by Harper Allen
“Toast and clear soup. I thought I was cooking invalid food,” he said mildly, advancing into the room and setting the tray down on a bedside table. “If not bed rest, what were you planning on doing?”
“I took yesterday afternoon off to go shopping for that outfit I wore last night.” Turning from the dresser she walked over to the bed and sat on the edge of it, wincing as she did. “I should put in some time at the office. I always get more done on a Saturday when there’s no one else around, anyway.”
Her tone was detached, her expression evasive. Not only were they in marked contrast to the Marilyn he’d thought he was beginning to know—the woman who seemed to have been growing more comfortable with him, the woman who’d blushed across the table last evening and whose tongue had flicked against his in that all-too-brief but meltingly delicious kiss the night he’d come back into her life—but in this setting her cool manner was even more out of place.
Her bedroom decor wouldn’t have suited the wide-open areas and exposed brick walls that recalled the warehouse origins of the main part of the loft, but this room projected a much more intimate feeling than the rest of the apartment. Faded cabbage roses slipcovered the chairs, and softly worn velvets and lace gave an air of deliberately shabby romanticism to the fainting couch against the far wall, the two small glass-topped tables cluttered with books and bowls of potpourri on either side of the bed, the curtains pooling on the floor by the French doors leading out onto the miniscule balcony she’d told him had once been one of the warehouse’s loading platforms.
Her bed was white-painted and ornately rococco wire and brass, obviously from a bygone era. The tiny crystal chandelier cascading from a plaster rosette in the center of the ceiling was another antique, Con surmised, judging from the one or two missing prisms and the glowing patina of the silverwork. Over everything hung the faint scent of some old-fashioned flower—heliotrope, or maybe lilac.
But the woman sitting in the middle of all this charmingly elegant nostalgia and femininity was wearing no-nonsense brown flats and a brown-and-tan houndstooth jacket over a pair of dark gold wool slacks. Her hair was brushed smoothly back into a tight clasp at the nape of her neck.
You’ve pulled your Beacon Hill armor around you again, cher’, Con thought, looking at her. And I understand you well enough to know you only do that when someone’s hurt you…or when you’re scared you’re going to be hurt.
An image from long ago flashed into his mind—long ago, but never forgotten. Hell, when it came to the woman sitting on the bed in front of him, every flicker of an eyelash, every word she’d ever spoken, had been carefully retained in his memory. This particular image was of a five-year-old Marilyn in Christmas green velvet, white stockings, gleaming black Mary-Janes. Her hair had reached to her waist then, and it had been held off her forehead by a thin velvet band. She had been coolly eyeing the enormous turkey that took pride of place on the table before her, and her mouth had turned down at the corners.
“I’d rather have a cheese sandwich, please, Father. Tell Luz she can bring it into the library with a glass of milk when it’s ready.” She’d risen from the dinner table, her small shoulders stiffly set, her whole demeanor icily disapproving. “If it was just you and me and Josh it would be different,” she’d enunciated coldly before giving the barest of nods to Samuel Langworthy’s new wife, Celia. “Surely you can’t expect me to sit down to Christmas dinner with her. And why isn’t he with his own family, instead of trying to be part of ours?”
That final barb had been directed at him, Con recalled. Even at the time it hadn’t hurt, maybe because even at seven years old he’d known the small blond princess staring scornfully at him had been trying her hardest to hurt someone—anyone—in order to conceal her own pain.
Marilyn Langworthy no longer wore a velvet band to keep her hair back, but the expression on her face was the same as it had been all those years ago—tightly stubborn and closed off. He had the sudden impulse to sit down on the bed beside her, pull her onto his lap, and just hold her.
Except in the mood she was in right now that would probably earn him a black eye, he thought wryly, and so it should. She was a grown woman well on her way to having a child of her own, and although he could think of situations where cosseting and babying her might be appropriate—an inappropriate heat spread through him at the idea and he quickly tamped it down—this wasn’t one of those situations. He narrowed his gaze at her.
“I don’t believe you, cher’. Wherever you’re going, it sure isn’t the office—especially since your hands are in no shape to use a computer. You want to tell me what’s going on?”
Whatever she’d been expecting from him, it hadn’t been plain speaking. For a split second he was sure he glimpsed a flash of contrition behind those blue eyes.
It disappeared. The shuttered look fell over her features again. She reached for a slice of toast.
“I didn’t want to tell you because I know you’ll try to talk me out of it.” She didn’t look at him as she spoke. “But my mind’s made up and nothing you can say is going to stop me.”
She bit off a small corner of toast. It seemed as he watched that she could barely chew it, and when she swallowed it was with an obvious effort. She set the scarcely nibbled triangle back on the plate with a suddenly trembling hand.
“I’m going to call on my father, Con. I—I need to know for sure if he had anything to do with what happened last night.”
Chapter Eight
“Mother would hate what Celia’s done to the place,” Marilyn said in an undertone to Con as they entered the wide drawing room of Samuel Langworthy’s Capitol Hill mansion. She cast an appraising eye over the pale floral upholstery of the furnishings, the white-painted brick of the bijou fireplace where, despite the brightness of the crisp November day outside, a small pinecone fire was cheerily flickering.
“Your father’s on an overseas conference call, Ms. Langworthy. He’ll be down as soon as he’s off the phone.” The black-uniformed woman standing in the doorway glanced toward Con, who was emphasizing his detachment from the conversation by examining an ornament he’d picked up from a nearby table, and then politely switched her attention back to Marilyn. “Can I get you anything, Ms. Langworthy?”
“Nothing, thanks, Antonia.” Trying to quell the sudden butterflies in her stomach, Marilyn pulled off her gloves and drew them carelessly through her fingers. “And my father’s wife?” she said with assumed lightness. “Is—is Celia in?”
With a rush of relief she saw the older woman shake her head. “Mrs. Langworthy’s at the Aspen cabin with Miss Holly this weekend. She thought a change of scenery might—”
“Sorry.”
Con had set the ornament back down sharply enough that it had made an audible click against the polished tabletop. His one-word apology was delivered in a curt mutter. Deliberately turning her back to Con, Marilyn pretended to make a closer survey of the room.
He’d been angry with her, she recalled, still shaken by the memory—really angry. Without consciously thinking of it before, she’d somehow been of the unworried belief that no matter how much she might push him, with her Con’s reactions would always be tempered. In fact, she admitted, over the past two weeks he’d met her mood swings with unruffled indulgence, as if even at her most snappish he found her endearing.
It was another example of his disregard for her ice-queen reputation, she thought. Con Ducharme treated her like an adorable female. And although coming from any other man such an attitude might have been annoying, he managed to pull it off by making it clear that doing so didn’t mean he underestimated her in any way.
But back at the apartment when she’d informed him of her intention to have it out with her father, he’d come close to exploding. Disconcerted by his vehemence, she’d countered with an automatic anger of her own.
“Father’s hardly likely to attempt anything in his home with the servants around,” she’d riposted when he’d tersely told her he couldn
’t agree with her plan. “And frankly, Con, if I decided I wanted to strip naked and go for an elephant ride at the Denver Zoo, I really don’t see how it would be anything to do with you. I’m helping you find Tony Corso, and through him, Helio DeMarco. A working relationship like ours doesn’t give you the right to tell me where I can go and who I can see.”
That comment had been patently unfair, Marilyn admitted now with a twinge of guilt. His objection had been because he’d been worried for her safety, and under more normal circumstances she might have acceded to his request that she delay confronting her father for the time being. Why had it been so important to her that she assert her independence?
Because you’re not completely independent anymore when it comes to Con Ducharme, she told herself with raw honesty, fixing her gaze on a cluster of Persian violets massed in a Limoges cachepot on the table beside her. Small silver-framed photos were grouped around the plant, and idly she traced the delicate chasing around the edge of one of them with her fingertip. You admitted as much to yourself last night—you’ve gone and fallen in love with the man. From now on he can hurt you without even trying.
From now on? He already had, she thought unhappily. On some disturbing level she sensed that despite his easy charm and effortlessly sexy manner he hadn’t revealed himself to her at all, and that part of what he was hiding had absolutely nothing to do with the investigation.
His anger over this visit had been honest, at least. In a way, that made it easier to deal with…and in a way, it made it harder. She didn’t like this grim-faced, silent Con. He was too much like the man who had coldly admitted to an all-consuming hatred of Helio DeMarco. He was too much like a gambler who would stake everything he had, everything he held dear, on winning the game.
She was suddenly grateful for the heat thrown off by the crackling pinecones, suddenly glad that her surroundings weren’t the formal antiques and dark colors she remembered from her childhood in this house.
“Let’s get out of here, cher’.”
Con had crossed the pretty Aubusson carpet so quietly that Marilyn gave a slight start as she felt his hand on her arm. She turned to face him and felt the tightness in her chest ease a little. The driven gambler had disappeared. The Con who stood before her was the man who’d ruefully forced himself to throw a poker game last night, who’d managed to make a list of desserts sound sinful, who had held her in his arms as if he would never let her go.
“I came on too strong back at the loft. Hell, I know that’s not the way to handle you.” His grin flashed briefly at her, but when he went on his tone was sober. “Whether your suspicions about your father are correct or not, just the thought of meeting him has you as nervous as a cat, sugar, and don’t try to tell me you were trembling a minute ago because you were cold.”
His gaze was dark. Uncomfortably Marilyn looked down at his grip on her jacket sleeve. What would he say if she told him what had been going through her mind only moments ago? Naturally she wouldn’t. Bringing uncomfortable truths out into the open wasn’t the Beacon Hill way or the Van Buren way. She moved her arm enough so that his hand slipped from it, and her lips began to formulate some meaningless reply.
And then she stopped. She raised her eyes to his. Unconsciously she placed her palm on the curve of her belly, her chin lifting slightly.
“I’m so tired of observing the proprieties, Con,” she said clearly. “I don’t intend to raise the child growing inside me to play foolish parlor games, so I guess it’s time I gave it a rest myself. I wasn’t trembling because I was cold or because I’m worried about meeting with Father. I was trembling because I’m afraid, and the person I’m afraid for is you.”
“Me?” The green-gold eyes looking down at her widened in astonishment. “Merde, honey, I can take care of myself. I always could.”
“Really?” She gave him a searching look. “In a bar fight or a card game, yes. But I’m not talking about that kind of danger, Con. I’m talking about losing your soul. I’m talking about destroying yourself in a single-minded crusade to bring down a man you’ve vowed vengeance on. You become a different person when you talk about DeMarco…and I’m beginning to wonder if that other personality isn’t starting to spill over into the real you.”
“Because of the way I reacted earlier?” His frown was quick. “I’ve already admitted I could have handled it better, but I still stand by my reason for not wanting you to come here. You—”
“That’s just it,” she interrupted. “You haven’t told me the real reason you’re so on edge about this. Oh, part of it’s what you said—we both know this interview with my father is going to be devastating and you’d like to spare me that if you could. But there’s more to it, isn’t there? Funnily enough, I’m not the one who’s as nervous as a cat about being in this house. You are. I want to know why.”
“I’ve already told you.” Con’s tone was flat. “If you don’t believe me there’s not much I can do to convince you.”
“You could try laying your cards on the table, Ducharme,” Marilyn suggested, anger sparking inside her. “Or is that too hard a concept for a New Orleans gambler to—”
“After spending the past half hour on the phone calling a spade anything but a spade with a group of Japanese investors, I’m about ready for some good old American plain-speaking, so give it to me straight, Marilyn.”
The craggy-faced man striding into the room rolled his shoulders as if to brace himself. “What’s the crisis? Did the office burn down? I know only business would bring you here.”
“The office is still standing, Father.”
She wasn’t sure how long she would be, Marilyn thought, her knees turning immediately to rubber as she met the hooded gray gaze being directed her way. It flicked toward Con, standing beside her, and hastily she pulled herself together.
“This is Con Ducharme, a friend of mine.”
In the few sentences they’d exchanged on the drive here to the Capitol Hill mansion, Con and she had decided that was how she would introduce him. It was explanation enough for his presence with her the evening before, if her father needed one, and Con hadn’t wanted his connection with the New Orleans P.D. mentioned to Samuel. So much for plain-speaking right from the start, she thought shakily.
“But you’re right, this isn’t exactly a social visit. I’m—”
“No, it wouldn’t be.” With a grunt, Samuel Langworthy settled himself on one of the pair of floral sofas, jerking his head toward the other as he lifted the lid of a round wooden jar on the table beside it.
“Cap’n?” Con raised an eyebrow. “I’ve got nothing against the occasional good cigar, even if it is a smuggled-in Havana from the looks of it. But you don’t want to smoke that now.”
Her father looked disconcerted, she noted. It was an expression she couldn’t remember seeing on his face before.
“An old habit, and one Celia’s been after me for years to break. My apologies, Marilyn.” He spoke stiffly. “I wasn’t thinking.”
Something about the comment struck her, but for a second she couldn’t pinpoint what it was. Then realization came. Carefully she lowered herself to the sofa, perching on the edge of it rather than sitting back.
“That’s the first time you’ve come anywhere close to alluding to the fact that I’m expecting, Father.” She glanced down at herself. “It’s not as if it’s easy to overlook. I mean, when I get pregnant, I really get pregnant, don’t I?”
She forced a laugh, and even to her own ears it sounded brittle. “That’s why I’m here, actually. I want to ask you—with Josh’s campaign coming to a head, just how inconvenient has it been having not one but both daughters sullying the family image?”
Gray eyes frosting over in his perfectly barbered face, Samuel Langworthy began to rise. “This isn’t a topic we need to discuss, especially in front of—”
“You’re wrong.”
The words rushed from her with an intensity she couldn’t control. Struggling to her own feet, Marilyn to
ok a step toward the man who had sired her. She couldn’t allow herself to think of him as her father anymore, she told herself tightly. He’d given up that role years ago, and if what she feared was correct, last night he’d completely discarded it. Con’s earlier edginess had given way to a wary and watchful monitoring of the situation, she noted distractedly.
“It’s the only topic you and I need to discuss,” she said flatly. “It’s the only one left, because we’ve long since passed the point where we can discuss the kinds of things other fathers and daughters talk about. I’m not in grade school, so we can’t talk about my science projects or my book reports or the teacher who gave me a B when I thought I deserved an A. High school and college are behind me, so exams and the way I missed making the swim team by a tenth of a second aren’t relevant anymore. My first job, my first car, my first kiss, the first time a boy broke my heart and I pretended I didn’t care—they’re all gone.”
He hadn’t blinked once during her outburst. There was no expression at all on that tanned, still craggily handsome face. She was boring him, Marilyn thought incredulously. She had poured out a lifetime’s worth of hurt in a few short sentences, and the man who had caused it was bored. Anger and pain cut through her, scything down the last of her doubts.
“You weren’t in a conference call when I arrived, were you?” she asked thinly. “When Antonia told you I was here, you needed time—time to decide how you were going to play this, time to toss back a little of that Dutch courage I’m pretty sure I can smell on your breath. Was it a bad shock, Samuel? Did even your iron nerve fail for a minute or two when you realized it hadn’t worked?”
“What are you talking about?” She was sure she detected a hint of bluster in his growl. He swung a frowning gaze to Con, standing a few feet away. “Ducharme, right? Dammit, man, do you know what this is all about?”
