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her thoughts, for he turned his attention out the window, dismissing her.
Leaving Penny feeling small and alone and very bitter beneath her familiar cloak of indifference.
And she was finding it an uncomfortable fit.
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Chapter 12
Phalon Rothmere slammed the receiver down onto its cradle, making it chime. I'll kill her, he thought, his fury trapped beneath the veneer of refinement and culture.
This time I will kill her.
He punched the button on his desk intercom, drawing in a slow calming breath before he spoke. "Send her in." He stood beside his desk, fingertips of one hand tapping the surface. He glanced down at the newspaper, a strange pain burning through his chest as the French doors opened and a beautiful, exquisitely dressed blond woman strolled into the luxurious room, gliding across the floor like a sloop across glassy waters. Phalon gestured to the chair resting before the ornately carved desk. Elegantly, she slid into the Hipplewhite antique, smoothed her linen skirt, then finally looked up.
"You wanted to see me, Daddy?"
He tossed the folded newspaper in her designer lap. "An associate of yours, I presume?" A rhetorical question. Phalon knew everything before it touched him.
Sloane picked at the paper as if it were contaminated, reading the headline.
"Olympic Gymnast Vanishes; Murder or Mauling?" She
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glanced at the first few lines. A shark attack? How convenient. "A Delta sister." Her gaze shifted a fraction beyond him, then back. "As if you didn't know," came bitterly as she flipped the paper onto his desk, unwilling to admit to a thing.
"What possessed you to put my gems in the pouch, Sloane? Tell me, so I might discover how your mind works—finally."
Inwardly, Sloane cringed at her father's controlled tone. "It wasn't my fault your goons didn't catch her." She shoved her long blond curls back over her shoulder, sending a nasty look to the tall man standing in the shadows behind her father. Asshole.
"Your twisted need for a little revenge," he rubbed his forehead, "which I've yet to understand, has cost this family more than you could imagine, young lady."
God, she hated it when he spoke to her like a child. "I honestly think you're overreacting, Daddy. It was just a—"
His hand lashed the air for silence, his patience gone.' 'What? A prank? Old jealousy, perhaps?" Sloane wanted to hit him then and looked away. "Another one of your petty larks? Like running my yacht so neatly into the pier? Or the insider trading charges with your last lover? Or your gambling?" His tone went suddenly ice smooth, his expression tight with reined anger. "This time, not only is the suspicion of murder annoy-ingly evident, but I've lost in excess of three million dollars!"
Sloane glanced up; the mention of money always gathered her complete attention, until she realized what her father said. The stones were gone, lost. Damn, I knew I couldn 't depend on those idiots. What had been so damned difficult? A simple little task: catch Tess in the act of saving her friend's precious career and gain a charge of grand larceny in the bargain. And perhaps shot during her escape. Neat, tidy. God, Tess did exactly as she'd expected!
"Where's Owen?" Briefly she eyed the toe of her Kamali pump.
"How do you think the police gained this much information?" He tapped the newspaper, appearing as if he'd enjoy crucifying her to the antique chair. Phalon knew of the evidence in the packet and saw no profit in blackmailing such a well-
respected actress, but it was his man's involvement in this that stunned him. "Owen has been loyal for over ten years, Sloane. How did you get him to betray me? Screw him?"
She stiffened, checking the sheen of her nail polish. "Actually, you should be pleased." Her gaze flew to his, years of being ignored icing her tone. "Betrayal has been a well-honed art in this clan for centuries, hasn't it, Daddy?"
Phalon's expression darkened, his pale-blue eyes narrowing to mere slits, and the satisfaction of wounding him made her reckless.
"And millions? Really?" She snorted unbecomingly. "For aquamarines, topaz, and a few rather dull amethysts?"
"Sloane," he paused til she looked at him. "They were all diamonds. Natural colored diamonds." His tone was precise and biting and her tan paled with every word. "With over a dozen rare flawless pink marquis. Family heirlooms," he added quietly.
Sloane stood, pacing. Heirlooms. The money came second, for she knew what family heritage meant to him. He was obsessed with having the perfect ancestors, the perfect iineage.
Tbe perfect daughter.
And she wasn't. Wasn't the male heir he wanted, nor quiet dignity like Penelope. And she wasn't the never-forgotten champion who stole the heart of a nation.
She wasn't anyone.
Because of them. Tess Renfrew was nothing but a slip of vulgar white trash and Sloane hated her, hated her how her achievements made Sloane's life miserable. Hated how her father always compared her to Tess. He didn't care that she'd increased profit of their garment factory thirty percent, never complimented her on all the opportunities her chic parties brought him. What would he say if he knew she'd slept with that weasel of a councilman to sway votes he needed for zoning. I ought to tell him, she thought, just to make him realize he isn't as powerful as he believes.
She had Penelope Hamilton trapped, didn't she?
Sloane smiled suddenly, sly and quite pleased. Well, Penelope will get her due, and then the world will know what the
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squeaky clean actress is really hiding. And Tess will go down with her. Sloane almost laughed aloud. If she hasn't already twenty leagues under water.
"I'm cutting you off, Sloane. Completely."
She whirled about, horrified. "You can't!"
His dark look dared her to defy him. "Bailing you out is a strain on the family treasury.'' A few years without her frivolous spending should compensate for his losses, he decided. At least they didn't know about the stones yet. Bailing Owen out of jail was impossible; the connection could be traced and Phalon was counting on a promise of money to keep him quiet before he had to take drastic measures. Owen was a good man and Phalon made the mistake of trusting his shallow tramp of a daughter with family secrets.
Phalon snapped his ringers, gesturing toward his daughter. The thick shadow came into view.
"Daddy?" Her confused gaze shifted between the advancing man and her father, fear yanking at her stomach as Larson reached. "Don't you dare touch me!" She slapped his hands away, backing up, but the huge man latched onto her arm, yanking her purse til the beaded strap broke. Gold spheres scattered across the floor like a fistful of tacks as he tossed it to his boss. "All you had to do was ask," she said with false bravado.
Phalon dropped into his chair and dumped the contents on his desk. He sifted through the feminine paraphernalia to find her wallet, extracting money, credit cards, account numbers. All she carried for easy access to his money. Family money.
"Let go of me!" She struggled, prying at the bruising fingers circling her arm.
"Our name is connected to this . . . mess, because of you." Phalon looked up, meeting his daughter's gaze before nodding to his man, Larson. Larson slapped Sloane across the face. She stumbled back, more from the shock, than the stinging pain. "Daddy?" Her heel caught on the carpet, and she twisted her ankle, then righted herself. "What's this going to prove?"
"Maybe you'll remember that what you do reflects on me." Phalon swung the leather chair around, ignoring her calls as
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Larson slid his arm around her slim waist, pulling her flush against his body. He smiled, gazing into her eyes with the tenderness of a lover, and her lips curved, relief sweeping her, an instant before his fist slammed into her side. She moaned and he struck her again, executing the beating like a surgeon, striking areas that would cause the greatest pain, yet leave the damage invisible to the public. And all the whi
le gazing into her eyes, his mouth inches from hers, a near kiss.
Sloane refused to scream, refused to look away. It would give either man too much satisfaction. Pain burned through her battered kidneys, and she felt a rib bone fracture beneath his fist. Hot tears blurred her vision and she swallowed back the sob swimming up her throat.
Phalon swung the chair back around. "That's sufficient." His voice cut through her pain like a douse of alcohol.
Larson still held her close, his hand coming up to gently stroke across her cheek. She spit in his face and he smiled, thin and arrogant as he reached inside his Armani jacket, snapped out a monogrammed handkerchief and dabbed the spittle from his cheek. Sloane slipped into unconsciousness.
"Touching," Phalon muttered, tossing the useless purse at Larson. "Get her out of here."
Larson gathered her in his arms like a knight collecting his bride and disappeared through a passage hidden within the paneled wall.
Phalon Rothmere steepled his fingers, tapping them against his lips, his gaze on the newspaper and the grainy photo of the beautiful black-haired woman beneath the headline. It was a shame. Tess Renfrew, a nobody from nowhere. From the moment he'd first seen her photograph in the newspapers, when she was no more than ten or twelve, Phalon had recognized her underlying strength, her resilience. And when he met her years ago at some ridiculous sorority function of Sloane's, he'd learned just how far she'd elevated herself from her unfortunate beginnings.
She'd fascinated him, her vitality.
Leather creaked as Phalon slowly swung the chair around and studied the antique painting hanging on the wall above
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him. WOMAN IN GREEN marked the brass plate at the base of the frame. Dark hair flowing about her pale shoulders, she was shrouded in a deep-green gown, gentle waves and the ocean's mist swirling about her bare feet. White sand coated her dress hem and a delicate pair of green slippers dangled from her fingertips, as if she cared less if she lost them during her walk. His gaze honed in on the face, her expression forlorn, yet prepared for a challenge.
He flicked a brief glance at the newspaper photo, comparing it to the painting.
The resemblance was uncanny, her energy and sensuality captured lovingly in every stroke of the brush, held motionless, like a guardian, for two hundred years.
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Chapter 13
Twas a majestic home, bespeaking of wealth and grandeur, two floors, and stretching a bloody block; gabeled roof, a railed porch rambling to the right, stables off to the left of the estate, a gated carriage house, yet what arrested him was the ten-foot white stone wall surrounding the grounds, the spears of iron mounted along the edge deterring visitors. A friggin' prison, he thought, comforted by the scent and sound of the sea beyond the house.
As they mounted the porch steps a woman threw open the door and Penelope launched into her open arms, hugging tightly. Ramsey stepped back, watching the tenderness shared atween, the way Penelope consoled when he suddenly recalled she'd been in the tropics searching the sea for her lost friend. Grief shared, lessens, he thought as she glanced back, obviously discomfited that he'd witnessed the tender scene and gesturing for him to join her.
It struck him then that the older woman wearing the apron with the words: out of body, back in five minutes, printed on the starch white, was most likely her mother. Or mayhaps the housekeeper?
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"Is Travis here yet?" Penelope asked the instant she was inside.
"Came nearly a half hour ago." Margaret tossed her thumb toward the winding staircase as she held open the door. "Dumped a rack of stuff off in the green room, along with a dozen bags and boxes, then left."
The housekeeper, Ram decided.
"Did Anthony call?" Penny said, setting the alarms.
Margaret shook her head, her gaze focused on Ramsey.
Ramsey peered over Penelope's shoulder, closely inspecting the numbered switches. A black line illuminated with a glowing red, printed out her choices, then disappeared. Fascinating.
Penny glanced to the side. God, he looked ready to drop. ' 'It's an alarm system and will go off if there are any intruders.''
Ram frowned. "Off? As in take to the sky?"
She forced herself not to laugh. ' 'No, just make loud noises and signal the police if anyone tries to break in.'' His ignorance of things she took for granted, was, in its own way, charming her socks off, and she really didn't mind playing teacher. He took his promise to Tony seriously, going out of his way to see her well-protected, even checking the locks on the gate and inspecting the immediate grounds. Although it wasn't necessary, Penny was touched. She hadn't given him any reason to be so concerned.
Ram nodded, pleased she'd explained as she slid a panel over the switches, hiding them from view. Clever, he thought and together they turned toward the gray-haired woman standing in the foyer. Hank clomped past, burdened with luggage, not bothering to speak as he headed up the stairs.^
"Margaret O'Hallaran, this is Mister Ramsey O'Keefe," Penny said, dumping her purse on the small table behind Margaret. "He'll be with us for a while." Margaret, bless her, didn't show the slightest fraction of surprise. ' 'Would you show him to the green room so he can clean up and rest?"
"Sure." So, this is who those clothes are for, Margaret realized, looking Ramsey up and down with undisguised interest. Well, ain't this a kick. A man in the house. ' 'He fresh from
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a movie set or something?" Margaret asked, inclining her head toward Ramsey.
Penny glanced at him, her features softening. "As a matter of fact, those are his clothes." A strange smugness marked her tone.
"Go on with you now! The gun and knives too?"
"It's impolite not to address a person directly, Margaret," Penny said, her heart tripping when he winked at her.
Folding his arms over his chest, Ramsey leaned indolently against the wall, grinning when Margaret's inspection finally made it back to his face. He returned the same scrutiny, then stepped forward and grasped her hand.
" 'Tis a grand pleasure, Mistress O'Hallaran. Succor to me parched soul to meet a true Irish Rose." Ramsey bowed, drawing her hand to his lips for a kiss.
Margaret turned her head slowly toward Penny. "He rehears-in' or something?" Penny shook her head, and just as slowly Margaret looked back to Ramsey. She snatched back her hand. "Well, that's got to be the purest pile of blarney I've ever heard, Mister O'Keefe. And I ain't fallen for it."
Ramsey tried to look wounded. "Ahh, you cut me weary heart, Meggie lass." He grasped her hand again, tucking it into the crook of his arm. "And 'tis such afar far way I've traveled." Chuckling to himself, Ramsey steered her across the tiled foyer toward the elegant winding staircase.
' 'That a fact?'' she muttered, her brows screwed in confusion.
"Further than you could imagine, lass."
"Got a lot of parched souls and weary hearts where you're from?"
Ramsey threw back his head and laughed, and Margaret smiled at the rich man-sound peeling through the house. "Aye, Meggie. And 'twas kind of Mistress Hamilton to offer me lodgin', was it not?" He leaned close enough to whisper in her ear. "Yet I am not such a dolt about domestic matters that 1 cannot see 'tis you who supervises this spotless mansion." Margaret blushed girlishly. "Is it this way to the green room?" He gestured ahead, seeing as he was leading her along. Margaret
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nodded slowly, then glanced over her shoulder at Penelope. "So tell me, Meggie rose, where have you kin?"
Penny nearly laughed at Margaret's bewildered look. She was like a sorority house mother and that he'd made it past her, or rather around her good graces, was a feat and a half. Bet he could charm the habit off a nun. After Tony left them, she and Mister O'Keefe traveled the short distance chatting amiably, not asking anything personal and sticking mostly to the history of her Victorian house. He'd been
stunned at the size, which was odd, because her home was modest compared to her neighbors. Very modest. Several feet behind them, Penny followed, her attention snagged on the broad width of his shoulders and those long muscled legs. You're in for it now, Penny told herself. He's in your house, in your private world, and you haven't the faintest idea how to get him out.
Live dangerously, a voice said.
"I'm done with danger," she muttered under her breath and looked up to see Ramsey glancing over his shoulder at her, an amused smile on his lips. I have to quit doing that, she thought as Margaret pushed open the guest room door and ushered him inside.
"Everything's there for you, Mister O'Keefe." Margaret waved to the interior and Ram smiled his appreciation. ' 'If you need anything else, sir, just give me a shout.'
He pulled her hand from his arm, brushing his lips across her knuckles. "I beg you, Meggie, call me Ramsey. Naught a soul I've met will." His gaze darted meaningfully to Penelope.
She nudged him with her elbow, smiling. "You're a card, Ramsey, a real hot ticket." She hadn't let anyone call her Meggie since she was a girl. "You hungry?"
Ram's mouth watered at the mere mention of food. "Famished, madame," he said with feeling. "Are you as fine a cook as you are a housekeeper?"
"The best," Penelope said from behind Margaret.
The older woman beamed. This giant of a man was a meat and potatoes guy, she decided immediately. "Real cooking," Margaret said to the ceiling, giving thanks for the opportunity, then heading toward the door. "Oh—" She paused. "Travis
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left this.'' She withdrew an invoice sheet from her apron pocket. "It's the bill for those." She inclined her head to the black and gold embossed boxes and bags and the rack of men's clothes.
Penny reached, but Ramsey was swift, plucking the slip and quickly stuffing it in his pocket. "Accept not a farthing from Wainright," he said to Penelope. "Is that understood?" Ram loomed over her, his expression set to take only aye for an answer, and Penny felt small and delicate with absolutely no will power when he was this near. "Understood, Penelope?" Her name tumbled from his lips like a soft caress, smoothing down her shoulders.
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