Dangerous Ladies

by Christina Dodd

  She turned over to stare at the fireplace. That pompous old gentleman mocked her.

  No matter how many times she stared at it in disbelief, it never changed. It was the wrong damned picture.

  3

  How was that possible?

  In Meadow’s pocket, the key poked her in the hip. Pulling it out, she looked at the length of silver, the huge teeth, the ornate handle. This she should hide. She might need it again.

  Hearing Devlin’s footsteps, she hastily poked the key between the couch cushions and the back, down far enough that it wouldn’t be easily discovered by the cleaners.

  Lightning danced across the portrait, making the haughty gentleman’s eyes glint with disapproval. She didn’t care. Disapproval of any sort was of no importance to her. Finding the right painting was.

  She reclined just as Devlin Fitzwilliam walked back into the room. She looked up at him.

  He looked so . . . tall. And . . . austere. And . . . intent. On her.

  If he gave a damn about Dr. Apps, he hid his interest well.

  “Ready for bed?” Without waiting for an answer, he scooped her into his arms and headed toward the door. “Tell me if you feel sick.”

  “I’m fine.” Except for the fact that he held her against him as comfortingly as a man might hold his beloved wife—and she liked it. She almost felt he wanted her here.

  He climbed the long, elegant sweep of stairs. The place smelled of fresh paint and wallpaper glue, and everywhere she looked she saw antique lamps, gilt-framed mirrors, and designer touches that echoed an elegant age. Waldemar had been refurbished into a showcase of comfort and ease.

  “It looks great,” she mumbled.

  “The house? Yes, it came out well.” His gaze roamed the corridor, and he looked grimly pleased. “We have a saying in Charleston. ‘Too poor to paint, too proud to whitewash.’ Bradley Benjamin didn’t have the money to maintain the old girl like she deserved. I did the house a favor when I bought it from him.”

  “And him? Did you do him a favor, too?” So that was why Bradley had sold the house? He was broke?

  “No. Old Benjamin and I have a deal—I don’t do him favors, and he doesn’t call me a bastard. At least, not to my face. Not very often.” He turned sideways as he went through a doorway. He carried her through a sitting room decorated with masculine furniture in claret tones. “Here we go.”

  She caught a glimpse of a huge, lush bedroom painted a warm gold and touched with claret highlights. They entered a huge en suite bathroom with swathes of black marble, a black tub, a sleek and gigantic glass shower done in claret tile, and fresh gold chrysanthemums in blue Chinese vases.

  He placed her on the counter, her head against the wall, her feet in the sink. The cold from the marble leaked through her slacks, chilled her flesh, and brought her halfway to perkiness.

  “I imagine you want to use the bathroom before you go to bed.” He looked down, his eyes hooded and enigmatic, and he didn’t take his arms away.

  “Yeah.” He was warm. Toasty.

  “Can you manage on your own, or shall I . . . ?” He tugged at the hem of her black turtleneck T-shirt.

  “Hey!” She caught at his hand. “I can do it!”

  A lovely sort of half smile cocked his mouth. “Are you sure?”

  She wouldn’t have thought it, but this austere man looked almost . . . charming. “I can do it. You go out. If I need help, I’ll call.”

  “Promise? I don’t want you to hit your head again.”

  “None of us want that. I’ll call you if I need to.” She turned, dangled her feet off the counter, and watched as he strolled away.

  “There are new toothbrushes and whatever else you need in the top drawer. There’s a robe on the hook by the shower.” He walked with a long-legged grace that made her fingertips tingle.

  She would really enjoy touching his ass.

  He turned at the door and lifted his eyebrows. “Are you sure you don’t need me?”

  Maybe. But not for the reason he was thinking.

  She slid to her feet. “I’m not dizzy. I’m not sick.”

  “You just don’t remember who you are.”

  “I certainly don’t remember being your wife.”

  “I promise I’ll do everything in my power to remind you.” He studied her openmouthed consternation, then firmly shut the door behind him.

  “Oh, no, you won’t!” she said to the closed door.

  It didn’t answer.

  She looked into the mirror at her pale, strained face, at the white bandage partially taped to her hair, at the faint smear of blood on her forehead.

  She’d lived through the last two grueling years with her faith in good thoughts and good living intact. She’d faced the challenges with a smile, knowing she kept everyone’s spirits up.

  Now she looked like hell. She felt like hell. And she blamed Devlin Fitzwilliam.

  Her mother would make the case that Meadow was responsible for the events of the day.

  In an excess of guilt, love, and determination, Meadow dropped her head into her hands. Her mother. If her mother knew where Meadow was and what she was doing . . . Meadow moaned at the thought.

  “You need to go to bed and get a good night’s sleep,” she said to herself. “Tomorrow you’ll know what to do.” Because tonight she was so confused.

  She had lied to Devlin about having amnesia. Did he believe her?

  Of course not. He didn’t, did he?

  He’d lied about their being married. If he didn’t believe she had amnesia, then he knew she knew they weren’t married.

  Possibly he was trying to wring a confession out of her. But it didn’t feel that way. The way he acted, he wanted her here. And why? What was he up to?

  Worried, she pulled off her sweater. On a good day, her boobs were an A cup, and this athletic bra mashed her flat. She didn’t have much of a rear end, either, and her black leggings, the ones she wore to yoga, hugged her body. Devlin had seen the package, so clearly he wasn’t after her voluptuous body.

  She leaned on the counter and stared into the mirror.

  Or her face, which at this moment looked singularly cheerless and unappealing. And unattractively pale and sweaty. And worried. Really worried.

  So what was he after? What did he want? What was his plan—and why? Why was he doing this?

  She opened the drawer and found every soap and lotion a woman could want, all in sample-size bottles. She brushed her hair back and washed her face, avoiding the bandage. She slipped out of her shoes, her pants, her socks, and dropped them in a heap on the floor. She put on the plush white bathrobe. Like all hotel robes, it was huge. The hem brushed her at midcalf, and she had to roll up the sleeves to see her hands. She tied the belt into a knot, then opened the door.

  The bedroom was empty.

  He hadn’t gone far. He’d promised to come if she called, and she recognized a man who kept his word.

  She climbed into the tall four-poster bed and sighed as the mattress, the pad, the cool, soft sheets enveloped her. She pulled the comforter up; it was light yet lavish. Nine feet above her, the ceiling glowed the same warm gold color as the wall, and the intricate cove molding was painted to look like cherrywood.

  The artist in her admired the craftsmanship. The exhausted woman wanted nothing more than to close her eyes and go to sleep.

  Except . . .

  Did this guy want her here? A weird idea—but why else would he tell such a whopper of a lie? Why would he say she was his wife, and go through such incredible gyrations to keep her at . . . what did he call it? The Secret Garden?

  She knew only one thing for sure—his reasons for trapping her here could not be good.

  Meadow’s beautiful blue eyes, the eyes that had betrayed her, were closed in slumber. Her copper-tinted hair glowed like a nimbus on the pillow around her face, and the flickering lightning caught each shining strand. Her skin was tinted like a peach and was—Devlin ran his fingertips over her cheek—just as
soft. Her lower lip was rosy and slightly swollen—every time she told her silly lie, she bit into the tender skin.

  The doctor’s bandage was a large white blot on her forehead, and that, combined with the dark circles under her eyes, gave her a fragile appearance.

  He suspected that was a mirage.

  He knew so much about her already—and so little.

  She had a name, Meadow. But he didn’t know exactly who she was.

  She was a thief, and here for a reason. But he didn’t know what it was.

  When it came to art, she had a discerning eye. But he didn’t know what she did.

  Yet he knew more than she could ever imagine. People in the South had embarrassingly long memories, especially when a scandal was involved, and Meadow’s grandmother had been the biggest scandal in a generation. No one in Amelia Shores had ever stopped talking about Isabelle, or her affairs, or how thoroughly she had humbled the proud Bradley Benjamin.

  Devlin had never met Isabelle, but he liked her.

  For years, when he was young, Bradley Benjamin had made Devlin’s life hell. The reasons were myriad and diverse—two hundred and fifty years of rivalry between the Fitzwilliams and the Benjamins, Bradley Benjamin’s old-fashioned dislike for successful women like Devlin’s mother, and most of all, Bradley Benjamin’s pure, unmitigated hatred for a child born out of wedlock. A bastard.

  Like Devlin.

  Bradley despised him. And why?

  Because Devlin reminded Bradley of his own well-publicized failure, and the humiliation that had followed him ever since.

  So when the opportunity for revenge presented itself, Devlin had seized Waldemar, storming the ancient bastion of Benjamin superiority. Even better—the sheer stupidity and incredible incompetence of Benjamin’s own son had been the reason he’d been able to obtain their ancestral home as his own. And what a lovely, delicious dollop of warm pleasure on the cold dish of revenge—rather than living in the home, which Bradley would have hated and mocked, Devlin had turned the grand old mansion into a posh hotel.

  That was what bastards did.

  He smiled down at Meadow, an unpleasant curve of the lips.

  Now, sleeping in his bed was the possibility of more and even better revenge.

  Would Bradley Benjamin recognize Isabelle’s granddaughter?

  Probably.

  Would he wait and cringe, fearing that moment when everyone in Amelia Shores identified her, and all the gossip started up again?

  Definitely.

  Would he give a damn that Devlin had married her?

  Yes. Just . . . yes.

  Bradley Benjamin hated Isabelle, but she had once been his, and if there was one trait Devlin shared with Bradley, it was their possessiveness about their property. He would hate to think of his former wife’s granddaughter in the filthy clutches of the Fitzwilliam bastard.

  Devlin touched Meadow’s throat and noted the contrast between his tanned hand against her fair, freckled skin.

  Bradley would hate to think of Devlin and Meadow thrashing together on a bed.

  Best of all, the whole maneuver would cost Devlin nothing.

  Well . . . except the investigation into Meadow’s background.

  He didn’t know exactly who she was—according to gossip, she didn’t exist—but by the time his detective had finished with her, Devlin would know her age, her birth weight, and the names of every man she’d ever dated.

  Taking Meadow’s cell phone, he flipped it open.

  It was searching for service.

  Of course.

  He searched for her call list.

  Nothing.

  He looked for the numbers she’d last dialed.

  Nothing.

  The smart girl had wiped the memory on her cell phone clean before she’d broken in.

  Only she hadn’t broken in. Somehow she’d unlocked the door and walked in. The cameras hadn’t caught her sleight of hand, but something she’d done had overridden the security chip in the huge old-fashioned lock. Of course, the motion sensors had caught her as she walked through the foyer, setting off the silent alarms, but still, he wanted to know—his security man wanted to know—how she’d done it.

  With a touch of uncharacteristic whimsy, he wondered if it could be something as simple as the house knowing she belonged here.

  But he didn’t care whether she belonged here and he didn’t. He would solve all of her mysteries and in the process take a pound of flesh from Bradley Benjamin.

  Devlin had always had the luck of the Irish.

  Meadow proved he hadn’t lost his touch.

  4

  Meadow woke to sunshine pressing against her eyelids, a rebound of her optimism—and someone in bed with her. Behind her. Spoon fashion.

  A man. Most definitely a man. Most definitely the man who’d been there to wake her up every hour all night long.

  No wonder she was feeling optimistic.

  She flipped over and found herself facing Devlin’s rugged, handsome, unsmiling face. “Good morning, darling.” His fingers caressed her cheek. His chocolate brown, dangerously intense eyes plumbed the depths of her soul.

  Her soul, ridiculous thing, stretched and purred under the flattering attention.

  “All right.” She managed to sound stern. “What are you doing here?” Like she didn’t know. He’d seen an opportunity and moved to take advantage.

  “Where else would I be except in bed with my beloved wife?” He slid closer, his legs tangling with hers.

  “I’m not your beloved wife!” Oops. Panic reaction. Because of his words. Because the robe she’d wisely slept in last night was open from the waist down and the waist up, and her bra and panties left her very bare. And because he wore only a soft cotton T-shirt and . . . well, she didn’t know what he wore below the waist, because the blankets covered him, and she wasn’t about to grope him to find out.

  “Darling, of course you are. You just don’t remember.” His fingers wandered down the slope of her throat. “I’ll help you.”

  “Stop that.” She slapped at him and inched back.

  “Does your head still hurt?”

  “A little.” A nagging headache behind her eyes. Certainly not enough to stop her from doing what she must.

  “The doctor said you could stay in bed today.”

  “The doctor is an idiot. I’m fine.” And thoroughly irritated that he should quote Dr. Apps to her while he was horizontal with Meadow.

  “You’re grouchy.” He shook his head sadly, as if he actually knew what her moods were like, when he didn’t have the foggiest idea. “You should stay in bed today.”

  “I am not grouchy. See?” She smiled, grinding her teeth all the while.

  He smiled back, all allure, ease . . . and seduction. “I’ll let you get up on one condition: You promise that if you feel faint or ill, you’ll let me know.”

  “As if you really cared.” Maybe she was a little grouchy.

  He touched his lips to her forehead.

  “What do you want?”

  “I want you back. I want to be together like we were in Majorca. I want the romance, the talk, the passion. . . .”

  She ought to say, That never happened. And Tell me why you want me here.

  Maybe she would. Later. When her thigh wasn’t trapped between two of his. “I don’t remember.”

  “Then I’ll make it happen again. We could go down to the beach and meet by accident—”

  “We met by accident?”

  “With Fate as our matchmaker. I was worn out from making the deal on this house, and bitter about the acridness of business. I’d lost my way, my pleasure in living, and I was leaning against a boulder, staring out at the sea. . . .”

  The sun warmed his upturned face. The waves lapped at his feet, and the Mediterranean smelled briny, while a hint of lavender wafted through the air. This moment was perfect, a gem set in the restless flow of time . . . yet an unusual yearning tinged his soul with melancholy. All his life, he’d enjoyed
his own company, cherished his solitude, his moments snatched away from the swift and cutthroat business of making deals, renovating warehouses into trendy apartments, constructing luxury boutique hotels on dilapidated properties.

  But today didn’t feel like solitude. Today he was alone. Very alone.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a swift slash of color. He turned to see a woman, a tall woman with hair shining like a new copper penny—

  Meadow interrupted. “I’m not tall. I’m only five-five.”

  Devlin placed his finger on her lips and reproved her with a shake of his head. “The flow of your sundress made you look tall, and your long, leisurely strides made me think of only one thing. . . .”

  “Yeah, and I’ll bet I know what it was.”

  He knew this was the woman for whom Fate had intended him.

  “I would have lost that bet,” she said.

  She held her sandals in one hand. She kicked the sand while she walked, her gaze fixed to the horizon, where the blue sky blended with the blue sea. Her expression was far-off and wistful. He thought she looked as lonely as he felt, and when he stepped forward, her eyes were first startled, then wary, then . . . warm. Without a word, she took him in her arms and kissed him, and since that moment, nothing had been the same.

  “Wow,” Meadow whispered. He was good. She knew it was all garbage, but when he wove his story, he pulled her in and she almost believed it. Almost lived it with him.

  “Maybe you don’t recall me, but your body knows mine. Your body yearns for the pleasure I can show it.” His voice sounded the way black velvet felt—soft, rich, seductive. His hand cupped her wrist and slid beneath the wide sleeve to the inner bend of her elbow. His thumb stroked back and forth on the tender skin. “We don’t need warm white sand and Mediterranean breezes. We don’t need palm trees and glass-bottomed boats. All we need is each other . . . and the world drifts away.”

  He wasn’t so much encroaching on her body as he was seducing her with his words. Each phrase sank into her mind and sent a thrill down her spine to places that had nothing to do with marriage and everything to do with mating. His thigh rubbed hers over and over, and distractedly she tried to recall the last time she’d shaved her legs.