Templeton House. And now she could always come here as well.
“Oh, hello, Byron. I didn’t know you were here.”
At Laura’s easy greeting Kate’s pretty mood popped. She opened her eyes, straightened up from the banister and squared her shoulders. Something about Byron De Witt always made her feel confrontational.
“I just got here. I had some business that ran over. You look lovely, as always.” He squeezed Laura’s offered hand lightly before turning his gaze to Kate. The shadows were deep enough that she didn’t notice his deep-green eyes widen slightly. But she did catch the quick, amused grin. “Nice to see you. Can I get either of you a fresh drink?”
“No, I have to get back inside.” Laura stepped toward the terrace doors. “I promised Josh I’d charm Mr. and Mrs. Ito. We’re in hot competition for their banquet business in Tokyo.”
She was gone too quickly for Kate to scowl at her.
“Would you like another glass of champagne?”
Kate scowled down into her glass instead. It was still half full. “No, I’m fine.”
Byron contented himself by lighting a thin cigar. He knew Kate’s pride wouldn’t permit her to bolt. Normally, he wouldn’t have stayed with her any longer than manners dictated, but at the moment he was a little tired of people and understood that ten minutes with her would be more interesting than an hour with the party crowd. Especially if he could irritate her, as he seemed so skilled at doing.
“That’s quite a dress, Katherine.”
She bristled, as he’d expected, at his use of her full name. Grinning around the cigar, he leaned back and prepared to enjoy the diversion.
“I lost a bet,” she said between her teeth.
“Really?” He reached out to toy with and tug up the thin strap that had slid off her shoulder. “Some bet.”
“Hands off,” she snapped.
“Fine.” Deliberately he moved the strap down again so that she was forced to pull it up. “You’ve got a good eye for real estate,” he commented and nodded at the surroundings when she frowned at him. “You steered Josh and Margo to this place, didn’t you?”
“Yeah.” She watched him, waited, but he seemed content to puff on his cigar and study the view.
He was just the type she’d decided to dislike. Poster-boy gorgeous, she termed it derisively. Thick brown hair that showed hints and streaks of gold waved with careless attraction around a heart-stopping face. What would have been charming dimples in his youth had deepened to creases in his cheeks that were now designed to incite a woman’s sexual fantasies. The firm, hero’s chin, the straight, aristocrat’s nose, and those dark, dark green eyes that could, at his whim, slide over you as if you were invisible or pin you shuddering to the wall.
Six two, she judged, with the long limbs and strong shoulders of a long-distance runner. And of course, that voice, with its faint, misty drawl that hinted of hot summer nights and southern comfort.
Men like him, Kate had decided, were not ever to be trusted.
“That’s new,” he murmured.
Caught staring and appraising as his sharp green eyes shifted to hers, Kate looked quickly away. “What?”
“That scent you’re wearing. It suits you better than the soap and talc you seem so fond of. Straight up sexy,” he continued, smiling when she gaped at him. “No games, no illusions.”
She’d known him for months, ever since he had transferred from Atlanta to Monterey to take over Peter Ridgeway’s position at Templeton. He was, by all accounts, a savvy, experienced, and creative hotelier, one who had worked his way to the top of the Templeton organization over a period of fourteen years.
She knew he came from money, polite southern wealth, steeped in tradition and chivalry.
She had disliked him on sight and had been confident, despite his unflagging manners, that her feelings were reciprocated.
“Are you coming on to me?”
His eyes, still on hers, filled with humor. “I was commenting on your perfume, Katherine. If I were coming on to you, you wouldn’t have to clarify.”
She tossed back the rest of her wine. A mistake, she knew, with a migraine lurking. “Don’t call me Katherine.”
“That always seems to slip my mind.”
“Like hell.”
“Exactly. And if I were to tell you you’re looking particularly attractive tonight, that would be an observation, not an overture. Anyway . . . Kate. We were discussing real estate.”
She continued to scowl. Even Margo’s favored Cristal champagne didn’t sit well on a nervous stomach. “We were?”
“Or were about to. I’m considering buying a home in the area. Since my six-month trial period is almost over—”
“You had a trial period?” It cheered her considerably to picture him on probation at Templeton California.
“I had six months to decide if I wanted to be based here permanently or go back to Atlanta.” Reading her mind easily, he grinned. “I like it here—the sea, the cliffs, the forests. I like the people I work with. But I don’t intend to continue to live in a hotel, however well run and lovely it may be.”
She shrugged, irritated by the way the wine seemed to be sitting like lead under her breastbone. “Your business, De Witt, not mine.”
He would not, he told himself patiently, allow her prickly nature to divert him from his objective. “You know the area, you have contacts and a good eye for quality and value. I thought you could let me know if you hear about any interesting property, particularly in the Seventeen Mile Drive area.”
“I’m not a realtor,” she muttered.
“Good. That means I don’t have to worry about your commission.”
Because she appreciated that, she bent. “There is a place—might be a little big for your needs.”
“Figures. It’s near Pebble Beach. Four or five bedrooms, I can’t remember. But it’s back off the road, a lot of cypress trees and a nice established yard. Decks,” she continued, squinting her eyes as she tried to remember. “Front and back. Wood—cedar, I think. Lots of glass. It’s been on the market about six months and hasn’t moved. There’s probably a reason for that.”
“Might be it was waiting for the right buyer. Do you know the realtor?”
“Sure, they’re a client. Monterey Bay Real Estate. Ask for Arlene. She shoots straight.”
“I appreciate it. If it works out, I’ll have to buy you dinner.”
“No, thanks. Just consider it a—” She broke off as pain stabbed into her stomach, then, like a sick echo, erupted in her head. The glass slipped out of her hand and shattered on the tile even as he grabbed her.
“Hold on.” He picked her up, had a moment to notice she was little more than bones and nerves, before he eased her onto the cushions of a chair. “Jesus Christ, Kate, you’re dead white. I’ll get someone.”
“No.” Biting back on the pain, she grabbed at his arm. “It’s nothing. Just a twinge. Sometimes alcohol—wine on an empty stomach,” she managed, regulating her breathing. “I should know better.”
His brow knit, his voice thrummed with impatience. “When did you eat last?”
“I was kind of swamped today.”
“Idiot.” He straightened. “There’s enough food around here for three hundred starving sailors. I’ll get you a damn plate.”
“No, I—” Ordinarily that vicious look wouldn’t have quelled her, but at the moment she was feeling shaky. “Okay, thanks, but don’t say anything. It’ll only worry them, and they’ve got all these people here. Just don’t say anything,” she repeated, then watched him, after one last, smoldering look, stride off.
Her hand trembled a bit as she opened her bag and swigged from a small medicine bottle. All right, she promised herself, she would take better care of herself. She’d start trying those yoga exercises Margo had shown her. She’d stop drinking so much damn coffee.
She would stop thinking.
By the time he came back she was feeling steadier. One look at the plate he carried and she let out a laugh. “How many of those starving sailors do you intend to feed?”
“Just eat,” he ordered and popped a small, succulent shrimp into her mouth himself.
After a moment’s deliberation, she scooted over on the cushion. A distraction, even in the form of Byron De Witt, was what she needed. “I guess I have to ask you to sit down and share.”
“You’re always so gracious.”
She chose a tiny spinach quiche. “I just don’t like you, De Witt.”
“Fair enough.” He dipped into some crab soufflé. “I don’t like you either, but I was taught to be polite to a lady.”
Yet he thought of her. Odder still, he dreamed of her, a fog-drenched, erotic dream he couldn’t quite remember in the morning. Something about the cliffs and the crash of waves, the feel of soft skin and a slim body under his hands, those big, dark, Italian eyes staring into his.
It left him uncomfortably amused with himself.
Byron De Witt was sure of many things. The national debt would never be paid, women in thin cotton dresses were the best reason for summer, rock and roll was here to stay, and Katherine Powell was not his type.
Skinny, abrasive women with more attitude than charm didn’t appeal to him. He liked them soft, and smart, and sexy. He admired them simply for being women and delighted in the bonuses of quiet conversation, hardheaded debate, outrageous laughter, and hot, mindless sex.
He considered himself as much of an expert on the female mystique as any man could be. After all, he’d grown up surrounded by them, the lone son in a household with three daughters. Byron knew women, and knew them well. And he knew what he liked.
No, he wasn’t remotely attracted to Kate.
Still, the dream nagged at him as he prepared for the day. It followed him into the executive weight room, tugged at the back of his mind as he pushed himself through reps and sets and pyramids. It lingered while he finished off his routine with twenty minutes of the Wall Street Journal and the treadmill.
He struggled to think of something else. The house he intended to buy. Something close to the beach so that he could run on the sand, in the sun instead of on a mechanical loop. Rooms of his own, he mused, done to his own taste. A place where he could mow his grass, turn his music up to earsplitting levels, entertain company, or enjoy a quiet, private evening.
There had been few quiet, private evenings in his childhood. Not that he regretted the noise, the crowds he had grown up with. He adored his sisters, had tolerated their ever-increasing hordes of friends. He loved his parents and had always considered their busy social and family life normal.
Indeed, it had been the uncertainty as to whether he could bear to be so far away from his childhood home and family that had made him put the six-month-trial-period clause into his agreement with Josh.
Though he did miss them, he’d realized he could be happy in California. He was nearly thirty-five, and he wanted his own place. He was the first De Witt to move out of Georgia in two generations. He was determined to make it the right move.
If nothing else, it would stop the not-so-subtle family pressure for him to settle down, marry, start a family. The distance would certainly make it difficult for his sisters to continually shove women they considered perfect for him under his nose.
He had yet to meet a woman who was perfect for him.
As he stepped into the shower back in his penthouse office suite, he thought of Kate again. She was definitely wrong.
If he’d dreamed about her, it was only because she’d been on his mind. Annoyed that she continued to be, Byron turned up the radio affixed to the tiles until Bonnie Raitt bellowed out the challenge to give them something to talk about.
He was merely concerned about her, he decided. She’d gone so pale, become so quickly and unexpectedly vulnerable. He’d always been a sucker for a damsel in distress.
Of course, she was an idiot for not taking care of herself. Health and fitness weren’t an option in Byron’s mind but a duty. The woman needed to learn to eat properly, cut back on the caffeine, exercise, build up some flesh, and jettison some of those jangling nerves.
She wasn’t half bad when she lost the attitude, he decided, stepping out of the shower with Bonnie still blasting. She’d given him a decent lead on the kind of property he was interested in, and they’d even managed to have a reasonable conversation over a shared plate.
And she had looked . . . interesting in that excuse for a dress she’d been wearing. Not that he was interested, Byron assured himself as he lathered up to shave. But she had a certain gamine appeal when she wasn’t scowling. Almost Audrey Hep-burn-ish.
He swore when he nicked his chin with the razor, put the blame for his inattention directly on Kate’s head. He didn’t have time to analyze some bony, unfriendly numbers cruncher with a chip on her shoulder. He had hotels to run.
Chapter Four
Kate knew it was a mistake even when she set up the appointment. It was, she admitted, like picking at a scab, ensuring that a wound would never heal cleanly. Her father’s friend, Steven Tydings, was more than willing to meet her for lunch. She was, after all, his new CPA, and he’d told her he was a man who liked to keep his finger on the pulse of his finances.
She was sure she could work with him, do her job. Yet every time Kate had opened his file, she’d fought off a sick feeling in her stomach, flashback memories of her father. Bitter complaints about bills, about just missing that big break.
She had forgotten all of that, forged her memories of her parents more out of need, she realized now, than reality. Hers had not been a happy home, nor had it been a stable one. Though she had woven it as such in her dreams.
Now that it was impossible to pretend otherwise, she realized it
was equally impossible not to probe, not to poke. Not to know.
She had nearly balked when Tydings insisted on meeting at Templeton Monterey. The dining room there was the best in the area, the view of the bay superb. None of the excuses that she came up with had changed his mind. So at twelve-thirty sharp, she sat across from him at a window seat with a chef’s salad in front of her.
It didn’t matter where she was, Kate told herself as she picked at her meal. Laura was working at Pretenses. If anyone recognized her and mentioned it, it would be a simple matter to tell Laura she’d been lunching with a client. It was, after all, true.
For the first half hour, Kate guided the conversation to business. Strictly business. Whatever the circumstances, his account was entitled to and would receive her best. And he was pleased, telling her so often as she constantly eased her dry throat by sipping Templeton mineral water.
“Your dad had a way with numbers too,” Tydings told her. He was a toughly built, compact man in his middle fifties who beamed at her out of dark-brown eyes. Success sat as stylishly on him as his suit.
“Did he?” Kate murmured, staring down at Tydings’s hands. Well-manicured, businessman’s hands. No flash, but a simple gold band on his finger. Her father had liked flash—heavy gold watches, the small diamond ring he wore on his pinky. Why should she remember that now? “I don’t remember.”
“Well, you were just a little thing. But I’ll tell you, Linc had a gift for numbers. He could run figures in his head. You’d have thought he had a calculator in there.”
It was her opening, and she had to take it. “I don’t understand how someone that good with numbers could make such an enormous mistake.”
“He just wanted bigger things, Katie.” Tydings sighed, eased back in his chair. “He had a run of bad luck.”
“Bad luck?”
“Bad luck, and bad judgment,” Tydings qualified. “The ball got away from him.”
“Mr. Tydings, he embezzled funds. He was going to prison.” She took a deep breath, braced herself. “Was money so important to him that he would steal, that he would risk everything he risked just to have it?”
