Banish Misfortune

by Anne Stuart

  She raised an eyebrow artfully. "Paranoid, Mr. Lincoln? If I wanted to avoid you, I wouldn't have come. This weekend was planned for your benefit." He had been drinking Scotch, she noticed with an inward shudder of distaste. She hated Scotch drinkers.

  "But you weren't here last night," he reminded her with a trace of petulance in his voice. A petulance just slightly laced with threat.

  "I'm here tonight."

  He pressed closer then, his belly leaning into her slender frame, and one big hand caught her unresisting one. "So you are, Jessica," he said lightly, meaningfully, "I need to talk with you."

  "Of course."

  "About the merger. The contracts... There are several points that I think could use some more discussion."

  Here it comes, she thought, dropping her eyes for a moment to see his hand fondling hers in what he doubtless thought was a sensuous gesture. His hands were old, puffy, with silver hair sprinkled across the backs of his fingers. She raised her eyes back up to his and summoned her limpid smile.

  "I'm at your disposal."

  His smile broadened. "After the party. I think my room is the best choice—that way we're unlikely to be disturbed."

  She nodded, feeling curiously numb. Why should it matter? It wasn't as if she was a virgin—surely she could trade one night for a secure and powerful future. Why was she balking? It was nothing more than her smiles and her subtle flattery had promised for the past three months. "I don't think I'll have any trouble getting away from Peter..." she began, experienced enough to leave herself an escape hatch.

  "No, I don't think you will," Lincoln said smugly. "He knows how important this merger is."

  Jessica looked up sharply. The threat was out in the open then, and she didn't like it. She needed the polite veneer that it was still her choice. "I'll speak to him," she said coolly, putting Lincoln in his place.

  "You do that. But I don't think you'll hear any objections to a late-night bargaining session." One of his heavy hands reached behind her head then, holding her still as his face descended. His lips were thick, wet and demanding on her cold, unresponsive ones. She stood still for the assault, not moving, and a moment later he pulled back.

  "You're a cool one, aren't you?" he queried, not the slightest bit discouraged.

  "I don't like being pawed in hallways," she replied, unmoved.

  Lincoln laughed, moving away. "Sounds like you need a little discipline, Jessica. And I'm the man to do it. My room, no later than one o'clock. I'll have some Scotch waiting."

  "Not Scotch," she said hurriedly. "I hate Scotch."

  His grin broadened. "Champagne, then. I'll be waiting." He was moving back toward her again, his wet lips open, when they heard someone moving down the hall. He broke away with unaccustomed nervousness and tugged at his pants. "Later," he said, and without turning, continued on down the hall, leaving Jessica to face the late arrivals.

  Springer MacDowell and Peter Kinsey were an ill-matched pair, she thought distantly, watching them advance on her. Peter was so quintessentially Princeton, from his sandy-colored hair, perfect features, Ivy League clothes that were a step above preppy, and that way he carried himself, certain of his welcome and his cleverness, yet charmingly free from arrogance or self-importance. In comparison, Springer looked like a large, dark, dangerous savage, and the light in his fathomless eyes was directed with unwavering steadiness at Jessica. She met that look, her chin raised in unconscious defiance.

  "Who was that?" he queried, mildly enough. Jessica waited for Peter to answer. He looked uncharacteristically nervous.

  "Rickford Lincoln," he replied with an uneasy laugh. "Jessica's been overseeing a merger with the Lincoln Corporation these past few months. It's just about to go through, knock wood." The look he cast Jessica could definitely be described as beseeching, and for a moment she wondered if Kinsey Enterprises was in even worse shape than she realized.

  "Could I talk with you, Peter?" she said suddenly.

  Peter shied away like a nervous colt. "Not right now, darling. I'm afraid I'm on an errand for Father, and I haven't a moment to spare. I'll catch up with you later, all right? In the meantime, why doesn't Springer escort you back to the party? I'd like you two to get to know each other. I may not have mentioned it, but Springer and I were very close when we were in school."

  "No, you didn't mention it," she said coolly, meeting Springer's lightly amused gaze with her usual reserve.

  "Well, you two become friends, and I'll find you." He was moving down the hall at a rapid pace, and Jessica watched him go with a curious sense of defeat.

  "Well, Jessie, I don't think you're going to get any help from him," Springer murmured, his voice a husky drawl.

  She turned back to him. "What do you mean?" Her voice wasn't encouraging. She shouldn't even be talking to him, she should turn her naked back on him and head back to the noise and the crowds. She stayed where she was.

  "I mean Peter darling is going to turn a blind eye to Lincoln's advances. It looks like you're the virgin sacrifice on the altar of business survival, and he isn't going to offer more than a token objection."

  He was fast, she had to grant him that. "Hardly a virgin," she said coolly. "And no sacrifice, nor Peter's possession to be offered. I make my own decisions."

  "Sure you do," he mocked lightly. "I could see your face when Lincoln was touching you. You didn't look very happy."

  "I do what needs to be done," she snapped, nettled. "Not that it's any of your business."

  To her surprise, he nodded. "You're right, of course. It has nothing to do with me if you chose to screw up your life. And I can't even tell you to take it easy on Peter, since he's obviously willing and eager for you to cement the merger in a charmingly old-fashioned way. As long as you don't mind the Kinseys pimping for you...

  Jessica found she had raised her hand to hit him. He stood there impassively, waiting for her hand to connect with his dark, arrogant face, and slowly she dropped it, amazed at the rush of emotion that had swept over her. She never lost her temper, never allowed people to get to her. A sudden feeling of nausea assailed her, and it took all her control to swallow the bile that rose. She managed a shaky smile. "You are good," she said meditatively. "But not good enough. Leave me alone." She wouldn't call him by name. Mr. MacDowell was too absurdly old-fashioned, Springer too intimate.

  He hesitated for a moment, something like regret in his eyes. "If you want to change your mind, I'll drive you back to the city," he said suddenly. "You don't have to do anything you don't want to do."

  Her control was back, completely, and she bestowed a faint, wondering smile on him. "Of course I don't. And I'll leave at the end of the weekend, when I'm ready to go. I'm sure I can persuade Rickford Lincoln to give me a ride back if Peter's not ready to go."

  He stared at her for a long moment further. She could feel the tension in his body, matching hers, and she looked up at him fearlessly, her eyes wide and deceptively uncaring, willing his anger to spill forth.

  But it didn't. He swallowed it, almost as if he found her too pathetic to hate, and once more she wanted to slap him. "You're worth more than an executive hooker," he said suddenly. "Don't you realize that?"

  The cool smile was getting a little stiff by now, but she refused to let it waver. "Of course I realize it," she mocked. "I'm worth an executive vice-presidency and the boss's son."

  She couldn't get through that damnable, unreasoning concern that seemed to underlay his mockery. "If you change your mind..." he said again, unwilling to let her go.

  "I won't." She held out one slender arm. "And now I think we ought to rejoin the guests. I have some circulating to do."

  "I'm sure you do. Ever the little hustler." He eyed her coolly, making no effort to take her arm. "You go on ahead. I think I need some fresh air." And he walked past her, his face shuttered with contempt and something else even more disconcerting.

  Jessica watched him leave, watched that tall, animal grace of his. He was still wearing j
eans and a light cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up—at a formal party, no less. And damn him, he got away with making his own rules.

  Just as she was going to, she told herself grimly. It would be a real test of her abilities, to meet Lincoln in his room at one o'clock and escape unscathed. But she could do it, she knew she could. And laugh at all of them while she did.

  Chapter Six

  The cocktail party, which had started sometime after five, was just breaking up at one o'clock. There was no way Jessica was going to roam the halls in the floor-length white silk caftan with the row of tiny buttons up the front, looking for Lincoln's room. With her luck she'd either run into Peter, who'd stammer and look miserable and be forced into taking a stand, or, even worse, wander into Springer MacDowell's bedroom. Not that the caftan was particularly seductive. She had chosen it with care, the long, flowing lines giving her an indefinably untouched air. She rather fancied herself as a vestal virgin, cool and powerful and removed. But it had been a long time since she'd been a virgin, she thought, and a sudden, incomprehensibly fresh grief swept over her.

  The house was slowly getting quieter, settling down for the night. She wandered over to the French doors, staring out at the wide sweep of beach that fronted the Kinsey's rambling house. It was a fortunate thing that her relationship with Peter hadn't yet progressed to bed, though the time was definitely looming closer.

  He'd made a few halfhearted attempts, but he hadn't pushed it, a forebearance Jessica attributed to a combination of gentlemanly instincts, an innate lack of passion and an unwillingness to interfere with Lincoln's plans for her. She could only be grateful for the first two reasons and detest the third with a frighteningly healthy anger usually absent from her icily calm demeanor.

  But it certainly made things easier tonight—there would be no awkward questions, or the awkward lack thereof. Peter knew what she was doing, she was sure of it. And had chosen to turn a blind eye. And she was no longer certain she could live with that.

  Squares of light on the beach illuminated each pair of French doors—one by one they slowly went dark. She opened hers a crack, breathing in the smell of the sea, the sharp salt tang of it. She didn't have to do it, of course. Instead, she could step out onto that fine silver sand, walk down to the water and dive in. The cool, cleansing surf would put everything in perspective. And then she could come back out, lock herself in her room, and go to bed, blessedly alone. Slowly she closed the door again.

  They would have put Lincoln in the suite of rooms just off the central courtyard, she realized as she stepped out into the hallway. And Springer would be in the opposite direction, farther down the end of her wing, with French doors leading out onto the beach like hers. No one would see her.

  Her bare feet were noiseless on the thick beige carpeting that covered the rambling modern house. It was almost two—with any luck Lincoln would have passed out by now, and she would have another night's reprieve. There was still a good chance she could manage to escape unscathed, but the memory of Lincoln's leering eyes, the eyes that had responded to her subtle but too effective come-ons during the past three months of negotiations, warned her that she shouldn't put too much hope in it. Lincoln had every intention of collecting on her promises tonight, and it was more than probable that this time she'd have to pay the piper.

  Jessica knocked very, very softly on his door, ready to turn and run if he didn't answer in five seconds. He answered in three.

  The monogrammed navy silk robe with the white ascot was very attractive, she told herself, stepping wordlessly into his room. It minimized his bulk, made him look elegant, strong and powerful. So why did she feel like a virgin sacrifice?

  Damn it, those were Springer's words. How would it feel if he could see her now, slender and waiting, alone in the candlelit room with that lusting old man drooling over her? He'd hate it, she thought, and smiled her first real smile.

  Rickford Lincoln knew excitement when he saw it. Through his Scotch-fuzzed brain he saw that smile curve her face, saw the slender, boyish body through the shimmering silk, and lunged.

  Jessica had seen that narrowing in his glazed eyes and prepared herself. His lips were slobbering over her collarbone, his hands grabbing at the silk, and with her usual efficiency she turned her mind off. Turned it to a merciful blank filled with rolling green meadows, a blue, blue sky, the smell of clear lake water and the distant sound of birds wheeling through that almost cloudless sky. She could lie back in the grass, feel it tickling her skin, and the noisy gruntings and moanings were a distant irritation. The hands on her skin melted away, and she was gone, floating with the puffs of clouds. Doesn't the sky look green today, she thought dreamily, staring down.

  And then it was gone, ripped away from her with a sudden, shocking violence, as his bleary, raddled, lecherous face hovered over her, breathing heavily. Wave after wave of Scotch-laden fumes covered her face, choking her. She opened her eyes, staring up at him, and began to scream.

  "Dammit to hell!" Lincoln swore, scrambling off her in panicked haste and retying his robe with nerveless fingers. "Stop it, for God's sake! Shut up!"

  She could see it from a distance, from her perch up among the clouds. Jessica was lying there, her caftan half off her slender body, her blue eyes glazed and blank, her mouth open in a scream that kept coming. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

  And then the room was filled with people. Lots of people. Peter Kinsey, his fair hair rumpled, standing helplessly by, Jasper Kinsey, rage and something akin to fear darkening his distinguished face. The talentless actress was by his side, a negligee pulled around her, unaware that the hastily donned robe was completely transparent. They all stood there by Lincoln's embarrassed, infuriated figure and watched her as she screamed.

  And then she was back, pulled into someone's strong arms, her face pressed against a warm, hard chest, and the screams were gone, leaving the room deafening in its silence.

  "What the hell happened?" She could hear Springer's voice through his chest, feel his hands on her back, stroking, soothing, gentle hands. Her breath was still coming in shuddering gasps, her face and hands were tingling, her mind ripped free from that merciful blank. She knew where she was, and what she had done.

  No one had bothered to answer Springer's question. She could hear Jasper Kinsey's voice, low and soothing, murmuring hurried apologies to X. Rickford Lincoln. She could feel Peter standing there helplessly, afraid to risk his father's displeasure by coming to her, afraid to alienate her by adding his excuses to his father's.

  Springer's short, obscene expletive brought them all up short. "Don't let us bother you," he snapped, scooping up Jessica's trembling form in his arms. She barely weighed more than a kitten, he thought absently, his arms tightening their hold. She turned her face against his shoulder, hiding from those wondering, condemning faces.

  "Is... is she all right?" Peter had the decency to ask, putting a tentative hand on one limp arm. She flinched as if burned, keeping her face averted, and Springer shifted her closer against him.

  "She'll be fine," he said, not particularly certain of that fact. "I'll take care of her."

  "Would you, Springer?" There was real gratitude in Peter's voice as he accompanied them to the door. "I'd come with you, but I think I'd better help Dad try to smooth a few ruffled feathers."

  Springer looked down at him over the limp figure cradled in his arms, and his eyes darkened in contempt. "You do that," he said lightly, no sound of his disapproval filtering through his voice. "I'll take care of her," he said again.

  The night air was cool and salty on her skin. Jessica could feel the shift in the rhythm of his footsteps as he moved from the terrace to the soft white sand, but she was still unwilling to raise her head from its hiding place against his strong shoulder. Slowly she became more aware of him as the tingling lessened in her limbs. He had taken off his belt, and his shirt was open and untucked. The soft white cotton cushioned her head, but warm, smooth flesh pressed against
her arm and the open caftan that he had pulled hastily back around her trembling body. She wondered when he'd done it but knew that it had been his hands and no one else's who had touched her. And with distant despair she could feel the strands wrap tighter around her, that tenuous, torturous, spider's-web stickiness tying her to him. She was a fat, juicy butterfly, caught in his trap, and he was a tarantula, keeping her captive, waiting till his hunger grew and he could feast on her when her struggles grew too weak.

  Or was she the spider? The black widow, mesmerizing him, pulling him closer while telling him to go away, and the moment he came within reach, her touch would poison him, whether she wanted to or not.

  "Relax," his voice rumbled as he felt her body tense in his arms. "No one's going to hurt you."

  At the sound of the patent lie she began to struggle, but his arms only tightened. "Stop fighting me, Jessie," he whispered.

  "Let me down." Her voice was muffled against his shoulder, hoarse and rusty and raw with pain. For a moment it seemed as if he was going to ignore her, and she added the final, ignominious concession. "Please, Springer."

  Slowly, slowly his body came to a halt; slowly, slowly he loosened his hold to let her slide down the length of his body. Her bare feet touched the sand, and she tried to move away from the protection of his hands. The lights of the house were far away, and then suddenly they seemed much farther—bright, glistening little pinpricks glaring at her. A moment later she found herself sitting in the sand, her head pushed between her knees, a strong hand kneading the back of her neck.

  "Take slow, deep breaths," he ordered, and she dutifully complied, breathing in the ocean's smell and the faint, tantalizing scent of Springer. The spinning gradually faded, reality began to intrude with a sickening rush, and Jessica shuddered.