by Renee Roszel
In a self-protective move, she lifted a hand to her passion-swollen lips to mask their trembling. “That was shabby behavior—” her voice broke and she had to struggle to finish “—even for you.” Fighting tears, she tore off toward the house as though the devil himself was nipping at her heels.
Emily stood staring at herself in the dresser mirror, for the first time noticing how tan she’d gotten during these past two weeks. Of course, the ivory color of her long gown made her skin seem more burnished than it really was. She wasn’t accustomed to seeing her skin so goldenbrown. And though it wasn’t particularly good for the skin, she now understood why people actively sought a tan. It gave the skin an ironically healthy glow.
She ran a finger along the ridge of a cheekbone, shaking her head at herself. The fresh dusting of freckles made her look eighteen again. Another irony struck her. She hadn’t worn a formal dress since she’d been that age, when her father had won Plattville, Iowa’s teacher of the year award.
She sighed, remembering how the occasion had been marred by the fact that her sister, Elsa, had run away to New York only a few weeks before, breaking her father’s heart. Since her mother had died three years earlier, Emily had gone as her father’s escort. He hadn’t been able to fully enjoy the honor because of his oldest daughter’s defection. And even though Emily had done her best to be a cheerful companion, she would never forget the pall that had hovered over that formal occasion.
This dress, however, was a far cry from the childish, pink, puffed-sleeve garment she’d borrowed from a neighbor. This silk creation looked more like a nightgown than anything that should be worn in mixed company. It clung to her breasts, her hips, and the slit up the side revealed more leg than most of her walking shorts.
Still, this had been the best of the lot Meg had brought for her to try. Besides, with the hip-length flared jacket, it was respectable. She only hoped it would be cool enough in the Grand Salon for her to keep the jacket on all evening. Otherwise, she’d simply have to leave early. There was no way she was taking off her jacket in public.
Glimpsing her watch, she confirmed her fear that it was nearly seven o’clock. With one last, critical look at her sun-streaked hair, combed straight back and fastened with a pearl-encrusted clip at her nape, she picked up the jacket and slid it on, fastening the single button at her waist. She had to admit it was an elegant formal suit. The jacket alone must be worth thousands of dollars, for the bodice and collar were trimmed in satin and lace and embellished with pearls.
Meg had insisted on the pearl hair clip, but Emily had refused to borrow earrings. All this borrowing of finery only reminded her of her sister’s desertion—and then her sudden reappearance, coming back for their father’s funeral, lingering just long enough to lure Harry away...
Emily’s glance veered from her stricken reflection. Instead of attending this starched dinner party, she wished she could go off alone and sit on a secluded beach. Except there was always the danger of running into that disturbing carpenter and his equally disturbing kisses.
Her mood darkened with worry. She supposed accepting the hospitality of their aloof host for the past two weeks had to be paid for in whatever manner he required. She only hoped his other guests would occupy his time and he wouldn’t ask them how the remodeling of the west wing was going. Surely there would be enough starlets at the dinner to keep their host occupied. She was a bad liar, and she knew, if cornered, she’d blurt out, “I’m a no-good fraud! Send me to prison!” That would be horrible for Ivy.
As she picked up her satin bag, preparing to go to Meg’s room, there was a knock at her door.
“Meg?” she asked.
“Yes, it’s me in all my fancy gewgaws. I only wish Larry could see me. He’d ravage me right here in the hall.”
Emily managed a smile. Meg’s bubbly humor was one of the greatest gifts she gave to their friendship. “Maybe it’s better that he’s in Brazil, then.” She tried to picture Meg’s bashful, bespectacled husband as a sex machine, but had a hard time. “I’m not sure I’m ready to see Larry in his ravaging mode.”
The door opened and in flounced Meg. She was stunning and sexy, the shimmering image of a diminutive Cher, especially with all that hair, a cascade of black gold falling nearly to her waist. She wore a short, skintight dress made of crushed peacock-blue sequins. A matching sequined pouch with a satin cord dangled from one of her outstretched arms. “Ta da!” she sang. “Am I not wonderful?” She did a full turn, and the light caught the sparkle of a rivulet of impressive, square-cut diamonds hanging from each ear. “Am I not too-too?”
Emily smiled a real smile, feeling better in the face of Meg’s enthusiasm. “You’re very too-too. As a matter of fact, you’re the most too I’ve ever seen.”
Meg laughed that deep laugh of hers. “If Mr. Gallant looks even half as svelte in his tux as I look in this dress, I’ll eat my purse.”
“He couldn’t possibly,” Emily said, meaning it. When Meg tried, she was one of the most striking people she’d ever seen. “Nobody will be able to hold a candle to you.”
“I’m afraid I must agree.” Meg tossed her head in mock haughtiness. “But don’t put yourself down. Why, because of my great eye for clothes, you’re almost as gorgeous as I am.” Taking Emily’s hand, she tugged her to the door. “Let’s us two gorgeous people get going. I’ll burst if I don’t see Mr. Gallant in the next five minutes. And I know you’re dying to meet him, too.” She winked wickedly. “Aren’t you?”
Emily bit the inside of her cheek, drawing blood.
The parquetry dining room table was as long as a bus, making even the twenty-five people clustered at one end seem like a very small party.
The meal proved to be the most spectacular gourmet spread Emily could have imagined. The only flaw in the grand affair was that it was taking every ounce of her strength to keep Meg from leaping up and bodily strangling the butler, who kept coming in every fifteen minutes to explain that Mr. Gallant would be delayed a bit longer.
Meg had never been long on patience. Neither had she mastered the art of taking disappointment well. So she was fit to be tied. And the glaring evidence of their host’s vacant place at the head of the table was a galling reminder of how desperately she’d looked forward to meeting the mysterious master of Sin Island.
In a valiant effort to keep Meg’s mind diverted from murder and mayhem, Emily struggled to keep the conversation flowing. She was someone who hardly ever initiated a conversation, and her efforts were laborious and stressful. The evening seemed to be passing in harrowing slow motion.
Another unfortunate thing about the evening was that there were no starlets in attendance. Besides Emily and Meg, the entire party consisted of the accounting department of Gallant’s and their spouses. It was explained by the executive vice president of accounting, Albert Benton, that Mr. Gallant gave an appreciation dinner for each of his departments at some point during the summer months.
Albert was a quiet widower in his mid-forties, and he assured Emily and Meg they were delighted to have fresh faces at their traditional dinner, more opportunity for interesting discussions. That comment had sent panic rampaging through her. She and Meg were supposed to be interior decorators, and they knew nothing about the subject. How could they add anything interesting when they didn’t know anything—at least not about decorating? Consequently, there were huge gaps in conversation. It became obvious very quickly that Gallant’s accountants and the two pseudo-decorators didn’t have much to say to each other.
One of the accountants, a divorced man named Farnley Morse, was a hard-nosed Trekkie in his off-duty hours. Whenever he grabbed the reins of the conversation, it moved into outer space, to Spock, Captain Kirk, three-eyed androids and all manner of intergalactic angst. These were subjects that bored Meg to distraction and could only incite her to grimmer, more bloodthirsty thoughts of homicide. So Emily had the additional tribulation of steering Farnley away from a subject that was close to his heart and clearly a
lways on the tip of his tongue.
After almost an hour, Emily found herself thanking heaven for the three college students, Claude, Lester and Reed, who were summer employees of the Gallant company. At first they’d been quiet and seemed as uncomfortable as Emily, but after awhile they’d gotten over their awe of the place and turned into real assets. Between them, they were keeping the guests laughing over stories of one campus prank after another.
When one topic faded, Emily would jump in, stabbing at any subject that came to mind that didn’t include death, stars or thoughtless hosts, hoping the animated young men would come to the rescue again.
She checked her watch. Eight-thirty. The last remnants of the delicious crabmeat chantilly had been cleared away, and almost everyone was through with dessert. She lowered her gaze to what was left of her poached pears with gingered cream, praying this ordeal would come to an end soon.
Just then, the butler made another of his dreaded appearances, and all conversation halted. It seemed to Emily that the guests were holding their collective breaths.
The formally clad servant cleared his throat. “If you would care to retire to the patio, there is a small orchestra setting up for your dancing pleasure.”
Meg raised her hand and waved a napkin at the butler as he was about to go. “Wait a second,” she called, her face puckered in a frown.
“Yes, madam?” He returned to a position of respectful attention.
“Is Mr. Gallant joining us there?”
“I couldn’t say, madam,” he replied, a model of the noncommittal manservant. “Now, if you will follow me?”
Meg’s fist tightened around her dessert fork, and Emily patted her hand. “Easy, tiger. Mr. Gallant will show up.” Secretly, she doubted it, didn’t even want it to be true. And though she wouldn’t say it, deep inside, she was harboring a burgeoning resentment for a host who could be this inconsiderate.
Once outside, Emily noticed the night air was unusually still and close, as though it, too, was holding its breath in anticipation of something. She chewed her lower lip. Her jacket would soon become uncomfortably warm, especially if she did much dancing. Since the men outnumbered the women this evening, the chances were good that she’d have to take her share of spins around the floor.
She turned at the sound of stringed instruments tuning up, surprised their absent host had hired an orchestra. The idea of airlifting twenty-odd musicians to his island home boggled her mind, and she shook her head. The extravagant way Mr. Gallant lived continued to amaze her.
She knew the big helicopter made daily trips back and forth to the mainland. Some days several. And today it had come and gone three times that she knew of. She wondered if Mr. Gallant had left the island and hadn’t returned. Or possibly he’d left, then returned while they were at dinner. Maybe he was changing, preparing to join them now. She had no idea where he was and didn’t much care, except for the fact that Meg was dying a lingering and painful death from curiosity.
The orchestra began to play “Red Sails in the Sunset.” As couples took to the floor, she strolled to the edge of the terrace and leaned against the metal railing, staring out to sea. Off in the distance she saw shimmering threads of lightning rip through the black fabric of sky. A storm was brewing. She smiled wanly. There was a storm brewing much, much closer at hand—Hurricane Meg! She closed her eyes, hoping Mr. Gallant wouldn’t be a complete cad, that he would show himself before much longer. Just a glimpse would be enough. For Meg’s sake.
The music changed. This time, it was an orchestration of Billy Joel’s latest hit. She couldn’t recall the name, but she liked the beat.
“Emily?” came a tentative male voice a second before someone leaned against the railing at her side.
She turned, already knowing it was Claude. Thin as a wafer, with a shock of woolly red hair that looked as though it perpetually needed sheering, he stood there, trying but failing to look casual. She’d had a feeling all through dinner that he was developing a schoolboy crush on her, and her heart went out to him. “Hi, Claude.” She smiled amiably. “Wasn’t dinner nice?”
“Great. Uh...” He looked nervous. Though he was a year or two older than her high-school students, he seemed very young and vulnerable. If he was afraid she might reject his offer to dance, he was wrong. Her own heartache had been too recent for her to bear to see even a glimmer of disappointment in anyone’s eyes because of her. Though the night was overly warm, she decided she would endure it with a smile. She’d learned all too well how fragile the human heart was—and how easily it could be trampled. Harry and Elsa had shown her that.
“I was just wondering if you’d like to...” His question died away, and she sensed he was distracted by something behind her. Curious, she turned in the direction he was looking and instantly saw what it was. All eyes had gravitated to a remote, princely figure, silhouetted in burnished light that spilled from the open double doors of the mansion.
Emily got only a peek at the newcomer as the guests converged around him. Still, she was left with a definite impression of a lean yet powerfully built man clad in formal black. Could this be their elusive host who had finally arrived at his own party? Her stomach clenched in panic.
“Hey,” Claude said. “I bet that’s Mr. Gallant.”
Emily saw another flash of lightning, this one almost overhead, and felt a sudden breeze that carried the scent of rain. A storm was coming, and would be quickly upon them. Claude’s comment registered belatedly. “Haven’t you met him, either?”
“Nah. He doesn’t get to accounting much. And I’ve only been there since classes let out in May.” His expression grew hesitant and he said something, but thunder swept away the sound. “Think we should go meet him?” he repeated, after the rumbling died down.
“Maybe we should wait and see if the others survive.”
He did a double take, then understood she was joking, and laughed. “Yeah, I guess that was a stupid question.”
She shifted to watch the activity at the other end of the patio, and was startled to see a small group of people separating themselves from the crowd and moving her way. Meg was chatting animatedly with a very tall man who must be their host. Her heart went to her throat. Surely she wasn’t dragging Mr. Gallant over there specifically to meet her? Please, Meg, she cried silently. Please be talking about the wonderful dinner or the softness of the guest towels! Anything, as long as it has nothing to do with sex lessons!
She knew she was panicking. Even Meg wouldn’t do anything so crazy. She tried to buck up, to get control of herself, and pasted on a sociable smile. It was finally time to meet her shadowy host, and it wouldn’t be good form for her to scream and bolt over the patio railing just because he made a move to shake her hand.
She forced her gaze from Meg’s face. Even if the light had been better, she couldn’t read lips. She could only trust in her friend’s basic good sense and assume all was well.
Claude surprised her by stepping in front of her like a protective puppy. He introduced himself first, making polite comments about how delighted he was to be an employee and a dinner guest. Emily took the opportunity to scan the sky again. Clouds had blown in and shrouded the stars and moon. Darkness seemed to be pressing down around them, dank and ominous. Thunder growled through the heavens, and she couldn’t hear Mr. Gallant’s response. It didn’t really matter, but the coming storm did. Any second now a torrential rain would start to fall.
There was a shuffle of feet and she sensed Claude moving away. Meg interjected, “Last but not least, Mr. Gallant. This is Emily Stone, my, er, fellow decorator.”
Here it came, the big lie! She tried not to show her dismay, and extended her hand. “How do you do, Mr.—”
Lightning exploded above them, turning the night into stark, brilliant day. It was only an instant, but long enough for Emily to freeze in naked horror. That knowing look, that roguish grin, high amusement in a dusky gaze. It was all so distressingly familiar.
He stood there gri
nning at her, looking sophisticated and flawless in a tuxedo. She didn’t want to believe her eyes and blinked several times, hoping it was a trick of the lightning storm. But, when she looked again, he was still there.
“You...” she breathed, wishing the earth would open up and swallow her, or that a hurricane would sweep her away into oblivion. She’d actually thought he was a carpenter—a cocky, arrogant handyman—and she’d told him...told to him she was having an affair with—with...
She became aware of a commotion around them, noticed big, fat drops of rain had begun to fall as guests scrambled for cover. But she didn’t move, couldn’t care less about something so inconsequential as deadly lightning slashing around them. Her eyes grew wet with anger and humiliation. “How dare you!” She jerked up her arm to give him the hardest, most well-deserved slap any man had ever received in the history of the world.
“Would you care to take my arm?” He caught her uplifted hand before she could follow through with her urge. “When marble gets wet, it’s treacherous.”
“That—that’s not the only treacherous thing on the island!” She tried to wrench free, but he held her fast. What a diabolical joke he’d played, egging her on then kissing her the way he had. She yanked on his hold again, but it did no good. Loathing shook her, and she cried, “I’d rather be torn limb from limb by a pack of rabid dogs than touch you!”
“I must insist.” Slipping her arm around his, he imprisoned her against him. Iron-hard muscle nudged her breast, and she inhaled sharply at the contact. “It would be the gentlemanly thing to do. Don’t you agree—sweet-heart?” His low query was rich with lazy laughter.
CHAPTER FOUR
THUNDER, like a snarling bear, accompanied them as they entered the Grand Ballroom. Servants scurried to close doors and help the orchestra set up. But because Emily was clutched so securely to her host, her roiling emotions didn’t allow her to register much activity.
