“That’s not true.” He almost tumbled over.
She caught him. They teetered on the verge of falling. “You just don’t want to admit it until we’ve got you out of the costume.”
“Shouldn’t you be glad to marry a wise man?”
She jerked on the ridge on his back, and suddenly his head was free, his shoulders were free, and she could see his face without gazing through white pointed teeth.
The tussle suddenly stopped. They stared at each other, and Brandi could think of nothing but how much she loved him.
“Give me the ring,” he whispered.
Without looking down, she groped until she found it. She handed it to him.
Taking her left hand, he slid it on her third finger.
She looked at the smooth green stone and knew she held the weight of Roberto’s history in her hand. Slowly she said, “It doesn’t matter who your father is, or your grandfather, or your mother. I treasure them all, but only because they brought you into this world. For me. Just for me.”
“Yes, I am just for you. And you are just for me.” Still half in the dragon costume, he caught her in his arms and kissed her. “The ring . . . do you know what they call the Contini ring?”
She kissed him back. “What?”
“The dragon’s scale.”
She laughed. And laughed.
Fate had an interesting sense of humor.
They fell over in Sanjin’s office.
In the corridor outside, Sanjin heard the sound of Brandi’s mirth and again heard the rhythmic thump of the tail against the door. With an exasperated sigh, he walked away.
Tongue in Chic
For my wonderful editor, Kara Cesare,
who suggests and titles and revises with tact and genius.
Here’s to a long and fruitful relationship!
Acknowledgments
Thank you to Kara Welsh for a fabulous promotion and publishing schedule, and to Anthony Ramondo and the NAL art department for gorgeous covers that fly off the shelves.
And as always, thanks to the Squawkers, friends, booksellers, and fans who make writing and life in general such a pleasure. All my love.
Prologue
March 1951
Late Afternoon
On the South Carolina Coast
In the fourth-floor studio in the majestic Waldemar House, Isabelle Benjamin finished the last painting she would ever do there. Over the past week, the light had been good, the humidity oppressive but manageable, and the temperature had never topped eighty degrees. Now, when she stood back and studied the canvas, she nodded in satisfaction.
This was, without a doubt, her best work to date.
Taking a thin brush, she dipped it in black paint and, with a flourish, she signed her name.
She covered the pots of paint and cleaned her palette. She wiped her brushes on a rag, washed them in the sink, and carefully arranged them on the table. Untying her apron, she hung it on the hook.
She didn’t know why she bothered. When she was gone, Bradley would throw everything that reminded him of her into the garbage. But she was betting—betting her daughter’s future, in fact—on the probability that he couldn’t stand to throw away her painting. If she was wrong . . . well, it would be a loss to the art world.
But then, no one would ever know.
She picked up the canvas. It was large and awkward and still too wet; nevertheless, she carefully maneuvered it into the heavy gilt frame. She tapped at the nails that would keep it in place, then turned the whole thing around and studied it. Her fingers had smeared a little of the detail along the edges, but she’d figured on that and created an unfocused background that hid the damage. The paint would seal the canvas into the frame; no one would try to separate the two. Certainly not Bradley . . . A bitter smile twisted her lips, and a single tear escaped and trickled down her cheek.
But she dashed it away. Enough of that. She’d cried too much over the last two years.
Her marriage was over now, and past time, too.
Picking up the painting in both hands, she carried it down to the third-floor nursery.
The room was absolutely perfect. Pink ruffled curtains hung in starched splendor at the long, old-fashioned windows. A colorful alphabet danced across the wall, and each teddy bear occupied its proper niche. The gleaming antique crib was fitted with white sheets over an appropriately firm mattress, and the sleeping three-month-old inside was swaddled in a pink blanket, and rested on her stomach to discourage colic. Her sweet pink lips moved occasionally as she dreamed of milk, and Isabelle’s heart broke again when she remembered how her husband and her mother-in-law had bullied her out of nursing her child.
But no more bullying for Isabelle. No more cold, hard, proper nursery for Sharon. They were escaping. Going free.
The sour-faced nanny sat in the rocker reading a Reader’s Digest condensed version of Les Misérables.
Isabelle appreciated the irony.
At Isabelle’s entrance, Mrs. Graham stood as a gesture of courteous—and false—respect. “May I help you, madam?”
“I’ve come for Sharon. Would you carry her downstairs for me?”
“If madam would allow an experienced nurse to advise her, after a baby has been put down for the night it’s not a good idea to disturb her. Such an action sets a bad precedent and leads to reprehensible habits later in life.”
“According to you, so does holding her when she cries and feeding her when she’s hungry.”
Mrs. Graham stiffened in offended horror.
Isabelle had never spoken to her that way before. Before, she’d tried to make the best of a bad situation. Tried to compromise and create change from within.
But now she had a child to consider. She couldn’t allow her baby to grow up loveless, stifled, fit into a box furnished with white lace gloves and hats held under the chin with an elastic band, friends picked by their income and family background, and a debutante ball at seventeen that led to another tearstained marriage, another loveless childhood.
“Please put the knit hat on Sharon, wrap her in her down blanket, and bring her to me. I’ll be in the library,” Isabelle instructed.
“As you wish, madam.” Mrs. Graham bobbed a curtsy that mocked Isabelle and promised that another phone call would be made to Mrs. Benjamin.
Isabelle didn’t care. Not even the threat of her mother-in-law’s displeasure could dissuade her from her course.
She walked down the two flights to the library. The painting, held carefully away from her body, got heavy. Her arms grew tired. And this part . . . this part she dreaded more than any other. But when it was over . . . it was over forever. And she’d be relieved. So relieved.
She walked into the lofty room with its shelves packed with leather-bound books, its massive desk and old-fashioned chair, and the alcove where two snarling lions guarded a marble fireplace.
As she expected, she found Bradley in his easy chair, his bourbon on the table beside him, his smoking cigar between his fingers.
He was a handsome man with a shock of dark brown hair. When she first met him, his appearance had been what turned Isabelle’s head. That, and the flattering experience of having a wealthy older man paying court to her. He’d said all the right things. He’d enjoyed her conversation. He’d been indifferent to her poverty.
Most important, he’d admired her art. For the first time in her whole life, someone who’d visited the Louvre and Florence and the Taj Mahal had seen in her paintings enough promise to call in the foremost art expert in the world.
Bjorn Kelly had been half Scandinavian, half Irish, with an eye patch, a limp, and an incredible charisma that mesmerized and enticed. He also had no patience with being dragged halfway across the world by the infatuated Bradley to look at a stupid woman’s paintings—until he’d seen them. Then he’d yelled at her for bad technique and no vision, told her to stop drawing like a girl, and given Bradley the names of two American art teachers worthy of her genius.
That was the term Bjorn used—genius.
When Isabelle remembered that moment and how her love for Bradley had swept through her heart, she wanted to break the painting she held over his stubborn, handsome head.
Instead she walked with firm footsteps across the library—no more tiptoeing around—and leaned the painting against the fireplace facing him.
As if stung, he half rose from his chair. “What the hell is that? Some kind of cruel going-away present?”
“It’s a gesture of my appreciation, Bradley. Without you, I would never have been able to create a painting like this.” She dragged the wooden chair away from the desk and over to the fireplace.
“Without me—and that damned Kelly.” Bradley’s lips were so stiff they hardly moved as he spoke.
“Yes. Damned Kelly helped me, too.”
“Don’t be smart with me,” Bradley snapped.
Isabelle looked him right in the eyes. “Or what?”
The silence between them grew and seethed until Mrs. Graham bustled in, breaking the spell.
“Sharon is still asleep,” she said, her tone making it clear that she didn’t expect the condition to continue, and that it was all Isabelle’s fault. Mrs. Graham was an officious, judgmental woman who for thirty years had served the best Southern familes and fancied herself above Bradley Benjamin’s upstart wife. Mrs. Graham would be delighted to see the back of Isabelle.
She wouldn’t be quite so delighted to see her employment disappear at the same time.
“Wait there,” Isabelle told her. “I’ll take the baby when I’m done.” She stood on the seat and lifted the old painting off the hook. She stepped down, walked over to the bookshelves, and placed it there. Picking up her painting, she stepped on the chair again. It rocked under the weight of her and the heavy canvas.
Bradley surged to his feet, caught her waist, and balanced her.
The two of them stood motionless, joined by the sensation of touch and all the old feelings: lust, fury, pain . . . so much pain.
Then Bradley stepped away and wiped his palms on his pants.
The insult broke what was left of her heart, and she almost doubled over.
But she couldn’t lie to herself. She had known what would happen when he accused and she acceded.
Her hands trembled as she placed the wire over the hooks. She straightened the painting as well as she could, then asked, “Is it level?”
“Yes.” His voice was gruff.
“I’m leaving you my best work.”
“You’re a damned whore.” He rejected her with his voice, with his words, with his stance and his accusing gaze.
Mrs. Graham inhaled with shock.
“I know.” Isabelle looked down at him. “But I won’t contest a divorce or ask for support. I won’t take anything of yours. You’re free to find the woman of your dreams.” She stepped off the chair and dragged it back to the desk. Going to Mrs. Graham, she took Sharon and hugged her close to her heart.
The baby stretched and wiggled, opened her eyes and closed them again. “Do you want to say good-bye to her?” Isabelle asked Bradley.
“Why?” He seated himself in his easy chair and picked up his bourbon. “She’s nothing to me.”
Any man who could say that about the infant he had cradled had ice in his veins.
Isabelle was doing the best thing for herself and her child. “You’re right.” She nodded and walked to the door.
When she turned back to look at him one more time, he was sitting in his easy chair, staring at the painting over the top of the fireplace.
1
The Present Day
Midnight
On the South Carolina Coast
Lightning flashed. Shadows of bare limbs clawed the tangled path, and the lithe, black-clad trespasser stumbled. Paused. Shuddered. Then continued toward the Victorian house set high above the ocean. The roar of thunder shook the ground, and the next flash of lightning followed hard on its heels, blistering the massive structure with harsh white light. The spires on the fourth-story cupola stabbed at the roiling clouds, the wind gauge spun wildly, and on the beach the waves growled and pounded. The posts on the second-story balcony stretched and twisted, and a hard gust of wind drove the first burst of rain up on the porch.
The figure ran lightly up the steps and toward the imposing double doors. The large silver key slid neatly into the lock. It turned easily and was quickly pocketed. One black-glove-encased hand rested on the beveled glass, then pressed, and without a sound the door swung open.
No lamp lit the interior, but the intruder confidently strode into the foyer.
Then the lightning struck again, blasting away the shadows. Thunder boomed. The figure halted and spun in a circle.
The wide hall soared two stories above the floor. Gold blazed off every picture frame, every finial, off the coved ceiling. Stern eyes watched from nineteenth-century portraits, and wide stairs stretched up and out of sight. The blast of thunder made the crystal chandelier shimmer, and the prisms sent colored light shivering across the walls.
Then the lightning was gone. Silence settled like dust in the house.
Shoulders hunched, the intruder crept toward the second entrance on the left. The beam of a tiny flashlight slid around the room, touching briefly on shelves crowded with leather-bound books, the massive carved desk, the incongruously modern office chair. In an alcove in one corner of the room, two overstuffed chairs faced a tall fireplace finished with marble and flanked by two snarling stone lions.
The flashlight blinked out, but stayed in the intruder’s hand. Each step fell soft and sure on the wide, custom-woven rug, headed in a straight line for the cozy sitting area.
The figure halted behind one of the chairs and stared up at the painting over the fireplace. The flashlight flicked on again and scanned the wall, once, twice. The picture there, that of a stodgy twentieth-century businessman and his dog, drove the intruder to cast the light around the room in an increasing frenzy. “Oh, Grandmother. You promised. You promised. Where . . . ?”
The overhead light flared.
A man’s deep Southern voice demanded, “What are you doing here?”
The intruder half turned. One gloved hand flew up to protect against the brightness.
A tall, dark-haired man stood in the doorway, his hand on the light switch, his face craggy, tanned, and harsh.
He was the most striking, arrogant, handsome man Natalie Meadow Szarvas had ever seen.
The lightning flashed so fiercely static electricity skittered across the floor. In the yard something broke with a loud crack. The thunder roared and the windows shook.
She’d descended into hell.
She tried to run.
Her feet tangled in the fringe of the rug.
She tripped.
She grabbed for support. Missed. Hit the floor—hard.
Her head and the lion’s head collided.
The lion won.
When the stars had ceased sparking behind her closed eyelids, she took a long, trembling breath. Her bones ached from hitting the floor. The fringed rug smelled good, like citrus and sandalwood. Her head . . . her head really hurt. She lifted her hand to touch the pain at her temple.
Someone caught her wrist. “Don’t. It’s bleeding.”
The man. The one with the contemptuous brown eyes. How had he managed to get from the door to her side?
The explanation was easy. She’d been unconscious. But she didn’t remember being unconscious. She remembered only . . . she remembered seeing him.
“Sir, should I call the police?” Another man. Eager. Quiet. Efficient.
“Call the doctor,” Mr. Arrogant said.
“Then the police?”
“Just the doctor.”
“Yes, sir.” The other sounded disapproving—and obedient. His footsteps retreated.
Mr. Arrogant pressed something soft to her forehead.
She winced and tried to flinch away.
“Leave it,
” he instructed. “You’re bleeding on the rug.”
“Okay,” she muttered. Wouldn’t want to bleed on the freaking expensive rug.
“Open your eyes,” he said.
She must be mistaken. This couldn’t be the handsome one. A guy who used a tone that rude to a girl sprawled bleeding on his floor couldn’t be attractive.
She opened her eyes. She looked up at him.
He looked back at her, a cool, assessing stare.
Her heart stopped. Her breath stopped. She was immobile.
Because she was right about one thing: He wasn’t handsome—he was harsh, breathtaking, his glance striking like lightning and leaving her dead.
And what a way to go. If this was her punishment for trying to steal a priceless painting, then burglary had just become her way of life. “Wow,” she said again.
Mr. Arrogant sat on his heels beside her. He wore a crumpled, starched white shirt with the cuffs rolled up.
Nice arms.
And a pair of blue jeans that caressed his thighs.
He held Meadow’s wrist in one hand, and pressed a swathe of white to her forehead with the other, framing her in his arms, sheltering her with his shoulders.
Her heart jumped into a frenzy of action.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Um . . .”
Apparently she wasn’t fast enough with a reply, because he shot a second question at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Here?” She lifted her head and tried to look around. The instantaneous headache and nausea made her relax back against the floor, close her eyes, and mutter, “I’m going to barf.”
Gently he placed her hand on the cloth on her head. She heard sounds—him standing, moving away, coming back. “If you must, here’s a basin.”
She opened her eyes the smallest chink and looked.
He held an etched-glass vase with gold decoration, absolutely exquisite, done in the Regeletto design.
Aghast, she asked, “Are you insane? That’s a Honesdale vase, an original. I can’t barf in that!”
Dangerous Ladies Page 27
