Dangerous Ladies

by Christina Dodd

  When Meadow and Jordan managed to untangle themselves, she bounded toward the assistants. “These must be your sous chefs!”

  Jordan followed, beaming.

  Devlin trailed behind, wondering how the quiet, chilly, professional kitchen had disintegrated to this boisterous cheer so quickly.

  “They aren’t all of my local staff, of course. I have three people coming for training this afternoon.” Jordan waved a big hand at the thin, middle-aged, nervous-looking woman chopping onions. “This is Mia—she’s very talented. In the fall, when we open the restaurant, I’m going to promote her to saucier.”

  Mia’s mouth dropped open. “You like my sauces? Really?” At Jordan’s outraged glare, she hastily turned her attention to Meadow. “I mean . . . good to meet you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam!” Wiping her hand on her apron, she offered it to Meadow.

  Meadow hugged her around the shoulders. “Is that for dinner tonight? Then don’t stop!”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Mia had the softest, most timid voice, with an accent that sounded almost like Devlin’s. Almost, but a little less educated and little more country.

  “This is Christian. He’s new. He has all his fingertips.” Jordan dismissed Christian’s inexperience with a snort.

  “I hope he keeps all his fingertips and becomes your head sous chef!” Meadow hugged the pudgy young man, too.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.” Christian’s accent sounded sort of Southern, sort of twangy.

  “My head sous chef is coming from New Orleans a week before the grand opening,” Jordan told her. “I’m training this boy as pastry chef.”

  “You are?” In astonishment, Christian looked at the piecrust he was rolling on the marble slab.

  “Yes—if you remember to keep a light hand!” Jordan thwapped him on the back of the head.

  At once Christian lifted the rolling pin. “Yes, sir! Good to meet you, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.”

  “Now.” Jordan rubbed his hands together. “Miz Fitzwilliam, you look hungry. What can I get you for breakfast?” He glanced at the huge clock on the wall. “Or lunch?”

  It was time for Devlin to remind them he was here. “We’re going into town for lunch.”

  At the news, Jordan settled for an outraged glare at Devlin, then switched his attention to Meadow. “So . . . do you like blueberries?” Jordan rummaged in the bread box and filled a plate, then placed it on the counter beside her. He broke off a piece of scone and popped it in her mouth.

  “That’s wonderful!” she mumbled.

  “Biscuits and homemade blackberry preserves?” A chunk of biscuit followed.

  “Ummm.” She closed her eyes and shivered with pleasure.

  Devlin was getting hungry. For food. And for Meadow.

  He wanted her to look at him with the same lust she showed for homemade blackberry preserves.

  Why hadn’t he turned her over to the police last night? If all he was interested in was humiliating Bradley Benjamin, he could have easily announced that he’d caught Isabelle’s granddaughter breaking and entering, and the resultant scandal would have been a lovely taste of revenge.

  But when Meadow had looked up at him with those big blue eyes and proclaimed she had amnesia, she’d been so sure she’d plucked a get-out-of-jail-free card. He saw her congratulating herself, and something in him—some previously unknown quirk in his character—rose to the challenge, and he’d declared she was his wife.

  His wife. Of all the tales he could have invented, why had he made up that one?

  “The cold quiche is delicious.” Jordan’s fork flashed. “Traditional. Bacon, eggs, cream, Swiss cheese, and Christian’s pastry.”

  She held up a hand. “I’m a vegetarian.”

  Devlin could pretend he wouldn’t be bested when it came to telling outrageous falsehoods.

  But Devlin Fitzwilliam did not deceive himself.

  When he held Meadow in his arms, when he breathed her scent and saw the shining tumble of her copper-colored hair, he felt as if a strong, fresh wind had blown into a life grown stale and grim.

  And when she threatened to puke . . . he’d wanted to laugh.

  He hadn’t really laughed a real belly laugh in years. Maybe never.

  “Of course you are a vegetarian. You are skinny.” Jordan polished off the piece of quiche.

  “I wish,” she said.

  “She’s perfect,” Devlin said.

  Jordan and Meadow both flashed him a startled glance. Had they forgotten he stood here? Or did he so seldom give compliments?

  “Of course she is perfect. Just too skinny.” Jordan turned back to Meadow. “Vegan?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “No meat.”

  “Good! So much easier. So much tastier. So much better for you!” Jordan pinched her cheek. “Some iced tea? Today it is ginger-peach. Very good!”

  “That would be great!”

  Devlin had never imagined such a mutual admiration society would flourish between his cook and his . . . between his cook and Meadow. He didn’t understand it, either. Jordan had been like Devlin’s other employees—dour, hardworking, determined to take this opportunity to head a world-class hotel and restaurant. Now he was smiling, handing out compliments, and flirting with Devlin’s wife.

  And the other two cooks . . . they were smiling!

  What the hell had happened? What kind of effect did Meadow have on people? Why didn’t she ever beam that smile at him?

  Sure, he was lying to her, and she was lying to him, and they both knew they were deeply involved in one hell of a game. But they’d slept in the same bed. They’d exchanged the kind of kisses that branded a man’s soul.

  And she couldn’t spare him one of those open, generous smiles?

  Jordan bustled over to the bread box. His knife darted, and before Meadow could respond she held a plate mounded with golden pastries, a small bowl of unsalted butter and one of jam, and a napkin in a silver ring. In the other hand she held a frosty glass filled with sweet tea.

  “Thank you!” She kissed Jordan on the cheek. “I’ll make sure we’re here for dinner!”

  “We were always going to be here for dinner.” Devlin knew Sam had already informed Jordan of that, because Sam always did his duty.

  Jordan ignored him. “Good! I’ll fix something especially nice for your first night in your new hotel.”

  “She was here last night.” Concocting a foolish story about having amnesia. Being surprised when he concocted a story right back.

  If their perjuries were getting in the way of her smiling at him, he’d do the right thing. He’d give her a chance to tell him the truth.

  She wouldn’t do it, of course. Like every other person in the world, she’d tell herself a story to justify her larcenies and her lies. Nevertheless, he’d give her the chance.

  “She came late, not in time for dinner.” Jordan sounded impatient with Devlin.

  Impatient. With Devlin!

  Jordan shooed her toward the stairs. “It’s a beautiful day. Go into the garden and eat.”

  “Come on,” she said to Devlin. “We need to get out of Jordan’s way. The man’s an artist—he needs room to work.”

  “Could I have a glass of iced tea, too?” Devlin injected a note of polite sarcasm into his voice.

  “Sure ’nuff, boss. Here you go!” Jordan answered with exactly the same note of polite sarcasm coupled with some mocking old-fashioned subservience.

  Meadow laughed, a laugh so bright the air in the usually dour kitchen sparkled like champagne.

  With unaccustomed surprise, Devlin realized he wasn’t going to win this round.

  What surprised him more was . . . he didn’t mind.

  No. He couldn’t turn her over to the police. He would not let her go.

  Not yet. Not until she smiled at him without wariness and with joy. Not until he had uncovered her mysteries. Not until he’d discovered why she made him feel . . . alive. Different. Newborn.

  And not until he’d slept with her.
r />   Especially not until he’d slept with her.

  10

  Devlin followed Meadow up the stairs and held the heavy utility door for her.

  They stepped out into the sunshine. In the distance he could hear the chain saw as someone removed the fallen tree. Nail guns whooshed as the carpenters erected the gazebo, and the trucks came and went, dumping loads of bark mulch for the gardeners. The estate sounded busy.

  Good thing. They needed to clean up the havoc wrought by the storms and keep the schedule for the grand opening, or heads would roll.

  “Isn’t it a beautiful day?” she asked.

  The humidity hovered at about eighty percent, the temperature at seventy degrees. He informed her, “This is average for this time of year.”

  “Average? There is nothing average about this day.” She took a deep, long breath. “I love the way the salty scent of the sea and the spicy scent of the pines mingle. Don’t you?”

  He sniffed. To him it smelled of the sea, of the earth the gardeners had turned. It smelled of immense wealth and cruel snobbery brought down by inbreeding and stupidity—and his own ruthless intelligence.

  It was a good smell.

  “Look at the basil!”

  He tried, but the tiny plants all looked the same to him, and he’d bet at least half of them were weeds. “This is the kitchen garden. The gardeners have been working getting the rest of the estate ready for the grand opening. They haven’t touched it in here.”

  “So it’s even better out there?” She walked toward the spring-hinged gate, hit it with her hip, and headed out into the estate.

  Waldemar had been ramshackle when Devlin had gotten his hands on it. For all his pride, Bradley Benjamin hadn’t been able to afford to maintain the gigantic house and immense grounds.

  But Devlin had thrown his seasoned legion of interior decorators, cleaners, painters, and gardeners at the place, and now it boasted eight acres of seashore, forest, and lush gardens, with the freshly painted, newly cleaned, and redesigned house set high on the bluff overlooking the waves. An impressive iron gate announced the entrance to the estate, and from there the road wound past a carriage house—well maintained and serving as the eight-car garage—across the expanse of lawn and blooming wild roses.

  This was what the estate was meant to be—and a slap in the face of Bradley Benjamin’s overweening pride.

  “This place is beautiful. Alluring.” The tone of Meadow’s voice changed from wonder to . . . thoughtfulness. “A woman could be seduced at the idea of owning this.”

  “Yes.” He watched her and understood exactly what she was thinking. “Are you seduced?”

  “What?” She blinked at him. “Oh. No. I’ve been taught better than that.”

  He knew why. He wondered if she did.

  A crew of gardeners trudged into view, shovels over their shoulders, pushing wheelbarrows full of soil and flowers. At the sight of Devlin and Meadow, they stopped and backed up.

  “They don’t have to leave. I don’t want to get in the way of their work.” Meadow started toward them.

  Devlin caught her arm. “They’ve been instructed to stay out of sight of the guests. That’s the rule. Let’s not confuse them.”

  “I’m hardly a guest.”

  “You’re much more important. You’re the wife of the owner.” He enjoyed saying that; enjoyed, too, her wide-eyed, blinking dismay. She didn’t know how to handle him—and he suspected that was a unique situation for the nimble Meadow.

  “Let’s sit over there.” He indicated the picnic table beneath a huge ancient live oak with moss in its crown, and branches so huge and outstretched they touched the ground.

  “What a great old tree.” As Meadow walked ahead of him, the sun shone through his white linen shirt, outlining her body, reminding him of the morning when he’d woken with her ass pressed against his crotch. He’d been lucky the night before when she had appeared at Waldemar; his luck had moved to a new level this morning when her eyes had widened at the sight of him and she’d caught fire in his arms.

  Something about her chemical makeup responded to him.

  If revenge was a coin, he held a rare gold antique.

  She ate with a gusto that surprised him. No dainty picking at her food for Meadow—she consumed a scone and two biscuits with jam before wiping her lips with the napkin, sighing with satisfaction, and surveying the area. “Look at those rhodies!” she said. “Aren’t they glorious?”

  He glanced at the rhododendrons. They were blooming. They were pink. Wasn’t that what they were supposed to do? “Glorious.”

  “Why do you call the hotel the Secret Garden?”

  He loved it when she gave him an opening like that. “Don’t you remember, love?”

  She blinked uncertainly at him. “You love the Frances Hodgson Burnett book?”

  “I’m not familiar with it.”

  “You’re not familiar with The Secret Garden?” In an excess of horror, Meadow pressed her hand over her heart. “It’s a wonderful book about a girl who’s closed off from love, and a boy who thinks he’s a cripple, and his father who’s so bitter about his wife’s death he won’t love his own son, and this secret garden that heals them all.”

  “Sounds . . . mushy.” A polite way of saying he didn’t believe in such emotional revelations.

  “No! It’s inspiring.”

  She couldn’t be so naive—could she?

  No. Of course not. She’d broken into Waldemar in search of that painting. She’d been willing to steal from Bradley Benjamin—Devlin had no problem with that—but now she planned to steal from him. No one took anything that belonged to Devlin and got away with it. She’d find that out soon enough. No one, no matter how attractive, stole from him.

  With ruthless intent, he smiled into her eyes and said, “I remember. . . .”

  Hand in hand, they explored the island of Majorca and found a sun-drenched island of tourists, beaches, cliffs, scrub, and gardens. Wonderful, glorious gardens. Each day brought a new adventure, a sense of the world made new, for he saw it through her eyes. Then, high atop a hill overlooking the sea, they discovered a small, forgotten patch of earth overgrown with weeds and brambles . . . and climbing roses and tiny crocuses thrusting out of the soil.

  “You know what a crocus is?” she asked incredulously.

  “I do now. You showed me.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “I know what a crocus is?”

  He gestured around. “You know what a rhododendron is.”

  She nodded once, grudgingly. “Go on.”

  The garden had the remains of a house beside it, a place so old it had no roof and half the walls had tumbled down. She had screamed at the sight of a tiny mouse—

  “I’ve really changed, then, because I’m not afraid of mice.”

  “Then maybe I screamed,” he said impatiently. “Do you want to know about the Secret Garden or not?”

  “Of course.” She leaned her chin on her hand, and a smile lit her eyes.

  The garden was enchanted. That was the only possible explanation he could imagine for the breeze that made the blossoms dance and the grass ripple. The food in their hamper tasted of honey and love, and when they kissed, the world disappeared. Only the two of them remained, entwined on the blanket, while around them the garden sang around its siren song.

  On that blanket, in that garden, was the first time they made love.

  “So in honor of you, I bought an estate with a secret garden on its grounds.” In honor of her, Devlin Fitzwilliam, a man whose life had been ruled by logic and profit, had woven fantasies guaranteed to charm her.

  What spell had she cast on him, that he should be so adroit, so romantic?

  “Here? At Waldemar? Has it got walls and a door?” Her blue eyes were bright and mesmerized.

  “Walls of stone, and a door with a lock.” He loved to look at her like this, her lips softly open as if he’d just seduced her.

  “With winding paths and flowers of every fragra
nce and color?”

  “And at its heart, an expanse of velvety blue grass where you can dance.” He sat solidly on a bench in the middle of his yard, watching the breeze off the Atlantic made the blossoms bobble and the grass ripple . . . and tousled the bright strands of Meadow’s hair.

  And she watched him as if he were the embodiment of her every dream.

  He had used his voice to enchant her. Now he found himself enchanted as well.

  “Well.” She tore her gaze away from his and patted her cheeks. “It’s very warm here.”

  She was blushing. Blushing at the thought of making love to him in a garden.

  “I thought the temperature was quite . . . comfortable.” And she was quite adorable.

  “Yes. I’m not used to the humidity.”

  He watched her face as they spoke, weighed which of her words were lies and which were truths, and wondered which truths he could use to discover everything about her. “It’s not humid . . . where you came from?”

  “I guess not.” She didn’t take the bait.

  He was almost glad. He was doing what he should, of course. He’d given the house detective the number she’d called this morning and sent him to search Atlanta—the area code placed it in Atlanta—to see if he could find any information on whom she called. But Devlin didn’t want this farce to end so soon. He was enjoying himself as he hadn’t for years.

  No. That wasn’t true.

  He was enjoying himself as he never had.

  “Why did you come here now?” he was asking. He was coaxing. He, ruthless bastard Devlin Fitzwilliam, wanted to end the farce between them and start anew.

  And he waited on tenterhooks, watching her eyes widen with uncertainty, inwardly urging her to trust him.

  Instead, she bit her lower lip, then cleared her throat. “I’ll get you a copy when we go into town.”

  “A copy?” He leaned back, all his cynicism confirmed. “A copy of what?”

  “Of The Secret Garden.”

  He laughed, a brief bark of amusement. “I’m in the last stages of opening a hotel. I don’t have time to read.” Certainly not a sentimental bunch of drivel like The Secret Garden.

  “I’ll read it to you.”